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 shavings 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 and 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.
I toss a few empty five gallon jugs in the back of the pickup along with a five foot section of garden hose in case I find something to siphon from. I learned a lot working for Bill over those few years, but I still haven’t figured out how to suck gas without drinking some.
The tires are nice, thick treaded, perfect for mud or sand and haven’t cracked sitting in the shed for a couple years. Last thing before I turn the key, I pop the hood and check the oil. It is a little burnt and low, but it is what I have. The truck fires right up, and aside from some black smoke, it sounds good.
I pull out and close the garage doors behind me. Pulling up next to the barn, I leave the truck running and load my gear. One pack has supplies and I bring a second empty pack for carrying stuff out of buildings. The bones go in the bed of the truck; the guy’s pack and gun in the back seat with my gear. The AR-15 is propped next to me on the passenger side. There are a few CD cases on the seat as well.
I close the barn up tight and pull away, slowly over the bumpy terrain of the driveway, weeds brushing the undercarriage in places. I have old Bob Marley playing on the radio.
The road is easy once I turn onto the black top. Cars are pretty spaced out and I weave around them, when I have to. The old sedan with the zombie still trapped inside it is there, and I wave as I pass by.
Stumbling out onto the road in front of me comes a lone zombie, thin and pathetic. I slow and push it over with the truck backing over it a few times before driving off. How long will they last out in the open? Three years on and most of them look a month or two dead.
About four miles down the road I select a driveway that I have never been down, and pull in letting the truck crawl along. Like Bill’s, the driveway is long and overgrown. Branches brush the sides of the truck and at one point, I imagine an arm flapping out and hitting the side of the truck, but it is only my imagination.
The house is ranch-style like so many in these parts, but it is sprawling and neatly trimmed with fieldstone and has an incredible red tile roof like you’d expect to see on a pueblo somewhere. The yard is overgrown, but I can tell that the owners had chosen an eco-friendly landscape that favored loose gravel and desert plants rather than one of watered grass and exotic shrubs. I am getting the impression that this wasn’t a working farm, but rather a residence that bordered farmland. It wasn’t unheard of for farmers to parcel out some land to sell in lean times and the area was charming enough. I fix that story in my imagination. I immediately like the place.
I put the truck in front of the garage and cut the engine. I grab the hammer from the back seat and check the glock on my hip. I grab the empty bag from the back seat too. Time to go shopping.
From the yard the view is pleasant, overlooking withering and overgrown farmland spreading below the hill that the house rests on. In the distance is the long line of hills separating this valley from the salt pan beyond, my desert. I am surprised then by several chickens that dart out of hiding and round the back of the house. I decide to try and catch some on the way back through. Maybe I can set up a pen for them. Already this place is looking to be a good score.
Filing my plans for the feral chickens away for later, I turn and approach the door. It looks solid and the only glass is a long vertical window too thin to reach through on the side opposite the knob. I try it, and it opens. Hinges squeak lightly and I step in cautiously, listening for movement.
I remember the last time I went into a house and the zombie that had waited so patiently. I have my hammer in hand and my Glock ready at my hip. The place smells clean. No mildew. The roof must be pretty sound. The whole place is neat, and I run a finger along a counter top in the kitchen. Clean.
Opening the cabinets in the golden light reflected off tan tiles is like opening Aladdin’s cave. Cans of food are sorted neatly. There are Tupperware containers full of rice and pasta kept safe and dry from mold and mice. My excitement wars with some nagging thought, pushes it aside, and takes over.
This place will just about fill the truck when I leave. Why bother moving it all? Maybe I’ll just live out here for a few months; take a little vacation. The place looks secure enough even with the big sliders and tall windows. I could figure some way to make it secure.
What waits for me in the bedroom closet is even more incredible. Ammo, rifles and a small collection of gear and supplies. Turning, arms full of treasure; I look up just as he enters the room. A living he. A very angry gun wielding he. “Whoa!” I yell dropping the ammo boxes and clips on the ground and throwing my hands up.
“Shit! Don’t shoot!”
I wait a second and look up. He stands there AK raised to his cheek. I try to look apologetic and decide to talk while he still lets me.
“I didn’t know anyone was here. I’m just looking for supplies. I’m sorry. I’ll leave—no worries.” I try to sound calm. He stands there, eyes locked on mine. We remain this way for a minute or two; it feels like forever. Finally.
“Don’t move. Don’t reach for that pistol. Come on.” He motions for me to move out and through the door -AK still trained on me. I walk out of the bedroom and down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen and dining area. He is still following me; I keep my hands raised. He barks another order.
“Put your left hand on your head. Slowly take the pistol out and leave it on the counter.”
I am careful to remove the Glock as slowly as I can without seeming like a smartass. I place it on the table and put my hands on my head. He continues, “Open the slider and get outside.”
I do. Again he follows, boots clacking on the slate tiled patio. There is a table and chairs, but he is motioning for me to walk past these and out into the scrub brush between the yard and the field beyond.
“Turn around.”
We are at the edge of the field. I begin to consider whether he’s brought me this way to avoid having to clean up the mess of shooting me inside. “Crap,” I think.
I turn around and look at him clearly for the first time. He is older than I’d thought, maybe almost sixty but still youthful looking as some people are. His hair is grey, and cut into a neat flat-top, his blue eyes shine furiously. I wait for him to speak. He relaxes some and begins to question me.
“You really didn’t know anyone was here?”
“I swear. I live over that way,” gesturing towards the general direction of the farm. “I just got swarmed by a huge pack of zombies and I’m trying to get fixed back up.”
He doesn’t say anything; just looks deep in thought for a moment. “You mean Jim’s orchard?”
I shake my head. “No, Bill Prescott’s place.”
He nods then as if he is satisfied that I am being truthful. He lowers the AK and gestures back toward the yard and patio. “So, how is Bill these days?”
“He’s dead. There was a fire not too long after all this started. My name is Kyle. I worked for Bill.”
We wander to the patio and he takes and offers me a seat. So, I sit. Curiosity gets the better of me and I have to ask, “So, what if I’d not known about Bill and I’d lied about knowing a Jim?”