Fields of Rot Read Free Page A

brainstem capable of drafting this sort of plan.
     
    I still don’t know how James managed to get caught (I gave up trying to talk to him). Somehow James ended up right next to me, bound by rope and teased by the redneck. Then came the beatings. Frequently throughout the night, the door would open and the sound of metal scraping across cement would ring in my ear. A hard force would beat against my chest, my legs, and shoulders. How we managed to escape was merely by chance. James used a metal shard to cut through the rope, and once we were free, the redneck had not the slightest chance in hell.
     
    James found his bass outside the shed. Full of rage, he wanted to storm the house for any like-minded people, but I convinced him otherwise. We were lucky to escape, and I would rather chance against zombies than with another human encounter.
     
    From this entry alone, it is obvious that we made it back to the garage, and that I found my bag left alone where I stashed it. My laptop and cell phone, however, were taken. I can’t even imagine what we will do now that we’ve lost our only means of guidance. Metallica’s Fade to Black suddenly comes to mind, and as the night grows dark, I wait to the sound of a static radio.
     
     
     
     
     
    Entry Twelve, 12/23/14
     
    My hand is trembling as I scribble this. I can’t control the fear, the inevitability of death has become more and more apparent. I sit on the floor with my head placed against the wall in a room complete with darkness. I stare at the shotgun, realizing that the final shell better be the only one needed. I hope he doesn’t come here. I hope that thing stays where we left him, beaten down in the garage, but I don’t think he will. Why do I doubt so much? Why must I be so fucking pessimistic?
     
    James stares through the peephole, scoping for any signs for the things approach. He whispers a string of trash under his breath, and though it lightens the situation, the knob in front of me continues to turn.
     
     
     
     
    Entry Fourteen, 12/26/14
     
    This house has been compromised, but not by zombies, not even another one of those transparent motherfuckers, but by people. Sad that I would rather deal with the undead than another living person, but they show know sign of being trustworthy. Like a pack of wild dogs, the gang walks through the house following the behavior of their alpha. They talk of slaughter, zombie carnage, and of monstrosities I wouldn’t ever want to encounter.
     
    Fucking shit! There are in the room, right now.
     
    They grabbed some of the gear stashed in this cluttered room and left. Laughing, drinking, the crew went outside to fire shots at the wandering dead, not at all concern of the repercussions. I’m surprised they haven’t spotted me under the bed.
     
     
     
     
    Entry Fifteen, 12/27/14
     
    James saved my ass, once again. He led the group to believe that something was amiss, and with the backdoor left wide open, the fuckers didn’t stop for a second guess. That’s why they went outside shooting their rifles like a group of Rambos. But where James saved my ass, I was quick enough to grab some of the supplies they had stockpiled: a box of shotgun shells, a handful of snacks, and several bottles of water. James wanted to steal the Jeep, but the sight of the cluttered street, which appeared more and more like a war zone, changed his mind.
     
    I still think foot is the best means of travel for the moment, but the strain aggravated James to the point to where he was beginning to question our direction. He was too antsy to control, and my stern reminder of the massing undead did nothing in the end. He abandoned cover to gain a sense of direction. Following his sorry ass, we gathered at the back of a convenient store and watched as cop cars drove by as if racing for a rescue. The cruisers plowed several zombies. One of them crashed directly into the thick wave, whereas the others headed for the parking lots, dodging clusters