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Note: This is a story written in the form of a journal, so if you are just joining me and want THIS blog to make any sense at all, go back to my blog of Nov 17 2008 entitled "The Journal of 'Red' Chote - entry 1" and start from the beginning.

Journal entry: February 2011 - morning

The sun barely penetrated the thick fog this morning. I can't remember the last time it was foggy at this time of year. I don't think it ever has been. I think it must be February now, but I have no way to tell for sure. It's close to sundown now. I lost the laptop (and thus, my entire journal so far) in the nightmare of the military base attack, as it is I found this discarded, but intact, palm pilot in the ruins of Sydney last week, it took some repairs and gentle coaxing, but I got it working last night, so old Red is back on line. For now. I sure hope someone finds the laptop one day. If it survived the blasts. I'd like to say it was the zombies (let's face it, that's what they are folks) that utterly destroyed the base, killed most of the refugees there and sent the rest fleeing into a dark night barely escaping with their miserable lives, but no. As per fucking usual, the ones that fucked up in spectacular fashion were not the walking brain dead. It was us. Us. Fuck.

I suppose I should begin by explaining where I am. It was far too dangerous to remain in Sydney, so I'm camped under a highway overpass about 35 kilometres north of the ruined city (once the situation in the fair harbour city became untenable, the geniuses in military command decided to launch an airstrike, levelling the city. Postcards showing the Opera House and Harbour Bridge are now quaint memoriums to what once was. The last time I saw the Opera House it resembled a broken clam shell). It's amazingly cold...I havent figured out why yet. It's just me again. I havent seen another living human being in five, six days. It's safer this way. There's a mangy dog, some kind of mongrel Alsation-type, that is sort of tracking me, following at a distance and stopping whenever I do. I don't know if he wants to befriend me, or eat me. At any rate he makes me a little nervous. I have a rifle, a shotgun and three pistols, and all the ammunition I can carry, but I won't shoot him just yet. Not til he turns mad or tries to go at me. Yes he makes me nervous, but the company is still better than anything humankind has thus offered. I'll move on soon, but right now I'm so damn tired I could just lay down and die. So I'm firing up a can of beans and making my first palm pilot journal entry, then I'll sleep a bit, then head off again. I'm going north. They say there's a settlement there. Way up north, just short of Cairns. Maybe. At least it'll be warmer there.

We had Christmas at the base. There were no presents of course, but a few of the troops managed to go and cut down a pine tree so we decorated it with tin foil and other things we made, and on Christmas eve night we sat around it, singing and telling stories. For a few glorious minutes things actually seemed normal. Henry managed to find a guitar, and I even belted out a few numbers. Havent done that since...Georgie. Used to sing to Georgie. Wonderful, innocent Georgie. Fuck. Before this happened I hadn't cried in a long time. Now it seems I can't go a day without shedding some salt.

Come New Year's Eve the troops broke out the liquor and we actually saw in 2011 quite merry. Things began to normalise a bit, settle into a routine. The first couple of weeks I was there, new people arrived pretty much every day. But that stopped. We put it out of our minds and tried to get on with life. There was a roster for cleaning, washing, cooking. Everyone chipped in, while the soldiers prowled the base, patrolled the nearby scrublands, and kept up a constant radio vigil. And wouldn't you know it, I even managed to get myself laid. I met a woman named Elizabeth at the base. She'd been a schoolteacher before the nightmare began. I've always had a thing for schoolteachers... Anyway, I don't know if there was actually attraction there or not, or whether it was the simple pathetic desperation of our situation, but one night we snuck off to the locker room and fucked in one of the shower stalls. Okay, so it's not the classiest way to score some tail I know, but I'm not much to look at, so old Red takes what he can get. It's just bloody typical anyway: I hadn't had a woman since my wife left me, and it takes a zombie holocaust for one to show any interest. I suppose every situation has an upside.

I snuck into the radio shack one night, about two weeks before the attack. They were broadcasting over empty frequencies. There was nothing out there. No signs of life. Nothing. Boorman became irate (not surprising, he kept slugging from a hip flask) and ordered the two soldiers to stop broadcasting. I figured, what the fuck difference does it make anyway, if no-one's listening? Little did I know that radio silence was the beginning of the end for our little oasis in the wastelands. It was a silent, but completely effective death knell for most of the people here. Jesus, Boorman. He should have known. But then I think, did he know? Was he so sick of it all, so tired of holding the fort against an enemy he did not, could not, undertstand nor defeat, that he cut off radio broadcasts knowing full well what would come next? Pondering such things is useless, I guess. What happened, happened. There's not a damn thing I can do about it now.

I suppose I should put it down for the record what happened then. But I can't come at that tonight. The memory is still too fresh. I can still smell burning flesh whenever I strike a match. It's in my head, I know. But that doesnt mean it's not dreadfully, painfully real to me. I'm too damn tired. I think I'll name that dog. If the palm pilot lasts the night, I'll write again tomorrow.

Note: This is a story written in the form of a journal, so if you are just joining me and want THIS blog to make any sense at all, go back to my blog of Nov 17 entitled "The Journal of 'Red' Chote - entry 1" and start from the beginning.

Journal entry: 4 December 2010 - 6.35pm  

I made it to the base the afternoon of 29 November. I couldnt write until today because the army guys that stopped me at a roadblock 2 kilometres from the base arrested me and put me in quarantine for 3 days. They confiscated all my possessions, including the ute, and locked me in a strange medical cell. An army doctor poked and prodded me, took my blood, and sedated me. Fuck. What an ordeal.  

After the quarantine they took me from the cell to a small mess hall where gave me a change of clothes, fed me a small meal of potatoes and meat with some bread and water, and then took me to a small interrogation room. I waited there for an hour until a Captain Boorman came in and sat down. He explained to me the need for the quarantine was to make sure I wasn't "infected" and that I posed no danger to the other soldiers and civilians on the base. He assured me my possessions would be returned to me. Minus the ute - he said they were keeping that, as I am now not allowed to leave the base. He said based on what's out there, I wouldn't want to anyway. He assured me I'm safer here. I asked him what was "out there" and he just looked at me a while, then said "Death." I asked him what he meant and he explained that an unknown toxin had been released into the atmosphere by a terrorist organisation, and it was causing people to violently attack other people without provocation. When I tried to get more information out of him, he just told me to go and get settled with the others, and he'd brief everyone at a later date.  

Boorman lied. They didnt give me back my shotgun, nor the food I brought with me. Just the clothes I had on when I got here - all washed and neatly folded, and the laptop and batteries. I'm housed in a large auditorium with about a hundred other people, all civilians. There's an MP posted on every entrance. It's hard not to feel like I'm in prison here. There's families, couples, single people. Black, white, Asian, European. Apparently all we have in common is that we're not "infected". As for Georgie, nothing. I wandered up and down the rows of bunks, past sleeping people, crying kids, and men with haggard, drawn faces. I couldnt see Georgie among them. I don't know what has become of her. I talked to a few of the other guys here, one in particular, Henry Dell. He told me he'd come here from Sydney. He said the "infection" theory is dubious. He saw his wife killed by a madman, right in the middle of the street. Some guy in a construction helmet and jeans just grabbed her and took a whopping great bite out of her throat. Her carotid artery sprayed blood all over them all as Henry wrestled the guy off her and managed to cave his head in with a plank of wood he ripped off the back of a bus stop bench. But then, Henry says his wife got up, just stoodf up like nothing was wrong, and came at him, trying to claw at his chest. She was spitting gobs of clotted blood at him, moaning and screaming and trying to bite him. Finally, he said (his throat closing up and his eyes pouring tears) he had to cave her head in, too. That's not an infection. That's a fucking waking nightmare. He said things like that were happening all over the city. The police were hopelessly outmatched by the size and severity of the problem. It was decided that the military would have to step in. So that's how Henry ended up here. I feel like I'm trapped in some horrible, low budget gore movie, only it's real. It's fucking real.  

It stinks in here. They provide us 3 meals a day, and shower and toilet facilities, but the whole room seems to writhe with disenfranchised humanity. So far, no briefing from Captain Boorman on what the fuck is going on. So I wait.

Okay this film has been reviewed in good style by The Zombie Master and there's not much I can add so I'll just whack up a few quick thoughts.

The film sees Romero taking us back to the "beginning" of the zombie outbreak, ala Night of the Living Dead (1968). A group of film students making a horror movie in the woods under the supervision of their alcoholic professor begin to hear strange news reports of the "dead waking up". At first it's dismissed as a hoax (ala the War of the Worlds radio thing) but increasingly strange and brutal events let them know this "hoax" is all too real. The film then follows their attempts to get home and be with their loved ones while attempting to survive the spreading chaos, all filmed from first person perspective by directing major Jay (Joshua Close) on his hand held camera. The film benefits from the return of known and loved "shambling" zombies, innovative hand held camera style that is NOT nausea-inducing (Cloverfield I'm staring in your direction), and good old fashioned tension and gore. It suffers however, from heavy handed narration and a social commentary that bludgeons the viewer over the head far too many times. Okay, the government controlled media are lying to us. We're a society of voyeurs. I get it already! It also suffers from the narrator's ridiculous excuse for the music cues and funky editing in the film. If you are going to go for the hand-held, documentary style, go all the way and have no music. For me, that would have amped up the tension, because every time there was a slow dissolve or a creepy music cue, I was reminded that I was just watching a movie. Taking the premise of the movie in mind, I wanted more realism slathered onto my zombie smorgasbord. That's one thing that Cloverfield has over this film (I stress the ONE thing, this is a far superior effort to that film), it stuck to it's guns and presented itself as "footage found after the chaos" etc.

But those gripes aside, I actually really enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would. The beginning was very well done, and put me at ease with familiar feelings that yes, I was watching a good old fashioned Romero zombie flick done on a shoestring budget where the story is king, the grotesque deaths plentiful and varied (the de-fib eyeball pop is an instant favourite) and the characters expendable. The cast was mostly unknown to me, which is always a good thing in a film like this because I couldn't predict who'd get chomped and who'd live, minus of course the knowledge that the most annoying female character obviously survived to provide the woeful narration. Okay one more gripe. The camera guy, Jay, is a bit of a dick. I mean, the bit where he insists on filming the attractive blonde girl being chased by the zombie-mummy-guy instead of, oh, I don't know, putting the fucking camera down for a second, and helping the poor girl had me rolling my eyes. It just wasn't believable, no one as supposedly good natured as Jay would simply film the whole thing without offering an ounce of assistance, even after his insistence that he needs to capture everything on film. This was labouring the "we don't slow down to help, we slow down to watch" point a bit too much.

However these few eye-roll moments were counterbalanced by some truly awesome bits. I really liked Samuel the deaf Amish farmer who saves the group at one point by dynamiting a pack of approaching zombies then turning to the group and displaying a sign enthusiastically announcing: "I'm Samuel. Hello". I love his calm demeanor and the way he just squints slightly as the smoke and zombie remains fall around him. Highly amusing. The scene in the tenement building where the cops take revenge by shooting the old couple in the hearts so they can "wake up dead" is chilling. The black militia hunkered down in the warehouse was a great subplot, and I liked the way it began, with the "my gun is bigger than yours" confrontation in the woods.

Romero keeps his players in line; no one overacts, everyone is believable. And there are some nice little character moments amid some genuine moments of tension and terror. I liked the black militia guy's parting thoughts to Debra, and several quiet moments when the group starts to lose members and they realise that this is for real and they themselves might not make it out alive.

I liked that the chaos has been stripped down once again to it's bare essentials - a small group of survivors just trying to do their utmost to survive the unbelievable carnage they are suddenly and inexplicably faced with. Diary has more in common with the original trilogy than with Land of the Dead (2005).

In closing, the final "downloaded" video shown at the end gave me chills and had me beaming with satisfaction. A great way to end the film.

What's this...? The streets are filled with more sidewalkers than usual, many of them pulling screaming toddlers along behind them. Ashen-faced husbands dawdling behind their frazzled wives, packs of over-dressed tweenies suckling on guarana-infused fruit juices in oversized cups, strained businessmen eyeing the latest diamond necklaces in shiny jewelry store windows for their already-over-diamoned wives and mistresses... Aw nuts...is it that time of year again already? It seems mere months ago I was contemplating the benefits of taking a flamethrower to my local mall-crowd versus the inevitable risks in such a venture. And as fun as it would be to watch flaming masses running for their lives, I'm just not built for prison. I'm far too delicate. So yes, once again I lament my lack of balls as I'm stuck behind yet another family out to "make a day of it" while Christmas shopping and choosing to block the path of purely mercenary shoppers like me: looking to get in and out with SWAT-team efficiency and incur minimal collateral damage, preferably while staying within a Scrooge-like budget and preserving what little sanity I have left amid the flashing lights and endless swirls of tinsel draped in every stinking shop window from here to K Mart and back again.

It's times like these I can really see the benefits of being an emotionless zombie, a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, or a megalomaniacal villain bent on world domination (and no, not Donald Rumsfeld, someone way cooler, like Ernst Stavro Blofield, or even Hank Scorpio). And it's not like I can't see the benefits in these pursuits at any time of year, it's just during the holiday season it seems more pronounced, and far more attractive than usual.

The cynic in me comes out with a vengeance, grabs a bottle of whiskey and settles in for the season. He takes a swig of cheap scotch and barks: "Why is it that so many people who never go to church, never pray, live lives of debaucherous sin and could quite easily mistake a Rabbi for a Reverend choose to celebrate this ridiculously commercial holiday in the name of Jesus Christ?" I myself, the most non-religious person I know, still do the whole Christmas thing. Why? Fuck knows. It's the one time of year I actually see my family I guess, even though more often than not our 25th of December celebration more closely resembles "Festivus" than "Christmas", complete with the "airing of grievances" and yes, even the dreaded "feats of strength" where the celebration is not over until someones pins the head of the household..."stop crying and fight your father!" Still, there's some consolation in the knowledge it's the one day of the year I can get raging drunk in front of my family and not feel guilty about it. C'est la vie.

Today's quote is from Bela Lugosi in the Ed Wood abomination of 1955, "Bride of the Monster" and perfectly sums up how I feel at this time of year. Til next time, bon appetit, compadres.

"Home? I have no home. Hunted, despised, living like an animal! The jungle is my home. But I will show the world that I can be it's master! I will perfect my own race of people. A race of atomic supermen which will conquer the world!!"

Rest assured anyone who has been bothering to read this drivel I call writing, Red Chote will be back soon, but i thought I'd reach out from the mist that is my life and share some thoughts on this mild December day. Halloween went off with a bang (literally, as someone neighbouring the house we were partying at - not mine, thank fuck - decided to bring in the Hallows' Eve by letting off some particularly jarring and destructive fireworks). No, the last minute shift to my friend's house did nothing to alter the mood as the decorations and other detritus were easily transferable. I had a tattered flannel shirt, ripped and faded blue jeans, scuffed boots and a Jason hockey mask on. Not to mention the machete (which was fake to avoid any trouble with the law should the mood for a late-night Halloween stroll take me) and about 2 gallons of fake blood. Note to self - fake blood is NOT to be taken internally.

On the playlist first up were several Simpsons Halloween specials - an intro while we let the alcohol get absorbed into the bloodstream. Then while many a cocktail weenie was consumed was The Omen and Halloween. As there was a distinct lack of trick or treaters we decided to do the opposite, and go door knocking handing out treats. The only caveat was the household had to have kids, otherwise no candy for them. So myself, a Vampiress, a guy dressed like Slash from Guns N Roses and some weird troll/werewolf abomination did the rounds. So, yeah, that was fun. We decided not to take the guy who had dressed as a rabid zombie junkie (complete with oversized syringes sticking out of the crook of each elbow, mouth foam and a gaping head wound) as we figured that wouldnt go down well with the neighbourhood parents. Then we returned to the house (a 2nd floor apartment actually) for more copious alcohol consumption.

As for the alcohol, I started out real classy: a bloody mary in a martini glass, a couple of snifters of sangria (Spanish blood wine) and a few red-jelly-vodka shooters, but by the end of the night it had, of course, descended into lemon wedges, a salt shaker and a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila. So, naturally, things get a little hazy from that point on, though at one point I remember hanging off the balcony and wondering if a fall to the ground below would kill, or just maim. Thankfully I didnt have to find out. Well that's about enough from me. Suffice it to say, the party was a success. I'll end today's idle musings with some words from Mena Seward (played by Helen Chandler) from Dracula (1931). Til next we meet, eat, drink and be merry. Cheerio.

"And just as I was commencing to get drowsy, I heard dogs howling. And when the dream came, it seemed the whole room was filled with mist. It was so thick, I could just see the lamp by the bed, a tiny spark in the fog. And then I saw two red eyes staring at me, and a white livid face came down out of the mist. It came closer and closer. I felt its breath on my face, and then its lips, ohhh,...and then in the morning, I felt so weak. It seemed as if all the life had been drained out of me..."

Note: This is a story written in the form of a journal, so if you are just joining me and want THIS blog to make any sense at all, go back to my blog of ----- entitled "The Journal of 'Red' Chote - entry 1" and start from the beginning.

Journal entry: 29th November 2010 - 1.34am

I killed a man tonight. Fuck, my hands are shaking. I keep making typos. Hangf on./  

Just had a shot of rum and a beer to calm my nerves. I feel a bit better. Where was I? I killed a man. I blew his head off with the shotgun. It came apart like a watermelon.  

Wait. I need to start earlier so you don't think me a callous murderer. I was awoken by a banging and scratching at the back door. I got the shotgun and crept to the door while the banging and scratching continued. I called out harshly, "Who is there?" But no answer. "Stop that fucking ruckus!" I yelled. The banging stopped. Then it started again. I opened the door and there he was. He looked awful. His skin looked grey and cold and wrinkled like he'd been in the bath for too long. He was missing fingers on his right hand, and his left thigh was caked in blood. As soon as I opened the door he...he lunged at me, grabbing my chest with his fingers. I hit him with the butt of the shotgun, knocking him back, then raised it to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. He dropped like a sack of shit, reddy-black blood pumping out of the gaping hole where his head used to be attached to his neck. Against all my better judgement I reached down and touched his arm. He was not more than a few seconds dead...but he was as cold as a bagged chicken fresh out of the freezer.

5.45am  

No more sleep after that. I burned the body in a steel drum out back of the cabin. And I finally decided to open that letter from Georgie. After her mother died and I got depressed (started drinking), Georgie moved (fled) to the city to go to university (escape from me). I should have opened it when I first received it. Maybe then, I could have saved her. Now? She's probably dead. I keep looking at the shotgun.  

7:15am  

I sat on the east bank and watched the sunrise with the shotgun in my mouth and my finger on the trigger. I dont know what stopped me. Fear of death? The hope that Georgie may still be alive? In any case...I couldnt pull the damn trigger...so here I am.  

I can't stay here any more. I've loaded the ute with supplies (including several charged batteries for the laptop) and I'm going to have a couple of sausages and then hit the road. There's no point in going to the city if Georgie's letter is anything to go by. She said that if by some miracle she made it out of the city alive, she and a few friends from uni were going to head to the army base. So that's where I'll go. I'm going cross country. It's about 250 kilometres away, so I should get there by this afternoon. Hopefully they'll be able to help me. Hopefully Georgie's waiting there.

Note: This is a story written in the form of a journal, so if you are just joining me and want THIS blog to make any sense at all, go back to my blog entitled "The Journal of 'Red' Chote - entry 1" and start from the beginning.

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Journal entry: 28th November 2010 - 6.15am  

I don't know where to begin this entry, journal. I went into town yesterday. I loaded up the 4x4 ute and took the shotgun and a spare jerry of petrol. I drove out to the highway, turned left, and headed towards the town of Winidjango. It was deserted along the highway. Unusual, to say the least. Normally, there are semi trailers going hell for leather delivering food, cattle, or other things between the town and the city. But if that was odd, what was waiting in Wini was odder still. Nothing.  

That's right, nothing. Not a fucking, goddamned thing. No people, no cars (moving ones anyway, plenty just parked or abandoned in the middle of the main street), not even a fucking mangy dog begging for scraps. Nothing. The whole fucking town is deserted. I've missed something. Some emergency situation that's required the whole town be evacuated.  

I didnt stay long. Just spent enough time to load up the back of the ute with food, petrol, batteries, a new radio and other bric-a-brac to get me through the next few weeks. Then I high-tailed it back here to try the radio. Again, nothing. My eyes wandered over to Georgie's letter, still sitting, unopened, on my dresser. I should open it. But my heart sinks at the very thought. Instead I made a plate of baked beans and cooked a damper, had another few beers. I don't know what to do.  

Note: This is a story written in the form of a journal, so if you are just joining me and want THIS blog to make any sense at all, go back to my blog entitled "The Journal of 'Red' Chote - entry 1" and start from the beginning.

Journal entry: 26th November 2010 - 8.00am  

Strangest damn thing this morning. I can't get any radio reception. I don't have a television (can't stand that visual connection to the world I left behind) but I always keep the radio handy for weather reports. This morning, though, nothing. Not even static. It's plugged in, the generator is working fine. It just...died. I can't find anything mechanically wrong with it. Next time I'm in town I might buy a new one.  

3.34pm  

Saw people on the highway. I took a walk up there to check the mailbox. It's a good 4 kilometres from the cabin to the box. If I had my way, it'd be even further away. I check it once a week. Only one thing in the box. A letter from Georgie. I havent opened it. I don't think I will today. Or maybe not even tomorrow. I just can't...  

But the people...strange. They were walking. It's 35 kilometres into town, and 150 kilometres back the way they'd come, to the city. In other words: the middle of fucking nowhere. And they were walking. Slowly. They'd already passed my mailbox. They were headed into town. Walking...fucking Christ almighty they must have been hot. It's 35 degrees in the shade today. I thought about calling out to them, but I decided against it. I can't explain why. At the very moment I opened my mouth to yell, a chill ran right down my spine into my groin and despite the shocking heat, I felt very, very cold. I just turned around and came home.  

7.45pm  

Walking back along the dirt road that runs from the cabin to the highway, about halfway along, I heard something. How can I describe it? Moaning. A sort of atonal chanting sound. Not just one person. Many. Sounded close. Maybe only a few hundred feet away in the dense bush. I looked but I couldnt see anything. The gum trees are large and densely-packed, the undergrowth is very thick. I called out, "Who's there?" and the moans stopped abruptly. I listened very carefully but I couldnt hear anything. Soon enough, the moaning started again. It was closer now. I still couldn't see anything. The same chill ran down my spine again. Then, without even thinking about it, I was running.  

10.15pm  

No fishing tonight. No dinner either. I just didn't have any sort of appetite. I downed three beers and I'm sitting in bed, quite drowsy from the alcohol on an empty stomach. I locked the cabin door for the first time in...well, ever, tonight. And for some reason I loaded the shotgun, and stashed it beside the bed within arms reach. Something is making my skin crawl, and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Something's very wrong.  

This is the first entry in a story written in the form of a journal. It's set in the near future in outback New South Wales, Australia. I will try to keep the posts fairly regular for anyone who's interested in following along. Hope you enjoy it!

Journal entry: 25th November 2010 - 10.00am

Hi, journal. Red here. Sorry I haven't written in a while. The days have been getting longer and it's just been too nice outside to while away time in here tapping away at this damn keyboard. I'm really glad I invested in this laptop last time i was in town. It makes it easier to keep my thoughts flowing without having to pause to change the damn ink or ribbon. Last night I sat on the east bank and fished for a few hours, and while I was down there I saw something...how to describe it...odd. Christ...I can't even bring myself to type it. It was a body. Floating in the creek. Now, the creek is a large offshoot from a major river, the Murray, so I have no idea where this unfortunate fellow may have entered the water. All I know is, he floated past me. I was dumbstruck. He was too far away for me to snag him and pull him ashore. The creek is maybe thirty or forty feet across at it's narrowest point (i fish at this point because it seems to bottleneck the little fuckers and tip the odds in my favour) and he was floating closer to the west bank than my side. Face down. He was wearing jeans, and a white singlet, and nothing else. Now why would I call this odd, as opposed to, say, macabre, or scary, or troubling? Well...because as he floated away from me, about forty or fifty feet downstream...he... Oh, fuck, just say it...no one's gonna read this but me anyway. He climbed out. I swear I hadnt been drinking all day, I was stone sober and I saw it. From the time I started watching him to the time he climbed up the west bank and walked away, his face had been submerged in the murky brown water for maybe six whole minutes. Maybe longer. I don't know no reasonable man, even a fit and strong one, who could hold his breath and stay dead still for that long. Three minutes maybe. Not six. Not longer. I don't think he saw me. He just drifted close to the bank, got up on his hands and knees then his feet, and walked up the bank, disappearing over the other side. He walked slowly, almost aimlessly, until he was out of sight. I put away my pole and came back here to the cabin, but i swear I didnt sleep last night. Not a wink. I kept thinking of that strange fellow and wondering who he was and where he'd come from and where he was going.