We're trying something new on the ZNN today, Amy from Subject to Change is stepping in to become our first ever guest poster which is all sorts of awesome since I'm too busy watching the Olympics to come up with anything on my own and Middle Aged Woman has been busy working on getting her first Tony. The story is not that long, but we're going to split it in two anyway since it takes up less of your blogging day. And don't worry, I'll be doing the same with my future stories as well. So here we go, part one of Survivors.
It's no surprise, really. Even with the downturn in tourism lately we still get a fuck of a lot of visitors, and by now we all know that all it takes is one.
I think it may have spread a little faster here, gone unnoticed for just a few hours longer because of the state people are typically in after a night or two in Vegas. In the beginning it's hard to tell the difference between the ones that are just strung out on all kinds of drugs, out of it because they haven't slept in more than 24 hours, and the ones that are infected. Slurred speech, impaired movements, glazed-over eyes. It all looks pretty much the same whether it's coming from a soon-to-be zombie or a junkie on his last leg. It's not until the end when you notice the difference. The junkies just die. They fall down and stay where they fell, nice and reliable. I'm sure when that first guy got back up everyone at the blackjack tables was shocked as hell. Probably stood there gawking as the thing bit the security guard who went to check on him. I heard that a few of the braver patrons and employees formed up a gang and tore the zombie apart while everyone else tried to run. Fat lot of good it'd do us in the end. It bit enough people before it stopped moving to get the ball rolling.
Maybe it really is a government conspiracy, like my husband Eric always said. Seems to me like Vegas would be a good place to drop the bomb, so to speak, what with the crowds and how fucking difficult it is to get around at the best of times. And on New Year's Eve, when the entire Strip is packed tighter than can of fucking sardines, it's the goddamn zombie version of an all-you-can-eat buffet. Add a stampeding mob to the mix and it's a wonder that even one person got far enough away from the Strip to warn anyone.
That was three days ago. My cousin Jonah and I have been holed up in the panic room that Gramps built when this whole zombie mess was just a crazed gleam in the conspiracy theorists' eyes. Most of the food he had stored down here has long since rotted away. Even canned goods don't last forever, and we spent too much time making jokes about crazy old Grandpa Jakes to pay him any mind, let alone re-stock the place. Not until it was way too late, anyway. The little bit of food that we managed to scrape together on the way here is almost gone. At least we still have plenty of water, thank God Gramps installed plumbing when he built this place.
Anyway, I figure we can hold out here for a week or two, maybe a month at the outside. You can go a month without food, I saw that on the Discovery Channel or something. By then the military should have taken care of the zombies. Nukes or napalm or whatever it is they're gonna use once they stop pretending they're looking for ways to save those of us that are left. The blockades were up not even twelve hours after that first guy got up and started munching on that security guard. They had no intention of rescue, only containment, but I understand. I'd like to say it isn't true, but I'd probably end up making the same decision if it were me out there.
My phone died today. I've been calling Eric over and over for the past four days, but he never answered. Neither did anyone else. It's probably too much to hope for that anyone I know is still alive.
I don't think we're gonna last another three weeks. We've got a day's worth of food left, maybe two if we really stretch it. Jonah's already wanting me to go outside and check on things. He says that after nine days they've long since cleaned up and gone on to deal with the next outbreak. That's how it was in New York, at least. Three days and then the whole place was up in flames, survivors be damned.
He's right, but with that broken leg he got on his way here he won't be the one putting his ass on the line. Even with the car my odds of coming back are slim, since I'd still have to get out of it to grab the food. No. Both of us can easily last another week or so and I don't want to risk it. Not just yet. I'd rather be hungry and human than risk becoming zombie bait for a few twinkies or whatever I could scrounge from the neighboring houses.
I'm so hungry. I didn't count on this. Kinda makes me wish I'd lived a little rougher as a kid, then maybe I wouldn't feel so weak from just a couple of days without eating. I'll have to go out soon because if I wait much longer I won't have enough energy left to do anything but lie here and wait for us to die.
Part two will be posted on Friday.