by Eddie Austin
I toss a few empty five gallon jugs in the back of the pickup along with a five foot section of garden hose in case I find something to siphon from. I learned a lot working for Bill over those few years, but I still haven’t figured out how to suck gas without drinking some.
The tires are nice, thick treaded, perfect for mud or sand and haven’t cracked sitting in the shed for a couple years. Last thing before I turn the key, I pop the hood and check the oil. It is a little burnt and low, but it is what I have. The truck fires right up, and aside from some black smoke, it sounds good.
I pull out and close the garage doors behind me. Pulling up next to the barn, I leave the truck running and load my gear. One pack has supplies and I bring a second empty pack for carrying stuff out of buildings. The bones go in the bed of the truck; the guy’s pack and gun in the back seat with my gear. The AR-15 is propped next to me on the passenger side. There are a few CD cases on the seat as well.
I close the barn up tight and pull away, slowly over the bumpy terrain of the driveway, weeds brushing the undercarriage in places. I have old Bob Marley playing on the radio.
The road is easy once I turn onto the black top. Cars are pretty spaced out and I weave around them, when I have to. The old sedan with the zombie still trapped inside it is there, and I wave as I pass by.
Stumbling out onto the road in front of me comes a lone zombie, thin and pathetic. I slow and push it over with the truck backing over it a few times before driving off. How long will they last out in the open? Three years on and most of them look a month or two dead.
About four miles down the road I select a driveway that I have never been down, and pull in letting the truck crawl along. Like Bill’s, the driveway is long and overgrown. Branches brush the sides of the truck and at one point, I imagine an arm flapping out and hitting the side of the truck, but it is only my imagination.
The house is ranch-style like so many in these parts, but it is sprawling and neatly trimmed with fieldstone and has an incredible red tile roof like you’d expect to see on a pueblo somewhere. The yard is overgrown, but I can tell that the owners had chosen an eco-friendly landscape that favored loose gravel and desert plants rather than one of watered grass and exotic shrubs. I am getting the impression that this wasn’t a working farm, but rather a residence that bordered farmland. It wasn’t unheard of for farmers to parcel out some land to sell in lean times and the area was charming enough. I fix that story in my imagination. I immediately like the place.
I put the truck in front of the garage and cut the engine. I grab the hammer from the back seat and check the glock on my hip. I grab the empty bag from the back seat too. Time to go shopping.
From the yard the view is pleasant, overlooking withering and overgrown farmland spreading below the hill that the house rests on. In the distance is the long line of hills separating this valley from the salt pan beyond, my desert. I am surprised then by several chickens that dart out of hiding and round the back of the house. I decide to try and catch some on the way back through. Maybe I can set up a pen for them. Already this place is looking to be a good score.
Filing my plans for the feral chickens away for later, I turn and approach the door. It looks solid and the only glass is a long vertical window too thin to reach through on the side opposite the knob. I try it, and it opens. Hinges squeak lightly and I step in cautiously, listening for movement.
I remember the last time I went into a house and the zombie that had waited so patiently. I have my hammer in hand and my Glock ready at my hip. The place smells clean. No mildew. The roof must be pretty sound. The whole place is neat, and I run a finger along a counter top in the kitchen. Clean.
Opening the cabinets in the golden light reflected off tan tiles is like opening Aladdin’s cave. Cans of food are sorted neatly. There are Tupperware containers full of rice and pasta kept safe and dry from mold and mice. My excitement wars with some nagging thought, pushes it aside, and takes over.
This place will just about fill the truck when I leave. Why bother moving it all? Maybe I’ll just live out here for a few months; take a little vacation. The place looks secure enough even with the big sliders and tall windows. I could figure some way to make it secure.
What waits for me in the bedroom closet is even more incredible. Ammo, rifles and a small collection of gear and supplies. Turning, arms full of treasure; I look up just as he enters the room. A living he. A very angry gun wielding he. “Whoa!” I yell dropping the ammo boxes and clips on the ground and throwing my hands up.
“Shit! Don’t shoot!”
I wait a second and look up. He stands there AK raised to his cheek. I try to look apologetic and decide to talk while he still lets me.
“I didn’t know anyone was here. I’m just looking for supplies. I’m sorry. I’ll leave—no worries.” I try to sound calm. He stands there, eyes locked on mine. We remain this way for a minute or two; it feels like forever. Finally.
“Don’t move. Don’t reach for that pistol. Come on.” He motions for me to move out and through the door -AK still trained on me. I walk out of the bedroom and down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen and dining area. He is still following me; I keep my hands raised. He barks another order.
“Put your left hand on your head. Slowly take the pistol out and leave it on the counter.”
I am careful to remove the Glock as slowly as I can without seeming like a smartass. I place it on the table and put my hands on my head. He continues, “Open the slider and get outside.”
I do. Again he follows, boots clacking on the slate tiled patio. There is a table and chairs, but he is motioning for me to walk past these and out into the scrub brush between the yard and the field beyond.
“Turn around.”
We are at the edge of the field. I begin to consider whether he’s brought me this way to avoid having to clean up the mess of shooting me inside. “Crap,” I think.
I turn around and look at him clearly for the first time. He is older than I’d thought, maybe almost sixty but still youthful looking as some people are. His hair is grey, and cut into a neat flat-top, his blue eyes shine furiously. I wait for him to speak. He relaxes some and begins to question me.
“You really didn’t know anyone was here?”
“I swear. I live over that way,” gesturing towards the general direction of the farm. “I just got swarmed by a huge pack of zombies and I’m trying to get fixed back up.”
He doesn’t say anything; just looks deep in thought for a moment. “You mean Jim’s orchard?”
I shake my head. “No, Bill Prescott’s place.”
He nods then as if he is satisfied that I am being truthful. He lowers the AK and gestures back toward the yard and patio. “So, how is Bill these days?”
“He’s dead. There was a fire not too long after all this started. My name is Kyle. I worked for Bill.”
We wander to the patio and he takes and offers me a seat. So, I sit. Curiosity gets the better of me and I have to ask, “So, what if I’d not known about Bill and I’d lied about knowing a Jim?”
“You’d be dead, and I’d be late for breakfast.”
“What are we having?”
He smiles and gets up taking the AK with him, “Eggs. And sausage. I’m Nathan. Call me Nate.”
⃰ ⃰ ⃰
We sit there after he returns from a shed that sits some fifteen yards from the house. Smoke drifting up from a small tin chimney, he comes bearing a platter of scrambled eggs and steaming links. He also has a pitcher of cherry kool-aid.
I learn that he is a retired cop. He built this house himself years ago when he retired. His wife passed away not long after from cancer. They had one daughter who lived in Boston and he is a chicken enthusiast. All eleven of his “girls” had names and he calls out to them as they wander around us pecking at ants and scratching at the ground. He talks a lot.
“I remember Bill telling me once that he’s hired a full time hand. You’re lucky I knew. I’m a good ma
n, but a lot of people wandering around these days aren’t. A man has to be careful...”
I nod and sip kool-aid, savoring it. He takes this as a sign for him to continue, and he does: “Bill was a good friend. I’m sorry he’s gone. Used to stop by for eggs and a game of chess every week or so back in the day. I should have figured he was gone; most everyone is. Around here anyway. So you ran into some trouble. I saw some smoke a few days ago out that way.”
I recount the episode with the small horde that had surrounded the barn and told him about my efforts to get things put back together. He seems shocked when I tell him how many zoms there had been. So I ask how often he gets visitors.
“Here? Hardly ever. They always seem more interested in getting out your way. Once in awhile one will show up but never like you say.”
“I guess that explains why this place looks so nice. I figured if anyone lived here it would be boarded up, or fenced in.”
“What? And ruin the view?”
He seems genuinely amused at my level of paranoia, but I suppose an old cop like him has seen some hard stuff. I take the break in conversation to ask him if he’d been to Selma/Salem and if he’s picked any of the houses around here clean.
“Town? I saw the wall and avoided it. People start to gather and it can only mean trouble. I haven’t touched the houses around here. These people were my friends and neighbors. I’ll take my van up north every few months or so and pick around one of the tourist towns. I had a big find recently and I get along ok with just the eggs and some trapping, so that’s my story. That’s how I get by.”
I tell him then about my plans to check the other houses and fix up the barn. He seems amused by this.
“You know I helped Bill put that old thing back together. Thousands of pieces all tagged and numbered. He was going to finish it so that college kids could come out and spend the summer working on those fruit trees. Interns, he said. Slave labor more like it.”
He chuckles and scrapes the last of the eggs onto my plate. I can tell he is glad to have someone to talk to. I am glad, too, I guess. Better than being shot in the head and buried in yonder field. As genial as the conversation is, eventually it slows and stalls. I take out my keys.
He tells me to stop by sometime for eggs. I say I will, and know it to be true as I say it. I grab my Glock on the way out and wave as I drive down the long driveway. I pause at the road and fish around the dash for an old cigarette pack that I had filled with joints for the journey. I light one and turn out onto the road. The truck crawls along slowly. My mind begins to wander. I could tell that Nathan was a good guy. Nice to have another neighbor and a safe place to stop on the way to town. Why the hell am I getting so much attention from the zombies? I am glad somebody is having an easier time than I, but I can’t help wondering all the same.
I decide then to skip the scavenging for now and get to town and see about Bryce. I speed up a little to 10 mph and turn the radio up. The sun is warm on my left arm and the mood in the truck is good.
Chapter 11
The road creeps by and I think about how differently I appreciate the road from the perspective of someone walking versus the relative ease of driving. The brain detaches in a car. The windshield becomes like a TV screen or portal; forgettable. The act of walking makes one appreciate the road. Where the noise of cars dulls hearing and the blur of scenery dumbs the minds comprehension of place, walking embraces the senses. You hear the wind, feel the pavement and notice all the flotsam thrown from passing vehicles.
Crawling along in the truck, half stoned, my mind wanders. I imagine that I am in Africa; a mercenary with a pickup full of brainwashed child soldiers. Witchcraft amulets swinging and slapping their bare chests, promising bravery and protection from bullets. I am their father, their leader. I will hold them as they lay dying, and they will love me in the last moments under the hot sun.
I have just begun an imaginary conversation with one of these lost boys telling him all about America and our great prosperity when I catch the first sign of town. It has been weeks now since I walked out of the side street up ahead and caught sight of the wall. Salem.
Town looks much the same as before. I count an extra windmill; the one Bryce was working on must be finished now. I select a proper side road and begin my circuit around the wall to make my way to the gate and admittance to Main Street.
Here, in town, but outside of the fortifications, I can see few cars; most presumably driven away to the coast years ago, abandoned. Or, perhaps, used in the construction of the wall. The few that are present are partly stripped, tires mostly. I assume that the ones with the gas door open and cap missing have already been siphoned. No gas here.
Buildings, too, have been stripped, others boarded up with arcane symbols painted on doors. It reminds me of the footage from Katrina. I wonder what the numbers mean. Food left inside? This building is zombie free? Or, Dear God, don’t open this one up.
I am passing the small brick elementary school noticing scrub grass peeking up through cracks in the sidewalk and pavement when I see movement to the right. Shambling out from an overgrown alley, a zombie knocks over an old aluminum trash can, sending it careening off in a tight circle spilling years old trash. It is a heavyset woman, dark hair nearly worn off the bare skull, the elements and time have bleached her clothes a uniform grey. Just as my eyes meet with the thing’s, its head explodes—black spray on brick. The report, off to the left, sounded almost simultaneously. Well, at least they know I am here.
Rounding the last of the buildings, I pull out turning left on the main road that leads back to the gate. Stetson man is there, on duty again. He recognizes me and waves me past the first sliding chain link fence. He waits for it to close before taking his eyes off the road and walking to my window, then he speaks:
“Nice rig. You a mechanic?”
I shake my head.
“Too bad. Bryce said you might be showing up again. He’s up at the police station. You know where it is?”
I nod.
“Good. Better get going.”
I start to ask why but I am still a little high, and don’t feel like chatting with the guy. The inner gate slides open and I pull into town, parking the truck on Main Street and shouldering my AR-15. I leave the rest of my gear in the truck and lock it up. Keys in pocket. Check.
The police station is to my right, a short walk from where I’ve parked. It is a small cinderblock structure; one floor, but spread out. I can see as I approach it, that the town’s fortifications have incorporated the structure into the wall, and, in essence, it runs right over the top of the building, leaving the back half with the fenced off impound yard on the outside beyond the wall. It is a smart design. The building adds a lot of structure to the wall and would have saved construction time. Also, here is another very secure point of entry should the main gate fail.
I walk up to the front door and open it letting myself in. I have been here once, years ago, to bail out a farm hand who had gotten wasted and been PC’d for the night. The place hasn’t changed much except that the heavy metal door that leads into the station proper is propped open with a big round rock. I lean in noticing that the lights are on, and call out. Bryce’s head pops out from a side room down the hallway and he waves me down. I walk towards the door he has come out of, glancing at old posters that were intended to remind the viewer to not drink and drive. Stop, drop, and roll. Etc.
The room is a holding cell and Bryce stands, arms crossed, forehead leaning on the bars, looking in. There, lying on an army cot is a man; alive. Drenched in sweat, he strains against the strap across his chest. His eyes are blood red; vessels having popped, and it smells like he has soiled himself. When Bryce turns, I can see his expression is troubled. His eyes look bleary, tired and red.
“He’s almost finished.”
“What?” I ask stupidly, knowing the answer already but being unable to reach out into the ether to grab the words and shove them back into my face.
“His
name is Larry. He was out on a scavenging trip with five other people. He just got back two days ago—bitten. They found a clinic that had been used as a shelter. They were looking for meds and accidentally let out a swarm that had been holed up in the cafeteria of the place since the start.”
He must have noticed my expression because he stops talking. I give him a quick version of what happened at the barn, and he shuts his eyes and nods his head.
“It makes sense. They were way up North, and he said it took him more than a week to hobble back. He got bit on the ankle, right through the Achilles. He hid in an exam room, and the swarm followed the rest of the folks out of the place and off somewhere. He got himself patched up as best he could, even got some expired antibiotics in his system and hoofed it down here. He made it so long, we thought maybe he wasn’t going to turn; you know—like me and Silas. Crap.”
He leans into the bars again and is silent for a time. I stare up at the flickering light above him then speak:
“I guess that swarm passed the town and came right for me. Bryce, something is pulling these things out to the farm. I found another survivor, not four miles away, and he hardly ever sees anything. Something is happening. I—“Bryce raises his hand to silence me.
“I know. I’ve been doing some experiments, and I have something to show you later.” He turns back to the cell and continues, “He was my friend. Those windmills were all his idea, and together, we brought light back to this town. Now…”
He pauses again, and I realize that he probably doesn’t want me there right at this moment. He is losing a friend. Even if that happens all the time in this fucked world, I know it isn’t easy. I turn toward the door and begin to walk out.
