sorts. Be it in the image of their creator, if you believe, and if you do not, a church that exerts control and taxes on people’s lives through consistent messaging and inconsistent behaviour.
"God, gods, leaders, movie-stars, kings, queens-" Then it came to me: there was a controller. Zombies are normally about viral-self sustainment, but this was about personal preservation. If you looked at what had transpired, spreading the virus was not on their minds, nor was feasting on flesh. The chits had to have something to do with that. Something had made it about preservation and they were being managed and rewarded by what mattered to them.
As the fire did its work, I ran inside, excited. I had it. "A controller!"
I left one fire to go to another. While I had a spark of thought I didn’t have electricity. So the firelight by the hearth was my light and company that evening. I sat in my cane chair and began to write. Old-school pen and paper were used to make notes on what had happened. If I was to be ended I could only hope that, while big Internet had failed, the raw words and meanings in a journal may help others like me. I had a new project and, like a spark in me, a new fire was lit. Something amazing was happening and I didn’t even know what it was just yet. Isolated, up there in the mountains, I knew there was a whole world out there and change had come to me. I had survived but the world out there called to me to find out more. Going to all my windows, I manually cranked all of the formerly electric shutters that were like blast-doors or the doors to modern mechanic’s garage. I locked and bolted my doors. My home, my fortress, was just so perfect in many ways. The nightly lock-up was a safe, familiar routine which helped me prepare for sleep, on a normal night that is. I sat down again, picking up where I left off.
I would chronicle and journal a scientific explanation of zombies, what I knew, what I had seen and maybe, just maybe, this information would be shared with someone else who could benefit. I wasn’t going to give up on Charlemagne’s dream of the Great Library of Wonder. Internet or not, I would do my little part for leaving some knowledge for others. While the current distribution network for information was dead, I resigned myself to the fact that I would find ways of sharing the knowledge and trying to make contact with other survivors. This close encounter with the unknown, speaking zombies was almost as exciting as meeting an alien being. "Too bad we wanted to kill each other," I thought.
The whole situation over the past 12 hours was an excuse for the inevitable; I had to get out there again. It was almost like the zeal my dad described of 1995 when the Internet and e-mail arrived, or the horror the Great Change itself and I was part of it. I had a bath and thought about things as I poured buckets of warm water over my head. I had heated the water over my fire into the old-style but very modern bathtub. "Old meets new, Jesse. Old meets new," the thought was an interesting one.
As I supplied water to my tub I thought about the supply of something. “What was it that the zombies supplied to their controller, the person writing those chits? And what was it that the controller used to control the zombies? Were the zombies being controlled to go get supplies or eliminate competition?" I needed to know. After a good wash, I got into a stolen/perhaps purchased hotel robe. "Nah, it is stolen," I mused to myself. The tradition of stealing bathrobes had certainly not changed, zombie apocalypse or not. I lay in my bed, burning candle after candle, writing my journal. It needed a name: The Alpine View of the Zombie Apocalypse. It was quirky, almost academic and included a double meaning. I liked my own work and the candle went out. Outside the fire still raged. I would then try to sleep, but that didn’t go well.
Nightmares of the faces of the taken, zombie and human alike plagued my slumber.
"God, gods, leaders, movie-stars, kings, queens-" Then it came to me: there was a controller. Zombies are normally about viral-self sustainment, but this was about personal preservation. If you looked at what had transpired, spreading the virus was not on their minds, nor was feasting on flesh. The chits had to have something to do with that. Something had made it about preservation and they were being managed and rewarded by what mattered to them.
As the fire did its work, I ran inside, excited. I had it. "A controller!"
I left one fire to go to another. While I had a spark of thought I didn’t have electricity. So the firelight by the hearth was my light and company that evening. I sat in my cane chair and began to write. Old-school pen and paper were used to make notes on what had happened. If I was to be ended I could only hope that, while big Internet had failed, the raw words and meanings in a journal may help others like me. I had a new project and, like a spark in me, a new fire was lit. Something amazing was happening and I didn’t even know what it was just yet. Isolated, up there in the mountains, I knew there was a whole world out there and change had come to me. I had survived but the world out there called to me to find out more. Going to all my windows, I manually cranked all of the formerly electric shutters that were like blast-doors or the doors to modern mechanic’s garage. I locked and bolted my doors. My home, my fortress, was just so perfect in many ways. The nightly lock-up was a safe, familiar routine which helped me prepare for sleep, on a normal night that is. I sat down again, picking up where I left off.
I would chronicle and journal a scientific explanation of zombies, what I knew, what I had seen and maybe, just maybe, this information would be shared with someone else who could benefit. I wasn’t going to give up on Charlemagne’s dream of the Great Library of Wonder. Internet or not, I would do my little part for leaving some knowledge for others. While the current distribution network for information was dead, I resigned myself to the fact that I would find ways of sharing the knowledge and trying to make contact with other survivors. This close encounter with the unknown, speaking zombies was almost as exciting as meeting an alien being. "Too bad we wanted to kill each other," I thought.
The whole situation over the past 12 hours was an excuse for the inevitable; I had to get out there again. It was almost like the zeal my dad described of 1995 when the Internet and e-mail arrived, or the horror the Great Change itself and I was part of it. I had a bath and thought about things as I poured buckets of warm water over my head. I had heated the water over my fire into the old-style but very modern bathtub. "Old meets new, Jesse. Old meets new," the thought was an interesting one.
As I supplied water to my tub I thought about the supply of something. “What was it that the zombies supplied to their controller, the person writing those chits? And what was it that the controller used to control the zombies? Were the zombies being controlled to go get supplies or eliminate competition?" I needed to know. After a good wash, I got into a stolen/perhaps purchased hotel robe. "Nah, it is stolen," I mused to myself. The tradition of stealing bathrobes had certainly not changed, zombie apocalypse or not. I lay in my bed, burning candle after candle, writing my journal. It needed a name: The Alpine View of the Zombie Apocalypse. It was quirky, almost academic and included a double meaning. I liked my own work and the candle went out. Outside the fire still raged. I would then try to sleep, but that didn’t go well.
Nightmares of the faces of the taken, zombie and human alike plagued my slumber.
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