The Zom Diary (12 page)

     “You’d be dead, and I’d be late for breakfast.”

     “What are we having?”

     He smiles and gets up taking the AK with him, “Eggs.  And sausage.  I’m Nathan.  Call me Nate.”

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     We sit there after he returns from a shed that sits some fifteen yards from the house. Smoke drifting up from a small tin chimney, he comes bearing a platter of scrambled eggs and steaming links. He also has a pitcher of cherry kool-aid.

   I learn that he is a retired cop.  He built this house himself years ago when he retired.  His wife  passed away not long after from cancer.  They had one daughter who lived in Boston and he is a chicken enthusiast.  All eleven of his “girls” had names and he calls out to them as they wander around us pecking at ants and scratching at the ground.  He talks a lot.

     “I remember Bill telling me once that he’s hired a full time hand.  You’re lucky I knew.  I’m a good man, but a lot of people wandering around these days aren’t.  A man has to be careful...”

     I nod and sip kool-aid, savoring it.  He takes this as a sign for him to continue, and he does:  “Bill was a good friend.  I’m sorry he’s gone.  Used to stop by for eggs and a game of chess every week or so back in the day.  I should have figured he was gone; most everyone is.  Around here anyway.  So you ran into some trouble.  I saw some smoke a few days ago out that way.”

    I recount the episode with the small horde that had surrounded the barn and told him about my efforts to get things put back together.  He seems shocked when I tell him how many zoms there had been.  So I ask how often he gets visitors.

     “Here?  Hardly ever.  They always seem more interested in getting out your way.  Once in awhile one will show up but never like you say.”

    “I guess that explains why this place looks so nice.  I figured if anyone lived here it would be boarded up, or fenced in.”

     “What?  And ruin the view?”

     He seems genuinely amused at my level of paranoia, but I suppose an old cop like him has seen some hard stuff.  I take the break in conversation to ask him if he’d been to Selma/Salem and if he’s picked any of the houses around here clean.

     “Town?  I saw the wall and avoided it.  People start to gather and it can only mean trouble.  I haven’t touched the houses around here.  These people were my friends and neighbors.  I’ll take my van up north every few months or so and pick around one of the tourist towns.  I had a big find recently and I get along ok with just the eggs and some trapping, so that’s my story.  That’s how I get by.”

     I tell him then about my plans to check the other houses and fix up the barn.  He seems amused by this.

    “You know I helped Bill put that old thing back together.  Thousands of pieces all tagged and numbered.  He was going to finish it so that college kids could come out and spend the summer working on those fruit trees.  Interns, he said.  Slave labor more like it.”

     He chuckles and scrapes the last of the eggs onto my plate.  I can tell he is glad to have someone to talk to.  I am glad, too, I guess. Better than being shot in the head and buried in yonder field.  As genial as the conversation is, eventually it slows and stalls.  I take out my keys. 

     He tells me to stop by sometime for eggs.  I say I will, and know it to be true as I say it.  I grab my Glock on the way out and wave as I drive down the long driveway.  I pause at the road and fish around the dash for an old cigarette pack that I had filled with joints for the journey.  I light one and turn out onto the road.  The truck crawls along slowly.  My mind begins to wander.  I could tell that Nathan was a good guy.  Nice to have another neighbor and a safe place to stop on the way to town.  Why the hell am I getting so much attention from the zombies?  I am glad somebody is having an easier time than I, but I can’t help wondering all the same. 

     I decide then to skip the scavenging for now and get to town and see about Bryce.  I speed up a little to 10 mph and turn the radio up.  The sun is warm on my left arm and the mood in the truck is good.

Chapter 11

     The road creeps by and I think about how differently I appreciate the road from the perspective of someone walking versus the relative ease of driving.  The brain detaches in a car.  The windshield becomes like a TV screen or portal; forgettable.  The act of walking makes one appreciate the road.  Where the noise of cars dulls hearing and the blur of scenery dumbs the minds comprehension of place, walking embraces the senses.  You hear the wind, feel the pavement and notice all the flotsam thrown from passing vehicles.

     Crawling along in the truck, half stoned, my mind wanders.  I imagine that I am in Africa; a mercenary with a pickup full of brainwashed child soldiers.  Witchcraft amulets swinging and slapping their bare chests, promising bravery and protection from bullets.  I am their father, their leader.  I will hold them as they lay dying, and they will love me in the last moments under the hot sun.

     I have just begun an imaginary conversation with one of these lost boys telling him all about America and our great prosperity when I catch the first sign of town.  It has been weeks now since I walked out of the side street up ahead and caught sight of the wall.  Salem.

     Town looks much the same as before.  I count an extra windmill; the one Bryce was working on must be finished now.  I select a proper side road and begin my circuit around the wall to make my way to the gate and admittance to Main Street.

     Here, in town, but outside of the fortifications, I can see few cars; most presumably driven away to the coast years ago, abandoned.  Or, perhaps, used in the construction of the wall.  The few that are present are partly stripped, tires mostly.  I assume that the ones with the gas door open and cap missing have already been siphoned.  No gas here.

    Buildings, too, have been stripped, others boarded up with arcane symbols painted on doors.  It reminds me of the footage from Katrina.  I wonder what the numbers mean.  Food left inside?  This building is zombie free? Or, Dear God, don’t open this one up.

     I am passing the small brick elementary school noticing scrub grass peeking up through cracks in the sidewalk and pavement when I see movement to the right.  Shambling out from an overgrown alley, a zombie knocks over an old aluminum trash can, sending it careening off in a tight circle spilling years old trash.  It is a heavyset woman, dark hair nearly worn off the bare skull, the elements and time have bleached her clothes a uniform grey.  Just as my eyes meet with the thing’s, its head explodes—black spray on brick.  The report, off to the left, sounded almost simultaneously.  Well, at least they know I am here.

     Rounding the last of the buildings, I pull out turning left on the main road that leads back to the gate.  Stetson man is there, on duty again.  He recognizes me and waves me past the first sliding chain link fence.  He waits for it to close before taking his eyes off the road and walking to my window, then he speaks:

     “Nice rig.  You a mechanic?”

     I shake my head.

     “Too bad.  Bryce said you might be showing up again.  He’s up at the police station.  You know where it is?”

     I nod.

     “Good.  Better get going.”

     I start to ask why but I am still a little high, and don’t feel like chatting with the guy.  The inner gate slides open and I pull into town, parking the truck on Main Street and shouldering my AR-15.  I leave the rest of my gear in the truck and lock it up.  Keys in pocket.  Check.

     The police station is to my right, a short walk from where I’ve parked.  It is a small cinderblock structure; one floor, but spread out.  I can see as I approach it, that the town’s fortifications have incorporated the structure into the wall, and, in essence, it runs right over the top of the building, leaving the back half with the fenced off impound yard on the outside beyond the wall.  It is a smart design.  The building adds a lot of structure to the wall and would have saved construction time.  Also, here is another very secure point of entry should the main gate fail.

     I walk up to the front door and open it letting myself in.  I have been here once, years ago, to bail out a farm hand who had gotten wasted and been PC’d for the night.  The place hasn’t changed much except that the heavy metal door that leads into the station proper is propped open with a big round rock.  I lean in noticing that the lights are on, and call out.  Bryce’s head pops out from a side room down the hallway and he waves me down.  I walk towards the door he has come out of, glancing at old posters that were intended to remind the viewer to not drink and drive.  Stop, drop, and roll.  Etc.    

     The room is a holding cell and Bryce stands, arms crossed, forehead leaning on the bars, looking in.  There, lying on an army cot is a man; alive. Drenched in sweat, he strains against the strap across his chest.  His eyes are blood red; vessels having popped, and it smells like he has soiled himself. When Bryce turns, I can see his expression is troubled.  His eyes look bleary, tired and red.

     “He’s almost finished.”

     “What?” I ask stupidly, knowing the answer already but being unable to reach out into the ether to grab the words and shove them back into my face.

     “His name is Larry.  He was out on a scavenging trip with five other people.  He just got back two days ago—bitten.  They found a clinic that had been used as a shelter.  They were looking for meds and accidentally let out a swarm that had been holed up in the cafeteria of the place since the start.”

     He must have noticed my expression because he stops talking. I give him a quick version of what happened at the barn, and he shuts his eyes and nods his head.

     “It makes sense.  They were way up North, and he said it took him more than a week to hobble back. He got bit on the ankle, right through the Achilles.  He hid in an exam room, and the swarm followed the rest of the folks out of the place and off somewhere.  He got himself patched up as best he could, even got some expired antibiotics in his system and hoofed it down here.  He made it so long, we thought maybe he wasn’t going to turn; you know—like me and Silas.  Crap.”

    He leans into the bars again and is silent for a time.  I stare up at the flickering light above him then speak:

     “I guess that swarm passed the town and came right for me.  Bryce, something is pulling these things out to the farm.  I found another survivor, not four miles away, and he hardly ever sees anything.  Something is happening.  I—“Bryce raises his hand to silence me.

     “I know.  I’ve been doing some experiments, and I have something to show you later.”  He turns back to the cell and continues, “He was my friend.  Those windmills were all his idea, and together, we brought light back to this town.  Now…”

     He pauses again, and I realize that he probably doesn’t want me there right at this moment.  He is losing a friend.  Even if that happens all the time in this fucked world, I know it isn’t easy.  I turn toward the door and begin to walk out.

     “Hey, Bryce, I’m going to see Silas.  Come see me when you can, ok?  Sorry.”

     I walk down the hall just as the report of the pistol snaps its way down the hallway behind the closing doors.  I’d have done the same damn thing.

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     Silas’ place is as cheerful as ever, meaning that he looks cheerful even if I am his only patron.  No, upon closer inspection I can see that prophet fellow is sitting at a table to the right tucked away with his lady friend.  She sits sans collar, but still dressed like B.C. meets Mad Max.  I nod at them and turn back to the bar choosing my stool carefully. 

     Silas pulls a jug out from the cooler and pours me a pint, pushes it toward me, and says, “You have my soap?”

     I swear softly and shake my head.  His face darkens but only for a moment, “Don’t play with my emotions!  Next time, I better see some soap.”  He smiles.  “You got any of that fruit jerky or bullets?”

     “Yes!”  I rummage in my belt pack and fish out a package of fruit leather passing it across the bar. I fish out a joint and offer it to him, but he shakes his head.

     “You think just because a brother has dreds he’s a Rasta?  No thanks, man; it’s hard enough to get my ass out of bed every morning.  Fuckin’ A.  I’m going to start calling you Smokey.”

     “Yeah, you do that and I’ll start calling you…Uh, something else, too.  Anyway, what’s up with what’s his face over there?”

     “The Prophet?  He loves music and last I checked, I have the only working juke-box anywhere, so.”  He pauses, pulls up a glass for himself, and pours some amber colored beer.  “Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t drink, but it’s nice to have the company, so…”

     Right then the music starts up suddenly and loudly.  It sounds like noise at first, but as my ears adjust, I recognize the song, New Edition, “Candy Girl”.  The Prophet stands up and starts dancing in place; arms and legs flapping to the music.  His lady friend taps her fingers on the table and looks at him with pure admiration in her eyes. 

     I look over at Silas, wincing from the volume, and he just shrugs taking a sip from his beer.  I get up and walk over to the box and feel around back for the volume knob.  I turn it down to a tolerable level.  The Prophet stops and stands staring at me.

     “Hey, sorry.  I couldn’t hear myself think.”  I say.

     He smiles and speaks, “I can hear yourself think.”

     He laughs then and goes back to the business of dancing, the music has changed to something electronic and spastic, his movements following suit.  I am ignored, and so I walk back to my seat.

     Silas leans over, “Usually if I try that, he flips out.  He must like you.”

     I shrug, “Whatever, just wanted some peace.  You know about the guy, Larry?  I was over seeing Bryce.”

     “Yes, Larry’s a good guy.  Comes in here from time to time.  He helped me get on the grid.  Is he still fighting it?”

     I pour from the jug, filling both our glasses and raising mine, “Sorry.  No.  Here’s to him.”

     Silas drains his glass in one swig, then turns and walks out back, presumably through the kitchen.  After a moment, I hear him yelling, and the sound of pots hitting tile and a door slamming.

     I pull my cracked old lighter from my belt pouch and light the joint I had fished out earlier.  I light it and smoke it like a cigarette.  I am still pretty baked from the drive in; still, it is nice to have something to do and I suddenly wish to be elsewhere.

     I sit there, my back to the Prophet and his spastic dancing.  Occasionally, the girl claps her hands or laughs, but I never hear her speak.  Both apparently drink water provided from the tap in the sink behind the bar.  When one comes up and steps behind the bar to fill their cups, the other will cycle quarters through the open face of the music machine.  The same four quarters over and over through the slot.  I feel warm and comfortable; the pains of travel and mental stain forgotten for the moment.

     Silas comes out from the kitchen and walks over to the wall.  He fishes around behind a curtain for a bit and suddenly chains of Christmas lights blink to life, strung from the rafters and running along the walls, they dazzle and shine, Silas having dimmed the other lights.  The music soon follows the new mood; something soft and psychedelic from long ago.  Silas fills my glass without my asking, and I wonder if I have somehow started a tab, or whether drinks are on the house?  I notice then that he has changed clothes. Into a green and black flannel vest, arms bare, his apron exchanged for a gun belt and holster, covering long dark pants.  I try to make out what he is packing, but it is impossible in the light –something dark and automatic.  His eyes are glazed, and I can see his mind is elsewhere.  Maybe the clouds of smoke from my joint have triggered some mellowing on his part.  I decide to start a conversation.

     “Nice gear, what are you packing?  I might have some bullets to trade.”

     He answers without moving, not even turning to look my way, “It’s an old Sig.  A nine.   I ‘borrowed’ it from the police station.”

     “Did you used to be a cop?”

     “Nope.  I’ve been a lot of things but not a cop.  Most of my jobs involved food and beer.  Since you ask, I owned one of the finest brew-pubs in San Diego, at least until my customers started to eat off the menu.”

     “Oh.  So you hooked up with these people and set up shop once you had things settled?”

     “Yeah, that’s pretty much the short version of it.  Believe me, setting up that wall and getting power and water took a lot of time and spilled blood, even though there were more of us then.”

     “That many people got killed since you got to town?”

     “Well, some get caught on scavenging trips; not as many as you’d think, we got smart and usually send one of us folks with the ‘feel’ for the Zoms.”  He pauses and looks at me for the first time since we started talking. “You know what I’m talking about, right?”

     “Bryce said some people could tell when they were close, like ESP or a feeling or something?”

     “Yeah.  The people who got bitten and didn’t turn.  They got the feel for them now.  Bryce has his theories why, of course.  But anyway, a lot of people died finding all the stuff for this town to be livable.  Another got killed working on the windmills.  Some got worried about family and went off to look for them.  And, then, there are the homesteaders.  Now that we have the basics here, it’s harder to get them to help out with town improvements.”