INTO THE ZOMBIE ZONES

ENTRY 413

INTO THE ZOMBIE ZONES

(Bolivia, North Carolina)

The men have packed up the cars with supplies for the trek.

They packed food, water, machetes, two way radios and guns.

Shelter is never an issue inside the city, now a wreck...

We have an entire city to play death tag with murderous zombie Huns!

Oh yea... supply raids into the heart of the city is suicide, at worst!

We sometimes become trapped in the infested zones for days.

Medical supplies are the items we always run out of first...

The need for peroxide and alcohol drives our maddeningly thirsty ways.

The Black Death Rains created the undead who eat the living.

We here in Bolivia aren't smart enough to know why!

What we do know is the monsters never are the ones giving!

And to remember all the death and destruction makes us all cry!

They are beeping the horns and calling for me now.

Marcus is already out there and ready to prove himself.

It is now time to close this missive with a polite bow...

And avert the frightened eyes of the women by closing in on myself.

Bolivia used to have a population of just about 150 people.

We are down to 53 proud, but frightened, humans now.

Jason, up high and watching for danger, in the church Steeple...

Has given the whistle of clearance for us to leave town.

I hope to write my next entry very soon...

But the danger of driving into the zombie unknown is numbing, my Lord.

My fingers are beginning to tremble like a wobbly Loon...

So here we come, Wilmington, to again confront the zombie hoard!

SEM



INTRODUCTION TO THE POETRY OF ZOMBIES

ENTRY 54

INTRODUCTION TO THE POETRY OF ZOMBIES

(Bolivia, North Carolina)

Allow me to introduce myself again! I am Samuel Elliot Matthews. My son’s name is Marcus. We live, along with a small community of survivors, behind barbed wire walls. We venture outside the gates and other fencing only occasionally. Death, and horror, awaits all who freely walk the out lands. They are hidden out there, waiting for us to make a mistake, so that they can pounce upon us, kill us and then eat us. There’s no cat and mouse activities here… this is hunter hunting prey hunting prey hunting hunter!

These are the diary entry recountings of some of my days, and adventures, in poetry forms. If you’re reading this, my one piece of advice to you is… “Don’t repeat the mistakes I’ve made.”

***

What the Federal government called "The Fog of the Rebirth of Death" arose up from suddenly activated Craters of the Moon volcano park in mid-summer, in Idaho, 10 years ago. The inky black mist bellowed up from several of the Lava Tube Caves like oily exhaust from a broken down car. By the time Federal Government mandated Core of Engineers plugged the caves, two months later, with tons of liquid concrete… the sky above half of the Northern Hemisphere was darkened with the substance.

As the rains came, washing the horror-making stuff down into the soil… the dead began to arise first in America, then around the world, to hunt down and eat anything mammalian. The living are seemingly unaffected… but with death, humans rise up to kill the living!

Half of the worlds population must be dead and re-killed by the living, by now. We lost scientists, politicians, teachers, doctors, engineers, pilots… and many more people that helps to run a society. We are getting by, but the zombie attackers continue to come in waves and survival becomes more difficult every day. But, we are survivors.

Again, these are my stories, put to poems… and I hope what I write will eventually help others to survive their part of the zombie madness.

SEM



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE

ENTRY 412

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE

(Bolivia, North Carolina)

I allowed Marcus the right to handle my .44 Magnum today.

He turned 12 Monday, three days ago...

The pressure on me to teach him how to shoot the living dead was overbearing.
And now... that time has finally come to him.

He is as tall as I am now... a huge kid,

And his hands are as big as mine.

He ran through the main gate yesterday,

 When he noticed his dog had somehow slipped through the fence.

We all watch in abject horror as he single-handily beat back the zombie hoard...

While scooping up his dog with his free left hand.

He ran back to the gate to be let back inside as though nothing had happened.

What the hell could I say?

He had just breached the Zombie Apocalypse Rubicon --

Him smiling at me,

While stroking that dog,

As if they has simply gone out for a walk.

Marcus is not yet a man!

But, he has the size of a man...

With the impulse control of a 12 year old anxious to kill zombies.

He was one years old when the world became hell.

I  can no longer pretend that he is my little baby boy!

So, today we practiced shooting wooden figures.

Tomorrow, much to my waining chagrin,

We will take him out for our next Wilmington supply hunt.

He reminds me, every day, that we use his dog as an alarm!

Tomorrow, I will see just just how close to being a man he is!
He will take the dog along with us.
Responsibility learned... for his dog, himself, me and everybody else, to be a man!

SEM