I know that I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, and made more than my share of bad decisions.  I’ve learned from many painful experiences that I can be incredibly naive and inconsistently aware of what should be immediately considered life-threatening.  I’ve paid dearly for many of those mistakes, and the scars and broken bones are the least of it.  Looking back at that moment, at the minutes I spent in that closet, I realized that none of my past mistakes had provided me with anything tangible that I could use to prepare for the new world within which I was struggling to survive.

Eventually I realized that Marcus was asleep in my lap, and that his weight was cutting off the circulation to my left foot causing it to feel like I had pins and needles under the skin.  When I got up to stretch my leg and relieve the pain I was shocked to see that it was completely dark in the apartment.  Looking out the small gaps of my window I noted that the sun had set and dark clouds had rolled in.  Checking my watch, I found that it was after 1AM in the morning and nearly had to sit down again in shock.  I’d gone out into the other apartments early in the afternoon, and hadn’t spent more than thirty minutes outside of my own locked doors.

Had it really only taken that long?  Could everything that had happened to me fit into a half-hour?

I’ll never really know the answer to those questions as I’d lost all sense of time during the surges of adrenaline and fear, and had sat in shock for hours until Marcus brought me back to reality.    The whole thing felt like it had happened to someone else.  I just felt tired and numb inside as I ran through the details of the event.  I’d never checked my watch while searching through the Twit’s apartment, and I realized quickly that I’d been nearly comatose since returning to my own.  I tried to shake off the numbness so that I could focus my mind.  The questions, doubt and guilt came storming back as the cobwebs cleared and thoughts of what I’d done that morning returned.

Why had the Twit been hiding in his closet under all those clothes?  What had happened in that apartment?  How had the blond been injured, and who had killed her?  Had he trashed his own home, and, if so, why?  What had kept him there, and why hadn’t he left?  Why was his front door opened if he was hiding?  Why had he remained quiet when he heard me searching his apartment, and why – good god why – had he attacked me?

I played through possible answers to these questions, but nothing really seemed to fit.  Maybe the Twit had snapped after having to shoot the blond in his bedroom.  Maybe there were other people involved and the Twit was simply left behind.  Maybe he’d been injured but hadn’t succumbed yet to the infection.  Maybe he thought I was a Z and finally decided to defend himself when I’d stepped on him.

None of those answers were really enough.  None of the possible reasons for what had happened seemed correct or real.  None of them answered the question I was still hesitating to ask.

Was his death my fault?

I shuddered at the thought even as I had to answer honestly.  The reason didn’t matter so much as the result.

I’d killed a man.

It took me more than a few minutes, standing there in the dark inside of the apartment, to swallow the truth and control how it would make me feel.  The entire time Marcus sat at my feet, guarding against the darkness I couldn’t let get inside of me.  I know he can’t possibly understand what is happening, but in that moment he may have saved me.  It helped to be reminded that I wasn’t the only one depending on  my ability to adapt and overcome in order to survive in this new world.  A small heartbeat waiting patiently at my feet told me just how much I was needed.  I know he’s just a dog, but right then I wouldn’t trade him for all the gold in Fort Knox.

I rubbed his ears and then lit a candle so that I could clean myself up.  As I went through the motions of removing the dried blood from my face and arms, I realized that I might be able to grimly accept the fact that I’d killed another human being in anger.  I also knew that I hadn’t yet fully comprehended the changes that this acceptance would cause in me, and may never really know.  For the time being it was all still too new, too fresh and painful, and I needed distance from it if I was ever going to understand what had happened.

While I’d realized that I’d likely have to defend myself from Z’s if I was to survive, I’d never entertained ideas of what could play out when I encountered other survivors.  I’d just assumed that it was very much an Us vs. Them scenario, but my blood splattered clothes clearly defined a different situation entirely.  This newfound perspective, however, wasn’t enough to forgive what had happened.

My response to the attack was completely unforeseen.  I’d always planned to retreat, to run when possible and live to fight another day.  Hell, I’d have preferred to avoid fighting at all, but that hadn’t been the result of this morning’s search.  I had stood my ground in the face of any preconceived notions to the contrary.  I could have tried to escape the apartment, but I didn’t.  I could have used the bat to break his arm and loosen his grip on my ankle so that I could high-tail it out of there, but I didn’t.  I could have just tried to knock him down so that I could run, but I didn’t.  Maybe none of those answers came to me in the heat of the moment because of my fear, and I’m only thinking of them with the clear eyed wisdom of hindsight.  Regardless, I could have done a lot of things to try and escape, but I didn’t.

I had attacked, and I had done so with a fury I was unaware I’d been capable of.

Maybe I’d just never had a reference to compare it to.  Truthfully, I’d never been a violent person, not in any real sense of the word.  I’d been in only a few fistfights in college while working as a bouncer for a bar frequented by locals, but that had been years ago and had only occurred because I was always working around drunken redneck townies who didn’t like students mixing it up with their old ladies.  Scuffles broke out and I was getting paid to put them down.  I didn’t drink on the job, and that meant the advantage was all mine when a drunk would stumble over to start screaming and swinging fists.  Those few fights had been brief and decidedly one-sided, and other than a few busted knuckles I’d escaped unscathed from them all.  Most of all, I’d never felt guilty about those fights because I’d been the one in control.  I hadn’t started them but I had ended them, and I only used as much force as was needed to get my point across.

That wasn’t how things happened in that small closet.  I’d lost myself in my anger and fear and had reacted with sheer violence.  I might justify my actions with the excuse that I hadn’t known that I was about to kill a living, breathing human being, but that wasn’t really the truth.  If I was to be 100% honest with myself then I’d have to admit that in that moment, I just didn’t care.  I had lashed out with the intent to cause as much physical harm as I could.  It didn’t matter if I’d done that while believing I was only smashing the skull of a Z.  The intent was the important thing, the truth of the matter, and it was nothing I could find an excuse for.

A man was dead because of me.  Regardless of the situation that caused it, I’d killed him in a rage.  I don’t know how or if I can accept that about myself.  It’s a very hard truth, and it’s one I feel very naïve for having neglected to comprehend or prepare for.  I wish I could just chalk it up as another example of how I am ill prepared to exist in this new world, but that seems hollow and false and unfair.  My need for constant wariness, for vigilant attention to an environment now filled with an untold number of dangers from the undead was something that I was still trying to understand.  It was inevitable that I’d make a mistake.  Eventually, everyone does, only mine had inadvertently caused the death of another man.

I’d have to find a way to live with that, to accept what I’d done if I was going to continue to survive.

I crawled out of my dirty, blood stained clothes, blew out the candle and climbed into my bed.  Marcus jumped up beside me as I wondered about what I was becoming.  One question kept looming just around the corner, but I knew I didn’t have the strength to answer it before sleep claimed me.  I drifted off with it circling through my dreams.

Is survival enough?

Gids – October 7^th – 2:29PM

My attacker was wrapped up in all the junk on the floor, looking like a mockery of an ancient mummy as it awkwardly tried to stand and a muted scream erupted from beneath the layers of clothing heaped upon it.  I screamed right back at it as I dropped my flashlight and the closet was plunged into near darkness.  The bat was in my hands and I could still see the outline of my attacker as it fought its way out of the pile.  It thrashed back and forth and nearly pulled me down as it refused to let go of me.

I reacted quickly, swinging the baseball bat with both hands as quick and as hard as I could at the dark figure.  All thoughts of escape were gone as I felt it connect, a solid hit that echoed up my arms and into my shoulders.  It made a hollow sound that reminded me of batting practice when I was a kid in little league.  My attacker stopped screaming and slumped sideways, finally letting go of my ankle.  Even though I was free of its grasp, I didn’t stop swinging.  I slammed the aluminum bat into it again and again even as it fell and lay on the piles of discarded clothes.

I was scared and angry and completely lost in my fear for my own life.  All I could think of was swinging the bat, of beating this thing into a pulp, of what would happen to me if I was bitten.  I know I tried to aim for the head, but I couldn’t really see what I was hitting in the dark little closet, so I just kept swinging.  I felt the impacts in my back and shoulders each time as I raised the bat and brought it down as hard as I could, my strength born of fear and rage.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, how long I kept swinging until my arms couldn’t lift the bat any longer.  I remember finally leaning against the wall, my chest pumping up and down as I breathed like a bellows, my throat sore from screaming and the bat held limply in my right hand.  My attacker wasn’t moving.  I don’t think it really had after the first swing, at least not that I could recall.

I forced myself to find the flashlight, finally pulling it out from under a jacket along the edge of the wall.  The beam of tightly focused light showed me that my hands were covered in blood spray.  My clothes were the same, and I realized that the metallic taste of it was on my lips and in my mouth.  I turned the flashlight to the fallen figure across from me.

The body was covered in blood, just a broken and crumpled heap.

It suddenly clicked inside my head.  Blood on my hands.  Blood on the body beside me.  It had been bleeding while I beat it.  Z’s don’t bleed.

It wasn’t a zombie.

I felt my stomach turn over as my skin went cold and clammy.

I jumped across the small space between us and knelt beside the body.  I wedged the flashlight beneath my right armpit as I placed my fingers against his neck praying to find a heartbeat, cradling his head even as I knew there would be nothing to find.  No one could take that kind of beating and survive.  There wasn’t even a flutter under my fingers as I searched.  I put his head down, noting that my hands were covered in more of his blood.  I turned the flashlight over him in cold acceptance of what I’d find.

His face was almost completely destroyed.  The skin looked like bruised fruit, the skull cracked and leaking a mix of blood and gray matter onto the pile of clothes beneath him.  His right cheek was folded in and a pulpy eye was hanging limply from the broken socket where I’d likely connected with the bat on my very first swing.  Even with all that damage I still could tell who it was.

It was the Twit.  Or what was left of him.

What the fuck had he been doing hiding in here under all these clothes?  Why had he reached out for me?  Why hadn’t he come out when he heard me searching through his stuff?  Had he been the one to trash his apartment?  What the fuck was he doing in here?

I got angry.  I should have been saddened, shocked at my own actions, shamed by my response.  In that moment, none of those emotions came to me.  I’d just killed a man in fear, and all I could feel was rage bubbling to the surface.

I punched the wall and the sheet rock crumpled beneath my fist.  I hit it again just because the pain in my knuckles was distracting, the hurt something I could recognize and focus on.  I sat there for a few minutes trying to make sense of it all, but it just didn’t want to stop spinning around inside my head long enough for me to make it all clear.

Finally I stood up, used a wad of clothes hastily grabbed from the floor to wipe the gummy blood from my hands and face.  I picked up my bat and wiped it off next.  I covered the Twit with a jacket and took a few deep breaths to steady myself.  I grabbed a few of the bags from the floor and headed back to the kitchen.

I methodically packed up all of the canned goods and even grabbed a few of the expensive knives from the cutlery block on the counter.  Everything went into my backpack or the bags I’d grabbed from the closet, and I was able to shoulder most of them easily.  As I left the kitchen, I picked up the case containing the compound bow that I’d left leaning in the hallway.  I quietly opened the front door, set the security lock as I walked out, and closed it all up behind me.

I turned back to my apartment in a daze, questions repeating in my mind, demanding answers about what I’d done and why I didn’t feel anything – anything at all.

Gids – October 6^th – 11:12PM

She must have been attacked and injured at some point, and when she finally bled out or the infection ran its course, she’d turned.  She’d become one of the Z’s, and I guessed that the Twit had put a bullet through her head to keep her from attacking him.  I didn’t think he’d have that in him, but I guess I was wrong.  We were all learning what we were capable of in this new world order where human beings were no longer at the top of the food chain.

I pulled the collar of my t-shirt up and over my nose to try and dampen the horrible fucking smell that stuck to the room.  It didn’t really help, but I kept it up anyway.  I scanned the light around.  Each wall was dominated by large furniture, all cramped and too close together.  There was only a small area to move around the gigantic king sized bed, and barely enough room for the door to swing all the way open.  Thick blankets were nailed up over the single window just like they had been in the living room, though the bedroom seemed much darker because of the dark paint and furniture.  Oddly, the room wasn’t torn apart like the rest of the apartment.  The bed was still made, the pillows still arranged neatly behind the dead girl even though they were covered with the contents of her skull.  The closet doors were closed and the Twit’s personal effects were laid out neatly on top of the one large dresser.  All of the furniture was made of thick black wood with gold accents and handles.  There was a black and gold comforter on the bed covering what looked like gold satin sheets, and – I shit you not – mirrored ceiling tiles above reflecting it all back down at me.  This was the kind of over-the-top decor you only find in old casinos in Atlantic City or poorly funded porn.  I could just imagine the Twit walking around in here feeling like he was the king of the world.

What an asshole.

I checked the closet and found it neatly organized with a lot of designer label clothing, none of which would be of any use to me as I was at least eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the Twit.  The dresser held more clothes than I’d ever owned, and an assortment of adult toys and lotions that would have made an aging porn star blush.  What the fuck had he and this blond been into?

I didn’t really want the answer to that question, and I felt bad for even thinking of it with her dead body laying there on the bed.  As I thought about them, I started to think that this was a really shitty place to die, and an even worse place to have to spend eternity.  No girl wants to be buried in her boyfriend’s low-rent sex palace, but I also knew that there was nothing I could do.  I’d have to lock her up in here and try to forget what I’d seen.  I certainly wasn’t going to move her body.  I had no idea if she might still carry the infection, but I knew it was transferred through bodily fluids.  Bites were the usual means of spreading the infection, but early reports also noted that some people had contracted the virus when organic material from Z’s had gotten into their eyes and throat.  How the fuck that had happened, I didn’t want to know, but it meant that I wasn’t touching this girls fucking dead body regardless of how much I pitied her final resting place.  Even being in the same room with her was starting to creep me out, and I hadn’t taken a deep breath since stepping inside because of the smell.  I swear I was beginning to taste it at this point, and my stomach did a little flip as the thoughts of the infection worked their way through my head.

Having decided it was time to get away from the dead girl, I took one last look around.  Honestly, there was nothing in here that I was going to use.  Best case scenario, I’d burn all this stuff for heat if this winter was unreasonably cold.  Otherwise, I had no use for all this pretty-boy shit.  It held no value in terms of survival, and I wasn’t going to carry this stuff back to my smaller apartment just so I could have it.  The days of buying useless and trivial things, of keeping up with the neighbors were over.  There were probably thousands of dollars of clothes, cologne, furniture and bedding in this room, and now it was worth less than the worn $30.00 machete strapped to my hip.

I moved out of the bedroom and closed the door.  I’d probably never know why he’d really chosen to lock that one room.  Maybe he wanted to lock her body away, to hide what he had done.  Maybe the Twit wanted to protect his expensive wardrobe and shoe collection because he thought he’d be back to pack it all up someday.  Maybe he was just a scared little prick who locked the door so that the dead girl wouldn’t be able to follow him even though he’d shot her in the head.  Whatever the reason, I closed the door on his bedroom and left it the way I’d found it. It was time to keep moving. Thinking about the dead was going to get me nowhere.  I had to think about keeping myself alive.  I had to finish up, and get back to the relative safety of my apartment, and I still had one more door to open before I was done.

The last door wasn’t locked and it wasn’t a third bed room.  It was a large walk-in closet that was filled with more designer clothes and shoes.  Most of it was all over the floor in piles having likely been thrown there by whoever had looted the rest of the apartment.  I didn’t spend more than 30 seconds looking around at the mess as it was readily apparent to me that I would have no use for any of the items.  I didn’t even want to dig through the mess to see if I could unearth anything worth saving.  Seriously, how many pairs of distressed jeans and black dress shoes does one guy need?  I could grudgingly admit that the Twit had always been well dressed, but what the fuck good would that do in the current world?

I left the closet and carefully moved past the living room making sure that the zombie was still absent from the window.  All I had left to do was check the kitchen for any items that might be of use.  As I walked in, I ignored the crunch and squish of rotting food under my boots.  The stench didn’t even bother me as much this time.  After the cloying scent of the dead blond the rotting food was a bouquet of fucking roses in comparison.

I went through the cabinets and was surprised to find that most of the canned goods had been left behind.  There was nothing fresh on the shelves or in the refrigerator.  I guessed that the bread, fruit and other perishable items had been taken or were currently decaying under my boots.  Why had the canned items been left behind when they would be the last things to spoil?  The apartment had obviously been looted, and these were valuable food stores.  There had to be at least two weeks worth of vegetables, canned beef, fruit and even condensed milk on the shelves.  If I rationed all of this I could easily stretch those two weeks, especially if I mixed this in with my own waning stores.  It made no sense, but not much had since the outbreak.  I’d seen people do much stranger, much less easily explained things since then.  Leaving all this valuable food behind was the least of it.

I knew I’d never be able to carry most of the food in my backpack.  I needed some extra bags to get all of it back to my apartment, and I knew I’d seen some in the piles in the hall closet.  I could have gone back to my place to grab more bags, but once I left this place I wanted to just lock the door and be done with it for good.  I moved down the hall, checked that the Z still wasn’t outside the living room window, and entered the large closet again.  I swung my flashlight around and noticed some cloth bags with store labels on them near the back.  I stepped over and on the big piles of clothes and shoes to get to them.  I was halfway to the back of the closet when I felt a pile move under me and something grabbed my booted foot.

Gids – October 6^th – 9:51PM

Of course, it was in that moment that it chose to attack.

Bang

The loud rattling bang made me duck instinctively, hunching my body over as my muscles tightened and I flinched away from the sound. Adrenaline surged and I turned with fear beating in my chest. The large window rattled in the metal sliding track as it repeatedly clawed at the glass with dirt covered fingers. The Z was outside only a few yards away from me, reaching up against the glass, its milky eyes staring directly at me. I noted that his lower jaw and most of his left cheek were gone as he pushed his face against the glass. A crusted hole from his esophagus, bits of bone and a row of cracked yellow teeth were all that remained of his face beneath his nose.  It was covered in dried blood, most of which I guess was probably its own, and dirt and leaves were stuck to the crusted wound.  I gagged and fought down the rising bile in my throat.  As I stood there it moved slowly, raised its arms again, and then slammed them back into the closed window.

Bang

The glass was holding, though the entire thing was shaking violently each time it brought its fists down. All the apartments had old single-pane windows in simple metal frames with only the smallest amount of insulation. The buildings were old and only moderately kept in good shape. Nothing was new.  Everything had been patched or painted or covered up at some point in time to make it presentable. Old apartment buildings all over Long Island were just like this, renting out units under the label of “Luxury Apartments”. The only real luxuries provided were a roof over your head and a place to store your stuff. I’d rented here because it was cheap. I’d never planned to have to defend myself from the undead. Who knew if the fucking windows would hold? I didn’t know if he’d be able to break the glass, and I sincerely didn’t want to find out.

Bang

I struggled in fear to move my feet, to take one step and then another. I felt like I was moving underwater, my limbs too slow and unresponsive. It felt like an eternity before I finally passed into the hallway and hugged up against the wall so that it wouldn’t be able to see me anymore, fumbling with my flashlight to turn it off and extinguish the tell-tale signs that I was still there. Experience told me that you had to get out of their site to lose their interest. I turned off the flashlight and held the bat against my chest in a white-knuckled grip as I struggled to get my breathing under control. I was regretting not losing the extra 50 lbs. I’d been carrying around for years. The repeated fear driven adrenaline surges were wearing me down quickly.  It’d be just my luck to have a heart attack from the fright while hiding from the undead outside the window. Maybe someone would find my corpse here one day and wonder what the fuck this fat bastard had died of in the middle of all this junk and bloody carpet.

Fuck that. I wasn’t going out like that. I started to get angry, and I realize now that this is a normal response for me when it comes to dealing with stress. I hadn’t gone through so anxiety and pressure before the dead started to rise, and at the time I wasn’t aware of how fear for my life can make me so damned angry. If every organism has a flight or fight response, I started to figure out what mine would be that day.

I was pissed. I just wanted to find some fucking food, some supplies, anything that could help me to stay safe and alive in my shitty little apartment, and nothing seemed to be going my way. As if being alone in the middle of an undead apocalypse wasn’t bad enough, it had to add insult to injury? The first apartment I get into has to look like a scene from a Romero film, and now this fucking Z is banging on the window?

I shook with rage against the wall in that dark hallway for what seemed an eternity. Part of me just wanted to run, to hide and get away from whatever was chasing me. Another part, the biggest part of me, wanted to heft my bat and smash the zombie’s fucking head in until there was nothing left but a lumpy mound of cranial fragments on the ground outside.

The rational part of me – the part that knew that staying right where I was until the zombie lost interest, the part that knew either of the other two options would likely get me injured or killed – held on to control by the barest of margins. I stood in that littered hallway and waited, and control slowly began to return. The rage and fear were still there, but I wasn’t going to act on them. I had to keep my shit together, so I started counting seconds the same way I did as a child when I’d play hide-and-seek with my brother. It let me time the hits and to calm down my beating heart.

Bang

….One Mississippi….Two Mississippi…..Three Mississippi….Four Mississippi….

Bang

….Thirty Mississippi…. Thirty one Mississippi…. Thirty two Mississippi…. Thirty three Mississippi….

Bang

….One hundred six Mississippi…. One hundred seven Mississippi…. One hundred eight Mississippi…. One hundred nine Mississippi….

Bang

….Two hundred forty four Mississippi…. Two hundred forty five Mississippi…. Two hundred forty six Mississippi…. Two hundred forty seven Mississippi….

………

More than four minutes had gone by and the banging that came every few seconds had finally stopped. I’d prayed quietly that the window would hold long enough, and now thanked whatever god might still exist that the sound of breaking glass never came.

I released my grip on the baseball bat, my hands sore from clenching it so tightly. In the dim light of the hallway I could see that the lines of the tape from the handle were impressed into the flesh of my fingers as I stretched them to relieve their tension. I looked about the small space, bending down to quietly pull a piece of the broken mirror from the piles of junk left strewn along the edges. I was careful to avoid cutting my fingers as I raised it to the corner facing the living room. I moved it slowly from side to side, taking in the entire length of the outlined window. The zombie was gone, only a smear of blackened filth left on the outside to mark its attack. I didn’t know if it was just right around the corner, if it had dropped to the ground beneath the window, or if it had moved on to find an easier meal to catch. I did know that I didn’t want to have it catch sight of me again and resume its attacks, so I waited a few more minutes just to be safe.

I was on the side of the hallway with the closed doors that I figured were the bedrooms and bathroom. As badly as I wanted to leave, that rational part of me knew that it would be best to search them, take what I could use, and lock this place up on my way out. I took a few more calming breaths and decided to go clockwise through them, starting with the door at the very end of the hall. I put my ear to the wood, listening for a few moments, hearing nothing on the other side. I turned my flashlight back on, careful to keep it pointed straight ahead. I turned the knob and let the door crack open a few inches. Nothing happened. I held the flashlight in my left hand and the bat in my right as I pushed the door open with my foot.

My light illuminated a small bathroom in pretty bad shape. Just like the rest of the apartment, it had been ransacked. The contents of the vanity and cabinets were strewn about the floor and on top of the twin sinks. Unlike the living room, I didn’t see any signs of blood. The tub was filled with water, though nothing but near death by dehydration would have made me consider using it. I moved inside and began searching through the debris.

I immediately found a few rolls of toilet paper and without hesitation I pulled my backpack off and jammed them into it. Without the ability to make a quick run to the grocery store, I was running dangerously low on toilet paper. I didn’t want to have to start using newspaper or, even worse, pages ripped out of my books. I also found a bunch of prescription drug bottles lying in the left sink. As I popped them into my pack, I took note that apparently the Twit was big into pain killers and muscle relaxants. He also had the biggest bottle of Viagra I’d ever seen.

I grabbed most of the drugs and stuffed them into my bag, only leaving those with expired behind. I wasn’t going to mess with the expired stuff, but the rest might come in very handy at some point, and the prescription dates on the ones I kept were all still fairly new. I also grabbed some over-the-counter cold, flu and allergy meds and the last few razor refills from the opened vanity mirror. I never knew when I might need to get over another cold, and my beard was starting to get really scratchy.

I scanned around the bathroom one more time and realized that there wasn’t much else of use to me. I didn’t need any of the Twit’s expensive Egyptian cotton towels or his matching floor mats, and all the rest of the stuff on the floor had been broken or held no use to me without electricity. There’s just not much use for hair dryers, beard trimmers, and heated toilet seat cozies when the power grid is gone.

Everything I could use was in my backpack, so I zipped up, and slung it back over my shoulders. I moved quietly back into the hallway and shut the bathroom door. I turned to the next room on the right, leaned against the door listening for sound. Again, just like the bathroom and the front door, I heard nothing. I tried to turn the door knob, but it was locked. I knew that I could pop the simple lock with the survival knife I carried. This wasn’t a security lock, just the simple interior push-button locks that had been used in all the other apartments. The question wasn’t whether I could open it. The question was, should I?

Was the door locked to keep something out, or to keep something in? There was only one way to find out, and I had to be sure this apartment was clear before I locked it all up behind me.

I leaned the bat against the wall beside the door frame and pulled out my survival knife. I easily inserted the blade between the door and its frame, and swept the lock in one try. The ease with which I completed the task was the byproduct of a misspent youth that I was very thankful for now. I opened the door a few inches and waited quietly, but heard nothing. I gave it a tap with my boot and it swung open effortlessly.

It quickly became apparent why the door had been locked as the smell of her dead body washed over me.

Gids – October 6^th – 9:01PM

I used the bat to push the door open slowly and was relieved to hear that it didn’t make much noise as it swung inward over the carpet.  The interior was completely dark and quiet, which let me know that either the windows had some serious black out curtains, or the Twit had covered them during the initial outbreak. I swung my flashlight into the interior.

The small kitchen directly off the front door was a complete shambles.  The cabinets were all opened and had obviously been ransacked.  The odor of rot hit me almost immediately, making my heart skip a beat until I noticed all of the sludge on the floor.  It appeared to be a mix of fruit, eggs, frozen food boxes and crushed milk cartons that had been mashed into the floor tiles by the feet of whatever eager looter had been searching for food.  The reek of it was eye-watering and I was just happy that there were no bugs crawling around in it yet.

There didn’t seem to be much I could use in the kitchen, but I’d spend a few minutes going through it once I’d secured the entire apartment.  I turned back to my search and swung the light down the hallway that lead away from the front door.  Four openings passed through the beam of my flashlight, three of which had closed doors.  I guessed that the one open entry indicated the presence of the living room with the others being the two bedrooms and a bathroom, all of which I planned to check.  The floor f the hallway was covered in the remains of a broken decorative hall mirror, small piles of discarded clothes, a few books, assorted shoes and lots of other personal items left in disarray.  Whoever had been through here seemed to have made a serious mess of the place.  It all pointed to someone making a rapid-fire search through the apartment, which left me with some hope that I might find a few useful items that were missed or just simply overlooked in the first searcher’s haste.

I moved into the apartment and closed the door behind me.  While there might be danger inside, I didn’t want to worry about someone or something coming in behind me.  The other apartments may be locked on the first floor, but I hadn’t checked the second floor yet, and who knows what could come out of any one of those locked doors.  Closing it could be a bad decision, but it made me feel safer to have a solid wooden door behind my back instead of empty space.  Part of me knew it was only an illusion of safety, but sometimes you just have to say fuck it and deal with what you can.

I took a few minutes to check the hall closet across from the kitchen and found more of the same mess.  Jackets, winter gloves and an assortment of shoes were in a heap on the floor.  An item on the top shelf, however, immediately grabbed my attention.  It was a large black case about six inches thick and four feet long, and it reached from end to end of the shelf.  I flashed my light down the hall again and saw no changes, so I leaned my bat against the wall and began to work the case off of the shelf.  It was wedged into place, and required me to use both hands, so I put the flashlight on the ground next to the bat.  I pulled hard and it didn’t budge.  Determined, I heaved with all my bulk and it finally released, taking the shelf down with it and slamming into the door frame with a loud bang that filled the dark hallway.  I angled the case a bit to get it past the closet door frame and set it on the floor beside me.

I quickly picked up the flashlight and checked the hall again, fully expecting to see the doors opened and walking nightmares headed my way.  They were still closed, though, and I’d made more than a small amount of noise with the case as I removed it.  I listened for a few moments, holding my breath, but I heard nothing other than the dull thudding of my own heart beat.   I hoped that meant the apartment, while ransacked, was actually empty.  No sound after the loud fucking racket I’d just made was a very good sign.  I took a deep breath and waited a few moments for the adrenaline rush to subside and my heart beat to slow.

Finally calmed to an acceptable level, I picked up the case and leaned it against the wall.  I undid the three metal clasps along one edge and the top easily swung open to reveal a compound bow stored in protective black foam.  It was painted in a woodland camouflage pattern and was one of the most beautiful things I’d seen in days.  I had some makeshift weapons and blades, but nothing that gave me distance from my intended target.  I knew nothing about archery, but I still almost shed a tear as I stood in that dark hallway admiring the green and brown leaf patterns on the bow.

There was a small gift card taped inside the cover.  I pulled it out and read it.

Thanks for always being such a straight shooter.

Congratulations on the big sale.

-Steven

I don’t know who Steven was, but thank god he gave the Twit this gift.  Chances are he’d never even taken it out of the case, as he didn’t seem like an archery nut to me.  I almost laughed as I imagined him getting mud on his expensive fucking shoes.  Regardless, I was glad to have found it.  Who knew that the squirrelly little shit would have these kinds of toys?

I closed the case back up and left it leaning against the front door.  I’d pick it back up on my way out.  As much as I wanted to take the bow out, I knew that without any practical knowledge of how to assemble and use it, I’d be less than deadly with it in my hands.  A part of me realized as well that a bow would be less than useless in the small confines of an apartment.  That knowledge didn’t stop the wishful thinking, but it made it easier to leave it leaning against the door.

I couldn’t close the closet door as the shelf and the mess of clothes at the bottom had spilled out into the hallway.  I kicked as much of the pile back into the closet as I could, but left the door askew.  I picked up my baseball bat and moved carefully through the littered hallway and into the living room.  It was a mess like the rest of the apartment, though it wasn’t quite as bad at first glance.  A bookshelf had been torn down and the different hard covers and paperbacks were strewn about beneath it.  Somehow the gigantic flat screen TV had been torn from its steel wall mount, the LCD cracked beyond repair.  The one large couch was overturned, but otherwise the room wasn’t in bad shape.  I took notice that someone had tacked up some dark blankets over the large window, effectively blocking out all light, confirming my initial assessment of the darkened apartment.  I decided to try and remove them to let in a bit of ambient light so that I could see the room better.  I began to edge my way around the room.  Halfway to the windows my foot squished into something on the floor and I nearly jumped out of my skin.  I turned the light to my boots only to find that I was tracking a dark viscous fluid along behind me.  My heart began to pick up speed again, but I really didn’t want to think about what it was, so I just kept going.

I moved to the window, grabbed the blanket and tugged.  It fell to the floor and let some glorious sun light into the room.  Not needing the flashlight felt wonderful as I turned around. Then I noticed the carpet.

To say that it was covered in blood would be an understatement.  It looked like buckets of blood had been haphazardly tossed around.  There were so many boot and hand prints that they had combined into one big amorphous blob that centered itself on the overturned couch.  I stepped forward cautiously and the carpet squished under my booted feet as I wondered just how long it would take this much blood to dry out and turn the carpet into a giant crunchy blood clot.  Obviously it hadn’t been long enough as it bubbled up and pooled in each of my foot prints.

I approached the overturned couch in the center of the blood stain and noticed an arm sticking out from underneath that I hadn’t been able to see from the other side of the room.  I would have been scared shit-less, except that it was quite literally just an arm.  I could see the bloody stump and torn cloth of the shirt where the arm had been torn off at the elbow.  It was clear from where I stood that it was a woman’s arm, and also just as clear that the rest of her wasn’t under there as I could see the cushions and the hollow “v” formed by the back and arms of the couch.

I don’t know who the arm belonged to.  I’d never seen the Twit with a girlfriend, but it’s more than likely that he had one.  A guy doesn’t pluck his eyebrows if he’s not getting some action on the regular, but maybe I was wrong.  It could have been a sister, a cousin, a mother, a nun or a fucking prostitute for all I knew.  The possibilities were endless and thinking about it was making me feel anxious.  I scanned the room again and decided it was time to finish up this search and get the hell out of this creepy fucking blood splattered apartment.

I moved with purpose back toward the hallway, turning the flashlight quickly back and forth before me.  Of course, it was in that moment that it chose to attack.

Gids – October 6^th – 7:44PM

First things, first. I had decided that just pushing my bookcases up against the window wasn’t going to provide enough protection if a determined group of creepy crawlies decided they wanted to get in. I grabbed my tool box from under the kitchen sink and confirmed that I still had a box of assorted nails stored inside from when I had helped a buddy from work build a tree house for his two young daughters. It was only about five feet up off of the ground, but it was great to see their beautiful little smiles when we finished it.  I wonder if they’ll ever get to use it again.  I wonder if they’re still alive.

There was no use going over thoughts like those.  Keep that up and I’d lose my will to work pretty quickly.

I grabbed the nails and a wooden handled hammer from the tool box and moved with purpose. I took all the books off of the shelves and stacked them neatly against the wall where the bookcases used to stand. Without TV – hell, without electricity – those books were all I had, so I figured taking a few minutes to take care of them was worthwhile.  After moving them, I took the shelves out, and then carefully removed the flimsy backing that squares up the entire unit. I repeated this for the second bookcase and then disassembled them, placing the four longest boards aside. These were just long enough for me to cover the windows from end to end, though it would leave some gaps between. I nailed these up as quietly as I could, using an old black sock to cover the head of the hammer. It didn’t kill the sound, but it did muffle it quite a bit, and a little noise is better than a lot of noise these days.  I keep thinking about how CNN said that the infected were drawn to sound and movement.  I was making a lot of sound, but the constant glimpses I took through the gaps in between the boards showed nothing moving outside.

Once I had the four boards nailed up across the window, I used some of the shelves to cover up the gaps, nailing them directly to the first four boards I’d hung up. When I was done it looked like a patchwork job at best, but I knew the nails were sunk into the thick wood of the window frame, and that’s got to be sturdier than simply leaning the bookcases up. Most of the gaps were covered, but the few areas where I ran out of wood now let in some light. They also provided me with some visibility to the outside world. I still hoped the hammering hadn’t attracted any attention. I pulled the blinds closed over the boards for a bit of extra protection.

Through all of this, Marcus was at my feet whimpering. He hadn’t been outside in days, and the need for a walk was in order. Unfortunately there was no way I could accommodate my little guy anytime soon. I swapped out the old newspaper in the kitchen for some new, and then played with him for about a half an hour. We tossed his stuffed toys around and he jumped back and forth across my small living room, growling as we played tug of war and licking my face when I let him win.  He’d lost a pound or two in the last couple of weeks, and he wasn’t a thick dog to begin with.  I decided to open up a can of corn beef hash and dumped it into his food bowl.  He dug in with gusto, licking up every last crumb.  He’s got a lot less weight to lose than I do, so I didn’t feel too guilty about giving him food I’d planned to save for myself.

Truthfully, I’d go hungry to make sure he was fed simply because I don’t know what I’d do without him. I know he’s just a silly looking little dog with goofy mannerisms and sad eyes, but he needs me and I need him. He’s the only real link I have to what was once a normal life. He’s the only living thing I know of that loves me unconditionally. The rest of the world may be shambling along or climbing from out of graves, but this little dog just wants for me to rub his ears. He keeps me sane when I need it most. I’ve really got to find him some more dog food soon. Hell, I’ve got to find some more food for me. Once I get this building under lock and key, I’m going to have to find out if I can get up onto the roof and see how many zombies are around this area. I’d love to try and get over the two blocks to the grocery store and see what’s left inside, but I’m not making that trek without some serious scouting and recon of the surrounding area and streets.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to check the apartment building first. Organize – Plan – Act Smart. I’ve got to remember that I don’t have any backup. I’ve got to be safe. I’ve got to stay sane and grounded.

Before I continued with my plans to explore the building, I decided to take a sponge bath in the kitchen sink. The water is still flowing, but I can tell the pressure is dropping off. I don’t know how much longer it’s going to last, so I might as well bathe when I can. I felt infinitely better after I scrubbed some of the sweat off of my body, and put on some fresh clothes. It seems that something as simple as clean jeans and a black t-shirt can make one feel almost human again.

Once dressed, I slipped on my black work boots and tied my pants legs into the tops.  I strapped the knife back onto my right hip and looped the machete onto my left. I grabbed a large black flashlight from my tool box as well simply because I might need the light and it doubles as a pretty handy club if need be.  I slipped it through a belt loop and made sure it wouldn’t fall out.  Luckily the large lamp head held it fast and I was able to tuck the end of the handle into a side pocket of my carpenter jeans to keep it from swinging about.  I picked up my backpack and slung it over both shoulders, then tightened the chest straps to ensure it was on nice and snug.  I didn’t want it dangling and able to catch on anything if I had to move quickly.   Last, I grabbed the aluminum baseball bat I’ve always kept behind my coat rack. I’d always felt a bit paranoid about keeping it. It’s not like there’s a lot of instances of home invasion on Long Island that necessitated having a bat ready to hand for uninvited guests. Well….there didn’t use to be. Now, it seems my pre-planning served a purpose even if I’d never imagined cracking it into the brain pan of a zombie.

Before I left, I decided to put a collar and leash on Marcus.  I tethered him to the bathroom door and made sure he had some towels to lie on while I was gone. I didn’t want him trying to rush out when I opened the door, but I couldn’t close him into the bathroom as he’d likely bark and howl until I let him out.  I couldn’t afford that much noise while exploring.  If it was clear, I’d be back for him soon.

With Marcus tied up, I moved to my front door and peeked out the peephole for a few moments.  I saw nothing but the beige wall and red door across the hall. I listened with my ear to the door but heard nothing. I guessed it was put up or shut up time. Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and undid all the locks on the door.  I turned the handle and slowly eased it open until the security chain caught. Looking through the crack I could clearly see down almost the entire length of the hallway. Light from the front door shone in, making shadows play across the dark carpeting. Everything looked clear, so I removed the security chain and stepped out as quietly as a guy my size can possible move.

I pulled the door shut behind me, but didn’t lock it. If I had to retreat, I wanted a clear method of entry back into my apartment, but I also didn’t just want to leave the door wide open. I really didn’t want to return to find that someone or something had crept in behind me while I was gone.  I don’t know if the infected can think enough to work a door knob.  Wishful thinking made me hope they couldn’t, but fear kept the thought at the forefront of my mind until I had to push it aside or stay locked in the same spot in indecision.

I checked the other two doors at my end of the hall and found them both locked.  I was pretty sure that Tanya in 1E and Shane in 1F had left with Jerry, but I still wanted to be sure.  I knocked at both doors and received no answer.   I listened at the doors and didn’t hear anything from inside. It appeared that both apartments were empty, but I’d have to get the doors open to check it later.  Hopefully I could do it without destroying the locks, but I’d worry about that another time.  I was feeling exposed and wanted to keep going before I lost my nerve.

I moved to the hallway intersection, and carefully peered around the corner and out the front door only fifteen feet away. The sun felt great on my face, and I was happy to see that the security door was still closed and intact. It’s mostly made of glass with a few aluminum cross bars, so I don’t know how secure the fucking thing is, but at least it was closed and not broken.  If I was going to rely on it in the future, I’d have to reinforce it somehow.  Hopefully I’d find items in the other apartments that I’d be able to use.

I moved forward to the door, hiding in the corners near the mailboxes and looked outside.  There was a car crashed into the cement stairs of the building across the courtyard. It sat halfway up to the front door and two wide tracks of dark brown dirt showed its trajectory as it jumped the curb before impact.  The driver side door was open and the windshield was completely busted on the driver side.  Both front tires were completely flat, the axle and rims bent at odd angles from what must have been a solid impact into the stairs.  The door into the building was broken open, left hanging from one hinge, all the glass glittered on the carpet in the sun light.  Some of the windows of the various apartments were open and the blinds were blowing in and out in the mild breeze.  There were no infected moving around, but I could see a pair of feet sticking out from under the rear bumper of the car.  Every so often one would move or shake a bit.  The fucker must have been caught under there for days, and I’d hoped that the bugs had gotten to it quickly.  When I finally go outside I’d have to deal with it quickly or its moaning might attract others.

Other than the feet, I saw nothing else outside to be worried about for the time being.  I headed back down the short hall and turned to the right to check the first three apartments at the opposite end of my building.  Two of the doors were locked, while the third was cracked open a few inches.  I listened at the two locked doors while keeping a sharp eye on the opened one. There were no noises from the locked two, but that didn’t mean much.  I didn’t want to knock until I knew the status of the one that was already opened.

I didn’t know much about the twenty-something guy who had lived in 1A as he’d kept pretty much to himself since he’d moved in last July, so I always referred to him simply as “the Twit”.  I knew he was a Jets fan from the loud curses hurled at his TV since football season started that had reverberated up and down the hallway, and that he came off as a metro-sexual pretty-boy with plucked eyebrows and a love for Kenneth Cole catalogs that kept getting left incorrectly in my mailbox.  His real name was David Mercer, but I called him the Twit because of the look of complete confusion that seemed to constantly be stuck on his face.  In other words, the Twit never struck me as someone who’d be very quick on the uptake.  I’d see his confused little well-groomed face in the hallway once in a while as we passed each other.  Otherwise I’d never had even so much as a “hello” from the Twit, and I’d been fine with that.  Now, his door was open and I knew I’d have to check it out.

Doors one and two remained locked and quiet.  It was time to see what was behind door number three.

Gids – October 6^th – 6:54PM

Let me backtrack a little bit. I’ve spent the last two days recovering from a cold, sweating in bed and sleeping almost the entire time. It started off with cold chills shortly before I went to bed after writing my last entry. It escalated into full blown fever dreams and sweaty sheets. I’m glad I had some basic over-the-counter cold and cough medicine or it might have gotten really ugly. That’s the kind of thing I never thought about before.

I’m young and relatively healthy. Other than a yearly checkup, I haven’t had any medical issues to speak of since I was really little. If I got sick, I went to my doctor and got a prescription and ran out to the drug store to get it filled. Pop a few pills and I’m better in a day or two. That convenience is gone. Hell, “convenience” isn’t the right word. Something as simple and inconvenient as the flu can kill, and there’s a lot worse out there than that. Not having any access to expert medical attention has to be something I keep in the back of my head. I can’t take unnecessary chances now. There’s no support system out there to keep me alive. I’m all I’ve got, and I can’t forget it.

Mental note – look for medicine and other important supplies ASAP. I don’t know if the Hospital just a few blocks away is the best place.  There are probably a lot of infected still there since so many were transported after being attacked.  I’m sure the place is full of them just waiting for visiting hours to start.  I’ll have to look elsewhere when I can.

Once I finally got out of bed and was on my way to recovery I was able to eat some dry cereal.  The water from the sink was still flowing, so I drank my fill and felt some strength work its way back into me. I took a few moments to fill the tub with water simply because I have no way of knowing if the water will stop working. Everything else is apparently broken as the power comes on and off less and less often. Having a few gallons of water may be useful, even if it’s coming out of my grungy tub.

Next, I cleaned up after Marcus who had repeatedly used the newspaper I’d put down on the few tiles of kitchen floor available in my tiny studio apartment while I shivered in bed with the flu. I thanked my lucky stars that he’s not a constant barker. Having a loud dog right now would not be a good thing.

I haven’t heard any other noise in the apartment building since coming out of my fevered stupor. My few remaining neighbors had stopped by a few days ago to talk about trying to make it off of Long Island.  Jerry, the aging hippy from 2C that always smelled of cat piss and marijuana, had suggested we group up and get some large SUV’s and supplies together. He wanted to make a run for it, to see if the bridges were still open.  He kept talking about safety and strength in numbers.  He talked about how you could kill a zombie by cracking open its skull or shooting it in the head.  He kept telling us that he’d seen it online before the Internet connection went down, and he was so insanely sure of himself that some of the others began to nod in support.

I’m a fairly unassuming guy who realizes that most people never deviate far from their core personality.  I accept most people as they are, so it should come as no surprise that I wasn’t going to listen to a tye-dyed wearing social misfit like Jerry just because he saw some shit on YouTube.  This guy lives his life in a fucking haze, which doesn’t make him very reliable in my honest opinion.  I guess I’m saying that I wouldn’t turn to him if I was looking for a fount of wisdom.  Then there’s the fact that I’d seen what happened when a single infected got into a group of people.  The disease spread so quickly that they had the immediate advantage.  A single bite would start the process, and anyone that didn’t run was as good as dead.  He got some support from a few others, but I declined and locked my door.  My neighbors had always been friendly and respectful, but the current situation outside made me nervous that some might start looking for their supplies sooner rather than later, and I didn’t want to get robbed of the few non-perishable food items I had.  Even in my fever dreams I can remember getting up to check those locks a few times.

Speaking of my meager food stores, I decided that it was time to stop reminiscing about Jerry, and time to start taking stock of my situation. I had limited supplies, needed to make sure my apartment was secure, and I really wanted to pull some stuff out of my storage closet. There were a few items mixed in with my camping gear that I’d like to get my hands on.

I spent about 2 minutes going over the few items left in my cabinets. The stuff in the fridge were useless, having spoiled within the first 42 hours after the power went out. I only had a half gallon of milk, some cheese, and a six pack of beer. The milk and cheese went into the trash, but the beer stayed. I can always drink beer warm. Hey, a man has to have a few vices to stay human. I have enough food for maybe another week if I spread things out. That’s not good. I’d have to see what else I could find.

Mental note – food is a priority. I need to find stuff that will last for months. Winter is coming and there’s no way I can grow anything in this apartment. Canned goods would be a godsend right now.

After checking on the rather piss poor food situation, I moved my couch and got into my storage closet. I had boxes and boxes of stuff organized and stowed away so that the rest of the small apartment remained clear of clutter. I pulled out the top few boxes until I found the one labeled “camping,” and dragged the big rubber bin out onto the floor. I quickly opened it and removed some items until I found what I was looking for.  I pulled out a machete and a survival knife from the large internal frame backpack I used for hiking trips.  Both blades were well oiled and sharpened before being stored, and having some weapons ready to hand made me breathe just a bit easier. I strapped the knife onto my hip and leaned the machete against my front door. I returned the boxes to the closet and replaced the couch. The world might be ending, but I’d still keep my home neat and tidy. As I replaced everything I realized that the simple act of organization helped me to maintain a sense of normalcy I desperately needed. I ignored that thought and just enjoyed the moment.

Having armed myself, even if only modestly, left me feeling a bit better.  I then moved one of the bookcases away from my single window and carefully peeked outside. The only movement on my side of the building took the form of two gray squirrels hording acorns. I watched them for what must have been 15 minutes. It was so odd to see something so natural that I had to soak it in. When I could pull my eyes away from the squirrels, I noticed that there was a lot of smoke in the distance. It reminded me that I hadn’t heard any sirens from the fire department on the corner in days. I used to wake up every night and curse the sirens. Now I wonder if anyone is left to sound them again. At least I didn’t see anyone shambling along. There were still quite a few bodies in the street, but none of them were currently moving. I wondered if they were really dead, or were they just waiting for a reason to move.

I returned the bookcase. I’d seen enough and questions like that weren’t going to make me feel better. My windows are a good seven feet off the ground because of the basement level of the apartment, but being in a first floor apartment regardless of its elevation still made me incredibly nervous. I don’t know if those things can climb in here, and I really don’t want to find out, so the first night I pushed furniture in place to cover up the single small window I have. Better safe than sorry.

After all this activity I was feeling pretty weak again. I guess I’m not really over my cold and should probably get some more sleep. I decided to write for a bit, but now I’m going to crawl back into bed. I’ll write more soon.

Gids – October 1^st – 11:09AM

When the power comes on, as it does a few times each day, the lights flicker and the TV stations play a continuous loop of the emergency broadcast that started four or five days ago and has been in heavy rotation ever since. The same well-tanned faces repeat the same well-turned verses meant to lure each of us into a false sense of safety even though the fear is evident in their eyes. The world is ending, and the same politically correct bullshit spews on and on in a closed loop of insanity.

Honestly, I’m amazed the power is still able to come on at all, even if it is only for a few minutes here and there. It’s like the power grid is thrashing as it dies, refusing to go gently into that good night. None of the houses closest to me have any lights showing at night, and I haven’t seen or heard any of my neighbors in days. I hope a few of them made it off of the island before the bridges were destroyed.  When the power comes on I try to charge up my cell phone in the hopes that the service will be restored and I’ll be able to contact some of my family and friends, though the basic services we all came to depend on so heavily were the first things to fall apart.  I’d heard that the government had commandeered most of the communications networks almost immediately after the initial spread of the infection.  When some of my neighbors were still here, there had been rumors that the government had used the cell networks and satellites to coordinate bombing runs on some of the larger cities where the infections had run rampant.  I’d guessed that they’d attempted to slow the spread by taking out the major population centers.  I’d been able to see the cloud above Manhattan from my apartment and hoped it wasn’t nuclear.  Maybe the government still had access and was communicating out there somewhere, but I’d gotten nothing but dead air on either of my phones and the same old TV loop was all I’d seen for days.

America had fallen apart so quickly, everyone panicking and running in any direction they could.  Stores were looted, cars stolen, houses burned and through all of it came more and more of the infected.  I call them “infected” like I diagnosed the cause.  What a fucking joke!  I’d laugh if I could, but it’s really not that funny when the joke is played on everyone.  I still didn’t know if it was a virus or a chemical attack or simply the end of days.  I guess it really doesn’t matter anymore.  It probably never did considering how quick things changed.  In a world where the ends were made to justify the means, the end came faster than anyone would ever have thought possible.

I guess I’m getting a little bit ahead of myself here. I should probably explain who I am, and what I’m doing with this journal that no one will ever read. I don’t have any use for my old name, and most people who knew me used my nickname anyway, so I guess you can call me Gids just like they used to. I’m an overweight thirty-something from Long Island, NY who is holed up in a tiny studio apartment with a dog named Marcus. I used to work for a local cable company where I was a technical writer and instructor for a customer service department.  I was one of those faceless drones that sat everyday in a coldly lit cubicle farm, one of those guys who hated his job but needed the paycheck.  I used my weekends to recharge my batteries just so I could face another humdrum week of being under-appreciated and overworked by the evil overlords of the corporate managerial system.   Now, I’ll never have another job or paycheck or weekend.

I guess you could say I’m just a survivor of the zombie apocalypse.

There, I said it. “Zombie.” I know it sounds fucking crazy, and I don’t even want to write that word down, but I’ll be damned if I can think of anything else that so accurately describes the current situation that the world finds itself in. The dead have come back, and they are fucking hungry. That sounds like a cheesy tag line for a movie I would have rented only a few weeks ago. Who knew that the worse parts of the bible were probably true?

I joke about it as I write; a satirical glint in my eye and a desire to believe myself a bad-ass survivor capable of living through this nightmare. In truth, I know I’m not, but a little creative authorial license is the providence of every writer, isn’t it? I can remember the first Z I saw.  That’s what I call them now.  “Z” is easier to say without feeling the hysterical butterflies in your stomach, if you know what I mean.  I remember that first fucking Z.   I see it every time I close my eyes. I’ll never forget it, even though I wish I could.

It was a surreal moment in time suffused with the kind of imagery that Dali would have created after eating a pound of hashish.  It all happened so quickly.  I remember that I watched as blood hit the counter in a series of splashes, and heard the pop as the waitresses fingers crunched in its mouth. The Z’s white eyes were vacant and milky, unfocused and uncaring. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she passed out from the shock and pain of the vicious bite. His jaw kept moving in a grinding fashion, the mush of her digits slowly dribbling from his dark lips to splatter on the front of his hooded sweatshirt. My breakfast escaped violently all over my booth as I watched, an acidic flood of fear that forcefully cleared itself explosively out of me, and I remember feeling like a coward for not being able to keep down a few flapjacks and bacon.

The things I remember about the moment the world changed seem insignificant, distant and cold inside my head. I wish my old life didn’t seem so unpolished and incomplete upon retrospection, but the harsh reality of the last few days makes me wonder just what the fuck I was doing with my life.

Has it really only been a few weeks since this started? I don’t even think I’d be able to tell what day it was if my watch didn’t have the date on it.  Things like knowing the date and day of the week and the exact time of day kind of took the backseat once the infection turned the entire world into a killing field.  The first day I realized things were going to shit was September 19th.  It was a Saturday, and I’d been out drinking the night before.  Now, it feels like a lifetime ago that I went into the diner down the street from my shitty little studio apartment to get some breakfast and work off a hangover.

Friday night had been a really good time. I met up with some old friends at a dive bar in Bethpage for a few pints. Everyone showed up to support a local cover band as they played some overly loud rock n’ roll. I saw a lot of faces I hadn’t seen for quite a while…..faces I’ll probably never see again considering how quickly everything went to shit.  I didn’t drink too much the night before, but at the ripe old age of thirty-four I guess the hangovers come regardless of my quantities of consumption. The diner would provide me with the coffee and carbs I’d need to get over it, so I legged my way over after walking the pooch and leaving him a rawhide to gnaw on while I was gone. I didn’t want to have him barking and bothering the neighbors. Now his barking keeps me alive. Funny how things change, isn’t it.

I sat in the corner, the place mostly empty as I’d missed the morning and afternoon rush by sleeping in ’till 2:30pm. My waitress seemed to be the only one actually working at the moment, and I could tell she was tired even though she was covering the few of us in the diner with a haste born of organizational skills I’d never possessed. Her black sneakers whispered over the dingy carpeting as she brought out orders and simultaneously freshened up our coffees. The owner sat behind the cash register as always, his thick glasses gummy with finger prints, his gigantic blubbery ass molded around a wooden stool, and a copy of the local newspaper in front of him opened to the sports section.  I gave them both a nod as I walked in and chose a booth near the window.  I didn’t know either by name, but I came in often enough to recognize their faces. In truth, I didn’t want to know their names. I just wanted to have a place to eat without any hassle or small talk. I don’t think I’m any different from most people in the modern age. We each had our own problems, and little time or concern for others that couldn’t be summarized in a Facebook or Twitter update.

There were a few other patrons in the place, though I didn’t really register any of them in any real way other than as nameless faces in small groups.  I can’t say I really remember seeing at first what I now assume was a vagrant, one of those dingy bum’s that beg for change at 7-11 every morning so they can buy booze or get a little something to eat. If pressed for details, I guess I’d say that he seemed to be sleeping on his stool at the counter, all hunched over with a grimy hooded sweatshirt on. Other than that, I didn’t pay him any attention. That’s how the world dealt with people like that before it all turned upside down and we all became just like him.

I ordered, drank a lot of coffee, and ate quickly when my food finally came out. The warmth of the rather shitty watered-down coffee was making my stomach finally settle, and the mild banging in my head was slowing as the bacon worked its greasy magic in my gut. I noticed that all four of the TVs on the different walls had scattered news broadcasting as I felt a moment of contentment. Then everything went and got completely and utterly fuckered.

My waitress was poking the bum in the shoulder, and what drew my attention was that her voice was getting louder as she asked him if he was ok. He was now completely slumped over on the counter top, his food untouched beside him. As she poked his arm again, this time harder and more insistent, he began to slide sideways off his stool. She reached out to grab him and the hoody on his sweatshirt fell back as his head rolled around on his neck. I can only imagine the smell that assailed the poor woman as his skin was obviously unwashed and very dirty. Dark veins bulged through his pale, unshaven skin, and blood appeared to be congealed on his left ear.

I say left ear like he still had one. Even after all this shit has gone down I still candy-coat my words to lessen the impact. Oh, the joy of having been a corporate professional where talking out of one’s ass was a prerequisite. This fucking guy didn’t have a “left ear”. He had a gaping fucking hole on the side of his face that I could stick all five fingers of my meaty hand into and wiggle without touching the edges. He was missing the ear, part of his jaw, and a bunch of scalp from the back of his head. It looked like he’d had it torn off in one quick jerking motion, the skin tearing around his jaw line, leaving a curving gash with white specks of bone that could be seen throughout the wound.  I remember wondering why it wasn’t bleeding.  The injury was so big it should have been shooting blood all over the place, but it just looked caked with dried blood.

The waitress pulled back at first until the bum almost fell off the stool, and – god bless the waitress for her will to help – she tried to catch him. That’s when his mouth opened and he just bit her like nothing in the world mattered more to him. It was so quick. His mouth opened, her fingers got caught, and his yellowed teeth clamped down. It sounded like a pop-gun, the way her fingers just came off like that. POP. And she was falling back from him, bleeding all over the place and screaming. Then the bum began to chew and she checked out of reality. I guess I would, too, if I watched someone carelessly eating my fingers.

That’s when my breakfast made an immediate exit the same way it went in. The few other patrons were all screaming, and the owner was moving his ponderous backside around the counter. I watched as a guy in the brown shirt and shorts of a delivery man push the bum from behind, sending him sprawling limply to the ground next to the waitress. The bum didn’t even try and stop his fall, didn’t put out his hands to slow the impact at all. He just went down like a wet bag of shit, and then began to pull himself towards the waitress. He sunk his teeth into her calf, biting right through the dark stockings all diner waitresses wear as part of their daily uniform. A bloody chunk of stocking and meat ripped off her leg and went right down his throat.

I’d love to say that I got up to help the delivery guy and the owner. I’d love to say that I pulled the waitress away from his grasping hands and gnashing teeth. I’d love to tell you that I was transformed into a hero, a defender of the weak, that I moved myself with a quickness and certainty that allowed me to help my fellow man.

I can’t do that, though. I grabbed my jacket and got the fuck out of dodge. I ran the entire way back to my apartment and slammed the door behind me. I spent the next half hour dry-heaving into a cold toilet while my dog tried to lick my face. I had always hoped I would respond well if tested, but I didn’t. Every instinct I had told me to run. I was unable to resist. I had neither the will nor the intestinal fortitude. I don’t know if that saved my life. I don’t know if it should.

Once my body stopped trying to forcefully eject my stomach, I spent hours huddled in the dark confines of my apartment watching the news broadcasts that detailed the outbreak.  It was the only thing being broadcast for days as the world went to hell in a hand basket, and I watched it all.  CNN was the first to notice that the riots spreading through major cities were in fact being caused by the infected who appeared to be feeding on the living.  They ran a tape of a young white girl getting attacked by a big Asian guy with a missing arm, his jacket bloody and shredded.  I watched as the film showed her struggling as he bites her once, then again.  Her throat was torn out and her blood ran onto the sidewalk as her attacker left her to chase after a blurred motion that passed briefly in front of the camera.  The news anchor pondered that the infected are attracted to sound and movement, which was why her attacker didn’t stay to feed.  A clock appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, and within two minutes her eyes opened, and she began to move again.  She was obviously dead, the puddle of blood around her prone body was huge and it no longer squirted from her mangled neck.  Her skin was incredibly pale and her movements awkward, as if she didn’t know how to control her extremities and get them to work in unison.  She eventually stands looking stiff and uncoordinated until she shuffles out of the camera frame and the news anchors debated the validity of the tape.  It was the first time I heard someone use the word zombie in all seriousness.  It wouldn’t be the last.

So much more has happened since that day. So much that I wish hadn’t, and yet sadly know will happen again. I don’t have anything left to pretend, no more need for politically correct excuses. I guess that was the push I needed to finally start writing in this journal. So, I guess I will continue to write until I can’t do it anymore. If hell has come to earth, I plan to do my penance with my pen, recording the ordeals of my existence as each day goes by. Maybe someday someone will read this and know my story. Maybe they will understand the world within which I live, and the choices it forces upon me. Maybe they can pass judgment on me, and maybe it will be more kindly than my own.

Maybe they can excuse the undeniable will of instinct that made me run that day in the diner…..and that made me run so many times after.

Maybe.

Gids – September 28^th – 8:25PM

I have a job ahead of me, and it is one I’ve been loath to approach for far too long. One would think that a historian such as I would relish any opportunity to chronicle the passing of time and lost circumstance, to detail the accomplishments of the previous ages so that one may learn lessons from their lives and the ways in which they were lived. In this instance, one would be dearly wrong.

I have become the unfortunate recipient of a much tattered and well worn leather journal that was recently unearthed by my oldest son, the budding archeologist who makes his father so proud with his continued accomplishments, the prodigy who followed so closely in my own footsteps. As proud as I am of him, how I wish that he had never found this crumbled reminder of the past, the contents of which detail the life-threatening struggles of one man to survive in an environment that I can only assume is the closet semblance of hell to ever exist on the mortal plain. The tales told within this journal present the sum total of one man’s life, a man I have come to respect with the greatest regard and regretted urgency my old bones can muster.

You see, the tale is of the early days of the zombie infection, or the ZI Plague as many of my contemporaries now call it.  These pages detail those years when the dead walked through fallen cities and the last vestiges of humanity huddled alone and afraid, hungry and injured in mind, body and spirit. Those dark years, now seven decades past, have begun to fade as those amongst us who lived through those times pass on into old age and eternal rest. For many of us, children of the survivors, the true horrors of that time can never be understood. Yet, my son has found this poignant reminder of those deadly times, pulling it from the dirt and rock of a recently excavated building in old New York, bringing this chilling tome back into the light that so easily captured my mind and will not let go.

For I have read this story. I have read it so many times that the words are etched in my mind as if I wrote them myself all those long years ago. The life of this man haunts me.  His words have become the forlorn whispers of forgotten ghosts at my shoulder, begging for release, for remembrance. His story cannot be unlike so many others from those dark days, yet he chronicled it fastidiously, detailing even the mundane and commonplace struggles of his everyday existence.  His repeated attempts to find others to connect with and the continuous disappointment that such endeavors brought to him only make me hurt with him even though so many years separate us.

What hope did he have? What depths of loneliness did he know?  What faith could have sustained him?  What power of will, what instinct must have driven him? What chance that his words would survive to tell of his tale, of his efforts to live on in the face of horrible tragedy and loss? Did he write this in the hopes that someday, someone would find his story and understand the decisions that he made?  Are these words his explanation for a life lived in the worst of times, or do they beg forgiveness for his actions?

I know not the answer to any of these questions.   Each time I read his journal entries I am overcome with different emotions and differing impressions of the man who wrote them.  I may never fully understand what drove him to write these words, but I hope that their shared reading may release his ghost.  I wish him only peace as he knew so little of it in life.

What follows is the tale of a lone survivor in a land of the dead. I shall endeavor to list each of his entries exactly as he wrote them, to stay true to his words and transfer from these dirtied and crumbling pages the life of this one man so that each of us may try and gleam from his tattered existence an answer to an eternal question that shames those of us who may look back on the years of the infection without the fear and trepidation that so clearly marked those who lived through those darkest of times.

What would you do to survive?

May we all find our own answers, and be content in the hopes that we may never have to prove their truths.

Jaime Chambers

Welcome to the Will of Instinct, a serialized novel by Jaime Chambers that details the tale of a survivor of a zombie apocalypse.  This story is told in the form of journal entries that Jaime transcribes into his blog.  The main character is known as Giddeaon, or “Gids” as his friends call him, and the story is set in Long Island, NY in the present day.

Each entry will provide insight into the changing world, and the mind set of one lone survivor.  What does it take to survive?  How much can the will to live, the will to continue, the will of instinct, change you?  These journal entries seek to answer this question.

Please be advised that this website contains graphic textual depictions of violence and gore and may not be appropriate for some readers.  If this is your first visit, please proceed to the Prologue.  If you’d like to browse through the journal entries, start with “The Will of Instinct” menu option under Categories above.

Thank you for stopping by.  Please feel free to leave some comments if you enjoy the story.

Why Am I Writing This…

That’s a good question, and one that I think every author probably gets at some point in time.  It seems to intimate that an author had better have one hell of a good reason for doing what they do, and speaks volumes about how people regard the seemingly mysterious creative act found in the setting of words onto paper.   It’s one of those questions that makes me feel like I have to have a long-winded and lofty response ready, but if I were to be rudely put on the spot, I’d probably reply rather simply.

Why?  Because I can.

Is that snarky enough for you?  I don’t mean it to be, but it’s the easiest of explanations I can readily provide.  You see, I have a need to write.  I’ve been doing it for what feels like my entire life time.  I even spent 4 years of my youth being courageously educated so as to earn an actual degree in the English Writing Arts.  I’ve always wanted to write.  Even at an early age I penned short stories for my parents and friends, though most often I did so just for myself.

And that has become the problem.  I’ve ceased writing for others and I’ve become my own worst critic.  In the 10 years since I graduated from a frozen northern university I’ve started a plethora of tales only to kill them before completion because I deemed them to be – for lack of a better word – craptastic.  The truth be told, most of them weren’t very good, but I’ve also got to admit that a few tales worth telling were just as likely deleted forever from the bits and bytes of my hard drive simply because I am loath to believe myself capable enough to pen anything that anyone would actually want to read.

Pathetic, isn’t it.

This sordid and pitiful reason now brings me back to the original question: Why am I writing this?  “Because I can” is an excellent answer, but it needs a little expansion.  The medium provided to me via the Internet requires that what I write and subsequently publish to my blog must be left alone.  I don’t want to change up the previous pieces of the story that some people may have read.  Once it’s published I am bound to leave it alone.  This is important because each prior failure I’ve had in writing, each time I scrapped yet another story came to be simply because I over-edit and over scrutinize every word.  Using a blog format means that what I publish is what will be read, and it means that I can’t tinker endlessly until I give up on the idea and move on.

In essence, this entire story will be my rough draft, the untouched words as they come out of my head and onto the page…..or screen as this case may be.  There will be grammatical errors and misspelled words.  I will make inconsistent leaps of faith and hope that you follow.  These entries will not be perfect.  I hope that you can forgive the things I overlook, and wish that you would point them out so that I can make them better the next time.

Thus, the final answer to my question is this.  I’m writing this because I don’t want to continue the long string of failures that I’ve pieced together over the last 10 years.  I don’t want to reach any further milestone birthdays only to continue telling myself “one day”.  I want to empty out my head and see what the final product looks like.

So here starts my journey.  I hope that if you’ve read this far you’ll continue on through the story.  I promise that it will be much better than the drivel I’ve produced for this introductory page.  Why?

Because I can.

Jaime