By late afternoon, my plan to lay low and see if they would clear out was definitely not working. I was pissed off and wanted to scream. More zombies were being attracted by the ones and twos, drawn in by the commotion created by the others already lingering around. Redshirt was the worst, constantly making noise, attempting to climb fences, and generally being a nuisance. His persistent efforts were attracting more zombies, turning a manageable situation into a growing horde, like ants converging on a discarded crumb.
Redshirt's antics were a constant reminder that he had been an asshole in life, and even in death, he proved that some people never change. His presence was like a bitter echo of my own past failures, a grim confirmation that trying to reform someone so fundamentally flawed was a waste of time. The effort I had seen others put into changing him felt as futile as trying to teach a snake to walk.
His attempts to climb up the fence and other obstacles were both frustrating and alarming. Despite their lack of coordination, the zombies' sporadic bursts of energy allowed them to sprint for a few steps before tripping or falling. Their movements were like those of severely drunk people having brief moments of sobriety, lurching forward only to collapse under their own weight.
Even though I was fairly certain they wouldn't be able to get up on top of the roof, the growing number of zombies below made me increasingly uneasy. Their unpredictable movements and the incessant groans created an atmosphere of tension that was hard to ignore. It felt like being in the eye of a storm, deceptively calm but surrounded by chaos. Every groan was a reminder of how close death was, circling around me like a pack of wolves around their prey. It was clear that staying put was no longer an option. I needed to come up with a new plan, and fast, before the situation became completely unmanageable.
By my last count, I estimated there were maybe between 25 and 30 zombies around the structure. I kept track of them throughout the day. Some would be drawn in by the commotion and then wander off, only to be replaced by a few more. But some were persistent, fixated on the building and refusing to leave. Even when I stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, they continued to come and linger around like moths to a flame, drawn to some unseen light.
I was sure it had to do with Redshirt Fatso. His constant noise and erratic behavior seemed to act as a beacon for the others, drawing them in and keeping them there. He was the epicenter of the chaos, and as long as he was around, there would be no peace.
With the number of zombies around the building increasing, I knew that I wouldn't have a chance if I ran for it. Hatred and frustration bubbled inside me, and a new, more sinister plan formed in my mind. I had the perfect idea of who would be my guinea pig. Redshirt had always been a thorn in my side, and now, even in death, he would serve a purpose.
With my extendable trekking pole fully extended, I prepared a small carving knife. First, I used the saw attachment on my Leatherman tool to cut three grooves into the handle of the knife. These grooves would help secure the knife to the pole. This took about an hour. Next, I lashed the knife onto the end of the trekking pole using paracord. During the initial test, the blade slid up the pole and failed to do much damage, so I added more lashings parallel to the pole for better stability. After shaving down the bottom of the trekking pole's rubber tip, the setup felt sturdier. For good measure, I wrapped some duct tape around the lashings to ensure they wouldn't come loose. Now, I was ready to start my experiment.
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Whenever a zombie spotted me, it would rush to the base of the building. As I was positioned high up, the zombie would then lose sight of me and begin circling the building until it spotted me again, creating a strange yo-yo effect. Some zombies just lingered around the building, attempting to get in or even climb up. Their coordination was laughable, like toddlers trying to navigate an obstacle course. When my target, Mr. Redshirt, came within striking range, I tentatively stabbed down at him.
Years of conditioning to not hurt people or maybe my natural tendency kicked in; I definitely didn't stab down hard enough or with enough will. I missed his head and stabbed into his collarbone. Overextending, I fumbled the pole and lost my grip. Panic surged through me like a cold wave. Luckily, I had attached the hand strap, but as I tried to recover it, some sneaky motherfucker with a shoe grabbed the end and started to yank. Overbalanced on my knees and hanging down to get the right angle, I was almost pulled face-forward off the building. My saving grace was that the zombie grabbed the knife blade, slicing his hand and causing it to fly upward out of reach. As I scrambled back, I learned some valuable lessons. My next attempt would be smarter.
As I stared down at Mr. Redshirt and Sneaky Shoe-Stealing Motherfucker, I noticed they weren't bleeding much from the cuts. Sneaky should have had a mitt full of bright red blood from grabbing a very sharp knife. This didn't bode well for my plan of trying to stab them and hoping they would bleed out over the next few hours. I needed a new approach.
I've been thinking of them as zombies and calling them zombies, but I was thinking more of the 28 Days Later version of infected people, not the Night of the Living Dead, reanimated corpse kind of zombies. Did the virus cause them to have some super wound-clotting effect, or were they really undead?
Well, I had a willing victim. Mr. Redshirt was coming around to check the door again and would be under my striking range in a few seconds. This time, I made sure that I had taken the hand strap off my wrist. I used some paracord, tied it tightly around the strap and base of the pole, and connected the other end to my 50 feet of paracord. So if it dropped or got taken, I could pull it back up without putting myself at risk.
I lined up my shot, envisioning a ripe cantaloupe, and struck down like a practiced archer. The knife flew and pierced the skull with a meaty pop, making my stomach lurch. I pulled the spear out and looked away, dry heaving from the sight, like a seasick sailor on a stormy night.
Even my loathing for Mr. Redshirt wasn't enough to stop me from feeling guilty about what I had just done. The horror of the situation, the desperation, was incredibly mentally taxing. I felt like crying but thought that maybe just seeing what I had done would help me get over it versus dwelling on it. I peeked around the edge of the roof and looked down. Mr. Redshirt was smiling up at me with a severe head wound, black stuff gushing slightly from his head. What the fuck? How could he still be standing? Anger roiled in me, like a storm brewing on the horizon, and I picked up the spear again, slamming it down as hard as I could into his upturned face, hitting his right eye and punching through. The anger, shock, and horror—I watched as Redshirt slumped off the spear and fell. Mr. Sneaky Fuck tried to go for the spear again, but I was ready and quickly pulled it out of his reach. I wondered what that guy did in his past—car thief or what?
I used the spear to bait Sneaky Fuck closer again. Every time I put it down, he would come closer and try to grab it. As he lunged for it and was a bit off balance, I struck again, slamming the makeshift spear into the back of his head. The knife went in perfectly, but the angle caused the end of the telescoping pole to bend severely, damaging it. This strike, however, put him down. As he fell to his knees and toppled over, he released my shoe, which tumbled and bounced like a pebble down a hill. He fell like a stack of bricks and head-butted Mr. Redshirt, their bodies forming a V-shape. With all the excitement and commotion, more zombies headed in, several tripping over the bodies and creating a dog pile. Then it turned into a feeding frenzy. The commotion freaked me out. I pulled the broken spear back up, placed it on the roof, and headed towards my sleeping bag to take cover, feeling as though my heart would burst from my chest like a drum in a frantic parade.
