The Zom Diary (22 page)

     “I used to smoke.  Triple bypass cured that.  Be best to remember, there’s no more doctors around to do this.”

    I cringe and sit up.  “Shit.”

     He nods, “Yeah, you said it.”

     A pause, he turns back to the fire and his hands fall to his lap.  He speaks, “You got a deck of cards?”

     I nod.  He looked around the darkening yard nervously.

     “You want to move inside and play a few hands of rummy?”

     “It’s been awhile.  Can you teach me?”

     “Sure.”

     “Then, let’s play cards.”

     I grab my drink, and he grabs the cooling kettle, setting it inside the door in the entryway to the barn.  He follows me into the big room, looking around appreciatively.  I ready a lamp for later, hanging it from a beam that runs over the table and then clear a spot for us to play on.  Nathan spies the soap.

     “You make this?”

     “Yeah, take a couple bars with you if you like.”

     “I will. Thanks.”

     I set up some chairs and I find the cards, dust covered, on an old junk shelf out back.  He explains the game, and I pick it up pretty quickly.  It is a lot more fun than I remember, or perhaps it is the company.  Some time later, I light the lamp.  The sway of the light casts strange shadows, black tongues licking out from beneath our chairs, and flicking back.  Neither of us pick up our hands.  I light another cigarette; only five left, and Nathan looks off into his own mind.  He speaks suddenly, without moving his eyes or changing expression.

     “Do you think much of death, son?”

     “Well, we’re kind of surrounded by it, aren’t we?”

     “No, I mean your own death?”

     I think for a moment, but he continues before I can answer.  The dim light from the lamp has settled about his shoulders, muted by the cigarette haze.  His eyes are deeply shadowed, face cast with dark lines.  I listen.

     “I remember the first time I saw death, as a boy.  This was years ago, back in North Carolina—a different place even from what you might think you know.

     “I was an industrious kid, maybe nine years old.  I had always worked at my grandparent’s store, or for myself.  I used to fish catfish out of the town sewer outtake.  They were thickest there; and I’d sell them to the blacks on the outskirts of town, for cheap sure, but it was a fortune to me.  I saved every nickel. 

     “This one day, I was walking back to my grandparent’s place, down an old lane, hardly traveled at all.  I saw a form up ahead in the road.  I walked up and when I got close I saw that it was a boy about my age, but I didn’t know him.  He was lying on his side next to a pile of burnt excrement.

     “I guess it was his, I don’t know why he was trying to burn it.  Next to his hand was an empty bottle of rubbing alcohol.  He’d drank the whole thing.  Stupid.

     “I didn’t run home.  I just stood there looking at him for a long time.  He looked peaceful.  It’s funny, the things you remember, and the things you forget.”

     His voice trails off, and after a few minutes, I realize he is asleep.  He won’t wake up, so I decide to carry him over to the couch. I am shocked when I lift him.  I thought he’d be heavier, but he is so light.

     I turn down the lamp after I cover him, and retreat to my bed up in the loft.  My head is spinning from the drink, and I don’t remember getting to bed or falling asleep.

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     When I wake up the next morning, Nathan is gone.  He has folded the blanket and left it on the couch.  There is a note thanking me for the game of cards and for dinner.  It also says to stop by for eggs when I run out.

Chapter 21

     I resolve myself to get some serious work done this day.  I breakfast with the remaining stew, cold, but almost as tasty as the day before.  I rinse the kettle and set it to boil on the fire. 

    Back in the workshop, sunlight streams in through the window and reflects off the water still left in the tub, casting ghostly tiger stripes on the ceiling and the far wall.

     I have forgotten to drain the tub after my bath the other day.  I reach my arm in, through the lukewarm water, up to my elbow, and pull the plug.  The drain gurgles, and I hear the cascade of water draining out back.

     I cross over to the great form of the cider press and pull off the sheet that covers it.  I turn the old brass crank wheel and it moves smoothly, forcing the upper plate to lift, creating a space to set the fruit for pressing.  I wipe it out briskly, cleaning out dust and a couple of scrap flaps of pear skin.

     I gather glass jars, which I possess in multitude, and begin to boil them in the large kettle outside.  I fish them out one at a time with a thin stick and set them upside down to dry.  I leave the lids for later since they are harder to get out of the water and can be dumped out when I need them.

     I pause from the hot work and look up at the blazing blue mackerel sky.  I noticed the night before that the moon is waxing, and that means the trip out to the desert will come soon. 

     I start to think about the reasons for the trip as I walk around the farm, but then soon get distracted by the task of collecting the empty white five-gallon buckets.  I want ten of these full of fruit before I begin to work the press.  There always seems to be an abundance of buckets as they have been used for a variety of tasks.  Bill collected them over many years, buying detergent in bulk.  Who uses that much detergent?

     With all the initial prep work done, I decide to sit by the fire and smoke a bowl before I start picking the pears.  It is pretty monotonous work, and a nice high is called for.  I produce my old glass pipe and a pretty tip-top bud that I have been saving.   It is smaller than my thumb, but just.  It shines an incredible green, almost neon, with hairs the color of autumn.

     I hold it in front of my eyes and look at the crystals of THC; thick and bristly like frost.  I pick off bits from the bud and load them into the pipe until all I hold is a thin stem.  My fingers stick to one another now and smell of evergreen.

     After the past few days, and being without for the longest stretch I can remember, well, I am looking forward to this moment.

     I take a light pull on the pipe, really just to taste the stuff, and exhale a thin line of smoke toward the fire.  It tastes like Wisconsin, I think; deep and dank, and full of trees.  The thought makes no sense, even to myself. 

     The next pull on the pipe is deeper, and produces a creamy yellowed smoke, thick and burning my throat.  I fight the urge to cough, but loose.  A huge dragon billow blows into the sky from my lips.  My head sags back, and I cough until I think my eyes might bleed.

     I zone.  And zone.  Zone further.  Then, an inner dialogue begins.  Who am I?  Ha, ha… no really.  What am I doing here sitting by this fire surrounded by empty jars?

     My ears ring; not with a high tone, but an almost imperceivable bass.  It makes my eyes water.  Panic thoughts.  Am I trying to kill myself?  What is going on?

     My heart ticks in my chest like a machine gun.  My palms are cold and sweaty.  Tingling sensations begin at my fingers and move up my arms, across my back, and up to my head which now feels top-heavy.

     Oh god.  Oh god.  Oh, God.  Oh, GOD!

     I need a drink of water, no!  I need to urinate.  I walk over to the wall of this barn and pulled out my dick.  A pitiful splash of piss; nothing.

     What’s wrong?

     I started walking around the barn and out to the trees.  Being with the trees will calm me.  A thought strikes me.  Why don’t I sense any zombies?

     I walk back to the fire; the effort making my heart tick faster.  I sit.  Feel uncomfortable.  Zombies?

     I stand.  I’ve had enough of this, thanks. 

     I decide to call it quits for the day.

     I leave everything as it is and crawl up to bed.  I try to sleep, but I am wide awake and feel like I’ll forget to breathe if I don’t... what?

     I stand.  This is serious.  And.  It isn’t going away.

     I grab my .38 and belt it on.  They are around somewhere, need protection.  I don’t think I will hurt myself, wait, why am I thinking about hurting myself?  I climb down from the loft. 

     One more thing to try.

     Desperately, I climb down into the cellar and start grabbing jars of hooch.  Four.  I carry them up and walk out the door, looking around, and over my shoulder.  I start walking.  I open the doors to the garage and set the jars on the seat of the truck.

     I turn the key and back out of the garage through a cloud of grey smoke.  I take a right out of the driveway, away from town, out towards where people had given up on development, after trying and trying.  I drive to a rise, and a clear view of the valley where it meets the hills.  The only sign of humanity:  multitude cul-de-sac developments of unfinished houses, killed when the US economy soured years ago.  The sun sticks to the skeleton stucco and turns it pink.

     What time is it?

     I leave the truck running in park and open a jar.  I drink it all down.  I turn on some music, but it is jarring to my mind.  I eject the CD, toss it, and hit scan, the volume low, cycling across a dead dial.  Pleasant white noise. 

     I drink jar number two.

     My head feels thick, but better.  The static calms me.

    A relief; my heart feels light and beats just fine.

     Deep breaths.  Jar three.

     Half gone now, I sip and watch the sun on the horizon, turning.  I watch it splash on the sides of the hills.  Movement?

     Yes, there.  A form, small as a speck, perhaps two miles distant, works its way up a hill, drawn toward the desert?

     It falls, some fifteen feet and kicks up big dust before coming to rest against a boulder, jutting from the slope like a giant’s tooth.  It rises and continues.

     Jar three finished.  I open jar four.  I am wasted now, but my mind is calmer.  I sip jar four, relishing it, watching the progress of the zom.  I feel better.

     What has happened to me?  In all my years of smoking, nothing like this has ever happened.  Is this because of the bite?  Both Silas and Bryce have turned down weed, when everyone else seeks it out with a passion.  Bryce said that weed made him feel uncomfortable, but this is not uncomfortable, this has been a death panic.  Why?

     I shake my head.

     The sun is hanging on, casting its last shadows.  I sip at the jar, my head a-buzz.  A blip squeals on the radio; a one second ghost voice.  I reach out, press a button, and dial back.  Nothing.

     I find Other John’s shades on the dash board and put them on.  I drive west into the sun, slowly.  This far out, there are no cars, dead or alive.  I drive and polish off the last jar of booze.  Slow and easy, follow the lines. 

     Maybe Grandpa was right.  I need to think about my reasons for getting up each morning.  But I can’t imagine doing all this -I spread my mental equivalent of arms before me wide, signifying life, without herb.  Ain’t happening.  Curtain call.  The thought makes me darkly depressed.  What if? 

     I pull right up to the barn, careful not to wreck the wire fence this time, and stagger past the dead fire and up into the loft.

     There is just enough light to find my way to bed, and I do so.  No dreams, just a big, black empty; and as I drift off, a multitude of voices calling my name.  Some soft, some shouting, as if in my ear.  Not all of the voices are kind.

Chapter 22

     I wake to the sound of a curious bird call; it streams through the bullet hole cracked glass pane next to my bed and is the pinch of dust which precipitates the avalanche called wakefulness.  I lie, eyes closed, sun-red window shades glowing in my mind.

     I am whole and myself again.

     I lie listening to the bird and breathing deeply.  A crack, I open my eyes.  The bird is small and brown, clutching to the rough shingles next to the window.  Its head tilts, and I see a tiny golden eye before it is off in a snap of wings and scraping talons—tiny.

     I’m hungry.

     Climbing down the ladder from the loft, I remember eggs; boiled and probably still good, chilled by cool night air.  I collect them from the sill in the workshop and bring them out to the steps.  I ease myself down, for my ankle is still sore, and feel the cold from the stone steps seep through my thin pants.  I tap an egg on the step next to me and peel it, tossing the shell pieces between my feet.

     I chew the whole thing before swallowing any, mixing yoke and white into a paste in my mouth.  It seems more flavorful this way and occupies a larger part of my hunger.

     The sun is newly risen, and busies itself burning the dew from trodden grass and abandoned jars.

     After my eggs, I pump some water over my head and take a deep drink.  Yesterday.

     I don’t even want to think about it.  But I do, and feel the first rising of panic.  I stuff it back down quickly, changing the subject in my mind.  My mind.

     I still can’t feel anything/anyone pressing against that sensitive part of my consciousness.  No zombies. Or, have I dulled or damaged my new ability somehow?  My eyes scan the tree line, which is somehow more menacing to me all of a sudden.  Perhaps.  Do I trust it to work, or do I start looking over my shoulder again?  I decide to busy myself, try to lose these thoughts in repetition and labor.

   I grab my .38, replacing the spent round from days before, and belt it over my pants; still the loaner pair from Selma.  I pause on the steps again tying a blue bandana over my hair and inspecting my leg. 

     The bite mark is crusty, but the edges show pink; healing is taking place.  The hole left from the bullet fragment has a knobby black scab and is surrounded by a brownish green bruise, like someone dipped their hand in dye and grabbed my calf.  This too, heals.

     My ankle is still sore from when I tripped over the bike.  But, I can walk, so I do.  First order of business is stowing the truck back in the garage.  I drive it over, wondering about that blip on the radio yesterday.  It could have been anything, but I am sure it was something.  Surely, there would be places other than Selma that are still clinging on.  America could survive on its own surplus for how long?  Years?  Like an obese body burning fat, or maybe a hibernating bear.  Such was our excess at the time of our fall.

     It is pure life boat mathematics.  Take the supplies needed to feed and provide for all the people in America and lower the population by three hundred million.  Perhaps a million people left alive, if we’re being conservative?  Take shelf-life of goods into account and that still leaves mountains of canned or dried goods, gasoline, ammo, spare parts.  Plenty for survivors to get by on until the zoms rot, or we start to make and grow new stuff. 

     Someone will be out there. Or.  Perhaps it was an automated station run by solar power?  Common these days; or really those days.  Still, I have a feeling I won’t be finding out any time soon.  I have bigger fish to gut.

     I park the truck and lock up the garage.  I want to be more careful with my reliance on gas.  I really should leave the truck for a life or death situation.  Bleeding and almost dead, it might get me to Salem and a chance of getting patched up.  If I keep wasting gas, maybe that will be the day the tank is dry.  The thought is sobering.

     I amble over to the first two five-gallon buckets and walk out into the section of the groves that holds pears.  They are glorious, light green, skinned beauties.  Kind of like a Bartlett, but grafted with a variety from Kazakhstan that needs much less water and has more tolerable temperature ranges.  The only trade-off is lower yield, but you can grow more with less, so it evens out.

     I leave the fallen fruit to the hornets and deer and focus on the ones that still dangle, pulling down branches.  I am a quick twisting little monkey, tossing them into the bucket like it is a basketball hoop.  The dents and dings in their fragile flesh won’t matter, these will be juice.

     I quickly fill the first two buckets and walk them back. My bandana is wet with perspiration already.  I am letting myself get soft.  Back to the trees.  I pick.  I get stung by a wasp, awful bastard!

     More trips to the trees.  I skip lunch, eating a few pears as I work.  By noon, the buckets are full and I busy myself washing the fruit.

     All afternoon, I feed the press and remove buckets of the leftover mush.  Milky-golden juice flows, and I capture it in jars; jars upon jars.  I let them sit before capping them, to allow natural yeasts to settle on their surface, then down to the shelves set aside for the new juice.  It is quite a process.  I use every jar I have saved, even remembering to retrieve the ones from the truck.  Even with this, there is leftover juice. 

     I call it quits when the sun begins to get low.  I boil more eggs and drink some of the fresh juice.  Just as I get relaxed with my food, the feeling comes.  The tell- tale sensation.  Three sudden sensations.

    I can feel them cross into my range of sensitivity, and know they are making for the hills and the desert beyond.  But this time they are too close.  They will turn soon and gravitate toward my location.

     I decide to conserve some ammo.  I keep my .38, but decide to get some practice with the blade.  I finish my dinner quickly and walk to the barn.  I select a mean three foot run of razor, Japanese, and bring it outside with me.

     Sitting, I lay it across my lap in the scabbard and wait.  The sun is gone by the time the first arrives, and the ring of light cast by my fire, maybe ten feet across, is my line of engagement.  I watch it approach.  Her frame is thin and her meat is badly eroded, jeans hung low around her knees, almost tripping her as she groans and waddles to me.  She must have been heavier in life.  One of her arms is wasted and hangs limp, chewed to the bone like a cartoon ham; probably what turned her.  Her face is sagging, bleary milky-blue eyes peeking through remnants of hair matted to her face.

     I stand up, dropping the scabbard as I draw the blade.  It flashes in the light from the fire.  I am ready for my Musashi moment.

     One arm raised, her mouth opens, and I strike.  Her body falls forward and her head to the left, rolling on the ground, snapping.  One down.

     The next two come into the light as a pair, and as their arms rise, I can see why.  The one on the right wears the remnants of a police officer’s uniform, and the other looks like any average person.  What had possessed him to cuff himself to this guy?  Too late to ask.

     I take a swing at the zombie cop’s wrist and separate the pair, barely dodging their double lunge.  Turning, I swing high and I catch the perp in the neck, but I just graze him, opening a wicked slash on his throat.  I back away from the fire now, toward the barn.  They follow.

     The one that had been cuffed to the cop is slower, and it is the officer that crosses into my kill zone first.  I have plenty of room to maneuver, nothing fancy, I just reach in and sweep the blade over his shoulders.  He falls, with a distracting jangling of duty gear.

     I look up now and see the last one, silhouetted by the light of the fire, arms raised and coming at me slowly, there is no rush.  All the time in the world to eat me.  I force emotion away, and chose my ground, letting him come.  Come on fucker.  Come and get it.  I spin.  I am grace and silence.  You are a pile of rot.

    The heads lay intact, and I can still feel their presence fouling my mind.  I wipe the blade on the pant leg of the closest body, and then rest it in its scabbard.  It’s too dark to clean up now, and I’m tired.  I leave the mess behind me, ignoring the heads, and open the door to the barn. 

     Lying in bed, I can still feel the three distinct points touching my mind from outside.  It is less discomforting than before, and as I drift off, I toy with the sensations in my mind.  Three fingertips, or points.  This close, they press much stronger than at a distance.  I single out one and roll my head slightly, feeling the pressure shift against the point in my brain.  It is almost like trying to push together two magnets that didn’t want to get along.  Interesting.

     Exhausted, the darkness takes me.

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     A dream.  I’m walking down a sidewalk, somewhere urban, and the sun is bright.

     I can feel the discomfort of starchy clothes and a hot, hot vest.  My belt is heavy, adorned with gun, light, and cuffs.  Approaching me, a familiar face.  Carly’s boyfriend.  I haven’t seen my little sis in ages.

     Something is wrong with his eyes, there is panic.  I call the code, thumbing the mic on my shoulder, I have seen this look on many faces.

     “Hey, Shane, what’s wrong?”

    He looks frantic, “She’s hurt bad, came at me like a mad person; almost lost my thumb.”

     I notice now his bloody hand.  “Shane, where is she?”  My stomach turns.

     “It wasn’t my fault, she hurt me.  I had to stop her.  Oh, God.  Please don’t let them take me, I feel fine.”

     No.

    “Take it easy, Shane.” I call in another code, why isn’t anyone responding? “Take me to her.”

     He shakes his head violently.  “You don’t know what you’re asking….No!”

     He moves past me, as if to run, but I sweep his leg and manage to get a cuff on his good hand.  The other cuff I place on myself.  “You’re not going anywhere, man -take me to Carly!”

    There had been a briefing this morning about civil unrest.  A new drug, or sickness, they still weren’t sure, but we were supposed to refer cases to the FEMA goons that had just arrived yesterday.  But if my sis was hurt I needed to get her to a hospital, I knew that…”

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     Gasping, I sit up straight in bed.  I don’t bother with shoes and nearly fall off the ladder getting downstairs.

   A hammer.

   I go out in the moonlight.  The fire, almost gone, is all red embers caked in ash.

    I don’t stop hammering until the three points are gone.

    I toss the hammer and wash my hands and arms from the pump.

     Sleep comes slowly.