Zomblog: The Final Entry Read Free

for him, and my little pattern is turned into some sort of holy symbol with all these deep meanings. Honestly, all I tried to do was create a design that was easy to recreate, but distinct enough to recognize.
    Geez! Somebody is thinking highly of herself tonight. Right? I don’t know…maybe. Or maybe I am just being weird.
     
    Monday, January 11
     
    Finally! Some real action. Sam is such a good doggy. Eric, Sam, and I were poking around a small twenty-unit apartment complex. We were coming up pretty big with canned food and even some cleaning supplies. The Warehouse has been great about sharing the wealth, but all manufactured resouces are now very finite. You can never have enough toothpaste.
    I found a one bedroom place that obviously belonged to one of those role-playing geek-types. It seems he had a real passion for collecting a variety of actual medieval weaponry. That is why I now have a pair of curved blades sheathed on my hips. (Eric called them scimitars.) I also have a spiked-headed mace dangling from a strap on my shoulder.
    I was sitting on a rumpled bed prying open the black case that ended up revealing the scimitars. The lock wasn’t very impressive, but it still took some jimmying. I guess that is why I didn’t see the zombie walk through the front door that we’d left wide open. Eric was in the bathroom pulling stuff out of a cabinet under the sink, so he didn’t see or hear it pass him as it trudged down the hallway.
    Then Sam growled.
    I’ve gotten sloppy during all these days behind the relative safety of the walls of the Mitchell mansion or inside the confines of an armored truck. I know Sam must’ve reacted sooner, but I was in serious tunnel-vision mode as I pried open that black case.
    I looked up as the middle-aged man stumbled through the door. Sam was already at its feet, tugging on the hem of heavily frayed dress slacks. He growled louder and let loose with a single, sharp bark. I had the mace sitting on the bed beside me, so I grabbed it and brought it down hard with an overhead swing that also scraped away a bunch of that popcorn stuff that most apartments have coating the ceiling.
    Every zombie can tell a little story if you look close enough. This guy knew he was turning and tried to kill himself. His mouth is a misshapen mess. Most of his teeth are shattered, and the tongue—what is left of it—is black and crispy looking. There is a nasty hole in the back of the throat that you can see through. This poor guy tried to eat a bullet and didn’t put enough angle on the barrel of the pistol he used. He shoved that thing straight back and pulled the trigger. “How do I know it was a pistol?” you might ask. It is still dangling from his twisted and broken hand. Two years of God-knows-what has rendered the weapon useless just like most other firearms and ammo these days.
    Back to what happened…
    I brought that mace down hard on the top of the thing’s head and it shattered like an overripe melon at a Gallagher show…and stunk worse than rotten eggs. This was my first field kill since taking on The Genesis Brotherhood. It felt invigorating.
    Say what you want, and judge if you like, but THIS is where I belong. Out in the world…killing zombies. After it was over, Sam looked up at me as if to say, “Hey, lady, you better pay better attention if you want to live.” Is it natural for a dog to have what appears to be a look of disgust? I scratched those soft ears and gave him a treat from the pouch that Eric told me to carry for just such occasions.
    Searching the rest of the apartments, Sam’s hackles rose at the doors of five of them. We went in ready for a fight. I got to try out all of my new toys. Whoever that geek was, he kept his weapons in excellent condition. Those scimitar blades were sharp enough to shave with.
    We hung the banner an hour ago. Now we wait. When a vehicle passes and sees it, whoever is driving will wait five minutes. If we don’t make it to the road in