The Zom Diary Read Free Page A

to help those they could.   I hadn’t seen one of these “zombies” at that point, but I will never forget the first time that I did.
         It was early, like most of my mornings, and I remember jumping from bed when I smelled the smoke.  It flowed in a column on the tree line and I knew that it led back to Bill’s.  I ran, cursing the lack of a phone or radio or any way of getting help, but once I got there, I knew it was too late. 
         The fire had pretty much burned out.  Some beams still fell out of the jumble of burning hell, but it must have been going all night.  I ran around the house three times calling Bill’s name.  I saw his truck and knew he wasn’t going to be anywhere if not there.  I sat down about fifty feet from the heat of the dying pile and took stock.  I was numb, not crying or hysterical but on the verge of despair.  I knew they were dead, but it wasn’t the first time someone I knew had died and far from the closest.  I guess I felt a little lonely.  This is when I looked up and saw it.
         Turning the corner down the long driveway, he was short, maybe five feet, six inches tall.  He looked like a migrant farm worker.  I thought he had seen the smoke and had come over from a neighbor’s farm to see if we needed help.  I started to rise and go greet him when I noticed his beard.  It was not a beard, but rather a great fan of dried blood and bits of scrabbly meat strings.  Closer now, I could see that his eyes were mad and they were not looking at the house. They were looking at me.
         “Holy shit!”  I had said.
         I didn’t pause long.  I ran into the barn and closed the door.  Last I’d looked; he was only twenty or so feet behind me and moving at a brisk if painful looking walk.  I cast about me for some form of defense –seeing only an old fishing rod, a basket, chairs.  My eyes settled on a kitchen knife.  I flew back to the door and opened it just as he negotiated the first step.
         I yelled, thrusting toward his belly, blade sinking to the handle as the knife passed through his shirt.  Out of this exaggerated wound burst an awful stream of blood, fluids, fat, fingers, intestines, organs, lips…   God!  It was awful, like a pressurized cannon of chewed people-parts.
         I fell backwards and the thing kept coming toward me.  I pushed at the door with my left foot and got it closed enough to slide over and put my weight against it, trapping his arm.  Shove, SHOVE, crack!  I felt and heard the bone snap and the appendage flop to the side as I pushed harder at the door. 
         To my right were an old umbrella and some odds and ends in an old butter churn, nothing to defend myself with.  I kept pushing on the door, and at some point my efforts unseated a horseshoe that hung there.  It scored my scalp and made me pause long enough for the thing to force its way in.
         I screamed and ran back all the way through to the back window.  I dropped down to the grass, a jarring drop, and as I ran I almost fell over another of the things.  This one was crawling in the grass, a blue bandana tied over its face and a samurai sword strapped to its back.  I didn’t even think I just stomped it over and over again.  The back of its head caved in and my boots were covered in this black shit.  I bent quickly and drew the sword; half a sword.  As I looked closer, it appeared to have been run over.  Thanks.
         Gutso had managed to spill himself out of the window behind me and I flailed at his approach with the broken half-katana.  The top of his head fell sideways leaving his jaw and neck behind.  I ran another fifteen feet, paused, threw up, and looked around.  Nothing.  I saw nothing but fruit trees, corpses and this big lovely barn rising above me.  Standing there covered in God awful shit, I knew I needed soap.  Badly.
     
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         I pour the soap into some Tupperware