The Zom Diary (36 page)
It’s all overwhelming, in a strange anti-climatic way. Sitting there, alone, I feel the weight of the mountain I have climbed and realize now that it is behind me. The excitement, the weird psychic warfare, bombs, death—all done. There is nothing more to occupy me than tending my fruit, getting smashed, and shooting the odd trespasser. Fine.
As I’m sitting there, I run my hands down my legs, feeling the fabric of the old fatigues, my favorite pants for roaming the country, and I prepare to get up to find something to eat. My fingers encounter an odd shape in my left cargo pocket. It crinkles as I press on it, and I realize that it is paper or thin plastic. I pull the small folded bundle out and examine it.
It’s Bill’s mail, from before. I had checked his mailbox after returning from Salem that first time, and stuffed it in my pocket without thinking. I flip through it, noting the credit card junk mail with the plastic window and a flyer for lost persons, yellowed after sitting in that box for almost three years, and then the last piece, a letter. My heart pounds. It is addressed to me. I recognize the handwriting as my father’s.
The other mail falls to the grass as I tear at the side of the letter and pull it out, one sheet, lined and written with blue ink in my father’s blocky script:
Hello Kyle,
I don’t know if you will get this. The mail can’t last much longer, but I had to try. Don’t be mad at your brother. He respects your wish for privacy, but this situation we find ourselves in trumps anything.
Those of us that are left are heading to your uncle’s camp. I won’t mention more for our own security, but I know you know what I’m talking about, and will make your way here if you are able. We love you very much and pray for your safety.
Sincerely,
Dad
I read the letter again, and then fold it carefully and place it back in my pocket. I gather the litter around me and carry it to the fire. My mind races. It’s far, very far, but I might make it, especially with my new talents to guide me.
I stare into the fire for some time. Thinking. The letter is three years old. A lot can happen in three years. They could be dead. They could have given up on me and left camp for some reason. No. Even if they left, they’d leave a clue for me to follow. I know that I might not like what I find. Then again, if anyone could survive a zombie apocalypse, it would be my dad. I have to find out.
I start to make a packing list in my mind and plans for the farm. There’s got to be someone in town that Bryce could send out to keep it up. Just in case I ever come back. There is also one more thing to do before I leave. Something I’ve put off for too long. I resolve to start packing the truck tomorrow and then I’ll see Bryce on the way out, and from there, the camp. What the hell, why not?
POSTLUDE
Mary pauses in her morning chores, straightening from the freshly tilled beds of peas and corn and knuckling the small of her back roughly. Scraping out an existence on five acres of fenced in plot was hard work, easier now that Isaiah was getting bigger, but still a lot more labor intensive than her old job.
That thought is unexpected. It has been a while since she has thought about her old life and the comforts that her salary had afforded her. Real estate law was lucrative in L.A. and she had pampered herself lavishly. It seems so foolish now. She could have bought a lot of seed and supplies with that money, but who knew what was coming? She thinks of her other comfort, her husband, Mikey. She knew she’d end up thinking about him, always did when she daydreamed like this. Right now a day at the spa would outweigh a night with her dead husband. Dead. So much death. She shakes her head to scatter the thoughts and leans back into her work.
The soil is rich and dark, almost like clay. She pulls furtively at the tiny clumps of grass and weeds that grow between rows, pausing every foot or so to wipe a tickling trickle of sweat from the tip of her very cute and expensive nose. A slow sound draws her attention, familiar and out of place at the same time.
It grows louder, a soft rumbling and mechanical whir, the whine of a fan belt? A truck rolls past the chain link fence in front of her, going slow, window down, soft music blowing out of the window. Jazz. The truck pulls up to the gate next to the house, and she watches as it stops. After a minute, the door to the house opens and Jerry walks out, cautiously, holding his shot gun. A man gets out, empty handed and waits at the gate.
He’s shorter than Jerry, maybe 5’8” tall with a forgettable face partially covered by a five o’clock shadow of a beard. Dressed in army fatigues and with a straight posture, he waits to be greeted. He makes her nervous.
Jerry stands at the gate and listens to the man speak for a few minutes, Jerry lowers his gun, but does not invite the man in. The man is pointing to the bed of the truck and spreading his hands before him. Jerry holds up his hand, and the man nods. He turns to the truck and pulls out something. A duffle. He sets it down and unzips the top. Jerry leans closer and looks in. He shakes his head and then opens the gate.
The man sets the bag inside the gate, then grabs another smaller pack and a rifle. He sets these next to the first bag. Mary reaches down and checks the holster at her side. She sees that the man’s rifle has no clip in it, but she’s suspicious of this visitor. Too many bad people left alive and trying to take what your hard work has got you.
Jerry comes back with Isaiah in tow. The boy is shy, peeking out from behind Jerry’s tall frame, but Jerry pushes the boy forward in front of the man. He shouldn’t be so rough with the child. The boy was sweet and eager to please his new parents, but for a kid his age, he had the simple mind of one much younger. Mary watches.
Isaiah walks up to the man and puts out his hand awkwardly. The man reaches down and shakes it, then drops his arms to his sides. It’s too far to make out expression, but she sees the man’s head hang low as he speaks. After a minute, he’s done, and he looks up at Isaiah. The boy just stands there, then runs back to Jerry, hugging his waist. The man starts to walk closer, but Jerry waves him away. With that, the man gets back into his truck, the bed heavily laden with some cargo covered with a tan canvas tarp. The door slams, and the music from the cab is heard again. Soft, mournful jazz, an odd choice for such a bright, sunny morning.
Mary looks up as the man drives by, cigarette now lit in his mouth. He waves, but no warmth touches his expression. She leaves her work and walks through the rows of plants still hung with dew from last night. When she gets to the gate, Isaiah is still holding Jerry. He sees her approach and sends the boy running off to the shed.
“Who was that?” she says.
“He said that he was the guy that killed Isaiah’s father.” Jerry walks over and closes the bag. “He thought the boy needed an explanation, and he wanted to pass on the remains and his gear.”
“Oh, God!” She licks her lips, “Should we tell Bryce?”
“No. Bryce knows. Says that he’s squared his debt to the community. What good would it do anyways? Dead is dead.”
Mary walks over and looks at the bags.
“So, he’s in the bag?”
Jerry nods. “Sent the boy for a shovel. We’ll bury him over in the east corner, by the rock pile, not much planned for that piece.”
She walks over and squeezes Jerry’s hand, suddenly remembering her new husband’s friendship with Isaiah’s father. It must have been hard to see the inside of that bag. Lord. Jerry was a hard man, but even hard men can get worn down, especially in this world. He looks into her eyes, and just for a moment, she can see that hardness melt, but it returns in an instant.
“Better get back to the garden. I’ll come over and help once I’m done with Isaiah.”
She nods, another quick squeeze, and then she turns to the field and the rows of new plants.
THE END
