The Dead Among Us (Chapter 4: Smitten)
It's been four weeks since we took over. I won't even bother writing down the times I put in entries; I've lost track. We have to take inventory today. Then Jack and I have to go over plans to extend the walls out to Crabbe, if we can. We've had relatively no trouble with the Infected. Shaun (now our official scout) tells me that it took him going all the way into Bridlewood to find any thing that moved. We're managing to keep the generators working. The Army Corps of Engineers did right when they designed this place; it's all hydro-electrically and solar powered. Mostly solar, but the margin isn't too significant. If all else fails though, we always have gasoline. Not for too long; after a while, gas tends to congeal and separate into dirty water and an almost napalm-like jelly. I guess all we'd have to do is stir it back together or something, but I wouldn't know because I've never tried. I tried to talk to Gale this morning about years past. He won't. It's like he's ashamed of what we once had. And I know what he and Jack did, too. Jack doesn't know, but I've considered telling him. At the same time, I don't think I should. I mean, that would ruin all three of them: Jack, Caro, and Gale. And me. They wouldn't talk to me. Gale has been elected to be our radio personality, however. Basically, we'll record daily tapes and broadcast them on as many frequencies as we possibly can. We'll have to work on strengthening the broadcasting dishes, because so far, they can only reach out to about College Station. We need everyone to know. We need them to know that this is where humanity can take refuge and rebuild itself to take back the world. It's our world. All those shamblers are dead. Jack's going to be going to be teaching more people to fly helicopters. We have more birds here than we do pilots, but more tank drivers than operational AFVs. We've got two Abrams tanks, and maybe six or seven Bradleys, but maybe a platoon's worth of drivers. Ridiculous, right?I walk past Jack at some point, and catch his tail playfully. He spins around, smirking me, asking me what the hell I'm doing, going at a claimed man. "I dunno," I say. "Taking what's rightfully mine?" I added a little wink with that one. Jack scoffed, rolling his eyes. His smile was gone."Yeah right," he retorted. "You keep on thinking that, partner, but touch me again like that and I'll kick your ass, again." He moseyed on off with a snarl, leaving me hanging. I sighed. What's wrong with me?If it's not the wrong choice of action, it's the wrong choice of words. Somewhere, somehow, I'm always screwing up something. I feel like shit. I need a drink, or a cigar, or something. Or Gale. But of course, that'll never happen, any of that. I feel like he hates me. But whatever. I take a breath and keep on walking. I've got more important things to worry about. Repairs on the reception are currently
underway. We had a nasty storm come through two days ago, and a lightning bolt actually HIT the reception office. Amazingly, the only person in the building was Jack. Figures, I guess. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice, but what about the same person? You see, back when we were in the Army, Jack and I, and when he was under my command, we got captured by a bunch of towelheads. They tried to squeeze information out of us, but we gave them nothing. They threatened to torture Jack if I didn't tell them anything they wanted to know. In my heart, I knew I had to stop them, but my brain told me it wasn't my decision, it was my country's. They tied Jack to a post and started fucking WHIPPING HIM. All over his back and his belly. They wouldn't stop except to question him, and all he said was his name, his rank, and his unit. Kept screaming it when they started to beat him again. "Jonathan Murray Taylor, Chief Warrant Officer, One Hundred Sixty Ess Eff Ai Are!!" Kept screaming, over and over and over. To this day, it still haunts me. After they were finished with him and found they couldn't get anything out of him, they tied him up to a lightning rod and stuck him on top of a fucking mountain. Just left him there for two days while a storm passed through. When they came back, he was unconscious. They had brought me along, and when I ran for him, they laughed. Laughed, dammit. And apparently, they didn't search Jack very well, nor provide a decent entourage; only two men. Jack had a knife inside his boot, and I knew he always hid one there. I managed to slip it out, and made it look like I was kissing his foot-- a sign of homage-- before slipping the knife into my left paw. They came over to get him down and try to see if he was dead (which I let them think) and I took the chance to stab them both, one after the other. I got him out of there and picked up a rifle. Jack was out cold, but I carried him over my back and had one free arm, and just started running as fast as I could, in no direction in particular. I just had to get him out of there.We made it home safely, and they discharged Jack. I stayed a little longer to finish my contract, and we got back together in Houston. The rest is history.I hold Jack in high respects. Him, and Gale. Both have achieved so much, both have earned what they have, except Jack. He didn't deserve any of this. I feel guilty to this day, because I feel as though it was my fault what those freaks did to him. I just now shook my head and shivered. I can't believe I'm thinking of this again. I get down to the reception area, and I see three or four troops shingling the ruined roof. It felt good to see such hardworking men helping to fix this place up. It proved to me that people actually care about what we have here. Besides, these men are duty- and honor-bound to make sure this place makes it. Not sure what to do with myself, I decided to head back to
my old house and just sit down on the porch. I sighed, plucking a cigar out of my shirt pocket and chewing on it gently before lighting it with a match and puffing softly. It was a beautiful day, and I felt the best thing for me now would be to just sit down and enjoy it. Not a bad idea, am I right?I am tired. Beyond tired. I get hardly any sleep these days. Things keep coming back to haunt me. My chief, I remember him getting swarmed. His screams... But at the same time, those pitiful wails were...Satisfying.My chief was a little fat runt who did nothing good for the department. They were going to fire him anyway, but then he got eaten. Fitting, I suppose.