The Zom Diary (23 page)

Chapter 23

    I am coming to terms with the phenomena that I am experiencing in my mind, if slowly.  I can sense the zoms, and they can sense me. And maybe there is something else, though I can’t really say what.  Refractions?  Recorded images, ESP, some kind of astral hooey?  I don’t know. 

     I am also realizing that my use of marijuana is not passing or recreational.  What perfectly sane and sober mind could stand this existence?  Without the euphoria and escape that I get from my herbs, this place is damned depressing.

     So, I try smoking again, and the results are the same.

    Rising waves of panic and terror.  Confusion. Despair. 

    When I come back to my senses and feel…normal, I am faced with hard choices.  Give up the green and cope as best I can, or wait and try again once I’ve healed some more.  I don’t want to believe that it is an effect of my recent exposure, but rather something more mundane.  Maybe I was stressed out, and this was all a reflection of the suppressed panic stored in my psyche.

     The images from that dream, of someone else’s dream, follow me for days; like a bad feeling impossible to shake.

     I don’t want to think about these things anymore.

     So, I loose myself in my work.

     I clean my guns and repack bags.  I decide to place a few weapons and caches of extra supplies in other buildings in case of catastrophic events.

   In the garage, my old shack, and one of the old animal pens, I place bug-out bags, a rifle, and a hand weapon.  One set per location; hidden cleverly.

     I become a steward of my surroundings.  I cut the grass around the yard and clear out the thicker weeds in the orchard.  I prune, and clean out dead areas in the groves.  Not all of the trees have done well in this climate.

    I use precious gasoline to operate the chainsaw, felling trees and cutting them into foot long segments.  I cart these over to the back of the barn and spend days splitting wood and stacking it in the low storage of the barn. 

     It is back breaking work, but I feel some of my upper body fitness returning, and the act itself, of splitting, is cathartic.

     I have chosen a thick segment of tree trunk for a chopping block and loose myself in the rhythm of splitting wood.  The more I concentrate, the harder the job becomes.  So, I let go of my mind and become the act of raising the maul and letting it fall onto the right place on the wood.  It is not necessary to swing the heavy instrument; only to guide its descent toward the exposed face of the wood. The yellow fiberglass handle becomes familiar in my hands; gifting them with calluses.

    This is my routine.  Chopping, stacking, water breaks and tending to the smoke house.

    Each night I sit out next to the fire, watching the skies, sipping my fruit wine, and renaming the stars.

     Once the land is in order and the outbuildings stocked and secured, I turn my attention to the barn.

    Some of my sloppy repairs are undone and replaced with salvaged boards from unused buildings and with improved finishing materials.  I have found some old paint, and there is enough to cover the entrance room with two coats.     

   Copper green: ceiling, floors, trim, everywhere.

   Kind of an ugly shade, but better than gore-splattered wood.

    Some of the more damaged furniture goes as well.  I make a burn pile, tossing all the junk onto the place that had been Bill’s home.  It feels like a cleansing act every time I bring fire to this place.  I drink on the evening that it burns, dancing around the fire, and chanting, deep growling reels from the depths of my being.

     This last act brings the week to a close; it feels good to have my chores done.  My balances are clear, and I feel alright leaving for a couple days to see the country.

    I have a long mental list of things that I need, and I decide it is time to go poke around some houses.  I get my pack together, my AK and some basic tools, and set out to forage.  Before I leave, I tack a note to the door.

     BACK IN A FEW.  –K

     I figure that if Bryce does show up a little early, he can wait for me to return.  I make my way around the barn and head west, through the trees.

Chapter 24

     The sun is three fingers over the horizon, and it warms my back as I walk along a row of dead trees.  Here the grass is golden like straw, and it swishes over my sneakers and deposits the morning’s fine dew, quickly dampening my feet.

    I am heading back toward town, but have no intention of going that far.  In my mind, I think about some of the places I have checked before, but my needs are different now, and what I might have passed over long ago, might be gold to me now.  Where to begin?

     I step out of the brush and onto one of the side roads that cuts down from the main road to town.  Unpaved, it is badly overgrown with weeds, but is still recognizable for what it was.

    I lean against an old speed limit sign, bullet ridden long before the end, and fish a cigarette out of my pocket.  Last one.

     The houses out this way are pretty well spaced out, mostly farms and ranches, with a few exceptions.  Closer to town, things get much more compact.  What the hell, maybe I’ll head for town and zero in on the first place that I feel a zombie.  Let me hunt them for once.

    I take one last pull on the cigarette and toss it to the ground, twisting it into the dirt with my toe.  Shouldering my AK is difficult with the pack, so I carry it, holding the cherry colored grip.

     There are a few low areas here, almost like basins, odd for the flat valley, and I know that there is a small development in the one up ahead.  I came across it not long after the end on one of my first trips out.  I had been desperate for news or confirmation of the madness that had descended upon the world.  This place had been what I’d found, a small community consisting of three houses around a cul-de-sac. 

     Probably built back in the 80’s to accommodate a yuppie exodus from L. A., it had been eerily quiet that day.  I had expected that some other people had stayed behind, or had been able to fight off the roaming dead, but the place had exhibited all the signs of a quick evacuation.  Sheets and clothes blowing around front yards, abandoned boxes of food, scattered toys and no visible cars. 

     I’d picked up some of the food and brought it back with me that day.  And I’d done a quick check of one house, and now I think I remember that there had been some ammo, but the memory is foggy now.  I haven’t forgotten the feeling of being watched.

     At the time, I thought it had been natural guilt from going through people’s things, or paranoia, for those were nerve wracking times, but now I wonder if someone hadn’t been looking out from one of those dark windows, peering through the crack of a blind.

    Walking now, through the scrub, I top the small rise that overlooks the houses.  It looks much as I have expected.  Weeds and small scrub trees have taken over yards, although the blacktop is still visible, if coated with some new dirt and sand blown across it over the years.  I can make out the bright colors of the abandoned junk, peeking through the weeds.  Something is odd about the scene, but I can’t place it.

    I also can’t sense any pressures in my mind, so my fear of zombies is minimal, yet something tugs at my mind in a non-physical sense.  I pull the bolt on the AK and chamber a round. Clunk-shunk.

     The descent to the property is easy; no fences or farm detritus to trip over.  Still there is an uneasiness about the place.  The windows, dark and ominous, gaze out at me accusingly.

     I come to the first house, the one I remember in a vague sense and decide to start there.  I start up the cement steps to the front door, and pause to look over at the other two houses.  They are all cut from the same mold; split level ranches with attached garages.  The paint jobs are the only real distinguishing feature between them.  The one before me is a dark brown, then blue and yellow, counterclockwise around the circle.

     My eyes pause on the black sedan parked in front of the yellow house.

     Shit!  I crouch instinctively, but realize that this does nothing to hide me.  I hop off the steps and duck around the corner of the garage.

     This explains my uneasy feelings.  I look around the corner of the house and across to the car.  It is filthy, but that doesn’t mean much.  It hadn’t been there on that other day. 

     How long has it been there, and where is the driver?

     No one has made themselves known to me. Would I have announced myself to an armed intruder? No.  I had been stealthy on my approach to the place.  Still, I wait.

     I have no way of telling if anyone is around without looking.  So do I leave, or check it out?   

     I stand and walk over slowly to the driveway of the yellow house, watching the windows for signs of life.  Curtains hang still.  It is a cement driveway riddled with cracks, and these cracks are riddled with weeds.  These cracks run directly behind the back tires of the sedan, a Mercedes, I can see now.  The weeds are growing around the tires, which are dry and cracked from the sun.

     This thing hasn’t moved in some time.

     I relax some.  I am still curious, though.

     I walk around the house and don’t notice any signs of occupation.  No trampled grass, no trash, no garden, no noises from within.  I decide to check the interior of the place.

     The front door is wood with a row of square glass windows across the top. I grasp the tarnished brass handle and push down on the thumb latch.  It opens with a terrible rusty skree.

     I pause and listen.  If anyone is inside, they can’t have missed that noise.  Nothing.  I am becoming more certain that the place is abandoned.  Where has the car come from?

     It could have been that my investigation of the area all those years ago, had occurred between the evacuation of Selma and the return of refugees that re-founded the town.  It makes sense.

     The car has sat exposed for a long time, and, if I were back in town, I would want to check my house.  But then where have they gone?

     Perhaps there will be a clue in the house.  I open the door the rest of the way and step inside.  The place is quiet, even more so than I would have expected.  No sounds of wind or birds penetrate the thick walls.  Light streams yellowly through windows illuminating the entrance.

    The stairs split, one set to the right leading darkly down, the other left and up.  I chose up.  The living room is neat, all the couch cushions in place and no mess to speak of.  Ditto for the dining room.  The kitchen is ransacked; cabinet doors open, broken glass and mummified food splattered on the floor.  Salt.  It catches my eye, at the back of an open cabinet; two containers.  The top one is about half full, the bottom one is unopened.  I put them in my pack and turn, looking at the refrigerator.

     It is decorated with pictures of a dog and various people.  There is a speeding ticket and an obituary.  My interest stops here.  A most important rule to ransacking:  never open a refrigerator that has sat, unopened, and without power for any period of time.  Ever.

    Rotting piles of bodies are less offensive than the clouds of stink that a fridge can put out.  Even now, it could be stuffed with unimaginable treasures, but I will never know.

     The small cabinet over the fridge is another matter.  I investigate.  The left side has stacked china plates and a package of Lions Club light bulbs.  The right has a centerpiece of plastic flowers in a brass bowl, and behind it, a half bottle of rum.  Woot!

     I unscrew the cap and take a sip.  It burns, but I fight the urge to cough.  Another swallow, and my belly warms.

     I walk out of the kitchen glancing over piles of junk, but find nothing else worth taking.  The salt is a good find.  The rum, a bonus.

     Walking from the kitchen, I look down the hallway to the bedrooms.  Strewn with discarded clothes, blankets and trash, it is a nasty mess that has become rat habitat.  I pick my way gingerly down the hall and check the room to my right.  An office.  The closet has file cabinets full of papers, the desk holds nothing of value.  A porno mag.  Exit.

     The back room appears to be a spare bedroom.  The closet is empty, the dressers hold old framed photos, plates, filed tax returns, and junk.  I walk over to the master bedroom.

     A wooden oriental screen rests precariously against the wall.  Patterns of peacocks and geishas.  There is a sword stand on the dresser, but the sword is gone.  The door at the bathroom is open, so I peek in. Yellow fixtures, ugly stains in the tub.  Signs of violence?  I check the medicine cabinet.  There is some recently expired aspirin and a box of band aids.  I add them to the pack.

     Back in the master, I lean the AK against a dresser and flip the mattress and box spring.  Under the bed is a nice looking 12 gauge, the barrel covered with a sock, and a box of shells.  I pocket the shells, turkey load, and leave the gun; too much to carry.

     Next to this though, boxes of shoes.  I check the size, and it is only half a size too big.  All dress shoes.  I toss the box back down on the floor.  The closet.  Sliding it aside, most of the hangers are bare.  A tangled jumble of dress shirts on the floor; nothing.

     I set the mattress back on the frame and look at the windows.  Single pane of glass with a fake window pane frame set against it, no good.  I need individual panes.

     Back to the entranceway.  I look down to the right, and it looks dark.  I can detect more than a hint of mold smell.  Pass.

     Back outside, the sun is almost at its highest point.  I sit on the steps and pull out some fruit leather. I sit and chew looking over at the other two houses.  I drink more rum.  I decide to check the blue house next.

     This time when I push on the door, it opens a crack then resists.  I push harder and feel a scraping resistance, as I stumble into the entryway.  A smell of death pours into my nose.  I step back and hear the Velcro crack of my shoes sticking to the floor.  As I stumble back out of the house, I see what causes the resistance. 

     A body, face down, dry and rotted husk over a still sticky patch of fluids.  Shiny silver desert eagle frozen in its grip.  I close the door taking a passing look at the stairs.  More bodies.  Makes abandoned refrigerators seem more charming.

     I make my way back over to the brown house, wiping my sneakers on the grass as I go.  I want nothing from that crypt.

     At the brown house now, I try the door and find it is locked.  I turn down the steps and head for the back yard.  There is a small deck with a sliding glass door.  I raise my AK; better to shoot out the glass than risk getting cut.  A thought occurs to me.  I bend over and pick up a rock instead, hurl it at the glass, which breaks, falling out in a violent cascade.  I have forgotten how much fun that could be.

    Stepping over the larger pieces of glass, I enter the kitchen; sand and glass embedded in my shoes cracking on the linoleum—white tile with a floral pattern.

     The layout of all three houses, I assume to be the same, but the condition inside this one is drastically different.  Looking about me, I can see that this kitchen has been picked over at some point in the past, perhaps even by myself.  There is an odd handful of canned goods; mushroom pieces, whole tomatoes, and beets.  They go into my pack.

    The situation in the living room is telling of what will become of these houses and others like them.  The ceiling in the far corner has fallen in, drywall and insulation scattered by animals.  The attic is visible through this, yellow stains reaching out from the hole to the rest of the drywall.  It smells stale.

    This time, the hallway down to the bedrooms is clear.  The first door on the right is a child’s room, what had been an office in the other house.  I close the door solemnly, eyes dragging across the plastic toys and princess bed.

    Ahead is the next bedroom.  There is a poster on the door from a movie that had just come out a few months before the end; a remake of an old TV show from the 80’s about a puppet alien that eats cats.  And, people were starving in the world…

    I peek into the room, but it is as I dimly remember.  Another kid’s room; trashed and reeking from some dead animal.  I close this door.

    The master bedroom awakens foggy memories, brought back to the surface, perhaps facilitated by my rum buzz.  I check the closet.  There are three boxes of .40mm. I don’t have anything that uses .40mm, but I take them anyway to trade.  Pushing aside some hanging clothes, I discover what I had hoped to find.  Boots.

     The guy must have been fresh back from Iraq or Afghanistan, because his gear is still in the rucksack.  Afraid he would be going back soon, or just trying to ignore it?  I pull out pants and check the label.  He was much taller and thinner than me, even in my more slender present condition.  But the boots are my size.

     I pull a mouse nest out of the left one, dumping some ancient cat food and newspaper on the floor.  They look a touch too big, but just.  The old army adage.  There are two sizes of clothes:  too big and doesn’t fit.

     I’m smiling now as I kick off my crappy sneakers and walk over to the dresser.  I grab a bunch of socks and some underwear.  Peeling off the almost clay-like black tubes that had been passing for my socks, I wipe my feet on a bed sheet and try on my new boots.

     Perfect.

     Walking back through the house, I feel like I’m an inch taller, and I feel more confident.  I step out through the broken slider.  Looking at the handle, I can see that it was unlocked the whole time.