The Zom Diary (24 page)

     Never mind, the destruction hatches an idea.

     The garage door slides up with a protesting squeal.  I sweep my eyes over the junk; rakes, shovel, riding lawn mower, and some cans of paint and chemicals.  I step in, my shadow looming long.  The gas can has only about an inch left in it.

     Walking back around to the circle, I begin at the yellow house, then blue, and lastly the brown, throwing a splash of gas on the side of each. I set my pack and the AK in the center of the cul-de-sc, and carefully ignite the fire.

     It feels good to watch the fires, each starting slowly, then roaring to life.  The thought of these slowly rotting memorials to an age of waste and trivial amusements laying here haunting my senses, was too much to bear. Better that they burn. Much better the past is consumed and forgotten.

     I sit on the ground next to my few new possessions and sip at the bottle of rum.  The heat begins to get to me, so I grab my stuff and walk out on the street towards the road, AK in one arm, bottle of rum dangling from the other.  I don’t feel like staying out here anymore so decide to head back to the barn, hoofing it.  Bust these boots into shape!  There is just enough light to make it, and I make a game of it, which will last longer?  The booze or the sun?

     Tossing back another swallow, I feel the flicker of pressure in my head.  Behind me, and forceful.  I quicken my pace.

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     The pavement is grey, bleached by the sun and it sparkles as the daylight hits exposed mica.  I can feel the weight and shape of the cans in my pack as they rub against my back, to the rhythm of my gait.

    I pause next to an old abandoned red truck for a moment to catch my breath.

     The sun is hot, and I bow my head, staring at the ground.  Sweat rolls down the tip of my nose, and I fight the sudden tickle-urge to shake my head, watching the drop fall to make a damp starburst on the baked pavement.

     I tilt back the heavy glass bottle of rum watching the sun cast corded bands through the dark liquid.  I swallow.

     Perhaps I am not making the best decisions; running and drinking straight rum out here in the sun.  But, I am feeding on the energy from the fires; dark columns of smoke rise on the not too distant horizon—that and the increasing pressure coming up from behind, have me all excited. 

     The road runs in a straight line here, roughly twelve miles between the farm and Salem.  Whatever approaches, it’s dead, alive and dead, rather.  And, it’s moving faster than anything I’ve felt so far with my new perception.

     It scares me, but I can’t help but want to see.

     I drink the last of the rum and toss the empty bottle towards the way I’m headed.  It smashes in a very satisfactory manner.

     Where have I caught this destructive bug?

     Probably relates to the rising irritability brought on by a lack of THC.

     Enough.  Let the thing come and I’ll deal with it.

     I toss my pack under the truck and out of the sun.  I pick up the AK.  It’s ready to rumble, twenty-nine in the banana clip, one round seated.  I thumb down the safety lever and put the truck between myself and whatever this way comes.

     The metal of the truck is hot and warms my skin through the clothes I’m wearing.  I snap back my wrist when some exposed skin slips onto the metal.  Hot enough to fry an egg.

     My sweat pours and I’m watching the road now.

     It can’t be far off.  The pressure builds.

     There, topping the slight rise that has concealed it, comes a form human.  Tall and lean and oddly familiar.  Something about the clothes registers in my mind but is consumed and discarded by my intense focus.  It’s closer now, not running, but leaning forward so that it must shuffle its feet quickly, or fall forward.

     The familiarity increases as it closes on my position.  Minus his hat, it looks like… It’s Stetson.  His mouth is wide, and I can see that his throat has been chewed out; an awful brown red fan staining his checkered shirt.

     “What the fuck!?” I hear myself yell.

     He is twenty yards away now, and I can see that he looks fresh, that is, not too long dead.  A shame.  I liked they guy even if I still couldn’t remember his name.  Ed?  

     I raise my AK and sight in on his chest.  One to slow him down, then I’ll walk up to finish him off.

     The report sounds wrong.  There is smoke and I realize that I am on my back.  My arms and face sting.  My eyes are watery.  Where?

     I hear Stetson’s body slam into the truck, and he staggers, feet beating a staccato on the pavement.  He’s rounding the truck, and I can barely see.  My arms hurt, and I feel warmth and wetness.  The pressure in my mind is so intense now, overpowering the pain.  The sensation of him drawing near overwhelms my senses, and I can only think: “Well, this is it.”

    I don’t want to feel it happen.  I don’t want to feel those teeth, those tearing stubs of fingers and the dull vacuous tug of my bowels being ripped from my abdominal cavity.  I’ve seen it, but can’t imagine feeling it.  I panic, scraping my heels against the hot, hot tar, but blinded, I know how futile the gesture is.  Numb, I flee into my mind, seeking escape.

     The magnets in my head.

     One me.  One him.

     Drawing toward each other.

     His shadow falls over me, and I cringe in a final moment of desperation.  Something flips in my mind.

     The magnet sensation is different, rather than two magnets held apart by millimeters, trying desperately to connect.  I feel the opposite, a repulsion.  Two magnets refusing to touch.

     The ghostly finger touch in my mind eases.  He, recedes.

     What just happened? 

     I try to stand.  I am able to pull myself up now, holding onto the hot truck, no strength in my legs.  Hanging onto the side of the bed like a drowning sailor, I go to wipe my eyes, but my hands are covered in blood and glass from the damn bottle, so I don’t.

    I blink and try to focus on the scene around me, my vision in still watery and out of focus, but I can kinda see.  I am whole, but leaking a lot of red stuff.

     I cast about quickly, looking for Stetson.  His form is retreating into the distance, back toward town.  The sensation in my mind is fading.

     My AK is on the ground, a tiny smoke wisp escaping from the ballooned and burst barrel.  God damn it all to hell!  I pick it up, wincing at the sensation of tiny cuts opening on my arm as I do so.  The tip of the bullet, copper point, peeks out from the end of the barrel.  The barrel itself is torn open, breached.  I scream and throw it into the bushes.

     My vision is clearer, but still my eyes water like they’ve been stung by teargas.  I remove my jacket slowly.  There are several small cuts, probably caused by fragments of the barrel when it popped.  They ooze, my blood thinned by the rum.  Nothing squirting or pumping.  I’ll live, I think.

     My pack; I look for the band aids I acquired in the house.  Tiny, old plastic band aids, they are useless.

     I toss my jacket onto the truck.  It’s ruined.  I cut some long strips from it, and wind them around the cuts, tightly.  I bleed less. 

     My head is cloudy and dazed and I realize that I might be in shock.  The road beneath me is a puddle of blood.  I feel light headed.

     The barn is only a couple miles away.  I can make it.  I grab my pack and start off down the road, going over what happened in my mind.  After a few steps, I double back and retrieve the clip from the ruined AK.  Waste not.

     Damn.

     The sun is low and at my back, burning my neck.  I force myself to walk straight and not too slow.  Dazed, I plod on, leaving a pitiful drop of blood or two every few steps.

     It feels like the longest mile I’ve ever walked.  My feet protest from fatigue and also the odd blister from the unfamiliar boots.

     I keep moving.

     The sun is gone when the barn welcomes me home.  My mind is clearer but I feel colder than I should in this heat.  I toss wood from the small pile near the fire into a tall jumble and set it ablaze.

     The kettle, looking more like a witches cauldron than ever, I fill with water and set over the fire. I dump my pack in the big room alongside my other gear and light one of the kerosene lamps that always hang over the table.  It pops to life, and the room looks more cheerful.

     I gather bandages and a clean rag and set them on the table, bulldozing soap-henge for more room.  Lastly, I pull a cleanish t-shirt off the line, hung wall to wall, and sit.

     The couch is comfortable and warm.  I feel my mind drifting off, listening to the hiss of the lamp and the distant snap of fire outside.  I catch myself falling forward.

     Staggering up, I grab the rag and walk out to the fire.  It’s burning high now, and the kettle steams.  I pause to feel for any zoms out in the distant dark. Nothing.

     I kneel by the blaze and warm my hands, dipping the rag and cleaning the blood from my blistered fingers.  I think back on what happened as the fire tries to hypnotize me.  What happened back at town?

     Stetson was always on gate duty, had there been an attack?  What happened in my head that let me push him (no, it, he’s dead now) away?  Are my abilities changing?  I have a lot of questions, but no way of knowing right now, and the dull stomach ache that comes with blood loss re-orients my priorities.  And where the hell is Bryce?  I feel dreadful.     

     The water is hot now.  I pour some into a bucket and carry it inside where I can see.  Setting my dressings and water by the couch I unwind my old bandages, wincing.

     I count four lacerations on my right arm and one on my left wrist.  I soak my arms and ignore the sharp pains.  Taking the hot rag, I clean up and dry off my arms.  I wrap them in bandages then wipe my face.  It stings.  I fetch a small mirror and look at myself in it.  My right eyebrow is missing, singed, and there is a small cut under my other eye.  I clean it carefully and put a band aid on it.  I look like hell.

     I dump the kettle outside and force myself to drink a big jar of cold water, even though I feel queasy. I keep it down and suddenly realize how tired I am.  I bolt the door and kill the kerosene lamp, barely making it to bed before drifting off.  In my dreams, I’m juggling magnets and not having much success at it.  Stetson’s there and tells me to keep at it.  He’s eating a pear and humming.

Chapter 25

     I wake to the nagging sensation of someone pressing their ghostly finger tip into the base of my brain, again.  That and crashing pain.

     The light is odd.  It’s dim, but the arrangement of sun patches is all wrong for morning time.  Rather than bright yellow streaming in from the east, I can only see deep orange patches drifting in from the western window.  Have I slept the whole damned day?

     Yes.  It seems likely.  I feel like I could sleep for another day.

     The cranial sensation continues to nag, and I do my best to ignore the sound of the thing’s hands slapping against the barn’s outer wall.  Duty calls.

    I hobble over to the back area of the loft, my wide open dojo space and crack the hay door.  My piss rains down the thirty some-odd feet, a golden shower for the back yard.

     The pounding sound of leathery hands continues to drum the walls behind me, the pressure intense in my mind.  So tired.

     I climb down the ladder and pull my .38 out of its holster, walking past the table and the bloody yellow rag mess I made of the big room last night.

     The pounding ceases, and I hear it following me over to the small door of the entrance way.  I flip up the bar and open the door just enough to peer outside.  The thing is trying to negotiate the first stone step with some success, but keeps slipping down.  I shoot it in the head and close the door.  No one I know.

     I relax now that the pressure is gone, and walk back to the big room.  Tossing the .38 on the couch, I climb back up the ladder and crawl back into bed. 

“Good night.”

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          A noise.  A strange keening gurgle, it startles me awake.  Awake.  The sun is in the proper position now for an early morning.  It’s bright and lovely.  The noise happens again, and I realize that it is coming from my intestinal region.  I’m hungry.

     Getting up from my mattress on the floor, I feel lighter than I should, tall and full of energy.  I cross over through the loft and relieve myself out the window.  I jump up and grab the rafter beam that crosses the peak of the roof and start to do a few pull-ups.  I drop when I feel the cuts open.  Too soon.

     Barefoot, I seek my pants and boots.  Climbing down the ladder, I notice that my vision is clear and my mind free from any zombie intrusions.  I smile.

     Passing the table, I reload the .38 and grab a handful of loose rounds from a bucket, dropping them in my pocket.  I throw open the door and greet the morning.

     Stepping over the crumpled form of the zombie I pause to look at it.  Ashen skin covered with dew.  He looks like a Compton gang-banger, decked out in colors and wearing an undeservedly peaceful expression.  I look closer noticing teardrop tats and golden teeth.  He’s a long way from home.

     I pump some water, rinsing my hands and face.  My stomach growls again.  Good Lord!  I am so hungry.  Pausing to start the fire in the pit, I continue on out and into the orchard.  Reaching up and pulling down a pear, I chew absently.  Juice runs down into my beard.  I grab another and work on it as I make my way to the smoke house.

     I can see a multitude of strips, hanging like mummified bats in a smoky cave.  The smell is strong of char, but certainly not unpleasant. I harvest a few strips of meat and start to chew.  I beat dewy tracks back to the yard.

     I pump a little water into the kettle, eyeing the corpse sideways.  I’ll deal with him later.  Breakfast first.

     I set the kettle in hot proximity and tear the last long strip into small pieces, tossing them into the pot.  I hop over the steps again and return from inside with the can of tomatoes and the small can of mushrooms.  I sit and open them, giving each the sniff test.  They pass.  I add them to the pot.  Once the fire burns down to coals, I’ll fry the last of the eggs.

     The sun streams down upon me, and I pause to look up into the sky.  Bright blue.  So lovely.  Growing up in a cold and grey climate makes one appreciate these things.  My arms itch, but I resist the urge to mess with the bandages. 

     Just as the stew starts to bubble, I begin to hear the soft scuff of footsteps in the distance.  Someone coughs.

     I jump up and look back toward the noise.  It’s Bryce.  He raises his hand when he sees me, and I walk over to greet him.  He looks troubled.

     “Hey stranger.”  I call to him.

     “Hey,” he eyes my bandaged arms, and then I see his gaze wander over to the steps, “you okay?”

     I wave for him to follow me back to the fire.

     “Yeah, I’ll live.  Have you eaten yet?” And. “What the hell is going on in town, I saw what’s his face, the gate guy, the one with the cowboy hat all dead and he was trying to eat me a day or two ago.”  This all comes erupting from me in a quick rush.

     He coughs again and follows me, but doesn’t answer my question.  Ducking under the long wire of the fence that runs beside the drive here, I pause and hold it for him, so that it doesn’t catch his pack as he follows me under.

     He’s wearing his usual recon gear except that the pack looks stuffed to bursting.  His AR-15 has been swapped out for a hunting rifle with a huge scope.  I ask, “What is that?  A 30-30?”

     “No, It’s a .308.  I figure if we’re out in the open, a scope might come in handy.”

     “Sure, lots of fun, too, I bet.  Not the most practical gun.”

     He grins, “Yeah, it’s nice to do some scoping once in a while.  You could find out, if you ever want to do some wall duty.  We could seriously use you.”

     We reach the fire, and I offer him one of the chairs.  He sets his pack on it and leans his rifle carefully aside.  Instead of sitting, he points to the steps.

     “Who’s that?”

     “It woke me up yesterday.  I was beat, so I just left him ‘til I felt better.”  I shrug and peer into the kettle.  “Maybe we can drag him off after breakfast.”

   “Why not get it out of the way now?  We’ve got a lot to talk about, and it’s distracting to me.”

     “I guess so.  Want to grab a leg?”

     We walk over and each grab one of the thing’s ankles.  I nod out toward the orchard.  “There’s a spot off that way where we can leave him.”

     Our shoulders bump into each other occasionally as we drag him in a wide arc around the fire and our food and out towards the dumping grounds.  With someone helping, the trip goes much faster than normal.  Bryce gasps when we come to the edge of the pit.”

     “Holy shit!” he looks over at me, a strange expression on his face, re-evaluating, “Kyle, there must be a couple hundred bodies here.”

     “It seemed like a good spot for them, out of the way.  I’ll fill the trench some day if I get the chance.”

    “This is more than we’ve dealt with in the past two years back in town.  It’s just… It’s just a lot.”

     “I’ve burned some more and left others to rot if they were too far away to drag here.  Not like I’ve had much of a choice in the matter, they just come.”

     “I guess.”

     We flip the body into the tangle of limbs and rotting fabric.  I’m glad Bryce hasn’t noticed how decomposed some of the bodies are.  Not all of them were zombies.

     Once we get back to the barn, I pump some water and we wash our hands.  I kick dirt over the black patch in front of the steps, and it’s as if nothing ever happened.  Bryce offers to check the stew while I go grab eggs and a frying pan.

     Walking back through the entryway, I smell the fresh paint and smile.  It reminds me of my childhood and watching my dad paint the rooms in our little cabin out in the woods.  Strange.  I hadn’t thought of that place in years.

     I step down into the cellar and grab the last four eggs and a bottle of fresh pear cider.  On the way out, I collect two tin camp plates.

     Bryce is sitting, hands on his head and leaning back.  I set the stuff down and take a stick, raking the coals flat on one side of the fire.  I balance the pan on a flat rock, and roll some deer grease around in it before I crack the first egg.

     “You picky about your eggs?”

     “No, however you cook them is fine.”

     The eggs bubble and snap on the greasy pan.  “So, why aren’t we talking about your man from town?  Something happened right?  I’ve been curious ever since I saw him out on the road.  What the hell was his name?”

     Bryce sits up and leans forward on the seat, eyes narrowing.  “Yes, Dan.  He was really out here?  The wall crew took him out a couple of days ago, I hate when they have to do that to one of their own, it’s terrible for morale...  When did you see him?”

     “A couple of days ago, he had already turned.”

     “That doesn’t make any sense, if he was out here, then how did he get back to town?”

     I open the juice and take a sip before passing it to Bryce.  “It was the day before yesterday.  I was poking around some houses a couple of miles from here, toward town.  When I was done I headed back here, and felt a zombie behind me, so I waited for it on the road.”

     He sets down the juice.  I flip the eggs.  Before I can start, he spoke, “And that was Daniel?”

     “Yes.  I was worried for you guys when I saw him like that, but I couldn’t come to see what had happened,” I raise my bandaged arms for emphasis, “I got hurt pretty bad.”

     “I can see that, are you ok?”

     “Yeah, just a few cuts.  It’s probably too late to stitch them up now, I could have used you.  Anyway, I went to shoot him and my fucking AK exploded.  Knocked me down, cut me up and I was pretty dazed.  Then-”

     “So, how does he end up in town the next day for us to shoot him?”

    “Let me finish.  I was laying there, about to be lunch, when something—shifted in my head.  Next thing I knew, he’s running the other way headed back to town, and I crawled home and patched myself up.”

     He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Incredible.  I wonder if any of us can do that?  But what about the fire?  I hurried when I saw all that smoke.”

     I place two eggs on a plate for Bryce and plop some stew next to them. It is pretty thick by now.  He says thanks and bows his head for a moment before eating.

     “I checked the houses, and they were bare.  Plus they were rotting and full of dead folks, so…”

     He pauses and looks up from his plate.  “So you torched them?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Kyle, you damned near burned down the whole county.  There is a burnt patch all the way to the road.  It follows it for a mile.  What if it had spread to town?”

     “Oh.”

     “You just let me decide when to burn down a neighborhood.  What about the copper pipes, timber, tiles, doors, nails?  We need those old houses to build new ones.”

     “Sorry.”

     “It’s ok, I guess.  Just be more careful.  You’re going to need a day or so to heal before we head out.  If you’re still up for it?”

    The eggs are good.  The stew is a little bland.  I finish my bite. “Hell yes I’m going, just give me today and I’ll be fine.  So, come on, tell me what happened in town.”

     He sets his plate down.  There is still a half eaten egg left.  “The ‘prophet’ betrayed us.  I thought it was odd when he volunteered for gate duty, but I’m always asking him for help, and he seemed eager.

     “He must have drugged Daniel and then opened the gates.  I don’t know why.  We’ve never been on the same page, but this?  We woke up three days ago to the sounds of screaming and fire. 

     “It was going to be a market day, and there were people staying over in the apartment building, getting ready for trading to start.  Instead of customers, a score of zombies appears, stumbling from alleys and around corners.  All this in a place that they thought was safe, that I’d promised them was safe.  Not everyone was carrying heat, and there were children.

     “Daniel went missing at some point, a few people died and a kid got bitten.  The building behind Silas’ place where the prophet lived burned down.  I guess he told his lady friend to set it ablaze when the chaos started. Thank God we got it put out before the whole place went up.”

     “Holy shit!  Did you get him?”

     “No, but supposedly he’s headed this way.  She won’t say much beyond that, that and we’re all going to be sorry.  When I saw smoke out this way I thought maybe it was him, setting more fires.  I think she’s sadder that he left her behind than for the others and that kid.  Wretched bitch.  She’s in a cell back in town.”

     “How’s the kid doing?”

     Bryce looks down now and picks up his plate starting back in on the stew.

     “Not good.”

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         After a while, I gather the plates and toss them into the empty kettle.  I walk it over to the pump and clean up.  From the fire, I hear the snic of a lighter, and the scent of cigar smoke drifts over on a breeze.  I put the dishes away and set the kettle next to the fire.  Bryce is smoking a cigar; he pulls another from his breast pocket and offers it to me.