Authors: Norman Dixon
Shit, before the First War everyone knew
a crazy cat lady and most people had ’em as pets. Used to get emails with
stupid pictures of ’em . . . I guess it’s no surprise they’re everywhere now
that their instincts have resurfaced. Great hunters. Survivors. Lot like us,
those that hung on.
God Almighty, what a Hell you’ve tested
us with.
0600HRS: CALIFORNIA
This is damn crazy. We’re headed towards
one of the biggest clusters of Creepers on the continent. The fall of L.A was
just as bad as New York and any other major populated city for that matter.
City folk didn’t have the means, or the land, to survive when it went sour.
They were too packed together . . . hell most of ’em didn’t even have guns. It
was a mess and I don’t expect much has changed. I doubt that there are even any
survivors in the cities, just a Creeper cluster fuck and the garbage of days
gone by. At least I can’t hear the fuckin cats anymore. But now it’s
unseasonably cold, cold as a witches titty in’a brass bra. Or maybe that’s me,
chilled to the bone. Tomorrow mornin’ I ask ’em, no matter what.
I love both of ’em to death but they
can’t fool me, no sir, can’t fool me no longer. I actually think they’re
waiting to see how far I’ll go without question. I’m sure they’re testin’ me
but it sure as shit ain’t my loyalty. Tomorrow I get answers.
0600HRS: ON THE EDGE OF HELL
They wanted me to write this down—said
it was ‘portant to matters that would arise once we get inside the city. THE
CITY! I still don’t believe it. Lord have mercy on our crazy souls. I’ve always
done right by you . . . never ate nobody, even when times were tough, never hit
a woman, drank more than my share, but I’ve always done right by you. So I beg
of you now, watch over us, watch over us that we may get through this insanity.
I suppose I should just get to writin
her all out. This crazy thing, this mad dream. We was sitting round a fire in a
busted up Shell station. Out of the wind, and out of sight they laid it on me.
I said, “What are you two at? Lied to
everyone, cludin’ me, and Lord knows I don’t take too kindly to liars. I’ve
always been straight with you all . . . it’s time you’re straight with me.”
Thorton, in all his grizzled,
gray-haired glory, lookin’ like Willie Nelson, only skinnier, if ya can imagine
that, but muscle like steel cables, spoke first. He said, “Randy, been years
since we heard much of anything from the outside, ten years . . . hell, maybe
more. Baylor brings some promise from the east but we’re all scattered, all
different.
“Even in our own house there is
disorder. Some folks gettin’ caught up in the spirit, forgot that it just wasn’t
God that saw them through the madness. My own boys." Thorton got all teary
eyed then. Can’t say I blame him.
“What my husband is tryin’ to say is,”
Shirley cleared her throat. “Is that God works in many ways . . . some may seem
strange, but make no mistake it is God. Even in science." Shirley stood
straight up as she spoke the word. Her hair still clinging to the flaming red
of her youth, but most of it was gray now. Lines of wrinkles at the corners of
her mouth spoke of all the sadness such a strong woman had seen. In those green
eyes I saw hope, just as I heard it in that word . . . science.
See some of the Folks been blamin’ the
whole disaster on science, some on sin, some on technology, but no one knows.
Hell, still a mystery how they couldn’t see that science, and the skills of the
good doctor were keepin’em alive through all these winters. You just can’t
change some people’s minds I reckon.
Just look at the techno cults, crazy
bastards worshiping broken televisions and computers, bowing before black
screens, the sacrifices . . . how had we gotten so far away from what was? But
I can babble all day about the things I’ve seen. Let me get back to old Ma and
Pa.
“Shirley speaks true, Randy, it’s science,
by the grace of God that will save us. Science is a gift from the Almighty.”
I cut him off, “Don’t you preach to me,
Thorton Crannen, I speak with God on a personal level. So quit stallin and
stumbling round yer words and have ’em out.”
“Fair enough. You know we’ve been
scanning the short waves, the satellites, hell when the solars are charged
we’ve even been scanning the television waves. For years the only things we’ve
heard were lost souls at their ends, pleading to any that would hear. Then, even
those stopped. And for many winters, nothing . . . We were beginning to lose
hope."
Thorton pulled a small recorder out of
his pocket. I ain’t seen one of ’em in years, maybe ten winters. He
handed it to me.
“I take it you haven’t gone to banging
rocks on things and howling at the moon just yet, Randy, so I think you know
how to use one. Go ahead.”
I looked at him and back at that
battered recorder. We had power back at the Settlement thanks to one commie
bastard and some very reliable wood-burning generators, but batteries was out
the question. Batteries?
“Go ahead. I had Yannek work his magic.”
“He knows?” I said, running my thumb
over the play button.
“No, not yet.”
I pressed play. A simple act. Yet, at
that moment I had no idea how much my world would be changed forever. The
message was short but clear. A static-filled male voice, barely audible over
the crackle of the fire, pleaded to me:
“I speak now to all those that still
retain knowledge, to those that refused to slip into the stone age, to those
that survived and survive still, and to all of those that were lucky enough to
be born into knowledge after the fall of mankind, to those that can understand
my words.”
There was a low shuffle of papers and
what sounded like the flick of a lighter.
“We have a vaccine, we have a vaccine
for B2retrogress7, we have a vaccine . . . there are those among us that are
immune to not only the bite, but every other form of transmission. Through much
hardship we have broken the back of our enemy but we cannot spread the vaccine
alone. We need your help. I beg those of you that are out there, be you
isolated villages, strongholds, remnants of our government, I beg you to help
us defeat our enemy once and for all. It will be a long road and the vaccine is
not easily administered, and the road to us is a dangerous one. But I BEG YOU
COME! Come to the coordinates that are to follow. We can provide shelter and
protection from the undead and ultimately, with your help, we can conquer the
darkness that has taken our world. I look forward to meeting you all . . .
champions of humanity.”
The male voice was replaced by that of a
young female. Before she even got the full coordinates out I had my map out,
not that I needed it, I knew where we were headed. The voice just added an exact
location.
I turned the recorder off and handed it
back to Thorton. I didn’t know what to say, hell I didn’t even know what to
feel. Part of me wanted to shout with joy, but the rational part of me warned
against a trap, warned that for all I knew they were all dead already. But hope
won out on this old bastard and I actually smiled . . . first time in years.
“Uh-huh,” Thorton added. He shifted his
rifle and picked at his teeth nervously. Shit, I think the whole danger factor
of it all sparked the kid in him again. Shirley, too, she was ready. Both of
’em had already racked up a higher body count than me and Tilda.
“God has spoken to us. He still cares.
This is our duty,” Shirley said. Not even the dirt on her face could mar the twinkle
of hope in her eyes.
Bunch of crazy-ass hillbillies we are to
even attempt this. But it could damn well mean the end of so much suffering.
And Shirley’s right . . . it is our duty to preserve humanity. Good, bad, and
fuckin smacked-ass ugly.
I still can’t believe we are about to
venture into L.A. Fuck me, I can’t sleep.
0600HRS: THE CITY OF ANGELS
Thorton keeps asking me about what I’m
writing. He says I shouldn’t leave out any details. Just before dawn he said,
“Randy, the written and spoken words cannot be forgotten. When all of our power
sources were hindered we had the knowledge of those that came before us to rely
on. They keep us going, give us faith, give our sons and daughters the means to
survive, and they are more important than any of us. We are obligated to leave
a story behind . . . no matter how small it may seem. Remember that, always.”
I always had a knack for putting words
to paper. Even if my grammar is shit on a stick. I have to empty my head
sometimes. Helped me get through a lot of bad shit. But I’m afraid I’ll have to
catch up with myself later. We are holed up on the roof of an apartment
building. We were able to sneak in. But they’re everywhere. I know I’ll be
puttin’ my old girl to the test today. Can’t run the risk of makin’ an ass of
noise.
We are a couple of blocks from the
coordinates. From what I can gather the spot is somewhere in the concrete
culvert to our west. Only a couple thousand Creepers between it and the three
of us . . . four countin’ Tilda. Time to smack some skulls. Beckenridge out.
1200HRS . . . I THINK: SANCTUARY
Lost track of time. This is crazy. I
can’t believe it. For starters—wasn’t a trap—damn near killed us, though, I
should add it was all Shirley's fault. The old girl is younger than she looks and
crazier than a shit-house rat on Judgment Day.
When we were close, down in the culvert
itself she couldn’t hold back. She must’a takin’ out ten ‘er fifteen of em’
with a two by four. But all her growlin’ had the damn dregs ridin’ our
coattails. If it wasn’t for these folks . . . we’d be dead.
If you can believe I’m writin this’n
here passage under an electric light, on a comfortable bed, beneath millions of
Creepers, then I’d say yer bout as crazy as the old broad. But I’d be wrong.
These folks are real, a good bit of ’em are hippies, tofu crunchin’ sons
of bitches, but they’re just as tough as any of my men . . . hell couple of
these bastards are tougher’n me. Not by much though.
They got a whole system down here in the
sewers and that’s not all. They’ve made a network, a safe haven out of this
part of the city. They even go up into some the sky scrapers. I wish I had a
camera, or even a little bit of talent with the pen, but these hands were made
for killin’ and toilin’ in the earth and not much else. Up above there are
gardens growing on top of the buildings. I reckon it’s looks like ancient
Babylon did.
It’s . . . a little bit of heaven in
hell.
Pa is snorin’ next to me with Shirley
sleepin’ soundly in his arms. Kinda makes me wish I had a woman like that, but
I was never the marryin’ kind.
They tell me tomorrow mornin’ they’ll
show us around, show us the future.
I can’t sleep worth a shit and I still
have no damn idea what fuckin’ time it is.
00-I FUCKIN’ GIVE UP-HRS: TOFU CENTRAL
Man’s name is Gary Danielson. Native of
L.A. tall lanky son of a bitch. Too much vegetables, not enough red meat, but
smart as a whip, and the closest thing I ever seen to Jesus Christ on this
earth and he has the hair to match. This man, in his patchwork robe, like Joseph’s
dream coat has saved us all.
I’m shakin’ as I write. I can’t believe
it, can’t believe what I saw today.
Danielson said, “You’re one group of
only a few that have made it. I very much regret others have tried . . . and
failed. Welcome to salvation. Allow me to show you the future.”
He led us down a damp, narrow tunnel
that smelled’a Satan’s asshole. We started goin’ up a staircase and well before
I could see them I could smell ’em and I could hear ’em. The moans came down,
echoing off the concrete.
Danielson put a hand on my shoulder and
said to us, “Calm yourselves. You’ll see soon enough. You are not in danger
here . . . unless we want you to be.”
We followed up and up min’ful of the
folks with guns that moved in the shadows. They did a shit job of coverin’
their tracks. Too much time below ground. We was made to feel welcome in this
strange place, but they wasn’t stupid either, they’d survived just as long as
we have and under worse conditions. Every precaution was taken.
Soon Danielson led us into a building. I
dunno what it was before, what purpose it served but it was something outta’ a
movie now. What looked like regular offices was turned into cells and hospital
rooms . . . even had a nursery. Every floor was the same and every floor
I heard the moans but I ain’t seen me one Creeper and for that matter I ain’t
seen anyone in any of the rooms. But they was here, maybe they smell is comin’
from the windows.
“We’ve lost many, and many more have
sacrificed themselves. We are but a few now,” Danielson said. He rubbed his
eyes. The son of bitch had the eyes of a weary man, a tired man, a man
who’d seen too much death. I sympathized wit’im.