The Zom Diary (5 page)

     An eighteen wheeler is parked across the road.  Dirt has been packed beneath it mixed with rubble and cinder blocks.  Old telephone poles fill the space to the left and right bound with chain link fence and corrugated pieces of tin roof.  It stretches to either side and incorporates buildings and homes that are boarded up. Spinning at different speeds on the other side are a handful of windmills.  There are people standing on the roofs of the buildings next to the eighteen wheeler.

     I drop flat and consider my options.  I probably haven’t been seen, dressed as I am, and at this distance.  Even if I have been spied, I doubt they will think more of me than a walking corpse that tripped and remained on the ground.  I can turn back now, head for the barn and call this trip over, or I can walk to town and see what is going on.  The sentries have guns, but they are living in a town, settled, not scavenging around my home.  I am not lonely, exactly, but I wouldn’t mind information and company of the right sort.

     I decide then to do this.  I will circle wide of the town and travel back on the road from the other direction.  I will offer that I am a drifter from further west or a hold out from the next town over looking for trade.  I am not too worried that anyone from before will recognize me.  Besides, I have grown this rather impressive beard over the past few years.  In Cognito.

     The sun is high in the sky when, finally, I walk up to the opposite side of town and approach the gate.   The walk has been easy on the blacktop, and I haven’t seen anyone, alive or dead, on the road.  I guess that the absence of cars on the road explains some of the fortifications.

     I have my AK slung low and hanging on my back, right hip, point down.  I amble on with a sturdy walking stick I’ve hacked from the brush earlier, and try, as I draw up to the chain link fence, to appear friendly.

     A man steps out from behind the fence and holds up his hand for me to stop when I am about ten feet back.  He wears faded denim jeans, cowboy boots, and a black and green flannel shirt.  He tips back his black Stetson and smiles.

     “Morning,” he hails me.  “You been out this way before?”

     I stop, smile back and shake my head.  “Nope, just passing by and I wasn’t expecting all this.”

     I wave an arm across the wall and fence.  “What is this place?”

     The man has his own AK and keeps his hands on it, pointed at the ground before him.  It takes him a moment to reply and I wonder if he knows the answer himself.  “This place used to be called Selma.  We renamed it Salem when we came back.  Bryce says that means ‘peace’ and that’s what we crave here.  As long as you don’t cause any trouble or bring any with you, you’re welcome to trade or rest or whatever.”

     He looks me up and down as if re-considering.  “There’s no law here, but if you kill or steal, you’ll be dealt with.  Understood?”

    I nod quickly and say again.  “Just passing through.”

     He chuckles.  “There’s no “through”, man.  Past here’s only dried out orchards, cannibals and then the dessert.”

     “Cannibals?”

     The man nods solemnly.  “Not many people pass through and come back.  We got curious a year or so back and went out; just three of us.  We were walking down the road, looking for zombies or whatever when, wham!  My buddy Brian’s head exploded right next to me.  Bastards shot him, and by the time we came back there wasn’t any trace of him.  Cannibals!”  He spat.

     I wince internally and make a mental note to be careful how much I let slip about my troubles with scavengers.  I remember the day he is talking about, and have always wondered where the guy’s friends had gone off to.  I lost sleep over that one, spending a night in the trees before stripping the guy and dumping him in the ditch.  Crap.

     “That’s a damn shame,” I say.  “You going to let me in?”

Chapter 2

     The gate rolls to the left and I slip into the space next to the man.  I notice a car ready to be rolled behind the gate if needed.  Once the outer gate is shut, the inner chain link fence rolls to the right, and with the wave of his arm, I am ushered into Salem.

    The wall is about sixteen feet tall and runs to the left and right behind me. I notice ladders and scaffolding to allow ample access for lookouts. It appears that most of the town is outside this defensive perimeter leaving the small Main Street, the library, and a few homes protected.  I wonder if people live in the town outside of the walls coming inside when danger approaches.

     The street is remarkably clean.  It is like a small patch of the old world cleanliness has been preserved. This street runs perhaps two hundred yards in a straight shot.  The far defensive wall with its sentries is visible in the distance.  To the left is an old barber shop.  The door is locked, but it looks to be in use.  Next is an old brick apartment house looming five stories above me shadowing the old laundry mat and saloon next door.

     I spin around taking in the sights, some familiar if oddly serene.  Across the street is the old hardware store where I was sent by Bill years ago to fetch wire and screws and feed on occasion.  A windmill now grows from its roof turning to track a new breeze.  Another windmill grows from the roof of the old Riverstone Library.  I count seven operational windmills with another apparently under construction.

    I haven’t seen anyone on the street, but it is lunch time and I imagine people could be at home eating and resting.  I notice the muted glow of a neon beer sign in the saloon and decide to investigate this cheerful sign of life.

     Passing the windows of the laundry mat, I notice a large copper kettle and rows of glass gallon jugs lining the back wall.  The door of the saloon opens easily and sets off a jarring chorus of reindeer bells.

     It is pretty much as I remember it; small rectangular room with high windows on the right hand wall glazed with opaque red and yellow glass.  My brow furrows momentarily as I seek the cause of some imperceptible irritant.  It comes to me slowly that, over the years, I have become accustomed to the peace and stillness of a world without electricity.  Now, I am surrounded by the hums and whirs of refrigeration and incandescent light.  Hey, if it means the first cold beer in almost three years, I will just have to suffer.

     I am being watched by the man behind the bar.  He stands about 5’10”, has dark brown skin and grey dreadlocks that disappear behind his shoulders. He regards me with an amused expression and chuckles softly.

     “Don’t be embarrassed man, I’m used to new folk’s jaws dropping when they check the place out.  The name’s Silas.”  He uncrosses his arms and wipes the bar with a grey rag before offering me a seat at the long bar.  He continues to speak before I have a chance to respond.

     “I make my own beer, and, as far as I know, it’s the best on earth.  I might have other things to trade if the price is right.”  He pauses, takes a deep breath, so I introduce myself.

     “Yes, I’d love a beer.  I don’t have any money…”  I trail off hoping he’ll take the hint and offer me a sample; no luck.

     “Beer comes by the glass or gallon, but it’s not free.  I wouldn’t take money even if you had any; not even to wipe with.  Everything is traded and bartered for around here. So what’s it worth to you?”  His smile slips and I realize I’ll have to strike a deal before I get any refreshment.

    In the end, we settle on an MRE and a few rounds of ammo from the AK.  All this buys me a cold beer and the promise of a gallon jug when I leave.  The beer shines in the pint glass with an amber hue and tastes sharp and hoppy like an IPA. 

    “This is quite good,” I tell Silas as I wipe my upper lip with my sleeve.  Some foam dribbles down my beard anyway.

     “Thanks.  Ben Franklin once said:  ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.’  I think he was right.”

     I nod and take another sip.  I need information, but where to start?  I figure I will try for the most direct approach.

     “So, how the hell is all this stuff still here?  Most places I walk through are like a fucking bad horror movie.”

     Silas splits a wide grin.  “Yeah, I think I’ve seen that place too.  You want the long version, or the short?”

     “Long, I’ve got no place to go, man.”

     He pours himself a beer, and, when I pull out a joint, he waves his hand at it: “no thanks, but go ahead”.  I light up, sip beer and look on with interest as he begins.

     “When the end came, I was living out on the coast. The government was telling everybody that this was the best place to wait for aid from overseas, so I stayed put as long as I could.  People came from all around out of the countryside and over the border from Mexico, but nobody came to offer any aid.  Eventually things kind of went to shit.

     “The zombies were everywhere back then and I decided it was time to head for the hills.  I’d met some people who had evacuated from Selma and they were saying this would be a good place to wait out the storm.

     “Myself and a few others, like Bryce, decided that this was a good idea, so we loaded up and came out with them.  I can’t even begin to tell you what the road was like, but I guess you’ve lived it too, right?  Only about fifty of us made it here and only a handful were originally from here at the start. Bryce--you gotta meet him-- he kinda had the idea for the wall and got things going again.

     “He’s the one that thought up the windmills and transformers for power. He got the water running, too.  He lives over in the library; neat guy.

     “Anyhow, I live in the town; I make beer next door and trade it for what I need.  Bryce lives across the street and is Mr. Boss, even if he denies the title.  Some of the other guys hang around and watch the walls and trade off with our salvage crews every week or so.   There are about a half-dozen families that live within a mile and are trying to be homesteaders.

     “They look after themselves and stop in to trade every seventh day.  Sunday by our reckoning.  You hang around for another day and you can trade some of those bullets for veggies or fresh fruit or cheese or whatever.  So, what’s your story, if you don’t mind me asking?”

   I lay the rest of the joint in an ashtray and let it go out on its own.  I’ll save it for later.  I am getting comfortable in this place talking with Silas, and I figure a little misdirection will help me stall for a bit.

     “Does that jukebox work?  I haven’t heard music in years.”

     Silas nods and tells me to keep feeding the same coins through the open money collector at the side.  I walk over and do so dropping the same four quarters through the thing a few times.  I select the whole first half of Dark Side of the Moon, and sit back down.  There is another beer waiting for me.  I take a sip and begin.

     “Well, I don’t remember most of the start of the whole mess.  I was in an accident and when I came to, everybody was gone. I stole a gun and kind of kept a low profile.  I’ve been holed up further west from here and decided to change scenery when my supplies started to run out.

    “Not much else to say.  I ran into a strange zom the other day, you know anything about Chinese soldiers wearing blue helmets?’

     Silas looks confused for a moment, then reaches behind the bar and slaps something down on the counter in front of me.  It is a blue slip of plastic, brochure sized.  I pick it up and examine it while he speaks.

     “Yeah, I thought most people knew about it, but maybe you were holed up someplace remote?  Never mind, I won’t be nosey.  You can read it for yourself, in English on the one side, Spanish and Mandarin on the other.  Evacuation order and offer of assistance from the UN on behalf of the People’s Republic of China.  They claimed to have a safe zone, and as the last surviving member of such-and-such council have taken the authority of the UN to offer aid… blah, blah, blah.

     “They set up some cargo ships on the coast and had lots of troops patrolling the main roads in for a while, until they ran into trouble themselves.  First from citizens who heard rumors that they were taking people to China for re-education at work camps and other bullshit, that was enough for a fair amount of fighting, and then finally the zombies got to ‘em, just like the rest of us.  Haven’t seen any of them for some time.  You never heard about this?

     I shake my head.  “I have kept a pretty low profile if you know what I mean.  I’m impressed with what you guys have here, I wouldn’t mind setting up shop around here somewhere, I make my own soap, maybe I can come up with some trade.”   

     I sit back and stretch my arms above me.  Silas nods his head and looks like he is thinking hard about what I’ve said.  Finally he takes a pull on his beer, his first sip, and says I’ll need to see Bryce.

     “He’d be the mayor if we had one, and he has all the old tax records and maps.  He can point you toward the lots that are abandoned and up for grabs.  He’s always looking for an extra hand around here.  And you’d be our first soap maker.”

     I finish my beer and make ready to leave.  He goes to the cooler and grabs a one gallon growler of his best IPA, and I promise to stop back some time with soap to trade.

     “I’ll give you a fair price for it.  Good luck pal, and don’t be a stranger.”

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  Crossing the street, I climb the stairs of the old library.  The door is locked, so I rap lightly on the glass; nobody home.

     I really don’t want to spend the night, and it is already close to two o’clock.   If I am lucky, there are five more hours of daylight.  I decide to swing back around town and chance the road.  From what Silas told me, it sounds pretty safe, minus the odd zombie.  If I hurry, I can make the farm by dusk.  I guess that my meeting with Bryce will have to wait.

     Turning from the steps, I start to make my way to the gate, when the door to the library opens.  The man who steps out is tall; over six feet, with a tangled mop of blond hair adorning his clean shaven face.  His eyes are bright and he reminds me somewhat of a politician I once met.  He puts on a winning smile and asks, “Looking for me?”

     I decide that my trip home will have to wait.  I want to avoid too much suspicion seeing as how I have already killed one of this guy’s friends and I’m not sure how well that will go over at this point.

     “Hello,” I say.  “I just got into town a little while ago.  Silas said you were the man to see in these parts about setting up a homestead.”

     He stands back and opens the door all the way for me.  I follow him up the stairs and past where the checkout counter sits unoccupied.

    “I’m glad you came by.  Let me tell you, I’m always glad for new folks when they show up.  There’re so few of us as it is.  I’m getting ready for lunch; you care to join me?”

     I nod, and he leads me through the main reading room with its glass atrium, and tells me to have a seat.  He returns shortly with a tray of vegetables and a plastic pitcher of water. 

     “Nothing too fancy, but I’m glad to share.  Let’s eat first, then we can talk business.”

    He sits across from me at a table where I have sat several times in years past when I stopped in to read a book or check up on e-mails.  I wonder why he is waiting to eat when I notice his bowed head, so I bow mine in turn out of respect and listen to his prayer.

     “Thank you, Lord, for these fine vegetables, and, thank you for the company of another soul in this lovely world.  Your will be done.  Amen.”  I have never been very religious, but figure that I can use all the blessings I could find at this point.  A free lunch qualified as one.

     I grab a tomato slice and produce the jug of beer from Silas’s tavern.  Bryce’s eyes light up, and he gets up to grab some glasses.   So, we pass a quiet hour or so eating vegetables and sipping beer.  He asks the usual questions and I tell him about my life, with a small amount of fiction concerning recent years.  He has a pleasant manner to him; getting to know me without seeming like he is prying.  It turns out that he used to be an academic working on a research fellowship somewhere in Berkley.  After a while, he clears off the tray and I split the last of the beer between us. 

     He acknowledges by saying, “Thanks for the beer, by the way.  Silas really knows his stuff.  So, you ready to see the maps?”

     I start to nod my head when my eyes fall on his hand holding the cup of beer.  There at the base of his thumb stretch awful white scars as if from the bite of a human being.  He notices my reaction, and his face darkens if only by a small amount.

    “Yes, I got bitten pretty early on.  As you can see, I’m totally fine.  I don’t know for sure why I didn’t get sick and ‘turn’ like the others, but I have a theory.

     “You see, in any population, you have to figure there will be some with a natural immunity to any contagion, no matter how aggressive it is.  I thought I might be a random mutant or something, but Silas and one other person survived bites as well.  I wish I understood more of the ‘why’ behind it.  I wish I still had my old research lab.  Perhaps I could figure out some kind of a vaccine, but I don’t think that’s possible now.  I guess you could say that the good Lord had plans for me other than being a zombie and leave it at that.”