The Zom Diary (29 page)

     “Yeah, whatever.”

     “Hey, come on!”  He smiles, clasping my shoulder.  “We’ll camp out tonight, and tomorrow, we can go get plastered at your place. It’ll be fun!”

     “Right.  Fun.  Great.”

     The sun traces its way across the sky as we climb, and by the time we reach the cliff camp, it is as if our shadows are mirror images, climbing the face with us.  Once I pull myself over the lip of the wall, I roll onto my back and take several deep breaths.

     The sky is so blue and so deep.  Not for the first time, I hope that this ledge one day serves as my resting place, my body desiccated by the elements like some Peruvian mummy gazing at the sky for eternity.  But for now, a cenotaph.

     Bryce pulls himself up and dusts off before walking to the pool and washing his hands.  I get up and follow him over.

     “Let’s fill our water bottles and get some rest.”

    He looks over his shoulder at me, drawing his fingers through the water.  “I’d like to come up here some day by myself.”

     I shrug, “It’s a free country.  Just don’t go telling everyone.”

    “Of course, I won’t.”

     It takes about five minutes for the rock trickle to fill one bottle, and I volunteer to watch over the process.  Bryce goes to the edge and scopes the pan below us.  I call over to him.  “You expecting company?”

     “Always.”

     I drink the first filled bottle and replace it to fill again.  I finish filling the rest of the bottles and take off my boots and socks, placing my bare feet into the pool.  The gravel is warm and smooth as I push my feet into it.  The rocks feel like sturdy fingers, working tired knots and knittles from my banged up feet.

     I pull out my paperback and read until the sun begins to set.  Golden reflections of light bounce off of the rock face and casts strange reflections from the surface of the water, concentric circles, wavering flashes of light.  I put my boots back on and drift to sleep.

⃰
 
 ⃰ 
⃰

     That night I dream of dragons and red pick-up trucks.  I’m behind the wheel, and as I look at the pavement, darkened in shadow by the great form above, I see patches of light through holes in the wings, and black eyes stare down at me.  It rains gobbets of flesh and carrion bugs.  I put the wipers on.

Chapter 29



     I wake up early, shivering from the cold, and wishing for more than my clothes and the thin white sheet.  So much for traveling light.

    Bryce’s form lies propped against the back of the ledge, sleeping in a sitting position, rifle across his lap. I pass him and peer down below at the pan, straining to see, in the dim grey light.

     For a moment, I think I can make out a far-off whisp of dust puffing up from an arroyo.  Followed by nothing.  Then, behind me I can hear a strange sound, turning, I see Bryce struggling as if troubled with a nightmare.  The sound he makes gets louder and I suddenly realize that it is that of him choking.  I start to move toward him, to wake him up, and then I see his eyes snap open.  He gasps for air and raises the rifle level with my present position.  I drop to the ground yelling a quick, “Shit!”  I hear the round buzz past my head as I fall, and only register the boom of the rifle as an afterthought.  I hear the sound of his rifle tossed to the gravel as he scrambles over to me, I lay still.

    “Oh no oh no oh no oh no…”

     I hear the distress in his voice, but I just lie there knowing he thinks he might have shot me.  When he gets closer, I roll over and grab the front of his shirt, drawing him closer.

   “What the fuck was that for?”

     He swallows hard, “Are you alright?”

     “Yeah, barely, why did you shoot at me?”

     He sits back on his heels, and I let go of him.  He looks extremely relieved that I am not all twitchy and dying.

     “Nothing.  Just a nightmare.”

     I sit up now and dust off my legs.  “Fuck that, you almost shot me.  What the hell was going on?  I was about to come over and wake you up.”

     “I thought someone was choking me.”

     “In your dream?”

     “No.  It felt real.  Maybe it’s sleeping so close to that.”  He gestures to the pan. “Anyhow, I’m sorry.”

     “Right, well, it got my blood pumping at least.  You ready to split?”

     “Yes, let’s get going.”

     I take a deep breath and collect myself.  The gravel shifts beneath me as I walk over to my pack to collect my gear, eyes never leaving Bryce, or his rifle. I drink about half of a bottle of water, then refill it. The water is sweet, and I wish for more bottles to fill.

     Once we are geared up, we begin to climb over the edge and retrace our way back down to the green side of the hills.  I wonder about Bryce and his dream.  What would it do to someone, having all that noise present in their mind, twenty-four-seven, 365 days a year?

     We add green features to our view as we descend.  First the pines, then a tuft of grass here, a tenacious scrub oak there.  It doesn’t feel like all that long before we lose the vistas and find ourselves heads down, twisting along the old path.

     I feel a sense of relief when I push through the brush and stumble out into the sparse yard that surrounds the shack.  Home sweet home.  I don’t really have any business here, so I wait for Bryce, only a few paces behind, and then cut a straight line for the barn.

     I set my pack next to the pump and tell Bryce to wait a minute.  He nods. I walk the perimeter of the barn, checking all of my little snares:  a twig pushed into the path here, a line of string across a door there.  Unnoticeable to anyone unwise to my paranoia, but had any of it been amiss, my entry through the door would have included a drawn gun and extreme caution.  But all is as I’d left it.

     Bryce is still hanging out on the steps when I return.  He looks up. 

     “Everything OK?”

     “Yeah, make yourself at home.  I have to take a crap.”

     Bryce sighs and starts to pump some water, scrubbing the back of his neck and wiping his face with wet hands.

     I walk back to the privy and wipe dust from the seat.  The small space is warm and comforting, aside from the smell.  I sit and flip through a National Geographic for the thousandth time.  The pages used to feel glossy, but time has given the photos a matte finish.  I should have traveled more, I think.  Too late now.

     I guess I could go see places in North America, or even trek down to South America, but the rest of the globe was pretty much off limits now.  A boat?  Not my thing.  Then of course there is always the danger that right over the next mountain range, or gorge or river or whatever, lies a horde of undead, writhing and wandering in numbers that would shock a bison hunter, say, circa 1835.  At least I’d feel them coming.

     Better to blow the tunnel and make this corner of Eden more livable.  I liked that thought.  Why had it only occurred to me now?  Eden.  Why not?  I had the trees for it.  I found these thoughts of tunnels and explosions matched my present mood well.

     I cleaned myself and tucked the magazine behind the board on the wall that served as a reading rack.  Once my pants are buckled up, I scoop some ash and dump it down the hole.

     Pausing with a sudden memory, I pry up a board, behind the seat, which looks like part of the wall.  From the secret place therein, I grab something and walk back around the yard.

     Bryce has a fire going and is sitting next to it busy wiping his arms and feet with a wet rag.

     “You can use my tub if you want,” I offer.

     “I’m almost cleaned up.  Thanks anyway.  What’s that?”

     I pull the bottle I had secreted in the privy from out behind my back and hold it high, letting the slanting light of the sun catch the golden fluid inside.  The motion makes the long mealy looking worm spin at the bottom.

     “Mezcal.  I’ve been saving it for an emergency.  Being chased by a fuck-ball of death, qualifies as one, I’d say.”

     “Wow.  You should go put that back in the shitter where it belongs.”

     I can’t help but laugh.  “So, you’ve met my friend before?”

     Bryce makes a sick face, then speaks quickly, “Some friends convinced me to go to Tijuana with them for the weekend, ages ago.  You’d be amazed.  When you have a reserved personality, people try extra hard to make you cut loose.  I don’t always mind.”

     “Well, here’s to cutting lose.”

     I twist the cap and take a swig off the bottle.  It’s hard going down, but the warmth in my belly is pleasant, all the same.

     “I am going to go find a lemon.  Here, you two can get reacquainted.”

     I pass him the bottle; he eyes it askance before taking a small pull.  He coughs.  “That’s about the same as last time.  Lord, you don’t have any whiskey?”

     I shake my head as I make my way out to where the lemon tree grows. 

     I can’t see it, but I feel a middle finger pointed in my direction.  I smile, feeling the shot working on my guts and my sore limbs.  This will be a fun night.  I rip a branch off the tree with about five lemons on it and trudge back to the fire.  The booze is down to the top of the label.  Good man.  I toss him a lemon, and he pulls out a knife.

     We take turns sipping the bottle, taking huge lemon wedges, fitting them in our mouths, and biting.  Rough stuff.  The sun sets, my senses dull, but I can still sense that neither of us really wants to think about the past couple of days.  So, we don’t.  Let it be.

     I end up with the last sip, and by then my head is buzzing.  I don’t swallow the worm.  I chew it.  At some point, we switch to the hooch, and on the way back out, I grab some food for the both of us.

     I like to lounge around the fire, and even though I know it’s getting late, I make a trip over to the pile for more firewood.  I pile it on.  As the flames rise, the circumference of our lit circle grows.  The heat intensifies.

     A cool night.  The fire is good.  More and more, I can imagine my face, being weathered by the heat and smoke, a leathery mask; me.  I sit and chew meat and savor the sweetness of some fresh fruit juice.  I’m done drinking for the night, I think.  Bryce, on the other hand, has a wasp in his belly that he’s trying to drown.  He sees me looking at him across the flames and speaks.

     “Do you feel it yet?”

     “The mezcal?”

     He shakes his head, there is no mirth in his expression.  “Something is headed this way, from over the hills.”  His gaze wanders past me and off into the gathering blackness beyond the fire, unfocused but intent.

     I feel a quick pulse of adrenaline pass into my system, even after years of living with these horrific interruptions, the fear is still there.  It’s okay, I tell myself, the fear helps to keep you alive.  “No, I can’t feel anything yet.  Can you tell how many there are?”

     Bryce nods, “it feels like just one, but he is moving too fast,” he shudders, whispers to himself, “it shouldn’t move that fast.  You really can’t sense him yet?”

     I close my eyes against the red glow of the flames and concentrate.  Nothing.

     “No.  How close is it?”

     “Maybe half a mile, it’s hard to judge—my head is all fuzzy.”

     I reach down and feel for my Glock.  It’s ready, but my palm is sweaty, so I wipe it against my pants to dry it, no use if the thing slips from my fingers.  I’m too drunk for this.  I finish my last bite of jerky and stand, brushing off the seat of my pants, then I feel it; that unmistakable sensation.

     Bryce catches my eye.  He must have guessed from the jerk I had made.  He nods.  I nod. “OK.  There it is.  Wait here, or wait it out in the barn?”

     His answer is quick, “Here.  Let the thing come.  Leave the door to the barn open just in case.”

     Right, I think, let the bastard come, and if we’re too hammered to deal with it, we can always run into the barn and regroup.  Maybe I should be more worried, but I’m not, and Bryce doesn’t sound it either.

     I walk over and open the door to the entrance way.  I pause before going in and take a look up at the night sky.  Stars.  Myriad sparkles of light beyond my mind’s comprehension to count.  I grab an AK from the storeroom and bring it out for Bryce.  I regret using the head lamp, both for the drain on the battery and for the damage to my night vision, still.

     Back at the fire, Bryce sits and sips pear hooch.  I hand him the AK and he pulls back the bolt and releases it with a wild gesture, like a rock star wailing on a guitar, letting the note fade.  Perhaps this was a bad idea.  Never mind.  I can feel the thing coming.

     I stand on the edge of the circle of fire-light, looking out.  I can hear the burning wood snap and spit behind me.  To my right, high overhead, an ember dances on some rising current of air, before vanishing, leaving only a faint trail on my vision.  It comes.

    I hear a sound of clanking glass and heavy footsteps behind me.  Bryce joins me at the edge of darkness, looking out.  My eyes are becoming accustomed to the dark now, and I gaze intently in the direction of the sensations that I feel poking at my mind.

     Flickering light on distant tree trunks.

     Shadows cast on ankle high grass, nearly tan in color.

     Some desert night bird screeches to our right, and we both nearly jump out of our skins.  The thing has stopped. 

     Bryce whispers, not as quietly as he means to be I’m sure. “Why did it stop?”

     I feel it out there, not fifty feet away, somewhere beyond the light, directly in front of me.  I reply, not bothering to whisper, “I think it’s watching us.”

     “What?”

     “Whatever it is, if it were coming for us, it would be moving around a tree, over a ditch, whatever.  This thing is dead still.  Can’t you feel it?”

     Bryce is very still.  Only his mouth moves, “Yes.  I just wanted to get your opinion I guess.  This is creeping me out.  Can you try and push him like you did before, out on the road?”

     I close my eyes again and concentrate on the sensation in my mind.  There is pressure, but I can’t feel the magnets, it’s too far.  No good.

     “I think I’d have to be closer.”

     “OK.  So, what do you think we should do?”

     This is silly.  I take a deep breath.  “HEY!  WE KNOW YOU’RE THERE!  SHOW YOURSELF!”

     My voice booms in the night.  Silence.  Just for a moment, I think I can see the firelight reflected in two distant obsidian sparkles.  I pull out my Glock and aim for them, I shoot.  Not pulling the trigger as fast as I can, but in a timely manner.  I have to adjust for the kick.  Re-center, then fire.

     Pop!  Lower the gun, on target, squeeze.  Pop!  Lower the gun, on target, squeeze, Pop!  Thirteen shots this way.  I drop the clip and reach for another.  Bryce opens up with the AK.  Klung!  Klung!  Klung!  The thing rumbles to life.  Brass casings rain around us, I feel a hot one bounce off my left ear.  We both stop shooting at the same time.  The feeling has left, the presence has gone.

     I can hear a distant sound.  It’s like rain, falling in the woods, but it’s not, it’s only bits of debris sprinkling to the ground.  Poor trees, I think.  I hear a soft thump as some fruit falls.

    I turn to Bryce.  He’s breathing heavily, and I distantly remember him shouting as we fired.

     “Hey, Bryce!”  Nothing.  “Hey!  You ok?”