Dossier 2: Cory

Penciled In

I’m out of quarantine now. (Fun fact: “Quarantine” is a corruption of “40 days,” for the length of time a plague ship waited in port for approval to land. I got out in somewhat less than 40. ) I feel better. About which, more later.

We face the problem of training Ian and Suzanne to shoot, without benefit of extra ammunition. I found a partial solution.

As the only person in our group (I think) who owned any guns before this current emergency, I’ve tried to contribute to the firearms education. There are only so many things you can teach about guns without live ammo exercises, but I read of a trick years ago.

One of the handguns Adam and his crew looted on the way here was an enormous .45 Automatic Colt Pistol. Just about the right size for his Ian’s huge paw. Anyway, the hammer on a full-size ACP falls with only a little less authority than the Hammer of Thor himself when the trigger is pulled.

I took a short pencil and sharpened it down to a little nubbin, and dropped it down the barrel. When dry-firing, the impact of the hammer on the pin (and hence the end of the pencil) drives the pencil out in a ballistic curve. Not far, but if you “shoot” the pencil into a paper target on the wall a foot or two away, you do get some practice in holding the cannon on target and squeezing the trigger smoothly.

Once I inflated a plastic bag and surprised Ian by popping it right beside his ear just as he pulled the .45’s trigger. Everyone thought this was a cruel trick, but I said part of firearms training is overcoming your “flinch” reflex, which develops after the gun goes BANG a few times. I was just trying to supply a bang.

Dossier 1 : Arrayah

The Irony is Not Lost on Me

Not that I wasn't glad to see Brien alive--I was. We couldn't hug him until after his mandatory quarantine in the animal health care building, but once Arrayah approved of him, we celebrated. So yes, I appreciate that there is one more soul saved, one more pair of hands to work, one more mind with which to collaborate. I like Brien. And I really like his cat, Yin.

But those advantages aside, he wasn't the one I was hoping for when Cory announced he'd found someone along the shore at Owen Beach. Where is Jared?

I'd like to point out that the survivors in this post-zombie-plague existence consist of a bunch of gay guys and one straight girl. The universe has a damn twisted sense of humor.

Escape, part 4

Hours in the cockpit, legs burning from the run for my life, arms limp, ass killing me from sitting slumped in the kayak’s hard plastic seat. I moisten some freeze-dried peas in a little of my bottled water, try to wait for them to dissolve in my mouth. Drifting past docks, restaurants built on piers, waterside parks. No one visible. Could be any winter’s day, if only for the lack of cars. Miles to go and maybe a half mile from land.

A mottled grey head appears ahead of me. Do the plague-victims swim now? Black eyes blink at me. A dog? No, a seal of some kind. I think I see pity in its eyes. As suddenly as it appears, it launches itself down into the depths again, flippers flicking the surface. Soon I see an enormous jelly in the water. The marine equivalent of a zombie, brainless consumer, wandering back and forth. This all heartens me. There is little life in the water down by the docks and the paper mills, but much more up here between Tacoma’s peninsula and Vashon. Wonder if any hippies managed to survive on Vashon. Or if they survived on Andersen. Or in the old federal compound at McNeil Island.

Buoyed slightly with hope, I weakly paddle towards shore, the wind against me now. I can make out the algae covered sea wall and rocky beach of Point Defiance Park. No one visible among the picnic tables on the beach, but who knows what’s hiding on the forested hills? I don’t care. If they meet me on the beach, I will die happy to have had one last kayak tour and to have delivered Yin to someplace more hospitable than downtown. She stands in the forward cockpit, roaring with displeasure, water up to her knees. I forget to grab a bilge pump. Is this thing leaking? Yes. I see drops of water dribbling in through claw marks in the hull.

Waves carry the kayak onto the stony beach. As the incoming tide buffets the boat, I slump forward, waiting for whatever fate brings.

Escape, part 3

I slalom down the steps of the Glass Museum, to the Dock Street Marina. It looks like Pearl Harbor on Monday, listing boats, some smoldering. But I see what I need on a rack next to the water: a long, swift touring kayak. One of these is hard for me to manhandle on my best days. This is not my best day. Launching from dockside is tricky, under the best conditions. These are not them. Throw everything in the front cockpit. Squat next to the rear cockpit, bracing a paddle on the dock. There is a small gathering of stumbling, meandering zombies inside the marina gate. The kayak wobbles as I get in, but I board successfully, and push off.

One of the faster ones throws itself into the water as I try to paddle up to speed. Water shallow here. It bounces off the bottom, brain too addled to make swimming actions, but still it reaches for me with fingers chewed down to bony claws. I dispatch it with a blow from the paddle, right on the bridge of the nose. It drifts away under the waves, claws still reaching up greedily.

Need to pick up speed and get to deep water. More of the slower zombies begin plunging in after me, popping up in my wake. Tide is out. Motion on the beach, a black shadow among the rocks. Yin flicking her tail. I brake with the paddle. Can I get away if I stop for her? Could I live with myself if I didn’t? Paddling on the left side, I turn to the beach.

She jumps into the cockpit, wet and complaining. I veer for open water, her cries syncopated with the beats of the paddle.

Sprinting for the open water of the bay, past the derelict container ships at anchor. Into the deep green water, far from shore. A few plague victims visible on the docks and the coast-hugging highway.

It is a long way to the zoo.

I am lucky. The wind is from the southwest, and tends to make me drift towards the Narrows, Point Defiance and safety. I find it impossible to row anymore. Only a half-hearted stir of the water whenever I start to go in a circle.

Exhausted just from remembering and recording this.

Escape, part 2

Made good time. Kept up a steady jog. Used a compact mirror to see around corners. Attracted a few of the infected right away. Saw familiar faces: the guy who used to cut my hair, a barista. Someone I went out with once. Alright, fine, you want to chase me? We’ll see who’s faster.

Down the hill on 7th, to Commerce. Avoid the Spanish Steps, white-washed territorial-era artifact. Its two flights short-cut to the water but was a place to get ambushed and killed in normal times. Commerce is the wide street with the trolley line. The theater district, now a carnal field. More slow moving zombies. Getting tired. Conscious of how long it has been since I ate. Yin scratches my lip open. Moisten my tongue on my own blood. Must keep one foot moving forward. Then the other. Again. And again.

On Pacific Avenue, I lead a parade through where the Daffodil Parade used to roll, like a drum major from hell. A running zombie darts out from under the freeway overpass, near the Pacific Grill. Unsling Mini-14. Haven’t fired it in years. Eye down the iron sights – why didn’t I buy a scope for it years ago? Or one of those little barrel stabilizers I saw online. Each time I miss the growing target I regret all those hours I didn’t spend on the range. Nooooo, I had to spend all my money on food and medicine, instead of range fees and ammo. Finally I bring him down. Deaf from the blasts, taste of cordite on tongue. Realize the slow ones have caught up.

Lash a few down with the boken, take to my heels again. Toss the gory plague-coated boken away. Stumbling, weezing, I find myself at the gate of the History Museum. And here Yin launches herself from the backpack, scuttles under the wrought iron fence and disappears. Shamblers crash into the gate just as I lock it behind me. Over the bridge to the Glass Museum. A good number of original Chihulys smashed all around, crunching underfoot. Calling Yin. Realizing she’s gone.

Field Sketches

Detection

We rely on the animals for a lot of things here in our community, so it shouldn't have surprised us that Arrayah the pit-bull is a powerful tool against the zombies. We don't sic her on them (usually), rather we discovered she had a special talent.

While Tom and Cory were scouting on zoo grounds, Adam, Ian and I took Arrayah, loaded our weapons and piled into the zoo's giant van with its pictures of wolves, snakes and polar bears plastered on the sides. Most of our stocks are plentiful for now, but we ration carefully and are always thinking of ways to bolster our supplies. Our forays into the city are planned and purposeful affairs, leaving little room for leisurely exploration. I often volunteer to go, fueled by the fire of irrational hope—maybe this will be the time that we find Jared.

This particular day we were at Target, where the glass doors were shattered, shelves were gutted and the generator-powered overhead lighting flickered eerily. Your average post-apocalyptic shopping trip. “I'm going to find a whisk,” Ian said.

While Adam dug through the pet aisle for sturdy dog toys, I mused, “I never could find pants that fit me at Target.” But I had already pulled on a new track jacket and had a pair of socks in each pocket. I also found a pink sequined baseball hat, which I wore ironically, it's garishness flying in the face of our new existence.

“VOICES?”

I dropped the hat and the battery units I'd scavenged from kids' toys when I heard the question, posed frantically from the greeting card aisle. I radioed Ian to be on alert and Adam had already drawn his gun. The disembodied speaker was right to be confused, as were we. Zombies' enlarged glands and tongue made it impossible for them to form words, let alone carry on conversations about Target's need for a petites' section. “Am I hearing voices?” the speaker was a woman, distressed, and by the sound of it, now clattering through a display of photo albums to reach us. “Take me with you!”

She appeared three aisles away, and stopped, her hands tearing at her hair. She wore the red polo and khaki pants of a Target employee.“Take me with you!” she pleaded again, stepping closer. We lowered our weapons warily and began questioning the woman about her activities, how she'd survived. Specifically, we needed to know when, where and how she had encountered any infected individuals. “None,” she assured us, answering shortly, as she'd done all our questions, “I haven't had any contact.”

We decided to take her with us. Adam and I waited at the van where Arrayah had been standing guard and the woman collected her belongings. I started to consider how it might be nice to have another female in our community. The woman reappeared clasping a canvass shopping bag. “Where's Ian?” Adam asked.

Suddenly Arrayah growled low in her throat and before we could stop her, leaped out of the van at the strange woman. “Whoa, whoa! It's okay Arrayah! I'm sorry, she hasn't seen anyone new for a long time...” I explained while Adam tried to restrain the agitated dog, who was now barking furiously. “She's not usually like this--”

“Wait.” The intensity in Adam's voice froze me. “I've seen her like this before.” He turned to the woman, “Tell the truth. When did you last see an infected person? Did you touch them?”

“No, no! He—I didn't--” she stammered. Her face crumpled and she began to sob. “It's been three days! I thought it would be fine!”

“But it's not, is it?” Adam demanded.

The woman whipped a pistol out of her shopping bag and waved it wildly, screaming, “It was fine! I was going to make it!” She sank to her knees and added more softly, “This morning....It started—I could feel it.” Before anyone could move, she turned the gun toward her head and fired.

“Good dog, Arrayah,” I said.

Ian appeared from inside the store, announcing triumphantly, “I found a whisk!”

Escape, part 1

It’s my first full day out of quarantine and Adam finally let me use his computer. Also let me play Minecraft for a little while. Then I try to put my story into type. Still too traumatized to talk. Throat still raw, still feverish and sun burned, but can type.

One morning at dawn I decide it is time for plan C. All my leftover gear in my big backpack (not much, just a couple packets of freeze dried peas), pistol in a belly-band holster, Mini-14 carbine slung over right shoulder. Boken, wooden practice samurai sword, not quite a katana but all I got for close-in work, shoved in a belt loop. And, in my other backpack, slung on my front with just her nose or occasional claw protruding, is my cat Yin, protesting loudly. If my face hadn’t been protected by an incipient beard, she would have slashed it to pieces.

It is five miles, as the zombie shuffles, between my place and the zoo. Unfortunately, it is five miles of animated corpses, wrecked cars, blocked roads, potential ambush sites, and a few deranged survivors like me who might shoot anything that moves. But only one mile to the water.

Mornings are the easiest. Most of the plague victims are like old people. The cold and damp really slows them down, their joints congealed. My plan: Move fast, keep them behind me, mow down anything that gets in front of me, and get to the marina. Of course, if there are any runners out this morning, this will be an extremely short, one-way trip.

Doesn’t matter, I think. Better than expiring in a stinking apartment. Better to die in harness, like MacBeth, guns blazing, and then whatever follows, be it oblivion or judgment. And anyway, Yin will have a chance to survive outside without me.

Journal Entry #5

I mentioned Brien showed up. It was an unexpected, but welcomed, encounter. The list of our daily activities is pretty short. It's a lot of just being. Just surviving. A lot of trying really hard to not reminisce. When the world has changed this much, I find it's best to look ahead. The problem is simply that really is that I suck at it. But, one chore of sorts is scouting. Pairs of us go out to the outlying areas of the zoo to check for anything out of the ordinary. Sometimes to try and hunt or fish. Brien's arrival happened to coincide with a scouting round. Tom and Cory were out. They rarely go together...they tend to squabble but nonetheless the were out. Thank God they were out together. The recapping of the story makes me cringe every time. Tom told me how they spotted a figure at the water front and how quickly Cory had drawn his gun to take it down. Fortunately, Tom, being the far less eager to kill one of the two managed to interject just soon enough to give Brien time to turn around and throw his hands up. Brien was just pulling his kayak up on to Owen's Beach with cat in tow.

Needless to say fortune was in our favor. Now we just wait. Brien is in quarantine.

I'm optimistic that Arrayah will give him the all clear.

-Adam