Journal:Wormtrample
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Wormal Entries
Thursday 120th September - rrrrnnnghh
Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes.
Friday 114th September - If September had ended
If September had ended it would almost be Christmas by now. I'd be with my brothers Fly and Mud sinking a few jars at the Stollery arms instead of holed up in a derelict building jumping at every sound. Reader, I have had enough.
I've done everything I can to survive this wretched plague that has descended on Malton. I've grown strong and learnt skills I never thought I'd need, but no amount of scrambling up walls and blowing sections out of the skulls of dead people can convince me it's worth carrying on. I now have nothing left to live for...
So, it's time to clean up the streets once and for all. And not just the streets - I'm going to spit and shine the malls too. And the schools and the hospitals and the Necrotech buildings and the Revivification Clinics. It's time for it all to go. Everything.
Happy Christmas.
Wednesday 112th September - A Sound Thrashing
Dammit, I was just recovering from a nasty infection I'd carelessly picked up off a rather pretty zombie I'd encountered in a Pimbank repair shop when in stumbles Uborkapete, gnashing his teeth, and rolling his eyes. No, he's not one of them, he's something far worse. He's a bloody imbecile, whose cannon is as loose as loose may be. I can confirm this because he shot me 5 times and left me for nearly dead, which I was.
And am, though I've limped off to hide and lick my tasty old wounds.
Mmmm. Wounds.
Sunday 109th September - Feuding with Uborkapete, part 2
I saw him. I shot him. Just the once mind, but enough to make him think twice about coming to look for me.
Saturday 108th September - Feuding with Uborkapete
If I see him, so help me Dogs, I'll shoot him.
Sunday 61st September - Milk for Elizabeth Turner
I woke up in the Rippon Building with Elizabeth Turner. Feeling humbled I left quietly, having scribbled a note on the fridge: "Gone to fetch milk."
As a matter of fact, I'd gone to fetch some shotgun shells from the nearby mall, having finally succombed to the gun-owners urge to go shopping. I only found the one, though, and wasted no time in making bolognese from a zombie's shoulder with it. Had to finish the job with my axe.
On the way home I witnessed a gruesome siege at a Necrotech building in the Northernmost part of East Becktown. I would have intervened, but I knew I didn't have enough energy to survive such an encounter. Not only did I turn my back on those being ravaged within, I made sure that I made my new base a good few blocks clear of it, knowing that once the security on that building was compromised the neighbours would quickly fall.
Barricaded myself into a nearby factory for the night. Alone. Some morphine would be nice.
Saturday 60th September - Spared by the Elements
By the time I woke up this morning Elemental had moved on, which came as something of a relief, because it dawned on me that this was the self same Elemental I had heard talk of in the region of the Bale Mall in Yagoton. Apparently he belonged to one of these belligerent groups I was telling you about yesterday - a group whose twisted ideology resulted in survivor-on-survivor violence and some times murder. Yes, I'd cosied up with a known killer.
Still, he spared me, and I derived a small amount of pleasure from imparting Elemental's legend to my remaining companions, who to the best of my knowledge are cowering still in a shadowy corner of this death-riddled quarter. Poor babies.
I set out early for some shotgun practice and soon found a five-strong flock of reanimated corpses. Of the six shells remaining in my possession I scored a single hit, which satisfactory though it was, hardly compensates for all that scrabbling about looking for the damn things. I'm going to have to work on my accuracy before this damned shooting stick takes pride of place over my axe. I now know why the gun nuts of Malton spend so much time shopping.
I continued to move west in search of safer lodgings and have to admit that the fatigue came before I was really out of harms way. There are a lot of zombies here and very few survivors - a ratio which has never served me well in the past. Despite having hefted a cubicle divider against the door of the bank in which I now squat, I do not feel even remotely safe. I'll be moving on as soon as possible.
If I live.
Friday 59th September � Lost Causes, Meep & Toot
The same people were in the Buckrell Building this morning as yesterday, give or take. Since they have all refrained from speaking to me I have come to the conclusion they're some sort of group, the likes of which I've seen forming all over the city. They call themselves the Shuttlebank Liberation Army, or The People's Front of North Malton, or the 9th Day Confectionists, or some such, then go around organising people in a way that would seem extraordinarily noble if not for the fact that there's always another group calling themselves the Popular Republican Army of Shuttlebank, The Maltonian National Party, or the Orthodox Church of Gelatine and sooner or later there's a conflict of interests and they start killing each other.
I tend to move around the city alone and more often than not I'm treated with suspicion. But does this make me any more inclined to join one of their damned Lost Causes? I'm looking after myself, and killing the enemy where possible. I have never killed another survivor. Not on purpose, anyway. What I've done whilst one of them doesn't count. I was hungry.
Anyway, paying attention to where I could re-enter the string of barricaded buildings I'd chosen to make my home I set out on a speculative hunt for somewhere more hospitable. Oddly enough, I found myself on platform 2b of the Hayes Place Railway Station. The sign read "The next train at platform 2b will be the 08.36 to Mulock Drive, calling at Blunt Boulevard, and Bayley Row. On Time." It clearly wasn't, but I waited anyway in the forlorn hope that the trains were still running. On the platform opposite somebody else was waiting for the 07.45 to Snook Alley. Somebody dead.
Now, this would have been a perfect opportunity to try out my new shotgun. He's over there. I'm over here. Nothing between us but empty railway lines. But, reader, I only have 6 shells and I'm still a dreadful shot, so I'm favouring my axe until I can speak to somebody who knows their firearms. Fortunately, the zombie was unencumbered by the conditioning that says even when their have been no trains for three months you MUST NOT WALK ON THE LINES, and lurched towards me. If a train had thundered through the station then I'd have laughed and laughed. It would have been like a roadrunner cartoon, with me cast as the blessed blue bird. (meep meep).
Well, it didn't, and I had no choice but to hack him to pieces with my axe. I arranged his limbs in a long line of railways carriages, with his bewildered looking head as the engine. (toot, toot). At least there will be something waiting at platform 2b the next time some one wanders into Hayes Place Railway Station.
I moved on, almost choosing to stay the night in a heavily barricaded but completely empty building due west. Unfortunately, some one had sprayed "wrong building" on the wall, which was frankly too uncanny. So I moved on until I found some company. Yes, yes, I know what I said about other people, but I'm a fickle sort of chap. My new house mates are Elemental, Charl1e, and bomber22. They look like nice sorts.
Thursday 58th September � Constant Death and Revivification
It's been a while since I last updated my journal - truth be told, I am just emerging from an especially dark period in which I seemed to be trapped in an endless cycle of death and revivification. I still cannot be entirely sure that the cycle is over, suffice to say that at the time of writing, I live.
Things are changing in the city. I used to believe that we'd find some sort of happy equilibrium with the dead, even if we couldn't destroy them. But it seems that there is no certainty that the living will remain at the top of this particularly macabre food chain, and my recent experiences suggest that we are in free fall. Unless we learn to look after ourselves better, then we might as well abandon hope altogether.
I say we, but I am of course talking about myself. I need to spend some time in a quieter part of the city, if such a place exists. I'll let you know if I find it... For now I'm inside a well barricaded but otherwise fairly nondescript building next door to a Police Department along with H J Smith Jnr, gungadan, Marathoner, Dwane Hicks, Blackster, Psusan, and Ghost102. Unable to rest I decided to permit myself a brief foray into the badlands, where I killed two zombies. It gave me no pleasure at all, because I know I can't kill them as fast as they're killing us.
But it's not all doom and gloom. I've worked out how to fire my shotgun. I turns out that the small switch on its underside is called a trigger and if you pull it the gun fires! Unfortunately, you have to aim it as well, and in my first attempt to shoot a zombie I lost part of my ear. I think I'll carry on using my axe for the time being.
Friday 51st September � Guns That Fire Shot
Despite my best efforts, I'm never going to become a shopaholic. I spent most of the last day inside a gun shop in the Bale Mall looking for something with which I could take shots at Zombies. I found shooting gloves, decoys, whistles, hats - everything but a bloody gun, and eventually I gave up.
It's busy in the mall - if the people didn't look so ragged you'd think it was a normal day, with patient husbands trawling along behind their wives as they try on countless pairs of shoes. I don't suppose anybody was really looking for shoes though, and the best shops have long since been looted silly. So I left.
Somewhat predictably I found UR in the pub. I hadn't tried this one before, but it seemed to be happy hour when I arrived because everyone was drinking cocktails. UR had evidently found the pub's supply of cleaning products. Before making myself at home I nipped over to the local Police Station and found a gun first time! It's a fine looking thing that in all honesty I find more than a little intimidating. I felt as though it might explode in my hands if I touched it the wrong way. Doubtless it'll be some time before I have the courage to use it, but at least I now know that when the time comes I'll be properly armed.
...unlike the zombie I met on way home (Chop! Chop!).
Thursday 50th September � Checking Out of The Clinic
Waking up in or around the Yagoton Revivification Clinic is becoming something of a habit I'll have to crush. Quite apart from anything else, it's a cold and inhospitable building, rank with the smell of death. With every return the place seems busier, with the bodies of just revivified survivors piled left and right, and doctors hurrying in and out to treat the zombie throng.
Survivors hardly seems to be the word. Can a man who has died as many times as I be called a survivor? Perhaps I'm more akin to a revivor, or a polyvivor. But one thing is certain - with each revivification I am a little bit less the man I used to be - I have seen too much of the wrong side of death.
But such speculation is hardly fitting - my return to hospital was brief and pleasant, the morphine in plentiful supply. Actually, I don't think it was just morphine - it was cut with something rather exciting that had me up and about in no time, without my usual inclination to lounge around in bed for days. Whatever it was, I helped myself to a couple of packages before heading to the nearest shopping mall.
How can anyone feeling this fine risk another death? Trust me, those among you who have not tried it - death is a deeply unpleasant experience. It hurts. It makes you irritable and gloomy. And you smell - usually even after the revivification, the smell of decay lingers. Oh, and if you happen to have eaten one of your kin, there's a curious after-taste that doesn't bear mentioning. I now know when I have devoured human flesh and when I have not.
Reader, I have.
Anyway, I do not feel inclined to go back for another helping, and to this end I am looking for a gun. I don't really know how to use guns, but I've noticed that those survivors who have them tend to live longer. Coincidence? I very much doubt it.
thrghuuuuu mrh (49th)
Took a headshot one block north of a reputable Revivification Clinic with which I have been nurturing a long term Health Plan. That hardly seems sporting, now does it? Naturally, I was furious on my arrival.
Dead bodies are strewn across the floor so that one has to climb over them to find a spot to wait. There are around twelve other filthy citizens awaiting attention, and a small number also waiting outside (presumably smokers). I banged my festering fists on the font in the hope of some service, but no pretty nurse appeared in order to insist that I calm down. That's all it would take, you know. A pretty nurse. A pretty nurse with a delicious brain like a good stilton.
rrrrGHrrrr (47th)
This grows tiresome, but I must say, having died so many times before I've never felt quite so...articulate. Articulate, and somehow less week. The walking remains painfully slow (and painful) but when feeding on brains I feel that bit more agile. It must be this athlete's blood I'm so elegantly sporting. Sadly, there were very few brains around to eat and I wandered all the way up into Lamport Hills before finding someone to bite a chunk out of.
It was the tastiest thing I've tasted in weeks (tastier, even, than beermat soup) but the fatigue had taken me before I could finish dining. No doubt I'll be dead again before tomorrow.
All my brothers are dead too. I can feel it.
Sunday 46th September � Last Orders at The Crown & Cadaver
You can't keep me away from a good pub. I have ventured to one of my old haunts where I know one can be assured of a fine guest ale - or at least, that used to be the case. The pipes have long since run dry and the only water to drink had been standing in the dishwasher for weeks.
The day started out well when I abandoned the Factory that had been my home for the last few days. UR was nowhere to be seen when I left, but we had been discussing relocating to a pub, so I'm hoping he'll be able to find me - all the more so, given my predicament. I don't know about others in the city, but I have discovered a new, frightening dimension to the creeping fatigue, which is a kind of blindness. Now, when I'm exhausted from a day's activity I descend into an all-consuming darkness. This is tolerable when one is somewhere relatively safe, but not when one has arrived alone at a new destination to discover that there is a bloody zombie in there with you.
So, that is my predicament. I'm here at the pub, alone with a zombie. At the moment he's nursing an empty pint glass in the lounge, and I'm hoping he won't notice me if I lurk behind the bar in the family room. If he does decide to attack, I'm done for.
I'm starting to fancy the idea of a gun.
Saturday 45th September � The Apocolympics
I was right - UR did join us yesterday. What's more, he seems much changed since I last met him. On that occasion he was coming up with some grand plan that involved little more than going shopping!. Now he's all for playing dirty tricks on the zombies next door, barricading them in, then organising some sort of bloodthirsty assault when they were least expecting it. Now that's the spirit.
I'm back in fine health, which is suspicious in itself - it seems as though my immune system is in a state of superflux. But in many respects, despite being on death's door yesterday, I'm now fitter than ever. I don't know whose blood stream I purloined from that Dogforsaken hospital, but I feel as though it may have belonged to an athlete. Nay, a tri-athlete!
There are three events in the Apocolympic Triathlon, naturally enough. Don't snigger - the world has been turned on its head. Why not a two event decathlon, or a 400 event pentathlon? This isn't funny. There are three events, and they are as follows.
The Long Jump
Leapt into the hospital from the third story of the building next door. Landed on the ledge of the Radiology department. Spectacular in distance, but ungraceful in finish, I found myself scrambling not to lose my footing before I was safely inside.
The Shot Put
I then proceeded to look for a first-aid kit. Yes, I know I said that I'm in fine fettle, but those zombies can pass on nasty infections, as I've already found on more than one occasion. Thus it behoves one to travel properly prepared. Anyway, I've discovered something of a taste for the morphine BlueRooster administered to me yesterday. He did give me around 5 hits of the bloody stuff. Now I won't suffer your disdain, madam. These are troubling times, and one deserves the odd small pleasure. Morphine just happens to be my tipple of choice. Put a shot of that in your cardiovascular pipe and pump it!
The Javelin
Okay, the axe. And before I could get to the axe event I needed to execute a high jump, so perhaps there are four events after all. I checked out UR's naughty little trap and found that my efforts to barricade the zombies had been undone and the doors were now wide open - in fact I might as well have used the front door. Fortunately, zombies are essentially very very stupid, and they had stayed there anywhere. Hackety hackety hack, then it's back out the window for me.
You know what? I feel a little bit like going shopping. Just a little bit, mind you. Think of all the morphine to be had at your local pharmacist.
Friday 44th September � A Brand New Blood Stream
Fell asleep in a comfortable, barricaded motel in Ketchelbank. Woke up on the cold stone floor of a church in Yagoton. The flagstones were exerting an icy pull on my bones so there I remained for about a day (give or take). It appears to be some sort of clinic - at least, that is what the writing on the wall says. "Welcome to the Yagoton Revivification Clinic" - It's the spookiest damn clinic I ever saw.
When I finally got up I realised that I was infected, and that if I didn't get help quickly, I'd be back among the dead before I'd finished making breakfast. As nonchalantly as my free-flowing wounds allowed I sloped over to the first hospital I could find, the pain of death nipping my heals at every step. I'm becoming quite an expert on the hospitals of Malton - before all this I'd only ever been to one of the city's hospitals, and that was to have a piece of Lego removed from my nose.
Once I found a hospital I thought that's it, I'm home and dry. Like hell. This wasn't like the other hospitals I'd visited, where you're always assured of whole tribes of survivors, happily trading remedies. The occupants of the hospital were a survivor (I didn't catch his name) and the zombie devouring him. Imagine the three way stand off - I'm bleeding to death in the casualty waiting area, and there in front of me is a zombie gnawing the bones of the only other survivor present.
They both look at me.
I've got a number of choices, but every one of them is sure to cost me both health and strength as this obnoxious virus makes itself at home in my bloodstream. Attacking the zombie would give me enormous pleasure, but I can't help feeling that it would also cost me my life. That's not a terrible amount for something to cost these days, you understand - I've died about 7 times in the last two weeks, but still, I feel inclined to hold onto it if I can... So, I leave them to their business and go looking for first aid.
One DIY blood transfusion later and I'm back - but let's not fool anybody here, I'm still in a bit of a state. I hack at the zombie in a non-committal way before realising that I'd really be better off having a lie down somewhere. So, I make a woozy apology and it's out the window I go.
So, I barricaded my new found home and introduced myself to my new room-mates, Moran and NeilM. Having established that I was no longer infected they seemed little interested in my ragged state. I use the last of my strength to reinforce the barricades, but after the motel incident they no longer inspire much confidence. A little later a guy by the name of BlueRooster passes through and shoots me full of enough morphine to sail into tomorrow without a worry in the world. Thank you BlueRooster.
Maybe it's my incoherent state after all that delicious medication, but it looks to me like UR just arrived through the window.
Hello.
Eeuh
Rose early and went to church.
Wurghhhhaaaaag fk
Shit. Apparently the vending machine I hefted against the door last night vends zombies. I wake up with 6 of them round my bed.
There are now 7 zombies in the motel.
Here we go again.
rrruurrrrrr
Tuesday 41st September � Medication Time
I wanted to go to the zoo today and taunt the animals, but as I left the motel I stumbled across 3 zombies right on my doorstep. The adjacent building happens to belong to Necrotech, so I suppose they may have been seeking revivification (I've heard it happens, despite the hunger). I have a small stash of syringes for that very purpose that I found a while back, so I whipped one of them out and approached cautiously. The first zombie was a great lumbering beast of a creature - a good foot taller than me (and I'm no short arse). Had he been inclined to fight he probably could have swiped my head clean off. Instead he looked at me with his horrible empty eyes and tilted his head back like a cat. I raised the syringe slowly, with one eye on the other two zombies who were cowering behind my would-be patient.
Eye contact with zombies is truly awful. You know they're dead, but their eyes stare right into you as if pleading for something - probably your brain. "I bet my brain smells good!" I started to say, but was immediately embarrassed by my own voice. Don't start talking to zombies. Don't go there. I leaned in with the syringe, tentatively, trying not to gag on the smell of the rotting giant in front of me. "This won't hurt a bit" I heard myself whisper, and brought down my axe down on his exposed jugular with all my new-found strength. I'll be damned if I know how to use a Necrotech syringe!
Reader, his head did not quite fall off. It just flapped there while the zombie staggered around, as bewildered as you'd expect. It was one of the funniest damn things I've seen in weeks. I took a few more swipes before I felt the creeping fatigue and leapt back into the Motel through an open ground floor window. Realising that the now furious zombies were essentially my next door neighbours I set about barricading the door, first with a bookshelf (too flimsy), then with a broken desk (yeah, not bad, but I want to sleep tonight) and finally with a drinks machine. That ought to keep the buggers out.
Monday 40th September � We're Going to The Zoo
I was pleased to discover that Shrecky had gone when I awoke this morning because during the night I had resolved to kill him. Survivors turning on survivors is the last thing we need, and I don't want to be the one to start it. Nevertheless, I hope our paths do not cross again.
I believe I promised to keep a record of the people I meet, but I'm afraid it will be anything but exhaustive - people came and went throughout the night from St Wulfstan's Hospital. Feeling fully revived, I left early in the morning, and was glad to be on my own again. With access to running water extremely limited the people of this city smell almost as bad as the zombies now. I've come across one or two people who smell worse - at least the dead don't sweat.
I headed south, and I'd obviously decided I needed a treat after the unpleasant events of the past week, because my path took me to the City Zoo in Ketchelbank. Funnily enough, an odorous specimen was guarding the kiosk to this morbid menagerie. Having paid in full with my axe I helped myself to a Welcome to Malton City Zoo badge. I knew right away that I was going to like this place. I also knew that it wasn't a good idea to stop there for the night, so after a casual stroll around the cages and a quick swim in the penguin enclosure I went in search of safe place to sleep. The zoo remains appealing to survivors and the dead alike, with swarms of festering freaks lurching awkwardly from cage to cage like a school trip, and most of the buildings I tried to enter extremely heavily barricaded.
I'm pleased to report that I eventually found a motel in which to rest - I even found a bed that was still made. No signal on the TV or running water, but it's more comfortable than a hospital bed. It doesn't look like anybody died in it.
The only other person in the Motel is a civilian named Tom Hogan, and I must say he seems to be coping very well on his own here - I think he's stockpiled rations from all the mini-bars and built himself a home from home in the best room.
I feel much stronger now - it's as though I have been more than revivified. I'm stronger than I have ever been in my life, and my mind is clearer. I now own two zombie fingers, which I stood on top of the television like a bony aerial. I still can't get a picture.
Sunday 39th September - Digital Keepsake
As advised by the kindly Martin Fowler I have taken refuge in the first hospital I found. It's as busy as you'd expect a hospital in a city under siege to be, and every bit as messy. Despite my discomfort around other survivors, I will make a point of recording those I meet. I have a feeling that this written testimony may also be useful in helping to find out just who, exactly, lived through this Hell. For now they are survivors, but who knows how long any of us will last? Also on my ward are:
Kaennikala, Toshiaki, Root Slim, Vell, Gabriel Firefly, Dr Coyote, David Meier, Ailill, Jet Purple, Xenorage, Duke Ellie, Simcon, wsGrumnira, Purple Pie Pete, Loco Dantes, Irkin, Flash Blake, Maugy, Abyss Angel, billington2005, Fonzi, Mortar, Nicholi Everlive, CRG3, KingRaptor, S0S, and Jakob Bauer. Mr. Bauer was kind enough to administer some first aid, for which I am very grateful. You see, I really am born again...
Also here is a man named Shrecky. The name is disturbingly familiar, although I cannot say why. He is a zombie hunter, trained in delivering lethal shots to the head. I feel as though we have met somewhere before, and frankly, the feeling frightens me. I shall be keeping my distance from him, and will move on just as soon as I am well enough.
To this end I have selected one of the least filthy beds in the former orthopaedic ward. I have wired up a drip, which feeds some syrupy substance into my arm, and have been smoking pleasant compounds of the fantastically named pharmaceuticals to be enjoyed from the store cupboards. I don't know what any of them do, but they have fantastic names like Agenerase, Lexiva, Merimpodib, Prainascan and my personal favourite, VX-950. I fail to see how such mystical agents can do me any harm... and it passes the time.
One small confession before my I lay down my journal and sink into a heavy heavy slumber - despite the urgent need for rest, I did kill a zombie on the way here. I know, I know - it was dangerous, and foolhardy, and all the things I have resolved not to be since my last revivification. But Christ did it feel goooood.. I kept one of his fingers as a souvenir.
Saturday 38th September - With Thanks to Martin Fowler
With what felt like the worst hangover of my life I awoke out on the large paved plaza of what turned out to be the Dampier Museum in Brooke Hills. A scientist by the name of Martin Fowler had left his business card, claiming that it was he who had revivified me. He also recommended that I continue playing dead for a little while then retreat sharpish to the nearest hospital. That is precisely what I am doing.
The last coherent entry in my journal was written last Tuesday, after which there is much illegible scribbling. Is it possible that I wrote whilst living as one of them? Re-reading what I had written before my second spell among the dead I now realise that I never fully recovered from that first sorry interlude. With disgust I spat the pulsing globule of grey matter out of my mouth when I reread my strangely lucid testimony. I had been revived only to wander around comforting myself by sucking a shred of brain! The evidence suggests that I killed again whilst lurching first south, and then north. What is more, I myself fell and rose several times, only to rise again - once following a rather nasty shot to the head. Remarkably, I seem much improved, although it would take a single swipe from a passing grotesque to fell me once again.
Just as soon as I am able, I will seek out UR again - it seems that he was talking sense to me, even when I was at my most deranged. What is more, mad though I was, I still recall the pleasant taste of his special beermat soup. Somehow I feel that this is what I need to find my better self.
But first, I must find a hospital willing to treat one as wretched as I.
gg Grnurgh...
Yurgh. Nk. ....mruh... no more bad zombie poetry. No.
No more hithersouth wandering.
Back to North, away from crowds. Alone, out of madness. Nyurgh.
...ak...
For my troubles, a shot in the head. My head explodes like a pork pie (one with especially crunchy short crust pastry). Bits of my brain fleck pavement. It doesn't look as tasty as my assailant's. His brain looks delicious, and his name is Shrecky.
If anyone sees him, please eat his brain.
For now, I think I'll just lie down for a bit here on a cold street in Brooke Hills, on the steps of the Sheldon Lane Police Department. Tomorrow I continue North, and will no doubt die again. Being dead is rubbish.
Rurrr.
Uuarghhhh ak
Furgghhhh...fff...Flares firing all night long...Long nightling fare and wrong...wrng...wrng...wrung out here in the cold under pretty
bursts of distressss. Grnah.
People stumble over me like so many kebabs skewered on spinal cords, their brains glistening in my gut's eye.... eye... I lie underfoot, hungering.
Stood. Killed.
Stood. Killed.
Stood. Killed & stayed down on the ground in dirt and piss. Hate and hunger luring my lustful lobes. Survivors stumble over me towards the hospitals of... of... where?
I stand and walk - south now. South towards the swarms. Other groans greet me. Other groans - meat. Meat moans of my brothers. My brothers... My broth - my sweet simmering siblings, hydrolysed protein, propells me hither south. Hithersouth.
Hithersouth to the sounds of sorrow.
Southerly hither to take stock, taking stock... mruh... taking stock of cubed living brain that lives in their glass skulls like coils of grey porkloin, south now I join the hoards and together we groan the same song of the undead.
Sing me the sweet song of the gormless dead: ...brains...brains...brains...brains... b .. r .. a .. i .. n .. ssssssuh
Mrurghhh
Infected... pathogenic micro-organisms invade... micro-organisms build cycle paths through my... My crowbar generates orgiastic mildew... Do you really wanna generate my crown... round and round the garden... Gragh... then... then... my crow organises an invasion... I invade the garden path! I invade the garden path!
Mrurghhh.
Don't... want... to... be...
Grurk.
Hospitals. Horse spit! Randallbank. Round all... round 'em all... round em all up at Gillet Place Police Department. mmmmmMartin General Hospital...Hospice...horse piss... St. Columbanus's Hospital... Simeon General Hospital... thronged with brainsmell I love. Hurghhhhhhhh...
Help me.
Tuesday 34.5th September - Further Expeditions With Soup
Fortified by another helping of UR's special beermat soup I set out for a midday stroll round the neighbourhood. It is rare that I find this extra bit of strength, and I wasn't going to waste it. Naturally, the urge to take a few more swipes at the local dead was also to blame. That and the fact that UR, who had initially claimed he wouldn't be going out today, nipped out just before me and bagged himself the head of an especially stinky corpse. There's a little professional jealousy here. I wasn't going to return to the pub without my own tainted trophy and thereby be outshone by somebody who, by their own admission, would rather go on a shopping than a killing spree!
Yet again, I let the barricades catch me out - returning to the pub invigorated, but without my trophy, I started to scramble the outside face of barricade. I had forgotten that the building could only be entered via one of the adjacent buildings. And so there I remained, and here I sit. I can see a zombie stumbling in the distance, and I hardly have the strength to move. Pray that I make it home safely...
Tuesday 34th September - How to Make Soup in an Otherwise Empty Public House
Feeling revived by the WD40 (a penetrating oil with lubricating qualities created by Norm Larsen of the Rocket Chemical Company) I mustered the energy to reach the pub before morning. There I met Uborkapete Returns again, who I shall henceforward refer to as UR, for reasons that should be obvious. We chatted a little, to which I have grown unaccustomed, and it transpired that it was he who had treated me back at that hideously crowded Police Station. It seems that I'm indebted to more than one member of his family, having been revived by the equally incongruously named Son of Uborkapete, now rumoured to be working alongside my brother Flytrample somewhere North and West of here.
I told him that I was a waste of medication and that he should save it for himself, but he seemed nonplussed by my ambivalence. He then showed me how to make a surprisingly appetising soup from old beer mats, seasoned with bar snacks (in this case, stale Scampi Fries and Dry Roast Peanuts. Regrettably, the Pork Scratchings have longs since been absconded). In return I offered him a shot of anti-corrosive from my hip-flask, but he declined. All the more for me!
In the morning I proposed a killing spree, but UR was in favour of stockpiling ammunition ahead of such foolhardiness. Ammunition! The axe has been serving mankind quite well enough since before we could string together grunts. Sure, it means you have to get so close to the dead that you can smell their rotten gums, but how can taking coy little shots at the poor damned imbeciles ever come close to the pleasure to be found in swiping, hacking and ultimately laying out your would-be assailants in neat little rows of dismembered body parts? How?
UR says it's not about the pleasure. Apparently it's about staying alive! And this from somebody who, like me, has been over to the other side. I quizzed him about this but I sensed he was reluctant to talk about it. I wonder if UR killed anybody. Perhaps not. Perhaps that is the difference between us.
Anyway, I headed out on my killing spree alone, hacking out neat little parcels from a lone zombie just north of the abominable Gillett Place Police Department. Sadly it was still able to walk when I felt the fatigue come over me (although it won't be playing the flute again. Ha-ha!) and I made my way back to the pub. I was pleased to find that UR was still there. It was good soup.
Monday 33rd September - A Wedding Buffet for The Damned
There were almost 100 people bunking down in the Police Station last night, but their companionship afforded me no comfort whatsoever. One guy, calling himself Dick Head, aptly enough, just wouldn't stop whining about how sick he was, so I wasted a first-aid kit on him just to get some peace. It's funny how satisfied other people seem after treating the sick - as for myself, all I can think is how I've now got no treatment for myself should I ever become infected.
Not that I bothered with it last time. Dick Head can have my medicine. Just leave me alone.
I decided I would have to take matters into my own hands and set out early this morning to find new, quieter lodgings - perhaps in another pub, where even if the beer has run out one can find solace in the familiar smells of the damp furnishings. As previously reported, the buildings round here seem to be very heavily barricaded, which when you hit the streets due north is understandable. Boy, would those zombies have a feast if they ever got into the Gillett Place Police Department. It'd be like a wedding buffet for the damned.
After a few swipes at zombies due north I ended up heading back into Roachtown. There's a pub round here that I always meant to check out, before all this started. Flytrample was on their quiz team, if I remember rightly. I don't suppose they hold quiz nights now. That'll be why there are so many unanswered questions.
Anyway, I was just too damn tired to get all the way there and ended up constructing a makeshift bed from used tyres in an Auto Repair centre. It's still within easy stumbling distance of the pub should the supplies of WD40 run out. You know, that stuff is not bad.
Sunday 32nd September - Graduating from the University of Randallbank
Finished up in an incredibly crowded Police Station. So crowded, in fact, I met some family of the man who revived me. Turns out he also spent some time as a zombie, so we've got some talking to do.
The other good thing about crowds are the things you learn - it's like a little college in here, and I've just acquired an NVQ in barricade building. All I need now is a hard hat.
My wounds from yesterday's attack are still bleeding freely. I have a first-aid kit, but for some reason I haven't felt inclined to use it. I guess I just like the smell. Anyway, some quack'll come along sooner or later and patch me up for the sense of wellbeing it gives them like my smug little brother Flytrample with his holy clinic of revivification. Like the best thing for these creatures isn't hacking them to pieces!
Saturday 31st September - Bitten Again
Usually I try to make a single outing every day while I still have the energy, then return somewhere to recuperate. Yesterday, however, I proceeded in fits and starts, not really feeling safe anywhere. I spent the night in the Passley Building in Huntley Heights before continuing south towards Randallbank in the morning.
Despite having become adept at crossing the city using only the buildings I decided to take to the streets - some times I wonder if I haven't become addicted to fear. If I haven't sunk my fire axe into some body by night fall I feel that the day was wasted. Thus it was that I proceeded to Randallbank. However, I had not anticipated how strongly barricaded the buildings there would be, and when the fatigue came I was left out on the streets.
Closed door after closed door I tried to open, but to no avail, and finally I realised I would have no choice but to rest a while in the streets before heading west a little into Roachtown. The inevitable happened - I was sitting on the steps of a monument rereading my journal when my nostrils were suddenly filled with the stench of decay. Looking up a saw a crowd of ambling pighumans heading in my direction. Before I'd even lifted my axe, which for once felt impossibly heavy, they were upon me. One never quite gets used to being bitten, but I am less concerned for my dignity. Feeling their teeth scrape against my bone was akin to a homecoming and I allowed them to swarm over my body. But then, as suddenly as they arrived, they moved on - who can say why? Having spent a little while as one of them, I am no more able to explain their motives. I do not doubt that my brain tastes as goodly as that of any other hapless fire-fighter. Nevertheless, I was spared the disgrace of neural damage.
I lay prone for a while, sucking the grey ribbon which seemed more comforting than ever, before stumbling west in search of a place to hide. I do not want to be one of them. I do not want it. Let them all go to Hell!
Friday 30th September - Plenty of Brain. No Sense
Survived another night thanks to the kindness of others who dosed me heavily from their own supplies of medication. In the past I have been very selfish, thinking only of hoarding medication for myself. It seems there are survivors out there who are not only thinking of themselves - I find this truly remarkable. In a way I'm proud of my brother Flytrample who is helping Son of Uborkapete establish a revivification clinic. Progress is slow due to the necessities of survival, but I'm sure they'll get there.
As for myself, I still have some... issues... to come to terms with. Last night whilst idly picking my teeth I extracted a string of greyish mucous. It did not resemble anything I remember eating, but had a pleasant taste, not unlike sage and onion stuffing. The texture was somewhere between clay and jelly, and I found that if I wound the string around my tongue and sucked, it was surprisingly comforting. It's still in my mouth now - I don't want to swallow it, as it is more akin to an old friend.
I'm now heading back into the zone in which I first succumbed to the flesheating hoards. This may strike you as stupid, but I feel I have unfinished business. This area has been completely overrun - many are the doors that swing open on buildings that in days gone by housed survivors. I know this because some of them I used myself. I found that it was safer to move from building to building without using the streets where possible, even though many of them now house zombies. I took passing swings at them with my axe, but it did not afford me the same satisfaction that it used to. Lopping off one poor creature's forearm I caught myself choking back a tear. Even if he's revived it won't grow back. I lopped off the other just for safe measure.
The fatigue I've written about before overwhelmed me just as I arrived at the pub. There were several survivors enjoying a lock-in, but as the only barricaded building for blocks, it's a rather conspicuous hiding place. I can't help feeling that any survivors who are still here by choice are not the best of cohorts. Even though the beer has long since run out, the inhabitants of this public house were imbibing pints of the murky water that now runs through the pipes that once carried wholesome ale. Heartily did they clink together tankards of this vile soup, and it was for all the world like an ordinary night down at your local. Except that it was 8 o'clock in the morning, and the dead are walking the streets.
Reader, I joined them.
Thursday 29th September - The Sweet Sweet Smell of Brains
Large parts of what has happened to me since I last wrote are simply not there. I mean I simply don't recall more than a deeply unpleasant dream in which I was one of them. I recall being savaged during the night, which was followed by a period that felt like the wrong kind of drunkenness - the stumbling inarticulate kind where you can not account for your actions. I know I shouldn't write this, but I'm determined to be as honest as possible in my testimonial.
I think I killed someone.
It must have happened in Raines Hills, or perhaps Millen Hills, because I eventually wound up in Southern Lamport Hills, miles from where I'd been slaughtered. I know it sounds ridiculous on the page - but that is what happened. I died - and now I live. But not like those things - not like those abominable creatures. Not now, anyway - but the fact remains that I spent a while as one of them, and I did not like it one bit.
I recall walking the streets with my filthy brethren - just as aimlessly, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. I recall the blackest of urges when encountering other survivors - an urge to bite and rend their flesh. A desire to consume. The sweet sweet smell of their brains. The suspicion that I may have tasted this delicacy has caused me to vomit almost continuously since my revivification.
I stumbled north for no better reason than because that's the way I'd already started out, but then something incredible happened. I met Flytrample! He'd been based in a warehouse in Lampart Hills for a few days, and from what he tells me it was almost certainly Son of Uborkapete who revived me. I'd heard of Uborkapete before - I never knew he had a son. I am now indebted to him. We couldn't stay together long, fearing the dangers that had caused us to be separated in the first place, but we lingered long enough for him to provide medication. Whilst I slept he read my journal, and then he told me he was heading west to join Son of Uborkapete on some foolhardy expedition. He claims they were planning to open some sort of clinic, but that it was getting particularly nasty round there.
Didn't I know it.
He told me to lie low for a few days, which I am now doing, but not in the warehouse. I need to find somewhere quiet.
Grnghhhhugh
The night... the noises... flares fired in the distant dark... scratching, scratching. Something shatters the peace of The Gaskell Building. Screams, running feet, groans...
Something spills. I look down and see parts of me... vital life flowing out... a tide retreating...
I gather myself... an eye here... a tooth there...
Being bitten is so undignified.
I huddle, holding on. My forehead against my knees. It's so undignified, I rage. The fatigue should be gone by now but it's growing, surging. The fatigue is all I have, drawing me down into some vile pit within my soul. My soul that leaks from a thousand holes like the air from the wheel of a bicycle.
The fatigue consumes me, and so too do the dead.
In the morning, I rise.
Tuesday 27th September - Inside St Spyridon's
When I set out in search of first-aid kits this morning I wasn't expecting to have to use one so soon. A couple of blocks south of my new base there is a hospital, and my mission was to get in and out quickly with the essential supplies. The doors of the hospital were wide open, although there were several people inside. I didn't stop to ask them why.
Ward after ward of empty beds and the vilest of stenches - this was no place of healing. I was a little worried about getting lost in so complex a building, but determination drove me forward. I'd scaled several floors of the building before I found a supply cupboard - the other occupants of the building were all huddled on the ground floor, as though waiting for attention. These days when you report to casualty you have to treat yourself. There in the cupboard was surely what they all needed - box after box of essential medication. I would have made off with a real stash if I hadn't been caught off guard by three rampaging cadavers. I managed to grab just one box before retreating, hacking off chunks of repulsive flesh as I went. It would have been quite a coup if I'd escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, I did not.
As I neared the top of the stairwell one of my pursuers sank his teeth into my upper arm, tearing a gaping hole through jacket and flesh. I sprinted like I'd never done before, and fearing an infectious bite I must admit the rest of the morning was spent in a kind of delirium. I swung round my unfamiliar new haunt swiping right left and centre and the diminutive but persistent hoards thereabouts. When the fatigue came over me I clambered furiously back into my base and used up my newfound supplies.
Every day it's the same - I head out early in the morning thinking perhaps this day will be different, but I'm always overwhelmed with a terrible fatigue well before noon. Others have reported a similar experience. One minute they're hunting specimens, building barricades or sprinting between buildings, the next minute they can barely summon the energy to stand.
As a consequence I must plan my days accordingly. No matter how strong I feel when I set out, I must remember never to stray too far from a safe house. I had a friend called Finkleter who was almost home when the fatigue prevented him from scaling the barricades into his hideout. By nightfall his brain had been devoured by scavenging zombies. Nowadays I don't bother with friends.
This is the first time I've been bitten. It's horribly undignified. On a more positive note, I have now discovered that it is possible to move from building to building without risking the exposure of the streets. Hopefully I'll be less careless in future.
Monday 26th September - The Silence of The Streets
The sound of flares being fired throughout the night prevented me from but a moment's sleep, but that wasn't the worst of the sounds. It was the scratching at the doors. Apparently a small swarm attacked the building during the night but they failed to enter and they were gone when I left this morning. Still, it seems like a good time to be leaving. I shall not miss the Sellar Building.
The air was surprisingly crisp and clear when I set out to the East in search of a new base. I could almost say it was pleasant after an agitated night full of loathsome noises. The distress and the hunger shrieking and scraping out of the dark, and now this - an impossible stillness without a corpse in site. Of course, even without the reanimated monsters you couldn't describe it as a normal day in this Godforsaken city. There are signs of destruction everywhere, and one can never afford to be off ones guard.
With this unexpected silence I found myself wondering if I hadn't been too hasty, but I only had to remind myself of the noises in the night to realise that staying put was no longer an option. By the time I reached Santlerville any sense of calm was dissipated by the small throngs of evil creatures I encountered there. It afforded me some exilhirating opportunities to swing my axe, and with the brisk air I could almost say I enjoyed it, but nothing can compare to the feeling of despair that encroaches when you try to enter building after building only to discover they have been too heavily barricaded from within. You can't blame the people sheltering inside - I'd do the same in their position, but when the options for a safe hiding place are steadily dwindling and that awful fatigue that seems to come over me every day starts to make itself known you no longer feel much in the way of empathy. Damn every man or woman who leaves me locked in the street with a festering flock on my heals.
By the time I reached my new hideaway I was utterly exhausted. I didn't even have a breath left with which to speak. Despite the light flooding in through the burnt out roof I fell quickly into a long untroubled sleep.
Sunday 25th September - The Bites Get Worse
I've been using the same base for a few days now, but rumour has it that this part of town is getting more dangerous to hang out in. I don't know whether I should keep coming back to the same place every night, or strike out to the East and see if I can't found more cause for hope over on that side of the city.
Like I said yesterday, nobody has much to say here, but there is something reassuring about seeing the same faces every day, even though those faces are pale and frightened. There's another firefighter here calling himself whiteflag, and although we have never spoken I can tell he's going through the same difficulties as me coming to terms with our situation. I think perhaps I should try and get my hands on a gun. I suppose a search round some Police Stations might turn up something.
People are also talking about the spread of infectious bites. There was a time when you could withstand the odd nip from a feckless ambling corpse, but now they're saying just one bite and the evil will set in, creeping into your blood, driving you to the other side. So I'm also thinking of geting my hands on a first aid kit. Lots of people carry them these days. It's just good sense.
No word from my brothers, but I think Mudtrample must be near the Southern borders by now, perhaps even as far as Foulkes Village. I was told that the buildings are heavily barricaded round there. I hope he can find a place to stay the night.
24/09/2005
An uneventful day, for which I should be grateful. Sure, I ambled into Shearbank this morning and took swipes at passing zombies - sometimes small hordes of them - but absurdly, this is what passes for an ordinary day for me now. As a firefighter I've always been able to handle an axe, but never as a weapon. At first I was clumsy with it, striking and missing, more in panic than anything else. But I don't know how to explain this - the zombies don't scare me as much as they used to. Where I used to see abominations against nature that turned my stomach, I now see nothing more than idiot pack animals. Particularly smelly pack animals, admittedly, but pack animals none-the-less.
To be honest, I think that's the only reason I'm getting better with my axe. I no longer feel like I'm taking swipes at people. Mudtrample always told me I was stupid to hate them, but how can you not hate something that wants to eat your brain? I hated it when he called me stupid as well, but I wish he were here calling me stupid now. I heard that where he's gone the zombie swarms are bigger. Now I might be less scared of them now than I was, but I'm not saying I'd want to go swinging into them armed only with my humble axe. Mudtrample, on the other hand, goes running in armed only with a DNA extractor. And he calls me stupid.
No word from Flytrample. I think I'll hang out here for another few days. It seems safe, but how long can it stay like that? The people are quiet - we don't really talk. I guess people aren't in the mood for conversation. Still, it would be good one night just to cut loose with a bottle of rum. I haven't heard music for weeks. Remember music?
23/09/2005
Keeping this journal looks as though it may not be as straightforward as I had hoped. To start with I have very little paper, and pens are hard to come by. Add to that the poor light and my general fatigue and you'll understand that it takes a special kind of determination to record my experiences. But record them I shall, because if the human race survives we will need the testimonials of witnesses in order to understand what happened. The same is true throughout history.
I belong to the Trample family, but we were recently separated. I don't fully understand why, but it seems that the Greater Organising Dog objects to the fact that we share an ISP. I do not know what an ISP is, but I suspect it's something genetic. Something which could jeopardise us all. Whatever the truth, I'm sure my brother Mudtrample would understand. He's a scientist, and tends to understand things much better than Flytrample and I, humble firefighters that we are.
Flytrample headed north, and I know little about his progress. All I know is that it's very dangerous where he went. It's dangerous everywhere, but at least here in Huntley Heights the environ is familiar. I suspect he'll put down roots up there if he finds a safe place. He's braver than me, but not as strong. Mudtrample,on the other hand, is a natural wanderer. He is seeking the one they call Uborkapete somewhere in the South of the city. Like I said, he's clever, but I worry about him. I know it's unusual in a scientist, but I think he's "got religion." God knows where it'll lead.
I don't think I'll ever see my brothers again.
