The Zom Diary

by Eddie Austin

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  The sunlight of the morning lights the curtains that cover the small windows of the shack and casts a warm yellow light in the interior. I stretch, take a very deep breath, and roll out of bed. I take a long pull off the canteen and get dressed. Today is going to be hard.

  The early morning sky is a deep blue and clouds; puffed, evenly spaced, drift by. The dew from the night clings to my clothes and soon my legs and boots are wet. I carry my AK before me and try to stay alert aware of the fact that I am more likely to spot a unicorn than a cup of coffee.

  I try not to look at the stack of corpses as I walk past them. Men, women and children. Most all of them should be off somewhere living their lives being happy or sad. Not this. I enjoy the prospect of a new world with fewer people and more green places, but seeing the price laid out before me, the thought seems foolish. Speaking of which; if I am going to spend another whole day dragging around corpses, damned if I’m not going to do it stoned out of my gourd.

  I open the door and walk on the still tacky floor boards. Like drying paint. In some places, the black fluid has run together and pooled like mercury. Odd. Opening the door to the big room, I climb the ladder to the loft and find my way to the table. Sitting, I tear a small square of paper from an old book and proceed to roll a joint. I slobber all over it, forming a wet tube. Then I use the lighter to dry it out properly before lighting it. All this ink can’t be good for me.

  Walking back outside, I smoke and watch the sun climb higher in the sky. I put the roach out when it is half done and set it on the edge of the chair by the fire pit next to my lighter. If I had known how insanely useful disposable lighters would become; I would have bought cases of them. I make do with what I have, though, and have decided to keep my eyes open for more. I walk to the pump and drink a few mouthfuls of cold clean water.

  The gloves from yesterday are stiff with dried gore. I put them on anyway and work my fists open and closed until the gloves are somewhat supple. “Let the corpse dragging begin!” I bellow to no one in particular, except myself.

  And so the morning wears on. I beat a track from the barn pile down the driveway to Bill’s burned out house; pause, heave, and back to the pile. After a dozen or so of these trips, I begin to hum an old jingle for a windshield repair company, softly, to myself.

  By noon, the pile by the fence is gone and I begin on those ones scattered around the front of the barn. I break for a quick lunch after these are gone. The only thing I can stomach is fresh fruit and cold water, but it is good. I smoke the rest of the joint before starting in on the back yard.

  Walking down the slope of the low hill, it seems as if the barn looms over me; a tall structure from this vantage point. Rounding the corner, I see the pile. Almost as many dead are piled here as had been in the rest of the barn. Some are still standing, held up by the press of corpses behind them. Movement catches my eye.

  Crawling from beneath a tangle of bodies, trapped by their weight, is on old man still wearing a sweat shirt that bears the logo of a deceased football team. He looks up at me; vacant grey eyes, jaws snapping, arms now scrabbling more furiously. I get close enough to hit him with the hammer. Whap! Whap! He stops moving then. Sometimes there are no mental diversions great enough to dull this pain. My eyes fill with tears, running tracks through my face dirt. Back to the pile.

  By sunset, I have a nice twisted burn pile over at Bill’s. The last of the corpses carted over from the barn are flopped over one on top of another face to face. I splash as much gasoline as I can spare on the pile which covers the entirety of the largest section of Bill’s wrecked home. I hear the liquid run down over the bodies, and the dried charcoal remains of timbers beneath crackle as they absorb the fluid.

  I take about ten steps back and pour some gas on a rag wound about a stick. I light this and toss it at the pyre which explodes to life with a loud “whoomp”. The shock of heat presses my clothes against my body and whips at my beard.

  As the last rays of sunlight fail, I behold a nightmare vision of contorted, twisted, burning bodies. I leave it there and hope it is so hot that only white ash will greet the dawn. I feel the heat on my back as I walk away.

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  I spend that second night in the shack, too. All bodies are cleared from the barn, but I still have cleaning to do and then the long process of patching holes and looking for panes to repair windows. That will take time, if any are to be found at all. Sleep, dark and dreamless, and then…

  Awake, sitting in a new morning, I make a list of tasks that need to be done. There are brown wrapped cubes of shavings in one of the old animal enclosures. I decide to investigate these first and then look to mending doors and walls.

  There is a crispness to the air, not only the temperatures which remind me of a New England Autumn, but also a slight electric current of sorts. I feel like the great enervation that has settled upon me is lifting. I should be exhausted. God! My muscles are sore from dragging the bodies from the barn, but it is a good sore, as if it promises new muscle and energy; layers settling on layers.

  I am used to wearing the same clothes for long stretches. There are no reliable sources of new clothing. When I find something that fits me, I tend to wear it a lot. Even so, my shirt, boots and overalls are getting to be gross. I don’t think I can stand the idea of washing them in my cooking pot. They might be a lost cause.

  I take a sip of water and set the tin coffee cup on the steps. Rising, I bid farewell to the shack for another day. Slinging the AK low over my shoulder, I set off down the foot path to the barn.

  Pausing on the way, I see the scattered remains of the deer. A foreleg still lays on the grass, black hoof shiny with dew this morning. Not much else is left. I heard the coyotes howling last night. Playful yaps. I am glad that whatever evil has poisoned the human race has skipped the rest of nature. How long until the bison skip out on Yosemite and reclaim the plain? That will be a sight worth living to see.

  As I approach the barn, I hear a sound. A plodding thump. Not the sound of someone hammering a nail then pausing to set another, but more like a huge metronome clunking away. I check the AK and increase my pace. What I see makes no sense to me.

  Rounding the barn, I see a zombie. Unnaturally tall, she must be well over six feet. It is as if she doesn’t sense my presence at all, so focused she is on slamming her forehead against the back corner of the barn. Knock, knock, knock! Her head meets the wood and stone with alarming force. It is as if the thing were trying to crack its own skull open.

  I stand there, AK shouldered, and watch. Bits of face flesh falls to the ground and skull becomes exposed. It is grotesque and I end it with a round to her temple, black spray of mist painting the wood. I start the day by dragging her all the way back to the trench. Perhaps it is my sore body, but she is heavy. Now that I have had contact with town, perhaps it is time to set fire to the trench as well? Another time.

  Backtracking to the barn, I wonder why the thing hadn’t locked in on my presence and come to the shack. It makes no sense unless someone is in the barn. I shout, “Hello!” I open the door and hear nothing. A quick look around shows no signs of life. I open the trap door to the basement and peer down. Nothing.

  Crossing the road to the assemblage of sheds, stable and garage, I look over at Bill’s. A thin streamer of white smoke reaches for the clouds. I have no desire to investigate the scene. Opening the stable, I find the bales of wood shavings where they have been since the end. The roof is sound and the air dry. With the exception of a few mouse holes, the packages might have been fresh from the feed store. I heft two bales, perhaps ten pounds each and started bringing them over. I spread them first in the barn on the gore slick floor, then in the backyard and front yard. I am liberal with the shavings. I hope they will soak up some of the foulness in the barn.

  There is an old mop and bucket in the garage as well as a gallon jug of bleach. I bring all of this with me back to the job at hand. Rather than sweep the chips and sh
avings up right away, I decide to check the interior and give them more time to sit and absorb. I have an idea for patching bullet holes. If I take a branch and push it tight through each hole, I should be able to saw it off on either end, like a dowel. The rest of the splintering can be covered up with Bondo from the garage—spackle or mud or something.

  It won’t look great, but it will keep out bugs and wind. I set about counting holes. There are almost twenty not counting the huge chainsaw monstrosity between the big room and workshop. There isn’t much to be done there. Maybe I can nail up a piece of plywood, or hang some drywall.

  The glass panes will be harder to fix. I have the back window in the workshop shuttered for the time being. Small panes are missing from other windows. I make an inventory measuring the window in the workshop and panes in various other places. I decide to do some salvage work, checking nearby homes for matches. I have seen people fix windows before. It can’t be that hard.

  With these lists on paper in my pocket, I set about sweeping the barn. Shavings clump and slide, some working well, others adding to the mess. I repeat this process several times over the next few days until I am almost out of shavings. When the floor is nearly clean except for evil black and orange stains, I mop with a bucket of one fourth bleach; the rest water. It is strong and stings my nose. There is comfort in that. Bleach kills everything.

  While the floor dries, I decide to check the stores of food and water and supplies in the basement. I have waited all these days in fear that the gore has seeped between the gaps in the wide planks and fouled my carefully laid stocks.

  Lighting a lamp, I creep down the tall staircase and hold the light high, checking for leaks. What I see illuminated by the kerosene lamp, almost makes me drop the light and scream. Underneath the floor, clinging to the ceiling, is a pool of black mercury foulness. Like something I saw one time in a special about cave divers; their expended air bubbles floating to the roof of the caves they swam in, joining and pooling above them. The glistening puddle does not drip, but when I lift the lamp to see more clearly, it is as if it quivers in anticipation of something.

  I consider how to remove it. Leaving it there is not an option. It covers a good portion of the ceiling here but is no thicker than an inch deep as best I can tell. I look up at it, my own hazy reflection mirrored there. I go back upstairs fast.

  Returning with some rags, soaked in bleach, I wind one around a yard stick and push it into the gravity defying pool. It has the consistency of tar or tree sap but runs back together like mercury when I dab at it. I apply force, and when I separate some from the rest, it clings to the rag and drips quickly towards my gloved hands. I carry the rags back up and toss them in the fire pit one at a time. They burst into flame quickly, crackling like a Christmas tree in a February bonfire. A few more trips and it is gone.

  Putting this one strange episode aside, the next few days pass without incident. I haven’t seen a zombie since the tall lady head banger. The twig patches aren’t great, but they kind of work. I have patched the big hole with some plywood I found, and, with the shelf back up on the other side, it doesn’t look too bad.

  It is a few days before I feel comfortable back in the barn. I have it patched up and it has solid doors again, but the signs of violence are obvious. I have left the last of the shavings on the floor. They smell nice. It is late on my third night back in the barn, locked in a cycle of sleep and alert wakefulness, when I take a break to admire the bright white light of the moon lighting up the room almost as bright as day; rectangular patches of pale silver on exposed wood. It is then that something that has been bothering me, out of sight so to speak, has come to click into place in my mind.

  Where the hell is Bryce?

  Chapter 10

  Fully awake, I pad to the back of the loft; my big open space sometimes called “the dojo” in the privacy of my mind. I have always enjoyed a spare and Spartan lifestyle when it comes to furniture, craving simplicity and the freedom of open spaces. Well, except for crowded bookshelves.

  Jumping up, I grab the top of a low hung beam and almost slip off due to the layer of dust there. It feels good to feel my whole weight pulling and stretching my arms and shoulders. I drop then, softly. Leaning down, I look out the small back windows at the ghostly illumination to the world outside. The moon is bright and fruit trees cast shadows, swaying things that trick the mind. It makes me nervous.

  It has been almost a week since the attack and subsequent days of cleaning have confused my mental calendar. Bryce should have been back by now for our trip out to the desert. I suppose something could have come up. Perhaps he is the one who set loose the horde? Caught up in the mess and killed? Or maybe a million other things. All this supposition is getting pointless.

  A plan. Bryce would take the road if he were coming out. I know this because he has before; recovering the head of that zombie I decapitated by fortune. I need supplies; not just food, but practical construction stuff: glass, nails, finishing wood, and some paint. I hate the idea of running Bill’s old truck out if I can help it, but it seems like the best way to cart the stuff back when I am done. Also, I have said I will talk to that damn kid and bring him his father’s remains. Too much to carry.

  I’ll prepare tomorrow and maybe meet up with Bryce along the way. If not, the road is pretty well passable and I can get over to town and see if there is news about him. Or, maybe the whole place has been overrun. Having this in mind, I relax some and decide to finish sleeping. Tomorrow will be a busy day.

  The morning, as are so many here, is bright and glorious like the last shining light of manifest destiny’s gleaming pate, sinking into the pacific never to return, has shot back one last gleaming reflection of golden mirrors. I never fail to appreciate this. Like so much of agriculture in places where it doesn’t belong, the farm in the past depended on irrigation on a large scale to thrive. Dry valleys became America’s salad bowl. Grimy hands following gold to this good land, digging canals to feed the future growth of our beloved Empire of United States doomed to pass as all empires do… Et cetera.

  Still, I don’t worry for freezing and most days are pleasant. Pleasant except for the occasional wandering dead. Well, at least it is something to do. Only so many hours one can spend watching fruit ripen before you lose your effing mind.

  I let the ladder down and decide to do a quick equipment check before getting underway. I have been using the AK too much. I have picked quite a bit of ammo up over the years, off of wandering nut jobs and the occasional cache I would find in a home, but I am pretty sure no one is out there making any more, so…

  Cleaning is a chore, but I depend on these tools to get me out of fuck-all trouble like last week’s nightmare and the longer these things go, the harder it gets to motivate oneself. So, I force myself to do some cleaning. I rummage around and find a couple of cleaning kits; one for the .22 and another for the AK. I screw the cleaning rods together; and, using as little solvent as possible, I run the wire brush through the barrels of the rifles. Next, I run through some clean patches till they come out white. One last very lightly oiled patch. The solvent always gives me headaches.

  Putting the AK and the .22 back on their shelves, I select an AR-15 assault rifle. Most people mistake these for the M-16, but they are a civilian model, run .233 ammo and possess many improvements over their ‘Nam forebears. I still don’t like them as much as the AK, but I need to rotate what I use. One cool thing about this AR-15 is an after-market drum clip that has fallen into my possession. It holds almost a hundred rounds and is intimidating as hell. Red dot sights and a bi-pod round out the package. This getup would have cost almost two grand before the end.

  As fancy as it is, the .233 ammo was mass produced as ‘varmint’ rounds, and I expect a few miss-feeds. I want a solid backup, so I also grab a nice Glock from the lower shelf, model 21, .45 auto. I add a couple of thirteen round clips for it and moved on to the next shelf.

  Rounding out my assortment is a wicked hunting knife a
nd a nice hammer. Hammers are great for close quarters inside a house where four foot katanas don’t work well. They are good for opening doors, cabinets, locks, etc. I find an old pry bar and add it, too.

  I leave the pistol belted on my waist and set the gear on the steps next to the pump. I am down to my last pair of canvas coveralls. I strap them on and shrug into a thin camo jacket. Time to add clothes to the ransack list.

  I walk up to the wire fence and duck through, stepping onto the dirt road that splits the barn and my yard from the rest of the compound. I glance around the side of an old tin shack, tractor rusting silently inside. The animal pens sit empty and still. I catch a whiff of meaty smoke and wondered for a moment if it is the smoke house, or some remnant from the burning last week.

  There is still a greasy trail leading over to Bill’s and I try my best to step around it. Rain is unlikely, but I hope it will come soon and wash away some of this foulness.

  I pull the old rusty nail from the latch to the garage and swing the big doors wide. The truck faces me. I always back it in when I am done with it, so that it looks as it had the time before and the time before that. You never know who’s poking around. It takes a few minutes to hook up a battery and pour some of my shrinking supply of gas into the tank; just about fifteen gallons to fill it. Like most farmers, Bill had his own gas tank and another couple of drums for kerosene. Even so, I am sparing with it. I’m not sure how long it will keep. The problem will resolve itself one day. Of this I am sure.