The Zom Diary

by Eddie Austin

  I really don’t want to hear any of this. I detached myself from caring about my fellow man long ago, but still I feel a pang of sadness for the boy. I don’t know if it is the way he just sits there looking at me or if it is memory of my own dad and where he must be. I brush my hands over my eyes and let out a deep breath.

  “This sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  I stand then and reach over to the table to grab my glass pipe. I am hunting around for a mason jar of weed when he speaks, “Do you really need that right now? I’m not judging, but I want to know where you think we should go from here, legally speaking, and you should have a clear head.”

  “Fuck.” I say, pausing to light the bowl before continuing.

  “There’s not much I can do. I’ll make amends with his son; give him back his dad’s stuff, what’s here, if you think that will help. I feel bad for him, but I would do the same thing again under those circumstances, not knowing, no doubt. And legally speaking, there is no law.”

  Bryce nods his head and looks up at me. “It’d be good to make amends with his son. He’s young, but he’s being raised by good people. He might forgive you. I forgive you. That’s all I have left to say about that, except that it would be nice to have his body to bury for the boy’s peace of mind.”

  “That’s it?” I raise my pipe and take a big pull of yellowy thick smoke into my lungs. I offer him some, and he shakes his head. From the depths of deep sadness in his eyes, a spark lights and he speaks up, face lightening some.

  “I’ll take a glass of booze if you have got any.”

  ⃰ ⃰ ⃰

  I grab some pear hooch from the cellar and pour us both a glass. We sit there, he and I, in the bright sun lit big room of the barn for some time. He tells me a story from the trip to Selma/Salem about when Brian had taken out almost a dozen zombies that had crowded him and his son into a corner. He’d taken them out with his bare hands snapping necks and stomping the heads of fallen foes in an animal frenzy that had almost certainly terrified Bryce as much as it impressed him.

  It is a fitting tribute to the guy, I guess. We eat some jerky around noon and I show Bryce around the orchard. He is surprised that so many trees are left. I explain Bill’s vision for the place and he stops walking for a moment.

  “What kind of yield do you get?”

  “Way more than I can use myself. I juice or preserve as much as I can.”

  So we make plans to bring some of the more exotic stuff; avocados, lemons, and whatever else to market when it is available. I figure that when you wrong someone, sometimes you end up owing more than an apology. But Bryce seems to be a pragmatist, at least when it comes to supplying his town.

  In the evening we cook up some old rice that Bryce has found on the way out and add some thyme from the side of the barn. It goes well with some pears that we roast nested in the coals in an old camp skillet.

  The sun is getting low in the sky, and I offer the couch in the barn for Bryce to crash on. As an afterthought, as we both sit looking into the dying coals of the fire, I ask him about how he found me and why he was out this way.

  “I was out scouting when I picked up your trail. I kind of suspected you were from somewhere around here and wanted to see where. You’ll have to forgive my paranoia, not everyone I encounter has our best interests in mind. I thought I’d catch up with you and perhaps talk.

  “Also, lately we’ve been seeing more and more zombies, and, if they aren’t drawn to town, they seem to be heading this way. I wanted to see if I could figure out why.”

  I nod silently at this, and the conversation fades with the light. After a time, I begin to get concerned. The sun is down and darkness gathers beyond the embers of the fire. Bryce doesn’t look worried, but I am not accustomed to being out after dark unless I am secure. I decide to wait and see what he does. I am wondering at how easily he dismissed the knowledge that I had killed one of his friends.

  “Look, I really am sorry about shooting your friend.”

  “I said I forgive you. That’s the end of it as far as I am concerned. Do right by his son, and then let it be. Besides, we’ve had our goodbyes, so just let it be.”

  “OK,” I mutter. Maybe he has a feeling about me; that I’m not a psycho or anything. Or, maybe any person is valuable at this point to his endeavor. Either way, I take his advice and let it be.

  Some time passes and the stars shine bright against the deep amethyst sky. The moon is a fingernail sliver turning slowly above us. The embers fly, riding gusts of warm air. I am enjoying the fire but feel it impossible to not keep looking over my shoulder. Bryce sees what I am doing and says, “Relax.”

  “Since I was bitten, I’ve had this sense of when one of them is near. It’s like I can feel them pushing on my mind softer when they are far away and unmistakable when they are near. Aside from the fellow in the sack, there isn’t any zombie for maybe three or four miles from here.”

  “What!”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t think to bring it up. I assumed you’re the one who cut his head off and left it on the road? Did you happen to see his eyes?”

  I swallow and tried to get a grasp of what he was telling me. “No, not the sack, the other thing.”

  He raises his eyebrow at me.

  “So, the dead walk the earth and all civilization as we understand it has fallen, but you can’t believe in ESP? Silas has it too, as well as the prophet. I take it you met him?”

  “Yeah, the guy with the pet lady? I could almost believe it of him. I’ve seen things that defy explanation, and the zoms seem able to home in on us, so why not. Sure. ESP. Can you sense them when you are sleeping?”

  He looks awkward for a moment, then, “No”.

  “Well then, we better let this burn out and get some rest. You can have the couch. Leave that thing outside. Tell me about it later, but it’s not coming under my roof.”

  He nods and I turn and walk to the door. I go in and light a lamp for him in the big room. There is an old green army blanket on the back of the couch and a jug of water on the table, so I say goodnight, grab my pipe, and climb up the ladder.

  I pull it up by the white nylon rope and tie it off. Maybe this is out of habit, or the inability to let go of my mistrust. I decide against smoking, put the pipe on a beam next to my bed, and go to sleep watching the light from the kerosene lamp dance and cast shadows upon the rafters of the barn. As I drift off, my eyes follow the lines of the rafter-beams above my bed, the web like support structure forms a pentagon shape which hangs before me, like a gate…

  In the half real world of sleep, I dream that the pentagon is alight with fire. From each point of the shape flows forth a blazing line forming the star of a pentagram. From the center of this, as if from a void, stretches an enormous blood-red arm, palm toward me, fingernails black and glimmering in the light of fire. I feel pressure on my chest and, upon looking down I behold the form of a small ape-like man; black and cackling, stomping the life out of me.

  Chapter 4

  I awaken in the morning and hear the squeak of the pump handle outside. Bryce has a fire going and is heating water in a kettle over the fire. He calls out when he sees me step outside. “Good morning!”

  “Hey.” I call back taking a seat and looking up at the clear, clear sky. Bryce has his pack out, propped next to a chair from inside. He rummages around and after a moment, he pulls out an old plastic peanut butter jar with some brown powder inside.

  “Know what this is?”

  “Where the hell did you find coffee?”

  My eyes are well and fully open at this point. Next he will tell me that they are opening a pizza shop in town…That delivers.

  “Some of the guys found a mess of beans in the backroom of a Target last month. Not too stale. This stuff doesn’t come cheap, but you only live once. One of life’s indulgences, right?”

  I chuckle, “Whatever. Get it going. I’ll get some cups!”

  I run inside, grab two mugs, and trot back
to the fire. So that is how I find myself sipping coffee under the bright morning sky for the first time in years, with a big smile on my face.

  After a couple cups in silence, I ask him about his plans and the sack. He sits back in the chair and balances the cup on his lap. “I do a little reconnaissance from time to time; this time was partly because of you. I didn’t really buy the idea of a bunch of cannibals out this way, and I decided to satisfy my curiosity--both about that and a strange trend I have noticed. I’ve seen a lot of zombies heading this direction and I thought there might be another town out here somewhere drawing them on.”

  I shake my head. “Beyond those hills it’s all desert; salt pan. I’ve been out there a bunch of times. It’s barren; no people, no abandoned towns, nothing. I run into a zombie once in awhile, but the area’s pretty clean.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, we get our fair share of zombies wandering to town, but it’s like they are trying to get past us, out this way. Why they come out at all gives me the creeps, but I’m trying to make sense out of it.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have missed anything big like a town. You can see forever from those hills. I can tell you a good trail if you really need to go out there. I wouldn’t go anytime soon, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, the moon won’t be full for a couple weeks. Extra sense or not, you don’t want to be out there when it’s that dark. You’ll get all kinds of turned around, or have to stay put at night. That’s OK if you find a big boulder to sleep on, but trust me, there aren’t many of those.”

  “Right. Would you mind if I come back when it’s full? I’d like to see that trail and have a look around. Maybe you would come out with me? I don’t know much about the terrain out there. I could really use your help.”

  I nod, “Sure. I don’t really have any pressing engagements.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Kyle. I’m going to head back now unless you can think of anything else.”

  I nod. “Yeah, what’s up with the sack?”

  “Whoops, I almost forgot. So, you really didn’t notice its eyes?”

  Bryce gets up and goes over to where he has left the sack. It still moves; more furiously as he approaches it. I realize that the head’s jaws are still working. He dumps the thing a few feet from the fire, noticing my distaste. Bryce then produces a hunting knife, steps on the side of its white blotchy face, and proceeds to cut the tendons that lead to the jaw on both sides. It stops chewing even as the muscles in the head still flex and relax. He picks it up now and holds it for me to see.

  The eyes are fixed on me; solid black as night, full and moist as if brimming with tears. “Spooky.”

  “You think so? The only ones we see coming back from your way almost always have these same black eyes. We started to notice it a few months ago. They are uncommonly vicious little buggers; almost seem intelligent. More so than the average zombie, at least. So, yes, spooky.”

  “So you’re going to study it?”

  “Yes, you know, I was a biologist before all this. Maybe I can figure out what’s happening. We need to keep pace with these things.”

  I agree, although I’m not sure what he can really do with it. We finish our coffee and he grabs his pack and other gear. Before he leaves, I make him promise not to tell anyone that he’s found me out here. He says he’ll keep it to himself if he can. I don’t think he is the type to break his word easily. It is looking more and more like I am going to have to get used to having neighbors.

  I say I’ll see him in two weeks or so and bid him farewell. I watch him hike off the lawn and past Bill’s. It feels good to be alone again.

  Chapter 5

  I decide that it is time to cut loose a little bit. I grab my AK from the barn and a clean five gallon plastic bucket. I walk the orchard weaving through the rows of trees, walking along old beaten paths in the grass, and making new ones where needed. I pick and peruse, filling the bucket with pears and oranges; avocados and lemons. I am sweating by the time I get it back to the yard.

  The sun is up and it is pleasant outside; not cool, but not very hot either. There are a few clouds way up high like they want to stay as far away from our mess as possible. I laugh at them and give them the finger. Who needs you anyway?

  Capering over to the door to the barn, I throw it open and walk back to the trapdoor that leads to the basement. Feeling around, I find a quart mason jar on the back shelf packed loosely with bright green buds of weed. I also grab two bottles of the good stuff--pear hooch.

  I bring this up, grab my belt pack, and walk back out by the fire. I set the hooch and jar of herb next to the fruit and go back inside to change. I come back outside wearing only a bright blue Speedo and flip flops. I stop at the pump and let cold water run over my head and through my beard. It runs down my tanned chest and drips onto my knees.

  I go to sit by the fire and hold the jar to my face once it is opened. The contents are phenomenal. It smells of evergreen, rotting peaches, and spicy B.O. The neon green buds are interwoven with yellow and orange hairs, bristling with crystals of THC. This is the ‘giggle weed’ from the west end of the orchard. Sativa. Not too speedy, but just…well, bright.

  The first bowl pack leaves me with a permanent grin, and, as the world grows brighter, it is almost as if the light is pixilated as it strikes objects around me. I spend a great deal of time examining the effect this has on my thumbnail.

  I shake my head slightly as if to clear it and pick up a jar of hooch. Condensation has formed on the outside making it slippery. Still, I open it and down half of the jar in one big swig. From this point on, I let my fancy take me where it will. I roll in the grass. I walk around tapping the boards on the barn with a long nail I find. I climb a pear tree and hang from a branch before dropping to the grass. I poke around in the wood pile to see if I can find a snake or lizard for a pet. I want to make a home for it and name it Charles.

  And so I pass the day slipping further and further into my sunlit reverie. I eat fruit when I am hungry and drink water when I thirst. I tan and rub lemon juice into my beard to facilitate the bleaching process. I am a wild man.

  ⃰ ⃰ ⃰

  I’m not sure where I am at first when I awaken the next day. I am certain that there is a rattlesnake in a bucket next to my bed with some weeds and a bowl of water. There are fruit peels and empty jars and pear cores everywhere.

  I say, “Good morning, Charles.”

  Chapter 6

  I sleep in for quite some time, burrowing into the blankets like a maggot. It is past noon, I imagine, when I finally let the ladder down and explore the first floor of the barn. I have my AK slung by my side and I am sure that if I let a zombie in yesterday, I would be hearing it knocking around by now. Then again…

  The storeroom is unoccupied. I have been neglecting my duties here favoring the same AK for the past week or so. I am being lazy. I should have stripped the AK and cleaned it by now; checking another gun. All this is true, but it is also true that AK-47’s are about as rugged and dependable as you can expect any firearm to be.

  Named: Avtomat Kalashnikova, the AK 1947 is simplicity and beauty and killing power married in form. The firing mechanism is powered by the gas expelled when a round is fired. The firing pin falls forward igniting the primer cap which ignites the powder which causes a quick burn and expulsion of gas. This gas forces the 7.62mm round out of the barrel at terrible speed, and at the same time, the design of this weapon shunts this gas backward over the top of the barrel ramming back the carrier rod and seating another round. Repeat. Ad nauseam. A hulking, klunking, rattling wand of death. In production in various countries for almost seventy years before ‘the end’. Unchanged. Perfect. As numerous as the stars in the sky or sand on the beach. 100,000,000 dispersed to mankind, like pollen on the wind, seeking the fruit of death. Simple to clean and to maintain. A survivalist’s dream. Lovely.

  My AK is a Chinese Poly-tech. One of the best varieties ever made. Of course, I also have a Romanian
and a Russian AK kicking around somewhere, but this one is my favorite. Polished-to-glowing cherry wood stock, a heavy wood, perfect for ramming into an uncooperative face. Molded steel frame, rather than cheaper stamped models. I’d grabbed it off a guy wearing urban camo; a wild look in his eyes, hunger, madness. I never forget these men. They would likely have killed me, stolen my possessions, raped or eaten me, or both (in either order). I was lucky to get them first. That’s all.

  How in the world did a lazy, flunky misanthrope like me get to be so hard? It’s all about choices. I chose to leave the riches of the soft world behind. During the three years working for Bill, I lost fifty pounds and grew calluses like a catcher’s mitt. I studied the world around me, and when I looked at the horizon, I didn’t see a golden city on a hill. I saw the end, and I was ready for it. Lots of other people weren’t.

  “The weak die, and the only choice is to grow hard or to join them.”

  I surprise myself by uttering these words aloud. Chalk it up to my massive hangover, or a subconscious desire to prevent vocal atrophy. I am in a grim mood.

  I grab the pail with the snake in it. I’d thrown a shirt over the bucket. All the while the rattle buzzes away, but I don’t think it will strike at me. What the hell did I get up to yesterday? Watching the snake pail warily, I open the door to the entry room and peer around the corner to the workshop; nothing. I step outside and almost drop the bucket. Bill’s pickup is parked in front of the barn. The passenger side door is open. Good lord.

  I begin to piece together some scenes from yesterday: using a fishing net to capture the angry snake, messing around in the garage with Bill’s truck, hooking up a battery to it and gassing it up. Evil black smoke had issued from the tail pipe. Music had blared from the truck’s CD player, Led Zeppelin. Driving over to the barn, I had knocked over tomato stakes and a fencepost that ‘got’ in my way.