The Zom Diary (26 page)

     “You’ve held two magnets in your hand?  Kept them a few millimeters apart when they want to touch?”

     He nods.

     “It’s like that when they are close.  The time on the road with Stet—er, Daniel.  It was like I flipped the magnet in my mind somehow, so that they were pushing apart rather than pulling.  He was walking off toward town when I was able to get up, walking the same way he’d come.”

     “Was it a conscious decision?”

     “I guess.  I certainly didn’t know it was going to happen, I panicked and thought I was going to die.  It was instinct.”

     He tosses off the last of his hooch and burps into his cuff.

     “Incredible.  The whole experience is different for me.  I get a tugging sensation like as if I were fishing, and had a bite.  Weak tugs when the zombies are very far away.  I can usually tell where and how many there are.  Sometimes it’s almost like I can see the lines.  Silas’s abilities are different as well.  He says that for him it’s more of an uneasy feeling like he’s being watched.  I don’t think either of us could do what you did.”

     “I don’t know if I could do it again.”

     He sets aside the empty jar.

     “Would you try?  With me around, so I can try and see if I feel anything?”

     “I guess if we get the chance.”

     “Good.”

     Our conversation fades and we both enjoy the stillness of the orchard, interrupted only by the occasional snap of the fire.  I walk over to the smoke house and grab a big slab of venison for dinner.  I split it with Bryce, and we both eat our fill of fruit and meat.

     Not long after the sun is down, I tell Bryce to make himself at home on the couch, but that I need to get some sleep.

     It’s true.  My body is still recovering from multiple injuries, and the first day over the hills is the hardest.  As I drift off, I can hear Bryce out by the fire singing quietly to himself.

Chapter 26

     There exists some mechanism in the mind of birds which causes them to be salutatious at first light.  I listen, eyes closed against the almost blue pale of morning.  For me, there is no discernment of their language, but I imagine that the trills and electronic sounding pops and cackles are a history of all birds, passed down through the aching hollowness of time.

     How do they know who is to go first?  Nervous souls in their arboreal temple, who will crack beak and pray?  A gathering silence always precedes that first call.  This represents the Lost Time perhaps?  The knowledge of the great lizards, lost to bird-kind.  It’s upon lizards that my thoughts focus.

     Bright, flashing fellows.  Blue, green, and grey.  The desert is their home, and I am coming to visit.

     When finally I rise, still before the sun, I pad silently over to my open area and sit facing the closed window in lotus position.  I let go of my mind and pass air through my lungs.

     Silence.

     Awake, but not thinking, I stare into the depths of my mind.  No sensation.  I have erased the floorboards beneath me from my mind, and after a time it comes to me.  The image of a mountain laurel blossom, bathed in moonlight, silvery-white.

     Spinning, she picks one and places it behind her ear.  I pick two and thread them through the holes where my earrings used to be.  Laughing, we pass through the darken’ wood.

     I open my eyes and stand.

     Sunlight has broken over the trees and reaches through the panes, touches me on my chest, a comforting hand.

     My friends live on, somewhere in the infinite dark.  Perhaps one day, I may join them.  It’s time to go.

     I walk over to the ladder and look down on the open space of the big room.  Long table, green couch, odds and ends, but no Bryce. He must be up already.

     I lower the ladder and descend.  My ankle twinges the slightest bit.  My arms itch.  I pause at the table and unwind the bandages.  One cut is deep and refuses to close.  I ignore the slow ooze of blood from it and inspect the rest.  Closed.  Infected, but not seriously.  It will be a wicked collection of scars,

     I wrap a strip of cloth around my forearm, over the one cut, and leave the rest.  Years alone, before and after the end, have given me a good idea of my body’s healing capabilities, limits and needs.

     I buckle my pants, familiar and comfortable after a long stretch in the ill fitting loaner pants from Salem.  I toss on the light tee from yesterday and spend a few minutes lacing my new boots.

     I recheck the clips for my .45 and place one in the Glock, pull the slide, and set it in the black polyester holster on my hip.  The hunting knife, I tie on the other side.  I grab my pack and head outside.

     Bryce is sitting next to the burned out fire-asleep.  Sprawled out as he is, head leaning back, it doesn’t look like he’s moved from the night before.  Reckless.   

     I leave him and walk back to the pump, dreading the cold water, but wanting to clean my face and hands.  I hear a clink of empty jars behind me and Bryce moans.  I pick up an old coffee mug sitting on the steps and fill it with cold water.

     Walking back to the fire pit I hand it to him.  I cough.  “Morning, Bryce.”

     “Hey.  Is that--!  Oh, I thought maybe you had coffee.”

     “Sorry.  Here.”

     I pass him the mug.  He drinks it and stands, stretching his back and rubbing his legs together with a pained look on his face.  “Sheesh, guess I was more drunk last night than I thought.”

     “You’re lucky you didn’t get attacked out here.”

     “Luck, or God.  I don’t think He’s done with me yet.”

     “I didn’t imagine you as being so careless.  That woman’s rubbing off on you.”

     He laughs now and starts to wipe the night dew from the barrel of his hunting rifle with his sleeve.  He walks over to the fence and pisses for what seems like five whole minutes, then walks back over and grabs his pack.

     “You ready to go?”

     “Yeah, I’m ready.”

     I begin to walk out past the yard to the path I have worn from frequent trips to the shack.  Bryce walks behind me.  The light of the early morning scatters leaf shadows about us, shifting camouflage patches of darkness.  The sound of bird song is fading, replaced by the droning buzz of cicadas.

     I glance over my shoulder at Bryce, his head down, watching his footing. He has his rifle slung on his arm.  I continue down the path.  This section of the groves hasn’t done so well, but the orange trees cling to life, if somewhat withered.  The path crosses one of the access roads, really just a wide lane between the trees, big enough to drive a truck through.

    I change directions, to arrive at the boundary between the orchard and the beginning of the low scrub which leads up to the hill, and we stumble out upon the bare scratch surrounding the shack.

     Bryce stops, “Whoa, what’s this?”

     “My home away from home.  Hang on, I just need to grab a couple of things.”

    Bryce settles onto a rock and wipes his forearm across his face.  “Right, no rush.”

     Walking up the short wooden steps, I grab the key from where it rests over the door frame.  The air inside of the shack is a little stale, but not too unpleasant.  I make my way by the muted glow of the curtained windows and grab my knobkerrie from its perch on my bookshelf.  I consider grabbing a paperback for the midmorning break; an old Zelazny story, a favorite for traveling.

    Passing back toward the entrance, I grab my boonie hat, hanging from a hook on the back of the door.  So, that’s where you’ve been hiding.

     “What?”

     Bryce looks up from staring at the ground, an odd look on his face.  I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud.

     “Nothing, just wanted my hat and this,” I swing the club before me and notice his pallid complexion, “you feeling ok?”

     Bryce leans forward, hands on his knees.  I can see now that his rifle is propped next to him.  A long roaring torrent of clear yellow vomit erupts from his mouth.  Another. He draws a deep breath and spits, a string of spittle slowly extending from his mouth to the ground.

     His voice is rough, “Feeling better now.  What do you make that stuff with?”

     Oh boy.

     “Did you get more jars from the basement last night?”

     He produces a whimpering, “Yeah.”

     “I had some set aside for vinegar, maybe you grabbed one of those.”

     He starts to heave again.  I take the moment to adjust the wide brim of my hat.

     “Do you want to take a day?  Wait this out?”

     He wipes his mouth and looks up at me, eyes watering, as he fumbles for his canteen.  “No, we’ve put this off long enough.  I’ll be fine.  Sorry you have to see me like this.  The thing back at Salem, and Molly…I have a lot on my mind.  I don’t usually get carried away like I did last night.”

     “Hey, Bryce, you don’t owe me any explanations.”

     “Ok then, forget it.  Let’s go.  How far do we go today?”

     “It’s a ways over that first rise, then another beyond it.  Maybe eight miles to the first night’s stop.  I have a place in mind.  Doesn’t sound far, but there is a lot of up involved.”

     I wait for him to collect his gear, his face is still pale.  The sun and heat will do him good, and help him sweat out all that booze.  I don’t envy him.

     The path out doesn’t start right at the shack’s yard. I am intentionally deceptive here, not blazing any clear path until well beyond sight of the place.  A couple of times I hear Bryce exclaim as a loose branch whips his face or arms.  He drops back a couple of paces.  The brush is thick here on the ‘wet’ side of the hills.  After a mile or so, the incline starts.

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     The trail has a hypnotic effect, and the longer I walk, the more intent my gaze, scanning ahead of me, registering objects as they flit past: clumps of grass, flat rock, a weathered knob of root.  My brain cooks the images into chowder for my subconscious, which is deeply nourishing on some spiritual level.  I’ve always felt closer to whatever creative force exists in the world while out of doors and high up.

     The scrub has long receded by mid-morning, making way to bare yellow rock, sand and the occasional ancient pine.  The sentinel beings cling to rock ledges with improbable success.  It seems to me that any moment, one of the squat twisted things will fall and tackle me to the ground with its bristle-arms.

     I pause at a tall boulder, clamber up, and look back for the first time this morning, down on the valley behind me.  Bryce joins me, dropping his pack, and grabbing water.

     “Wow.” Bryce croaks.

     I agree.  The view is incredible.  From here at two thousand feet, the objects back in the valley look miniature.  Toy farm with rows of trees, cross hatch patches on a brown/green quilt.  The road cuts west, a gray line bordered on one side by a large patch of black, the results of my activities days before.  Salem might just be visible on the horizon; hard to tell at this distance.

     I’m looking for the great canal responsible for diverting water out to this land, a nice landmark, when Bryce draws my attention back to our surroundings.

     “So, how are we doing, time and distance wise?”

     “Fine.  Over that next rise you can see the peak, maybe 3,000 feet or close to it.  There is a little bit of actual climbing involved near where we’ll camp, for safety reasons, but smooth hiking otherwise.”

     “Great.  I like this place; I can see why you come out here.”

     I nod and survey the wreckage below before answering.

     “Someday, I’d like to come up here and see no trace of us, just land overgrown and natural, like it was thousands of years ago.  Except for Salem, of course, and my barn.  I’m going to keep that up.”

     “Kyle, what soured you on mankind?  I know we weren’t perfect, but we weren’t all bad either.”

     I let out a deep breath. 

     “Where to begin?  The invention of money?  The division between wealth and poverty?  Big businesses that crushed people and ruined the planet for their own greed?  Or, the little greed and laziness of regular people too lazy to change habits that ruined our air and water?  I think the last straw was that mass of plastic out in the Pacific.  You ever hear of it?”

     “No.”

     “Yeah? It’s twice the size of Texas, our floating plastic garbage, churning in a current driven maelstrom.  Somewhere past Hawaii, but before New Zealand.  It’s still out there slowly breaking down to fine particles and even base chemicals, turning the water into a yellow poison soup.  Forever.  That shit will be in the water cycle forever.  Sorry…”

     “It’s ok.  I hate that kind of stuff, too.  It doesn’t have to be that way the next time.  We can build a new world, learn from our mistakes.” 

     “Maybe.  Maybe not.  There is always someone that ruins it for everyone else.  Always one asshole.  Even in your little utopia, one day someone will show up and have all the wrong ideas, and be in a position to enforce them.  How could you prevent it?  You won’t live forever.  I was glad when the end came!  It felt like justice.”

     I continue to stare out at the valley.  The rock is warm from the sun, and afternoon is coming.  It’s past time to move.

     “Come on Bryce.  I don’t want to sit too long.”

     “Yeah.  Ok,” he mutters.

     We’re silent as we continue on and I suddenly realize that I’d been yelling towards the end of that rant.  I’ve been too long without practicing social niceties.  I’ve probably offended him on some level.  That’s what happens when you’re honest, when you’re not afraid to tell people how fucked things are, or were.  People don’t want to dwell on the evils of the world, not when there is a tomorrow to put it off for.  But there’s no tomorrow now, just the rest of our time ‘til we die.

     Twisting our way up and around the rounded boulders of the hill, we start to gain altitude quickly.  The short pines fade out, and even sand is blown away, leaving only bare yellow rock, flaked with black mica, and collections of smooth polished gravel in any crevasse or hole.

     The wind is warm, but feels cooling from our sweat.  Whipping around us, it has the added effect of blowing away the biting flies that have harried us up the incline below.  Looking out at the horizon is easier now, and it feels like we are above the haze of the valley.  Violet-blue skies…

    I lead us around the base of the peak.  There is no reason to go all the way up, and the footing is more treacherous that way.  Around and down, Bryce gets his first look at the dessert, salt pan, below.

     Grey-yellow.  Flat?  Beyond flat.  From this distance, it almost looks like a convex.  Bryce is silent, and I worry I might have really upset him.  No good.  I think.  Not with him watching my back.

     “Bryce, about earlier.  I’m sorry.  That was some heavy shit, and I didn’t mean to lecture you.”