The Zom Diary

by Eddie Austin

  “Hey, Bryce, I’m going to see Silas. Come see me when you can, ok? Sorry.”

  I walk down the hall just as the report of the pistol snaps its way down the hallway behind the closing doors. I’d have done the same damn thing.

  ⃰ ⃰ ⃰

  Silas’ place is as cheerful as ever, meaning that he looks cheerful even if I am his only patron. No, upon closer inspection I can see that prophet fellow is sitting at a table to the right tucked away with his lady friend. She sits sans collar, but still dressed like B.C. meets Mad Max. I nod at them and turn back to the bar choosing my stool carefully.

  Silas pulls a jug out from the cooler and pours me a pint, pushes it toward me, and says, “You have my soap?”

  I swear softly and shake my head. His face darkens but only for a moment, “Don’t play with my emotions! Next time, I better see some soap.” He smiles. “You got any of that fruit jerky or bullets?”

  “Yes!” I rummage in my belt pack and fish out a package of fruit leather passing it across the bar. I fish out a joint and offer it to him, but he shakes his head.

  “You think just because a brother has dreds he’s a Rasta? No thanks, man; it’s hard enough to get my ass out of bed every morning. Fuckin’ A. I’m going to start calling you Smokey.”

  “Yeah, you do that and I’ll start calling you…Uh, something else, too. Anyway, what’s up with what’s his face over there?”

  “The Prophet? He loves music and last I checked, I have the only working juke-box anywhere, so.” He pauses, pulls up a glass for himself, and pours some amber colored beer. “Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t drink, but it’s nice to have the company, so…”

  Right then the music starts up suddenly and loudly. It sounds like noise at first, but as my ears adjust, I recognize the song, New Edition, “Candy Girl”. The Prophet stands up and starts dancing in place; arms and legs flapping to the music. His lady friend taps her fingers on the table and looks at him with pure admiration in her eyes.

  I look over at Silas, wincing from the volume, and he just shrugs taking a sip from his beer. I get up and walk over to the box and feel around back for the volume knob. I turn it down to a tolerable level. The Prophet stops and stands staring at me.

  “Hey, sorry. I couldn’t hear myself think.” I say.

  He smiles and speaks, “I can hear yourself think.”

  He laughs then and goes back to the business of dancing, the music has changed to something electronic and spastic, his movements following suit. I am ignored, and so I walk back to my seat.

  Silas leans over, “Usually if I try that, he flips out. He must like you.”

  I shrug, “Whatever, just wanted some peace. You know about the guy, Larry? I was over seeing Bryce.”

  “Yes, Larry’s a good guy. Comes in here from time to time. He helped me get on the grid. Is he still fighting it?”

  I pour from the jug, filling both our glasses and raising mine, “Sorry. No. Here’s to him.”

  Silas drains his glass in one swig, then turns and walks out back, presumably through the kitchen. After a moment, I hear him yelling, and the sound of pots hitting tile and a door slamming.

  I pull my cracked old lighter from my belt pouch and light the joint I had fished out earlier. I light it and smoke it like a cigarette. I am still pretty baked from the drive in; still, it is nice to have something to do and I suddenly wish to be elsewhere.

  I sit there, my back to the Prophet and his spastic dancing. Occasionally, the girl claps her hands or laughs, but I never hear her speak. Both apparently drink water provided from the tap in the sink behind the bar. When one comes up and steps behind the bar to fill their cups, the other will cycle quarters through the open face of the music machine. The same four quarters over and over through the slot. I feel warm and comfortable; the pains of travel and mental stain forgotten for the moment.

  Silas comes out from the kitchen and walks over to the wall. He fishes around behind a curtain for a bit and suddenly chains of Christmas lights blink to life, strung from the rafters and running along the walls, they dazzle and shine, Silas having dimmed the other lights. The music soon follows the new mood; something soft and psychedelic from long ago. Silas fills my glass without my asking, and I wonder if I have somehow started a tab, or whether drinks are on the house? I notice then that he has changed clothes. Into a green and black flannel vest, arms bare, his apron exchanged for a gun belt and holster, covering long dark pants. I try to make out what he is packing, but it is impossible in the light –something dark and automatic. His eyes are glazed, and I can see his mind is elsewhere. Maybe the clouds of smoke from my joint have triggered some mellowing on his part. I decide to start a conversation.

  “Nice gear, what are you packing? I might have some bullets to trade.”

  He answers without moving, not even turning to look my way, “It’s an old Sig. A nine. I ‘borrowed’ it from the police station.”

  “Did you used to be a cop?”

  “Nope. I’ve been a lot of things but not a cop. Most of my jobs involved food and beer. Since you ask, I owned one of the finest brew-pubs in San Diego, at least until my customers started to eat off the menu.”

  “Oh. So you hooked up with these people and set up shop once you had things settled?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much the short version of it. Believe me, setting up that wall and getting power and water took a lot of time and spilled blood, even though there were more of us then.”

  “That many people got killed since you got to town?”

  “Well, some get caught on scavenging trips; not as many as you’d think, we got smart and usually send one of us folks with the ‘feel’ for the Zoms.” He pauses and looks at me for the first time since we started talking. “You know what I’m talking about, right?”

  “Bryce said some people could tell when they were close, like ESP or a feeling or something?”

  “Yeah. The people who got bitten and didn’t turn. They got the feel for them now. Bryce has his theories why, of course. But anyway, a lot of people died finding all the stuff for this town to be livable. Another got killed working on the windmills. Some got worried about family and went off to look for them. And, then, there are the homesteaders. Now that we have the basics here, it’s harder to get them to help out with town improvements.”

  “I guess that makes sense. I guess I see why you guys are so happy to have a new face around.”

  “Hey, Kyle, it’s more than just an extra pair of hands, Bryce has a vision for this place, and we need more people to make it happen. Good people. And, not to sound like a creep, but we need to find some women too.”

  “Oh.” So much for Armageddon, let’s start a utopia? I am starting to wonder if it has been smart to get curious about this place. Still, the odds of these folks recreating the mess that existed before the end are slim. Maybe they will get it right, but…Silas is looking at me, and probably wondering if our talk is over.

  “Well, I don’t know where any spare women are, but I’d consider helping you folks out if it means I’ll be able to get supplies and maybe set up a room for when I’m around. And beer. Of course beer.”

  I jump then as Bryce’s voice calls from behind me, “Done. You can pick any room you want as long as it’s free. And, if you want to help, you can start right away. We’re going out to look for survivors and to get supplies from that clinic. Since you’ve got a working rig and the volunteer spirit, we could use you.”

  I turn and notice that the Prophet and his lady friend look displeased at the new arrival. Bryce looks collected, and I notice that he has changed his clothes. He takes a seat next to me, and doesn’t have to ask Silas for a glass. It is down and poured before he gets seated. This isn’t beer though, but a tumbler with brown liquor in it. Silas grabs two more of the short glasses and pours four fingers of bourbon all around. Larry must have been some guy. Bryce slugs it back, as does Silas. I take my time and the opportunity provided by the silence to voice my conc
erns.

  “I know these people are valuable to you, and the supplies, but if there was more to that swarm than what found its way to me, we’d be fucked.”

  Bryce taps the bar with his index finger and Silas pours another belt. He sips this one, “You might be right, but if it was me, and I was out there holed up waiting for help, I’d want us to take the risk. Right? We’ll look for people first, supplies if we can. Before he got bad, Larry said that place was stuffed with non-perishables and other gems. He also made it clear that when he went down, the other four that were with him were okay, so we need to assume that they are alive and couldn’t make it back. Unless we find otherwise, that’s what I’m going to believe. If they are dead, we deal with it, and maybe honor their memory by getting those supplies. Are you with us?”

  I sip some bourbon and make a quick decision. What the hell?

  “Yes. I’m in.”

  “Good.”

  Bryce puts out his hand, and I shake it, wondering if I should be making these kinds of decisions in this state of mind.

  Chapter 12

  I stumble out of the bar late, rifle slung on my shoulder, and bid Silas good night. Bryce had left earlier, promising to meet me by the truck in the A.M. He has some scrounged oil, and said he’d change the oil in the truck and give it a once over. I’d handed him the keys and said thanks. At some point, the Prophet and the girl departed, unnoticed.

  I exhale deeply, feeling like I am full of fumes and combustible vapors. I walk up the street, enter the old apartment building, and find that the lights work. The room I used before is still unoccupied, and the bed hasn’t been made since my last visit. I decide then to choose this place as my apartment in town. I’ll get the key from Bryce in the morning, as promised.

  I set my stuff by the door and flip off the light switch. The windows glow dimly from the few working street lights below, providing light. I’ve marveled at the use of electricity for this, but Bryce has made convincing remarks about the safety advantages of even a little light. He’s also said a lot about the dangers of direct current and needing to keep a load on the system they have running, and plus it is cheerful.

  I open the window and pull the chair back over to the sill, allowing me a perch from which to sit and watch the street below. Before I sit, I walk into the bathroom and take a long drink of lukewarm water. It tastes a little of rust and old building. I fasten the chain next to the door and take a seat, basking in the sick yellow sodium glow of the street below.

  ⃰ ⃰ ⃰

  The next morning finds me reclined in the seat; arms crossed, face kissed by a cool morning breeze. The scent reminds me of open clean spaces, ozone and rain. As the breeze from the open window before me stirs my hair and wakes me, I focus on my most immediate desires: bathroom, water, and a good stretch. I must have fallen asleep at some point. I can’t remember.

  After a few minutes in the bathroom, which includes a camel defying drink at the sink and a sobering look at my bleary red eyes, I check my gear and get ready.

  The AR-15 is where I left it propped by the door. Had I known I would be going out on a mission like this, I would have brought the AK. The AR-15 is top notch, a good long range rifle, especially with the sight, but because of these things and its near pristine condition, I am reluctant to take it out where it might get tossed around, dirty, and used for smashing stuff. It just never fails, the protection paradox, the more you try to keep things nice... The Glock is good, especially indoors, and I have my rummage tools. Fine.

  I sling my rifle and make my way down the long stairs. I remember to shut the window, but I leave the rest of the place as it is. Opening the door to the street, I watch a plastic bag blow by, pushed by the wind. My eyes follow it up the street to where my truck is parked and I make my way over to it.

  Bryce is pouring oil into the engine from an old one liter soda bottle. It is amber and clean looking. He looks up when I walk to the other side of the open hood.

  “Do you know how disgusting the oil in this thing was?”

  I nod, “I don’t really take it out much, you know, a lot of my favorite places went out of business recently, and it’s hard to get a good mechanic these days.”

  Bryce stops pouring and smiles, “That’s never been easy.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder at the library. “I’d like to show you something before we leave. There aren’t many people here that I would want to see this, yet, and I want someone else thinking about it.”

  “What is it?”

  I look over at him, and he gestures to the library, “It is best if you come and see.”

  He lets the hood slam shut after replacing the oil cap, and I follow him as he drops an oily rag on the piled tools and walks toward the steps of the library. We don’t speak. I wonder what the hell he is going to show me.

  We walk past the checkout desk and beneath the great glass atrium of the reading room; a marvel for a small town library. The windmill above cuts swaths through the streaming sunlight and casts nervous shadows about the room. Neat rows of tables of polished white oak gleam everywhere. We pass the stacks and come to the stairwell that leads to the basement and what had been the children’s reading room, if I remember correctly.

  Bryce flips a switch and soft florescent light sputters and illuminates the grey rubbery stairs. Many of the ballasts have but one bulb. Others flicker. Our steps click and echo in the stairwell, and we pass through a fire door into a wondrous laboratory.

  Here the light shines brightly from reading lamps and small rectangular shafts in the ceiling. Peering up through one, I can see it leads up through the ground and its glass is covered by a grate. The contents of the old room has mostly been removed. In place of small bookshelves and bright couches, narrow workbenches, a portable kiln, and assemblies of tubes and Pyrex jars stand guard at all sides. The far corner houses a large metal desk where a laptop and stacks of books compete for space. Every surface is covered with instruments and objects, save the central table, covered by a sheet of clear plastic which lays beneath two objects.

  One is a Tupperware tray in which the remains of a putrefied head, the one from the road, lays like some gruesome disassembled puzzle. The second object is a fish tank, lid duct-taped tight, with a hose feeding down to an air pump that hums softly. The contents of the tank are equally unappealing.

  There, floating dead center in the clear fluid of the tank is a perfect black and shining brain. It is large enough to be human, and it sets the gears and cogs in my own head-mess a tumbling. It is beautiful. An obsidian curiosity, so still save for the play of light on its surface and a bare pulsation.

  “What the hell?” I mouth softly.

  “This is our friend from before, the one you supplied me from the road. This is what I wanted you to see.” I jump slightly as he speaks, not realizing that he has moved beside me.

  “I see it. What is it?”

  “I removed the contents of the zombie’s skull in sterile conditions and examined it first in the tank, and also from prepared samples under the microscope. Not the first time I’ve done that, but it is the first time I’ve noticed this particular effect.” He points at the tank. “Do you know much about sea sponges?”

  I shake my head.

  “They are actually a lot like colonies of thousands of microorganisms. You can take a sea sponge, put it in a blender, and pour the remains back into a tank; they will re-form into their original shape. I’ve put this thing through similar stressors, and each time it re-forms into the semblance of a human brain.”

  “So what, the zoms are sea sponges?”

  “No, I’m saying that the material in their heads behaves in a way like sea sponges. Whatever causes reanimation, it isn’t a virus or bacteria. It’s something like a colony of microorganisms.”

  “Ok. I think I understand, but I’m not a scientist. What do you want me to do?”

  “When the brain is in the blender, as ‘goo’, I can’t sense it. Here in the tank, as it is, I can. It has a prese
nce.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m not sure what to make of all this, but I know that now is the time to ask about the shit on the basement ceiling. I tell him about the ceiling; how it was like a puddle of mercury, how it burned, and when I tell him about the zombie and the barn, he looks spooked.

  “It was calling to them.”

  One of the lights from above flickers in its ballast. The bulb made a ‘snic, snic, snic’ noise and flutters back on. Bryce stands then, hands palm down on the table, leaning in, looking at the thing that floats in the tank, and mutters to himself softly, but not so low that I can’t make out the words.

  “What are you?”

  The way he looks at the tank and the tone of his voice; it is as if he expects an answer. Knowing what I do about his supposed extra sensitivity to the things, I wonder if he doesn’t expect a reply.

  “Bryce? What do you make of all this? I mean, what’s the link? It’s obvious to me that the ability you have came after you were bitten. Is that stuff in you?”

  He doesn’t reply. I stand there feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of just walking away, especially with the whole day ahead of us and our plans to head out together, but I can’t think of a polite way to break this reverie. After a moment more, he stands straight and runs his hand through his hair, nodding to himself.

  “There is one possibility, but even if it’s related, it doesn’t explain everything.”

  I am getting tired of the dramatics and obfuscation. I glare at him and do my best ‘get on with it already’. He motions me to follow him to the desk. Sitting, he clicks on a file and turns the laptop so I can see what he is looking at.

  “One of my colleagues was working on a team whose purpose was to engineer microorganisms that could convert organic material into a petroleum byproduct. The idea was that these organisms could be introduced into landfills, or even cultured in a tank and then fed organics, producing a useful product that would be identical to the oil that is pumped from the earth –usable for, plastics, and fertilizers, maybe even large enough quantities to refine into heating oil or fuel. They were very excited about the process.