HOPE CHRONICLES – CHAPTER ONE

The sun went down, that treacherous orb. I mean, really, could I get just get five, just five, freaking minutes of daylight here? It was dark and here’s me without any night vision goggles, head slap to self.

Okey dokey. The playing field was going to be tipped by hearing and smell. We were probably even on hearing with the rain coming down, but I had the advantage on smell, IF I could get my hound to clue me in on where all the Zombies were. I could hear her growling to my right.

“It’s okay, we won’t hurt you!” called a, possibly, woman’s voice. There were a few chuckles, and, yes, they were evil chuckles.

“Come out, come out, we just want join up with you! We need to form a band against the bad guys!” said the voice again, this time a little closer.

Geez, you would think they could try a little harder to be convincing, I thought.

“And you little doggie too!” This was accompanied by high pitched giggling and laughing, tittering even.

Anybody who titters in general, and most especially in this post-Crash world, has left sanity behind somewhere in a galaxy far far away.

So. Not fremenies then.

I edged around to the left of the well cover, just in time to miss a baseball bat strike where my head had been seconds before. Crap, these guys moved faster than I thought. I began squeezing off single shots from my AR15 in the general direction of the baseball player wannabe and then swept it from right to left and back again. My hound ran around in from the right.

Gunshots, screams, moans, growling, barking, grunting, gurgling, several big thumps and some slithering noises that I earnestly hoped were not somebody’s intestines dragging across the ground.

The usual sounds these days when people got together.

My hound joined me again, this time with a flashlight in her jaws. This had a red lens cap. A stroke of luck there. I could look around without affecting my night vision which was almost nill anyway. Good doggie. As I came around the well cover, my feet became entangled in a mass of slippery ropey stuff and I got an all too familiar whiff of shit and blood.

Godsdammit. I hate stepping in guts.

Actually, what I really really really hate is falling into them. Which is what I proceeded to do, thanks to my katana coming completely unstrapped and getting between my legs. I twisted my body to land on my back, with the AR15 up and still firing. Which was helpful as the last goblin of the posse was bending over to stab me in the face. Several bullets struck her in the forehead, causing her head to literally explode. Which meant I was now also covered in brains, as well as blood and shit.

Like I said before, don’t ask me about the smell.

My hound came over and began licking my face because she loves me so much, but probably just to get a quick snack, since I was covered with blood and brains. It was actually a pretty good way to get the biggest globs off actually. Bonding experiences in the post-Crash world are pretty weird.

I shot the flashlight around. There were 4 dead Zombies and I could not see any more coming through the trees. Hard to tell what proved more lethal to them, my AR15 at close range or my hound. The fleas and lice were literally jumping out of their greasy hair and filthy bodies looking for a new home. Their blood that was all over me was probably full of Ebola or some shit. Argh.

I stripped the bodies of any weapons and gear, no sense leaving dangerous things for just anybody to find, kept what was useful (very little) and dropped the rest down the well. The bodies I left for the cycle of life, the anti-Disney version, hi ho, hi ho.

First order of business: Get the hell out of there. The Zombies might be easily killed but they would be back, and in greater numbers.

Okay, okay, it sounded better when Obi-Wan said it, but, hey, I’m always working on my Doomer Cred. Honestly, it was the only way I’d found to stay sane in an insane world: Gallows humor, snark and references to a vanished Pop Culture are key tools in the mental toolkit of the post-Crash world, dontch’ know.

Stumbling around in the dark and wet, even with a red lens flashlight, was no joy. After what seemed like my own personal impromptu Bataan death march, I finally said screw it and got out my big tarp, strung it between two trees and curled up on some heaped up pine straw with my hound. At least the rain and the wet pine branches slapping me all over for the last few hours got some of the muck off. I also strung two large trash bags between two trees to catch some rainwater. My hound viewed this with great suspicion, since it looked like a possible B.A.T.H .in the offing.

My last thoughts were about hot water and soap and shampoo and dry towels and a hairdryer and……..