The Zom Diary

by Eddie Austin

  We keep pace with one another, kicking up small tuffs of dust as we walk along the drive. He gives the garage an appraising look. “There is real potential here, Kyle. You have one of the only places around that has anything left growing besides oranges. The community could really benefit from a little effort out here. I noticed all that fruit rotting on the ground. I could send people out here. They could fix up one of these buildings, live here and help you harvest.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Come on, Kyle, what are you going to do out here all by yourself?”

  “I like being alone. And, I keep busy.”

  Bryce pats my shoulder before speaking, an almost patronizing look on his face. “Well, just consider it. Look sharp, the first one should be almost to the end of the driveway.”

  “Right.”

  And, it is. Shambling out of the left side of the overgrowth, his girth is incredible. Nearly six feet tall, but easily four hundred pounds, his bulk is partly contained by a leather biker vest. The remains of a scraggly beard are half torn from his face.

  “Bryce, let’s lead this one back to the road. I don’t want to have to drag him anywhere.”

  “OK, lead the way.”

  I jog down the driveway, Bryce at my heels, and cut to the right just as a low burping gurgle emits from the zombie’s torn throat. He swats at Bryce with a huge hand, but we are quicker.

  Bryce laughs, “Whoa, big boy!”

  I don’t look back, just pound the earth until it turns to pavement and head back, toward the rest of them, just now visible down the road. Bryce is right with me and we stop and turn. The zombie bursts out of the brush and I call it.

  “I got him!”

  I raise the .22, thumbing off the safety. There is a ‘crack’ of the report, and the thing twitches his head to the right, but keeps coming. Ten feet from us, his head explodes, and I jump from the loud boom of Bryce’s .308 going off.

  He pulls the bolt on the rifle, spent casing tinging on the pavement as he reloads.

  “Sorry to startle you. That guy must have had a thick skull.”

  “Shit. You think? Is that even possible?”

  We both turn now, facing each other, the other two zombies draw closer. Bryce continues talking, though, “I’ve heard stories of .22’s ricocheting off of people’s skulls, or of people getting shot in the foot and the round ending up in their heart,” he glances down at my rifle, “crazy thing to trust with your life.”

  “Right, well, my ammo supply is getting low, you want a lesson on economics or can we waste some zoms?” he inclines his head toward our visitors and smiles, “You take the lady on the right. I’ll get the other one.”

  “Ok.”

  We both raise our rifles. I wait for the .308 to go off before dropping the other one. This time the .22 does its job. The lady I’d hit sways and comes to rest on top of the other one, the act looks almost comical. Juliet falling across her dead lover’s corpse. I turn to Bryce.

  “Anything else on your radar?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me either. Let’s get cleaned up. We have some daylight, I’ll show you around the orchards.”

  “Great.”

  Bryce sounds honestly impressed when I tell him about Bill’s dream. He’s even more impressed at the variety of hardy and drought resistant food trees.

  “Kyle, this place is a gold mine. We can clone these trees, plant nuts back in town, grow olives. We could support a lot more people if we exploit this. I’ll respect your privacy. Please just consider helping us out.”

  I pause next to one of the black walnut trees, looking up into the branches at the clusters of large green nuts. Looking back I can see Bryce making note of the different trees, head following eyes, tracking across the rows, overwhelmed. There is so much hope in his expression. I ask him:

  “You still think Salem is going to work?”

  “I know it will. Molly is getting a team together to go on longer trips. We’re going to start checking some of the larger towns, gather people that want a fresh start in a place with a future. We need people like you who can make it out here; especially with what’s in your head.”

  I shake my head, “What about the zoms?”

  He walks to the base of the tree and sits on the ground, old tan winter straw crunching beneath his seat. He thinks carefully before answering. “I don’t think they are going to be a problem,” I start to speak but he holds up his hand and continues, “listen, I don’t know why you see so many more zombies out this way, it’s not so bad for us most of the time, we’ve certainly seen less and less as the years have gone by.

  “I’ve thought a lot about this. Really. I don’t think there are many of them out there. If there were seven billion of them walking around in a big swarm we’d be done. Over. But I don’t think that’s how things went.

  “You have to be bitten to turn into one of them, and if you die first, you don’t turn. I think more people died from the panic, the meltdowns, the starvation that came after the collapse than anything else. Disease…

  “There are a lot of them, millions I’m sure, but not too many of them. We can clear them out. As long as we are careful and keep what we have left of civilization going, we’ll outlast them. I’d bet on it. So yes, Salem will last. We will last, and come back out of this new dark age, but we need to stick together and keep growing in a positive way. Are you going to be a part of that?”

  He pauses now, looking up at me.

  I’m tempted, I admit to myself. I was perfectly happy, in my own way, with watching the end of civilization, and the end of man. I hadn’t been too impressed with our handling of the planet or of each other. Maybe this would be something different. A new chance to get things right. Of course, it always starts out that way, with good intensions. What the hell. He’s still looking at me, and I know he won’t stop bugging me until he hears what he wants, but it’s still my place and I have my own wants:

  “Fine. I’ll help with getting you the trees you need, and I’ll show you how to keep them. I’ll even go out on a trip or two, but I want something in return.”

  “Name it.”

  “No people out this way, no settlements, no trespassers. I’m going to do what I want with the land out here, and I don’t want any intrusions. Mark a border three miles east of town, and everything beyond it is mine. No man’s land.”

  “Seven miles.”

  “Five.”

  “Fine. You got it. But, I want dibs on all this fruit you are wasting. We’ll come out a couple times a year and take what you don’t use?”

  “As long as you give me some notice ahead of time. Sounds good to me.”

  Bryce puts his hand out and I clasp it. Done deal.

  It’s well past noon when we make our way back to the yard, and Bryce is still telling me about his plans for town. I start to wonder just how successful he will be. He is certainly motivated.

  Bryce grabs a seat by the fire, and I excuse myself so that I can get my gear ready for the next day. I grab an empty pack from the supply room and start to make some choices. It’s hot out in the desert, and I want to travel light.

  I pack an old white bed sheet. I can use it for shade or tear it into strips in an emergency, for bandages.

  Water. Four, one-liter bottles.

  Food. I carefully wrap some of the last of the old jerky and some fruit leather.

  I decide against a rifle. My Glock should be enough. I put two extra clips in the pack along with a wicked hunting knife and thick gloves.

  I’ll fetch my knobkerrie from the shack before I leave. For some reason I like to have it with me out there. Lastly, I pick out a small bud and place it with my pipe in my pocket. The dessert is the place for soul searching, and I haven’t quite given up on this pastime.

  I set my pack on the big table. It’s heavy with water, but that is as it must be. I fish around in a pile next to the couch for my good pants, the ones from my very first trip to town. I set them out for tom
orrow and go down to the cellar for some pear hooch before rejoining Bryce.

  He’s sitting by the fire reading a paperback book. He sets it next to him on the ground when I walk up, and takes the jar I offer him. “Is this the new stuff, or hard?”

  “Hard,” I reply. “And, sour as hell.”

  I grab a seat next to him and raise my own jar in a salute. It is sour.

  The sun is lower now. While the trees and grass at the edges of the yard are brightly lit, we sit in the cool shadow cast by the barn, looming behind us. The hooch is good, warming the belly. My jar is almost empty before Bryce breaks the silence:

  “I was wondering if you could tell me more about your encounter with Daniel? You said that you were able to repel him somehow, and I’m just curious…”

  I had wondered when he would ask about this. Tactful and careful, always the politician. I set aside the empty jar, wishing for more but not wanting to get up and get it.

  “I’ll tell you what I can. I’m not sure exactly how it happened.”

  Bryce takes a pull on the jar and swallows. “Well, first off -tell me what it’s like when you sense one of the zombies is getting closer. I’ve talked to Silas about this, and it seems like it’s different for each of us.”

  “It’s like a gentle nudge from a fingertip pressing into my mind; the sensation gets stronger when they get closer. Then it’s like magnets.”

  “Magnets?” His tone is respectful and even, he looks curious.

  “You’ve held two magnets in your hand? Kept them a few millimeters apart when they want to touch?”

  He nods.

  “It’s like that when they are close. The time on the road with Stet—er, Daniel. It was like I flipped the magnet in my mind somehow, so that they were pushing apart rather than pulling. He was walking off toward town when I was able to get up, walking the same way he’d come.”

  “Was it a conscious decision?”

  “I guess. I certainly didn’t know it was going to happen, I panicked and thought I was going to die. It was instinct.”

  He tosses off the last of his hooch and burps into his cuff.

  “Incredible. The whole experience is different for me. I get a tugging sensation like as if I were fishing, and had a bite. Weak tugs when the zombies are very far away. I can usually tell where and how many there are. Sometimes it’s almost like I can see the lines. Silas’s abilities are different as well. He says that for him it’s more of an uneasy feeling like he’s being watched. I don’t think either of us could do what you did.”

  “I don’t know if I could do it again.”

  He sets aside the empty jar.

  “Would you try? With me around, so I can try and see if I feel anything?”

  “I guess if we get the chance.”

  “Good.”

  Our conversation fades and we both enjoy the stillness of the orchard, interrupted only by the occasional snap of the fire. I walk over to the smoke house and grab a big slab of venison for dinner. I split it with Bryce, and we both eat our fill of fruit and meat.

  Not long after the sun is down, I tell Bryce to make himself at home on the couch, but that I need to get some sleep.

  It’s true. My body is still recovering from multiple injuries, and the first day over the hills is the hardest. As I drift off, I can hear Bryce out by the fire singing quietly to himself.

  Chapter 26

  There exists some mechanism in the mind of birds which causes them to be salutatious at first light. I listen, eyes closed against the almost blue pale of morning. For me, there is no discernment of their language, but I imagine that the trills and electronic sounding pops and cackles are a history of all birds, passed down through the aching hollowness of time.

  How do they know who is to go first? Nervous souls in their arboreal temple, who will crack beak and pray? A gathering silence always precedes that first call. This represents the Lost Time perhaps? The knowledge of the great lizards, lost to bird-kind. It’s upon lizards that my thoughts focus.

  Bright, flashing fellows. Blue, green, and grey. The desert is their home, and I am coming to visit.

  When finally I rise, still before the sun, I pad silently over to my open area and sit facing the closed window in lotus position. I let go of my mind and pass air through my lungs.

  Silence.

  Awake, but not thinking, I stare into the depths of my mind. No sensation. I have erased the floorboards beneath me from my mind, and after a time it comes to me. The image of a mountain laurel blossom, bathed in moonlight, silvery-white.

  Spinning, she picks one and places it behind her ear. I pick two and thread them through the holes where my earrings used to be. Laughing, we pass through the darken’ wood.

  I open my eyes and stand.

  Sunlight has broken over the trees and reaches through the panes, touches me on my chest, a comforting hand.

  My friends live on, somewhere in the infinite dark. Perhaps one day, I may join them. It’s time to go.

  I walk over to the ladder and look down on the open space of the big room. Long table, green couch, odds and ends, but no Bryce. He must be up already.

  I lower the ladder and descend. My ankle twinges the slightest bit. My arms itch. I pause at the table and unwind the bandages. One cut is deep and refuses to close. I ignore the slow ooze of blood from it and inspect the rest. Closed. Infected, but not seriously. It will be a wicked collection of scars,

  I wrap a strip of cloth around my forearm, over the one cut, and leave the rest. Years alone, before and after the end, have given me a good idea of my body’s healing capabilities, limits and needs.

  I buckle my pants, familiar and comfortable after a long stretch in the ill fitting loaner pants from Salem. I toss on the light tee from yesterday and spend a few minutes lacing my new boots.

  I recheck the clips for my .45 and place one in the Glock, pull the slide, and set it in the black polyester holster on my hip. The hunting knife, I tie on the other side. I grab my pack and head outside.

  Bryce is sitting next to the burned out fire-asleep. Sprawled out as he is, head leaning back, it doesn’t look like he’s moved from the night before. Reckless.

  I leave him and walk back to the pump, dreading the cold water, but wanting to clean my face and hands. I hear a clink of empty jars behind me and Bryce moans. I pick up an old coffee mug sitting on the steps and fill it with cold water.

  Walking back to the fire pit I hand it to him. I cough. “Morning, Bryce.”

  “Hey. Is that--! Oh, I thought maybe you had coffee.”

  “Sorry. Here.”

  I pass him the mug. He drinks it and stands, stretching his back and rubbing his legs together with a pained look on his face. “Sheesh, guess I was more drunk last night than I thought.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get attacked out here.”

  “Luck, or God. I don’t think He’s done with me yet.”

  “I didn’t imagine you as being so careless. That woman’s rubbing off on you.”

  He laughs now and starts to wipe the night dew from the barrel of his hunting rifle with his sleeve. He walks over to the fence and pisses for what seems like five whole minutes, then walks back over and grabs his pack.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  I begin to walk out past the yard to the path I have worn from frequent trips to the shack. Bryce walks behind me. The light of the early morning scatters leaf shadows about us, shifting camouflage patches of darkness. The sound of bird song is fading, replaced by the droning buzz of cicadas.

  I glance over my shoulder at Bryce, his head down, watching his footing. He has his rifle slung on his arm. I continue down the path. This section of the groves hasn’t done so well, but the orange trees cling to life, if somewhat withered. The path crosses one of the access roads, really just a wide lane between the trees, big enough to drive a truck through.

  I change directions, to arrive at the boundary between the orchard an
d the beginning of the low scrub which leads up to the hill, and we stumble out upon the bare scratch surrounding the shack.

  Bryce stops, “Whoa, what’s this?”

  “My home away from home. Hang on, I just need to grab a couple of things.”

  Bryce settles onto a rock and wipes his forearm across his face. “Right, no rush.”

  Walking up the short wooden steps, I grab the key from where it rests over the door frame. The air inside of the shack is a little stale, but not too unpleasant. I make my way by the muted glow of the curtained windows and grab my knobkerrie from its perch on my bookshelf. I consider grabbing a paperback for the midmorning break; an old Zelazny story, a favorite for traveling.

  Passing back toward the entrance, I grab my boonie hat, hanging from a hook on the back of the door. So, that’s where you’ve been hiding.

  “What?”

  Bryce looks up from staring at the ground, an odd look on his face. I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud.

  “Nothing, just wanted my hat and this,” I swing the club before me and notice his pallid complexion, “you feeling ok?”

  Bryce leans forward, hands on his knees. I can see now that his rifle is propped next to him. A long roaring torrent of clear yellow vomit erupts from his mouth. Another. He draws a deep breath and spits, a string of spittle slowly extending from his mouth to the ground.

  His voice is rough, “Feeling better now. What do you make that stuff with?”

  Oh boy.

  “Did you get more jars from the basement last night?”

  He produces a whimpering, “Yeah.”

  “I had some set aside for vinegar, maybe you grabbed one of those.”

  He starts to heave again. I take the moment to adjust the wide brim of my hat.

  “Do you want to take a day? Wait this out?”

  He wipes his mouth and looks up at me, eyes watering, as he fumbles for his canteen. “No, we’ve put this off long enough. I’ll be fine. Sorry you have to see me like this. The thing back at Salem, and Molly…I have a lot on my mind. I don’t usually get carried away like I did last night.”