The Dead Lands Diary (Book 1) Read online

  Going on week four and Stan still never exited his house. Just the occasional peek out the window. He either had a lot of food or he was great at rationing his supply. We wondered how long before cabin fever drove him totally insane. We all had common enemies now. Reasons to come together. Work together. Even those of us we may previously had disliked. But that apparently meant jack shit to Stan. Even as the world burned, he remained closed off and unneighborly. Our general consensus was fuck'em. We didn't need anything from him anyway and after everything with Anne and Rebecca...after he just watched us with zero concern...he dare not ask any of us for a damn fucking thing.

  On Thursday of the fourth week of July, our nation went dark. The grid went down around 5:00pm and it never came on again. We heard a few generators kick on blocks away in different directions. We also heard the Dead Calls that followed. Generators only brought the dead knocking.

  With the power off it was all the more quiet. An eerie quiet that was unnerving. It kind of put knots in your stomach at first. Slowly we had gotten used to it. But at night....I could never had switched to day watch. After hearing the new sounds of the night I would never be able to sleep. I would be too alert and on edge.

  What was once the sounds of cars, horns and trains....people yelling and tires squealing...were replaced by screams, gunshots and Dead Calls.

  The new world was a nightmare.

  Reggie had found a .308 hunting rifle in a house down the street. He clutched it tightly at every shot we heard. Every scream. It got to the point where we said fuck the porch altogether. We sat upon my roof for our safety. With the streetlights gone the street was black. A Bolter would see us and charge long before we saw it. Or them. Lately some small hordes of Roamers passed through. Sitting on the porch in the black of night was just idiotic at that point.

  Even on the safety of the roof however, we didn't feel much more secure. Sometimes we worried more about looters than the infected. Some of them would obviously just open fire. We heard enough of it throughout the city. Surely by now they knew it attracted them. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they were just too fucking stupid. Maybe it was their screams we heard a lot. If so, then I didn't much care. Less looters less dangers.

  In the backyard was a wooden fence to blocking the other street. We had small fires there to cook up canned goods like beans, corn, ravioli, etcetera.

  We all tried to eat around 6:00'ish. We could only tell the time thanks to Jim's watch. We thought it best to never light a fire after dark, for obvious reasons.

  Firewood was easy enough to come by. We just took apart dressers and tables left within the homes. Plenty of lighters and matches as well. We also collected valuables left behind, as well as bottles of liquor and packs of cigarettes. I saved some of those for myself. Eventually they would run out and I would be forced to finally kick the habit, but until then I was going to light up. World was ending anyway.

  The idea to take all these items were for a sensible reason. For one, the looters. If a confrontation ensued we could most likely easily appease them into leaving by giving them cash, booze and jewelry. No need for a bloody, potentially deadly fight if it can be avoided.

  Sure, money and the like had zero value anymore. It was completely useless. But to them, the idiots that they were, would still think otherwise. Maybe they thought it would all be taken care of and then they'd be rich. Whatever kept them the fuck away was all that mattered.

  Second, was in the event we crossed paths with some good folk that simply wanted to barter supplies. We may need some medicine, they may need some water. The remaining good people had to help one another. Maybe we could barter Stan....but they'd likely bring the bastard back anyway. Who the hell would want a useless drunk anyhow? We didn't. Sometimes we wished he'd make a break for his car and take the hell off. What was he going to do when he ran out of supplies, anyway? He had to leave that shit shack sooner or later.

  We also had to leave sooner or later as well.

  This area is hardly what you'd have called safe. More and more infected were showing up. More and more we were sitting in silence waiting for them to pass by like a herd of deadly cattle. Or seemingly holding our breathe waiting for a pack of Bolters to make their way out of the area.

  Reggie had said, while on watch, as recorded:

  Where are we supposed to go? What the hell are we even doing?

  I've been thinking of an area that should be considerably safer. It's away from major cities and away from Akron. About a forty minute drive or less. Probably longer depending on how many detours we'd have to take to get there. But it's my home away from home. When all this started you know I was talking to my Uncle Ken and my cousin Tim. I spent every summer out there as a kid, all the way up until I was seventeen or eighteen. Best summers of my life.

  Where is it? How fucking safe you think we'd be?

  Most of the area is out in the sticks, as they say. Tim and I spent most of our time in Garrettsville and Mantua. Both small little towns, Mantua the smallest. My Uncle and Tim live in Hiram. Last I knew they were doing well off since this started. All three of these areas are surrounded with woods and fields. Smaller populations, so less infected to deal with.

  What's the biggest concern we'd have out there?

  Well, there's a few larger towns within fifteen and twenty minutes. Nothing compared to here, but big enough. I'm sure there's plenty of infected, and just like here, they'd eventually spread out of the large towns when their food runs out. The biggest nearby towns are Streetsboro, Ravenna. Kent of course. Eventually we can assume infected will migrate down from Cleveland. That's an hour away, give or take, from where we'd be.

  You mention any of this to Jim or Kelly?

  Not yet. Let's talk to them tomorrow. I'm sure they're getting just as nervous being here as us.

  Well, fuckin' Stan's worthless ass will be thrilled as fuck! He'll have the whole damn street to his greedy ass self.

  [quiet laughter]

  Hope your fam out there are doing okay. What's their area like? How far are the little towns apart?

  Not far at all. Country will be our greatest advantage, too. You ever been out of the city?

  Yeah, few times. When I was about twenty, few years before my Dad died, I went with him to West Virginia for a small family reunion. Shit ton of woods....gave me the fuckin' creeps personally. Weird ass noises at night. Course, that's nothing to the noises we hear now, shit. We even traveled through some town called Point Pleasant. Had some creepy statue of some creature in the middle of the town! Named after a bug or something. My Dad told me the story, I don't remember. Scared the shit out of me.

  Mothman.

  Yeah! That was it!.....fuck that. That was enough country for my city ass.

  Well, the woods around my old stomping grounds aren't as dense as the ones in West Virginia. And we don't have any giant Mothmen, so you're good.

  The monsters we got now are enough.

  Yeah, can say that again.

  End of recording.

  In the afternoon of the following day we had the same conversation with Jim and kelly, who were both quickly on board to get the hell out, sooner rather than later.

  We went over some maps Reggie had in his car's glove compartment to scout the best routes out of the city. Trying to guess where the most infected may or may not be...but that was like trying to predict the weather. More so, we looked at where looters and bandits would potentially set up road blocks or traps. Last thing we needed.

  We decided to leave in a week. That gave us time to discuss and plan every detail and back up plans should something go sour. Stan was being more nosy lately, watching us go over maps on my porch. Lately, we were on watch for him, too. He glanced out at us more than usual lately. Either he was just eager to see us go or he was running out of supplies and getting in a desperate mental state.

  He wasn't going to ask for supplies, that much was certain. Nothing was stopping him, however, from gathering some stuff from his two side ne
ighbors. I'd have easily told him so had he asked or spoke in any manner.

  It was two nights later. Looking back I don't remember the time. It was late. Early, rather. I'd estimate after 2am.

  Reggie and I sat quietly on the roof. Conversing in whispers, when he heard a sound from Stan's. Hard to describe the sound. A quick kinda thud.

  Reggie had griped his rifle instinctively and said, "What the fuck was that?" To which I said as anyone would, that I didn't know.

  Again, for important conversations or what we in advance felt may be important I tended, and still do, to click my little recorder on. Reggie one night asked me if I planned to record everything and jot it all down to every little detail.

  I explained that it was like a coping mechanism for me. I told him, as I wrote earlier, that it helped me keep my sanity...for lack of a better word. Felt like I had a task. It just felt important. Again, the words may never be read...the recordings never heard. But if they were...then I feel it's important. Stories have to be told. Survivors stories, and those who tried to survive. Which one we'll all be, who knows.

  Recording:

  What do you think?

  I donno, man. Maybe his drunk ass fell the hell over. Maybe he passed out from dehydration. Fuck, I donno!

  We've never heard a single sound from his place every night we've been out here. He know's we're on constant watch so he doesn't need to contribute to shit. He crashes at night. Early.

  So? What's your point, man?

  Think we should go check?

  Not much so, no. Do we much give a damn about his sorry ass?

  No...but I'm being cautious. We didn't see any peeks today. None that I noticed. Did you?

  No.

  Well, what if he got infected somehow? A rat or mouse? If he collapsed from sickness, I'd like to know. That'd be much better than waiting for him to bolt through his livingroom window at us later or tomorrow.

  You're motherfuckin' killin' me. You really, really are. I can't wait to get the fuck out of here. As much as the country spooks my ass, the city is scaring me more.

  I agree. Now let's go find out what we heard.

  What if that nutty sumbitch has a gun?

  We'll knock. Identify ourselves, he knows we're always out here. Who else would we be?

  Fuck!

  End Recording.

  Once inside, we woke Jim and Kelly just to let them know what we were doing. Jim said he'd watch from the porch and told Kelly to go back to sleep. She had complained groggily but seemed to doze right back off. Probably thought she was dreaming. After a minute or so, we made our way outside. Jim sat quietly into a chair. Reggie and I had traded looks of worry and made our way across the darkened street. I remember smelling fire that night in the distance. Something was burning somewhere. Blocks away we heard a Dead Call and we both tensed. Suddenly we had felt foolish leaving the safety of the roof, even if it was just to go across the street.

  Reggie had his rifle at the ready, as I had my pistol. I knocked as softly as I could but with enough effort to be audible inside. I just couldn't bring myself to knock much louder. Just the thought of banging on the door, unaware of a pack of Bolters nearby, was enough to make me wanna say fuck it, fuck Stan, and go back to my roof.

  Instead, I knocked a little louder against my better judgment. Nothing. Reggie kept a close eye looking up and down the street. Jim was doing the same. I tapped a knuckle against the door again a few times, and this time loudly whispered who we were. Still nothing. I knew the door was locked, but I grabbed the knob anyway and turned it...it opened. Reggie spun around at the sound and looked at the cracked door. Then at me incredulously.

  This alcoholic hermit, who refused to acknowledge any of us, left his door unlocked? The guy who peered out his window in paranoia?

  I glanced at Reggie, ready to open the door further. He gave me a look. The look that says "Don't do it." But I slowly opened the door. Upon another glance his lips were pursed and he was definitely pissed. He took a small flashlight from his pocket and handed it to me, shaking his head.

  I glanced across the street. Jim was now standing at the edge of the porch, highly concerned. I tilted the light in my left hand, and placed my right wrist on my left, leveling my gun in line with the light. The house smelled musky. About the exact way I'd have imagined it to smell. A scent of body odor, cigarette smoke and beer. It was dark, rank and unwelcoming.

  I scanned the livingroom. It was empty. Somewhere in the back of the house was a low, continual creaking noise. Behind me I heard Reggie doing a nervous little shuffle. I would hear about this later.

  I moved forward with Reggie close behind. I scanned the kitchen to the right. Empty. The creaking was more audible. As was the shuffle behind me. On the left of the hall was a bathroom, which was clear. A spare room to the right. Door closed. I checked it carefully. Also clear.

  At the end of the hall was a bedroom. Halfway down the hall it was apparent that's where the strange creaking was emitting from. The sound started to sound familiar.

  I musted up what little courage was left and walked to the door which sat slightly ajar. I bumped it open with my foot and then listened in the quiet. At this point Reggie was like a statue.

  I stepped inside. Directly in front of me was clear. Just a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. I heard the creaking from my right and turned to it quickly. My gut sank and I felt trembly.

  The creaking had been from that of a rope. Stan swayed gently back and forth from a noose he fashioned around his ceiling fan. He was shirtless. Jeans on. Empty bottle of liquor lying on his bed.

  Reggie walked in behind me and looked over. He gasped. I didn't blame him. I think I may have gasped as well. I wasn't sure what to do at that moment. Cut him down? Leave? I opted to leave and discuss it elsewhere. Reggie was highly in favor of that.

  As I turned to leave, I noticed a piece of paper sitting underneath his swaying corpse. I didn't want to approach or be near him, but the paper had writing on it and I assumed it was a suicide note. To which I was correct. After retrieving it we headed outside the house. Crossing the street we saw kelly was now awake and standing with Jim. After we went inside he thought it was a good idea to wake her up and tell her what was going on. Both of them looked alarmed.

  I just simply said Stan was dead. They both looked surprised. Reggie detailed the hanging and expressed he was further scarred for life than he already was. To which he blamed me. I had almost forgotten the note. I lifted it to read before passing it along:

  I've been sitting in this dirty house for a month. It's all over. There's nothing left. My neighbors will find this...maybe. Knowing them they'll leave without a care...which is fine. I don't need them to check on me....it's been a month and they haven't. The feelings the damn same for me, too! I never liked any of them anyway. I never needed anyone...even now...fuck them all....I don't need them. I don't need you...I never needed you...if you're reading this! Fuck you! Maybe the old ladies were okay....I don't know....I'm sorry for them. But I'm not sorry for me or the rest of you. I've been on my fucking own a long fucking time. My family gave zero fucks...my ex wife...that fucking whore. You wanna know my story, ya pricks? I doubt it...but if you read this...cause I have no one else to bitch at...know that I never wanted to know any of you. You with your arrogance and pride....you...my wife....my filthy slutty whore wife....wherever you are....I hope you suffered. I hope those...THINGS....tore you apart and devoured you. Ate all of you. You...skank!

  I'm going to finish this bottle...finish writing to you worthless fucks and....yeah....the world's obviously done....done done done done done. It's gone. I'm not going to wish any of you luck....no. NO! I'm. I'm almost out of water. Food too....I'm at the end of my rope. Or will be shortly. When I finish this. Yeah....oh well. I thought about walking into the streets....just walk...see how far I got....but I'm feeling sick. I drank too much....but I'm goin' to drink more. Yep. Got half more bottle to down. Down Down Down....I'm a drunk....that's what you all t
hink when you look at me...well you're right! I'm a drunk. Fuck you! Congratulations on being observant! I'm gonna finish this....finish my drink....the only thing that was there for me...and then I'm going to kill myself. Yeah. Having my own solo going away party here. You all...go wherever....YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME! No. Bye. From drunk named Stanley!! Bye Bye BYE....bye.

  The note was, well, disturbing to us all. I had to rewrite it here....as one could imagine, it was nearly illegible. Drunk ravings, scratchy writing. It was a glimpse into someone really really far gone. He mentioned in the note about telling his story, but he didn't. Now I still wonder what his story might have been. What drove him to be the way he became. To be seemingly heartless to people around him. People he never even tried to know.