The Zom Diary (14 page)

     Details.  The truck grumbles to life and this time without as large a cloud of smoke.  Pulling in a wide u-turn, I make for the gate and we pass through; Bryce waving at Stetson, myself, eyes locked ahead.

     Curious, I ask, “Just the two of us heading out?”

     Bryce looks to his right straining to see who is up on the wall pulling lookout duty, “Yes.  I hope to find survivors; we’ll need room.  Besides, we’re not trying to take on every zombie between here and there.  With a bit of luck, I should be able to get us around most of them.  Either way, the two of us can handle loading supplies from the clinic, should it come to that.  You ok to drive after smoking?”

     “Perfectly.”

     “Ok, keep on this road going west.  After five miles there is a bridge out, but we need to go north anyway.  So pick up the old route 40, ok?”

     I tell him I am okay with directions and we take off going about twenty mph.  I want to keep it slow in case we pass anything important, or dangerous.  Bryce says that the road is pretty clear this side of town.  Picked clean and cleared by scavenge teams.  It seems to me like scavenging for supplies is an impractical economic venture.  When I mention this to Bryce, he seems thoughtful.

     “My dream is to get enough homesteaders, each specialized in producing their own crops and craft goods, to be self-sufficient.  It’s not easy though.  These people were bankers and salesmen, not farmers.  Only two of the homesteads have gotten beyond vegetable gardens, but each season we learn more and get stronger.

     “But to answer your question, yes, scavenging is getting to be more and more impractical.  No one is going to trust much of the canned stuff for much longer and a lot of houses are starting to fall apart.  It won’t be long before roofs leak and then mold and rot will ruin clothes and other things that we need.  Even out here where it’s pretty dry most of the year, one good soak will ruin a house’s drywall and any chances of good salvage.

     “Now that I know you’re out east of us, maybe we can start picking around out there.  We could use some farm tools, old antique stuff.  I’m sure they have that kind of stuff out your way?”

     “Maybe, I never thought to check.  I’m still doing my own scavenge operations out my way, so consider most of it spoken for.  I’m not a farmer though, just a picker, so if I see a scythe or something I’ll grab it for you.”

     “Possession is nine tenths, Kyle.  Can you stop us from taking it?  Face it, you can’t claim everything out your way.  I did you a favor looking the other way, you should remember that.”

     I swallow a nasty reply that would have been more trouble than it was worth, and file the exchange away for later consideration.  Maybe the herb is making me nervous, but Bryce is seeming a little hostile all of a sudden.  Ahead, the road is clear; a few dark spots of past violence and fire.  For the most part, cars have been pushed off the road or driven off somewhere.  A few larger trucks remain on the road; black windshields like the eye sockets of a skull, sole witness to our passing.

     After a couple miles we come to the top of a rise with clear areas on either side of the road.  I pull over.

     “Why are we stopping?”  He asks.

     “I gotta piss.  You think it’s safe?”

     “There are a couple of them back through those woods, maybe a mile away.  That’s it as far as I can tell.”

     I leave the truck running and push my way through some knee high weeds that grow next to the road.  Just as I am unzipping, my weight shifts under me and I fall forward.  Old stalks of tall grass poke my face and cut my hands.  My knees come down on something hard in the grass and my ankle twists, sending a jolt of pain lancing to my brain. 

     I stay down for a moment, trying to get my bearings.  Water seeps into my clothes from the ground beneath me.  Looking back toward the road and down at my legs I can make out the remains of metal and cloth that has tripped me.  Bryce calls out from the truck, “You alright?”

     “Yeah, I tripped over a fucking bike!”

     “Are you sure you’re ok?”  I can hear the door opening and his voice getting closer.  My ankle feels really bad.  I crawl out of the weeds and stand slowly.

     “I just rolled my ankle.  I thought you said it was safe.”

     Bryce smiles, “Yeah, from zombies.  I didn’t say anything about road trash.  Here!”  He extends his hand, and helps me up and over the ditch.  He brushes off my shoulder, and we both turn back to check the offending bike.

     It is an old ten speed, chain loose and rusty, frame wrapped in weeds from seasons past.  Beneath it are the remains of some poor cyclist, years dead.  The bones are brown and rotted by the dampness of the ditch.  Neither of us care to check closely for possessions. 

     Bryce just shakes his head and gets back in his side of the truck.  I walk to the tailgate and piss on the road.  The stream of my pee flows back toward town and then back to the right toward the bike.  Even naturally dead people it seems are making my life hard. 

     The rest of the morning is pretty uneventful.  The road is clear, we make pretty good time.  Turning right on old route 40, we begin to head north and west.  I ask Bryce about where we are going.

     “It’s about twenty-five miles I guess.  The town is called Preston.  Do you remember it?”

     I’ve never been there, but I have a vague impression that it is a little smaller than Salem and also something about fruit jelly.  I say as much to Bryce.

     “Yes, there was a cannery there and some tourist attractions; Silver Dollar City kind of things.  You could pan for gold.  Those hills between you and the desert get taller there and there is a small river that runs down from the mountains.  It’s a great place except for the dead people.”

     “I always wanted to pan for gold.”

     Bryce laughs, “You still can if you’d like.  Not much point to it anymore, I guess someone might take gold in trade.”

     “Not anyone in Salem?”

     “We barter for food and supplies.  Except for medicine; that goes to the old hardware store.  As long as you contribute to the well being of the community, you can get free bandages and meds when they are available.”

     “Good to know.”

     My morning buzz is failing me and watching the road, the vast and empty road, dead, is becoming a burden.  I fish out the roach from that morning and light it carefully with the truck’s cigarette lighter.  Steering with my left elbow, holding the glowing lighter in my right hand, I touch the end to it and take a drag.  Keeping one eye on the road, I notice Bryce grimace and lean toward the open window.

     “Does the smoke bother you?  I can put it out.”

     He looks embarrassed for a moment, then shrugs, “More now than before the end.”

     “You ever smoke?”

     “I have.  Mostly back in college.  The last time I smoked was after I was bitten.  It made me very uncomfortable.”

     “Why do you say it like that?”  My voice is strained from a lung full of smoke as I ask.  “Did it make you paranoid or something?”  I exhale and eye the joint again.  He shoots me an evil glance and smiles:

     “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

     I take a deep pull off the joint and hold it in my lungs for the time it takes my heart to beat a nice few thumps, and then blow a huge streamer of smoke out of the window.

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     Here on the road, trees begin to lean in overhead.  The way is lined with ancient oaks, and as we get further from town, the road is not as clear as before.  Some cars stand alone, sitting in the road, doors open, seat cloth ripped, floors covered in leaves.  Other times we happen upon a cluster of vehicles, all neatly parked on the same side of the road, as if a group had paused for the night or to take a break, only to vanish and never return.  Our progress slows.  I can see Bryce looking more intently for signs of life, or perhaps any recent activity.

     We crawl along, barely moving, and I catch Bryce’s mood; turning down the music as my sense of anticipation grows.  The light from above is the yellow-stained green of sun through trees.  It would cheer me if I didn’t have such a strong sense that something was about to happen.

     As we round a bend in the road I see an old house off in the distance to the right.  It has a nice big detached garage.  I am just about to ask if maybe we should check it out when Bryce speaks up, “There!”

     Pointing, he leans out the window some, and I stop the truck.  I look where he just pointed but don’t see anything, just overgrown fields beyond the tall garage and the tops of trees on the other side of a small hill.

   “In those trees, beyond that house.  There must be two dozen of them close together.  They aren’t moving toward us. I think we might have something.”

    “What’s the plan?”  I whisper.

    “We’re close enough.  They might sense us and wander over.  If that happens, we’ll pick them off.  But I think someone is alive over there; must be trapped by the zombies.  That’s what’s keeping their attention.  I’d bet on it.  Pull in the driveway and we will see what happens when we make our way over.”

     I put the truck in gear and drive down to the driveway.  I don’t see any vehicles that look like they are in service, or for that matter, that have been on the road in years.  As we pull into the driveway, I can see a ring of corpses piled around the house.  Fresh signs of violence are everywhere.  And the wasted corpses, they look a lot like the ones that swarmed the barn; clothes yellowed, skin the same sheen of putrification. It is looking like we’ve found our survivors.

     I pull up to the garage and turn the truck around in case we need to leave quickly.  Looking over at the house; a Victorian two-story monstrosity riddled with bullet holes and possessed of broken windows and impromptu barricades, it speaks of desperation and last stands.  Not all of the barricades look new.  The garage is a different matter.

    It looks tall enough to have a loft, with two large barn doors for entrance.  No low windows.  It is painted white, but grey wood shines through bare flaked spots.  There are also fewer bullet holes.  It looks secure. 

    Positioning the truck next to the house, careful not to park with the tires on any of the bodies that we have driven over, I cut the ignition.  Bryce takes this cue and grabs his AR-15 from the back seat.  We both open our doors and begin to check our weapons.

     I pull back the slide and pocket the round that is ejected, unspent.  Perhaps I am being overly obsessive, but I’d rather know for sure that I have a round loaded when the time comes to shoot.  I am running varmint rounds, and they also have a tendency to feed poorly.  More than once I’ve picked a round out of the chamber with the bullet squashed back into the casing.  Awful crap, but it’s what I have.  Bryce nods, and we both leave the doors open, just in case we need to get lost in a hurry.  The key is in the ignition.

     Bryce pauses as we walk round the corner of the garage and he rolls one of the bodies over with his foot.

     “Damn, this was one of our guys.  At least we know we have the right spot. Ready?”

     I nod and put some extra weight on my ankle, testing it. It is sore but it doesn’t feel like it will give out.  I’d just about do anything right now for a perc.  I’ll put it on the shopping list, next to unicorn farts.

    I have my hammer hanging in the carpenter’s loop on my thigh and my AR-15; that is it.  No packs for undead hands to grab hold of, or extra gear to prevent a quick retreat.  I feel ready. 

     We head past the yard and over the low hill, pausing at the top to survey the landscape beyond.  Small new-growth oak and other scrub lay about in head tall patches.  Footpaths have been beaten through the weeds and grass like fresh tracks in snow; they tell our eyes a story.

     Some large group of beings have passed through here, most likely the zoms that had found their way to my barn.  Still, more recently, a path leading straight from the house behind us to the woods.  We stand there and wait.  I am following Bryce’s lead on this one.  He considers the woods, staring intently.  He speaks.

     “It’s impossible for me to give an exact number, but it feels like a lot; maybe two dozen or more.  Some are starting to move this way.”

     “Great,” I mutter.

   We stand there looking at the trees; and after a time, I begin to see movement; slow and jerky. Dark forms silhouetted in the trees.  The first one walks out in the open and I look through my rifle’s scope, placing the red dot over its head.  The zombie is fifty yards away and walking slowly, straight for me.  I squeeze the trigger.

     There is a satisfactory crack, and I see a fine mist blossom like a halo around the thing’s head as it collapses on itself in an awful tangle of gangly limbs and rotting cloth.   

     Bryce lets out a little hoot, “You’re pretty good with that thing!”

     I don’t reply but keep my focus on the trees, looking through the sight.  I figure that Bryce will take care of anything trying to sneak up on the sides.  Just as I drop another zombie, this one wearing a disgusting white t-shirt, there is an echoing shot from the trees.  There is someone down there!