The Zom Diary (34 page)

     A pause, then, “No.  He would want to know.  This event was not caused by man.  His ideas about this are wrong.  This condition is much older than man.  There are other voices here, deep and ancient.  I can’t understand their words, but I feel them there, like an old light, distant and sharp. You…he needs to know.”

     “No!  Get the fuck out of my head!”

     I push the thought at the voice violently and there is silence.  Just then Bryce dips his head to make contact with my eyes, reaches out and taps my shoulder, he speaks, and it comes to me that he has been talking for awhile.

     “Hey, Kyle?”  From concerned eyes.

     “I’m ok.  I think it’s passed.”

     “What happened?”  Molly asks.

     “He wanted me to tell Bryce something.  I told him off.”

     Bryce straightens, “What did he want to tell me?  Do I want to know?”

     I spread my hands, “Do you want me to tell you?”

     He nods.

     “He says that all of this wasn’t caused by someone in a lab.  That it’s older than man.”

    “Oh?  How can he know?”  Then, after a moment.  “I don’t care.  We still need to stop whatever is going on in that place.  It needs to be destroyed.”

     “I agree” .  We adjust our burdens and continue up the path.  The sun is high, and we are past any shade, but we are not high enough to catch a breeze.  I increase the pace, catching the mood of the others.  We are driven.

    We pause once we gain some altitude and break out water, our sweat-slicked bodies chilled by the wind, whispering through the ancient and sparse pine.  I feel a pressure, an attempt to invade my mind, but I deny it, turn off the lights, no one is home.  It fades.

     I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked anymore by the tricks my mind plays on me, by the screaming revelations that the tricks are not tricks and that my mind is invaded, changed.  Recent events are not encouraging.  I think back to Silas’ bar and the story that the sharpshooter told about seeing the prophet.  Bryce’s nightmare from that first trip out, almost shooting me out of terror.  My own experiences—much of the same.  This bastard had plans to kill us all from the start and now that that wasn’t working out so well we get a sudden offer of truce?  I don’t buy it. 

     Again, a pressure to communicate.  I shut myself down.  A trick learned from long hours of meditation.  I remove myself from myself.  I am the act of breathing.  I am soft feet padding along rocks, I am skin receptive to light.  I am a passage for infinity.  The gentle bank that guides the flow, a point on a circle.  The intrusive feelings pass.  Time passes.

     I am scrabbling on bare rock, smooth, immense.  I am burdened/unburdened with this tank.  I am rising above the valley.  I am one of three.  We move, we thirst, we climb.

     I am the first one up the wall, inspecting the large circular ledge, the trickle of water.  I turn to grab the first tank from over the edge, and my eyes pause on the desert below, the grey expansive pan.  Salt.  Dust.  Movement?

     Many tiny forms.  Shit.  I turn back to my work lifting the gear, watching the others climb.  Once they are up, I point below.  Bryce switches his AK for the rifle that Molly carries, the .308 with the nice scope.  He looks and passes the rifle to Molly, she to me. The pan jumps into view, and I see the forms.  Pale.  Haggard.  Naked.  I imagine that I can almost see the black glint of their eyes.  They move without a discernable purpose.  Some stand still among the throng facing our way.  “Shit.”

    Molly echoes the sentiment.  Bryce motions for his rifle.  I pass it to him.  He’s counting.  Then, “Kyle.  How much ammo did you bring?”

     “Forty rounds for my .45, all in clips.  You?”  I turn to Molly.

     “Sixty rounds of .308.  Bryce has a ton of 7.62 for the AK.  Like two hundred rounds.”

     Bryce lowers the rifle and looks at us.  “It’s going to be close.”

     Great.  I walk back to the shallow pool and crouch down, washing my hands, brushing the smooth pebbles lightly with my fingertips.  The ripples settle and I glance down at my reflection.  Same old me: wild beard, balding pate, flat broken nose, hard eyes.  I speak to the others without turning.

     “We should rest and try for it tomorrow when we’re fresh.”

     “OK.”  From the increasingly quiet Molly.

     “Yes,” Bryce sounds weary, “too far to pick any off with this.  Tomorrow then.” 

     I curl up in my usual spot, rocks shifting to accommodate the contours of my body.  I stare at the last rays of light as they creep across the yellow-red rocks, almost in fast motion.   Stars wheel above me.  The water that drips in the gathering darkness sounds like a fast heartbeat.  Later, when the darkness is complete, I hear Bryce and Molly fucking quietly to themselves.  I close my eyes and sleep.

Chapter 35

     I hear a strange moaning and realize that it is coming from my own throat.  A strangled moan.  Fingers close on my windpipe, and a rush of adrenaline surges through me.  Wide awake now I gaze about me with fog-tinted eyes as my moan becomes a stifled scream.

     I try to calm myself, to think rationally, but panic is King.  Red flashes before my eyes.  My assailant is nowhere in sight, but I can feel the fingers on my throat.  I reach up to push aside the malevolent arms and mine pass through air.  A strange calm settles on me as I realize that I am about to die.

     My vision has gone from ruby firecracker visions to a strange stop-motion black and white.  Pulsing lights slow to match the beat of my heart.  I force myself to focus on one last act.  I ignore the moans of the others, close my ears now and open my mind.

     There is something there.  It feels similar to the sending of the day before.  I don’t have much time.  I stoke my rage.  This awful shithead, hungry for my life.  I hate him.  I channel my rage at the source, straining so hard that I feel like my eyes must be filling with blood, it’s like prying open a spiky nut with bare fingers, this lump in my mind.  I can taste blood now.  Something pops, I gasp for breath.

     Beside me, I can hear Molly coughing and I can see her face turning from purple to red.  Her breath is ragged, eyes leaking tears.  Bryce is still.

    I crawl over weakly and lean over his face.  I don’t see any movement in his chest.  I tilt his head back, raising his chin, preparing to try CPR, even though it’s been over a decade since my last training.  I’ll still try.  I lean in and give one breath, then another.  His chest rises and falls.  Nothing.  I kneel next to him and start pumping at his breast bone with my hands crossed one on top of the other.  Molly is watching me, still stunned and unable to move.  It feels like hours when Bryce draws a long and ragged breath, rib cage shuddering, interrupting my efforts.  His eyes flutter, and I can see that his left eye has a huge blood spot on the white from a broken vessel, but he’s breathing.  Molly flops next to me pushing me aside and cradles his head.  I sit back on my heels and sigh. A thought occurs to me, and I want the prophet to know it.

     I send the thought, “You are so fucked now.”

     Stepping around the pair, I stagger to the pool and sink back to my knees, splashing the water over my head and face.  I hear movement behind me and feel a hand on my shoulder.

     “Thank you, Kyle,” Bryce croaks.

     “Let’s go kill that fucker,” chimes Molly’s weak voice.

     I agree.  We all lay stunned where we are for about five minutes before rising in unison, actions needing no words.  Recovered some, I gather my things and step to the edge, waiting for the others to ready themselves.  Far below, in the pan, tiny scarecrow forms, pale, twisted, and waiting.  Bryce joins me.

     “This is going to be rough.”

     I nod.  “Maybe I can push some of them like I did on the road, if we get swarmed.”

     “That would be useful if you can manage, it’ll be tooth and nail when the ammo runs out.”

     “We’ll manage.”

     I am the first to climb down.  Bryce drops the tanks to my outstretched hands, and I set them down gently.  Then come the rifle and AK, passed down to ease their descent.  I watch them climb down and we gather our loads, weaving down hidden paths to the desert below.  The tanks are cumbersome, and I wonder what we will do with them when the zombies close on us.

    Bryce calls to me, “Hey, hang on!”  I stop, realizing how far ahead I am and turn.

     Molly is a few paces behind Bryce and I wait as they both catch up.  Bryce offers me some water and talks while I drink.

    “Do you have a plan for when we get down there?”

    I had been considering the problem more intently as we descended.  I pass the bottle back.  “Yes.”  I set the tank down and sit on a small boulder.  “We should stick as close to one another as possible.  While we’re up here, we should use the rifle to pick as many off as we can.  Same deal on the pan.  One person snipe the further out zoms, we’ll deal on the close ones with the AK and my sidearm.  Stay out of the arroyo, don’t get swarmed.  Am I leaving anything out?”

     “What about the tanks?”

     “Right, I’ve been thinking about that.  We’ll set them down when we have to.  If we lose one, or all of them, I still have the C-4 in my pack.”

     “I’ve got the sniper rifle and I’m the best shot with it.” Molly sounds even more somber than yesterday.  What’s bugging her?  “When will I get a good vantage on them?”

    “Soon,” I mutter.  “There is a pretty good ledge after the next switchback.  We can set up there for a while and have you clear a path, then we need to press on.  I don’t want to be out there in the dark.”

     The ledge is really just a large flat boulder, jutting from the steepness of the hill.  From it there is a fifty foot drop to the bottom of the channel below, then maybe five hundred more feet strait out to the desert floor.  It’s got one hell of a good view of the start of our path.  Molly lays her jacket on the rock and sets herself on it before pulling the rifle alongside her and propping it up with her pack.  She removes the covers from the scope and pulls a blue bandana from her pocket.  Once she is settled, she pulls the bandana over the end of the scope to shade her face.  Bryce and I both stand a few feet back, shading our eyes and looking at the figures on the pan.

     The rifle goes off, kicking back into Molly’s shoulder.  In the distance, I can see a puff of mist around one of the things’ head as it falls.

     “Hit!”  calls Bryce.  “Are you moving left or right to the next target?”

     “Right.”

     Molly adjusts and fires again, with the same result.  Bryce looks impressed.  We both look right to the next target.  The rifle goes off.  This time, the form staggers and falls, but gets back up.  Molly seats another round and fires again.

     “Hit!”

     Brass tinkles and rolls from the surface of the rock.  A dozen shells, falling and resting beside her.  They count for seven more zombies.  Molly pulls away from the scope and sets the rifle down with the chamber open to let the barrel cool.

     “How much time left?”  She asks.

     “Half an hour?”  I guess.

     She chuckles, “I’ll get ten more.”

     She does.  We pick ourselves up, somewhat more confident, with a clear stretch before us.  We make for it, sensing that the zoms will fill the gap soon.  I am the first to set my boots on the pan, setting salty-grey dust puffs up into the air.  I can feel the zoms closing in.  We walk hurriedly, silently carrying the tanks along and watching for the first close range encounter with the enemy.

     They come.  Like feral dogs sensing a meal, some more steadily than others.  The pan is so flat, we can see them all coming.  I swallow my terror down, as I’ve done so many times before.  Just remember to breathe.  They’re coming.  We’re ready for them.  Molly’s rifle sings, keeping them at some distance, but the further we push, legs churning up dust, the thicker they come.  I draw my pistol and look to Bryce.  He nods.

     The first one to close on us is a terror.  Nude, he stands perhaps six feet tall, but stooping forward.  Skin white and devoid of hair, his face is a Nosferatu caricature, long nose and brilliant globe head glistening in the noon sun.  As he nears us, his speed increases to a fast walk, dust puffing behind him, arms raised.  I call it.  Bryce lowers his rifle, and I raise the Glock, squeezing the trigger at ten feet.  Its head explodes, black gore spraying behind it, running down its chest as it sinks to its knees and falls forward.

     “Nice,” says Molly.

     “Don’t stop for me!”  I reply.

     We follow the edge of the arroyo, close enough to peer in, but far enough from it to avoid being forced in by mobbing zoms.  It’s our landmark on the featureless plain, but I hate to think about falling in before a tide of dead bodies, hemmed in.  The sides are steep here, close to the hills.  Molly takes point, and when she pauses to sight in on one of the zoms, we stop behind her.  Bryce taps off a round behind me, making me jump and I hear a body fall to the ground.  The pan is littered with the broken forms of the dead, prostrate before us.  But still it’s clear there are more of them than the bullets we have left.

     Bryce looks around nervously, his head on a swivel. It occurs to me that the great number of them must have a dampening effect on his ability.  For my part, I can still feel them, but perceiving individual contacts is near impossible--only the growing pressure forcing me to shake my head occasionally.  I wonder how effective I’ll be when I’m down in the tunnel.  So far I haven’t tried to turn any of the things away.  Maybe it is time.

     “Bryce, cover me,” I shout, knowing that his ears must ring like mine, “I’m going to let one get close so that I can try forcing it away, but if I can’t I want you to have my back.  Let’s say that if it gets within arms reach of me… OK?”

     “Gotcha.”

     I focus on one of the closer forms, a slow moving hulk.  His upper body is impressively muscled, heavy shoulders corded with hard rotting flesh, all straining to supporting an enormous belly, stretched to bursting.  He stomps forward heavily and raises his arms, face pained--mouth agape.  I close my eyes and concentrate on his presence, pressing foremost on my mind.  At some distance (hard to know with my eyes shut), I feel the magnets, pulling toward each other, and I flip mine like before, pushing out at him.  Bryce calls out, worried inflection in his voice.   

     I reply hurriedly, “Wait!”  I feel the pressure build and build and then it recedes. 

     I open my eyes and I’m staring at the zom’s back, so close that it may have brushed me with it hoary finger tips as it turned to go.  Bryce has his AK up, pointed at an empty space alarmingly close to my head.  He looks shocked.

     “It worked,” he mutters.

     “I told you!” I exclaim as a grin creases my cheek.  “Were you able to feel how I did it?”

     He shakes his head.  “No, but I’m all messed up inside.  Too damn many of them to make sense of anything.”  He frowns.  Molly’s rifle goes off and the head of the retreating zombie explodes, a bowl of rotting fruit salad tossed to the wind.  I turn to her and she shrugs.

     “No sense letting it live to bite someone else.”

     “Save your ammo,” says Bryce.

     She picks up her tank, and we press on, pausing every fifty yards or so to clear the way.  In my mind, I begin to form a plan.  When I feel the pressure of the place settle over me, I stop and face the others.

     “We’re close now, less than half a mile.”  Bryce nods, and I continue.  “I’ve been thinking, I can push them around in close quarters, but neither of you can.  I’ll take the tanks in, set them up and meet you back at camp.  Just get me in, and then make a break for it.  You two can make it back before dark.”

     “Hold on!”  Bryce cuts in.  “You can push around a single zom, but what about that thing we saw last time?  You don’t know if you can turn it away.  Let me come with you.  Molly can head back and wait for us.”

    “No.  I can’t let you come with me.  That town needs you.  Molly needs you.  I’ll find a way.  Take out as many as you can on the way out, it’ll make it easier for me when I head back.” I pause for a moment, reaching for the right words, but not sure of what they mean.  “If I don’t make it, it’s been nice knowing you.  Keep an eye on my orchard… and if you can, come back and finish the job.  I don’t like the idea of having my consciousness trapped in that pool.”

     He nods, and I see Molly looking at me in an appreciative way, like she’s never seen me before.  It’s all starting to feel like some bad movie.  Fuck, I don’t want to be a dead hero.  I force my mind to the calculating place that’s kept me alive this whole time and start ticking off survival info.  I still have 28 rounds of ammo for the .45, that and my own powerful hands.  It might be enough.

     Another few hundred yards, and Molly shoulders the rifle.  “I’m out.”

     I kneel and open my pack.  “Cover me,” I say, passing my Glock to Molly and pulling the nearest tank close.  There is no way I can handle all three of them together, so I decide to make three bombs and set them at intervals in the tunnel.  I take the C-4 brick and the duck tape.  I tape the brick to the side of the first tank, about half way up.  I use my knife to poke a hole in the paper on the top of the brick and then measure out two feet of the blue hobby wick.  I push this into the top of the brick and then tape the wick to the tank.  I figure it will take about sixty seconds for the wick to burn.

     Tank number two.  I take one of the TNT sticks and tape it to the side and measure one foot of wick for the fuse.  Ditto for tank three.  “There.”  I look up as a brass shell bounces off of my head.  Molly has dropped another zom, this one conjures up visions of Auschwitz.  I continue to work.  I take the white sheet from my pack and lay it out flat.  I dump the contents of my pack onto it and tie up the corners.  I place the first tank in my pack, wick coming out of the top and put it on.  I stand and grab the other two tanks, one in each hand.  “Let’s go,” I mutter, feeling adrenaline starting to rise.  I’m really doing this.  My steps quicken.  I glance back at the parcel, noting its location just in case.