The Zom Diary (16 page)

     “John and John,” He begins, and pauses, furrowing his brow.  “I never thought it was odd that they had the same name.  Anyway, they were lovers.  Homosexuals.  I think that’s why Molly liked having them on her team, no leering lustful eyes.”

    I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, and Molly stumbles into the loft, a huge smile on her face.  She is carrying a massive bottle of whiskey.

     “Ha!  Look what I found, and it’s all mine, you greedy fucks!”

     She is true to her word.  I offer her my weed, even some ammo, but she won’t give me a sip.  Not a damned drop.  I sit on the floor, back to the wall, blanket wrapped around me.  As the last of the light fades, I can still see her sipping her bottle with a huge grin on her face.

Chapter 13

     I am up early the next morning.  The sun is just starting to shine through the slats of the vent above me; the only opening to the outside world up in the loft.  Molly is passed out face down in her pile of blankets, bottle laying on its side inches from her fingers.  The cap is missing and some of the whiskey has spilled onto the floor and blankets.

     Looking about me, I see that Bryce is absent.  His blanket and rifle are missing as well.  I stoop and grab the bottle from the floor and walk back to my things.  Rummaging around in my pack, I pick out a water bottle that is half empty.  I drink it, and then fill it with about ten ounces of the good stuff.

     I cap the small bottle and put it in my bag.  Walking softly, trying not to make any boards creak, I replace the whiskey bottle where I found it on the floor.  I did rescue her after all.

    I grab my gear, check my rifle, and walk out.

     Bryce is rummaging through the dead men’s packs, and I join him at the tailgate of the truck.  He looks neat and freshly shaven despite having spent the night on a hard wood floor in an abandoned garage in the middle of nowhere.  Some people have a talent for tidiness, I do not.  Bryce looks up from the pack.

     “Good morning!” 

     “Yes, it is.”  I set my pack and rifle in the bed of the truck and fish out the bottle of whiskey, taking a quick sip.

     “You know you have a drinking problem, you know that, right?”

     “It’s my apocalypse, too, Bryce.  You enjoy it your way and I’ll enjoy it mine.”

     “Fine.  Just don’t get too plowed.  I need you to drive.  You don’t want Molly to catch you sneaking her booze either.”

     I take a big swig and resist the urge to wince, it is rough stuff. 

     “She owes me anyway.”

     “I hope she’s as grateful as you hope she is.”

     I take another swig; the bottle is half empty. 

     “What’s her deal anyway?”

     Bryce looks thoughtful, like he is choosing his words carefully.  I’ve notice that he uses this reluctance when talking about subjects that make him uncomfortable.  Perfect politician—careful with his words when they matter, and always judging for opportunities.

     “The best way to get to know someone is to ask, but seeing how she can be a little hard to ‘get to know’ I’ll let you in on what I know, which is not a lot.”  He glances back towards the garage then looks me in the eyes, lowering his voice, “She was just a kid when things went down, maybe fourteen.  The cities were rough at the start, obviously, but especially in some areas and especially for a girl with nobody looking out for her.”  He motions for the bottle of whiskey. Swallows. Continues.

     “L.A. was bad.  Really.  Once it was obvious that things weren’t going to get better, and that law was over, well, people took advantage of what they could.  Looting, settling old scores, things that evil people pursue when the curtain drops, when the lights go out.  Eventually most of these folks would have turned on each other, or starved when the steaks and beers ran out, or perhaps some are still out there, in smaller bands.  I didn’t stick around to find out.  There were camps,” he lowers his voice further, “rape gulags; women were herded into tennis courts and warehouses.”  He stops speaking, and shrugs. 

     “So you rescued her?”

     “No.  I never knew her before she showed up in Salem.  I wanted to help those people, the ones I did see, but it wasn’t possible.  You can’t just walk up to a mob of armed men and make demands.”

     I nod.  I have been taking small sips and the bottle is almost gone.   

     “So how did she get away?”

     “I don’t know.  She hasn’t shared that with me, and frankly a lot of what I just told you are things that I know, but we all pretend not to know, if you understand what I’m saying.”

     “So she just showed up one day?”

     He nods, and lets out a deep breath, “Yes, she crawled up to the gate one night, half-starved and dehydrated.  We nursed her back and got her to talk again.  She was a little feral there for a while, but one of the women in town was a counselor, and she had seen things like this before.  We tried setting her up with a homesteader, and it just didn’t work out, she, well she’s got issues.”

     “Oh?  I thought growing the community was a top priority, wouldn’t you try to get her hooked up with someone and raising kids?”

     “Well,” he looks frustrated, and, as if, perhaps he is worried he is saying too much, “Who would want her?  All those men having her, and there is no reliable medicine.  If you catch something, it’s permanent now right?  Or fatal.” 

     I feel like the town gossip, and like I’ve heard too much.  I guess it is my fault for asking.  I decide to keep my curiosity under wraps from now on.  I chuck the empty bottle in the bed of the truck and grab my rifle.  I hit the clip release and pull the drum out.  Laying a handkerchief on the tailgate, I start to thumb the rounds out one at a time.  Sixty-seven left.  I grab some spare ammo from the pack and carefully load the drum again.  I put it back and feel a small click as it seats into the rifle.  Bryce seems happy to be done with the conversation, but I wonder at the implications all the same.

     Molly has been through some awful shit, and now she is like some kind of diseased outcast in town?  No wonder she leads these runs for supplies.  She must be one tough mother to last this long, and all on her own.  Good to keep that in mind.  She is attractive enough, I am surprised no one has fallen for her, cooties or not.  Bryce clears his throat and nods toward my gear.   

     “Hey, can I borrow your rifle today?  My plan is to make for the clinic once she’s up.  You can drive and she’ll give you directions.  I’ll stay in the bed of the truck and pick off any zombies that I see.  Is that scope dialed in?”

     “Not really, I haven’t messed with it in a while, and I’m used to compensating for how it shoots.  High and right.  You can borrow it, but you need to replace the ammo you use, or give me some compensation.”

     “Right.  Well, first off, I’ll let you keep that apartment in town that you want.  Second, you can come in for any of the medical supplies you might need since you’re a contributing member of the town now.  As far as getting ammo out of me, I think you should stop being greedy and consider that I’ll be covering your ass with the rounds I shoot.  You volunteered to be here, and it’s your ticket into our society.”

     Not the answer I was hoping for.

     “Fine, but I think you should be more forgiving.  You folks trade with ammo and treat it like money.  Just seems wrong to use up my personal stash and just expect it without asking.  I’m helping you out by being here.”

     “I’m grateful for your help.  Look, I’m asking to use it; not telling you.  If you really want, you can take your truck and all your stuff and go now.  I never wanted to run the show, but I’m good at it.  I think we can make a nice place to live if people will just get along and help each other out.  If you don’t want to be part of that, then go back to your barn and have a nice life.”

     I stop to think.  Having a stable buffer of civilization between me and the chaos/hordes of undead out west can only benefit me.  I just hope when all this is over, I can cut ties if I want and go back to my old routines.  I hand him the rifle and give him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

     “All right, you lead the way, man.  Just remember me the next time you guys knock off a coffee warehouse.”

    He smiles and it looks genuine.  “Kyle, if I have it my way, you’ll be there with us picking the beans.  Anyway, I’m going to go adjust this sight.  If she’s not up in ten, get her going.”

     And with that, he makes his way out past the scrub and marks off an “X” on the trunk of a young oak with his knife.  I decide that if the AR-15 doesn’t wake her up, there was no way I can.

     A moment later, I hear Molly screaming upstairs.  I swing the door open and call up the stairs, “You ok up there?”

     I wait at the door hesitantly, hearing no reply before going up the stairs.  When I do, I can see she is curled up on her back staring at the slant of the roof.  Slats of sunlight light her blanket as she lies there.  “Hey.”  I say softly. 

     She turns and looks at me before she answers in a hoarse voice, “I spilled my whiskey.”

     “That sucks.  Bryce wants to get moving.  You’re supposed to ride with me and give directions.  He’s going to sharp-shoot from the back of the truck.”

     She groans and turns the empty bottle upside down looking for another drop.  Giving up, she stands, wearing only a t-shirt and boxers.  She raises an eyebrow at me.  “You going to help me get dressed?”

     “Can’t I just watch?”

     She smiles, kicks the bottle away and hops into her pants.

     “I miss my Johns.”

     “I bet”

     I turn and make my way back to the truck, make sure my gear is stowed, and check under the hood.  Bryce walks back over and is looking appreciatively at my rifle.

     “Well.  It shoots straight now.  I hope I don’t need to use it too much.”

     “Lord willing and the dead don’t rise.”

Chapter 14

     It is close to mid-morning when we pull out of the driveway, Bryce holding on to the roof when the truck rocks, tires rolling over bodies.  I turn right and Molly says that we are ten or twelve miles from the clinic.  I turn some music on and concentrate on my driving.  Not a mile down the road, Bryce slaps his hand on the roof for me to stop.  We both sit up and look around, but don’t see anything.  The rifle cracks, and I hear a round ping off the pavement.  Bryce hollers:

     “Got it!”

     I start back down the road, nice and slow.  I have a couple of fresh joints left and a couple of roaches snuggled in the ash tray.  I light one of the bigger ones and pass it to Molly.  She says, “thanks” and we continue on our way, passing the remains of cars and people on the road, and the remains of the roach between our hands.  My mind hums in time with the stuttering chug of the truck’s engine.

     One summer back when I was first in college, I’d worked for a moving company.  For a kid right out of high school, the pay was decent and there was the promise of plenty hours, tips and a chance to see the country.  The long hauls were my best shot of seeing the road, so I volunteered for these trips when they came up.  What I saw out on those big interstates was startling repetition; the same chain stores every fifteen miles.  Never could one be in danger of going without cheap food or huge stores packed to the gills with crap from China.  It was our new culture and it spread like milfoil, turning a glassy pond into a weed choked dessert.  America.

     It seems that Preston, California had been isolated from this effect.  Pulling into town, I recognize the rotting hulk of one fast-food place and there is a drugstore that bears the scars of changing corporate hands, CVS to Walgreens to Rite-Aid, each giving it a go in town before moving on, but most of the other places look local.  We move past this small commercial zone and turn onto the main street.  Most of it looks like a touristy anachronism; a wild-west silver town in the middle of nowhere.

     Turning off Main St., away from the tourist attractions and saloons, I am directed by Molly on which turns to make.  Not two blocks from the main street the roads turn to gravel and small whippy trees have begun to grow in the road.  Potholes, dips and washouts make our route veer right and left, the truck like a great vessel tacking for wind, driven by a half-wasted captain, me, and I am about half wasted.

     I pull over when Bryce pounds the roof again.  Rather than the crack of the rifle that I expect, he leans his face through the back sliding window and asks, “Molly, is there a garage around here?  I want to get Kyle some proper shocks for this rig, and it is going to need some basic repairs at some point if we’re going to keep it on the road.”

     She said yes and that we could hit it on the way back out of town.  Bryce retreats back up to his ready position snapping a quick, “Keep your eyes open.  We’re not alone.”

     I weave past old rotting cars, skeletons, and the mess that is the road all the way to the front entrance of the clinic.  It is a big spread-out modern looking affair about the size of a high school building.  It seems out of place in such a small town.  When I remark about this Molly explains that it was a regional center, and that along with ambulances, the facility had maintained a helicopter as well, making LA and the coast hospitals an option.

     The drive to the emergency entrance is blocked by the blackened remains of an ambulance that had crashed through the sliding glass doors.  A skeleton lays across the hood where it had come to rest after exploding through the windshield.  I turn to Molly.

     “Where was that big crowd of zombies?”

     “We came across them in the cafeteria.  There were almost two hundred of them standing around; some still sitting in their chairs.  We didn’t hear much when we pressed our ears to the doors; just a couple scrabbling at the walls, one knocked over a chair.  We thought we could peek in then decide if we could take them.  As soon as the door opened, it was like an avalanche.  They’d sensed us and started moving to the doors, packing themselves in tight.  The smell…”

     She trails off, and remains silent.  I put the truck in park, bed facing the doors again in case we have to leave quickly.  I poke my head out the window and see Bryce looking over at the flag pole.  The rope makes a clanging noise as the wind pulls the remains of the flag; sun-bleached, frayed and wrapped around the middle of the pole.  I cut the engine and leave the keys in the ignition.

    Stepping out onto the grey pavement, I test my ankle.  It hurts, but I feel ok to walk or maybe even jog.  This may become a pressing issue if I have to run for my life.  I hear Molly get out of the passenger side, and I turn to meet Bryce at the tail gate, and we begin to check our gear.

     I am still wearing the same get up from before, my sensible filthy clothes.  I have my Glock 21 belted on my waist with two spare thirteen-round clips in my pocket; forty rounds total with one round chambered.  I hang my hammer back in its loop, and grab a spare backpack; empty except for some scavenge essentials; small pry bar, multi-bit screw driver, and a knife.  Bryce hands me an LED head lamp.

     “Here, you can borrow this.  The batteries are fresh, so please don’t lose it.”

     He pulls out one for himself, and I see that Molly has one, too.   Handy things to have.  I wonder where they have gotten them.  LED’s last forever and are super efficient.  Four AAA’s give the lamp 120 hours of light at full power.  If I can walk off with one of these, that will make the whole trip worth it.

     Bryce makes a show of double-checking the rifle and getting his gear together. Molly shakes her head.  She doesn’t seem concerned with our preparations, seemingly only needing a good stretch and limbering up, bouncing on her heels as we adjust our packs.  Bryce nods his head to himself, then turns to us.

    “Ok.  This place is crawling with zombies.  They must be locked in rooms, because it doesn’t seem like they can get to us.  Wait.  Here comes one.”

     We turn to the doors and I see it/her.  She has wild blond hair, and her yellow skin is covered in tattoos; even her hands.  Her clothing is a hospital gown; an IV trailing behind her.  The crack of the AR going off makes me jump.  The thing’s hair whips forward or rather, its head whips back obliterated by the .223 round.  Molly lets out a slow whistle, turns to me and winks.  Bryce chimes up:

     “Right, Molly, you lead the way to the supplies.  I’ll be right up front with you.  Try to point out the bad areas.  Kyle, you bring up the rear.  I’ll keep your rifle and try to do the best I can with it in these close quarters.  Molly, do you need anything?”

     She shakes her head, “I’m good.  I want to have my hands free anyway.  Just keep them off me.”

     Bryce sets his jaw.  “Alright, remember, meds in fridges are useless.  Try for stuff with a shelf life.  Sterile bandages, scalpels, the emergency supplies back in the café where the crowd was—that’s gold.  Let’s go get it.”

    Stepping over the corpse of the tattoo chick and through the entrance, my boots crunch on the fine chunks of tempered glass and grind them into the tiles with a nails-on-the-chalkboard effect.  We all pause in the reception area and let our eyes adjust.  The sun is bright outside; almost noon, and this lends a fair amount of light to the corridor ahead of us.  Still, I click on the LED and position the beam on the floor ahead of me.

     I poke my head into the receptionist’s area.  I dump a huge white leather purse that I see behind the counter.  Old cigarettes and a lighter go into my pocket.

     Molly leads us on.  She steps lightly; her arms at her sides, palms parallel to the ground.  Bryce walks beside her; my AR-15 held at his shoulder, pointing ahead.  He puts his left hand up, and we stop.  Around the corner, a zombie dressed as an orderly walks out in front of us.  Crack!  The sound of the rifle makes my ears ring.  The rifle is loud as hell indoors.  We continue.

     Turning the corner, Molly leads us through double doors into a dispensary.  We ignore the glass and stainless steel fridge and check shelves instead; aspirin, Motrin, muscle relaxers, antibiotics, Cipro.  Expired, but it might still work.  We fill Molly’s backpack.  She walks in front of us with it open, and when it is full of pills, antiseptic, gauze, etc, we move on.

     The next stop is a supply closet behind the nurse’s station.  Another purse, another lighter.  Nurses were smokers, I guess.  This time we fill up Bryce; gauze, sterile compresses, rubbing alcohol, bandages, scissors, syringes, and yes, even some surgical implements freshly repacked from the autoclave.  Bryce is looking worried.

     “OK, some zombies are moving toward us.  We must have passed a barrier that was stopping them.”  He notices our puzzled expression.  “I know, but if one was walking face against a wall, and we pass the line of the wall, it will turn and be able to move toward us.”

     I nod.

     “So, keep an eye out, and I’ll try to make sense of this jumble in my head.  No promises.”

     It looks like Bryce’s ability is a great warning system outside, but, packed in here, it is obviously not as effective.  I snap the strap that holds my Glock, and ease it in the holster.  Sometimes the snap sticks, and in these tight halls, I want it to be ready.

    Our shoes and boots click on the smooth tiles of the hallway.  Click, click, click—echoing down the hall.  Bryce raises his left hand.  We stop.  The clicking continues.  It echoes around us; louder now.

    From in front of us, walking into the hallway on both sides, a half dozen zombies appear; a nurse, a few patients, and another of those soldiers with a UN helmet on.  And again, behind us somewhere, more clicking heels.

     Bryce raises his voice above a whisper, “Don’t panic, don’t run.  Do not let yourself get cornered.  Molly, take my pack.  I’m going to check up ahead, and deal with these zombies.  You two go back the way we came.  There are only one or two back there.  Don’t open any doors that we haven’t checked. OK?”

     Molly taps my arm.  “Fuck this, can I borrow that hammer?”

     “Yeah, of course.”

     I pull it from the loop and hand it to her.  Why the hell had she wanted to come in here empty handed anyway?  She grips the handle and takes a practice swing, holding it before her with both hands, like a talisman. 

     Bryce calls over his shoulder, “I’ll see you at the truck.  And don’t come back in here for me.  I have a plan, but it will only work if they go after you guys.  If you have to take off, honk the horn and I’ll find my own way out and meet up with you later.  Go!”

    Bryce keeps walking toward the six or seven zombies that shuffle down the hall.  He braces himself, leaning on a tipped gurney.  Ejected shells flash past the avocado-green tile stripe running hip high the whole way along the wall; ugly, obligatory hospice décor.  Crack, crack, crack.  The AR-15 thunders in the hallway.  My ears ring, barely able to make out the sound of the zoms violent second deaths, as heads explode and bullets rip through walls behind their marks.  The spent casings ring on the tiles, and I realize I am walking backwards; enrapt, watching the spectacle.  Shocking pain brings me back to my senses.

      My ankle!  I must have stepped on something sharp, I think.  I try to raise my leg and it won’t budge, Molly screams, “No!”  Looking down at my ankle, I see there is latched to my leg, a skinny naked man, chewing on me.

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     The handle of my Glock always feels big in my hands but in a comforting way.  A .45 hollow point is an evil round; a man stopper.  At point blank range, it makes the head of the zombie that is biting my leg explode like a melon.  More pain accompanies this event.  Perhaps too late, I realize that I have caught some fragments.  My heart pounds and I realize.  I am totally fucked.

     Molly looks dazed for all of five seconds before she books it up the hallway to Bryce.  His foot lays on the chest of the last zombie as he finishes it with a head shot.  He spins on Molly when she grabs him; so intent is he on his business.  The butt of the AR catches her jaw, and I realize, as she slides down the wall to rest on her side, that I too am sinking, slowly, into a slumped position.

     I go to my pack to get a knife, only it isn’t my pack.  It is Bryce’s.  My leg bleeds steadily, but I don’t think it has hit an artery or anything.  It just oozes.  I can feel it filling my boot.  The bastard had lifted my pant leg somehow, or bitten through it.  Dark.  Too dark in here to get a good look at my leg.  The floor tiles feel good; cold and smooth.  My head feels light.  The more I fight the rising panic, the more it secures me in its grip.  Voices are buzzing around me.  Bryce and Molly.  I struggle as hands pry my Glock free from my hand and push me down.  A tightness around my calf, and now; lifting.  My vision; black and grey.  I’m flying.