Survivalist Logbook
8/7/7 P.A.*
“We’re okay, Malcom, let us in!”
Those words still echo in my head and I see their faces on the other side of the fence, like it just happened, but that was hours ago. They’d taken the clunker down to the fishing hole two days before and hadn’t returned. The rusting beast was idling behind them, belching the cheap biofuel we made from everything we couldn’t eat, and our “post-food” as well.
“No, you’re not. I said. “Bob’s a zombie and you’re infected.” I said to them.
“He just fell in the mud, he’s fine.”
“You guys are two days late. You didn’t check in! I thought you were dead. Where’s Frank?”
“Frank is dead. You gotta let us in, I need to feed my pets and Bob needs to get cleaned up.”
“Bob’s a zombie, aren’t you Bob?”
Bob just looked at me, his eyes pale and his mouth half open.
“See?” I said. “He can’t even talk. He always talked. We couldn’t shut him up! He was like a cross between a parrot and Labrador. He’s standing still, too – he’d always be pacing and telling us what just happened, even if we were there!”
“Open the gate Malcom, I’m feeling sick.” Phil said to me.
“Dude,you’re infected – it’s as plain as the nose on your face – well, most of your nose.”
He was never good looking, but Phil was downright ugly now, with the tip of his nose cleanly nipped off and the patchy dark blotches showing up on his cheeks. His nose made him look like the tin man on that show my grand-pappy used to watch over and over with the tornado and the dog.
“Just open the gate! I gotta feed my chinchillas.”
“With what? You guys didn’t bring anything back. Besides, you were fishing, not shopping. It’s only a matter of time, Phil, I can’t let you guys in.”
Phil’s eyes brightened and he rummaged around in his pocket. He showed me a tiny remote and smiled, saying “Trumped ya, dude. I’m the tech guy, remember?”
Holding it in the air like the statue of liberty and looking at me with that smug grin he clicked the remote and a blue light flashed briefly. He clicked it again an the blue light flashed again. Looking at it he pressed the button a third time, then a fourth.
“Hmm, maybe the gate’s not plugged in.” I said.
“I’ll climb the gate then beat the daylights outa you!”
“No you won’t,” I said as I backed away, their features fading with the distance.
I came back out with a five gallon tank a little over half full of fuel. They weren’t coming in, and they never kept much in the ol’ rustbucket. Phil was at the top of the fence and about to step over the barbed wire when I heaved it at him and said “Catch!”
Three gallons of fuel is mighty heavy unless you grew up heaving hay bales. He reflexively grabbed the can which pushed him back over, knocking the wind out of him as he broke its fall.
“What are you nuts?” he gasped.
“We both know it’s only be a matter of time before Bob takes a bite out of you or you turn zombie.”
Bob started pushing against the fence, moving off to the left to find a way in to snack on me.
“He hasn’t attacked me though! He stopped talking and pacing so much, but he hasn’t attacked me!”
“That’s probably ‘cause you’re infected, Phil. What happened out there? Why didn’t you call in?”
Phil looked like he was going to throw up as he walked away from the fence, then returned pacing like Bob would, if he wasn’t a zombie.
“We were fishing at the river right at sunset. Got myself some big catfish, too! Sucker woulda made three night’s dinner. Then Frank caught one that snapped his pole. He didn’t want to be outdone by the one I caught so he walked into the water, taking the line hand over hand. The line was almost vertical so he knew it was close. He was only waist deep and reached into the water. He rummaged around then went under. I thought he was kidding but then he didn’t come up. Frank dove in tried to save him but -” his voice trailed off.
“So how’d you get infected?”
“I’m coming to that! Gimme a minute!” he said as he punched the fence three times in rapid succession. His hand was clearly broken but he didn’t react.
“I yelled at him to get out of the water. He backed away then stumbled and fell, screaming in pain. He made it to shore and had tooth marks in his calf.
“We were freakin’ dude! As I bandaged him up another one musta come out of the water. Bob kicked it off me just in time! Well, almost just in time.” he crossed his eyes trying to look at the tip of his nose.
“We drove to the top of the hill. I thought we could call then, the fishing hole’s a blind spot, that’s when I realized the phone was back at the river. I tried Bob’s but it was soaking wet.”
“Nice planning, dude. Where were your backups?”
“In the tacklebox! Back at the fishing hole! Don’t you listen?! Lemme in dude, I gotta eat, I’m gettin’ the shakes.”
“No can do. You know the rules.”
“Can’t you get me something?! Man! After what I’ve been through?!”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
Phil looked at his good hand, then the one he broke. “Oh. That’s not good! I gotta get to a hospital!”
“Stay off the fence, get Bob back into rusty there and I’ll get you a couple of chicken legs.”
“Okay.”
Coming back I pushed a couple of drumsticks through the fence. Phil picked them up and looked at me again.
“Hospital, remember? Your hand?”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks dude, we’ll be back later-ish.”
“Later dude, Hospital. Get on the road and drive as fast as you can. Don’t bother with the seat belts.”
They backed away in their heap and then Phil gunned it, spewing black soot and dirt. He’d left the can of fuel there. Oh well, I’ll go get it tomorrow.
~~~
*P.A. is the date Post Zombie-Apocalypse.
Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2
Excerpt 3
Excerpt 4
Excerpt 5
Excerpt 6
Excerpt 7
This is excerpt 1 from the Survivalist POV – a side story that came from “Samuel Shinpike and the Attack of the Roadkill Zombies”
The first draft came out real dark. I copied it and lightened it up to be more along the lines of the book. I may publish the dark version on a different site, since this series is supposed to be for 9-14 year olds as well as parents who might like a “zombie-lite” novel: Same pale pallor, less than half the gore.