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.