The Zom Diary (31 page)

     Bryce nods, “Yeah, he’s our best bet, if he’s around.  Otherwise, I can scrounge for some stuff around here, but it will take more time.  Most likely Dirt will have something ready now.”

     “Who is this guy, and why do you call him Dirty?”

     Bryce shrugs, “He just showed up one day.  I told him the deal and he moved into a house on the edge of town.  He’s kind of a free spirit.  Likes to blow shit up.  I set him straight after the first time he set one off around here.  Anyhow, if we need explosives, he’s got them.”

     “And the name?”

     “That’s what he calls himself.  Molly wants to come, so I guess it will be the three of us.

     Molly speaks up as I turn to leave.  “That’s right. No more sneaking off, lover boy, your ass is mine.”  She smacks his ass with a loud crack.  Bryce tries to swat her away.

     I ignore them and the twisted newness of their flirting.  Bryce looks uncomfortable, glancing around to see who’s looking.  I put my head down and keep on walking. I wave good-bye to Silas, he’s muttering to himself “…no good soapless motherfucker…” I smile and brace myself for the outside glare.  It is bright and the sky is clear.  I make my way across the street, noticing a plastic sandwich bag stuck to the pavement, the first trash I‘ve seen here.  Over my shoulder, I hear Bryce conversing in low tones with the father of the dead kid, fallen the week before.  Offering condolences?  Or, telling him about the prophet?  I get to the truck and unlock the passenger side door.

     Bryce wants to drive, so I toss him the keys, and, as I turn, Molly hops in the passenger seat.  OK.  I grab the AK and hop in the bed and nod to Bryce as he gets in, shouting:

     “Hey, take it easy this time.  I don’t want to fall out.”

     The truck rumbles to life, and I notice a high whining noise, a bad belt?  I check the AK, assume a wide stance, and hold on, as we pull out and approach the gate.  Same guard, looking bored, we exit the town’s fortification and take our first right.  It’s difficult to hold on and keep the AK ready, but I manage some dignity despite my beard being forked by the wind and whipping up into my face.  I feel like a real badass.

     Small town America:  houses, Walgreens, school, liquor store and such, some boarded up, some burnt out, some just looking like skeletons.  I see a couple of those as well; mostly in cars.  No one wants to deal with that scene.  I can’t blame them.

     Internally, I can sense nothing.   No hits from any zombies.  This close to town, that element of danger, at least, has been cleaned out.  After a few twists and turns, we come to a long road that leads to a dead end and to our stop.

     It’s an old garage, complete with an impound lot fenced off with twelve foot tall chain-link, topped with barbed wire and concertina wire; wicked stuff.  It’s hard to see all the way behind the shop, but from here it looks like most of the cars are gone, save for a pair of old VW Komvi’s.  One’s on blocks and half striped, presumably to keep the other in service.  The rest of the lot is shockingly green.  Tilled and sown with a variety of veggies.  I see a row of pot mixed in with the rest; a good sign.

     Bryce shuts off the truck and honks the horn, but there is no reply.  We all get out and walk to the front door.  Someone has done a good job barricading the place up, but there is a gap in the boards and tin at about eye level.  Bryce shades his eyes and leans forward to look in the window.  He tries the door.  It’s open.

     A bell jangles as we walk in, and Bryce calls out, ”Hello?”  Nothing.  The place smells earthy.  Not dirty, just kind of like soil and plants.  I follow Bryce through a beaded curtain in the back, and we come into a sunny room dominated by a huge couch bearing a sleeping figure.

     He’s wearing overalls and an old Grateful Dead t-shirt.  I start to walk over with everyone else when a putrid smell hooks my nose and makes me pause.

    “Oh, God!”

     Bryce grimaces, too, and points to a foul pair of deer skin moccasins laying next to the man’s feet.  Molly shakes him and shouts, “Get up!”

     The man groans and sits up, pausing to look us over before slipping on the evil smelling footwear and rubbing his eyes.  He has a bad sunglasses tan that makes him look kind of like a raccoon.  A raccoon with a blond ponytail.  Dirty.

     He gets up and pours some clear green fluid into a coffee mug.  Tea?  He takes a sip and addresses Bryce in a friendly tone.  “Hey man, what’s up?”

     “Hi, Dirt, sorry to barge in like this.  We need your help.”

     “Right on, who’s your friend?”

     I offer my hand and he shakes it, an amused look on his face, the action seems foreign to him.

     “Hey, I’m Kyle.  I need a big fucking bomb.”

     A smile splits his face, and his grip intensifies, “Kyle!  Rad beard.  OK, I can help, call me Christopher, this Dirty business is getting old.”

     Bryce just shakes his head.  Dirty turns and so we follow him through a door and into the bay of the garage.  He’s moving fast for someone who just woke up, a real natural hyper energy.  The room we enter smells like oil and rubber.  There is still a car on one of the lifts, suspended there.  The other side of the place is like something out of an anarchist’s wet dream.

     Propane tanks, TNT, jars of chemicals, pipes, batteries, cell phones, gasoline, black powder, and cabinets stocked with weird odds and ends.  Dirty claps his hands, which makes Bryce and Molly jump, and then he turns to us.

     “So, what are we talking about?  Pipe bomb or end of the world?”

     Bryce pulls over a folding chair; I lean against the wall, Molly is eyeing the car on the lift, poking around the underbody, she almost seems like she’s purposefully ignoring Dirty.  Old flame? 

     Bryce speaks, “As big as we can make it and still have it be portable.  We need to pack it through some rough terrain.”

     “Alright, where are we taking it?”

     Surprise flashes across Bryce’s face.

     “You want to go?”

    “Shit, yeah, I want to see it go off.”

    “This is a kind of dangerous mission.  Are you sure?”

    Dirty nods, “It’s the danger that gets me off.  So, where are we headed?”

    Bryce looks at me, so I take over.

     “Out past my place, East over the hills and out in the desert.  We think we’ve found a place where the zombies are gathering.  They seem to be drawn to it, so we want to destroy it.”

     “Crazy.  Ok, here’s what we’ll do.”  He turns and starts to grab stuff, “We’ll use a couple of propane tanks, these are full.  Huge fireballs.  And…here’s some road flares and dynamite.  Don’t get these babies confused. Duct-tape…”  He trails off and unlocks some padlocks on a chest “…and some c-4…” He takes a brown wrapped block about six inches by four and an inch thick and places it on the workbench.  “OK, so where exactly are we putting this?  Outside, inside, above ground, below, in water?  What?”

     I tell him about the cave and tunnel, minus the evil crawling ball of limbs that chased us out of there.  He is paying such close attention that it is unnerving, one of those people that locks eyes with you and never blinks.  He seems to chew the info before speaking.

     “Tricky, we’re not going to want to be down there when it goes off.”  He looks over a couple of cell phones, then puts them down.  He grabs a spool of blue twine instead and winks at me.  “Hobby wick.”  He grabs a small gym bag and puts the wick, TNT, tape, and brick of c-4 in together.  The flare he hands to Bryce.  At last he seems satisfied.

     “We’ll duct tape the c-4 to the propane tanks and set a long fuse.  I’ll tape a flare on it as a fail safe.  If the wick goes out, one of us will have to go back and shoot the tanks.  Either way, it should be a big fucking explosion.”

     “Right on.” I say.

     Then Molly speaks, “What’s the TNT for?”

     “Blow the tunnel, or whatever.”

     Bryce and Dirty start to talk about gardening and some other stuff, so I excuse myself and walk back outside.  The scenery is neat.  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to so much quiet, though.  Walking around this neighborhood; houses and cars slowly being swallowed by weeds, rust and time, but it’s odd to see so much civilization with so little noise.  It’s like being in a movie with the sound on mute.

     The shadows are long when I finally get back, and the crew is loading the truck with the tanks and Dirty’s gear.

     Bryce waves.  “Hey! I wondered where you went.  We’re all set here, Dirty’s coming back to town with us.  We’ll get some sleep there and head out early tomorrow.”

    “Sounds good.”

     I hop into the bed of the truck and lie on my back watching one lonely, tiny cloud pass overhead.  A confused bee buzzes my face before flying off.  A few minutes later, Dirty hops up into the truck and sits next to me on the wheel well.  He waves.  I sit up.

     “Is that all of your gear?”  I nod toward his small pack.

     “Yep.”  He replies.

     “No gun?”

     “Nope.”  He pats a hammer hanging from a loop on his pants.  “I do ok without them.”

     “I’ve heard that before.”

     It’s hard to tell his expression with his sunglasses on, but he seems at home out-of-doors.  He pulls a cigarette out of a newish looking pack.  He offers me one, I accept.

     “Where’d you score these?”

     “Gas station.  I’ll sell you a carton if you want.”

     “Thanks.”

     Right then the door to the truck closes, and the engine starts up.  Bryce parks back at the library, and I hop out, grabbing the keys, before heading across the street to the apartment building.  Bryce, Molly, and Dirty make plans for drinks after dark at Silas’.  I tell them I’ll be around later.  First, I want a real shower and some time to myself.

Chapter 31

     The air in the apartment smells a little stale, so I toss open the windows.  Golden light bathes the street below.  I pull up my chair and light the cigarette that I bummed off of Dirty.  An odd person, I think.

     Earlier, on the short trip from his place to the gate, he had banged the side of the truck for Bryce to stop.  I was puzzled by his excitement, all I saw at the corner he hooted at was an old la-z-boy chair, threadbare and rusty, grass growing through the springs.  Dirty, however, had walked right to the side of this mess and bent over, grabbing something between thumb and forefinger.

     Hopping back into the truck, he showed me his treasure.  A gold ring, an engagement ring, with a large square diamond. He smiled and pocketed the thing matter-of-fact into the big chest-pocket on his overalls.

     “They fall off the bastards fingers when they rot.  There must be millions of ‘em out here.”

     I was surprised at his sudden gold lust, but then he explained his collection to me as we rounded the great fortification of Salem:”I don’t think they are worth much, now, but hell, I like them.  I guess I’m kind of like the new American arrowhead hunter.  Besides, never know when you’ll meet the right girl.”  A very odd man.

     The air outside is still, and the smoke from the end of the cigarette rolls back to my hand in a straight line.  I am finding the things to be a poor substitute for pot, or coffee, but on some level, it sates my need for a vice.

     Down on the street, the shadows are getting long and from my vantage, I can see that someone has picked up that plastic bag I had seen earlier.  A pristine sight, save for the lack of many people to enjoy it.

     I sit for a long time, finally flicking the butt out the window when I am done, listening to the steady creak and stir of the windmills and not much else.  The street light flickers and buzzes slowly to life as the sun rolls off on its merry way.

     I want to grab a drink or two before meeting the others, so I leave the window and wander over to my kitchen area.  After a brief rummage, I find the bottle of bourbon as I left it, and also a glass.  I pull the top off of the bottle and pour two fingers for myself.  I belt back about half, then sip the rest, pacing around in my small apartment.

     I stop by the bed and begin to disrobe, laying my clothes (my only set with me) on the bed to air out some.  I polish off the glass and set it back on the table before hopping into the small shower.  The water is cool and there is no soap, but I feel refreshed and much cleaner when I step out.

     I continue my pacing, letting my body air-dry as I walk.  The clothes are pretty dirty, but it’s too dry for them to really smell.  Briefly, I recall an old camping trip I had taken years before.  When the plane landed and my things were exposed to the moist air of the coast, it had worked some weird rehydration on them which had a repellent effect on the poor people around me, making the line to the bag claim a breeze.

     A similar modesty here, now.  Once I am suitably attired, I check the pistol.  It needs a good cleaning, dirt has caked onto the oily parts, but the barrel is clear, and that satisfies me.  Right before I step out, I pour another shot into the glass and tip it back, warmth spreading from my mouth to my gut.

     I set off down the steps.  The building generates its own breeze and cools the front of my shirt where my beard has failed to completely dry, leaving a damp spot.  I feel good.

    The sun has set and the sky darkens, but the sidewalks hold on to the day’s heat—it radiates up at me as I walk down to Silas’.  The door is propped open with a round rock, and light and music pour out onto the street.

     Inside, I can see Dirty at the bar talking to Silas, but no one else.  The box is playing bluegrass—the fast high-picking of a mandolin washes over me.  I greet Silas.

     “Hey, what’s special?”

     He grabs a jar from the cooler behind the bar and sets it before me.

     “Are you ever going to pay me for any of this?”

     I think for a moment, “I have forty-cal, you want that?”

     Silas’ turn to think, “How much do you have?”

     “I’ve got a couple boxes, a hundred rounds, that should square us and replenish my tab, don’t you think?”

     “Sure, I’ll float you a few for that,” he pulls the jar back toward him and crosses his arms, “where is it?”

     “Hang on.”

     I jog outside and go to the truck, unlocking it and fishing around behind the seat.  I remembered to stash those two boxes from my last scavenging run, I am sure of it.  There.

     Walking back in, I set them on the bar, and Silas opens them up, giving them a quick look.  Dirty has been sitting next to us the whole time, sunglasses still on, watching the whole exchange with an amused look on his face.  I nod at him.

     “Hey, Dirty.  Been here this whole time?”

     He sips his beer and calls out to Silas, even though he is only two feet away.  “Hey, Silas?  What’s my tab up to?”

     Silas walks over to the far side of the bar and puts the ammo on a shelf.  He answers in a less-than-kind tone, “Fuck you.”

     Dirty laughs and helps himself to the growler in front of me, fingers leaving tracks in the newly formed condensation.

    “Don’t worry Kyle, he’s got a heart of gold.”

     I pull the jar back over in front of me and pour a glass, raising it to Dirty, “To new acquaintances.”

     “Here, here!”

     The song ends, and Dirty hops off the stool and walks over to the box.  After a minute, the music starts up again; it’s the same song as before.  Silas shakes his head and wipes the bar with a white rag.

     “You’re going to wear a groove in that CD, man.”

     Dirt takes his seat and reclaims his beer.  “Get some better music, and I won’t have to.”

     Silas laughs, I keep drinking.

     A man walks into the bar and grabs a seat at the end, to my left.  He’s older, maybe early sixties, with a grey beard and bowed legs.  Silas sees him and brings him a drink.  He downs the whole thing and turns, looking at me but talking to Silas.

     “Who’s this fella supposed to be?”

     I ignore him, keeping my attention on my drink.  I glance over at Dirt and see he’s facing forward too, but I see him mouth a word.  Asshole.  I listen as Silas talks to the guy.

     “That’s Kyle, he’s new around here.  How’s life on the wall?”

      The guy taps the side of his glass, asking for another.  “New guy?  Good, we need fresh meat.  The wall is getting to be a lonely place these days.  I hope he’s a better conversationalist up there, keep my mind occupied.  Whether it’s boredom or age.  Either way, I’m cracking.”

     “Oh, how so?”  I bite.

    The guy takes another huge pull on his beer and sighs, “I was on the east wall this morning and I saw something out on the road, so I dialed in on it with my scope.  It was a zombie, but he’s just standing there, all still.  I look at his face, and I swear, it looks just like the prophet.  I swear I hit him, but it just went through him, kicked up dust, yunno?  I blink, and he’s gone.”

     Silas shakes his head and walks back to the cooler.  The guy keeps talking, softer now, muttering to himself between sips of beer, “Damnedest.  Thing.  Shit.” 

     I swallow my beer and pour another from the growler, now nearly empty. 

     Bryce and Molly step in and grab a table in the corner next to the door, she sits, Bryce comes over and pats us each on the back.  “Hey fellas.”  He calls to Silas and I grab my stuff, to go sit with Molly.  She winks at me and grabs the jug, taking a swig. 

     “Thanks,” she says.

     Bryce returns with a couple of glasses and a jug of the porter.  I notice that Dirty stays at the bar, he’s having an animated conversation with the asshole and when I ask about it Bryce just shrugs.  We settle into our own conversation and pass a pleasant time drinking beer and they start to reminisce about their favorite TV shows from their youth.  It turns out that Bryce is a huge TV fan.  It surprises me.  We never had a TV when I was growing up, so I just sit back and take it all in.  Watching the two of them, I can tell that they like each other.  It’s sickeningly adorable.

     Bryce has arranged for dinner, and we all share in it, even the grumpy fella from the wall.  His name is Pete something.  The food is simple, chicken and rice, but it tastes like the best thing ever.

     Dirty joins us after we eat and once it’s just us four, we talk about the trip.  I figure it’s time for full disclosure, so I tell the whole story to Molly and Dirt.  I try to be as detailed as I can, about the layout of the tunnel, the zombie ‘thing’ that chased us, the pool, the prophet… everything.  I add the bit that I overheard from Pete for good measure.  When I’m done, there are three solemn faces staring back at me. 

     Dirty is the first to talk, “So, let’s do it.  Blow the fucking place up.  Boom. Done.”

     Molly nods, “Seems like the best idea.  I’m still for it.”

     Bryce nods his agreement, “I’d hoped for as much.  To be honest I had hoped to have Silas along, another person sensitive to the zombies would have helped, but I trust all of your skills.  We’ll need them.  The story that Pete told you and both of our experiences; it’s a safe bet that we might have some intelligent opposition waiting for us.  We had better be prepared for the worst.”

     No kidding.

     The solemn talk seems to have killed the mood, but once Bryce and Molly excuse themselves for the night, Dirty and I go back to the bar for one last round.  I sip at mine and ask him, “You still glad you wanted to come along?”

     He shrugs, “Beats sitting around and waiting to die.”

     The thought sticks with me.  I finish my drink, say goodnight and wander back up to my room.  Sitting there in my chair next to the window, I smoke another cigarette from a fresh pack, (Dirty said he had plenty) and think about this whole mess.

     What the hell is going on out there in the desert?  The zombies have seemed like something out of an old horror flick:  dumb, bloodthirsty, but pretty easy to kill as long as you remain calm and don’t get mobbed.  I’ve come to terms with this, I can live with this.  As crazy as it is, it isn’t as crazy as what I’ve experienced these past few weeks.  Fucking having them in your head is too much.

     I think about what Dirty said, “sit around and wait to die”, you don’t need zombies or the end of the world to do that.  Plenty of people have done that before all on their own.  There has to be more to life than just surviving.  I’ll figure it out once this is all settled, blow the tunnel and then a nice long soak in the tub, and wait for the hooch to turn.  A good sit and a good hard think.

     Blackness.