Fields of Rot Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jesse Dedman
this living Hell that I find myself in, it is a combination of life experiences recollected as a central feeling of extreme weakness infected me. My thoughts are drifting; the images of my father invade, taking me to those wasted years. I can’t help but to recall the moment with my father where I felt so afraid, so helpless. A family vacation promised a beautiful view and a pleasant time, but I was petrified of the water because of an insignificant and completely trivial matter. Something as small as a pinch somehow cursed me to fear stepping foot into the tide. My dad, so patient and yet slightly annoyed, tried to help, but I simply didn’t listen. I stayed inside for the rest of the trip, entertaining myself with crap TV and misery.
When I think about how much we have lost so far. The mass carnage, the lawlessness of this land, it seems like my parents may never actually return. I stayed while they went on another yearend vacation, and I wonder if I made the right choice. They could be sipping on margaritas down in the tropics right now, while their son fought for his life in a zombie wasteland.
The thoughts washed over me all of a sudden during a moment where I needed to be on my game. We crossed the street, ran like hell as a swarm chased after us, and cleared a nook just above a few dumpsters for an advantage point. I was supposed to supply the cover fire as the rotting fiends climbed to the top of the dumpster. Then it came, the feeling entered as if it had always been there and rattled my nerves. My aim became lazy. My motivation became a matter of question, and I felt as if I was a stranger in my own body viewing the scene as if it was a movie.
My arm stopped pumping rounds into the chamber for just one tiny moment, but it was enough for a zombie to make it to the top. The blood crazed eyes stared at me as it lunged for me. I simply stood in place, watching as a burst of blood erupted from the side of its head, as chunks of gunk sprayed about.
The sound of Jack’s gun shook me out from my sudden stupor. I followed him along the ledge to a wide window that led to a decommissioned facility.
Except with the moans from outside, it is quiet. Very quiet. I swear I can hear something bang several floors below us, but Jack and Grace think I’m trying to scare them. Like I would take pleasure in scaring them when I am already afraid myself. I’m afraid of what lurks below, but I’m more afraid of freezing like that again. I don’t want to owe Jack a damn thing, not a single fucking thing.
I still can’t help the thoughts. They storm into my mind, lingering with a depressing, heavy presence. I miss my family. I miss my friends, but most importantly, I miss my old life. Why can’t it just go back? Why can’t things just stop?
Grace appears just as lost as I am, whereas Jack seems completely collected. Lucky, son-of-a-bitch. I wish I had that. I wish I could return to not giving a shit. I wish I could.
The sound from below gradually increased, finally grabbing their attention. Grace freaked out and huddled in a corner, while Jack quickly began barricading the door. He requested for some assistance, but Grace was too worked up and I didn’t want to turn this room into more of a trap than it already was. I offered my opinion, but he refused the moment I revealed my opposition.
I hope that my parents are okay. I hope I can prevent this pessimism from overgrowing into complete depression.
Entry Twenty-One, 1/3/15
I might have enough time to jot this down, but I’m not too sure. The sounds heard earlier were not the product of a zombie, a cluster of zombies, or a whole goddamn army of rotting fiends. No, the sound below was the product of one single monstrous entity that made running through a throng of zombies look safe. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know where to begin to describe it
When I think about how much we have lost so far. The mass carnage, the lawlessness of this land, it seems like my parents may never actually return. I stayed while they went on another yearend vacation, and I wonder if I made the right choice. They could be sipping on margaritas down in the tropics right now, while their son fought for his life in a zombie wasteland.
The thoughts washed over me all of a sudden during a moment where I needed to be on my game. We crossed the street, ran like hell as a swarm chased after us, and cleared a nook just above a few dumpsters for an advantage point. I was supposed to supply the cover fire as the rotting fiends climbed to the top of the dumpster. Then it came, the feeling entered as if it had always been there and rattled my nerves. My aim became lazy. My motivation became a matter of question, and I felt as if I was a stranger in my own body viewing the scene as if it was a movie.
My arm stopped pumping rounds into the chamber for just one tiny moment, but it was enough for a zombie to make it to the top. The blood crazed eyes stared at me as it lunged for me. I simply stood in place, watching as a burst of blood erupted from the side of its head, as chunks of gunk sprayed about.
The sound of Jack’s gun shook me out from my sudden stupor. I followed him along the ledge to a wide window that led to a decommissioned facility.
Except with the moans from outside, it is quiet. Very quiet. I swear I can hear something bang several floors below us, but Jack and Grace think I’m trying to scare them. Like I would take pleasure in scaring them when I am already afraid myself. I’m afraid of what lurks below, but I’m more afraid of freezing like that again. I don’t want to owe Jack a damn thing, not a single fucking thing.
I still can’t help the thoughts. They storm into my mind, lingering with a depressing, heavy presence. I miss my family. I miss my friends, but most importantly, I miss my old life. Why can’t it just go back? Why can’t things just stop?
Grace appears just as lost as I am, whereas Jack seems completely collected. Lucky, son-of-a-bitch. I wish I had that. I wish I could return to not giving a shit. I wish I could.
The sound from below gradually increased, finally grabbing their attention. Grace freaked out and huddled in a corner, while Jack quickly began barricading the door. He requested for some assistance, but Grace was too worked up and I didn’t want to turn this room into more of a trap than it already was. I offered my opinion, but he refused the moment I revealed my opposition.
I hope that my parents are okay. I hope I can prevent this pessimism from overgrowing into complete depression.
Entry Twenty-One, 1/3/15
I might have enough time to jot this down, but I’m not too sure. The sounds heard earlier were not the product of a zombie, a cluster of zombies, or a whole goddamn army of rotting fiends. No, the sound below was the product of one single monstrous entity that made running through a throng of zombies look safe. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know where to begin to describe it
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