The Zom Diary (6 page)

     He sighs and looks up through the glass of the atrium at the turning windmill and continues.  “I’m doing what I can, if only in this one place, to make the world better, hoping that some knowledge and civility will survive to spread again one day.”

     I am starting to see why folks put their trust in this guy.  I haven’t changed my mind about keeping my secrets to myself though.  As nice as he seems, I imagine him as the type to frown upon murder no matter the circumstances.

     It is almost four by now.  It’s obvious that my plans to return back to the farm are shot, so I ask Bryce if there is a place to stay.  He says I am welcome to any apartment on the fifth floor of the building across the street.  It is safe and they keep the top floor open for guests.

     Before I leave, he shows me the map of town and points out a couple of plots where he thinks I might be able to get water running and that are uninhabited.  I feign attention and thank him as he shows me to the door.  Right before I leave, he shakes my hand again.

     “Let me know how things turn out, and welcome to Salem.”  He looks over my shoulder, frowns, then closes the door with a click.

     Turning to see what Bryce had been frowning at, I see a strange man leading a woman on a leash that’s connected to a dog collar worn on her neck.  He is dressed in jester’s pants and an oversized army jacket.  His hair is a wild blonde afro and he wears an oily pointed goatee.  The girl is dressed as I imagine a cave woman might have been; wild hair and animal skins.  He leers at me and begins to speak in a nasal voice.

     “This is only for you to know, only YOU...relish this... A Black King shall descend from the sky, dressed only in his own locks, naked as the ancient gardens... He shall bring comfort to an assembly of people, and shall secure for them a Kingdom of Peace. He shall feed the many the Bread of the Gods, giving them immunity from the plague, the immunity as I know it. There shall be some within this city who shall make a Shining Music that shall control and lay waste to the Walking Death, and with their minds in the bliss of Pure Sound, they shall destroy the seeds of evil, and restore happiness to those who remain, and perhaps the land shall be freed. Now, with this knowledge, I send you into the Wilderness- as I have said, these things only you may know. Go now, and be ravaged by the sun and the stones...JAI!”

     He spins once and leads his smiling friend away down the street.  What the hell? I think.  This place has an odd assortment of characters.  What was all that about?  The guy is obviously off his nut, then again as I admire the departing form of his companion -perhaps he is on to something.

     I cross the street and walk into the old brick apartment building.  I walk up the flights of stairs and choose a room that has a window facing the street.  I lock the door and take a quick look around.

     The water works and the toilet flushes, but the electricity is off.  I toss my backpack on the bed that lays in one corner and pull a chair to the window.  I prop my AK against the sill and draw open the window. 

     The sun is getting low.  I look out on the town as the light fades to orange.  I pull the roach from earlier from behind my ear and light it carefully with my old faded lighter.

     I have a lot to consider.  Technically, I have murdered one of the townspeople.  Even if I believe it to be justifiable homicide, predicated on paranoia, I am sure it would spoil my welcome and, perhaps, even cause some form of retribution.

    I’ve been cautious with my story, but I have no intention of moving to one of the plots Bryce has shown me.  Maybe I can concoct a story about killing the cannibals and taking over their farm.  I’m not sure Bryce will buy that.  I wouldn’t.

     In the morning I plan to drop off the empty jug at Silas’ tavern and ask about the fellow with the cavewoman concubine.  After that I will get back to the farm as quickly as I can and try to decide on how much I feel like returning to society.

     I lick my finger tips and smoke the joint all the way to the end.  I watch for a long time as the sun sets:  golden hues on brick, wood, and the soft squeal of the windmills; my mind is now devoid of commentary.

Chapter 3

     I am awakened in the morning by a patch of sunlight that has crept slowly across the cranberry colored carpeting, climbing ever so gently up the white matrix of linen threads, and coming to rest, finally, on the side of my face.   The warmth causes me to stir and turn until my eye crosses the patch, and, with a brilliant blaze, I am awake.  Awake, and momentarily confused by my surroundings.

     I realize that I am stooping as if to avoid the angle of the barn’s roof and straighten fully, stretching and casting my eyes around the room.  My AK lays next to the bed; safety off, round loaded just in case.  I bend, check it, and set the safety.

     Walking to the bathroom, I take care of necessities.  I regard my face in the mirror; lightly tan skin, brown eyes, brown hair, and long beard sun-bleached at the ends.  I look long and hard into my own eyes.  How well do I like what I have found here in Salem?

     Most people in my position would have been overjoyed to have found human companions so close to home.  In these circumstances, lacking many of the benefits of society:  medicine, dentistry, trade; shouldn’t I?

    My decision to hang up my old life was made for me initially by the loss of my job, but the decision to give up, to turn to an agrarian hermitdom on the edge of nowhere, had been my own.  I honestly, and with every fiber of my being, love to be completely alone.  In the past three years I have suffered from no bouts of real loneliness or confusion on this point--until now.

     I feel like I have been walking alone in the woods enjoying the freedom of solitude, turning, dancing, talking to myself, only to realize that I am not alone, that I am again being watched, judged, sized up by others.  It makes me nervous.

     Warring with this feeling is the realization that I like this strange town.  I like Silas and the chance to drink beer instead of the awful prison hooch I’ve concocted.  I like Bryce and the knowledge that if I want to, I can check out a book or listen to an album once in awhile; maybe even talk shop.

     I stand at the window sill looking at the wall that circles Main Street; the ramparts of cars and dirt and junk.  It’s nice to have options.  I guess that’s all.  I don’t have to give up my life style.  I can keep all this humanity at arm’s length and savor its produce when I feel the need.

     Also pressing in on my mind is the need for some way to explain the death of that scout, Brian?  Yes.  These townspeople seem like the type that would want to come visit.  How can I explain living in the center of cannibal country?

     My mind is clear now and my curiosity is satisfied.  I want to get back to the farm and to hell with the rest for now.  Time to get moving.

     I get my things together, sling the AK from my shoulder, and walk down and out of the apartment building.  I turn left and stop by Silas’.  I am surprised to find the door open.

     “Good morning.  I was wondering what happened to you.”  Silas calls to me from behind the bar. 

     I walk over, set down the empty jug, and run my fingers through my beard.  “Yeah, I went over and saw Bryce.  Nice fellow.  Hey, I’m on my way out of town.  I’m going to set up shop somewhere around here.  I was wondering if you’d fill this up for the road.  I can bring some soap or something next time I’m around.”

     He grins and exchanges the empty growler on the counter for a cold one from the cooler.  “Here you go, man, I’ve got a feeling I’ll see you again.  So, all right, how about five bars of soap next time and we’ll call it even for this one and a refill at the time of delivery.”

     He runs a tough bargain, but I talk him down to four bars.  We shake on it and I grab the sixty four ounces of golden goodness and bid him farewell.  The street is empty and I figure it is probably around ten o’clock.  I unscrew the cap on the growler of IPA and take a cautious sip.  Once I am sure I won’t spill any, I take a longer pull and set off toward the gate.

     I am greeted again by the guy wearing the Stetson hat.  I offer him a swig of beer, but he just shakes his head “I’m on duty”, and tells the guys to open the gates.  He walks into the enclosure behind me, and, once the inner gate slams shut, the outer one begins to slide open.  He escorts me out and stands behind the chain link fence after it shuts.  He calls to me then to offer warning.

     “We took out three zombies at the fence last night.  One was a big fella; quick, too.  Just sayin’.”  He looks satisfied with himself, and I nod before turning and heading down the road.  Thanks for the warning pal, I’ll be just fine.

     After a ways, I am satisfied that I am out of sight, so I cut into the woods on the left hand side of the road. It takes almost two hours to double back around town and return to the intersection where I first saw the fence yesterday.  The growler is half empty by now, and I am feeling warm beneath the noonday sun.  Sweating, I pause and consider the road.

     This side of Salem has not had the roads cleared of cars or debris or zoms.  Still, I am wanting to be home and I have already decided to chance it.  I sling my AK, deciding to save valuable ammo and get some practice with the katana on my back.  It will work unless I get surrounded or run into someone who can swing back, then the AK will be handy.

     I pull the sword and scabbard from my pack and hold them in my left hand.  I want to be able to get at it quickly if I need to.  In my right hand, I still hold the growler, bringing it to my lips as I weave through the sun-bleached rusty carcasses of automobiles along the road.

     It is shaping up to be a pleasant day.  The sky is clear and bright and to either side of the road, I can see the scrub returning to the former grasslands.  Short hardwoods sprout out of open spaces, and what patches of trees had been beside the road have now spread out and annexed all the land they desire.

     The cars I pass are infrequent now and quiet, but they still trouble me.  Most are abandoned, but about eight miles into my walk, I see one car that I remember from years before.  I had passed it on the way into town after Bill’s house burned.  It is a green sedan, and, as I passed it then, I had noticed the driver, now a zombie, still belted into his seat trapped by the nylon confines, presumably forever, or until he accidentally set himself free. 

     I decided not to bother with him then, and I am curious now if he is still there.  I walk to the passenger side of the car, noting that the doors are all still shut.  What was once clear glass, now appears to have brown residue clinging to the inside like tar on the windows of a serious smoker’s apartment.  As I lean to look at the driver, a hand slaps against the window; white and deeply veined with purple.  I nearly shit myself.

     Somehow he’s gotten free of the shoulder strap of the belt, or leaned over the seat as far as it would give.  I can’t tell.  He is still there, bleached by the sun, a desiccated maggot, fouling the upholstery.  I decide that I will leave the car be.  The smell that would escape from that time capsule is unfathomable, and I don’t care enough to bother with disturbing it.  Besides, he’s lasted this long without escaping, and I don’t really want to make the road to my place any more inviting.

     I walk a few hundred yards and decided to take a break, having left the car behind me.  I polish off the rest of the beer and place the empty jug in my backpack.  I must be a couple miles away from the turn off for the farm and there is plenty of daylight left.  I am drunkish and feeling silly and free from prying eyes.  I draw the katana slowly and focus on the sun’s light as it plays across the wavy edge of the blade.  Razor sharp.  I stand still and prepare to flourish the blade before putting it back in the scabbard.

     When I spin the blade behind me, I feel resistance and hear a ghastly slashing noise.  I spin and behold a tall zombie, now headless, as it topples to the side;  its head rolling, jaws still working.  Open.  Shut. Its bare feet on smooth asphalt almost cost me my life.  Damn creeper!  I wipe the blade on some dead grass and jog the rest of the way to the barn.

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     I am drunk, unnerved, and feeling careless.  I swat the tall grasses with the flat of my blade as I jog past them. I decapitate the tall flowery weeds that top the grasses.  I spin and weave back and forth across the road, dirt now, that leads to Bill’s; no, my farm.

     I pause at the end of the long driveway and decide to check the mailbox.  Holy crap! There is mail there for Bill.  I almost cannot believe it.  He must have forgotten to check it toward the end, and I have never thought to look.  The mail feels stiff like it has gotten wet and then dried more than once over the past three years.  I fold it and place it in the big cargo pocket on my pant leg and head up the driveway.  Overgrown as it is now, I should give thought to knocking down the mailbox and hiding the driveway.

     I round the pit that served as Bill’s pyre, and cross over to the barn ducking under the wire fence.  I walk over to the well and pump out a nice cool stream to wash the road dust from my face and hands. I have sobered some and habit kicks in.

     I round the barn checking the doors and peering up at the high windows. Everything is as it should be.  Pausing at the back of the barn, I grab an armload of wood; nice chopped pear wood, and bring it out front to the fire pit.

     I have a little while before dark and I am resolved to have a bath.  I fill a kettle and hang it over the fire.  While this starts to warm, I go inside and poke around.  Again, all is as it should be.  Walking through the entrance room, passing the door to the big room, I open the wide rolling door to my workshop.

     The fruit press dominates one corner of the room; big brass hand wheel to force the plates together causing juice to flow from a spigot at the side.  Various gas powered gadgets:  chainsaw, generator, lawn mower are clustered in another corner and, the centerpiece of the space:  my own addition, an old white claw footed bathtub.

     Bill had this baby set up in a garden behind his house.  He liked to take sun showers I guess, or his old mother did.  I carted the thing over to the barn myself and I am rather proud of it.  I have cut a hole in the wall and the water drains out and falls ten feet or so to the grass of the back yard.

     I get a lantern ready for when it gets dark and open the wooden shutter on the back window.  Light filters in and I can see that it is rather dusty in here. I stop the drain in the tub and take trips filling the tub halfway with cold water from the pump.

     I take a side trip into the big room and throw my gear on the green couch.  I strip down to shorts and sandals.  Before I go out to check the kettle, I grab my bathing pistol from the supply room.  It is an old stainless steel revolver; five shot, .357, but I keep a .38 special +p loaded in it.  I sling the black nylon harness over my shoulder and pop out to the fire.

    It is going nicely and the kettle is steaming, but it is not yet hot enough to warm the tub.  I sit in the old rusty garden chair and munch some fruit leather and sip cold water from a coffee mug.

    Later, sitting in the tub, locked in my barn, I watch the sun set on the world outside.  I start to make a mental list of chores that need to be done.  I like the idea of disguising the driveway and I have been getting lazy as far as upkeep goes.  The trees need tending, and I need to restock my wood pile.  Perhaps improve the smoke house, too.

     I relax and let the hot water leech the toxins from my body.  I sweat and let my mind become blank; embracing the silence of the barn and, for the first time in days, rest comes easy.

     It is dark when I am done and I let the water cascade onto the ground outside, it makes an odd sound, like someone taking a huge piss.  I light the lamp, drip dry, and remember to double check the door, even though I have already done so before coming to the bath.  I try to finish the paperback that I grabbed from the house days before, but I fall asleep.

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     The next morning I have one of those unpleasant, heart-jolting awakenings that one should get used to in a fucked up zombie apocalypse world, but never seem to.  Someone is knocking on my door.  Knocking?  I throw on a blue jump suit that is handy and pull boots on my feet.  When I drop the ladder, the knocking stops.  My heart sinks and from outside, I hear a voice.

     “Hey Kyle, it’s Bryce.  Don’t shoot, OK?”

     What the crap?  I peek out a crack in the big barn door and there he stands all dressed in recon gear; blond hair under a black watch cap and holding an AK, not threateningly, but looking side to side as if cautious.  A curious sack lays at his feet, is it moving?

     “All right,” I call out, “Give me a minute, ok?”

     I suppose that the time of subterfuge is over.  I really don’t want to kill him, and I figure if he isn’t here with a posse, maybe he isn’t after my head.  I grab my AK and walk through to the entrance room.

     I swing the door open, and he looks up.  He isn’t smiling.  “Come in,” I say, “and shut the door behind you.”

     He does this and I offer him a seat on the couch.  I pull over a kitchen chair and sit with my AK on my lap.  He props his next to the couch and shrugs:  “I figure if you wanted to shoot me you would have done that at the door.  I’m here to talk.”