The Zom Diary

by Eddie Austin

Walking now, through the scrub, I top the small rise that overlooks the houses. It looks much as I have expected. Weeds and small scrub trees have taken over yards, although the blacktop is still visible, if coated with some new dirt and sand blown across it over the years. I can make out the bright colors of the abandoned junk, peeking through the weeds. Something is odd about the scene, but I can’t place it.

  I also can’t sense any pressures in my mind, so my fear of zombies is minimal, yet something tugs at my mind in a non-physical sense. I pull the bolt on the AK and chamber a round. Clunk-shunk.

  The descent to the property is easy; no fences or farm detritus to trip over. Still there is an uneasiness about the place. The windows, dark and ominous, gaze out at me accusingly.

  I come to the first house, the one I remember in a vague sense and decide to start there. I start up the cement steps to the front door, and pause to look over at the other two houses. They are all cut from the same mold; split level ranches with attached garages. The paint jobs are the only real distinguishing feature between them. The one before me is a dark brown, then blue and yellow, counterclockwise around the circle.

  My eyes pause on the black sedan parked in front of the yellow house.

  Shit! I crouch instinctively, but realize that this does nothing to hide me. I hop off the steps and duck around the corner of the garage.

  This explains my uneasy feelings. I look around the corner of the house and across to the car. It is filthy, but that doesn’t mean much. It hadn’t been there on that other day.

  How long has it been there, and where is the driver?

  No one has made themselves known to me. Would I have announced myself to an armed intruder? No. I had been stealthy on my approach to the place. Still, I wait.

  I have no way of telling if anyone is around without looking. So do I leave, or check it out?

  I stand and walk over slowly to the driveway of the yellow house, watching the windows for signs of life. Curtains hang still. It is a cement driveway riddled with cracks, and these cracks are riddled with weeds. These cracks run directly behind the back tires of the sedan, a Mercedes, I can see now. The weeds are growing around the tires, which are dry and cracked from the sun.

  This thing hasn’t moved in some time.

  I relax some. I am still curious, though.

  I walk around the house and don’t notice any signs of occupation. No trampled grass, no trash, no garden, no noises from within. I decide to check the interior of the place.

  The front door is wood with a row of square glass windows across the top. I grasp the tarnished brass handle and push down on the thumb latch. It opens with a terrible rusty skree.

  I pause and listen. If anyone is inside, they can’t have missed that noise. Nothing. I am becoming more certain that the place is abandoned. Where has the car come from?

  It could have been that my investigation of the area all those years ago, had occurred between the evacuation of Selma and the return of refugees that re-founded the town. It makes sense.

  The car has sat exposed for a long time, and, if I were back in town, I would want to check my house. But then where have they gone?

  Perhaps there will be a clue in the house. I open the door the rest of the way and step inside. The place is quiet, even more so than I would have expected. No sounds of wind or birds penetrate the thick walls. Light streams yellowly through windows illuminating the entrance.

  The stairs split, one set to the right leading darkly down, the other left and up. I chose up. The living room is neat, all the couch cushions in place and no mess to speak of. Ditto for the dining room. The kitchen is ransacked; cabinet doors open, broken glass and mummified food splattered on the floor. Salt. It catches my eye, at the back of an open cabinet; two containers. The top one is about half full, the bottom one is unopened. I put them in my pack and turn, looking at the refrigerator.

  It is decorated with pictures of a dog and various people. There is a speeding ticket and an obituary. My interest stops here. A most important rule to ransacking: never open a refrigerator that has sat, unopened, and without power for any period of time. Ever.

  Rotting piles of bodies are less offensive than the clouds of stink that a fridge can put out. Even now, it could be stuffed with unimaginable treasures, but I will never know.

  The small cabinet over the fridge is another matter. I investigate. The left side has stacked china plates and a package of Lions Club light bulbs. The right has a centerpiece of plastic flowers in a brass bowl, and behind it, a half bottle of rum. Woot!

  I unscrew the cap and take a sip. It burns, but I fight the urge to cough. Another swallow, and my belly warms.

  I walk out of the kitchen glancing over piles of junk, but find nothing else worth taking. The salt is a good find. The rum, a bonus.

  Walking from the kitchen, I look down the hallway to the bedrooms. Strewn with discarded clothes, blankets and trash, it is a nasty mess that has become rat habitat. I pick my way gingerly down the hall and check the room to my right. An office. The closet has file cabinets full of papers, the desk holds nothing of value. A porno mag. Exit.

  The back room appears to be a spare bedroom. The closet is empty, the dressers hold old framed photos, plates, filed tax returns, and junk. I walk over to the master bedroom.

  A wooden oriental screen rests precariously against the wall. Patterns of peacocks and geishas. There is a sword stand on the dresser, but the sword is gone. The door at the bathroom is open, so I peek in. Yellow fixtures, ugly stains in the tub. Signs of violence? I check the medicine cabinet. There is some recently expired aspirin and a box of band aids. I add them to the pack.

  Back in the master, I lean the AK against a dresser and flip the mattress and box spring. Under the bed is a nice looking 12 gauge, the barrel covered with a sock, and a box of shells. I pocket the shells, turkey load, and leave the gun; too much to carry.

  Next to this though, boxes of shoes. I check the size, and it is only half a size too big. All dress shoes. I toss the box back down on the floor. The closet. Sliding it aside, most of the hangers are bare. A tangled jumble of dress shirts on the floor; nothing.

  I set the mattress back on the frame and look at the windows. Single pane of glass with a fake window pane frame set against it, no good. I need individual panes.

  Back to the entranceway. I look down to the right, and it looks dark. I can detect more than a hint of mold smell. Pass.

  Back outside, the sun is almost at its highest point. I sit on the steps and pull out some fruit leather. I sit and chew looking over at the other two houses. I drink more rum. I decide to check the blue house next.

  This time when I push on the door, it opens a crack then resists. I push harder and feel a scraping resistance, as I stumble into the entryway. A smell of death pours into my nose. I step back and hear the Velcro crack of my shoes sticking to the floor. As I stumble back out of the house, I see what causes the resistance.

  A body, face down, dry and rotted husk over a still sticky patch of fluids. Shiny silver desert eagle frozen in its grip. I close the door taking a passing look at the stairs. More bodies. Makes abandoned refrigerators seem more charming.

  I make my way back over to the brown house, wiping my sneakers on the grass as I go. I want nothing from that crypt.

  At the brown house now, I try the door and find it is locked. I turn down the steps and head for the back yard. There is a small deck with a sliding glass door. I raise my AK; better to shoot out the glass than risk getting cut. A thought occurs to me. I bend over and pick up a rock instead, hurl it at the glass, which breaks, falling out in a violent cascade. I have forgotten how much fun that could be.

  Stepping over the larger pieces of glass, I enter the kitchen; sand and glass embedded in my shoes cracking on the linoleum—white tile with a floral pattern.

  The layout of all three houses, I assume to be the same, but the condition inside this one is drastically different. Looking about me, I can see that this kit
chen has been picked over at some point in the past, perhaps even by myself. There is an odd handful of canned goods; mushroom pieces, whole tomatoes, and beets. They go into my pack.

  The situation in the living room is telling of what will become of these houses and others like them. The ceiling in the far corner has fallen in, drywall and insulation scattered by animals. The attic is visible through this, yellow stains reaching out from the hole to the rest of the drywall. It smells stale.

  This time, the hallway down to the bedrooms is clear. The first door on the right is a child’s room, what had been an office in the other house. I close the door solemnly, eyes dragging across the plastic toys and princess bed.

  Ahead is the next bedroom. There is a poster on the door from a movie that had just come out a few months before the end; a remake of an old TV show from the 80’s about a puppet alien that eats cats. And, people were starving in the world…

  I peek into the room, but it is as I dimly remember. Another kid’s room; trashed and reeking from some dead animal. I close this door.

  The master bedroom awakens foggy memories, brought back to the surface, perhaps facilitated by my rum buzz. I check the closet. There are three boxes of .40mm. I don’t have anything that uses .40mm, but I take them anyway to trade. Pushing aside some hanging clothes, I discover what I had hoped to find. Boots.

  The guy must have been fresh back from Iraq or Afghanistan, because his gear is still in the rucksack. Afraid he would be going back soon, or just trying to ignore it? I pull out pants and check the label. He was much taller and thinner than me, even in my more slender present condition. But the boots are my size.

  I pull a mouse nest out of the left one, dumping some ancient cat food and newspaper on the floor. They look a touch too big, but just. The old army adage. There are two sizes of clothes: too big and doesn’t fit.

  I’m smiling now as I kick off my crappy sneakers and walk over to the dresser. I grab a bunch of socks and some underwear. Peeling off the almost clay-like black tubes that had been passing for my socks, I wipe my feet on a bed sheet and try on my new boots.

  Perfect.

  Walking back through the house, I feel like I’m an inch taller, and I feel more confident. I step out through the broken slider. Looking at the handle, I can see that it was unlocked the whole time.

  Never mind, the destruction hatches an idea.

  The garage door slides up with a protesting squeal. I sweep my eyes over the junk; rakes, shovel, riding lawn mower, and some cans of paint and chemicals. I step in, my shadow looming long. The gas can has only about an inch left in it.

  Walking back around to the circle, I begin at the yellow house, then blue, and lastly the brown, throwing a splash of gas on the side of each. I set my pack and the AK in the center of the cul-de-sc, and carefully ignite the fire.

  It feels good to watch the fires, each starting slowly, then roaring to life. The thought of these slowly rotting memorials to an age of waste and trivial amusements laying here haunting my senses, was too much to bear. Better that they burn. Much better the past is consumed and forgotten.

  I sit on the ground next to my few new possessions and sip at the bottle of rum. The heat begins to get to me, so I grab my stuff and walk out on the street towards the road, AK in one arm, bottle of rum dangling from the other. I don’t feel like staying out here anymore so decide to head back to the barn, hoofing it. Bust these boots into shape! There is just enough light to make it, and I make a game of it, which will last longer? The booze or the sun?

  Tossing back another swallow, I feel the flicker of pressure in my head. Behind me, and forceful. I quicken my pace.

  ⃰ ⃰ ⃰

  The pavement is grey, bleached by the sun and it sparkles as the daylight hits exposed mica. I can feel the weight and shape of the cans in my pack as they rub against my back, to the rhythm of my gait.

  I pause next to an old abandoned red truck for a moment to catch my breath.

  The sun is hot, and I bow my head, staring at the ground. Sweat rolls down the tip of my nose, and I fight the sudden tickle-urge to shake my head, watching the drop fall to make a damp starburst on the baked pavement.

  I tilt back the heavy glass bottle of rum watching the sun cast corded bands through the dark liquid. I swallow.

  Perhaps I am not making the best decisions; running and drinking straight rum out here in the sun. But, I am feeding on the energy from the fires; dark columns of smoke rise on the not too distant horizon—that and the increasing pressure coming up from behind, have me all excited.

  The road runs in a straight line here, roughly twelve miles between the farm and Salem. Whatever approaches, it’s dead, alive and dead, rather. And, it’s moving faster than anything I’ve felt so far with my new perception.

  It scares me, but I can’t help but want to see.

  I drink the last of the rum and toss the empty bottle towards the way I’m headed. It smashes in a very satisfactory manner.

  Where have I caught this destructive bug?

  Probably relates to the rising irritability brought on by a lack of THC.

  Enough. Let the thing come and I’ll deal with it.

  I toss my pack under the truck and out of the sun. I pick up the AK. It’s ready to rumble, twenty-nine in the banana clip, one round seated. I thumb down the safety lever and put the truck between myself and whatever this way comes.

  The metal of the truck is hot and warms my skin through the clothes I’m wearing. I snap back my wrist when some exposed skin slips onto the metal. Hot enough to fry an egg.

  My sweat pours and I’m watching the road now.

  It can’t be far off. The pressure builds.

  There, topping the slight rise that has concealed it, comes a form human. Tall and lean and oddly familiar. Something about the clothes registers in my mind but is consumed and discarded by my intense focus. It’s closer now, not running, but leaning forward so that it must shuffle its feet quickly, or fall forward.

  The familiarity increases as it closes on my position. Minus his hat, it looks like… It’s Stetson. His mouth is wide, and I can see that his throat has been chewed out; an awful brown red fan staining his checkered shirt.

  “What the fuck!?” I hear myself yell.

  He is twenty yards away now, and I can see that he looks fresh, that is, not too long dead. A shame. I liked they guy even if I still couldn’t remember his name. Ed?

  I raise my AK and sight in on his chest. One to slow him down, then I’ll walk up to finish him off.

  The report sounds wrong. There is smoke and I realize that I am on my back. My arms and face sting. My eyes are watery. Where?

  I hear Stetson’s body slam into the truck, and he staggers, feet beating a staccato on the pavement. He’s rounding the truck, and I can barely see. My arms hurt, and I feel warmth and wetness. The pressure in my mind is so intense now, overpowering the pain. The sensation of him drawing near overwhelms my senses, and I can only think: “Well, this is it.”

  I don’t want to feel it happen. I don’t want to feel those teeth, those tearing stubs of fingers and the dull vacuous tug of my bowels being ripped from my abdominal cavity. I’ve seen it, but can’t imagine feeling it. I panic, scraping my heels against the hot, hot tar, but blinded, I know how futile the gesture is. Numb, I flee into my mind, seeking escape.

  The magnets in my head.

  One me. One him.

  Drawing toward each other.

  His shadow falls over me, and I cringe in a final moment of desperation. Something flips in my mind.

  The magnet sensation is different, rather than two magnets held apart by millimeters, trying desperately to connect. I feel the opposite, a repulsion. Two magnets refusing to touch.

  The ghostly finger touch in my mind eases. He, recedes.

  What just happened?

  I try to stand. I am able to pull myself up now, holding onto the hot truck, no strength in my legs. Hanging onto the side of the bed like a drowning sailor
, I go to wipe my eyes, but my hands are covered in blood and glass from the damn bottle, so I don’t.

  I blink and try to focus on the scene around me, my vision in still watery and out of focus, but I can kinda see. I am whole, but leaking a lot of red stuff.

  I cast about quickly, looking for Stetson. His form is retreating into the distance, back toward town. The sensation in my mind is fading.

  My AK is on the ground, a tiny smoke wisp escaping from the ballooned and burst barrel. God damn it all to hell! I pick it up, wincing at the sensation of tiny cuts opening on my arm as I do so. The tip of the bullet, copper point, peeks out from the end of the barrel. The barrel itself is torn open, breached. I scream and throw it into the bushes.

  My vision is clearer, but still my eyes water like they’ve been stung by teargas. I remove my jacket slowly. There are several small cuts, probably caused by fragments of the barrel when it popped. They ooze, my blood thinned by the rum. Nothing squirting or pumping. I’ll live, I think.

  My pack; I look for the band aids I acquired in the house. Tiny, old plastic band aids, they are useless.

  I toss my jacket onto the truck. It’s ruined. I cut some long strips from it, and wind them around the cuts, tightly. I bleed less.

  My head is cloudy and dazed and I realize that I might be in shock. The road beneath me is a puddle of blood. I feel light headed.

  The barn is only a couple miles away. I can make it. I grab my pack and start off down the road, going over what happened in my mind. After a few steps, I double back and retrieve the clip from the ruined AK. Waste not.

  Damn.

  The sun is low and at my back, burning my neck. I force myself to walk straight and not too slow. Dazed, I plod on, leaving a pitiful drop of blood or two every few steps.

  It feels like the longest mile I’ve ever walked. My feet protest from fatigue and also the odd blister from the unfamiliar boots.

  I keep moving.

  The sun is gone when the barn welcomes me home. My mind is clearer but I feel colder than I should in this heat. I toss wood from the small pile near the fire into a tall jumble and set it ablaze.