I'm sorry about that. God, I was so tired--I was getting MAYBE four hours of sleep a night for the last few days. Working overtime on clearing out the apartment. A lot of stuff got left behind.
Anyway. It came to blows, ultimately, and really Kevin was no match for Kurt, who limited himself to one punch but it was still all he needed. Knocked out teeth, broke his glasses. Kurt himself broke a finger. Mike and John and me broke them up as quickly as we could. But by now the atmosphere in the house was poison. Somebody was going to leave, clearly.
Everybody retreats to their corners. Then we start hearing hammering again and we figure they must have made up, or at least calmed down enough to get back to work. I'm halfway down the stairs to help when I hear shouting and pounding, like with hands. So I run right back up the stairs again, thinking it's the youknowwhats. Fuck 'em, I'm ready, I grab the pole with the knife and head back down and knock on the door to Kurt's area of the house. But there are no revs--Kevin's begun boarding himself into the basement. Apparently Kurt told him he wanted to buy him out of his share of the place, and this is what happened.
And me? I'm just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Kurt was very nice and very polite, but he asked us to leave. As soon as possible. They need the breathing room.
The next couple of days are spent packing and crying. This was amy's and my first apartment together. We moved in right after we got married. We'd been there for three years, hirings and firings, cats, Christmastimes, summers. I didn't wnat to leave, and I keep thinking to myself how UNFAIR it is. I think I'm angrier about this than I have been about anything. Not at Kurt, because who can blame him, really? I thought he'd kick us out about a week into this thing. I'm mad at, I don't know what. The world? God? The zombies? What fucking difference does it make?
We were lucky to get a U-Haul, since most of them have been stolen. Most of our furniture is still sitting in the U-Haul. Some things we had to give up. Amy's grandmother's piano--goodbye, no more lessons for you. She's devastated. They didn't want me to bother with all my CDs and I said fuck you. I brought them anyway, I don't care. We have the one segment of the sectional that Bobo used to lay on and Amy sits in it all the time--the rest is in the garage for now. I brought all the knives of course. You just felt like such an idiot packing up the TiVo box and the surround sound system but you do it anyway. I don't want to give up on that.
Seven adults and four cats in our house now. The cats are freaked out, fighting. Everybody is miserable. It rained for like a week so lots of stuff got ruined.
Anyway. It came to blows, ultimately, and really Kevin was no match for Kurt, who limited himself to one punch but it was still all he needed. Knocked out teeth, broke his glasses. Kurt himself broke a finger. Mike and John and me broke them up as quickly as we could. But by now the atmosphere in the house was poison. Somebody was going to leave, clearly.
Everybody retreats to their corners. Then we start hearing hammering again and we figure they must have made up, or at least calmed down enough to get back to work. I'm halfway down the stairs to help when I hear shouting and pounding, like with hands. So I run right back up the stairs again, thinking it's the youknowwhats. Fuck 'em, I'm ready, I grab the pole with the knife and head back down and knock on the door to Kurt's area of the house. But there are no revs--Kevin's begun boarding himself into the basement. Apparently Kurt told him he wanted to buy him out of his share of the place, and this is what happened.
And me? I'm just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Kurt was very nice and very polite, but he asked us to leave. As soon as possible. They need the breathing room.
The next couple of days are spent packing and crying. This was amy's and my first apartment together. We moved in right after we got married. We'd been there for three years, hirings and firings, cats, Christmastimes, summers. I didn't wnat to leave, and I keep thinking to myself how UNFAIR it is. I think I'm angrier about this than I have been about anything. Not at Kurt, because who can blame him, really? I thought he'd kick us out about a week into this thing. I'm mad at, I don't know what. The world? God? The zombies? What fucking difference does it make?
We were lucky to get a U-Haul, since most of them have been stolen. Most of our furniture is still sitting in the U-Haul. Some things we had to give up. Amy's grandmother's piano--goodbye, no more lessons for you. She's devastated. They didn't want me to bother with all my CDs and I said fuck you. I brought them anyway, I don't care. We have the one segment of the sectional that Bobo used to lay on and Amy sits in it all the time--the rest is in the garage for now. I brought all the knives of course. You just felt like such an idiot packing up the TiVo box and the surround sound system but you do it anyway. I don't want to give up on that.
Seven adults and four cats in our house now. The cats are freaked out, fighting. Everybody is miserable. It rained for like a week so lots of stuff got ruined.
posted by Sean T. Collins at 1:37 PM
3 Comments:
been in a refuge camp in tacoma for about two months, I think. they didn't let us use pens, get near a computer, or leave. they treated us seattle squatters particularly badly. I suppose that makes sense, when we got there we were completely covered in months old blood. we looked like murderers. I am a murderer. remember how I was keeping you updated on how many I'd killed, living and zombie? well I've lost count. don't matter to me if you beleive what I type or not. back home sounds pretty sweet right now, moving house, family, crying or not. I'm sorry if this is bitter... You know that this blog was a major source of comfort, feeling of connection for all the kids I was with, after everything we'd been through... when sean "called folks out" for posting mad max fics on his comments... it was a serious blow to our confidence. the only people in the world we've found to talk to think we're lying? is everyone else lying? was it really not that bad out there? none of us had gotten far from our neighborhood the whole time, maybe we should go for it? we fought each other for the first time since I pushed that socialist guy out the front door of the food not bombs house on like the forth day of the outbreak.
we fought over leaving the squat. I was aginst it, mr cooper style. we did go for it. found way fewer revs than we expected as soon as we got off our block, like they'd just been congregating round our squat, waiting. we outran them, got surprised by a couple. I got bit on the arm, but I'd taken sean's tip and was bundled up good and it didn't break skin. we ran for a few days, didn't see living person one. found a flyer in south seattle for a soup kitchen and a shelter in tacoma. we got there, took three days and nobody died! not till we got the camp anyway. like a fucking rerun of our experience with the seattle cops, craig got shot by a sniper while we poked around trying to find the camp. after they brought us in it got...
maybe I'll tell you about the camp some other time, if I feel like writing again. for now I'll skip to the end.
when the inner gate got stuck closed and the outer gate got stuck open, everybody on the outside, guards mostly, got fucking eaten. I learned to drive on the way through the fence. made it back to seattle, feeling relatively safe now that it's mostly empty and fewer humans does mean fewer revs. I've got a new house, new plans for getting and storing food new generators and lots of gas and a new crew of exactly seven.
still alive still alive.
Davey
still alive, still alone. You have stress problems but you are part of a society, not a half-crazed loner wandering the woods. See ya eventually.
you dont have to be alone
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