I could actually enjoy this trip... if it wasn't for the traffic!

I can’t even begin to express how long this weekend was. I heard back from a few people about the town hall meetings and apparently Sacramento got enough of their shit together to finally secure the freeways! Maybe I was too harsh when I judged that the government, for all intents and purposes, was null and void. I’d like to see the trains running again before I declare total victory, but getting public transportation via charter bus was a huge step forward. Much like every other public facility there were security contractors posing as US military guarding the station. Big dudes with kevlar vests and two million pockets stood checking tickets and frisking travelers for concealed weapons. The keyword there is concealed. Everyone had something on them, be it a machete or shotgun, it was simply a matter of checking your weapon and placing it in the secure bin underneath the bus. Every weapon gets a tag; every owner gets the same tag. One line, two guards, no exceptions. The system is too organized to actually succeed in this town though. Once the flesh feeders took over, nothing organized worked again. They’re chaos. They’re chaos, and chaos seeks out and destroys all forms of order and all lines of organization. Those god forsaken zombies are infected with chaos, and they spread their disease to all they encounter. Knowing this, I wasn’t surprised in the slightest when the bus was attacked.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t tell my secrets too often, but in the spirit of this blog, I will give you a secret. Cash isn’t worth shit.

Soon after the fall, the US government put a price fix on everything public: gas, water, power, transportation, powdered milk, canned food… that sort of thing. So here I was at the bus station, and the sign says $45 round trip, but the $50 I have in my hand won’t get me a ticket. The $100 the guy in front of me had would not get him a ticket. And in a world where everyone has a gun and everyone has a death wish, robbery doesn’t go over so well. Throw out everything you know about value. No one wants a fancy watch. No one cares about your Ferrari or your Mercedes, those are going to be broken down on the side of the road, and you’ll probably die inside of it.

There’s a guy in my community who brews his own beer and I usually trade whatever he asks for it. Three years ago this guy was practically on the streets begging for money, drinking away his failed marriage. Now, dude’s a king; he’s a veritable god amongst mortals. I don’t brew beer and I’m a lousy butcher, but men have needs and I am a twisted lonely little person. After the fall we all looted. Some folks went after groceries and ammunition, some after electronics and valuables, I went after porn.

I have boxes and boxes of dirty magazines that will last me until the end of my life, or until the end of the world. I take this porn, and I use it to buy things like beer and food and, if I’m lucky, bullets. In this case, I use porn to buy a bus ticket. Well, I use porn and $45 to buy a bus ticket.

On this same looting tangent, I’ve been carrying around this gorgeous 1960’s Remington 30.06 the past few days, and I tell you, I’m starting to like it. It’s an old hunting rifle with someone’s initials, CW, engraved on the receiver. So often I find myself to be alone, and my weapon is my only companion. I never thought I’d find a friend like my stolen shotgun, but this little hunting rifle I’ve been carrying around is starting to feel pretty good strapped to my back. Even though the shotgun is still the perfect weapon for my daily life; when you’re on the run, you don’t have to worry about anything that isn’t directly in your path. Stay sharp, and stay fast, and a shotgun is the perfect weapon. I remember Thanksgiving, almost three months ago, when we started to really fight back. A group of us were on a hill, eyes down, looking through telescopic sights picking off the undead in the streets below. The thing about fighting zombies is: you’re never safe. There is no safe sniping position and what we learned that day is you never lie down and take your time. If you’re outside of protected land, and you aren’t running, you’re going to get bit. They got two of us before we made our retreat down into the streets. A shotgun is much easier to operate at full sprint than a sniper rifle. That being said, munitions diversity is very important, because you aren’t only defending yourself from the undead.

This marks the first time I’ve traveled on a major freeway in over six months. I remember the days before the fall where concrete and traffic and cars and cars and cars and business and life were all around. It was just miles and miles of endless tarmac and city, ushering you along towards your destination. Now, as I made the first ten miles south to San Diego, there was only a small scattering of standing buildings. The vast majority of them were boarded up or broken down. The sky is a Van Gogh painting of swirling blue sky, black smoke, and white clouds. There hasn’t been a clear sunny day in months and getting out on the road makes you remember all that. Man has suddenly been put back in direct contact with nature. If you ask me, that’s what’s getting people freaked out. Holding the door shut after your dying child reanimates and tries to smash out of quarantine to rip you to shreds is pretty freaky. Watching your wife get tackled and pinned to the ground as a living cadaver gnaws on the bony part of her neck, not even taking time to spit the blood soaked hairy mess out of his mouth is pretty gut wrenching. You can easily have nightmares about wandering around the streets naked while everyone around you is all at once clothed, dead, and hungry. You can live in constant fear of a violent and horrific death, unless you take the time to visit some place new. You know, a nice vacation. Just make sure you don’t go advertising your route, and don’t tell people how many guards will be on board, and please don’t tell people that the passengers will safely stow their weapons in the bins below, unless you’re planning on being robbed.

We’re right where two freeways meet in what was once Irvine, and wouldn’t you know it, we’re hit with some pretty heavy gunfire. The guards know a thing or two and hit the deck and get the driver to punch it. The good thing is this driver is good under fire and does exactly that. The bad thing is the bus has a pretty huge windshield, and the driver is a pretty easy target. It doesn’t take two seconds from the time the driver gets shredded with some large caliber fire before he spins the bus into the center divider, and lets it tip over, teetering on its side and instantly transforming the freeway into a battle zone.

At this point I kick the lid off the bus and crawl underneath to relative safety, where I can actually assess the situation. Let me paint a scene for you real quick. One bus, spilled over with cargo coming out the sides and the sound of two dozen panicked morons. Two jeeps pulled alongside the wreckage with bandits sitting in every seat, armed to the teeth. Smoke in the skies. Fire in the distance. Broken down suburbia pushed to the side of the interstate, plowed out of the way for the surviving few who still dare travel. Me, underneath a bus. An open cargo door and 5 different choices of weaponry laid out in front of me with name tags on it. Thank you Mr. Valle, Mr. Smith, and Ms. Taylor, your sidearms proved to be vital to all of our survival.

I do exactly like my father taught me and sat real still. I sat real still and waited. I waited for two of these asshole wannabe zombie killers to come up to the bus before I step out and open fire. I get three of them good and dead, but most importantly I give enough time for those big bruising bastards with the kevlar and the M-16’s to pile out of the bus and really unleash hell. Not a second too soon either. Before I had the chance to dive back down for cover, I took a shot to the top of my shoulder just under the shirt. One inch down and I can’t move my arm. I’m crippled in the land of the living dead and I possibly bleed out. Three inches to the right, my right, not the shooter’s right, and I’m a body waiting to be shoved to the side of the interstate to make way for the next bus, but not before being doused in fuel and roasted like the 4th of July. No doubt these bandits were teamed with snipers positioned off to the side of the road, waiting patiently for the ambush - but our bus was late. Very late.

My guess is they weren’t hiding as well as they should have been. Maybe they’re in a tree or behind some shrubs. A smart battle tactician would find a way into one of the office towers three hundred yards out and used the high ground to their advantage. Either way, what’s important to know here is that zombies aren’t always growling like they do in the movies. Sometimes they’re very quiet and very sneaky. Because we weren’t taking sniper fire, I’m sure there are a few sniper corpses lying in an abandoned building about three hundred yards out. There’s a few corpses in an abandoned building all chewed to shit, infected with a virus that’s still keeping their blood boiling hot, and waiting to reanimate once more, seeking to destroy all signs of humanity that remain. When the shooting stopped I stepped outside my cover to see the battlefield. Only one guard is left on his feet, a big dude with the nametag Ennis over his right breast plate. Ennis is moving people into the jeeps and trying to clear the scene. I see this big guy Ennis taking charge and I knew it was in my best interest to listen up. But I couldn’t hear shit. All I heard was the bullet that nearly took me down still screaming past my ear, but I can see Ennis tell me “Good work,” as he pats me on my bleeding shoulder. It’s either that or “Get going.”

To be honest, the road to San Diego is so beautiful and it was such a nice day. I truly preferred going by jeep. Enough of us had been gunned down that the two jeeps had enough room to support us. At this point in history the death toll doesn’t shock me. It doesn’t faze me one little bit. I’d just been involved in a horrible bus accident and a violent bandit assault and had just taken the lives of several living men, and I didn’t feel shit. If you ask me what I hate most about this current state of affairs, it’s how hard I’ve become. I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t a badass. I had a girlfriend. I had a little puppy with a little pink collar and a bushy white tail. I’ve done what I’ve had to to survive and I’ve become what I’ve had to become to survive. Sure, I hated watching my little pink pup get ripped to shreds by the same pack of god forsaken zombie bastards that ransacked my home and murdered my family. Yeah, I hate not having heard from my girlfriend since we last saw each other the day before the fall. But if you really want to know what I hate, it’s who I’ve become, and who I’ve left behind.

The thing I love about San Diego is the same thing that used to bug the Hell out of me. Everywhere you turn, there’s military. Nowadays, San Diego is a popular destination for political conferences, business meetings, vacations, or if you simply need to recover after a zombie bit off your arm. Of course, the hospitals here are overloaded with the sick and dying. If it were my choice, I’d never go in there. They’re not finding any cures. No matter how much research anyone does on any of these poor infected civilians, they’re not finding any cures. If I get bit, I’m not going to a hospital, where I’ll be tied down to a bed and eventually put to sleep like a stray in the pound. If I get bit, I’m not going to a hospital. I’m going to take whatever weapons I can carry. I’m going to take however many guns and bullets I can hold. I’m going to grab a real arsenal and march straight into Zombie territory and bring as many of those undead pieces of trash with me to Hell.

I told you this weekend was good, and it was. I spent the whole Saturday on the beach smoking grass with some friends I hadn’t seen in months. If you’re going to visit San Diego, bring your own food, because there isn’t a whole lot of that going around that town. I brought a few boxes of granola bars with me and gave it to my friends because it was clear they’d been on a pretty heavy diet of find it yourself grub. Sure, they’ve got drugs and alcohol down here, but there isn’t enough rations to serve to the overwhelmed local communities. As nice as it is to be safe behind the walls of the world’s strongest army, it’s also nice to look after yourself, knowing that you have the freedom from want, so long as you have the ability to survive.

That being said I took the bus back home the next morning. Needless to say they learned their lesson. My ride back home looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. A bull dozer scoop was recklessly thrown on the front of the bus. Iron bars had been placed over the windows. Pieces of sheet metal lined the bus front to back and there were twice as many guards. There were twice as many guards and twice the amount of paranoia. To be honest, I’d prefer to go back by jeep, but am thankful I made it back here at all. Back to the daily grind at the shelter. Back to running.

A Nice Cask of Amontillado

To be honest, if you would have seen me three days ago, you’d be as surprised as I am that I’m writing this today. Saturday morning I went down to the shelter with a mean hangover and a rather unpleasant disposition. I had stopped by the message boards and I read that the mayor’s office was giving a town hall in the assembly area. It had been 8 months since we first declared war on the infected and they finally want to hear what’s going on in the streets. We’ve been reduced to AM radio speeches and sporadic fliers to get a broader perspective. You know, I think that’s what scares folks. Sure, having a lifeless rotting monster chase you down at full speed with that god awful breath is scary. Yeah, the idea of getting bit, scraped, or drooled on by one of these flesh eating assholes and contracting the nastiest case of rabies, causing you to go deaf from the ringing in your ears is frightening. Blurring your vision with mucousy tears so thick that you wake up with an unbreakable crust of goop on your lids is pretty bad. And I suppose the pulmonary and intestinal hemorrhaging leading to all sorts of infection, septic shock, blood parasites, brain parasites, incredible pain, followed by a violent and rather vile death are a good reason for people to get scared. What gets most folks, though, is that feeling of isolation. That immediate focus on the reality in front of them is so painfully real that they freak out. They completely lose their shit. In order to survive, we must focus on the big picture. And the big picture is that the small picture directly in front of us is desperately important. Attention to detail is vital to survival.

That’s why I’m so pissed. Would you believe I spent the last two days three levels underground, in the corner of an abandoned Hertz office formerly operating out of the Downtown Sheraton? Unbelievable. It started when I met this fixer, Corbitt, just outside the shelter. This douche bag sees me and my 12 gauge and supply bag and the guy knows I’m down for a few risks. This asshole Corbitt came up to me and tells me there’s a place not far from the shelter where there was a big stand off and no one’s been back down to collect.

You see, where there are bodies, there is loot. And don’t forget about the chewed up, maggot ridden, pus pumping zombie corpses either, they’ve got good shit in their pockets too. This traitor Corbitt tells me that there was this big raid on rental cars right before Los Angeles fell, and the guys at Hertz started packing serious heat to fend off thieves. Before any zombies ever found their way down into the depths of that parking lot, the packs of looters came with shotguns, rifles, machetes, clubs, torches, and demands. Like I said, it’s the businesses that are hit hardest by this whole thing. What these looters hadn’t realized, is that they were already out of cars and cash, and there were seven well armed men and women holding out down there - using the store as a pretty damn secure fort. After a heavily one sided firefight, the intruders fell, but they took some of rental guys with them. These dumb ass wannabe car thieves were so stark raving mad with the zombie fever and they didn't even know it. It wasn’t long before there were a dozen bullet busted zombies marching throughout the hotel, sniffing out the living like rats in a maze.

At this point I don’t know if Corbitt’s lying or not because he tells me that they took the hotel completely. They took the hotel completely and this gap toothed retard Corbitt is telling me that they used the garage as a regrouping point. I don’t believe the undead horde has any group intelligence or even so much as self recognition. But I know they understand survival and recognize the benefits of pack travel. I remember when the army first came through Downtown before being pushed back to other fronts, before declaring Los Angeles occupied territory. And I do remember seeing the smoke and hearing the thunderous crash of the buildings, but I had no idea we were intentionally blowing up hotels. Well, this lying sack of dog shit Corbitt tells me that their last stand was in that garage, and that he thinks there’s a path through the rubble where two brave men can find a lot of military gear. T-Rations, C-Rations, medical gear, guns, ammo, radios, batteries, the works. This coward Corbitt tells me that he needs my help, and he’ll split the bounty 50/50. I should have known. I should have looked at that shit Luger 9mm and blood soaked combat boots that he got from Lord knows where and known he was lying.

The next thing I know we’re sprinting through the rubble and sifting through steel and concrete and broken glass looking for this entrance. I saw some of those monsters down the block on Hope Street and I just couldn't get the thought of them sneaking up behind me out of my head. We end up crawling through this small opening into pitch black. When faced with extreme circumstances, such as surviving the zombie apocalypse, remember your basics: supply your own food, find your own shelter, always look out for your own safety, and rely on self power. This means carry a flashlight, and try to carry extra batteries.

I can still remember the smell of death in that den. It wasn’t long ago that we all fought to take back the community. It hadn’t been that long since we watched so many innocent lives wasted during the fall. There isn’t a night that goes by that I don’t dream about it, in one way or another. In the darkness of that cavern underneath the fallen down Sheraton it’s all I could think about. The silence and the stench and the dark are so overwhelming. They’re a chorus of negative energy and it was all I could do to keep my wits, to keep my strength.

Like an idiot I go through the next hole, which was too small for me to crawl with my shotgun and bag, and too twisty to push it through. I ask that shitbag Corbitt to step back and loop my bag on my foot behind me and clip my beautiful beautiful 12 gauge to the strap. As soon as I'm all the way in the cave I know it's a bad idea. I heard a loud crash and felt the bag yanked from my ankle as rocks are piled in behind me, and that’s the last I ever see of that scum bag Corbitt, my bag, and my gun. With the flashlight still gripped in my mouth I swear, “Fuhh.”

It didn’t take too long for me to realize there was no treasure trove. There may have been plenty of bodies down here. In fact, I know for a fact there were rations, guns, and ammo just littered all over the ground down there. But I also know that there’s no way to find them. I had found myself down by one of the support columns in a tiny opening with barely enough room to sit upright against the column, something still standing amongst the rubble. There was nothing in there with me but rubble. No food. No treasure. Since the fall I've given up drinking on account of my complete paranoia that a zombie is going to sneak up on me, but I would have killed for a good beer. A stiff martini. Jack and Coke. A nice cask of Amontillado.

I remember flicking off my flashlight and doing something I hadn’t done in a while. I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to anyone who would listen. I sent prayers through the ether to all who could receive them, and to all who I could think of. I let the darkness surround me until I could see absolutely nothing. I felt my pupils open as wide as they could, and still there was complete visual silence. After what seemed to be an eternity I gained a sense of where I was. I focused and relaxed and listened to anything that I could hear. I sat there, listening, waiting, pleading, and focusing for the what seemed to be the better part of a week. I'd given over to my time and simply held on to hope. It felt like an eternity, but it was only about 40 hours until dust spilled down on me from the ceiling. I splashed light above me instantly. A crack! The concrete only ten inches above my head was cracked!

In my cramped quarters I found a piece of rebar with a plug of cement on the end that I already considered to use as a club to break through my crumbled entrance. I put it back to use to pound away at the ceiling above me. Slam. Slam. Slam. For hours I worked at it and it felt like I was going nowhere. I didn’t see how badly my hands were damaged from swinging the awkward club into the ceiling until I made it to the surface. There was so much blood, but I had plenty of more worrisome problems before I noticed. Once the ground above me shuttered and gave way from my club, I felt a great weight of metal and rock smash my head before a lightning bright flash, then nothing. KO. Darkness again.

I came to with the distant sound of labored breathing and the methodical sloppy plodding of broken feet that could only be the walking dead. I don’t know how long I lied there, but it was long enough to get more attention than I had hoped for. I wobbled to my feet and watched as the light from my flashlight dimmed to darkness and I let myself swear out loud once more. Not being able to see where I was headed, I crawled up the collapsed ceiling using the support beam I had just meditated by and slowly moved away from the sounds of breathing that seemed to surround me. There was some light at this level, not much, but enough that my eyes could make out basic distances and shapes . I could see the faint flicker of light and the shadowy glimpse of broken people shambling in the dark. I could hear their breathing so loud. I still hear it. I smell it. I ran towards anything I could see until I came across the crack in the wall that held the light. I didn’t need a map, or blueprints or a tour guide to tell me where I was. I had a nose. I was still underground, and I was next to the sewer line. I Ripped my sleeves and wrapped my palms before I swung into the corroded sewer line with my club. Breaking the pipe was much easier than breaking the ceiling and I quickly found myself in a dramatically safer, albeit smellier location. You constantly hear the same things on the radio. Aim for the head. Run. Save receipts for ammunition. Always have an escape plan. Zombies can't swim, use boats and rafts, and don't be afraid of the sewer. They aren't your family any more. Kill them.

I knew my way home from the sewer. I've been there before, but I noticed someone put up a map. There's this company that makes these signs that map out where you are Downtown, so people don't get too lost. They've got them on the boundaries of every district. The Fashion District. The Jewelry District. The Gallery District. The Toy District. The Arts District. The entirely all too dangerous Warehouse/Factory/Junkie Zombie District. It would appear they have them in the sewer district as well. There's a big push to make the sewers a nicer place to stay, but the city isn't really helping... what else is new? When the community first fell, a group of us stationed ourselves in the sewers. It was the final degradation. I remember sleeping sitting upright, as sewer rats snuck by and curiously gnawed on my legs, forcing me to stay awake. I remember watching strong men cry as they abandoned all hope of seeing the surface again. We sat and listened as the army firebombed the surface with the remaining airplanes and the few pilots who could still fly them.

The thing about militaries is they are a perfect place to spread germs. On every voyage an entire submarine crew is expected to come down with the flu. In every bunker and barracks it’s expected for an entire unit to come down with the same case of jock itch. Air Force bases are historically prone to the more social diseases like Mono and everyone’s favorite: the herpes. And in case you’re wondering, they’re all in danger of contracting and rapidly spreading the Zombie virus, especially after any kind of combat with the bastards. Modern warfare is usually waged against ideas, not diseases.

The thing that really kills me is that I lost my damn shotgun. Sure, I've got guns... but I'll never get that one back. That stings a little.