The Exiles

I'm thinking of forming a band, but only Bethany has any musical talent. I can do a beat-box kind of thing, but it's not all that great. I'll call us The Exiles because that, friends, is how I'm feeling. This is how interesting life has been - every morning since Dad's survival trip to the city I've been going downstairs and turning on the tv to make sure cable hasn't gone out. I kind of wish we had dish because it's all out in space where no zombies can attack it.

The programming has become sketchy, with some blank air, but mostly it runs. I don't know if the productions companies are still running. I would guess they aren't, and that sucks. I actually like some programming. Too bored and bloodthirsty, I guess. Not that it has much value.

I remember something from a book, or show, or lecture that I think I can apply to our wonderful entertainment these days. It is said that with the decline of society, there comes a decline in their art. Well I realized we were on the decline years ago when I heard about an artist who liked to take the handprints of small children and put them all together to make giant portraits of known child killers. Are we so desperate for entertainment that we will delve into the realms of depravity to get it? Need I ask the question.

I really should stop watching such things. They serve no purpose other than to make one that much more grateful to bid the human race goodbye. But not me. No. I will survive.

Internet has been sketchy, too, but I have become proactive in taking Kung Fu lessons on Youtube. (Listen to me, cliche much?) I've always been fast, and adding a bit of marshal arts to the mix couldn't hurt. Unless you're my makeshift punching bag, made of a foam pad, three pillows, a couple of pool noodles and a lot of Gorilla Tape. Thank goodness none of the pillows are down or I'd be swimming in feathers.

The rest of the family are dealing with their wiggles in peculiar ways. Bethany has always wanted a big dollhouse. She's 14 but she doesn't care. All girls are princesses at heart. She has taken Dad's excess lumber and his tools and paint into her room. Since we're upstairs we haven't boarded up our windows. We don't think the ghouls out there can climb a drain pipe. I mean, they're only half-conscious, right? Instinctual? Who knows. So she builds her house with the sunlight coming in.

I asked her to show me her progress but she just winked at me and said, "Not til it's done." As I walked away she opened her door again and asked, "Can I have one of your red t-shirts to make my drapes?" How could I refuse?

Mom and Dad moved upstairs into the guest bedroom. I feel better having them up here. Dad has been debating destroying the staircase. I asked him where he got that idea. He smirked and said, "Max Brooks." I had to laugh, and cry a little. I suggested that we not burn it, as I've heard that helps burn down houses. Which brings to mind all sorts of foreseeable problems. If the infrastructure truly collapses we will have no one to keep the electricity going, no one to put out fires, no one to care for the water, and no one to protect our civil rights. That's a given.

Dad and I will be working on a fireplace in the next couple of weeks, though where we'll get the wood to burn is beyond me. I've heard Mom talking about leaving, heading North. The only relative up that way is Uncle Terry, great Uncle Terry, as in Grandpa's brother. We don't know him. He lives in Helena, Montana. Even if we got to the city, we wouldn't know where to find the man. And that is really far away from here. She said if we are going to leave we should do it now while society seems to be in order.

I don't know. Somehow I think the heat favors us. After all, how long do you think it would take a zombie to become a raisin in this heat? Then what harm can it do? I haven't seen one for days. Of course I'm not looking. I've heard a few, doing that same agonizing moan. I wish I could shove my pillow through my ears like they do in the cartoons.

Sometimes I look across the street and I see Mr. Park sitting in his second story window with a rifle across his lap. I once saw him sitting there, then he spotted something. Instead of swinging his rifle in that direction he ducked inside and closed the window. Down the street comes this patrol of soldiers. They were laughing and swearing. I got a bad feeling from them so I ducked out of my window, too.

I've said it before, I'll say it again - people being stupid will kill more people than any zombie, and those muscle heads didn't strike me as intelligent.

Trapped by Zed, trapped by people, trapped by fear of repercussion. I do not think our little island can hold out indefinitely. Sometime we will have to leave. When that time comes I hope there is somewhere to go.