Welcome to hell. My name is Iain, and I am what most people would not call a typical survivor. This is no eucatastrophe, for damn sure. Despite all the promises to the contrary and false platitudes that it was pure science fiction, or some whacko gun-nut’s fantasy, the ultimate worst has happened—the living dead have arisen, the zombies are hungry and man is the preferred dish.

Supposedly, the first Kazakh Central Asian Plague outbreak was somewhere in northeastern China near the regions where Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and the former Soviet Union meet. These rumors suggest the zombie plague is an old Cold War bio-weapon that somehow got loose. According to other rumors, neglected and leaking storage facilities caused the accidental or intentional release of the plague. Same rumors hint at former Soviet underground secret bases hidden in the area, stuffed full of old Cold War weaponry, long forgotten and best left buried.

Back when people were attempting to develop a cure, there was some speculation that this plague could be an unintentional blend and mutation of several bio-weapons. According to the last published reports, when there was still news being broadcast, there was no detected cure for KCAP or way to stop catching the plague other than avoiding being bitten or coming into contact with any bodily fluids from an infected person.

This whole mess of a zombie pandemic started about eight years ago. However, our story starts about two years ago in the remains of McMinnville, Oregon, near the Walmart parking lot.

“So, what do you think?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth without taking my eyes from the Swarovski binoculars. She probably did not see my lips move with my thick curly beard, but the puffs of vapor in the cool evening air betrayed the movement of my mouth.

“I do not see any zombies moving around, but the parking lot has numerous abandoned cars where they could hide. I’ll bet the larger sections of the crashed jets contain trapped zombies,” my partner and lover Ruth replies, lying on her stomach on the hood of my old trusty blue Ford pickup, not taking her eyes from the Swarovski spotting scope's eyepiece.

“The sun is going down pretty quickly and it will be dark soon; we need to find somewhere to camp for the night,” I told Ruth, continuing my observation.

I get a noncommittal grunt from Ruth, and we both continue our observation of the Walmart parking lot in silence for a few moments longer while the sun slowly sinks into the orange horizon, fading from sight.

Lying beside Ruth on the hood of the truck against the windshield is the suppressed .300 Whisper Thompson Center Encore rifle. The single-shot break-open rifle is one of my favorites. With its fluted, twenty-inch stainless steel barrel and AWC suppressor, the carbine has almost no recoil or sound when shot; it emits only a slight cough. Noise is minimal even when you crack the action open to extract a fired round.

The suppressed Encore is much quieter than any semi-auto or bolt gun. Having most of our weapons suppressed reduces the possibility of attracting any number of zombies and other undesirables to our location.

Zombies find loud noises such as gunfire, explosions, and loud music very appealing. Bright lights attract them too, as several motorists found out the hard way. A zombie will step right in front of a speeding car with its lights on, not caring that it is going to get creamed by the car. 

People slamming into zombies on the freeways caused a lot of wrecks and pile-ups in the early days during the unorganized, panicked and ultimately futile evacuation of the major cities. These “zombie train-wrecks” as they came to be known, further exacerbated a horrid situation, making evacuation of the cities that much harder and slower. We still find zombies trapped in wrecked cars.

The cars slamming together after smearing some zombies all over the road, with all the noise, lights, screaming brakes, bellowing car horns, and the cacophony of cars slamming together, just attracted more zombies to the area. Not sure if fireworks would distract them like in a certain George Romero movie, but if I find some fireworks that work, I might try it and see what happens.

Various groups of marauders learned to follow the sound of gunfire as well. Often lying in wait until both sides of a gun battle have seriously depleted their forces, these marauders sweep in, wiping out the survivors; taking anything of value.

A notorious group of marauders controls Swan Island near Portland, and they are entirely women. Calling themselves the Swan Island Dahlias, these ladies are anything but a bunch of flowers. The Dahlias are as cruel and heartless as any of their male counterparts. The Dahlias have an iron-fisted control of the old landfill bridge to the island. 

The Dahlias control access to the old Vanport City, shipyard and industrial areas with an impressive fortified and armed barricade. Made of cargo shipping containers, old cars, and semi trailers this barricade is impossible to bypass by land. 

During my brief reconnoiter of the greater Portland area before I met Ruth; I could not learn much about their well-run organization. I learned the organization is headquartered in the old Kaiser shipyards and the Overlook House; these ladies (I use the term here generously) are a law unto themselves.

Unfortunately, the lack of any capable law enforcement unfettered those willing to prey on those weaker than them. Some of these marauders were once the “good guys” supposed to protect the general populace. Former cops, soldiers, corrections officers, and other trained persons comprise their ranks. They do not welcome men and shoot them on sight. No questions asked.

With excellent weaponry and tactics, the marauders are a real hazard, possessing the wherewithal to obliterate any who stands in the way. Not attracting the attention of folks who possess armored vehicles, crew-served weaponry, grenades, rockets, mortars, and other federal sundries not available to the average citizen is one of my chief priorities. At one time, Ruth belonged to one of those groups. 

Around my bunker, I used a couple of suppressed .22 pistols and rifles for small game hunting and pest control, both zombie and non-zombie. Though a .22 shot to the head can take down a zombie, and I've managed it when safe from its reach, it's too risky to rely on.

For the occasional zombie pest eradication without using a lot of precious gunpowder, you cannot beat a suppressed rimfire .22. One nice thing about rimfires is that the ammo is a lot smaller, and you can collect a lot more of it in a smaller package. The little rimfire rounds have almost no recoil.

Since rimfire rounds lack the power of ‌larger center-fire rounds, they do not make as much noise if unsuppressed. You can also rip off several rounds of .22 quickly if the zombie did not die without seriously depleting your ammo reserves. If I had known this zombie pandemic was going to happen, I would have stockpiled a lot more rimfire ammo.

I collect all the spent .22 shells I can, whether they are mine or ones I find, because I can swage them into twenty-two caliber bullet jackets for reloading centerfire rounds such as the .223.

The magnum rimfires such as the 17 HMR and 22 WMR I swage into six-millimeter bullets for the .243. Swaging, the mechanical process of forming brass and bullets under pressure, is an easier if time-consuming way to create bullets that I later reload into shells. 

My swaging equipment, made by Corbin, was rather pricey and takes up a lot of room in the bunker's garage, but is a worthy investment. Being able to use lead wire (or poured lead cores when I run out of lead wire) and spent rimfire shells to make bullets will be a great asset in keeping myself supplied with ammunition when otherwise I might run out.

Larger subsonic rounds like the .300 Whisper in the Encore, offer much better odds of a one-shot kill. This particular Thompson Center Encore that Ruth is using is one that I have owned for quite a while, almost forty years now. It has proven to be a premium zombie killer, which is why Ruth has it while she lies on the hood of the truck.

The stainless steel barrel on the break-open single-shot rifle started out as a special-order .30 caliber barrel from Match Grade Machines. The barrel was then converted into .300 Whisper Rimmed. This barrel uses cases made from .357 Remington Maximum brass reformed to use a .30 caliber bullet. We can also use factory-loaded ammunition in the rifle if we ever come across some. A third option is to use the less-common .221 Remington brass if I find some.

Ruth and I have been together for almost six months. We have only recently become lovers within the last week or so. After a close call with a horde of zombies near Chehalis, Washington, a small town in western Washington about two hours south of Seattle on I5, we ended up in bed. Our narrow escape from Chehalis shook both of us up, barely escaping from the zombies and a cannibalistic motorcycle gang.

It has been slightly over 70 years since I have had a close companion, a lover, or even someone living with me. I had almost forgotten how nice it was to have company. It would be wonderful if Ruth would accompany me back to the bunker. I have not mentioned her returning to the bunker with me yet, as I want to gather more supplies and discern the current environment around the Pacific Northwest.

The close confines of the bunker, compared to my three-story 6,000 square foot house, get to even the hardiest of souls. A large wooden house on a prominent hill is far less defensible than the bunker which I originally built in the early 1950s in case of nuclear war with the Soviet Union.

After our narrow, harrowing escape, in which I learned I cared for Ruth a lot more than I realized, we ended up wrapped around each other in the sleeping bags in the truck's bed. A frantic, urgent bout of unrestrained fucking followed-aided by a few cans of warm beer.

When you hardly drink alcohol anymore because you cannot risk dulling your wits even for a minute; a few cans of beer give you a pleasant buzz. My metabolism, to keep up with the caloric demands of a body with near-instantaneous healing, not to mention almost instantly assume either the form of an 800 pound pony-sized wolf, or a 500 pound man-wolf hybrid, burns roughly 5,000 calories a day. Nearly triple that caloric demand if healing occurred or I change back and forth a few times, which gets exhausting and destroys my clothes. At 7' 3" finding clothes can be a problem.

Ruth is not so fortunate to burn off alcohol so quickly, although she tells me Israelis usually have a pretty decent alcohol-tolerance. Ruth has drunk little in the last few years, so her tolerance is not what it might have been. A couple of cans of beer and Ruth was delightfully tipsy and horny. We had survived a rather dangerous situation and were celebrating still being alive.

Despite Ruth’s training, a zombie horde led by the Denim Dragons, a cannibalistic motorcycle gang, would have shaken anyone (including myself) who came that close to being eaten. Given her background, Ruth handled herself well, but even the hardiest of souls can break down when everything seems lost, and a horde of zombies and a large cannibalistic motorcycle gang trap you in the burned-out remains of a store.

I keep several high-calorie food items that I can consume quickly around the bunker and truck. Cans (or bottles, but cans travel better and none of that light beer crap either) of beer are a quick burst of calories. My metabolism burns alcohol quickly, so I do not remain drunk for long. Guinness and Murphy’s Irish Stout are two of my favorite beers, as I favor the darker, heavier beers.

Soda pop, energy drinks like Monster (fitting for me) and Red Bull are handy too, but too much caffeine wreaks havoc with my already amped system. Easily portable candy that does not melt or crush easily, such as Skittles, M&Ms, candied peanuts, Jordan almonds, etc. are some of my favorite candies to snack on. I usually keep several bags of candy around in the truck for snacking.

Energy and health-food snacks like the various Power Bars, granola bars, and Clif Bars are handy but usually require a lot of water, milk or beer for me to choke them down. I used to eat several Power Bars a day when I was in the field with the cattle, washed down with a gallon of nearly freezing whole milk. The cereal and granola breakfast replacement bars are handy too. Ice-cold whole milk is unbeatable for choking down those horrid meal replacement bars that were found in the breakfast aisle at the supermarket. 

Today, ice-cold milk of any kind is but a dream. I cannot stand powdered milk, even ice cold and chugging it. Powdered buttermilk I stock to use in the bread machine, but as far as I know has no other edible purpose. Fresh bread from the bread machine is possible, but puts a heavy load on the house batteries unless I run the generator. It would be nice to have some warm, fresh bread slathered in butter. Good thing I do not have to worry about counting calories!