When We Were Overrun

I can't tell you how it happened. When you've been running for your life, non-stop, for 30 hours, sleep has a way of conquering your will and forcing you into one of those coma-sleeps; the ones that, while you're dreaming, feel like forever but, when you wake up, feel like a flickering moment. So I was out cold on the floor, my gear and backpack my a pillow instead of the concrete and rubble scattered around me. It must've taken Dominic a while to actually rouse me; I only caught the last part of his plea to wake up. Still, it was enough. 

"...comi-...-verrun us!"

By the time the bangs, moans, and the unmistakable presence of The Horde filtered through my grogginess, I was on my feet and slinging my backpack onto my shoulders. 

I knew it had been a mistake to hole-up in a shack like this: rickety walls, small windows, and a single door allowing egress into and out of our small haven. It had seemed enough at the time, but I'd've had a different opinion had I been in my right state of mind when we bedded down. 

As it was, we had to get out. The door wasn't an option: I could already hear the hinges straining under the weight of dozens of eager, crazed bodies pushing against it. We didn't have long. Dominic made quick work of the butt of my rifle, smashing in the window opposite the entrance. In one smooth motion, he was out the window and into the street. Placing my heel on the broken pane, I vaulted up and after him out of the building. But before I was clear, my pack snagged on the remaining pieces of glass. Not only caught, I was wedged in place by it all: both pack and I couldn't make it through the window. Because I'd jumped through, I didn't have a lot of leverage to wiggle out. I was thoroughly stuck.

Without word or signal, Dom took out his knife. With one hand, he slashed at the shoulder straps holding the pack onto me. With his other, he grabbed my collar and yanked me out of the window. We left the pack and ran down the street - I'd rather be alive and hungry than something's dinner.

Aside from the sound of our footsteps frantically beating against the asphalt and our steady breaths, neither of us made a sound. That was the key to surviving ordeals like this: you had to be able to work together without making much noise. Even the slightest shout could alert one of them. And once one of them caught our scent, the whole Hoard would be bearing down on us. 

I and Dom - we'd been at this for a while. Running, anyway. We'd developed a sixth sense for looking out for each other. We were never ones to go crusading against these things. We just wanted to survive. And with each other, we'd done just that. We'd hopped from town to town, avoiding traveling hordes of undead whenever we found them. When forced into an encounter, we kept our heads together. We set traps, built decoys, whittled down a small herd by luring stragglers away; whatever we had to do to stay safe and breathing. When we could, we salvaged materials for weapons and clothes. Everything we had we'd built together. 

Dom was much heavier than I was, but not in a zombie-bait kind of way. If something needed breaking, lifting, or blunt-force-bashing, Dom was the guy to do it. The man was strong. He was decisive too - an invaluable quality when all you've time to do is take a few breaths. Yet, he always seemed to defer to my judgement on more long-term decisions: where to find food, how to avoid another herd, where we'd bed down for the night, etc. It made for an easy relationship. 

The sky was nearing dusk, so I couldn't be sure how long I'd been out; when I'd gone to bed, it had looked much the same. Had it been a hour? A day? More? It didn't really matter: we needed some place to hide before we lost daylight. If we couldn't...well, I didn't want to think about that. With The Hoard so close, a flashlight would be akin to suicide. Our best chance was to get out of town and hide; wait for the herd to pass. 

We ducked into alleys and ran down deserted streets, always keeping our heads below eye-level. When we could, we ran behind cover. So long as The Hoard didn't get line-of-sight on us, we had the advantage. 

While my feet were pounding the pavement, my head was trying to pound out a way to get us out of this mess. I no idea how big the herd was. Obviously, they could overrun that shack, so...at least 30? I checked my cargo pockets for anything that hadn't been in the gear we'd lost. With relish, I grasped a full clip of ammo in my right-leg pocket. Combined with what was already in the rifle, we had around 20 rounds. But even if I'd had a hundred rounds, I wouldn't dream of taking down a Hoard like this. At least not now. With time and planning, we'd taken down bigger forces than what was chasing us now. But we were panicked and on the run. Worse yet, I had no idea if there were other undead nearby. The sound of gunfire would quickly attract more than we could handle.

We passed dozens of abandoned vehicles, but that was a pipe dream. Even if we could get one started, there'd be no chance of navigating the congested and rubble-ridden roads with any modicum of speed. We could hide in a van or bus, but that solution was equally problematic: one lucky Walker would bring the whole Hoard on us. In a car, we'd have no escape route. And all this didn't consider if we would set off a car alarm. 

No cars. 

A roof would work. So long as we weren't seen getting there, the Hoard would innocently pass us by without a second thought. The key was finding a building with roof access on the outside; we didn't have time to clear a building of any ambling undead waiting for us. Apartment fire escapes were perfect, but I hadn't seen any yet. 

So we kept jogging. Dom kept eyes up front while I checked our tail for signs of the undead.

But when we turned a corner to run down a major street of the city, all my plans went to hell. 

"Shit."

We called them "potatoes", taken from the human "couch potato". These things would stand in the exact same spot for days or even months until some stimulus - like us - prompted them to move. They often came in large groups - this a couple-dozen strong. Ones like this would be more animated at the thought of a meal, as they'd been standing there for god-knew how long without any form of "food". In unison, they all looked up from their staring contest with the ground: zillions of dry, rotted eyes bearing down on us.  

Keep running.

We turned tail and went back the way we'd come. If we were fast enough, we could double-back on the hoard already chasing us. With a little luck, we could go in the opposite direction and trick our pursuers.

When we rounded the corner to retreat, that sinking feeling in my gut got a lot heavier: There, down the road we'd come, was another Hoard - likely the one that'd originally overrun us. My initial estimate had been a bit zealous: I judged there size to be more around 20-strong. While a heartening and ironic thought - that I'd been wrong - it didn't do us much good. 

I drew the rifle out of Dom's hands as we both did an about-face. I had the extra clip, and we both knew I was a better shot. We turned again down the only road still undead-free and ran for it. 

A large, office-like building came into view with the title "Informatica" on it - Wikipedia's HQ. (They ran run the world's largest, free, and respected information source. At least, back when any of that mattered). Lots of smaller, tightly packed offices and warehouse-type buildings surrounded it. If we could find a building with a ladder, we'd be golden: all these closely-built structures would make it easy to move around the city without fear of running into the undead. I glanced over at Dom. With my free hand, I signed to him:

Split up.

He nodded back and signed his interpretation of my plan:

Find roof. Wait.

We were agreed. Dom continued straight down the road while I took a left at the corner of the Informatica building.

Most people would call us crazy. You're never supposed to split up, right? People in the woods in horror flicks do it all the time, and it never works out for them. But this was different. The undead might be mindless, but they behave in predictable ways. They'll always go after a single target. When that target splits, they tend to all go after one of the two. Sure, a couple stragglers might break away from the group and go after the other. But I and Dom could handle half-a-dozen zombies on our own. It was also easier to give the horde the slip on my own. There are a whole lot more places one person can fit into that two people can't. 

Yes, there were risks. But we'd done this before. If it didn't work, well...what else could we have done? I and Dom had to do what we knew could work: we weren't at the chance-taking point. Not yet. 

I ducked behind a van and peeked back down the road. They were following Dom. While I battled mixed emotions about this, a few stumbling walkers caught sight of me and peeled off of the main surge of undead. Still conflicted about Dom's predicament, I turned and kept running. I'd deal with my feelings after we were safe and out of reach. 

With no real route planned, I turned into a nearby alley. It was a dead end, but another narrow road branched from it and continued. I followed it. Another dead end with another, single alley leading away. I continued on, growing more nervous all the time. So far, there was no exit to this path: Just more alleys. In a few moments, my pursuers would enter the alley where I had. If I didn't find an exit, I'd be trapped, with no way out but through the undead. I shuddered at the thought and kept jogging. 

Then, Chance threw me a curve. 

My alley dead-ended for good: I had no where else to go. In the distance, I could here shuffling feet and scratchy gasps. I was trapped. But at the end of the alley lay my salvation: a fire escape. The ladder itself was well out of reach, but a dumpster stood not too far from it. I'd vault the dumpster, climb the ladder, and be safe and out of immediate danger. 

If it were so easy. 

I shouldered my rifle and leaned against the dumpster. As I bent to the task of pushing, it became very apparent that this was not a one-person job. The wheels were stiff and rusted from disuse. Debris was littered around it. The thing must've been sitting here for ages. Even if I had the strength, I'd need time to clear a path to push. But time was what I had very little of left.

Adrenalin and fear were pounding in my heart. I flirted with the idea of hiding in the dumpster, but that had worse prospects than a car. They knew I was here: they'd come knocking eventually. I had to keep my cool; had to think. If I couldn't move this dumpster, I'd have to find some other way out. But there wasn't another way out. This was it. 

Maybe that's why they called it a dead end. 

Behind me, I heard the distinct scuff of shoe on concrete. The excited rasping of a dry, rotted throat sent chills up my spine. Then I heard the moans: the one eerie sign that makes you wonder if they're really fully dead. They're pretty quite when they're on their own. But when there's prey in sight - when dinner's just a few stumbling steps away - they moan. Constant, wailing, deep, throaty: they can go on for days without stopping. It can drive people mad. It's why you don't employ siege tactics: the psychological toll is too high for people. 

The lump in my throat nearly choked the life out of me before they could. I'd been in scrapes like this before, but I'd never gotten used to the paralyzing fear. I'd seen men that had: hard men without morals or feelings. I'd seen what living in war against these things had done to people. I knew what it would do to me - if I survived, anyway. But I couldn't stop the shaking. I couldn't move. I knew they were right behind me: any moment, I'd feel a hand pull me down while black and gore-filled teeth devoured me. My last moments would be the conscious awareness that I was being eaten.

No. I wanted to survive. To live. I had to force myself past the fear. Forget the hopelessness. If I was going to do this, I needed to focus. 

With trembling hands, I slid my rifle's strap off my arm. I swallowed hard, trying my best to take steady, deep breaths, and placed the butt of the rifle against my shoulder. 

One...two...three...Turn.

Bam. Zombie. 

My Bible Box

I got my current Bible back in 2009 when my Bible study co-leader, Melissa Montecuello, got sick of the fact that I didn't own one. (I'd lost my most favoritest Bible the year before, which had been a terrible blow. Buying a new Bible was like I'd finally given up on my old one). This one's a much nicer one than my old, paper-back and flimsy one. Y'know - nice, leathery cover; that satiny bookmark that's part of the binding; pages smell nice; the perfect size. To keep it looking nice, I decided to do what I'd seen others do with their's: I store and carry my Bible in the box it originally came it. It's a durable box that's nearly the same size as The Book itself, and its rigid feel actually makes it easier to carry and toss around. The front's even got this plastic window-like thing (I guess so you can be sure there's really a Bible in there); I put a slip of paper with a drawing of mine in it, which I get all sorts of comments about. 

Overall, I'm pleased w/ my decision. The box's corners are starting to show signs of wear, but it's been 3 years; my Bible looks and smells like new!

Anyhow. That's not the point. 

Last night, I went out to retrieve my Bible from my car. I'd left it there after Church this Sunday. I'd been too lazy/tired to retrieve it that night and felt that, if I had the energy to play GoW 3, I could muster the strength to get my Bible out of my car. 

So I made the venture out. But b/c it was late, I's only dressed in my sleeping clothes: old athletic shorts and a tank. Not even socks. But again, it's late: who's gonna' care, let alone see me in the dark. 

Y'know how your mind can play tricks on you when it's late or dark? Well, as I'm walking to my car, I could swear I heard rustling in the bushes in the front yard or in my neighbors yard. But it was also lightly breezy last night, so I didn't pay it much mind. After all, I'm in Livermore: what's gonna' happen. 

Now, you've gotta' understand: here in Livermore, there are wild turkeys about. Yes: wild turkeys. They're dumb and get in the way of my car while I'm driving to work. And when you gobble at them, they'll actually gobble back. I've never actually seen a turkey fly up, but they must be capable of it: while I'm outside, I can distinctly here turkey-gobbles emanating from the taller, more expansive trees in the neighborhood; it's totally the turkeys. Seems odd for a turkey to gobble at night (they go to sleep like most other Thanksgiving birds, right?), but whatever. Even so, the gobbling seems a little...raspy. Maybe garbled's a better description. But to be honest, I'm not paying a lot of attention to the rustling bushes or the wheezy birds. I just want my Bible. 

The Good Book was on the passenger side of my car, but I'd entered through the driver side. So, I climb on in and reach across the center divider to snatch it. As I'm in there, the motion-activated light for the porch flicks on, which was nice but a bit late: I'd already fiddled around in the dark w/ my keys. But as I'm gettin' out of my car, that rustling noise has now become more definitive than just bushes in the breeze: more like scraping against concrete. And that sickly turkey's still gobbling away, but I can hear it a lot better now. So, Bible-in-Bible-box in hand, I close my car door and make to go back to the house. 

Bam. 

Zombie.

Those of you who haven't talked w/ me at length about this must know: I'm a definitive expert on zombies. I've even read the book on zombie-apocalypse survival. After watching a particularly horrifying zombie-related TV show or movie, I may even humor myself w/ a pre-bedtime zombie-sweep of my dwelling. Just to be on the safe side. 

To be sure: I've never actually believed I'd find a zombie. Even after assuring myself that all windows were closed, all doors locked, and all roommates not yet converted to the undead horde, the thought that lets me sleep well at night is this: there is no such thing as a "zombie". At least, not in the conventional, The Walking Dead sense. (There are, apparently, zombie-like states people can be put in). It's kind'f like someone afraid of ghosts: you get yourself to sleep by telling yourself that ghosts aren't real. But inside, there's that small spark of fear whispering "They're not...right?"

But now I've got proof ("living" proof, if you'll call it) staring right at me, and its turkey-rasping has gone through the roof now that it's spotted me. Dressed as I am, I don't have my trusty knife with which I could stab this zombie in the eye for a quick end to this undead threat. The door to the house is locked, and I don't have the time to fumble about to get the key ready. (That's how you get nom'd). Besides, I couldn't in good conscience leave this thing wandering around in the neighborhood. I had to think about the children: what would they do when they saw this zombie chow down on Suzanne or Frankie? No. I had to be a responsible citizen: To be a man. 

It was time to nut up.

The horde may be an imposing force but, one-on-one, no zombie stands a chance against me. Armed w/ the intellect and knowledge I've gleaned from years of analysis and study, my choice of weapon and method of attack were clear. Short of a sharp weapon or firearm, a bludgeoning weapon is the next best thing with which to remove zombie threats. A few swift blows to the head w/ a hammer or other blunt object will do in a zombie. Their rotting corpse will not be as durable as a living human, so the force and weight of the impact need not be as great as if I were killing a real person. There was only one weapon I had at hand which could quickly dispense w/ the zombie.

My Bible box. 

Solid and w/ edges sharp enough for the task at hand, the box was up to the challenge. I didn't even hesitate. I backhanded that walking corpse w/ The Living Word and gave it a swift kick, knocking it to the ground. But it takes more than that to do in a zombie. A person might be stunned or left unconscious by such an attack, but zombies know no pain or fear: I had to press my attack. 

I quickly straddled the zombie's writhing form and let forth the full fury of Biblical judgement on my foe. Never before had so clear an illustration of righteousness been made. Truly, this was a holy moment. And just as quickly as it had begun, this battle for survival was over. I - alone and armed only w/ God's Word - had triumphed.

And this whole time, I knew my Bible was safe. Housed inside it's sturdy box, none of the undead's uncleanliness would mar it's surface. Sure, the box was quite the worse for wear and covered in all sorts of zombie bits. But that's alright: I can replace the box. That box served its purpose admirably and delivered judgement from within to the evils without. 

I still haven't reported this incident to the authorities. I mean, who's really going to believe me? Chances are I'd face chargers for murder. More than likely, some activist group would rise up claiming I'd committed genocide against the only confirmed zombie to walk the earth. Disposing of the body and cleaning up the aftermath was work enough. (Suffice to say, I'm very thankful for my host family's compost pile). 

It's all thanks in large part to my Bible box. My Bible is as good as ever. Even now as I read it in bed tonight, its pages are crisp, its edges unbent, its surface unsoiled. The thing that puts down the undead is also the core to my faith. Sounds like a good combination, wouldn't you say?