As you may have noticed, Justin and I did a bit of dabbling in fiction these last few days. It all started when I read a post on J’s Notes about “Blog Like It’s the End of the World Day.” It seemed like a fantastic idea as I never write fiction but always talk about how it would be fun.
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So I penned up a plausible post and published it.

I forgot to tell people that it was fictional and got several comments, a few emails, and one or two phone calls wondering if I was OK or if we needed help. Anytime you can create a legitimate Orwellian stir I think you can consider it a success.

As the day went on Justin and I were chatting on the internets and we came up with the idea of him writing a post as if he were experiencing the same zombie uprising — but from his point of view. From there it was just a hop, skip, and, a jump to the final ten part alternating story arc.

I had a ton of fun participating in this cooperative narrative and I think we will do it again sometime but on a larger and longer scale (and not on Haduken). It should be fun. I hope y’all had as much fun reading it as we did writing it.

Word to your mothers.

So much for the meetup location. I circled around from the north and found it already occupied by some pretty dirty-looking people who are in no way my friends, so I split before the baby I was carrying could wake up and start making noise. I’m not trying to be misanthropic or antisocial, here, it’s just that I’ve had some bad experiences lately with people, regardless of whether they walk or shamble.

Also, I’m leaving the laptop in this abandoned house. I can’t keep carrying a baby and a laptop and supplies for 1.5 people all the way to the mountains. Thanks for the support, though, Haduken. I hope you all made it out of Richmond okay.

Speaking of a baby, if I’m the only hope he’s got, he’s probably screwed. Let’s just say that they don’t put very good directions on diapers. But I figured it out eventually and I stole a bunch of extras and I think we’re good now. I mean, the species survived ice ages, plague, and literally millennia of not properly washing its hands. This kid ought to be able to handle being brought up by me.

Hang on, there’s some kind of truck coming down the street right now, with someone hanging out the window shouting “Come out, you’re safe.” Which, seriously: like I believe that. No way. I can’t take risks anymore, not with this kid in tow.

As soon as the truck passes, Baby Ross and I are heading out the back window and heading for the mountains. I’m getting the feeling that life has just become a huge pain in my ass, but we’ll make it. You’ll see.

THE END

Well, It was a good liffe. I went to a great university, had a great job, married a great girl, made some great ffriends, and lived in a ffantastic town. There really isn’t much more a guy could ask ffor. Sure, I’ll leave this earthly plane missing out on some things but I’ve got no regrets.

Except ffor the whole “death by undead mastication” thing.

It’s hard to believe that the apocalypse began just last Wednesday. It’s even harder to believe that a couple off hours ago things were looking up: we’d ffound Justin, we’d made some more Westerly progress, and the zombies had thinned out. Affter that whole river/bridge/zombie ffiasco things went decidedly downhill.

Justin got the story mostly right. The local rubes had decided to lure as many zombies as possible out on to the bridge — which they would then blow to “smithereens.” They were using babies as bait — one off which, whom I saved, somehow ended up ffloating down the river. The second bundle that I risked my liffe to save was not ffilled with kittens. It was actually my bag and it was ffilled with my MacBook.

It still works, don’t worry — although the ‘ff’ key sticks.

Affter the explosion, I sat on a large outcropping off rock on the southern bank and watched zombie bits ffloat downstream. A school off severed heads swam by as I considered my options. At this point things weren’t really too bad: I was alone but alive and so too was everyone else — presumably. That whole thought process lasted about ffive minutes. Then the zombie horde arrived.

Apparently alerting the surrounding zombie inffested countryside to our exactly location by setting off a huge bomb was not the best off ideas. Behind me an unending wall off shambling undead crested the hill and stumbled towards the river — and me. On the north bank an amoebic mass was heading down 522 toward the bridge debris. A path to the railroad tracks was open!

Throughout our journey we had passed ffour or ffive abandoned trains lefft on the tracks by wigged out/zombiffied conductors. I remembered one about a halff a mile back ffrom the bridge. As last remnants off the zombie soup cleared ffrom the river, and as the zombie brigade marched behind me I picked my way careffully across the river and up to the tracks.

Then I ran.

You have to understand the situation. As I ran East towards the boxcars I could see hundreds off zombies cresting the hill on the other side off the river. Some even began to cross the river where the weaker current didn’t sweep them downstream. On my lefft I spotted a dozen or so pulling themselves over the top off the hill. I was surrounded.

It was a high stress situation: surrounded by rotting corpses that wanted to snack on my innards, separated ffrom my ffriends and ffamily, alone in every way, etc! Sometimes people don’t make the best decisions when ffaced with limited options and high levels off stress and panic. I’ll admit it: perhaps crawling into the empty boxcar and slamming shut the door as thousands off zombies hungrily descended wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

Well it will be my last.

I’ve probably got another halff an hour in here beffore they break through the boxcar door and “rend me limb ffrom limb”, as they say. I don’t have much hope ffor Justin, Valerie, or, really, any other living soul within a dozen miles off Richmond. LBH people, there are *thousands* off zombies out there. Survival seems bleak — ffor me, impossible.

So this is it. I’m signing offff ffor good. Iff the world still exists and someone reads this, maybe you could get it published? It’d be like Anne FFrank but with zombies! Too soon?

PS. I’ve updated the map with the recent (and ffinal) travails and some points off interest.

And just like that, we’ve become separated. Ross and/or Val: if you’re okay, and you manage to get to the internet in the next few days, here’s where I will meet you. If I don’t see you, I’m going to strike out westward.

It wasn’t even a zombie attack that split us up. The whole thing is frankly pretty incredible. But I’m going to have to get on with the story. I did gain one (hungry) new friend in the process, and he’s not going to be able to forage for himself. Ross, if I don’t see you again, at least I have a living reminder of our friendship, buddy.

For most of today, we were camped out near Maidens, VA, just north of where 522 crosses the James River. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, Ross decided to head south and snag some water, which, sure. It was a pretty thirsty day, and we hadn’t seen a zombie since, oh, probably Sunday night at some point. I figured Ross would be all right on his own.

No sooner had he left with the water jugs we’d liberated from someone’s trash, than someone stumbled directly into our camp. Val screamed, and I was pretty close to braining the old man with the cricket bat I’d found to be pretty much the epitome of undead extermination technology, when he threw up his hands.

“Don’t! I’m not a zombie! I’m here to warn you!” he cried, with a wheeze. He wasn’t in the best shape, poor guy. The apocalypse must be pretty annoying if you’re old.

“Warn us?” I said.

“Don’t go south! The zombies have massed on the 522 bridge over the river, I don’t know why. Some of the men from town are planning to take it down while they have the chance!” You could almost hear the exclamation points. This guy more excited than his blood pressure ought to allow.

“Take it down?” Val asked.

“Knock it over! Destroy it! They’re supposed to be doing it soon. You don’t want to be anywhere nearby when that thing goes!”

Val and I looked at each other, and at the same time, said, “Ross.”

I didn’t think. I just started running. Which was pretty un-awesome. The undergrowth is full of the kind of greenery that is much prettier to look at than it is to smack your face into at full jog. Even worse was the creeping realization that a zombie-infestation scenario was definitely not the moment to leave one friend alone with a strange man while you run after another friend. But I figured Val would be okay. She’s taught fifth grade, after all. Pretty soon I reached 522 and realized I had gotten off course, and just started running south.

I came up over the last hill, and the whole scene was laid out in front of me: the bridge, the river, and, on the bridge, the biggest roiling mass of zombies I’d ever seen in the past few days. It was incredible. They were crawling over each other to get to the center of the bridge, and the noise hit me like a wall. The less we talk about the smell, the better. But where was Ross?

There he was, standing chest-deep downriver from the bridge. It looked like he was trying to catch some kind of bundle that was floating in the river. I couldn’t see what it was, though. I needed to get him away from that river, and fast. I took off running again.

Suddenly I was lying on my back and my chest had exploded in pain. I looked up to see an old man with poor teeth and a “Nothing Runs Like a Deere” hat on, hefting a nine-iron. Something about the hat seemed familiar. “Whoa, son. You don’t want to do that.” He took away my cricket bat and stood over me with his foot on my head, forcing me into the ground.

“Why not?” I wailed in pain and confusion.

“Well, I reckon that bridge is about to be blown all to hell, just as soon as the fuse burns down. I ain’t lookin’ to see no boy with a strong back go to waste, no sir. You’ll come to work for me at the farm.”

Oh, fantastic, I thought. Now Val and I both have crazy old men to keep us company. I personally did not intend to keep mine for long, though. My chest did not appreciate the beating.

“Why are the zombies on the bridge?” I asked, working my hand down to my pocket. Something about the John Deere hat was bugging me, but I couldn’t think what.

“Well, son, when you want to catch a zombie, it’s just like any other pest. You just need to use the right bait.”

Oh god. “What bait?” My hand was almost there. I just needed to keep him talking and distracted for a second.

“Not everyone in our little town was is fast enough or strong enough to handle a zombie fight. And zombies love almost-dead bodies.”

Once my knife was in my hand, he didn’t stay on top of me long. I don’t think he’ll be fast or strong for much longer.

But I couldn’t spend much time thinking about a diabolical farmer. By this time Ross had rescued one bundle from the river and gone to wade after another. I had gotten about halfway down the hill towards the river when three things happened in rapid succession.

I realized Ross had rescued a baby and was now swimming after a floating bundle of kittens.

I remembered that the original old man who stumbled into our camp had also worn a John Deere hat. It was a clue! They were working together! Val must be in danger!

Just at that moment, the bridge, laced massively and amateurishly with farm-use explosives, blew skyward in an incredible fountain of bridge, river, smoke, and zombie parts.

—

Miraculously, the baby survived, lying between a crawling zombie head and a big chunk of bridge. Ross vanished. He’s probably been swept away down the river. Our camp was abandoned. The thing is, though, there wasn’t any sign of a struggle. I can afford to hold out hope to rejoin Ross and Val for one additional day. After that, baby and I are going west.

Friday: Walked up the tracks for a couple of hours without incident. Clubbed a zombie. Found a nice secluded spot under some large oak trees to spend the night. Spent a cold sleepless night on the ground (I really should have worked on that whole fire by friction thing, some Eagle Scout I am).

Saturday: Stayed put and slept most of the day. Got up when the sun went down and continued West toward 288 to meet Justin. Broke into an abandoned house to steal some food and supplies. Ran like hell from some creepy zombified babies. Seriously. Zombie Babies, wtf. Fell asleep around dawn in an empty construction trailer.

As you can tell, the last few days have been pretty routine. Walk, sleep, re-kill things that should already be dead, fear for your life, etc. Wake up and do it all over again. It really isn’t too bad. The rail road is blessedly clear of humans — both the living and unliving kind — and according to Justin you’ve got to watch out for both.

Sometime, while Saturday night turned into Sunday morning we reached the 288 overpass.

Justin had already set up camp and was waiting patiently for us when we got there. It was fantastic to see another (live) human being that didn’t try to sniper us from the roof of an adjacent building. He seems like he has weathered the recent unpleasantness as well as can be expected. Sure he’s been shot through the shoulder and could use a shower. But we could all use a shower. He did tell me that after the last zombie he killed he leveled up to a lvl. 6 Barbarian and dumped the extra skill points into Deadly Blow. He couldn’t decide if he should put a few SP’s into Foraging and Farming. I told him you can’t eat if you’re dead.

Like I said, as well as can be expected.

We swapped remarkably similar stories about our adventures thus far before turning in for some sleep. Finally a small sense of normalcy has returned to our lives. I mean, sure, it is small, but it is there. We’ve chatted a little about our next actions. I think we will continue West on the tracks until we get out into the boonies. We figure the smaller the population density the smaller the chance of some zombie getting his tongue in my ear or some crazed suburban Rambo blowing our brains out while screaming the name of his dead wife.

Things are looking up.

PS. If there is one thing you can count on during a zombie apocalypse it is Google. I set up a cool “My Map” of our adventure thus far. I’ll be updating it as time goes by and time/zombies permit.

I guess I’m awake.

I doubt anyone’s going to be reading this from Richmond, but I feel some responsibility to keep these posts up as long as I can. If I hear anything gurgle-like at all, though, I’m hitting submit and running for the hills, just like yesterday. Sorry I didn’t get to finish the story, but I had to get going with a pretty high degree of urgency.

I’ve made my way south into the suburban areas around Wilde Lake, south of Short Pump. I spent all day sleeping in a broken and abandoned house and keeping out of sight. I guess I’ll keep going south to the river and try to pick up Ross and Val if I can get there without dying.

The problem with being alive and in no way undead at this juncture isn’t just the actual undead who are pretty enthusiastically trying to convert as many followers to their undead ways, but also the other survivors shooting anything that’s moving. Which, sure. I mean, the previously obvious benefits of not shooting or eating your fellow man haven’t seemed to apply for the last few days to most people in the greater Richmond area. People on either side of the un part of dead have been (I suppose justifiably) feast-on-the-living- or trigger-happy, as the case may be.

It makes me sad that there’s so much looting and burning, though. I can’t even tell what damage has been done by ambulatory corpses and what’s the handiwork of regular-type human have-nots trying to take from the haves in optimistic preparation for living at least one more day.

Okay, man is the real monster, you get it. I’ll give it a rest. Sorry. I guess I’m just bitter. I’ve outrun the zombies I haven’t had to kill, but unless the real-life zombie rules are significantly non-Romero, it was a plain old 100% alive person who shot me in the shoulder this morning. If I’m a little misanthropic and generally not as much fun as I was yesterday, that’s going to be your reason why.

It’s not bad. The bullet just grazed the skin, really. The whole thing’s wrapped pretty tight, and only throbs a little. I shouldn’t be slowed down too much tonight when I move again.

Do you know what makes me the saddest, though? Richmond. We spent way too long being the Capital of damned Confederate Racism to much of the country for years, and now unless this thing’s bigger than I know, we’re going to be the source of the undead plague that destroyed Western Civilization. You know what, ungrateful world? The food here used to be really good. We enjoyed hanging out and drinking great beer. We care about families and communities here in Richmond. In the 150 years between being ripped apart by war and being destroyed by an apocalypse from the grave, there were some really great people in this town doing some exceptional things. RVA’s too good a town to have to be brought down by chatty flesh-eating cadavers.

Okay, that’s enough. Maybe it’s being shot, or maybe it’s the unstoppable invasion of unholy throngs of decomposing ghoul-spawn, but I’m grumpy. It’s almost dark enough to move again. At night I know I’ll be too hard to see to get shot, and the living dead aren’t quiet enough to sneak up in the dark. I’m going to go gather up what food I can find and move south.

About that brains thing? Also, to everyone who said I shouldn’t have bought a wooden bat for protection in the city: you were wrong. But that’s getting ahead of things.

After spending some more time on the roof yesterday we decided that if we were going to relocate we needed to do so fast and away from the gruesome garden party taking place on Cary St. We also decided, well mostly I decided, to “let the dogs out.” RVAkid was right: the dogs would have only slowed us down. Luckily these things don’t seem to have any qualms with dogs (I haven’t seen any cats recently though …). We lowered the dogs off the porch roof using some extra sheets and both ran off to join the growing pack of local dogs prowling our street. Zapp was last seen looking stupid and Shooter was making sure no one was having any fun. They looked happy, I’m sure they will be fine.

In some good news, we saw the woman who “plays” guitar in front of the Byrd walking down Grayland with no arms! Huzzah!

We headed South to the River, to pick up the train tracks, and head as far West as possible — and hopefully pick up Justin on the way. Luckily both of us have bicycles. We packed two bags with some essentials (Louisville Slugger included), waited until our street was clear, and headed off. These things seem silent but deadly, but traveling by bicycle is great: you have maneuverability, stealth, and speed. Three things they don’t have.

We got to Pump House Park with no problems. The park has easy access to both the river and the rail road tracks and is nestled behind the dense residential neighborhoods. Standing in the middle of the bridge that crosses the canal was, what used to be, a (pantless) man. Well really a (pantless) man and the (pantless) lower half of another man. It seems the top half of the second man was misplaced during some sort of wilderness love affair but the business ends where still connected. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

They don’t call it Pump House park for nothing! Hey oh!

FYI: This is where the baseball bat comes in. Mr. NoPants was just standing in the middle of the bridge not making any movements towards us — other than some vague pelvic thrustings.

IBH, I’m not Cpt. Picard. I’m not going to use diplomacy when encountering a new life form that is missing a torso, and I certainly wasn’t going to let it whisper sweet nothings into my ear. I unleashed my bat and “swung away,” as it were; the wooden baseball bat was definitely the right choice. Moldy brains and skull bits exploded onto the railings. Mr. NoPants gave one more thrust, for olde tymes sake, flipped over the railing, and disappeared into the canal.

Valerie promptly threw up.

And that was that. We made it to the train tracks without further incident and decided to spend the night underneath the nearby train bridge. This morning we woke up and began to head West. I found a found wireless “hot spot” at a house on the river next to the Hueguenot Bridge and decided to post this.

We are heading up the tracks and will be crossing Parham and 288. Justin, if you can, try to meet us at one of these spots.

Also, we’ve left City proper and have yet to see any sort of military or civic authority. We have no idea what is going on. If you can, if anyone else is still alive, make your way to 288 near the river. We have a better chance of surviving together.

I’ve learned some things.

1. Destroy their brains. If you do not do this, they will not die.
2. Don’t let them near your ear. I don’t know how it works exactly, but that’s the only thing I can figure that’s creating more of them.

I’m holed up in the Panera Bread on Broad Street. I needed a place with food that hasn’t gone bad, knives, and a computer. I’ll be here through the night, and then tomorrow I’ll move again. I know this though: I’m not letting Richmond burn, especially not with my friends still there.

If you know more about what’s happening to people, please post it here. This seems to be the only way people can communicate about what’s going on. As for what I said above, I can only tell you what I saw last night as I was leaving. Maybe someone else can figure out how this works.

The instant I opened the door onto the stairwell last night, I could hear whimpering. I raced down the stairs. There, laying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs with her leg twisted impossibly below her, was the girl who I’ve had a crush on for like the entire two years I’ve worked here. She was absolutely stunning from about the waist upwards, and maybe excluding the incredibly pained facial expression. I ran over to her and knelt down.

“I . . ”

She cut me off. “It . . .”

“Sorry.”

“No, go ahead.”

“No, you first.”

She grimaced again. “I just opened the door and there it was, this awful creature on the other side, making some incredible noise into my ear. I fell ass over teakettle down the stairs. It was awful. I feel awful. Justin, I can’t feel my legs, are they all right?”

I looked down at her legs. Her right shin was in her lap. “Yes, you’ll be fine. Let’s get you to a hospital. And then afterwards, dinner? Is that a thing? Because I’ve always . . .”

She interrupted me again, yelling “I am on fire!” She screamed in pain. “Kill me . . . ”

Obviously this girl just has a problem with listening. That’s okay, though. I mean, communication is something you can deal with in a relationship. “The thing is, I’ve been secretly in love with . . .”

That’s when she spat blood all over me. It was as I was staggering away that she suddenly stood up, broken leg or no, and started shambling towards me, groaning loudly.

I don’t know much about girls, but girls with broken legs do not get up and shamble. So I bashed her head in with my laptop.

—

Oh hell, there’s some yelling coming from outside. I’m submitting this now. Let’s hope I make it long enough to post again.

This mob, while obviously insane with anger, is also LOUD. Like. Really. Loud. Remember that anti-smoking commercial where the guy sings a snappy tune through his stoma? Imagine about forty of that guy — but more gurgly, and you’ll start to get an idea of what my neighborhood’s theme song is of late. Gurgle Gurg Gurgy-Gurg Gurgy Gurg-Gurg! Suffice to say: we didn’t sleep much.

We decided to spend the night in the office so we could try and keep an eye on things outside. A couple hours after the sun set, as we tried to sleep, someone or something broke out the window on our front door. The dogs went insane (again mostly Shooter) — which didn’t help things. The next four or five hours were filled with methodical scratching and banging punctuated by occasional gurgling. Over and over and over again. We had stacked most of our junk against the windows not the front door and were just starting to make plans for a mid-night escape when everything stopped.

Then someone outside screamed.

After that it was pretty quiet. We actually got a couple hours of sleep. After I woke up, early this morning, I got onto the roof to check things out. Unlucky for us, the only roof access in our house is to take a ladder out on the porch roof. Lucky for us, we got the ladder out of the shed about six months ago and never put it back. That’s how we roll.

I can just see into Carytown from the northeast corner of the roof. There are a couple hundred people congregated at Cary and Sheppard. Glass and Powder’s been looted and it looks like it might be on fire. I’m pretty sure there are three bodies in a neat pile at the bus stop. One of them looks like it’s wearing a Saint Benedict School uniform.

We can’t stay here. Not after last night. I don’t know what we are going to do but it for sure isn’t stay here completely at the mercy of the Gurglies.

Also, thanks for the concern posted in the comments. We are ok thus far and doing our best. I encourage everyone to stay in their houses — upstairs if you’ve got ‘em. As for calling the police I’m sure you know by now that the lines are down. Not only are all the lines down but I haven’t seen a single cop (and they are usually copious in our neighborhood) since this all began. As for guns — which cops have — we don’t own any. I’m not anti-gun; they just scare me. Right now I’m reconsidering.

BTW, has anyone heard from Justin? I haven’t since his post last night. I can’t imagine driving home during all of this.

If you have any details about what’s happening in Richmond, let me know or post it here. Something is not cool today.

The thing is, I was already freaked out for two reasons.

1. Ross was holed up in his house this morning after rioters started tearing up Grayland Ave.
2. I have not seen a human since I got to work around 7:15 this morning. Literally. I skipped a departmental community service event today to get work done, but typically there are at least a few people doing the same. Today: nobody. I went around the entire floor in mid-afternoon to make sure.

Okay, whatever, I’m a little girl. But now there is a BODY outside in the parking lot. As in, what theoretically at one time was a human person is reclining prone with its legs in a handicapped spot and its torso in 3-hour parking. I don’t know where the head is but I’m not going to look around.

Plus at this moment there is some kind of commotion coming from downstairs, as though cubicle walls were being torn down.

This is not right at all. I’m going to slip out the loading dock door and try to make it home before it gets dark. Ross, or anyone in the museum district, give me a call when you see this. I’m sure I’m just scaring myself, but I’d feel a lot better if I knew you guys were okay.

Particularly Shooter. Shooter’s job in our family is to let us know when anything is amiss. Outside, inside, under the house, wherever, whenever. So the eruption of barks around 7AM this morning was odd but not unexpected. I assumed the “damn teenagers” were playing their “rap music” or some such.

I guess sometimes it is easy to confuse teens with “angry mob.”

Our office windows opens up to the roof of our porch where you can get a pretty good view up and down our street. Down the block a group of about fifteen people were smashing in the windows and doors of a small one-story cinderblock house. Elsewhere on the block people were headed aimlessly towards Cary St. and the general direction of the Byrd.

We live in an old house built in 1923 in one of the original suburbs of Richmond. This means huge ceilings and equally huge windows. It also means our house is already falling apart without the incessant bangings of an angry mob.

I woke up Val. Fifteen minutes later after I convinced her I wasn’t kidding — that there really was a mob of lunatics tearing a house down on our block. We ran downstairs to see what we could stack in front of our windows: a couch, loveseat, tables, TV (sigh).

That about catches us up to the present.

The mob has moved west (away from us) to the next one-story house and probably doubled in size. The new house isn’t made of cinderblocks and they’re having a much easier time with it. There’s a growing commotion coming from the direction of the Byrd and I see more and more people ambling in that direction.

Its been about six hours since Shooter woke us up. We are barricaded in our house and figuring out what to do next. I don’t think we can ride this out here. Our house just isn’t safe enough. If anyone out there is reading this leave a comment. I think we’d be safer in a group.

Maybe we can head toward a school building or something.