Chapter 5
The End is Pretty Fucking Nigh
I wasn't raised a catholic, to be honest I don't really know what we were. Baptists maybe? In any case what little church I had, and what even less I could remember, always ended up at a memory of my Dad doing an impression (A bad one) of an Irish priest proclaimed that the end was nigh. It was a go to gag for him, I'd use it occasionally as it'd never fail to get a smile outta Mom.
"The End is pretty fucking nigh now," I said to myself in the quiet. I found my voice croaky, and my throat scratchy. Due to thirst I guess; but part of me still thinks it's the first symptom of turning into one of THEM.
I don't know how I made it. I'd found the house unlocked, I'd burst through the front door, blood still streaming from the wound in my arm. I didn't feel it, didn't even stop to think. The adrenaline was pumping and my legs were moving. I burst through the backdoor, again unlocked, and leapt the fence. I could hear more small arms fire from behind me but it sounded a little fainter than it did before.
I ran. I ran from those…. Those… what the shit do I call them? Colleagues? I'd lost them, they were all big guys and not super quick on their feet. Additionally I don't think I was their intended target and some of them; especially a loud one they called Carlos, wasn't too into chasing down unarmed, at least their perception of me was that I was unarmed, civilians.
I'd picked a house at random. I found the door unlocked, and an entrance to a cellar. It wasn't until I was in that cellar with the door bolted behind him that I finally noticed the wound in my arm.
I scrabbled down the stairs to the basement. The house was 50s, 60s, maybe; this basement was made out like some sort of bomb shelter; probably one of those half way houses between a useful fallout shelter and duck and cover (to kiss your ass goodbye). Didn't look like it'd be much good in this current crisis; most of the food stuffs had clearly been raided already; hopefully by the owners of the home of their way out, but most likely by a band of looters of some description.
The only light I had was the daylight coming through the cracks in the concrete at the rear of the house, but it was enough to illuminate a bench where an old gas lamp stood. I gingerly turned the knobs; having not a Scooby doo how it worked. Eventually after some negotiation it came into life; casting it's weak light feebly into the darkness.
Had I not been shit scared of the walking dead, and the gun totting Umbrella lugs I'd have taken a minute to consider how scary and fuck the shadows were that were created by this low light. My arm was absolutely throbbing, I was bleeding; but it didn't appear as if I was bleeding out. I've no idea whether there's a major artery in the arm but if there was it didn't appear as if it'd been hit. I set the lamp back down on the bench and clasped my hand over the wound in an attempt to quell the pain.
I'm no expert but there seemed to be an exit wound on my under arm, so I assumed the bullet had gone right through. Wandering how it hadn't gone into my torso after it's exit was something I'd have time to do later.
I scrambled around through drawers and cupboards as much I could whilst holding the wound. There were plenty of opportunities for this; it looked as if once the threat the "commies" posed had diminished the owners of the property had decided to repurpose their basement. Afterall; the wall fell 8 years ago now…
After a few desperate minutes scrabbling through empty cupboard, after drawer full of useless junk I'd given up on finding a first aid kit of any description and settled for a pillow slip I found at the bottom of their laundry machine (Also handily located down here). I tied this around the wound without any sort of precision; trying to remember how they did this on TV. The white material immediately darkened red, but didn't seem to get any worse and the pressure from where I knotted it around sure did relieve some of the pain.
Kicking myself for not raiding my Mom's medicine cabinet for some Tylenol I grabbed a nearby stool and took a seat at the bench where the gas lamp was. I hadn't said a word, or made a noise, throughout. My search, however frantic, had been done with baited breath and a slow searching process. I hadn't forgotten, THEY, were still out there.
I put my head in my hands, "I really am fucked now," I said outloud; half hoping hearing my own voice would be some company for me.
"Totally," I added for good measure; all the time keeping my voice not a great deal more than a whisper.
A few hours passed, my watch being one of the few things that still worked, I moved myself and the lamp over to the corner near the laundry. A basket of clothes waiting to be washed I hadn't noticed before was there. I tied a fresh dressing on the wound; although I have nothing to clean it with; I think it was a T-Shirt of some description; Gap maybe. Then made a comfortable sort-of bed area out of the remaining bunny hugs and jeans.
"Just gonna rest here a while," again talking to myself for company, again saying it quietly. Not knowing how long I'd be down here I'd turned down the gas lamp; saving fuel. In the almost complete darkness, and relative warmth of being underground, you would've thought sleep would've come. Fright does funny things to folks I've discovered; sure it takes a lot of energy to be scared over a prolonged period; which meant typically when safe you'd fall asleep; but then there's this resistance to sleep, maybe some animal instinct, where you subconsciously fight against sleep. I sat there in the dark for a few more sleepless hours, the tiny bit of natural light coming had started to fade. "They must've given up by now," I said; saying it out loud made it fact rather than a hope I decided.
I used the last few moments of natural light wisely and returned to a previously searched drawer and retrieved a notebook and pen I'd seen. Yeah you guessed it the same notebook and pen I'm writing you this story on! The first few pages, you'll see them when you find this, are doodles; something a little like a top down view of this house; maybe the owner was a DIY fan and was planning on doing some renovating, but the rest; the rest of the pages are mine.
I turn the gas lamp back on and just started writing. I didn't really know what to write at first, and if you've found this you'll find a few ripped out and screwed up pages around and about maybe. Did I want to leave my last will and testament? What the fuck is the point in that? Everything I owned was in my apartment; the place that's probably been looted or burned all up by now, and the only people I'd leave it to are dead and gone. Then I supposed maybe I'd write something for Jen's parents; a how she died; what she meant to be; how sorry I was. I wrote quite a bit of that one; but I found I was having to write so much for the context of the whole thing; to get them to understand why I couldn't protect her, why I couldn't save her… why she died for me. I changed my mind 5-6 pages in and decided to just tell the entire story. I don't know what's gonna happen. I'm not leaving this basement. If those soldiers find me and kill me; then they can do whatever with my body but this story will remain. If I die of starvation, heck that takes days and days. If it's of thirst then that'll take longer 'cause of the few remaining bottles of bourbon down here; heck I may even try the gin.
Fuck even if they nuke the place I'm in a god damned bomb shelter. Even a half baked one like this… well it'd probably kill me; but at least this story; at least this account from the Fearful will survive.
I'm not a special guy. I'm not a cop, or a survivalist. I'm just an average guy, working an average job, in an average Midwest town. I've never been more scared; but maybe I can rest a bit easier now knowing my story will at least be told.
I remember reading a story about this kid a few years ago who went up to Alaska to live in the wilderness; can't remember his name now; but I feel a lot like him. He lived in some sort of bus; yeah a bus out there in the middle of nowhere. He died because he wasn't prepared for what life threw at him; I wasn't prepared either. I haven't the skills or the will to fight against this anymore.
I'm going to put this notebook inside the laundry machine. I've disconnected the water, so it can't get wet and if someone turns it back on it won't work; so they'll have to open it to investigate. I'm going to help myself to some of that Bourbon and see what happens.
Jen I love you. Mom I love you. Dad I miss you. Maybe I'll see you soon.
