Herbert Moleville - 6. Lonigan's Congregation

In an attempt to get out of the cold and wind, Herbert and Upton take refuge inside an echoey old church. In the sanctuary, Herbert finds that a hellfire and brimstone preacher is delivering a sermon to a single but devoted follower. Amen.

Herbert Moleville - 5. Out on the Streets

Upton and the hobo explore their new surroundings, looking for anything useful to aid them on their quest for survival.

Herbert Moleville - 4. Into the Abandoned City

Best if listened to through headphones!

When the power in the derelict hotel fails, Upton Downing and Herbert Moleville must either attempt to fix the backup generator, or flee into the wastes of their ruined city.

Edward Mulligan - Fort Citgo

And so the worst has happened. Some untold calamity has befallen the world and turned the population into zombies. Even now I sit blockaded in my tiny fortress, which in reality is the back room of an abandoned gas station, with no company but a record player with a single record, which I have played constantly, afraid of the silence.

Up until now I have managed to remain undiscovered, but yesterday I ran short of water and ventured out into the store to retrieve a few bottles. The display was by the front window and as I passed by the opening I was spotted by one of the creatures. It came at me and I shot my .38 through the glass. It fell lifeless to the ground, but others heard the shot. They have the place surrounded, now, and have already made two separate attempts to get at me. Both times I fought them off, but my supply of ammunition is running low. I have but six shots remaining, five for the enemy…and the last for me. I don’t believe I could stand to have them kill me, to feel their hands upon me, ripping me apart while I still lived. The thought if it chills my blood.

But here they come again, at least a dozen of them, six more than I have shots. Assuming I don’t miss, that will leave six more after the gun is empty…is it possible I could fight the other six without the revolver? We shall see. Taking one’s own life was always taught to me to be a sin. I do have a baseball bat, leaning in the corner. Perhaps that will…

And that’s one. A headshot, the most effective way to bring down a zombie. So far, so good. Damn! Missed that last one. A waste on that last bullet. I should have saved it for myself after all. Too late now. It’s just me and the Louisville Slugger.

They’re all at the door now…

Herbert Moleville - 3. Found a Buddy

Dear Back of the Hotel Owner's Button Up Shirt,

They was a lot more excitement today than I'm accustomed to, but I made it through okay. Looks like you got a little bit ripped, but that ain't nothing we can't set right with a little bit of twine or balin' wire. When a fella's been on the street as long as I have, he learns how to make his possessions last. Keep 'em durable and whatnot.

Masking tape. Masking tape's good for a lot of things. Like broken bones or a sandwich if sometimes a body's particular hungry.

It turns out that hotel with the light on in the window weren't empty. I suppose I could have ciphered that sooner if I'd a set my mind to it, but I figured the answers would come on they own soon enough. And they did. No sense in makin' more work for yourself.

I'd just gotten to my favorite part in my pancake dream; the part where I'm hollerin' and slidin' down a stack of pancakes big as tarps on a giant pat of butter, when alla sudden I felt this powerful pain in my head. It felt like someone'd given me a crack on the dome with a broomstick.

'Course, that brought me to pretty quick, and I opened my eyes. Standin' over me was this fella holding a broomstick. It were pretty dark in that lobby, and kinda dusty too, but I could make out that he was wearin' glasses and a pretty fancy shirt without no ketchup marks on it. I figured this fella was the owner of this establishment, and I'd better come over all contrite and sorrowful if I didn't want to get chucked in the clink.

Then I thought that bein in jail wouldn't be so bad. I hear they gots beds in there with actual springs. So then I thought that maybe I oughta maybe make a lunge at this fancy man. You know, jump at him and holler "oogitty boogitty boo!" to put a little scare in him and make him phone up the sheriff.

But you know how it is. A body just been waked up ain't a body good at mullin' things over quick like that. All I managed to get out was some garglin'. Something like "Gimme back my pancake stickies!" or similar. Ain't real sure, on accounta the sleepiness and that crack on the head.

The feller drops back a little and hugs his broomstick like it were his last friend on Earth, or it were filled with Skittles. "What're you doing here?" he said. Demanded, really, and that's when I knew he had to be the owner of this place.

I told him I didn't mean no harm, and was about to go on and tell him I'd be on my way, when he interrupted. Just said "any" and stopped. I didn't really know what to make of that, since it ain't every day a fella interrupts you to just say the one word. I knew a fella what did, though. Burt. Burt liked to argue with telephone poles. He eventually got hit by a bus, I think.

We was gettin' on fairly well, what with the owner not tryin to throw me out, and talking about his Connecticut grandma and tellin' me he ain't mean no harm neither, when alla sudden the big window up front of the lobby goes kablooey. Glass all over the floor. And you know what? All because some fella just walked right through it! Busted right through. Tore his face up pretty good, by the look of him. He's standin' there groanin' up a storm, glass all in his hair, and damned if I don't recognize him!

"Burt!"

Burt turned his head slow and looked at me. His eyes weren't how I remember 'em. They was all clouded over, like ol' Blind Floyd's eyes, and his nose weren't there no more either. He probably lost it when he smashed in the window.

Also, he smelled like he been sleepin' in a gas tank, which was about the only thing about Burt that seemed familiar.

Well, the hotel owner just loses it right about now. He screams and shouts and starts swingin' his broomstick. He's got his eyes closed, and he's not movin' or nothin'. Got his back in a corner and he's shrieking and flailin', so Burt starts over to take a look. Burt also ain't got no left foot, I see, which is one fewer than I remember him havin'.

I figure I'd best step in about now. The owner looked pretty upset, and I thought Burt and I would do best to be on our way. I'd gather up Burt's missin' appendages and we'd get some masking tape somewhere and set him right.

I went to turn on the light so I could see.

There was a lamp what was missing its shade on a table next to Burt. When I flipped the switch, the bulb popped and there was a big ol' spark.

And wouldn't you know it? That spark set Burt on fire. Lit him up real good, on account'a all the gasoline on him.

I seen folks on fire before, and none of 'em was quiet about it. Burt didn't even act like he noticed. Just stumped another couple steps before fallin' over, and that was it. It was pretty sorrowful and all, and when I see sorrowful things, I wanna do the sensible thing and sleep it off. I was gonna head back over to the sofa and brush some of the glass off and have a nap when the owner grabs me by the arm.

"Thank heavens I was able to think fast," he shouts, all red-faced and sweaty. "That creature would have done considerable harm to us I am certain. It appears that structural weaknesses in this establishment will be our undoing if left unrectified. We must create a sizeable barricade!"

He starts tryin' to push a book case, but it ain't budging.

"You there, apply your storied hobo strength to this. If I provide the direction and you provide the unskilled kinetics, we may yet survive. Hop to it!"

Well, I pushed and shoved 'til I was totally wore out, and we got a whole mess of furniture stacked in front of the windows and the door. It didn't seem normal for a hotel owner to pile up his nice chairs and tables in such a manner, but this fellow must be able to afford new ones if these get broke.

"Whew! That ought to prove sturdy enough for now," he said. "I shall retire to my room, where I believe a relaxing shower is in order."

Then he took off his fancy shirt and handed it to me.

"See that this is laundered, and keep a watchful eye out for intruders," he said.

Upton C. Downing - 3. Contact

It wouldn't be quite accurate to say I was afraid. No, no. After all, a man of my superior intellect has little reason to be afraid. Even if the noises below were made by unfriendly sources I would likely not sustain harm. Sharp intellect will always trump brute force.

I walked slowly from my room and paused on the landing outside my door. I heard nothing more, except a low growling noise. Perhaps an animal had found its way inside the hotel and was looking for food. Animals could be dangerous, as there is no way to reason with the beasts. I would have to proceed with caution.

This I did, creeping down the stairs, having first raided the upstairs housekeeping closet for a broom with a sturdy wooden handle. I held the broom in front of me as I descended, identically mimicking a defensive martial arts stance I'd seen in a documentary.

The lobby was gloomy, full of shadows, and eerily quiet. The growling noises had subsided and I stood still to listen. Then I heard it again. I turned my head, trying to pinpoint the location of the sound. It seemed to be coming from the far side of the room, behind the couch I had shoved against the door in a fleeting moment of panic, back when I first realized I was alone.

I tightened my grip on the broomstick--from caution only, not fear--and stepped lightly forward. The seat of the couch was turned away, preventing me from seeing what lurked on the far side. I knew I had no choice. I must go on the offensive and take whatever it was by surprise.

With this firmly in mind, I lunged around the side of the couch, swinging the broomstick down with all my considerable strength.

"Take that, you villain!" I shouted.

"Greemabolleemodgaphay!" my opponent shrieked.

I somehow managed to check the powerful blow and stopped the broomstick mere inches from the head of a scraggly, ill-kempt homeless fellow, whose snores had sounded amazingly like the growls of a wild beast.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded.

"Charmamottlefrum." Obviously, the fool was still in shock.

"Stop babbling and answer me, you cretin," I said, hoping to jar him to his meager senses.

"Jus' restin' my eyes a spell. I don't mean no harm."

"Any harm."

"Eh?"

"The correct grammar is, 'I don't mean any harm.'"

"Glad ta hear it," the man said. "Cuz I don't mean no harm, either. Guess we'll git along jus' fine, then!"

I was about to correct him again, this time with the broomstick, when the large front window shattered into countless pieces and someone--something--charged into the room. It appeared to be a man, but it stood half bent over like an animal and emitted low, gurgling, growling noises. Blood covered its face and dripped from its mouth...and it looked at us with, dare I say, hunger in its soulless eyes.

Harold - Fragment

[Transcript of found diary entry. Author presumed deceased.]



Dear Samantha,

This will probably be the last you hear from me. Before I go any further, I just want you to know that I've always loved you more than words can adequately resolve, and that even our children were occasionally pleasant.

Except for Zack. He was way smellier than he should have been.

Through judicious boarding of the windows and a good supply of canned food and bottled water, I have managed to survive thus far. The details of my countermeasures and diet I have already explained in previous letters, so I will not go into it again. But, let me tell you, if I somehow live to see tomorrow, I will never mock bottled water again!

However, tonight things have taken a turn for the worse. They know I'm in here. More have come, and they have gathered in the yard, surrounding the house and pressing in. What is worse, they seem to have figured out how to use tools. Until now, all they've done is beat against the walls with their fists and heads. Now they're using...the fists and heads of other people. I'm afraid that their crude and grisly clubs have proven effective against my plywood.

Uh oh. That didn't sound good. A splintery crunch, a bang and...could it be? Triumphant groaning! Soon they will be in the house. I must brace myself.

Shit. Here comes one now. You'll never take me alive, red-shirted face eater! YAAAH! Take that!

I've just brained one with a drinking glass. These creatures (who were once human, I believe) have remarkable stamina, and they seem impervious to pain. This makes them very hard to incapacitate. The blow I have most recently delivered (you will recall it was with a drinking glass) has shattered the glass and brought the fellow to his knees, but he is still doggedly chewing on my ankle.

Stop that, you brute! I poked him between the eyes with a shard of glass, but to no avail.

I might be more effective against the onslaught of the ravening hordes if I were to stop typing this letter, so that is what I shall do.

If you and the kids survive and find this missive, know that I tried. And tell Zack that yes, I do have a favorite, and it's not him.

Your husband,
--Harold


[Transcript ends.]