The Zom Diary (27 page)

     He’s still silent, looking out, jaw slightly open.  Finally, he speaks, “There’s nothing there.”

     I wrinkle my brow in confusion.

     “Uh, yeah.  I told you.  Big, flat, empty as can be.”

     He looks over at me now, eyes almost pained. “You can’t feel it?”

     “No.”

     “It’s like it’s going to pull me off the mountain.”

     “What is?”

     “There’s nothing there.” He whispers.

     “You said that.  We agree.  Are you ok?”

     He winces, closing his eyes tight for a second, then shudders.  “Yeah, yes.  It’s just a lot to take in.  There is something big down there.  I can’t see it, but it’s there.”

     “Maybe when we’re closer I’ll feel it.  What about the prophet?  Is it safe to assume we’re all headed to the same place?”

     “Yes, I think I understand now what he meant about it calling to him.  Could he have felt this all the way from town?”

     I’m starting to worry now.  If Bryce loses his shit out there in the desert, I won’t be much help to him, and good luck explaining that back in town.  Sudden visions of Molly carrying a torch with mob in tow assailing me.

     “Bryce, should we go back?”

     “No, the feeling is passing, it’s just so strong.  I’ll make it.  I have to settle this.”

     “Ok.  We’re almost to the place I want to camp. Let’s go.”

     I slide down the side of a boulder and feel my feet stomp down into the gravel, caught beneath it, on a ledge.  Around and up, following the small ridge that leads over to the next peak.  We won’t be going that far, though.

     Coming around another bend in the wind-sculpted rock, I pause and look up the side of a conspicuously flat wall, maybe fifteen feet from ledge to lip.  Bryce stops behind me, and I turn to him. 

    “We’re here. Watch me go first.  It looks harder than it is.”

     “Ok.”

     Reaching up, I feel for the shallow handhold that I know is there and pull myself up, legs wide, hips close to the rock.  I find my foot holds and climb sideways, a foot at a time.  The crack runs out, and I reach over for the next knobby grip.  Using both hands, I swing from this, toe-catching another lip, this one wider and going up and left at an angle.  About halfway up this, I can grab the top edge and pull myself up, which I do, before rolling to the side.

     The place is as I left it: the wide circular ledge with a gravel filled basin at the back is perhaps fifteen feet at its widest diameter.  A bare trickle of water drips from a crack in the back wall and gathers to form a small pool to the right side, maybe four feet across, six inches deep, shaped like a teardrop.

     I set my pack down and lean over the edge.  Bryce is still working his way across the face below.  He pauses where I pulled myself up and I offer to take his rifle for him.  He passes it up, before pulling himself over the lip and taking in his surroundings.

     “Nice place.” He exclaims appreciatively.

     “Yeah, I found it last year when I was out here messing around.  That rock face is the only way up, so no zombie worries, and as far as I’ve seen that pool is the only good water out here.  It makes for a nice stopover.”

     “I can see why,” he clears his throat, panting some as we both catch our breath from the climb “about earlier.  Don’t worry about it.  I have a different perspective, that’s all.  My glass is half-full.  And, if you should ever want to come back to society and see what we’re making of it, you are welcome.”

     “Thanks.  I respect your vision Bryce, I hope you succeed--really.  Just don’t get caught off guard if you find one day that the glass is empty.  This world is made for the solitary man, trust me.”

    With that, I walk over to the pool and set one of my empty bottles under the trickle of water.  Bryce makes no effort to continue the conversation and I agree; don’t force it.  Looking down, the small pool is clear and lined with the same gravel as the rest of the place, smoky quartz and yellow granite.  I lean over and wash the rock dust from my hands, an almost spiritual act.

     In trips past, I have spent days here, smoking, watching the great buzzards ride currents of warm air, meditating and lying in the pool, cool water beneath me, my front baking in the sun.  I’m not sure if I dare to smoke now, not after my last experience.  I don’t want to have a freak out in front of Bryce.  Damn it.

     I look over, and Bryce is sitting on his pack with his rifle out, scope aimed at the plain below. I join him at the edge and chew on some dried fruit.

     “See anything?”

     “Not really.  Which way do we head from here?  I’ll look ahead.”

     I point down to the left, distantly, where the hill meets the pan, and at several arroyos that form there and cut paths down and through the desert.

     “We cut over there and follow one of those out. Maybe another day’s worth of travel and there is a man made tunnel, like a big culvert or underground irrigation canal.  That’s as far as I’ve been.”

     “You said there was nothing out here,” he sounds shocked, “what kind of tunnel?”

     “It’s an old public works project, or maybe an outlet from another town or something.” 

    Bryce looks amused.  “Out here?”

     “Yeah, out there.”

     “No offense, but I don’t think you’ve thought that one through.  There is nothing out here that needs drainage or that anyone would try to bring water to,” he nods absently to himself, “I want to see it, if we go anywhere close by.”

     My turn to consider, then:  “Well, once we’re down there, which direction are we headed?  Which way are you being pulled?”

     Bryce points his finger to the right, and then out some--pointing pretty much directly toward where the tunnel should be.

     “Whoa.” 

     “That’s where it is, isn’t it?”

     “Yeah.”

     We are both silent now.  Bryce brings his rifle back up and scopes along the paths below us. I walk back over to my pack and grab the paperback.  Maybe three hours till sunset, and then an early night.

     As I settle down on the gravel, my back to the wall, I can just hear Bryce mutter to himself from the edge:  “What is going on out here?

Chapter 27

         The sun is well up when the next day finds me.  Piercing, it seems, from this height.  Lying on the gravel, my body sunken into it in a comfortable way, I stare up at the bright light.  No clouds here, now familiar, violet-blue sky; it brings me no warmth.

     Rolling to my side, I see that Bryce is up, perched on the edge, scope-searching the ground below us.  I fold my white shroud and pack up my things before joining him.

     “See anything?”

    He turns his face from the scope, but is careful to hold it in the same position.

   “Good morning, yes, I do.  There, below that third wash from that rose-colored edge.  There.”

     I look down to where he indicates.  Ant-small, I can make out the slow confused movements of the zombie. It looks like a scarecrow, torn clothing, casting a thin, nearly imperceivable shadow, as it tries to clamber its way beyond the many obstacles below.

     “Can you hit it from here?”

    “Maybe.  It would be fun to try, but I thought I’d wait for you to get up first.  Care to spot for me?”

     “Sure.”

     Head back to the scope, I see him track back to the form and make an adjustment, aiming a little high.  The gun reports, shaking his frame, and I see a tiny puff of dust far to the right and low.

     “Low and right.”

     He makes another adjustment, lets out a deep breath, and fires again.  This time the puff is low, but spot on.

     “Low.”

     Bryce seats another round and raises the rifle even higher before firing again.  My ears ring this time.  The round hits the thing square in the pelvis, giving it the appearance of taking a bow.  It doesn’t get back up, but I still see movement.

     “Hit.”

     Bryce lowers the rifle and begins to pick up spent brass.

     “I can’t see its head anymore,” he states, “won’t be going anywhere, though.”

     The rest of the morning and into the hot part of the day finds us fighting our way down the side of the hill.  No pine or scrub of any kind on the dry side of the hills.  Desert lichen, small colorful loose gravel, and the occasional reptile constitute our surroundings and company.  My new boots work well.  Bryce stops a couple of times to remove aggravating pieces of the small gravel from his low hiking shoes.  Once we drop into the first wash-out, the head of the arroyo that we’ll follow out, I notice a decrease in temperature due to shade and circumstance.  It’s a nice place to rest, so I decide to start a conversation.

    “So, how far do you think the prophet has gotten?”

     Bryce has taken the lead now, drawn forward by his senses, and stops to rest against the wall opposite from me.

     “He left Salem four or five days ago, so he’s got at least a full day on us.  I assume he doesn’t know his way through the hills like you do, so your guess is as good as mine, behind us or before us.”

     “Was he armed?  I mean, could he be back up there now, watching us through a scope?”

     “I can’t say,” he pauses to spit out some dust. “He didn’t take Daniel’s rifle, and I’ve never seen him use a gun, so plan for any contingency.”

     “Sure.”

     We start walking, and I suggest we climb up onto the open pan for a minute --to take it all in.

     Hundreds of thousands of years ago, this would have been the floor of a small inland salt water sea, or maybe more properly, a lake.  Now it is dry, beyond dry, and so flat that it can play tricks on ones vision, or mind.  I want to experience this effect again and to admire how it deceives the senses.

     Taking a few steps away from the trench cut by long forgotten winter rain, I behold the vastness before me.  The longer I look out, the stranger things become.  I remove the amber colored aviators and blink once.  I hear Bryce shuffle behind me.  There is no other sound.

     I sat once, on a quiet night in my parent’s sound proof basement, as a child, looking through stacks of old National Geographic magazines.  I can remember the sound of the pages turning, sounding alarmingly loud in my ears.  I can close my eyes, as I did that night, and hear a silence, so complete, that it thunders in my mind.  The ultimate dead air.  No static.  No heartbeat.  Silence.

     I feel Bryce’s hand on my shoulder and realize that I must have swayed standing there.  He clears his throat, “Hey.  We should get going.”

     “Right.  Hang on.”

     It’s time.  Walking as we are, toward this beacon of death, I feel that I can accept my own mortal terror.  I’m not afraid to die, to go on to the plains beyond, to drink with my ancestors.  I pull out my pipe and check the green bud packed in tight.  That same old cracked purple lighter, roller rusty.  I take a pull.

     Bryce sighs and heads back to the slope of the arroyo.  I start to follow, exhaling as I walk. Yes, the terror is there.

     My extremities tingle, and I feel my palms moisten, but still, a smile forms on my lips.  I resist the urge to drink from my water bottle and take another hit.  Coughing spasms wrack my body, and I have to pause.  Bryce waits up ahead.

    The tingling sensation localizes in my face.  I can feel my jaw and chin become numb, and a deep coolness radiates from here.  I spit clear thick saliva from my raw throat.  Bryce is moving ahead.  I can trust him, at least to lead on, so I follow him with an automatic pace that comes from my snake-brain, same place as the pace of breathing. 

    The arroyo slopes to either side, one half-shaded.  Bryce lumbers ten feet ahead, under the weight of his pack.  Silent.

     I follow, awaiting that sensation of first contact with this force in the desert.

     Nothing yet.

     My mind wanders, and I reason my way around the idea of panic.  I am anonymous in my own mind, but in this meditative state, this is irrelevant, even preferable.  I pull my knobkerrie from its place, looped through a strap on my pack, and swing its head in slow circles, slapping it against my palm as I think.

     I plod on, following the arc of the land and Bryce’s footprints before my own.  After an indeterminable time, I feel the pressure slide into position in my mind.  It is staggering.  I slip to one knee, taking halting breaths.  Bryce turns and walks back to me.

     “You feel it now?”

     “Yes.”

     “I thought the tunnel was farther away, or maybe your abilities are becoming more manifest?”

     “I don’t know,” God, the weight of this feeling! “I’m not usually in a hurry to get anywhere out here, maybe I misjudged.”

     He nods, shading his eyes, a concerned look crosses his face, “Are you ok?”

     This question bothers me on some primal level, probably because I will have to answer it.  I mutter through clenched teeth:

     “Yes.”

     Lie to him and to yourself.

     “Let’s go, then, we have maybe three hours of daylight left.  Please tell me you brought a lamp or flashlight?”

     “Yes, the headlamp you left behind in my gear.  It still works.”

     “Good.  Is this all looking familiar to you?”

     He gestures back toward the way we are heading, down the sunken path.  I nod.

     “Yes, maybe a mile or so,” my voice now more substantial as I get used to the new sensations, “you want me to lead?”

     Bryce steps aside, and I walk in front now, passing his retraced steps and seeing no others.  I wonder if I have made him nervous, shadowing him, high as a kite and swinging a Zulu war club.

     There is no trust left in the world.

    Moments later, or an eternity, depending on your level of sobriety, I see a familiar boulder ahead and stop to take a sip of water.  Bryce joins me, and looking at his face and feeling sensations of proximity in my mind, I know my next words are pointless, but I say them anyway.

     “It’s just ahead, past that bend.”

     Bryce stops, and looks at the slope to the left of us as if looking through it.  He turns and looks back at me.

    “Should we walk out on the pan?  It might be good to get on top of where this thing is coming from, you know, before we head underground.”

    “What do you make of it?” I ask. “It feels like it will be back a ways in that tunnel, but I can’t say how far.  It feels…spread out.”

     “Right, if I had to guess, I would say a few hundred yards, but I don’t think I could point to it.  I feel like a compass needle at the north pole.”

     “Or the Bermuda Triangle?”

     “Well?”  He asks.

     I don’t feel like chasing some phantom intuition across the desert, especially if we’re both so discombobulated.  My panic has settled around me and I’m wearing it like a strait-jacket…dammit! I’m still functional for the moment, but I can’t tell Bryce about this.  I want to just get it over with.

     “Let’s go check the tunnel.  I don’t think we’ll learn anything up here.”

     “Fine.  You lead on.”

     Before I do, I open my pack and pull out the headlamp, check it, and put it on.  A thought occurs to me.

     “Bryce, we can stash our packs behind this boulder and get them when we come back out.  We might be dealing with anything in there, and it will be close quarters.  No sense in giving them extra hand holds…”

     “That seems logical.  Hang on.”

     I walk over to the rock and lean behind it, dropping my pack in the niche there, between it and the wall.  I retain my Glock and the knobkerrie.  I hear Bryce working the zipper on his pack, and when I turn, he has his headlamp on and is holding an MP-5 before him, strap over his shoulder.  He checks the clip and clicks the light affixed to the fore grip, on then off.  He passes me his pack and then the rifle, both of which I secret behind the boulder.

     “Geez, Bryce,” as I admire the new weapon, “what the fuck else is in that pack?”

     He smiles.  “One of the perks of running the show I guess.  This takes .45 auto, so we can share ammo.  You ready?”

   “Yes.”  I am.

     I lead the way around the bend and take in the sights.  The entrance is ahead on the left, but the area looks different from the last time I was there.  First off, the body of the zombie is missing.  Not just the body, but the stones I dropped on it as well.  No greasy patch, no clothing.  It reminds me of an ant hill, grasshopper today, gone tomorrow.

     Something else.  Footprints leading into the tunnel from the right.  One set, fresh looking.  I crouch down and check them out.  No hint of dragging or of a confused step.  I give Bryce a look.

     “He’s already here.”

     Bryce is walking over to the entrance of the tunnel now casting his eyes left and right before turning to me.  “What is this place?” He sounds incredulous.  How can anything surprise anybody anymore?

     I shrug, “I’ve already told you my theory.”

     He turns back and starts to inspect the cement on the left side of the tunnel wall, just inside.  After a moment, he calls me over.  He is looking at a light rectangular patch on the wall, maybe eight by eleven inches, with rusty screw holes at each corner.  He runs a hand across it and it’s my turn to look confused. He speaks softly, and I feel the urge to be quiet also.

     “There was a sign or plaque here.  It’s been removed.”

     I nod, not knowing what to say.  He continues, “This makes no sense to build a tunnel out here in the desert.  There’s nothing around for miles, and even so, why here, opening into this wash?”

     A thought occurs to me.  “What if it was here before the arroyo and was buried?  The runoff might have uncovered it.  See back there?  That small section of light?  The roof collapsed back there, and you can see the rusted re-bar.  This has been here for a long while.”

     “I’m stumped.  Maybe we’ll find some clue inside.  How far back did you go?”

     “Not far.  I didn’t have a light, and it gets dark back there.”

    “Alright.  Let’s check it out.”

     I click on my headlamp.   I hear Bryce doing the same behind me, and then the light on the MP-5, brighter, and like a spotlight casts leg shadows in front of me.  It bursts to life.

     I pause at the spot where I had seen the zombie that first time out here.  The tunnel looks the same.  Peering up through the rectangular hole in the ceiling, I take one last look at the fading light of the blue sky, and walk forward.  I’m not sure which way to go so I make a point of following that fresh set of footprints.

     They are closer together than our own, as if the person that made them was taking hesitant steps, and I realize that the prophet must have been down here without a flashlight, feeling his way along the wall. I follow, noting the line that appears every ten feet or so, on the wall, running top to bottom like a seam, marking off segments of concrete.  Occasionally, there is a bit of wire sticking out from the wall, bare and rusty, with a line of rust colored stain running down to the floor.

    The footprints lead to an intersection; like a four way stop.  I hear Bryce scratching behind me and see that he is cutting an arrow into the cement with his knife at eye level, pointing back the way we’ve come.