The door was open when I reached Sherry's house. It was empty, as expected. The nearby buildings were in the same dilapidated condition as the house - doors wide open, the interiors ruined and ransacked, glasses and windows shattered, and the occasional smoke would filter through the holes made by gunshots. And it was already dark - god, I hate spending evenings outside, and alone at that.
Sherry, sigh, I still remember our time together. The sleepovers, the late-night movie marathons, the endless gossip regarding cute boys at school - now, all that are gone. Last I saw her, she was shambling over at some random pub, her once green eyes now bloodshot red, her blonde hair almost unrecognizable given the amount of blood-crusted dirt that enveloped her once golden crowns. She still had that silk nightgown she wore almost two months ago; the only difference being blood stains everywhere coupled with some molds on the left pocket and rotting skin hanging on the neckline.
It's been almost half a year since the outbreak began. The government called it Raxia Collobixia, a virulent strain of the rabies virus that turned infected people into violent cannibals. We simply called it the zombie virus. Sherry and I were college sophomores at Phoenix University where we majored in Art before the plague. It's a bit far-fetched when I think about it. I can still remember me combing the city for a type 2 brush and here I am now, looking for ammunitions and clothing.
I did not really want to go back to her house - too many fond memories that it almost hurts to remember. Everytime I remember our laughs - her smile, I cannot help but shed a tear.
"Briana." I can hear her whisper my name through this emptiness.
"Briana." She sounded so sad, filled with grief, loneliness, and anger – anger at me for failing to save her.
Oh Sherry. If we could only go back in time when the most of our worries was how to pass Mr. Ferguson's poetry class. Where is the old man anyway? Probably a part of the innumerably shambling and mindless zombies.
But enough of that now, first things first, I've ran out of winter clothing and I can still remember Sherry's original Chanel furcoat. My hooded sweatshirt, now a noticeable gray from its original red, will not suffice in giving me warmth for the upcoming winter season.
I slowly made my way through the front door, my desert tan combat boots crunched through broken glass and wooden debris. I held my M4A1 rifle tightly. I may have received reports that this suburb was empty and threat levels were very low, but it does not hurt to be cautious. I gripped the carbine's foregrip and peered through the side room using the M4's EOTECH 551 holographic sight. It was dark inside. I cursed myself silently for trading my Aimpoint, which was also, incidentally, equipped with night vision scope, for the EOTECH. Though I have to admit, the EOTECH looked better and more stylish.
Making the most of the limited amount of illumination I had in my possession - namely a Surefire light just below the SOPMOD foregrip of my gun - I carefully navigated my way through upturned chairs and tables. The cabinets had been opened and possibly looted by other survivors of the outbreak. Ahead was a dark hallway, the walls bereft of the pictures and paintings that had once adorned the beige-colored wallpaper that covered this hall. I aimed my rifle downrange in case someone suddenly comes barreling after me. But everything was deathly quiet.
"Relax," I told myself.
I reached Sherry's room. It was empty save for a bed minus the foam and bedsheets. The drawer was also... - no it wasn't empty, hell they took the entire drawer and cabinet plus the cupboard. Greedy bastards! But they don't know Sherry like I do. I took off my woolen gloves and ran my hands across the wall where Sherry's cabinet once stood. There! I slowly grabbed the small metal indentation shaped like a hook and pulled. A mini, secret clothes drawer opened.
And it was empty.
"Ahhh, shit! Shit! Shit!"
I wanted to smash the door to pieces and just plain shout my frustrations in the most verbose and articulate way possible but stopped myself short from doing all those "stupid" things. No use attracting unnecessary attention. Still, I could not help feeling upset and irritated - this little trip halfway across the suburb was all for nothing! No use staying here a bit longer. I half ran to the door, eager to leave this "safe" but empty and desolate, not to mention ruined, part of the city.
Suddenly I heard something!
I stopped, everything was silent...nothing...not even insects. I was breathing heavily and my heart's beating was rapidly accelerating. What was that I heard? Maybe that was nothing.
I waited a little longer - not even daring to move a muscle, my hands held my rifle tightly - eyes at the ready and my finger on the trigger.
There it is again!
The unmistakable groaning of the infected. I tensed, my senses were on high alert, I scanned my immediate surroundings.
"Where are they?" I whispered to myself.
Suddenly, I heard the kitchen door open. And inside came four of the undead. Their rotting flesh and ripped clothing exposing rancid innards made them look more terrible than dangerous.
I was staring at them directly, fortunately, they haven't spotted me (yet) since I was partially concealed by the bedroom door. One was shambling towards me. I slowly raised my rifle...
Crap!
They have glowing eyes! These aren't just an ordinary group of feral zombies, these are the Missionaries, scouts for the Militant Order of Barhah or as survivors call them: the MoB. This group of zombies is the most dangerous since their leader is rumored to have still retained his ability to think rationally as opposed to other "mindless" and "dumb" zombies. And if the MoB's scouts are here, that means that the main MoB horde is nearby.
The MoB's reputation and legend is well known throughout the city of Malton. Since the first outbreak, zombies had always been considered as mindless creatures whose sole instinct is purely driven by the desire to feed. All that changed when the MoB came. No one knows exactly how they came to be, rumors has it that the zombies are evolving and that they are slowly regaining some of their more "rational" instincts. But be that as it may, the danger that the MoB poses for every survivor is real for the MoB acts like a single entity, a single body, a single organism whose calling, it seems, is total annihilation of every breathing person.
"I have to warn the others."
Suddenly, the lead zombie raised his decaying head and hissed. IT PICKED UP MY SCENT! No time for subtleties, I raised my rifle and shot the nearest zombie in the head, which literally flew off the window. I aimed left and shot the other zombie but the bullets hit it squarely in the chest. I bellowed with rage and the remaining two zombies uttered a long and ghastly howl which echoed across the entire suburb. It was definitely meant to alert the rest of the horde.
I dashed across the front door.
The moonless evening was still dark and I hoped to God the zombies cannot see in the dark. But the remaining zombies gave chase, one was gesturing at me and emitting that unintelligible "Gah grazh barhzz harman waggh" they make whenever they see a breather.
As I reached the intersection, I heard the unmistakable cries of the undead. Part of the horde was rounding out the corner and they must've numbered in the hundreds. I knelt and let off a few rounds before retreating to a nearby park. I contemplated on trying to hide in the trees but realized that my rifle's six-colored desert pattern camouflage was a dead giveaway. I began running to a nearby building in hopes of the zombies losing my scent, but they kept on coming.
I saw a nearby grocery store with some loose planks on the door. No time for subtleties, I smashed through the makeshift barricades. The store was pitch-black and empty. I turned around and faced the oncoming hordes. Taking a fragmentation grenade, I released the pin and threw it across the street. Just as the zombies approached the store, the grenade exploded sending limbs, arms, heads, and other body parts flying in all direction. I fired my rifle at the remaining zombies then went inside the store and up the stairs.
I reached the rooftop and a quick glance below told me that the MoB had now entered the store. I glanced at the adjacent buildings. And did something drastic.
Backing a few steps away from the edge, I ran and jumped clear across the street to a nearby five-storey apartment. I landed with a thump and rolled a few feet before getting back up again and jumped across the next building. Unfortunately, the roof caved under me and I fell below.
I shook off the dust and debris that covered me.
Silence...
...
The building's interior is in ruins and judging from the rooms across the hallway, this must've been a motel once. I slowly peered through a window, the glasses were absent though, and stopped dead in my tracks.
The streets were rapidly filling with the undead...
The Horde had arrived...
And I was trapped in the middle of them.
I knew that it was only a matter of time before they pick up my scent and being the only breather in this entire god-forsaken suburb, I can only imagine my smell being that distinct.
Suddenly, I heard a door below crash open. The zombies went beserk and started dashing towards the building – my building; my hiding place.
I rapidly placed a claymore antipersonnel mine in the hallway before bounding up the stairs, if anything it might slow them down. I was halfway up the second floor when the claymore exploded. I looked down and, to my horror, saw how ineffective it was in decreasing the undead's momentum. They smell blood, they smell fresh meat, they smell their next meal, and that is all the motivation they need.
I switched my gun to full auto and blasted the zombies downstairs. I continued running upstairs while reloading my rifle, occasionally turning to shoot at my pursuers who are now rapidly gaining ground.
As a last resort, I placed two fragmentation grenades on the final set of stairs in an effort to destroy the only path to the fifth floor. Kicking the door overlooking the overhang, I crouched behind the wall and waited for the detonation.
To my horror, the stairs held.
Looking around, I realized I was standing in a kitchen. I dragged everything, from ovens to counters, to the door and was able to create a makeshift barricade. I opened my backpack and scattered on the tiled floor everything that I had – an extra magazine, a couple of clothes, a dirty notebook, a pen, three canned goods, a wirecutter, two blocks of c4, and a detonator.
So I here I am now. The barricades have so far endured the constant beating and clawing from those accursed corpses – yep, the whole four hours. I've spent all my ammunition trying to give them undead a measure of peace but what the hell, I'm just a tiny drop in a massive ocean of death and destruction.
I saw the sun rising up the east. I opened the window and breathed in the stale air of Malton, our once beloved and beautiful city. I cried. It's as if all the emotions I have held in check these past months came pouring out now that the inevitable is here. I placed the c4 plastic explosive behind the barricade while I embraced the other as if it was my salvation. In a way, it actually is.
I will throw this journal out the window and I hope you find this in under better circumstances. Remember us the way we were before the plague.
Or at the very least – just remember us.