Of course nothing is perfect. Nothing is impermeable. We’ll do what we must to make this place livable. I’m already considering my next move. Once this place is ready to inhabit...perhaps I’ll head north to that other complex and clear it. I’ll need to get my adventures in now because in a few months...I’ll be too pregnant.
* * * * *
Chapter 8
Friday, August 1
Huckelberry Gulch is open for new residents. I will wait for Snoe’s team to return—she said they’ll be back tomorrow—and then we’ll have a vote to decide two things: first—do we send a two or three person team back to Irony with the announcement; second—if so, who?
Personally, the way things were when we left, if anybody goes back, my vote is Snoe and Derrick. There is no way we can send one without the other. Let them go back to the bullshit politics.
Don’t get me wrong here. I miss the normal world and all the ease in which I lived. I miss being able to walk around and not be on constant alert for my life. But...I don’t miss what our world had become. All the emphasis was on the wrong stuff.
In my lifetime, I think that the world has only been mostly in harmony one time. It lasted about two days. September 11th and 12th. Then...it was gone. We all went back to hating, killing, and being petty. I think there was potential for greatness to come from that horrible tragedy.
Now, we’re trying to pick up all the pieces. Only, if we use the same pieces and put them back in the same places...we’ll be no better off. Maybe this is our last chance to get it right.
Saturday, August 2
Snoe is back. They brought more guns, ammo, and a decent cache of non-perishables. Also, there was some local mom-and-pop market fully stocked with soaps, shampoo, toothpaste...all kinds of good stuff.
We talked and I am shocked to say the least, neither Snoe nor Derrick wanted to go back. It seems that their support of their respective factions is more duty based than anything. Caren told Snoe about my plans to journey to a major city like Seattle—if it still exists—or, more likely, Portland. She wants to do it! I guess I may have to spill the beans about the upcoming natal event. Those two were talking like we’d do that run in the next few weeks.
Of course...I could still make the trip now. But we’d have to winter on the west side of the state most likely. Something to ponder.
Troy and Jacob left this evening. They said they prefer to travel at night.
Sunday, August 3
Told Snoe and Caren. We talked it over in detail and will make the trip west in a couple of weeks. We want to gear up. Snoe says there were a handful of super-deluxe Winnebago RVs in Trout Creek. With a little work, we could rig them up similar to the one Sam left his original complex in. We decided to include Roy.
I’m relieved. For a while I’ve felt like a bit of a freak with all my wanting to move around. That was another big difference between Sam and I. He wanted to settle. He had this illusion that he could find a place that wasn’t confined. It just isn’t gonna happen unless those things suddenly all fall down and stay.
For the next few days, we’ll help get this place cleaned up. It is inhabitable now, but could use a bit of cleaning supplies in stock. That should keep us busy for a bit.
Friday, August 8
Remember that insult to women and music known as Spice Girls? I recall this big fuss over “Girl Power.” Apparently “Girl Power” meant to dress like a whore and lip-sync on stage to over-processed garbage. Well, what I saw today...that was real Girl Power.
Caren, Snoe, Cera, and I decided to take liberal advantage of some of the soaps, oils, and lotions brought back from Trout Creek. We went to one of the many streams that are around and—after warning the men that any sounds in the brush would be treated as hostile or undead—we grabbed the cleaning stuff and a modest arsenal.
Each of us found a spot that included a sun-drenched rock for after and enjoyed a nice bath. Not even twenty minutes in there is some rustling in the brush. Cera hurled a rock and let loose a string of threats and profanity that were almost embarrassing.
The rustling stopped...for about five seconds. Then, three hideously ravaged zombies stumbled out. These three had been dead a long time. One of them was all but hollowed out. The spine and ribcage were intact and had enough around them to barely support the upper body. Even so, it bobbed and wobbled like a hideous Jack-in-the-box on a worn spring.
The other two were equally horrid. Cera was their closest target and all three lurched at her. She is rolling in knee-deep water, fighting off these three things while Snoe, Caren, and I are fumbling for the nearest weapon. In my mind, I was saying my goodbyes to Cera. Spinning around with my crossbow, I turn in time to see Cera literally yank the head off of the Jack-in-the-box- zombie. She snaps off a rib and jams it into the eye-socket of one that had been knocked to its knees at some point.
That left one.
It was clutching a handful of Cera’s hair, trying to take a bite out of the nape of her neck. Cera snapped her head back, crushing the front of the thing’s face. Of course, it could care less and continued to gnash its teeth in hopes that it would close them on a mouthful of warm, honey-gold, Asian-bred flesh. With a snap of the fingers she had ducked under this thing, spun—which yanked out a handful of silky black hair—and, with the still gooey-tipped rib bone, skewered the final zombie from under the chin and deep up into the brain.
Nobody does it like Cera Lee.
Saturday, August 9
Snoe and I had a long talk today. We talked about the potential value versus the absolute risk involved in making a big city run. She wants to make this run count.
I’m not surprised to discover she has been formulating a plan for just this sort of venture for weeks. She actually produced a notebook with pages of notes!
Her plan, which, unless I hear something remarkably better, is the one that will be used. An all-woman recon team! This has potential! The participants will be me, Snoe, Caren, Cera, and from Irony—it seems Snoe had talks with a couple of others prior to joining me on this most recent run—Tara Jacoby, Brittany Maldanado, and a nurse named Penelope Sinclair. Penelope is around forty with shoulder length brunette hair, brown eyes, and a Susan Sarandon sexiness.
Snoe wants to fit a pair of eighteen-wheelers with wedge-shaped plow blades in front; a machinegun turret atop the front and rear of the trailer of one. The second rig will be a tanker to provide ample fuel for the trip. The objective is to fill the trailer with supplies. Whether we return to Irony is not exactly etched in stone. Hell, it’s not even written in pencil.
Tomorrow, Snoe, and Caren will be leaving to scout for the vehicles. Again, I am not surprised that Snoe knows the whereabouts of a couple of potential targets. She says that the machinery to affix her modifications are more difficult to get at, but she knows where she needs to go.
Apparently she sent a coded message to Tara, Brittany and Penelope, with Roy. He’s decided he’d rather not make the trip. I was more relieved than surprised.
I asked how she managed to arrange for her message to be curried without being concerned that the word might get out at Irony, or that it would even be delivered. She looked at me with absolutely no expression and said, “You’d be surprised what a little threat of physical harm coupled with a blowjob can get accomplished.”