Captain Tom Nash

Hi my name is Tom Nash; Captain Tom Nash of the People’s Free Army.  I was retired; happily retired until the winter of 23.  Things are a little different now.

I saw the elk at about two hundred meters; head down feeding.  He must have been digging a long time to get through the ice and snow.  He was down on his front knees, legs folder down under his chest, his  hind quarters almost sticking straight in the air; It was a long reach from the surface of the snow to the grass at the bottom of the hole he’d dug.

 

It just broke my heart to take him; wasn’t even fair chase.  He was mostly skin and bones; but I have a number of people to feed and a couple hunting dogs we need to keep fit as possible.  He was chewing and pushing snow away from the grass at the bottom of the hole he’d dug and didn’t even hear me approaching through the deep snow.  I stopped about twenty feet away and just watched him for a few seconds.  I had to admire the effort he was putting out for just a few mouths full of food.  I pushed my hood back to open my field of view; no telling how many other predators were watching.  The wind pushed rock hard shards of blowing ice into my face; the shards cut like glass, frozen to a hardness never heard of before.  I pushed my goggles tight against my eyes; we’d lost one hunter to ice cut, he’s blind in one eye and cut to out of focus in the other.  I quickly stepped forward and jammed my spear into his chest; he tried to back out of his hole and stand up, I pinned him down with the pressure on the spear buried deep in his chest; he fought hard to pull himself out of the hole he’d dug but he was too weak and I was engulfed with adrenalin fighting for mine and others belly’s to fill.  It was over in less than two minutes.  I prayed over his body.

I was a hunter back before the world changed; elk, deer, antelope, bear, even got a cougar once.  I hunted geese, ducks; fished, got really good at catching salmon.  Those were the days; I use to field dress a kill right on the spot where they lay.  Now we have to use every piece of their bodies; no waste is allowed these days; lives depend on using every fiber of our kills.

It’s kind of funny; I’m not a Captain, never was.  Peoples free army? very funny; but for some reason it make people feel better to make up names for things.  Doesn’t help keep you alive any longer but I guess it makes people feel like they are a part of something, gives the sense of order when there isn’t any.  The group of us just kind of found each other.  Sometimes the wind and weather just push you to an area by wind current and maybe a little less snow to fight through.  I followed the scent of a wood fire; losing it the blowing snow and ever changing currents; Blowing this way and two minutes later blowing the opposite direction; didn’t really matter; I was just getting away from the killing fields of the cities; if I froze to death I figured it was better than dying at the hand of some punk gang member.  I stumbled on the small wooden shack hidden in heavy timber by complete accident.  Bumping into trees, stumbling over twisted fallen trees and brush; running into something that I didn’t just bump and bound off of, couldn’t just roll off and continue bonking from one tree to another in the blinding howling blowing snow, it was wide and solid.  I pulled my hood back and was looking into a window at faces looking back at me.  I pulled off a glove and gave them a peace sign.  They waved me in.  Five days later I shot two porcupines out of a tree with my revolver and became Captain Tom Nash; hunter and first Officer of the People’s Free Army.  Those porcupines fed us all for three days. I didn’t argue about my new title; Captain Tom Nash without a single enlisted man to order around; happy days.

I covered the elk with two feet of snow and packed it down real tight after cutting off one hind quarter hair and all; I carried as much as I could.  The extra weight was all I could handle on my snow shoes; shoes we built out of tree limbs and coat hangers from the cabin.  We’d be back to the kill as soon as I reached the cabin and dropped off what I carried.  I picked two of our strongest men to return to the kill with me.  Jason Cain and Brian Smith, both city slickers but quickly learning how to survive and live under the conditions we now lived with.  My turn around time was well under twenty minutes; five miles or so through the woods with my quarter; drop it in the snow at the cabins front door.  Pick Jason and Brian, suit them up and out into the snow as fast as we could make it.  The woods were full of predators which would quickly eat my kill to the bone in minutes if it was found.  This was dangerous work; bears, cougars or both would run to the smell of a kill and defend it with their lives; the kill meant life to whoever finds it and has the power to keep it.

Three months into being the new Captain Tom, I made the decision that our hunters would hunt alone.  I had to shout down the out pouring of voices disagreeing with me; “it’s too dangerous to hunt alone”  “You’d have no backup” “What if you were hurt, you’d be alone” on and on until I’d heard enough.  When you’re in charge you have to make decisions that are hard, they might not make sense to the average person; but when you’re in charge and you have a number of people you’re try to keep alive, it changes the way you think and see things.  I explained the risks, I explained that the number of animals in our area where dwindling fast; we’d either hunt in two directions from the base or hunt in all four directions; too live we had to make use of all the chances for a kill we could find.  Possibly losing one man vs. finding game to feed all of us only made sense at this time; we had to use our limited man power to cover as much ground as we could.

In a short single file line the three of us hurried along trying to follow my trail back to the kill; the snow was quickly covering my tracks and it was getting very hard to see even the slight depression in the snow where I’d packed my way back to the cabin with my load.  Four miles into our hike I began to hear the bark and howl of wolves; they sounded as though they’d smelled the kill or were on an animal in the direction to where I’d hidden my elk.  I waved back at Jason and Brian to close the gap between us; blowing snow limited what I could hear or see and I went minutes without seeing either Jason or Brian because of the falling blowing snow.  I realized the large pack of wolves was actually stalking us;  I’d stopped, waiting for the white out to clear enough to see Jason and Brian again, or for them to catch up with me;  I heard screaming from down the trail.  I ran back as quickly as I could through the snow; two wolves ran along each side of me no more than fifteen feet away paralleling me waiting for me to stumble and fall.  I saw through the white blowing snow a pile of wolves two deep on top of what would be Jason, they were ripping at his clothing and pack, digging biting towards his flesh.  I kicked them off of his body and yelled at the top of my lungs; they backed away only far enough that I couldn’t hit or stab them with my spear.  It was a deadly standoff for at least ten minutes before the lead dog decided that he didn’t want to lose a pack member fighting a human only to eat a skinny human; they disappeared into the blowing snow.  Jason had fallen but covered his face and head in the deep snow.  He had a single bite to the back of his neck; he was freezing solid in my arms.  I yelled and yelled for Brian; I never heard him or found any trace of him.  I dug through Jason’s pockets and took what we could use from pockets and pack; I left Jason where he had fallen.

I headed back to the cabin with a broken dead heart.

I cancelled all hunts for three days in the hope the pack of wolves would move on and leave the area.

Five days later after a rough couple days of storms dumping four additional feet of snow on the already deep pack snow I took Mike Miller and we headed out for the elk I’d killed, now nearly a week old.  I had little hope that the elk would still be there but we might have a chance at another animal on the way.  The snow depth was now incredible; I’d never seen it even half this depth.  We were walking at half the height of the scrub pines; their bases were buried feet below our trail.  Two hours into the hike I called it off; I’d never be able to find the kill in these conditions.  We hadn’t seen a single track in the snow; I was starting to believe we were alone in the woods.  No grass eating animal would be able to dig deep enough to survive in this snow and ice. 

I had a lot to think about as we trudged home.  I announced we would be having a meeting as soon as the other hunters returned from their hunts.  I ask everyone to write inventories of all their possessions and have them ready for the meeting.  Jim Thompson arrived back to the cabin just at dark; he reported that he too hadn’t seen a single animal track.  Well after dark Bob Nelson stumbled into the cabin half frozen and exhausted; not a single track and he’d covered about eight miles in a large sweep. I gave them both two hours to rest, eat and inventory their property.

It was morning before we came to a group decision that nearly everyone would buy into.  We all had reservations about abandoning the cabin; but without a source of food we were doomed to stay here.

There are nine of us; four of us fit men that could hunt and pack supplies, Pete Sands ice cut to nearly blind but could pack supplies, Jan West and her daughter Kim 11yrs old, Beth Spear and her son Bobby 7yrs old.  We’d load the women lighter along with the kids, but everyone would have to carry their weight.  We worked two long days and nights making packs and snow shoes for everyone.  We fashioned smaller spears for the women and kids; we’d all have to fight for our lives if we were jumped by wolves or worst.

On the morning that we were to head out the women made a huge breakfast while the rest of us finished loading packs.  Pots and pans were cleaned and packed with the rest of our supplies; as much as nine could carry.  At about ten am we were ready to go.  I led the group out heading due South towards what I hoped would be warmer weather and it just happened to be the direction of my elk kill; we couldn’t waste a single chance at picking up anything we could eat.

We all took turns breaking trail; pushing snow to near exhaustion with heavy packs didn’t take long.  I made sure I was breaking trail when we were in the area I had left Jason Cain dead.  I’d leave a wide margin between where he’d died and our trail.  I didn’t want anyone to happen to stumble over him and I really didn’t want to know if the wolves had come back for him. 

We made slow advance in the deep powder snow; and only just made it to the area of my elk kill as the hour to make camp before our first night away from the cabin came.  As I’d figured I couldn’t even guess where I’d buried the elk.  There must have been six or seven extra feet of snow since I buried him; that would make the carcass somewhere between eight and ten, eleven feet deep in hard packed snow.

Two and a half hours to make temporary shelter to protect us over night.  I carried some dry moss and a few sticks of wood to help with a fire.  I’d have to replenish my supply as I found pieces along the way.  I didn’t plan or even realize the problem of building a fire on top of feet of snow; it was going to be a long cold night.  We lost Pete sometime in the night; Jan discovered him dead early the next morning when he didn’t get up from his pad to eat.  He must have had a bad heart or maybe just was heartbroken from his loses and losing his sight and gave up.  We left him wrapped in his pad.  His useful belongings were spread out to everyone’s packs.  One less mouth to feed, but heavier loads for all; I really just wanted to sit down and cry.  Jan, Beth and the kids were silent; they put on their packs and stood waiting to get in line for the days march. We all felt the loss; Pete brought in a scraggly deer just after we’d finished every piece of my porcupines and were completely out of food.  It wasn’t until after we’d all eaten that we’d discovered the heavy price Pete had paid to get that deer back to camp. We covered both his eyes with gauze and without any medicine had to hope for the best; it wasn’t going to come.

The next few days match took us miles south; everything looked the same.  Deep snow and ice, blowing winds whipping the snow into blinding clouds; just trying to keep us heading due south was demanding.

I was third in line when I smelled the faint smell of burning wood smoke.  I stopped everyone and hid them while I and Mike slowly moved forward to find the fire.  Fire meant people and we couldn’t just assume that they’d be happy to have eight people walk into their camp.  It was a short walk when Mike stopped and slowly turned and pointed to a tree ahead of us.  I looked where he was pointing and saw it too; a body hanging in a large tree, rope clearly around its neck.  We quickly turned and headed back to our group; we missed it as we were sneaking forward, but going the other direction now it was hanging in clear sight.  We’d walked right under another body hanging in a tree over our heads.  We whispered the bad news and made a large circle around the camp.  We could hear loud angry voices and it was clearly a camp to avoid.

We stopped just long enough to put white sheets over our heads and packs; luckily the powder snow was quiet and we skirted the camp without being discovered.  The next couple days we moved very slowly looking for hunting parties from the camp.

 

We came down into a long narrow valley; flat as a pancake the full length of the center with large humps every hundred or hundred and fifty meters or so.  We’d found a freeway; a freeway full of vehicles buried under the snow.  We dropped our packs and in groups of two dug down to the vehicles one after another.  After digging out the tenth we found what we were looking for; a small sized box van with “Joe’s fresh meats” written on the side.  All eight of us dug in; the hole was huge to get the snow cleared from the back double doors of the van.  Dropping into the hole and packing the snow sides tight we pried the doors open and discovered a single box of frozen prime ribs sitting on the front shelf of the van; a mutual gasp came from all of us.  This was enough to feed us all for at least a week.  We were all in heaven.  It was close to four in the afternoon; it was decided we’d camp in the back of the van over night and cook fresh frozen prime rib for dinner. 

They came in the night; Duke woke me up with a low growl, I patted him on the head; but he continued staring at the back doors of the van.  I shoved Mike; he was awake in an instant.  We’d positioned ourselves at the back of the van, as close to the doors as you could get without the blowing wind pushing snow in your face. A man dropped into the hole and threw open the rear doors to the van.  Mike was up and on him in a flash of movement.  A spear ended Mike’s fight from above and an instant later a rope loop fell over his head and he was gone, pulled from the hole by the rope around his neck.  Another man jumped into the hole and they grabbed and pulled Jim out of the van still in his sleeping bag, into the snowy hole we’d dug.  The first man jammed a spear into Jim’s chest.  I was grabbed from the rear by Jan; she trust a small gun into my hand.  She’d been keeping it quiet that she had it the whole time; my revolver was empty and thrown away as extra weight long ago.  I brought the little gun up and shot the first man in the forehead; he dropped like a rock.  Two more men dropped into the hole with spears slashing into the van.  I shot both leaving one man pinned under the two when they dropped; Jan sent a spear into his chest just missing my right ear.  Spears rained down from above ricocheting off the floor and bounding up into the depths of the van compartment.  Bobby went down with a spear to his throat; the van floor was slick with blood; our, theirs and wet snow.  We retreated to the front of the van compartment.  It was quiet except for the growling from Duke for ten minutes; then an avalanche of snow feel into the pit, four men with it.  They stormed the van compartment with spears slashing in front of them; three fell from the slick floor landing in a tangled pile; I shot the standing man as he drew back to launch his spear into my chest.  I turned the gun on the three men wrestling on the floor; only clicks answered my squeezing of the trigger.  Jan and Beth jammed spears into any part of their bodies they could find.  The van was rocking and men were screaming with blood lust and pain.  Kim, Jan’s daughter stepped through our jammed bodies and pinned the last man to the floor with her short little spear; the last charge was over in seconds.  Ears were ringing from the little gun and screams; little Kim twisted her spear in the man’s chest and smiled up at me.  I realized I didn’t know where Bob Nelson was; I could just make him out in the front of the van compartment sitting on the floor spread legged with the body of Turner our other hunting dog dead; pinning his legs to the floor.  Bob was ashen colored and had a finger pushed into his femoral artery which had been laid wide open by a bouncing spear point.  I could hear voices above the van in the blowing snow; we had no choice but to ready ourselves for another attack.  A half hour turned into an hour; Kim was crying at Bob’s side; everything else was dead quiet.  The moon had risen and was casting bright moon light straight into the van compartment.  It was a ghastly sight; a pile of dead men half way into the van blocking the pile of dead men where they had fallen in the snowy hole at the back of the van.  Bobby was lying at the wheel well dead with both hands wrapped around his torn open neck; Rivers of quickly freezing blood ran down the rough floor dripping into the white snow at the doors.  Bob Nelson died in Kim’s arms as we waited for more men to attack us.

Morning came without any further attacks; we pushed the dead men; ours and theirs into the snow and made a four foot high pile of bodies; filling the hole half way to the top of the snow.  Whiffs of snow blew into the doors pinned open by the bodies; snow started covering and ending the sight of blood and gore.

We’d lost four to their eight; I heard at least four voices earlier up in the snow above the hole.  The camp we passed must have found our trail and followed us.  If we’d camped in the open that night we’d been over ran and all killed; again a few of us had survived by dumb luck.  How long our luck would hold out I didn’t want to think about; we’d lost over three quarter of our numbers to this point; death is stalking us day and night.

The next morning came and all was quiet.  I climbed up from the van into bright clear skies; the first for over a month.  I counted six sets of tracks returning to the trail heading back towards the camp.  I stood guard while a meal was prepared and repacked our packs, dividing up what we could carry.  The four of us set off somewhere near noon; I wanted to put some distance between us and the van.  Not knowing if they’d limped back to camp defeated or for reinforcements; we needed to move and move fast.

We pushed on well past dark; dangerous as hell but no more dangerous than not getting enough distance.  If they were coming for us again, they’d be on the run mad for revenge.  We camped under a large tree that made a sunken hole under its big branches; we flatten out the snow, ate and climbed into our sleeping bags hoping that we wouldn’t be surprised in the night.  Morning came and we finished our left over steaks.  I managed to get a smile from Kim by making faces about the cold meat; we didn’t dare make a fire and signal how far ahead we might be.  Duke got part of my portion since he had saved us two days prior.  Just as we had our packs on Duke growled a warning; something was in the area and he could either smell them or heard them.  We dumped our packs and huddled together under the tree, backs to the trunk.  I shushed Duke and we listened as snow was pushed and crunched under boots. 

A loud “Hello” was shouted; we didn’t make a sound.  “Hello is anyone there!”  “I mean you no harm” It sounded like a single person; I peeked out from the branches of the tree and saw a young man standing looking away from our tree.  He turned back and forth looking for what he’d heard or smelled.  He was carrying a carbine rifle with a scope on it.  We would have no defense against the rifle; I looked at the three women and rolled my eyes; Nodded towards where the man was standing and stood up.  He spun around looking me straight in the eyes no more than thirty feet from where I’d just appeared.  He stumbled back and fell in the snow.  “Fuck me” was what he said.  “A little help please” I walked over to him; he’d fallen in the soft powered snow and his head was down, his feet just showing at the top of the hole he’d made.  I reached down and pulled him to his feet; he handed me the rifle as he shook the snow from his clothing; when he was done I handed the rifle back.  He offered me his hand and I shook it.  "Johnny Walker" he said his name was; and added "don’t laugh".  I did anyway; the women stepped out from the hiding place and walked to us.  I introduced all of us.  He said he was from the small farming community just about two miles from where we stood and said "we all looked like we could use a good meal and a shower".

Three months we’ve been in town; town if that’s what you want to call it.  Only five houses and barns in a small valley is enough for me to call a town.  We’ve made our selves useful and both Jan and Kim have new boy friend’s; I think we are going to do well here; it’s safe; they’re a self sufficient little community and heavily armed; they know and are ready for any bad camps. 

They all call me Captain Tom; go figure.  Sometimes there is happy endings.

From the Ramblings

t

Voices

Voices

“Slut”……….. Oh that’s Jimmy; he’s not very nice, I try to keep him under control as much as I can.  Every once in a while he gets the best of me and shouts out what he wants.

“Pussy fucking bitch”……….. Carl; Great, I guess they are all going to start up now…….

I’ve been on medication for so long I can’t remember a time I wasn’t.  The voices started when I was five my mom said.  I’m not sure she’s right; I never remember a time without the voices. Jimmy’s saying she’s a “fucking stupid bitch”. I learned how to talk by listening to the voices.  My mom and Dad were very surprised by my first spoken words.

I’m always in trouble at school; I’ve learned to try to cover up what the voices want to say.  They get really mad when I clinch my teeth and don’t let them have their say.

Ellen is very religious; I don’t mind letting her have her voice for a while.  Sometimes she’s so funny she gets excited spouting her religious stuff she starts to stutter; I can’t help but bust up laughing.  Jimmy, Carl, sometimes even Sally will try to shout over the top of her and use their dirty words.  I do my best to jam my teeth together and let them scream their heads off but not udder any of their fowl words.

Sometimes Jimmy and Carl will come up with an idea that they talk about until I’m just so worn out listening to them talk about it I’ll just do anything to stop them yammering on.  Like when we killed the neighbor’s yappy little dog; I thought all the talking and talking, arguing about it would never end, I finally couldn’t just stand it anymore and said “Ok, Ok let’s just just do it, I’m tired of hearing about it.”  I snuck into the neighbors yard and the little fucker ran right up to me, even stopped barking for just a second.  Jimmy started yelling “Choke the fucker, choke him!” but James my savior with  his calm deep voice told me to pick up the two by four and hit the little fucker on the head, which I did.  James deep southing voice told me to continue; my arms got so tired I could barely lift the heavy piece of wood.  It smelled so bad; James talked to me and told me to just listen to his voice and let Jimmy and Carl take care of their work.  We dug a nice deep hole with Mrs. Fischer’s hand hoe and even put a couple flower bulbs over our work.  I really liked the way James told me to finish up the job.

Here lately Jimmy, Carl and Brian are all talking about getting rid of Mom.  They say she’s lived past her usefulness.  I tell them she’s my Mom; what are you talking about her usefulness, I love her and need her.  They say she’s getting in the way of us coming into our own, doing what we want; becoming what we were meant to be.  I don’t understand them.  I’ll ask James what he thinks; he’s my calm southing soul mate.

I’ve been trying to talk to Ellen about this, but she doesn’t seem to want to talk to me.  I’m working as hard as I can to shush the talk.  James will only say that change is in the works.  I don’t know what that means.  I go to school, I see my counselor, my shrink, but I just don’t know what to think.

We are out of school for a snow storm; Jimmy says it’s “fucking great, party on” Carl is Carl and says “We should party and kill the nah Sayers” whatever that means.  Ellen has returned and is mumbling her bible verses.  I’m just so tired of them all, I just want to sleep.  I’m pushing James hard to explain what I should do.  He says that we are at a cross roads and that change is in the air.  I don’t know what that means but I’m fed up with my little brother getting into my things.  With the snow storm we are all a happy little family together in this little house; we need to make some room.  I’m getting pissed off with everyone telling me what to do; what not to do.  Jimmy says we should “kill them, kill them all”.  Carl is talking in languages that I just don’t understand.  I just don’t know what to think but they are all getting on my nerves; even Ellen’s preaching is saying the damned should be burned and the forsaken should something?  I don’t know.

James says we need to make some changes.  He says that change will make us strong; we need to work together and be one.  Jimmy and Carl are all in.  Even Brian and Ellen are making sounds as though we should work together and silence the nah Sayers.   They mean Mom, Dad and Scott my little butt face brother.

I can’t do this.  James says to let Jimmy, Carl and Brian do the work; just let them take over and everything will fall into place.  I don’t want to hurt my mom; she’s been there for me so many times.  She cares for me; Dad and Scott don’t care that I have problems; they feel that my problems hurt the family and cause them all kinds of grief. I’ve heard Dad talking on the phone telling one of his friends that he can’t do this or that because I’m having one of my problems.  Well he’s about to have a problem. Jimmy says he’s going to get what he deserves; I hope he’s right.

James says I should move on them while they are sleeping; I think this is the right time to act.  Jimmy is driving me crazy with his shouting “Kill them, hack them to pieces, kill them” Even Carl is now ranting to Kill them.  I’ve talked to Ellen and she just repeats her sermon that “Damn be thy ones that lay burden on touts who strive to free ones of impendence of servitude” I think she means the rules that have been forced on me by my parents.  I’ve got to be free; free to evolve into what I’ve been meant to be.  I have power; power to break the bonds that hold me.  I must be free; Jimmy is shouting at the top of his lungs “Kill the holders of powers; the power is in your hands, make us free!”

I can’t do this alone; James will calm my nerves, he will guide me.  I squash Jimmy and Carl; even Brian I force to be silent.  I pray Ellen will help me in my hour of action.  It’s two o’clock in the morning and I hear my family sleeping in their rooms; this is the hour to free us from their tyranny.  I ask James to be with me as I move silently from my room towards that of my brothers.  James tells me to release control to Jimmy and Carl and just listen to his voice; just like with the neighbor’s dog.  I stand at the threshold of a new beginning James says; open the door and let Gods work be done says Ellen.

My hand trembles on the door knob; slowly twisting, releasing myself to Jimmy and Carl.  They take over with glee.

From the Ramblings

t

Itch

Itch

It started Thursday morning at nine; I remember it so well, I was sitting at my desk looking out the window of my office on the fourteenth floor at a sullen sky wondering if it was ever going to stop raining.  Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth living in the North West; damn rain forest is what it is.  Oregon; starts raining in September and rains until the 5^th of July; makes me want to slash my wrists and roll up in a ball and die.  I’ve started light therapy; Doctor said it would do me good, help with the depression.

The phone rang; I jumped and swore under my breath; Johnson again, Christ, for the twentieth time trying to explain the new roll out plan.  Annoyed by the call I realized I’d been scratching the top of my left thigh.  Not really digging at it, but rubbing, lightly scratching trying to get a spot that I just couldn’t quite find; I chased it across the top, over the left side and back up to the top always an inch or two behind it.  “Hang on a minute” I set the phone down and stood; really digging in.  It was that type of itch that is deep like almost to the bone but the damn thing just wouldn’t stay still.  “Let me call you back” I dropped the phone in its cradle.  This is crazy; must be nerves.  I popped a couple Tylenol and walked to the floor length window; from fourteen floors up the people look really small down there.  All the umbrellas; black ones, white, even a couple that must have been golf umbrellas by the size of them.  Flash of lighting lit up the office, counting to three a muffled crack of thunder; all the little umbrellas stopped for an instant then started moving again.  Freaking Oregon rain, no one even notices unless we have thunder and lightning with it, go figure. 

I live alone; wife up and walked out about four years ago.  Took a couple years to get use to living alone; no one but the cat in the house, now I look forward to my alone time.  Too many hours, too many parties;  on and on, she just didn’t seem to understand that if you want to make it in this town you’d better put in the hours, lots of face time with staff, clients and always looking to make an impression with new prospective customers.  My normal time home is about seven; early enough for dinner but late enough that all the bad news is over with on the TV.

Walked through the door at exactly seven; Tiger was sitting on the back of the couch waiting for me.  He didn’t even start complaining until I was in the bathroom throwing stuff around and cussing; l was looking for the itch cream I remembered the wife used every once in a while, four years ago. I found it and put a dollop of it on my left thigh; cracks me up, I’ve never used that word until seeing a commercial on TV where the song goes “Just put a dollop on it” now it’s stuck in my brain forever.  Dollop this, dollop that; I put dollops of shit on stuff all the time now, fucking TV.   I rubbed it in; scratched it in is more like it; been driving me nuts most of the day.

It never entered my mind that itch cream might go bad over nearly half a decade; damn cream must be past its expiration date; woke up at one am itching like an old’ dog with fleas.  Damn if it isn’t both thighs now; I’m scratching with both hands, finger nails bending back to the quick, now I’ve got two fingers aching along with this damn itch.  Two more Tylenol and a Darvocet should do it; I’ve got to get some sleep I’ve got a big ass client coming in tomorrow I’ve got to land this account.

Oh holly shit I’m so tired, must have scratched half the damn night.  The second dose, a pair of Darvocets at three did the trick until six when I woke digging at my legs.  Both are swollen and raw looking I must have dug at them while I was asleep. 

Why do people think it’s so fucking funny when they ask you if your all right; cause you look like shit in the morning and when you answer that you’d been scratching all night they laugh their asses off and walk off; it’s not fucking funny, not funny at all. 

“Mr. Christenson is here to see you.”  The intercom announced “I’ll be right out Jan” Jan the one that spit she was laughing so hard at my expense when told “I had an itch” fucking bitch.  Lost that client; I think he thought I was crazy.  I’d stop in mid sentence and dig at my legs; the fucking itch is consuming my thoughts, I can’t help it.

I had to go home at noon; how do you drive with both hands busy scratching, ripping at the tops of your thighs?  Ran a stop light at 245^th and Biscayne St. fucking cop gave me a ticket and asked if I’d been drinking.  Yeah I should be drinking you fucking idiot, you’d be drinking if you itched like I did.  Made it home at twelve thirty ran up the driveway to the front door, dropped my keys, fuck me, dropped to my knees scratching like a mad man; I am a mad man.  Fucking key in the lock; ran for the master bath, five Darvocet down looking at the clock; I’ll give it another fifteen minutes then I’m gonna drop another two more Darvocet and call the doctor, this has got to stop.

 

Two o’clock; I’m stoned, I can’t keep my eyes on the clock long enough to see the time for sure.  Seven down and I’m ripping like a demon; I turned the music up and poured a glass of red wine.  Fuck the itch it’s party time.  Bottle is going fast, I’m only itching a little but my hands are tingling like they have electricity running through them; fuck I hope it isn’t something else.   Bottoms up; I fumble the uncorking of the second bottle but who really gives a fuck?  I have seven more wonder pills then one more bottle of wine, then I’m fucked; it’s going to be ok, floating, just a little spinning, I can’t even feel my cheeks.  This is gonna work; I’ll be ok, I know I will.  The Doctor will know what to do; I’ll call in the morning.  It isn’t so bad now; just rub a little and it’s hardly there.

 

My hands are on fire; woke at two am.  What do I do? I’m on fire fire.  The itch is crazy.  Rubbing hands on thighs just makes it worst; I slam my hands on the night stand, there’s no response no pain, just the itch.  Itch like ants running crazy; thousands of ants eating eating running in circles tearing at my hands, my thighs are on fire blood boils from tears, sheets sodden in red clots, running red rivers of black flowing blood.  Bathroom, I have to get to the bathroom; seven more life savers down,  swimming in despair, thick sticky ribbons of black viscous gelatinous globs run from sleeves, dripping claws that where once hands.  Grasping at the half full bottle of red wine with claws of a demon curled blood soaked knuckles fresh meat hanging from ripped nails.  Neck itching, veins swollen from clawing, red blood trickling from gouges dug deep from clawed hands.  High pressure spouts of ripped arterial crimson geysers paint murals on egg shell colored walls.

CNN Headline news:  Morbid pictures of ripped flesh, walls painted red in blood met Police in what is described as the worst suicide scene remembered by veterans of Portland’s Police Department in years. Reporter Nick Robinson reports a ghastly crime scene in NW Portland this Saturday night…………

From the Ramblings

t 

Zombies

Zombies

They came in waves, some running, others hobbling, and some actually crawling, their limbs useless. I wanted to puke.

You know how soldiers always say if you weren’t scared you’re a damn liar.  I’m here to tell you I was terrified; I’ve never came so close to shitting or pissing my pants for hours on end.  There’s no disgrace in saying it; no one wants to die like that.  One fucking bite; you’re off to the races, first comes the fever, then body aches and puking, blood oozes from every pore; coma and then death.  Or if you’re really unlucky you get eaten alive; now there’s a pleasant thought; I’ve seen it, why do you think I’m so fucking scared all the time.

When the war first started, you got the benefit of the doubt; now, one scratch and they shoot you or put an axe in your head.  I’d rather have a friend axe me than turn into one of them.  Kind of came as a silent agreement over the months between the ranks that if you got a bite, no matter how small, it was a death sentence; carried out on the spot.   Some groups waited a few days to see if you started getting sick, having a high fever, or puking, any signs of blood.  That came to an end when some infected would just make the jump without ever showing a sign of anything wrong.  One minute you’re having a conversation, and the next, all hell breaks loose, and a bunch of people get bitten or clawed, and then you have to kill everyone with broken skin and zombie matter in any wound.  It didn’t take much; a drop of blackened blood, a piece of grey flesh landing on any open wound; incredible how little it took to become infected.  We had one guy who wasn’t even on the front line that had a drop of black blood blow over the wire fence landed in his left eye.  We put him down two days later as he made the jump.

The sorriest day of my life was when I was walking guard duty and I heard a moan from just over the wire.  I looked, but I couldn’t see a thing.  I walked to the first row of wire and could just make out a small figure on the other side of the mounds of barbed wire and concertina.  I pulled a few rolls apart and moved slowly between rolls of razor-sharp wire towards the small figure with outstretched arms begging to be rescued.  Ten feet away, the little thing jumped into the wire; teeth snapping, finger reaching for a piece of fresh flesh.  I brought my AR up and centered the sights on the little girl’s forehead; squeezed the trigger, and jumped like I was the one shot when it went off.  Grey material was sprayed over the black asphalt top of the street.  She slumped into the wire and lay still; black goo dripping in thick ropes of glutinous, glistening strings pooling into black lakes that looked like crude oil.  The smell wafted over the wire; a combination of rot, defecation, and stagnant putrefied water.  The little thing was still twitching as I made my way zigging and zagging through the rolls of wire towards the outer rolls.  A whole crowd had run to the sound of the rifle blast and stood watching as I pushed my way to the broken body.  The closer I came, the more morbid the scene was; the gelatinous black liquid glistened in the morning sun, casting bright silver blinding light into my eyes.  As the distance shortened I realized the figure I’d just killed in my mind’s eye wasn’t the beautiful little girl in a fluffy pink dress lined with white lacing I envisioned; matted hair, grey flesh with blistered open sores oozing black puss and grey stringy globs of white grey goo sliding down to crusted blackened stockings that once were white.  Black knee-length dress with a big collar now stained with black blood gelled clumps from the collar down the long sleeves ending in little clawed hands with razor sharp nails.  The once lovely girl, now zombie, was still occasionally twitching; I raised my axe and drove it into her head splitting it wide open; liquefied black grey brain matter gushed out on the asphalt joining the pool of gelatinous putrefied matter slowly running in a slow stream towards the eager mouth of the storm drain.  I puked on my shoes.

In the beginning, no one knew what was going on; Rise of the Dead is what the newspapers and TV anchors were shouting at the top of their lungs.  As the crisis grew, most people just hid away in their houses, hoping it would blow over in a few weeks like the flu; they soon joined the ranks of the undead. It finally got to the point where the local news was showing the police shooting the zombies in the street.  We lost a number of our Officers before they discovered that only a headshot would stop a zombie.  Within the first month, the National Guard was called in to back up the Police; what a mistake.  Trigger-happy Guardsmen started shooting anything that was walking or crawling; can’t blame them; they were scared to death, just like the rest of us.  The National news was freaking out calling for full U.S. forces to put down the festering undead.  Oh, they did finally; they brought in all the big guns, rockets, tanks, the whole nine yards.  Blew up thousands of undead and soon-to-be undead; the only thing was none of them seemed to realize that you had to put a hungry zombie down with a precision head shot, not blow them apart and create thousands of crawling land mines to step on and get bit.

Two months into the zombie wars, a new and deadly weapon joined the ranks of the undead; just as undead but twice as effective were the new zombie dogs, cats, and all kinds of animals.  They’d been bitten by the undead and made the jump to the infected.  No one was safe in the barricaded buildings and sandbagged walled bunkers.  The dogs and cats would clear the obstacles and be inside the bunker as though there were no defenses at all.  We very soon realized roll after roll of wire, concertina, barbed, chicken, and hog wire was the only way to slow them down enough to get a head shot.  Do you have any idea how many rounds of ammunition it takes to hit a running zombie dog before it bites numerous people? axes, Tommy Hawks, all kinds of old weapons made a comeback as a weapon of choice when the bullets ran out.  They ran, jumped into the wire, not seeming to realize they’d be wrapped tight; fighting to get untangled only wrapped them tighter.  Lucky for us, making your way slowly through the wire and putting an axe between their eyes was the only real way of handling them.  It took time for us to become callous to the snarling, snapping of the jaws; growls, screams as they fought their hardest to get to one of you.  It was terrifying; nearly all of us were traumatized, just hearing a dog bark or growl would loosen bowels.

Our food stores ran out in the fourth month; we knew they would and had been rationing food for weeks.  Five scared volunteers slowly made their way through the wire, hugging the side of the nearest building, headed down Aspen Street towards the closest supermarket anyone could think of.  Ten blocks; might as well have been ten miles.  We were all standing on top of anything that would get you high enough to see over the barricades and wire.  A few even had binoculars; unbelievable what some put in their bug-out bags.  The small group made it one block, still within unaided eyesight, when they jumped the first zombie.  Instead of putting an axe to its head, someone shot it between the eyes.  The zombie dropped like a rock.  All five turned back towards the wire as one; a couple even pumped a victory fist in the air.  The bark of the gun announced to every zombie within earshot that dinner was served.  The first to get to the group was a huge German Shepherd and a medium-sized boxer.  We could see three of our people go down under the weight of the Shepherd.  It was a massacre; the first human zombies hit the group like linebackers no more than thirty seconds after the shot.  It was all over within a minute; a pile three or four deep with countless numbers of undead were fighting to get to the fresh meat; at least it blocked the grisly view as they were torn to pieces.  One huge zombie fought his way out of the feeding frenzy and walked away, eating an arm ripped from a shoulder.  Funny, no one was hungry for dinner that night.

The fresh meat got all the zombies in the area wound up and we were under attack for eighteen hours straight; the first eight rows of wire were smashed flat to the ground with tangled screaming zombies tearing at the wire; they just never seemed to get tired and lay still; only after smashing their heads would they stop fighting and snapping.  Three additional high wire rolls had dogs and cats tangled; nothing is more nerve-racking than the sound of snarling dogs and screaming, howling cats ripping fur and limbs to get to you.  The last two rolls of mixed wire had two dogs and one little zombie that had crawled and weaved its way through the openings in the wire but was finally stuck tight.  They were dispatched with a single bullet from our reserve ammo stores.  Another wave would have broken through and put us all in hand-to-hand combat with the undead.  It was voted that following morning that further forays into the zombie zone had to have armored protection; there wasn’t a single dissenting vote.

After a large-scale attack like this, the worst was clearing the wire.  We counted two hundred and thirty-five human zombies and sixty-two animal zombies tangled in the wire after the attack.  Each had to be put down and then cut out of the wire without damaging the wire roll.  The tricky part was not getting bitten or clawed by a nearby zombie as you dispatched the ones you were working on.  A few, we had no choice but to use our dwindling supply of bullets on.  Bodies too tightly and closely wrapped in the wire to safely clear; outstretched hands grabbing and possibly ripping open our hazard suits.  Nearly every gunshot brought more zombies hoping for a quick meal.  We’d have to retreat slowly through the wire rolls as the zombies hit the first wire and charged as far as they could get before the wire stopped them.  Some would make it right behind you; a shot would ring out, and the roll of wire just behind you would sink to the ground.  It was nerve-wracking work.  We would cut the zombies from the wire and another crew would carry the pieces outside of the furthest roll and dump them in a pile.  The pile was growing and becoming a problem; it was blocking the view of any attacking zombies from that direction.  Someone decided we should dump gas on the pile and burn the huge pile down a bit.  The pile was lit up and bellowing smoke clouded the camp. 

They came out of nowhere; the smoke covered their approach and they were in the wire and on us before even a single shot rang out.  Brainless, but even the undead recognized a tactical advantage when they saw one. Seven zombies tackled the body crew and took them down without losing a single undead; five more made the charge over the fallen wire hopping easily over the out stretched hands of their tangled comrades and hit two of our hazard suited people cleanly taking them down and tearing through the flimsy material; sinking teeth deep into the fresh pink flesh.  Already on guard but blinded by the smoke, our sentries opened up with everything they had; all twelve zombies went down along with four wire clearers by stray bullets.  We lost nine people in five minutes and fourteen since the failed mission for provisions.  Retreating into the relative safety of the camp, the survivors were summary stripped and closely checked for bites or any wounds that would signal the need for an immediate execution.  The clamor of gun fire brought a new wave of undead into the already damaged and flattened wire; three making it to the last roll of wire and through grasping clawed hands were put down with axes.  One terrier made the jump using a fallen zombie in the wire as a springboard over the last defenses and into the camp.  Some scattered, running for their lives; others stood and cornered the small dog and hacked it into pieces. We were very lucky not to lose anyone in the last attack.  New suits were put on; double tape covered rips and tears from our escape from the wire.  More men were assigned to the cleaning crew; we had to repair the wire as soon as possible.  One more attack and the camp would be easily breached; we were all in danger of joining the undead.

The camp was put on lockdown; no noise, no fires, no lights of any kind.  We worked five hours straight until dark; managed to get four rows of wire standing up and reinforced.  The whole camp was on high alert through the night, no one slept; we all were watching the remaining wire.  At dawn, we resumed clearing, stacking, and reinforcing our defenses.  Again at dusk, the camp went into lockdown; dark and quiet as a tomb.    Ammunition reloading and any cooking were restricted to daylight hours; three hard days of work brought our camp back to nearly original condition, short of the kinked and weakened wires.

Ten days after the onslaught of the hordes of undead, we felt like we were ready again.  Our loss of manpower could never be gained back; we had no hope of anyone being alive in our immediate area.  Occasionally, in the beginning, after this small group built the first camp with defenses that held against the initial acts, you’d hear a shot or two as holdouts in barricaded homes were overrun.  Later, nothing; not a peep that would lead you to believe there was anyone left outside the wire. 

There were a few things that a callused defender had to notice and comment about; the undead didn’t draw any flies.  Not a single fly would land on the rotting corpse of an undead.  Fact of the matter, there weren’t hardly any flies.  The undead ate every piece of anything that they thought might be worth eating, and maybe a whole lot more that wasn’t.  Lots of new things were discovered and noticed; not a lot to do inside a small camp unless it’s under attack.  One thing for me that was hard to take in the beginning was the lack of airplanes, the sound of traffic, not a single combustion engine roar to fill the air; it was so quiet. 

Sitting at a small table having lunch, someone whispered, “I hear a truck!” Then a few heard the diesel engine in the distance, they freaked out; it was a surprise they weren’t shot on the spot.

We were saved; the Authorities had finally arrived and we would be free again, free at last.  The camp erupted in war whoops and shouts.  The diesel engine was getting closer, and the pop, pop of a few rifle rounds as it made its way closer to the camp.  All the camp was at the wire, straining to see the first tank come as it came around the furthest corner we could see too; nearly six blocks down the straight stretch of Aspen street.  We all held our breath; the tank was a yellow school bus with heavy wired windows and reinforcements on every inch of its surfaces.  Zombies were clinging to every purchase they could find; the hood and the bus top were piled four deep with zombies.  A bottom zombie would slip, lose hold, and a whole pile would fall off, hit the ground, and fight one another for a foothold to get back on.  The big yellow bus chugged down the street towards our camp, so slow from being loaded down with bodies it could barely move at a walking pace.  The yellow monster stopped ten feet from the first roll of wire and cut the engine.  Two shots rang out, and a couple of zombies fell from the windshield directly in front of the driver.  Our people with binoculars shouted, “It’s a woman,” then fell silent as zombies closed the gap.  Six hours we stood and watched the bus; covered with zombies like ants on the mound; a few would realize the camp was there and peel off the bus and storm the wire.  We finally saw that to clear the bus, we had to get the zombies to attack the camp.  I walked slowly through three rows of wound wire before the first zombie saw me and jumped from the bus and dove into the wire; soon the bus was clear and the first two rows of wire were full of thrashing zombies caught like flies to fly paper.  We put down the zombies and cleaned the wire; the driver of the bus, once it was abundantly clear that we’d put down the entire horde, opened the door to the bus and stepped out on the asphalt.  She was gorgeous, shoulder-length strawberry blond hair, tanned perfect skin, and a figure that showed she’d been eating right as the rest of us had eaten little or nothing for the last few weeks.  She took command of our cleaning crew, and box after box of food and ammunition was carried off the bus.  When it was finally unloaded, she jumped in, fired the diesel up, and backed the bus out of the way of the firing lanes.  She locked the yellow bus up tight, grabbed her M16 and followed me through the labyrinth of wire to the inner camp.

We couldn’t help it; she was grilled and questioned until the wee hours of the morning.  What we found out was that there were millions of zombies, and their numbers were growing exponentially by the day.  We were crushed.  She told us she was maybe two, maybe three days in front of a huge wave of zombies that were eating their way west over overrunning every fortified camp they found.  There was no way of stopping them, in her opinion. We’d have to flee or join their ranks.

We didn’t have much time; we’d all need to have transportation fortified like the bus.  There was a school bus about two blocks down Fifth Street; abandoned across both lanes, door wide open and empty of children.  The lights had been going the first time I saw it; we’d have to jump it to get it started and then move it down to the camp.  We broke into teams; team one cut the wire from the walls to the outer perimeter.  Team two, with a rifle team (thanks to our new supplies), went after the school bus.  Team three found two SUV’s (the big ones) and pushed them back to the camp.  Rose, our savior and bus #1 driver turned out to be a self-taught welder, and with two teams' help, would wire the second bus and SUV’s into fortified transportation.  She would also rig all four vehicles with no climb wire rolls so the zombies couldn’t climb or hang on the vehicles.  We knew right where to get the no-climb wire; the County lock up was four blocks down and a couple of streets over, Rose's bus was put to immediate use to bring rolls back we cut from the fences.

Team one completed the wire cuts and rigged heavy lashed cables to points along the rolls of wire; they pulled opened and spread the rolls of wire apart, making an exit opening we could drive through.  They finished just as we arrived with the second bus, the SUV’s were pushed through the wire less than an hour later.  The huge battles over the last week had depleted the number of zombies in our area, and we only had two encounters, quickly putting them down with axes; nice and quietly, not a single dog came after us.

Work went on round the clock; we spread every piece of concertina wire we had left around the front of the camp towards where the onslaught should be coming from.  Welding smoke filled the air, and sparks flew in every direction; tanks were filled, supplies lashed inside both buses.  The SUV’s had little surprises welded to their bumpers with quick releases.

Here’s the plan; we’d learned from experience that zombies came in waves.  The first wave of zombies was always the worst; they were the ones that were in the best shape, no parts damaged from being infected, like arms bit off, legs broken.  These were the ones that ran full blast into the wire; could jump the first row like OJ Simpson; the dogs and cats were always with this group.  The second wave was much slower; damaged goods.  Slow; dragging legs, arms missing or eaten to the bone in areas.  The third wave was very slow; they’d show up after all the shooting and axing, during the cleanup.  Crawling, dragging themselves along with one arm, mostly going in circles with one leg, they were pathetic but deadly.  You’d think they were dead, ignore them lying on the ground; then you’d get a bite on the ankle; you're dead.  We strung all the wire we had to catch as many of the first wave as possible; not to kill them but to entangle them in the wire so they’d spend the next years fighting to get loose.  We’d hold fire on these until the wire was overwhelmed and full of bodies.  Then load the busses, leaving fire teams to knock down as many as possible as the zombies climbed over their buddies trapped in the rolls of wire.  Pull the wire openers and drive West to find a ship to take us out to sea, trying to avoid any conflict that we could encounter along the way.  If we were lucky, we’d be able to pick people up on the way.

Rose was wrong; a good thing.  She was four days in front of the army of zombies.  We had just enough time to make a few adjustments to the perimeter wire and finish the last upgrades we figured out as the buses and SUV’s were being fortified.  It was an amazing thing to watch.  Nine O’clock on the dot, we began to hear them; moaning, you could hear teeth gashing together.  It had the effect of turning your legs to mush and bowels to water bags.  I’ve never heard anything like it; ever been to the zoo when the lions roar; something deep in your brain goes off like a land mine.  All you want to do is run and never stop.  This was much worse; how much worse we were about to find out.

The whole crew were manning the walls; this was our last stand in our home, a home that had saved us to this point, and we were going to give them a good fight before letting them own it.  The ones with the binoculars stood on the highest points to give Intel so we could move people along the walls and fortify areas that looked to be the hardest hit, then make a run for the buses.  What we didn’t expect is the lookouts' reaction to what they saw; it must have been horrible to have a close-up view of what was coming.  Gasps, moans of unintelligible words, tears dropping like rain, one gal threw her binoculars down and ran for the buses screaming; took two men to keep her from locking the doors, leaving the rest of us locked out.

Six blocks down the road, just at the bend, we could see running zombies; no real direction just making sure they kept in front of the pack to get the first good bite in on anything that flushed and ran.  These were the ultra-fast, the runners, the jumpers, the climbers, the ones that you weren’t going to get away from.  I have to say it was an amazing thing to see; they didn’t even get around the full corner when they saw the wire and live fresh meat in the distance.  The first real wave was broken into multiple fractions of the fast zombies.  The real athletes were closing the gap to us so fast, I don’t think you could have hit them with a rifle; fast doesn’t even give justice to the speed.  They were flying towards us; the next distinct group was the normal fast zombies; I couldn’t have outrun anyone of them, but fast is the correct word for this group.  Next came zombies like I will be if I get infected; running but not like a sprinter, they were running as fast as they could; none of them wanted to get left over scraps.  Behind them was the draggers, cripples moving as fast as they could get their broken limbs to take them; they went on forever, they just kept coming around the bend.

A mutual gasp went through our group; this was going to be a very short battle.  The first wave hit the wire at top speed, jumping the first couple rows of wire and landing anywhere from on top to almost past the third roll; we held our fire.  I stepped backwards, you couldn’t help it; fuckers made it half way through the wire in a single leap; we hadn’t seen any zombies like this before.  They started to pile up in the first to the third rows of razor-sharp wire; zombies were now using the fallen and tangled to walk on and were in rows four and five of wire.  The order was given and everyone let loose with as many bullets as we could fire making sure it was a clean head shot; we slowed them down but dropping them in place just built the pile higher and the fast ones used the growing pile to jump farther into the wire closing the gap with incredible speed.  Four minutes of firing was all we had; they were now falling at our feet, and we were seconds from being overrun.  One zombie leapt so far that he went over our heads and landed behind the firing lines.  I shot him in the back of the head as he skidded to a halt and tried to turn around to come back for us.  Hit the buses, a scream went out; grenades by the handful were tossed from the first row of wire out into the street, which was now full of the slower horde.  Thank god for eye protection; rotting black, grey flesh of zombies rained down on us as we fought to get on the buses before they overran the walls.  Without eye protection, a bunch of us would have to be shot and thrown off the bus in short order.

I was third from the last in line for the bus #2; turned out I was the last.  Zombies broke through the walls and caught the last two at the door.  Doors were bolted, and reinforcement rods were slammed in place.  Engines were started, and as the first SUV inched forward, the lashed cables pulled the wire apart out of the back of the camp.  We followed the two SUV’s into the street, clearing the last of the wire.  Both SUV’s split, and from the back around the spare tire areas sprang out rolls of concentina wire.  The SUV’s roared around the zombies, tangling them in the wire; when they had as many as would stick in the sharp wire, they cut the lines and joined the buses rolling down Aspen Street heading West out of town, putting as much distance between us and the mobs of zombies. 

I could go on about the small battles we fought on the road to the West Coast, but that’s for another story and it’s time for all of us to hit the hay and get ready for another full day tomorrow; so good night and sweet dreams, see you all tomorrow morning at chow.

Epilogue:  Rose and I have been married for two weeks now; the service was done by a clergyman we didn’t even know we had in our group.  We’ve made landfall once; zombies everywhere, so we keep sailing around looking for a zombie-free zone; even picked up a few people on small boats, man, were they glad to see us steam over the horizon.  I think we can hold out for a few years if we can keep finding good water, and the catch from the sea provides enough for all of us.  Us…… oh that’s right; we’ve added three new members to us in the last month.  That makes 37; I wonder if we will ever inhabit the world again.

I truly think not; the zombies number in the millions, and unless you kill them, they will last until they rot completely away; from what I’ve seen, that could take decades or more.  The last zombie I saw on dry land as we sailed from the docks looked like he waved goodbye to me; god in heaven, I hope that’s not what I saw.

From the Ramblings

t

Click

Click

Barely discernible over the gentle murmur of rustling leaves and vines making soft rubbing sounds against the bark of the trees in the gentle breeze Lukas whispered “Do you see it?”  Eyes Straining, watering from the long hours peering through the powerful spotting scope Manuel spit “I don’t see a fucking thing, we’ve been” then went silent as his eye picked up a slight movement in the distance.  Manuel tuned the scope to the spot and moved the setting of the scope to the highest power without taking his eye off of the jungle where the movement had been.  At 45x power he could make out individual ribs and veins of the leaves; field of view narrowed by the high power setting of the spotting scope he only partially saw the puff of the burning powder as it pushed the 150 grain bullet out the barrel of the sniper rifle at just over 3000 feet per second.

 

Sgt. Pete Miller Ret. Knew he was a hunted man; you kill a cartel boss, you can count on it.  He was a little pissed off the reward for his head was only $50k; alive $75k.  They wanted him dead but wanted him alive a whole lot more.  The punishment they would deal him would more than make up for the extra cost of bringing him to the cartels form of justice.

Manuel’s brain had just enough time to realize what he’d just seen as Lukas’s head exploded and sprayed blood and brains against the side of his face.  Instantly rolling to his right and digging his head into the soft jungle litter saved his life as the second bullet ripped past his head nicking his left ear and making a nice half circle with burnt edges, smooth as glass.  The first crack of the rifle joining the second nearly coming together as one huge explosion; Pop, pop as 20mm grenade rounds lifted into the air.  Manuel rolled and jumped to his feet making a good five meters before the grenades landed, one behind him, one boring it’s self into the leaves and twigs just at his feet.

 

“Impossible; I’m the best” Flashed in Manuel’s brain milliseconds before the blast lifted him ten feet straight up into the vines, splitting him neatly in two; a red spray spotting the myriad of jungle leaves like a fine rain.  The local police would believe he had stepped on a land mine; wrong only for the fact that Lukas and Manuel hadn’t attempted to follow the trail left for them by Miller.  Maybe in the next few weeks a villager would show them what a true mine could do to the human body; they’d need a dust pan to get all the pieces; Miller was packing some good shit.

Lying in the jungle litter; shadows, muted light flickering reflecting from innumerable rain drops Miller watched the two hit men set up their shooting position.  Not a bad set up he thought; to bad Miller had already laid several land mines and his own position over looking his back trail.  He watched as both carefully concealed themselves and cut a few vines blocking their view of the low shallow valley walled on both sides by low but formidable rock formations; ones that would make climbing a very difficult if not an impossible task.  Bracing his rifle on his pack and settling down for the long wait he snacked on a protein bar and thought back on his first jungle mission.

Jungles of Vietnam;  long after the formal war ended, Miller found himself part of a handpicked team looking for a General of the Vietnamese Army who was responsible for the murder of America service men captured during the war.  His death would remind enemies of America that justice would be handed out regardless of how many years separated evil deeds.  Miller third man in line, five meters between them heard the metallic click of his last step.  Freezing in place, standing in the middle of the narrow thin trail holding his breath Miller eyes showed he understood what the click meant.  All six members froze in place, each looking to see who had stepped on the detonator switch; then hit the dirt when it wasn’t them; waiting, expecting the explosion.  Slowly heads began to rise above the litter and vines looking to see who was standing on the mine.  Whispered orders, hand signals, a quick assessment; six men evaporated into the jungle putting at least a hundred meters between them and Miller standing on an old rusting U.S. land mine.  All recognized the model as one that would leave a huge crater; one of the biggest in the U.S. arsenal. Many times U.S. troops would rig multiple mines together with a single trip wire; whole trail systems would explode at once killing anyone along the trail for at least a hundred and fifty meters.

Sweeping the jungle for other killer teams Miller decided the two men were the only ones in the immediate area.  Placing the cross hairs of his scope on the top of the man’s head, the one who was the shooter Miller shook a fine vine with his left hand waiting for the men to discover the movement.  Mr. Right side saw the movement first; raising he head slightly brought him cleanly into the center of the cross hairs in Millers scope.  Miller noticed that Mr. Left had just spotted the movement as he slowly increased the pressure on the trigger.  These two appeared to have military training but obviously it had been many years and skills had deteriorated with lack of practice or continued training.  Killing Mr. Right first would assure no return fire and would force Mr. Left to make a hasty retreat to Millers left away from the dead man if Miller’s second snap shot missed.  It would all depend on Mr. Left’s reflexes and training.  Miller had already made plans for Mr. Left if he happened to evade the .308’s wrath.

Waiting thirty minutes for the team to slowly quietly leave the area Miller found himself thinking of his life, what was and what could have been.  He checked his watch and decided it was time to live or die depending on whether the U.S. made land mine was still functioning.  It must have been laid towards the end of the conflict; after the North was able to slow the tons of traffic of arms and munitions towards the South.  That made it at least 35 years old sitting in the jungle floor, covered in mud, wet, cold and rusting.

Two in the bag Miller knew he could look forward to swarms of hunter killer teams descending on the area; blood money was hard to turn down, besides how hard could it be to bag an American in your own jungle.

Slowly, deliberately, Miller raised his boot from the mine.  No reason to run, no reason to jump, plow head first into the jungle floor; this mine alone would create a crater larger than Miller would ever hope to clear and live let alone if it was teamed with a bunch more up and down the tiny trail.  He’d never even know if it went off; he’d be blown to tiny pieces so fast no one’s brain could comprehend its own destruction that fast. 

A little more weight off, a little more; click.

After the jungle settled down from the 20mm grenades and the insects again began to make their mating calls Miller relaxed but continued to scan the jungle for movement of hidden killer teams.  It was just unlikely that this team was working completely alone.  A huge explosion and a scream answered that question as one of Miller’s mines went up in a cloud of litter mixed with blood and bone fragments.  It was the closest mine that he had laid to his shooting position; meaning that whatever tripped it had already evaded three he had carefully laid and hidden with great care.  Was it a jungle animal ran through Miller’s mind; the answer came as a human left hand and other torn and obliterated human parts rained down all around him.  Miller dug deep into the wet earth for cover as machine gun fire sliced and cut vines and small trees in lethal fragments searching for soft tissue to rip and tear.  A grenade landed two feet from Millers face; rolling to his left away and into a small depression in the litter saved him from all but a few splinters of shrapnel. Miller found himself in the middle of a well planned and perfectly executed ambush; the two fools he’d killed were bait to bring him out of hiding and into the sights of a large killer team.  His sniper rifle, pack and his equipment was strewn about the hide by the first grenade; made useless by the explosion.  Pulling his .45 from his hip Miller waited for the killers to check their kill.

Click; silence.  Miller looked down at his foot; his boot was two inches above the protruding three prongs pushing through the ground litter.   It could be a hang fire his mind was screaming, or it could be rusted and water goo filled and no longer working.  Miller knowing he was a dead man slowly walked into the jungle away from the tiny trail.

Three came into the small clearing to Millers right; silently searching for the concealed sniper.  These were dead men and they all knew it; either the sniper was dead, or they would be in seconds, cannon fodder for the remaining team members.  Miller pulled pins on three grenades and held them tightly to his chest waiting for the exact moment when it would do the most damage.  A huge back Sheppard burst into the clearing and straight for Miller’s hiding spot.  A trained kill dog at least a hundred and fifty pounds used to flush hidden quarry from the jungle brush.  These guys had it all; Miller clutching the grenades with his left arm raised his .45 and dropped the Sheppard’s snapping jaws two feet from his face.  Throwing his grenades and firing into the jungle Miller only hope was to take as many with him as possible.   Pinned to his spot by withering fire; grenades landing all around him; the calamity of fire and grenade explosions drowned out the beating of rotor blades directly over Millers head.  Quad thirty trails of tracers tracked through the jungle seeking flesh.  Mini guns from four ships rained down from above cutting the jungle tangled trees and vines to the ground.  Bullets rototilled the leaf litter leaving only feet of unturned earth around Miller’s slight depression in the ground.  A camouflaged helmeted figure landed at Miller’s side; jerked him to his feet and wrapped a belt around his waist; he was hoisted to the waiting helicopter in less than two seconds and with rotor blades cutting tree tops off they made their way east at top speed.

The sun was warm; the beer cold in Miller’s hand.  His new friend scantly clothed with beads of fine sweat between her breasts; ran a slim finger down the partially healed gouge that split Miller’s right cheek through four days of stubble.  Sipping his beer Miller thought “It’s good to be alive”.

From the Ramblings

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Joey the Clown

Joey the Clown

What a great idea having a clown for Bobby’s birthday party.  The kids will love him and all the parents will think you’re the best.  Joey the Clown wasn’t even that expensive and he brings his own balloons and party gifts.  You made quite the deal on this one; if the other parents only knew what a steal you got on this deal they’d just die.  No literally, right after they tear your heart out you fucking bitch.

DA:                         Mrs. James; how did you come to know the Defendant Joey Miller?

Mrs. James:        Well I met him at the grocery store; he was, was in his costume; his clown suit and had a sign.  A sign that said clown for hire.  So I; I booked him for my son’s birthday.

DA:                         Your son’s birthday party? A party at your house?

Mrs. James:        Ummmmm yes, at my house; I HAD NO IDEA, NO IDEA, THIS ISN’T MY FAULT!

DA:                         Objection your Honor.

Judge:                   Mrs. James answer the question; only the question.  Please

Mrs. James:        OH LOOK AT THEM; LOOK AT THE WAY THEY STARE AT ME; IT WASN’T MY FAULT, IT WASN’T.

Judge:                   One hour recess.

A low murmur went through the crowded Court Room as the judge left the bench.  A few thought they were watching a witch hunt; one of which they were all willing to fight to get to be the one too light the fire to send the bitch to hell.

Joey the clown showed up early to the James house; a two story mansion and a full basement; two large pillars holding up the front facade, with white siding except the shutters which had been painter a soft grey color to compliment the early colonial architecture; a little drab, but huge; four thousand square feet and on a nice piece of property overlooking the St. Luis River.   Joey rubbed his hands together in excitement.

Nancy James greeted Joey at the front door; walked him through the entrance and into the living room area just left of the front hall.  A spacious room with high ceilings and one grand chandelier in the center of the room.  In the mid day sun it was set on a low setting, just enough to set off the cut of the crystal, but not enough to cast a shadow; saving energy was not a concern in the James house hold.  Joey placed his trunk on the serving table; with rolling eyes he ask Nancy when the children would be coming.  A slight chill ran up her back; being the finest of hosts Nancy got Joey a glass of water; the party would start in twenty minutes.

Children began arriving in ones and twos; Mother dropping off their four year olds without a worry; the James’s were well known in town being that they owned a good half of it. With horns, hats and candy the party was off to a good start; even the Martin boy was behaving to a point; his autism making him a hand full at the best of times.

Soon it was Joey’s turn to entertain the children; he made crazy faces and danced; they all laughed and laughed; he next twisted balloons into horses, cats, dogs and one that looked just like a sword.  The children were so engrossed that Nancy had to yell twice that the cake was ready; everyone ran for the
kitchen.

DA:                         Mrs. James, did you ever ask for identification or do any type of back ground investigation or ask for references?  You just let this person into your house full of four year olds?

Mrs. James:        He’s a clown…a clown.

DA:                         Nothing in his demeanor; his actions raise a red flag to you?  You let him take all eleven four year olds down into the basement?  You nor any adult going with them?

Mrs. James:        He’s a clown; they act funny; you know; he kept laughing all the time, but don’t they all do that kind of thing?  No, your question; we were having drinks, there was just me and Mrs. Ellis; we were just up in the dining hall; I’d had only two glasses of wine.

DA:                         Mrs. James… what about the screaming; tell me about the screaming.  Why’d you ignore all the children screaming?  Did you not tell the Police that the children were screaming for at least thirty minutes if not longer?

Mrs. James         He was doing magic tricks; don’t you scream during magic tricks?  I always scream; I’m scared of magic tricks and magicians…  I didn’t do anything wrong; nothing, nothing at all.  I didn’t do anything wrong here.

DA:                         Mrs. James; what was the first thing that made you think that something was wrong?

Mrs. James         Well; it got quiet; and then I thought I heard crying; so I went right away to check.

DA:                         What did you find Mrs. James?

Mrs. James:        The children; there was blood everywhere.  I thought; I thought someone must have fell and hit their nose; but no, no, no they were all laying on the floor; I thought; thought they were doing a magic trick; but all the blood; you could smell the blood; it made me sick; I called Bobby my son, but he didn’t answer; all I could hear was; was the clown laughing, laughing; he just never stops laughing.  He cut my Bobby’s head off; clean off, it was just sitting there; all the children were cut; little Mary, Mary Williams her head was almost all the way off.

DA:                         Mrs. James; why didn’t you call the Police?  Why did it take so long to call the Police?  Mrs. James; Why?

Mrs. James:        I was in shock; I needed another drink; I just couldn’t believe it; he just kept stabbing them and stabbing them; I could hear the laughing; he just wouldn’t stop laughing; IT’S NOT MY FAULT, NOT MY FAULT…

Judge:                   Bailiff please remove Mrs. James from the Court Room.

DA:                         Judge I’d like to remand the Defendant over to trial; this Office has more than shown the neglect of the defendants actions in this horrible crime.  Your Honor, Mrs. James failed to act in any manner to save any of the children from Joey Miller a known killer and child molester in this community.

Judge:                   The defendant will be held on one million dollar bail; next Court date August 15th @ 3:00pm for plea.  This Court is adjourned.


From the Ramblings.

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H-ham

H-ham

Jimenez checked off his name on the filthy clipboard.  Who ever thought to pass a clipboard down the line?  With a silent chuckle Jimenez rolled his eyes and said to himself “the new Lt. that’s who” he reached out with his right hand and tapped Simpson on what he hoped was his shoulder; the board disappeared into the ink black of the night.

Jimenez went back to scanning the front with his night vision goggles “I wonder if the Lt. thought about whether we’d be able to see the fucking board in the pitch black out here without night eyes?”  Again shaking his head and a silent snicker he went back to watching for any movement towards the front of their position. 

The night was as dark as an ink well; so dark little round flashes of light, light up in your eyes as heavy charged protons rocket through eye fluid and passes into the earth leaving a flash as it goes through.   No moon, heavy cloud cover without a breath of wind; no crickets, owls, nothing but silence; it was so quite you could hear your joints creak.

 Simpson found where Clark was because Clark’s stomach was rolling and growling so loud you could hear it three meters down the line.  Simpson jammed the board into Clark’s left arm hard enough it made a thud sound. An almost silent squeak from the front was heard immediately; everyone in hearing distance knew what that was.  No one moved or even drew a breath for what seemed like minutes.  Twenty yards to the right and at least fifteen to the front a cricket sounded; again the nearly silent squeak.  Jimenez, Simpson, Clark, Stark and Franks all had the target acquired. 

The 15^th light armor division had been deployed for over fifteen months.  Casualty rates stood at 82%; 47% wounded; 29% dead, and 7% missing and presumed dead or captured; which meant dead. The recently promoted third Commander in two weeks was screaming over the secured phone; Johnson the Company Staff Sergeant knew he was trying in vain to explain that he no longer had a command and the reason they didn’t know who the hell he was, was because the other two Commanders had been killed so fast the paperwork hadn’t gotten to the rear yet.  He needed men; and needed them fast.

Everyone knew what the score was; they were going to be overrun just a few minutes before first light of morning.  Not enough light that you could see in, but the faint light of early morning that you start the battle in and finish after it’s a bright sunny day with everyone dead.

Something touched Jimenez’s right arm; so softly that he barely felt it but Jimenez was as tense as a coiled spring.  He slowly, barely moving looked to his right and pulled his night eyes off his face.  Sergeant Williams was three inches from his face with a great big grin.  Jimenez rolled his eyes and took a breath.  Williams moved forward with lips to Jimenez’s ear said “H-ham when they come” a softball sized weapon was pushed against his side.  Jimenez’s eyes rolled up in his sockets.  He started to whisper to Sergeant Williams “OH no fuc……..”  Sergeant Williams was gone.  Jimenez could hear him moving down the line. He thought he could hear other’s gasps, but he knew better.

Around 3am a slight breeze kicked up from the rear of the 15^th’s position and gave a slight reprieve to the astounding silence of the night.

 

Stark slow crawled toward where he knew Jimenez was dug in; so slowly it took over fifteen minutes to cover the four meters.  He was greeted by the flash suppressor of Jimenez’s rifle pointed at his forehead as it appeared out of the blackness.  Moving to Jimenez’s side and placing his lips directly on Jimenez’s ear, he whispered “H-ham’s?” Stark pulled back from Jimenez’s ear and looked directly in his eyes.  He saw the same look, the same blood shot watery stare.  Jimenez only slowly shook his head.  Without a word Stark started the long crawl back to his position.  Tears leaked out of both eyes, small dabs of mud caked on both sides of Stark’s cheeks as he made his way back.

Juan Dean Jimenez was a born athlete; lettering in every sport but picking up girls, he was a school favorite and home coming king.  Entering the Marine Corps one week after graduation he wanted to be a lifer.  Basic was a breeze; his only set back being when the DI’s found out his middle name “Dean” and tore into him for having a gringo middle name.  “Didn’t your momma mean “Bean” not “Dean” and you’re father just fucked it up!”  From that point on his nick name was “Bean”.  It had nothing to do with the fact that he was full blooded Mexican and was the first generation to call America their home.  It was the weird middle name.  A few of the other boot’s asked him why he had such a fucked up middle name; Jimenez would just shrug it off and never an answer was given.  The truth was his mothers, father was a gringo from Texas and they wanted a part of him passed down the line.  After boot camp and secondary school Jimenez was assigned to the 15^th as a grunt.  It never entered his mind to be anything but a pack carrying grunt headed to the front line of whatever action the United States might be in.  The Corps tried twice to promote “Bean” finding that he flat turned them down each time; he was where he wanted to be.

The night breeze slowed, then turned 90 degrees and picked up its pace.  Coming out of the South it carried heavy smoke and ash from yesterdays fighting down south.  The air was smoky but had a strange nasty taste to it; like burnt barbeque sauce and a fallen cremated hamburger patty.  It made you want to cover your nose and mouth; you knew in your heart you didn’t want that in your mouth.

Jimenez moved the canister up from his side and lifted it with his right hand.  He tested its weight and guessed at a half pound.  How far could he throw 8 ounces?  He knew a baseball weighed 5 ounces and he could throw an advancing runner out from the outfield fence with ease.  So about 275 feet if he guessed right and more than likely shorter with a cold arm; say two twenty five max; subtract wearing BDU’s and a chest rig, 150 feet on a good day.  If what they said in special training was right, this was going to be close, very close.

 

Hearing movement in the distance they all knew that enemy troops were moving closer to the front line. Number of reinforcements was a guess but by the sound it was a lot.

The stars where still out bright in the night sky, but looking to the horizon to the east you could tell the stars were beginning to fade. 

Over the last weeks both sides had run their supply lines to the point of exhaustion.  Not being able to keep up with anything but the simplest of supplies; small arms ammunition and short food allocations was the best both could hope for.  This was going to be a battle straight out of the WWI manual; straight up the middle as fast as you could run; shooting anything that looked alive.

Two hours they’ve been moving men forward; it was clear to Jimenez and the rest of the squad why they’d been issued H-ham’s and ordered to use them before they could be overran; without them it was going to be a short day and a turkey shoot.

With the sky glowing in the east they came.  The American’s fired their weapons to empty and then threw their H-ham’s (Hand Held Atomic Munitions) as far as their arms were able.  With a payload of 500 pounds of TNT; estimated detonation kill zone of 150 feet; leaving a 40 foot wide, 8 foot deep crater; first blinding white light; hammer strike, and then churning blackness.

Jimenez threw his H-ham with everything he had; jumped into his hole and waited for the bang.  It was an eight second wait; flash of light; floating, twisting in the air Jimenez knew he’d been too close to the blast zone and waited for the hard landing. 

Waking minutes; hours later eyes caked with wet ash, lungs choking on dust; white ash three quarters of an inch thick on his blouse; the ash looked like white grey corn flakes, with the slightest movement, touch of breath they’d crumble to a fine powder.  The slightest movement would free them back into the air.  Jimenez rolled over causing a cloud of choking thick dust; rising on one elbow he looked towards the front.  Where once was flat land there was now a shallow depression; with high edges and smoke filled bottom.

 

The figure with heavy white robes rode with ease as the stallion pranced and danced; hooves kicking up clouds of powder fine grey dust dimming the blinding white light from the sky.  Raising a hand to block the light Jimenez grin grew wide as he watched his squad march behind the prancing stallion.  He fought hard to join them; straps cinched tight kept him pinned to the hospital bed; nurses ran from gurney to gurney in feeble attempts to stem the flow of blood and dying.  An over head speaker scratched out a dreary speech “a great victory, I’m proud to be part of the forces….”  

From the Ramblings

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