The Zom Diary (18 page)

     A swinging door leads to the shop and a jumble of ransacked tools and junk.  The smell of oil and car fluids is still very strong.  The back room is a disappointment.  The shelves have some parts, but the only useful things for the truck are some spark plugs, oil, and belts.  Useful, but not a major find.

     Peering through one of the glass windows in the garage doors, I can see Molly, standing next to the truck bed.  Walking back out through the office, the air outside is fresh, and I pause to fill my lungs before dumping the armload of truck supplies into the truck.  Molly turns.

     “Anything good?”

     “Not really.  How is he?”

     She shakes her head, “I have no idea.  My brother lasted a week before he turned.  My mom turned right after she was bitten.  You know how it goes.  What do you think?”

     “Same.  It is hard to tell.  The bandage is clean.  I’ll try to mix some drugs in water and give it to him for the fever when it comes.  Other than that, I can’t do much.  At least if he does turn, we’ll be there to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.  I think he would want that.”

     The sun is getting low, reflecting golden patches off the station windows back onto the truck and shining in our eyes.  I could drive the truck back to town in the dark, but it would be slow going.  Even in places where the road is sound and clear of cars, there is the danger of deer jumping in front of the truck.  Molly looks down on Kyle’s form.  His eyes move behind their lids furiously.  She tosses the old blanket back over the packs, covering his face once again, then looks at me with unsteady eyes.

     “Let’s get him tucked away for the night so we can relax.  I‘m sick of this truck.  It stinks.”

     I can’t help but smile.  The fact that car exhaust offends her senses is the only amusing thing she has said all day.  I move to clasp her shoulder, but she sways back.  I try to recover quickly. 

     “Ok, so let’s go back to that house we stayed at last night.  You might want to slow down.  You’re slurring your speech.”

     Molly is still stumbling backwards; an offended look dawning on her face.  She must have been pounding those nips while I was gone.  She straightens and catches hold of the open door.

     “Did you just try to touch my boobs?”

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     My mind is still my own, though through what paths I walk, I cannot say.  There are moments of light and moments of darkness.  Eventually a horizon appears, so straight and flat that as I look at it unblinking, it could be either an infinity of space or a wall before my face.  Featureless and terrifying.  The sky turns black and the plain follows suit until I find myself standing in complete darkness.  However, as I look down at my hands, I can still see myself, as if my whole body is lit by the sun.  I walk on.

     There is no pain in my ankle; no physical sensation at all.  Am I dead?  The simple fact that I am having these thoughts, leads me to believe not.  Then where am I?  A light.

    The barest pinprick of light flickers, miles distant.  I begin to walk toward it.  Eternity washes past me like water through stone.

     I cannot see the ground or discern the sky, but the point of light is constant.  It grows slowly.  Eternity/moments later, I pass from behind one of the low trees that surround the fire, progenitor of the light.  My beacon.

    The blackness is persistent even here, but is conquered in a circle about fifteen feet across by the light of the low fire.  A circle of low square stools surround this fire; one is occupied.

    His skin is almost as black as the night, his hair white like the fire-ash that surrounds a dying ember.  Scars run from the skin wrapped around his waist to cross his bare chest, like the seam of a baseball.  The light of the fire is reflected in his eyes; the whites yellowed, irises a dark brown.  He stands as I approached the fire.

     “Hello, Kyle.  Would you care for a beer?”

    “Uh, yes.  I’m very thirsty.”

     He bends over and hefts a large gourd that rests behind his stool in the shadows and places it on the ground between his stool and the one closest to me.  I sit.

   Reaching back behind the stool again, he produces another gourd; this one with a long, thin neck.  He dips it in the large gourd and drinks deeply.  He then offers the gourd/ladle to me.  The beer is sour and watery, but it is cool.  I can feel the alcohol working on me after one sip.  I look over at the man and ask, “What’s going on?”

     He smiles, “We’re drinking beer.”

    “Sorry, what am I doing here?  Who are you?”

     He smiles again and takes a huge pull off the ladle, “You’re dying, of course.  You looked like you could use a break, so I thought I would invite you to my fire.”

     “I don’t feel like I‘m dying.”

     “One of life’s last mercies; not that life is prone to mercy.”

     I take the proffered ladle and drink more beer.  “Who are you then?  God?  A figment of my imagination?

     The man laughs now, a light and cheerful sound and takes back the ladle, dipping into the beer-gourd.  “Kyle, you are imagining this, in a way.  Just as I am, in my own way.  Not a God.  Consider me a traveler in spirit-form who has an interest in my progeny.”

     “So then you’re my dad?”

    “No Kyle,” he laughs again, “your father hasn’t passed this way yet, but I am a father of sorts; many greats before the grand.”

     “But you’re, uh… African.  I’m Italian and Irish or whatever.  You’re related to me?”

     “Yes, my Grandson.  My blood is in your blood, and there is a lot more to the “whatever” than whatever you know.  I live before the word Africa existed.  My land is simply called “the Land” and my people call me “Dimba”.  I eat certain roots and berries that let me see things and I heal people.  I chase away lions and talk to my brother crocodile.  And sometimes, I hang out here and keep tabs on my kids-kids, that’s all.”

     “Whoa.” I say.

     My ancestor smiles again.  The ladle dips deeply now.  Another thought occurs to me, “So how long do I have here?  Before I die—where do I go?”

     His brow furrows, “I don’t know how long, it’s different for each of us, and as for where you are headed, I can’t say.  This is as far as I ever go.”

     “But you’re dead.  Right?”

     He looks shocked now and coughs, choking on his beer.  “Kyle, I’m not dead.  I will wake from this place once the roots are gone from my body and be back in my home.  You and I visit here, on this plain near to death.  But you didn’t eat any roots, did you?”

     “No, I was bitten by something…and I don’t remember much else after that.  Do I have to die?  Maybe I’ll wake up too.”

     His smile fades, “I don’t know if it will be that way for you.  Still, you shouldn’t be afraid of dying, but maybe more afraid of not wanting to live.  I see you like sunlight through a prism; you are scattered—no children, no woman, harassed by these dead people.  It makes me sad.”

     “Yeah, but I’m happy.”

    The beer is gone, and Granddad looks into the ladle sadly.  He points back from where I have come.  “If you want to go back then try to go back,” he reaches into a small leather pouch and wipes something sticky on my forehead, “it was nice to meet you. Be well.”

     I get up and he waves at me as I walk away.  Touching the place on my forehead, I look to my fingertips but can see only darkness.  The fire fades behind me, and there is no light to guide me back. 

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     The ride back to the abandoned house is uneventful.  Molly discovers one of Kyle’s marijuana cigarettes in the ash tray and puffs away contentedly as the sun sinks behind us.  She ejects one CD and exchanges it for another; listens for a moment, then chooses another.  Whatever she is looking for, she isn’t finding it.  Finally settling for some old jazz, she leans her head out the window; short red mop flipping behind her, leaning in to take one last pull of the joint before flicking it onto the road.

    Pulling into the driveway, I do my best to avoid the corpses that lay in our path.  Decomposition of the fallen zombies is much slower than with a normal body.  Carrion beetles and fungi seemed to avoid their tissue, and it is the sun and elements that erode these corpses over time.  Perhaps running over them all these times would speed up the process.

     I look over at Molly.  “Hey, can you open the garage door so I can pull the truck in?  It will be easier than moving him.”

     She hops out of the cab and leaves the truck’s door open.  She has to go inside the side door to unlock the garage door.  After a minute, it opens slowly.  I pull the truck in and cut the engine.

     Molly grabs the backpack of booze and walks over to the front steps of the house.  She sits next to a zombie that lays face down as if crawling up the stairs when he was shot.  She pulls out a bottle of clear liquid.  Vodka?

     I sigh, and walk to the side of the truck.  The sun is fading, but there is still enough light from outside to see.  Pulling back the blanket, I look at Kyle’s face.  He is going fast.  Many people will take hours or even days before slipping into the coma.  Once this condition sets in, there are only two outcomes.  The individual will turn, becoming a zombie, or he will get better.  Hardly anyone gets better.

     Kyle’s face is less ashen now and his hair is slick with sweat.  Has his fever broken?  It is more likely that the afternoon ride in the bed of the truck has been a strain on his condition.  Peeling away the old blanket that covers his legs, I check the bandage.  There is yellow-orange spotting where plasma has seeped through the bandage.  I will change it in a few hours and try to keep it clean.  Even if he does survive the contagion racing through his blood, an infection could kill him just as easily.

     There is only so much I can do.  I crush a 500mg aspirin and mix it with a capful of water.  I pour the thin white fluid into Kyle’s mouth and make sure he doesn’t choke.  I close the tailgate and leave his face uncovered.  I carry the packs up into the loft.  At some point, I have to admit to myself that what has happened; has happened.  Whether it is my fault that he is laying there or not, there is nothing to do but try to live with it.  So, I do.    

     There is an old coffee cup sitting on the workbench next to the truck.  I wipe it out with a bandana and walk over to where Molly sits.  The sun lights the porch a golden yellow, while shadows of the tree tops casts camouflage patches across the ground.

     There is enough room for both of us to sit on the wide stairs even with the zombie, but Molly doesn’t move for me to sit.  Bending over, I pull the bottle of rum from the pack and pour a half mug for myself. 

     She grins.  “Coming over to the dark side, Bryce?”

     The rum tastes good.  I am comforted by the fact that the alcohol is killing any germs that might linger on the mug.  There is a rainbow heart printed on one side of it and a small chip on the rim.  I consider a reply to Molly’s comment.  I decide to tone down the animosity some.  It is tiring.

     “I do drink, Molly; more than I should.  And, I’m no saint or priest.  I’m just a man who is tired of people being unkind to one another.   There’s no point to it anymore.” 

     She raises her bottle and pats the stair next to her.  “We’ll be sinners together then, and I will have someone to drink with this fine evening.”

     “Sounds like a plan.”  I sit eyeing the dead guy and shifting a little closer to Molly.  “Too bad we don’t have any pineapple juice for this rum.”

     “Yeah.”  She smiles then, as if something has occurred to her, darting inside, she returns after a minute with a strange stainless steel machine in her hands.  “So here’s our juicer.  Once we get back in Salem, we’re gonna fire this baby up and have us a proper drink; just us two, and, Silas, I guess.  I don’t know about the pineapple though.”

     We sit up on the porch until dusk.  My senses are a little dull, but I don’t feel any zombies moving toward us.  There is one about a mile away.  I remember him from our first stay here.  He hasn’t moved any closer, though.  I wonder what is keeping him?

     Molly grabs my hand suddenly and pulls me to my feet.  I remember to grab the juicer and tuck it under my arm.  Laughing, we make our way through the shin high grass and over to the garage.  Closing the doors and saying goodnight to Kyle, we press upstairs and fall into a pile on the floor.  She is soft beside me, her skin like silk, she smells of cheap booze and sweat.  The world spins.

Chapter 16

     Coming to my senses slowly, I discover an inventory of serious discomforts.  My ankle throbs to the beat of my heart; it burns also.  My wrists are sore, as if they were handcuffed or tied together very tightly.  My head is throbbing, and there is a pressure there; something new.  My left arm is asleep, and my back spasms; the sum total of my physical vessel all resting on a hard surface.  Still, I am alive.  Alive!

     The walk back was long, and I remember feeling a loneliness that I imagined as being burned from the realm of my mental repertoire long since.  It made me feel out of place, and cold.  I still am not convinced that my experiences were all dreams.  Why should they have to have been dreams?  Even as I think this, my mind becomes distracted, and my memories fade, as dreams do, failing to establish the permanence of memory. 

   Coming back to my physical form has been a very real and terrifying experience.  I have lain here, in my body for some time; conscious, but disconnected from my physical self.  I see the red of light through my eyelids.  I hear the soft insect-like buzz of florescent lights, and, lastly, feel the pain from my poor body.  I can’t fully wake up, though.  I decide, after the initial panic and frustration of attempting to scream or wiggle toes, that the only course of activity I can take is sleep and hope my body wakes normally on its own.  It does, and it sucks.

     I continue to lie there for some time and let my arm come back to life.  I’m not ready to sit up, but I do try opening my eyes.  Success.

     I am in the same jail cell that I found Bryce in when he stood vigil over that poor sucker that got bit up north.  Larry.

    Memories come back slowly.  I had gone north as well, to look for survivors.  My ankle; why am I so sore?

     Peeling layers of moderately clean bandages, I behold an angry, scabby, red wound.  A bite?  Were they waiting now for me to turn before they put me out of my misery?  Well, I’m not going anywhere and I’m not a zom.  Time to get some answers.

     “Bryce!  Somebody let me out of this damn cell!”

     I try to yell loudly, but my throat is dry and I am so weak.  It sounds more like a hungover croak, but the sound still pierces the silent calm of the building.  Eventually, a head pokes around the corner.  It is Stetson-man, apparently off duty from the gate.  His face pales, and he disappeared back into the hall.

     “Hey, what the fuck!”

     Nothing.  I try sitting all the way up now, after re-wrapping the bandage on my leg.  It hurts; bad.  I notice that there is a jug of water by the bed, and I help myself to it.  I am still wearing my t-shirt and a pair of boxers and socks, but nothing else.  No other clothes lay about, or boots.

     I take a moment to clear my head.  I am sore and feel very sick, like I might be suffering from a cheap booze hangover; one misplaced breath away from throwing up.  There is a pressure in my head, like a ghostly finger poking around somewhere inside my brain.  I shake my head and instantly regret it.  The pounding intensifies, and the uncomfortable feeling has changed, for a brief second.  The finger is staying put, it is like my mind is rubbing against its tip.

     Just then Bryce sways into the room.  Is he drunk?  I notice that same .38 service revolver that he had the last time someone was in this cell.  I swallow hard. 

     He speaks first, “Kyle!  Oh, man, wow!  When Dan burst through the door at Silas’ and said you were up, I thought…well.  Wow, let me get you out of there.”

     He places the .38 on a small shelf and exchanges it for a set of keys.  The door swings out, and he walks in to see me.  His voice is loud and makes my headache worse.  I think he notices me cringe, for he turns down the volume.

     “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?  I mean, I was holding out for you, man.  Molly thought you were a lost cause, but I hoped you’d pull through.  Hallelujah!”

     He leans over and clasps my shoulder; his long hair falling across his eyes.  He brushes it aside and looks at me very intently for a moment.

     “Are you feeling ok?  Can you feel anything strange?  I mean, like pressing in on your mind?  Wait, you’re still not feeling well.  What am I thinking?  Can I get you something?”

     I think for a moment.  I am hungry and kind of cold.  The jug has put a dent in my thirst, but I want more.  Answers will have to wait until my head feels right.  “Food.”  Then I think about it, “Some clothes; and maybe a hand getting to a real bed.”

     He nods quickly and stands up, “Right.  Hang on a minute.”

     He jogs out the door and disappears to the right, down the hall.  I take another swig of the room temperature water.  It looks like one of Silas’ beer jugs.  I’m not ready for that yet.

     Bryce returns with an old plastic cafeteria tray, the ones that look like they are pressed out of leftover bowling ball plastic, and possessed of many compartments for food.  There is a tomato cut into slices and a big lump of something resembling cottage cheese.  Next to this sits an orange and a butter knife.  He sets the tray on the cot next to me and comes back with a chair.  He sits across from me and gestures at the food.

     “You lucked out.  There was a market here yesterday.  One of the homesteads has sheep.  So, that is ewe’s milk curd and tomato.  It’s not as bad as it sounds.

     “I had to cut off your clothes.  I’m sorry for that, but honestly they were pretty much ruined anyways.  Your jacket is back with your pack, locked in the truck.  Do you have a spare set of pants?  I can ask Silas if you don’t, he’s about your size.  Man! Listen to me, I haven’t let you get a word in edgewise.  How are you?”

     “I feel like crap.  I think if I can get some of this down, and sleep some more, I’ll be better.  What happened?”

     He watches me eat and begins to catch me up on what has transpired over the past few days.  “You were bitten in the clinic.  Do you remember that?”

     “Yes, barely, but not much else.”

     “You lost some blood, and then the fever hit you fast.  It happens that way for some people.  I patched you up as well as I could.  You almost shot yourself in the foot.  I was able to get the bullet fragment out of your leg.  We got you back here as soon as we were able.  I’ve been checking in on you every few hours over the past couple of days.  “I’ve been over at Silas’ place getting smashed.  People never last more than a few days once the fever’s that bad.  I thought I was going to have to shoot you.”

     I had begun to suspect as much.  The sheep curd is good; salty and rich.  I put it on top of tomato slices and eat them whole.  The tomato is huge; almost the size of a grapefruit, and after a few orange slices, I began to feel full.  I wash it all down with the rest of the water.

     “Bryce, I’m sleepy all of a sudden.  I think I’ll just crash here.  Can you leave me the keys, and that pistol and I’ll come find you later?”

     He nods, “Sure.  You’ll be fine here.  Ed’s back over at the gate now, so you have the place to yourself.  I’ll check in on you later and freshen that bandage if you don’t find me first.”

     “Great, thanks Bryce.”

     He fetches me the revolver and sets it on the floor with the keys, then departs.  I am too tired to move anywhere else, but there is no way I am going to spend another minute locked up.  I had been serious about being tired, and sleep strikes me like a spell, even before my head hits the pillow.

     I wake once, and have to pee like never before in my life.  I think to myself that I am getting a lot of mileage out of this jug.  Afterwards I wonder if there is anything left of me.  And, again I sleep.

     Bryce must have let me sleep, but the new bandage is evidence of his visit.  That and a new tray.  This one has a mess of boiled vegetable stew and another orange.  He’s replaced the jug for me, too.  What a pal.

     I feel light when I sit up, and I can tell that I have slept for a ridiculous amount of time.  I stand and pace around the room to get my blood moving.  I feel fucking fantastic!  I eat the stew like a wild beast.  It is simple but good; tomatoes, onion, okra and rice.  I drink deeply of the jug until I feel too full to drink more.

     Standing, I try on the jeans someone has left for me on the floor.  They are a little big; baggy in the butt and too long, but they will work.  I also find my jacket and a pair of flip-flops.  I guess my work boots are toast, too.

     I leave everything else behind in the cell and walk out into the afternoon sun of Main Street, Salem.  Rounding the corner, I see my truck parked outside of Silas’ place, so I head that way.  The door is locked, but I hear movement over on the other side, in the laundry mat.  Leaning in toward the glass, I shield my eyes and look in.  Silas is next to one of the huge copper kettles, filling a jug with beer.  He looks up when I tap on the glass and waves.  I wait.  The door swings out and Silas invites me in.

     He pats my back and begins to speak, “Hey, congrats on being alive.  Now you’re really one of us, huh?”

     “Thanks, I’m feeling much better.  I sure could use a beer if you’re up to it.”

     “Sure.  I could use a hand carrying these jugs, if you are up to it.”

     So, I help him carry over a dozen or so growlers full of a dark porter.  He places them in the coolers and locks up the laundry mat.  I join him at the bar, and he sets a growler of the dark beer in front of me.

     “This is on me; a get well gift.”

     “Thanks, it looks great.”

     Silas sets a couple glasses down and I pour.  The beer is nutty and mild and smooth like melted butter.  I pour another.  I am feeling much better.  My headache has been gone for some time, but there is still that pressure like a soft fingertip pressing my mind.  It is in the back of my head now, pointing back towards Main Street.  A thought strikes me.

     “Silas, what do you feel when there is a zombie nearby?  You can tell, like Bryce, right?”

     “I was wondering about that.  You feel it, too?  Bryce brought something back a few weeks ago; probably a head or torso—keeps it in the library.  That’s what you’re probably feeling, like a pressure or tickling?  It’s different for each of us.”

     “Yeah, like a finger pushing into my brain.  Does it get easier to ignore?”

     “Sure, you’ll get used to it, I guess.  The best cure is to move away from the zombies, or fuck them up.  That’ll cure it.”

     “Right.”  I sip my beer and concentrate on the sensation.  It is coming from the direction of Bryce’s lab.  “Has he been around?”

     “Not today.  He’s been in here a lot since you got back.  Him and Molly.  Now that’s an odd pair.”

       My eyes must have widened, because Silas begins to chuckle, “I take it you met her on the road?  Yeah, I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but they have been living it up in here like newlyweds.  I told them to get a room, and she tried to slap me.  I told her if she didn’t settle down, I’d cut her off!”

     “Hmph.”  A thought occurs to me, something that has been bugging me for a while.  “Silas, did you guys even see that mob of zoms from Preston?  I haven’t heard anyone mention any big attacks at all since I’ve been around what, three weeks?”  He thinks for a minute, then leans back, rubbing the small of his back.

     “Well, not really.  When we first came out here it was pretty nasty.  Lost a lot of good people making that damn wall.  But lately?  No.  Bryce has a rotation, Ed and all them, they watch the wall and keep any zombies out of our hair.  Don’t worry about it though, this town is absolutely secure.” 

     “Then why do they keep coming out to my place?”

     “Your place?  You already got set up somewhere?  I don’t know, maybe you’ve got sweet brains.”

     He actually bends over laughing now, and I can’t help but join him.  What the hell else has happened while I was asleep?  I sip at the warmish porter and look down the bar at a strange contraption. 

     “Hey, Silas, is that a juicer?”

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     After a few hours of gossip and beer with Silas, it becomes apparent that Bryce is not going to be making an appearance; as he is off somewhere nursing a massive hangover, probably thanks to his new friend Molly.  Strange.  There is more to this local politician than he lets on.

     Bryce has been kind enough to leave my keys with Silas, and I notice a new key on the ring—to my apartment.  I say goodbye and push off and out the door.  The sun has long since set, and I limp off towards the apartment building to sleep off some of the booze I’ve been swilling. 

     Climbing the stairs slowly, my ankle still hurting, I run through the nature of my luck of late.  Since first coming to town, I’ve been overrun at the barn, wasted countless rounds of ammo, and been bitten.  On the other hand, I have survived the bite, gained some strange new affinity for the undead, found a source for beer and supplies, and made a place for myself.  Mixed blessings for sure, but it is nice to have something, anything, to do. 

     Reaching the top of the stairs, I walk over to my new apartment.  Someone has made the bed, and there is a cardboard box on the small kitchenette table.  It contains a couple plates and mugs, a box of instant rice, and a can of minced ham.  Next to the box is a small basket of oranges, and, best of all, a bottle of bourbon.  There is a note folded under the bottle: