Journal Enties of Gabriel Shaw

[Justice911]

EOW - End of World - Journal of Gabriel Shaw – survivor.


I'd lost track of time. Days turned to weeks – but time has become fragmented – my recent memories seem more like bits of reflected images on shattered glass than tangible moments. Alone and with my supplies dwindling, I located a rowboat along a shore and pushed out into the water. I had resigned myself to an end at sea. I was so at ease with the idea that I slept as I hadn’t slept in a long time. I didn’t care if I drowned. There was something peaceful in considering such a death, fear being replaced by a certain sense of dignity. Better to die this way, than in the myriad horrific ways I had witnessed in recent times.

I woke to rain. To my surprise, I was drenched. The small boat was filling with water. It scared me, until I noticed I’d run aground on the shore. I looked around, counting myself lucky for not having come across one of the Mansons. It was the name I’d taken to calling the infected, savage, things that roamed the landscape. Where it concerns my sense of humor, I have never been accused of good taste. Initially, they’d reminded me of the queued masses at one of my book tours, but somehow it seemed unfair to compare what had been annoyances in my former life with these twisted creatures. I grabbed what was salvageable from the boat and ran onto the beach and then onto a coastal road. After a while I came across a sprawling city. Not the kind of city I’d come to know in the States but for this small nation it was a metropolis. I passed a wrecked hotel, demolished by an airliner of all things. I said a prayer for the lost souls and moved on to a police station.

The station seemed deserted. I entered and searched the various rooms looking for anything useful. Eventually, I ended up on the roof. I walked the perimeter searching the immediate vicinity for other survivors or any sign of the Mansons. I saw nothing, but from the darkness of the stairwell behind me I heard a voice, “Don’t move,” it commanded.

Stupidly, I turned and stared into the darkness. “Not going anywhere.”

“Get down on the ground.”

I dropped to my knees.

“All the way down,” the voice commanded again – this time sounding annoyed. I went down onto my belly and lay unmoving.

Satisfied that I was no longer a threat the man moved onto the roof and approached his rifle at the ready. “Name?” he asked.

“Gabriel,” I answered shivering.

In the dusky darkness, I could see that the man was dressed in the type of vest that so many journalists wore in all of the embed television footage I’d viewed from various Middle Eastern war zones. There was little doubt that this was not somebody affiliated with a media outfit.

“Well Gabriel,” he said calmly. “I don’t intend to kill you.” He walked nearer and examined my gear, regarding it with what seemed pity. “Instead, I’d like you to deliver a message to the marshals.”

“I can do that,” I whispered.

Here the memory becomes less clear. A mixture of fear and adrenaline makes for a pretty heady cocktail and so I can’t be blamed for having a less than stellar recollection, but the man mentioned something about, “No body. No crime.” I thought he’d said it was his name – but unless the man was certifiable – I can’t believe I heard him right.
He looked around seeming unconcerned with me at this point, likely content in the knowledge that I had no manner of weapon within my possession with which to take him on. “Tell the marshals, I have a surprise for them.”

The way he said it indicated that he wanted me to acknowledge that I was going to deliver that message correctly.
“I’ll tell them that… no body no crime, has a surprise for them.”

He’d already stepped back several paces but the grin was unmistakable. This pigeon would carry his message. “I’m going to leave now. You’re not to move until I’ve been gone for several minutes. Any sooner and I’ll finish you.”

I nodded. A sense of relief allowed the fear of this confrontation to take hold. My head dropped, my face pressing hard against the asphalt sheeting that served as the station’s roof. I took in shallow breaths and did not move for what seemed a long while. When I finally felt that the man was long gone, I made my way down to the lower level and out onto the street where I sat gulping in the cool night air.

As I composed myself, my mind screamed chastisements – You God damned fool! Get the hell out of this city – take to the hills and leave the world behind! The world has left you, return the favor! I looked into the distance, seeing mountains and trees, it seemed as good an idea as I’d had to this point. I’d leave the remains of the cities and towns to the vultures that invariably circled such carnage. I would take my chances alone out in the hinter rather than compete with the cockroaches that inhabited these ruins. It was a resolve that took hold of me and set my feet to moving. Strange how the best laid plans are oft set to ruin by the smallest turns of fate. I’d gone only a few miles when from the darkness another man emerged. He did not brandish a weapon. Instead he seemed relieved to have wandered across another survivor. “Truxtun’s the name,” he said offering his hand.

[Justice911]

EOW Journal Continuing – Gabriel Shaw

Truxtun and I journeyed from the city of Cherno – leaving behind the wasteland rabble that picked over the detritus like carrion. Eventually, we stopped in a small village and took shelter in a well-stocked house. Truxtun built a fire and I catalogued the remnants of a life. Whoever had lived in the tiny house had been well prepared for the cataclysm that was the end of the world. There were ample supplies. The occupant could have made a good long stand – but there are many facets to surviving. Facing the day knowing that the world is inhabited by things once human but now so inhumane is a bitter pill. Thoughts of escape from the waking nightmare that was the day to day had entered my mind more often than I liked and I had little doubt that the former occupant of our tiny refuge had been overcome by such notions. Looking out into the night, I could envision a short lonely walk to the tree line – a quick twitch of a finger and reality would fade into nothingness. I knew what it was like to envy the dead. Who was I to judge?

Truxtun pulled me back from my thoughts with a nudge. He handed me a plate of beans that he had cooked on the fire and we spent the evening picking through the items that I had gathered and neatly laid out on the tables, countertops and bookshelves. We spoke occasionally, but of things insignificant. He had heard of a so-called Green Zone to the east. According to rumor, it was a place where civility and law remained despite civilizations decay. The thought intoxicated me. I did not want to wander the waste. Truxtun however, did not follow-up his statement with any kind of affirmation that he too felt the same. In our travels I had come to know him, not as one might in the old sense – but as we all knew one another in the here and now. He was an able survivalist. He was content to run the void. He had no delusions of anything better. He had acquired a tent and I knew that he would break for a place and make camp – his self-assurance was yet another thing to be envied.
In the morning I woke to Truxtun securing his gear. His pack was a work of geometric efficiency, weight balanced throughout making it easier to carry. He would be heading out, foraging for more supplies. I had a couple of cans of food, two canteens of water an assortment of light weapons and most important of all a compass. I would not be following the stars or the sun, that sort of thing may as well have been witchcraft to me. I’ll likely need to embrace such quaint notions should I survive long enough – but not today.

Truxtun pulled his pack up onto his back and checked his weapons. They were loaded and ready. “I’ll be heading to the northwest. The map that I found in the supplies here shows that there is a military facility and an airfield in that direction and it’s not too far. I’ll be slow. I intend to search from house to house on my way. When you gather yourself, follow.” It was a simple kindness on his part, his way of saying goodbye without actually uttering the words. I rose and extended my hand. He grabbed it and shook it hard. His eyes looked to the floor. From the moment he had mentioned the rumor of a Green Zone, he knew I’d go – that simple utterance splitting our small alliance. He walked out the door and down the stairs. I watched him from the window as he moved from house to house, making his way up the street. I hoped to run into him again someday.

I tried to emulate Truxtun’s packing ability but my attempt was a miserable facsimile. I heaved the gear onto my back, checked my weapons and headed out to the east. My journey was uneventful. I stuck to dirt roads or followed train tracks taking compass headings as best I could to maintain some semblance of direction. To my relief there were sufficient supplies along the route to sustain me as I made my way. I stayed away from other groups I encountered on the way, ducking into tree lines and houses as needed. I had no intention of becoming a victim en route to the Green Zone. I was well supplied and that made me a target for those who found themselves desperate.

Days passed, until finally I arrived in a town that had all of the hallmarks of a Green Zone. The streets were quiet and some of the businesses while closed appeared to be clean and occupied. What I could not understand was where all of the people were. If this was indeed a safe zone, wouldn’t it be more active? A sinister thought came to mind. The people here could have been overrun by the Mansons or perhaps bandits – but if that was the case, where were the bodies? I arrived at the center of the town and entered the police station. There was nobody there either. I walked to the roof and popped a flare – then ran down the stairs and out onto the street. I took up a position in an alley and waited to see what the light pulled in from the surrounding area. I did not wait long.

Two men approached from the south, one in a cowboy hat – the other in a camouflage head gear that made him look more plant than man. I know there is a technical term for this military garb – but long gone is the writer’s crutch known as Google. They took up positions at the front of the station, with me to their backs. The plant man spoke, “Anybody in the police station? Hello?” They were well outfitted, looking nourished and more importantly, sane.

“Behind you,” I said. They jumped at hearing my voice and turned, their weapons at the ready. I should have killed them straight away – but it isn’t in my nature. The events that followed have caused me to reconsider said nature.

They came at me stating that they were Green Zone officials of a sort. They wanted me to lower my weapon, which I did. They took up positions around me. My conscience immediately mocked me, memories of my last encounter in a town coming to the fore. Short lived was my resolve to stay away – but the idea of a safe haven was too enticing. The plant man spoke, “What is your name?”

“Shaw.”

“I’m Wilkes Boothe and this is Jacob,” the plant replied pleasantly enough. “We’re officials of the Green Zone and we need to check you out. Remove your backpack.”

“I won’t be doing that,” I replied.

Plant man grew agitated. His eyes moved to the other man, the one he had indicated was Jacob. Jacob said nothing. This Jacob seemed something of a submissive to Wilkes Boothe’s dominant. I shuddered at the thought of what these two got up to when they weren’t shaking down suckers like me who were naïve enough to think that any semblance of decency remained in this world. “I want that backpack! I need that backpack!”

The notion seemed so idiotic. It was nothing more than a sack that had been rigged with sticks and duct tape – but it contained all I had left in the world. I quickly came to realize it was just a reason for the next action. A searing pain as the mute gimp Jacob fired a round into my leg. I fell to the ground in agony, my backpack spilling onto me as I hit the pavement. My arms were pulled tight behind me and I was restrained. The plant man loomed over me. “I told you to give me that backpack!” He made a gesture and the submissive pulled bandages from my pack and actually started to patch my wound to staunch the bleeding. I have to admit – this frightened me more than the idea that I would soon be dead. I had no idea why they would administer first aid, other than I find myself some sort of hostage. I was stripped of my pants, my gear being picked over by the two men. I passed out, the last words I remember coming from plant man, “Remember, we didn’t kill you.”

I must have come to fairly soon, my vision was blurry and I was still tied. I struggled for a long while but managed to free myself. In a haze I picked up what supplies I could, the pack and most of my weapons were gone – along with a glow plug – I had a strange sense of pity for it, my delirious mind going to a place that made me laugh to crying. I kneeled in the street weeping and laughing – blood loss will do that to you. I literally slithered off into the night, dragging myself away from that place. It has taken me a long time to recuperate – the events of this entry occurring at the very least days ago. I have no real gauge for time as I have been in and out of consciousness. I managed to tend my wounds, fashion a splint and to find enough grubs and water to sustain me. Mayhaps I did learn a thing or two from my time with Truxtun. Perhaps I am not as feeble as I thought. Of course, the matter of my survival might also be chalked up to the fact that the psychotics I encountered in Svet were less inclined to kill than indulge a bit of sadism.

Whatever the reason for my survival I will not take it for granted. I will warn off those that wander toward Svet seeking refuge. The Green Zone was not just a rumor – it was a hoax. The town seems more a paddock. Cattle are lured in, its streets the chute – but the end is certain. Be it villain or vigilante, unwashed hate or righteous paranoia – invariably your fate in the place known as Svet is assured. Your fate is suffering.