feeling the rattling clink of the round going off. The thing’s head snaps back like a whip and I can see the rainbow mist as it catches the light of the dying sun. What the hell is this guy doing out here? No time now, it’s getting dark. I’ll drag him off in the morning.
I don’t bother to wait for the sounds of others. I jog back to the front of the barn, open the door and secure it behind me. I drop the bar across the door and turn left, leaving the side entrance room and entering the big room. I keep the AK ready. Shouldering the strap, I climb up the ladder to the loft.
Once up, I test the ladder. Pulling the white nylon rope, the ladder slides upward on its tracks and I tie it off on the railing that overlooks the big room. The pulley squeaks like a bat. Maybe time to oil that.
From above, the loft looks like a blocky letter “c” with railing on the inside that circles the big room and looks down upon it. Standing as I am, looking over this railing and regarding the big room and the tall barred doors, the left arm of the loft is the space over the entrance room. I have set up a table and chairs there and it serves as a place to eat and work on things. The right arm of the loft is over the storage room that holds the bulk of my supplies. This area in the loft holds my bed and shelves of books. Behind me is a large open space confined only by the angle of the roof. Even with the floor, is a line of square windows identical to those over the front barn door. This space is over the press and various other bits of machinery in the workshop.
It is the line of windows I seek. With the slope of the hill and the height of the back foundation, I am about twenty feet off the ground. This commands a nice view west back toward the privy and the direction the dead soldier came from. Lying on my belly and lifting my head some to shade my view from the last rays of the sun, I freeze and lie still. I let my eyes unfocus and concentrate for signs of movement or colors. I lie there for some time and nothing else comes. The sun sinks over scraggly rows of overgrown trees, some now dead.
What brings these straggler zoms out to find me? Do they possess some unholy sense that allows them to lock in on the living and home in? Is it a smell or sound? Is it random? I hope for the latter and loose sleep over the former. Seeing nothing more, I fall asleep.
Dawn comes and goes. The sun is almost high when I seek my boots and lower the ladder. My night soil is carried down in its five gallon detergent bucket and dumped in the privy.
No scavengers have touched the remains of the undead. As far as I can tell, there are no zombie coyotes or vultures. The bullet entered through the space to the right of the soldier’s nose, leaving a 7.62mm entrance wound and a smashed lettuce head of an exit wound. I tie a rope around the thing’s ankles and drag it to the long pit. A search of his body brings some usable AK rounds and a folded letter in what I assumed is Mandarin.
“So long fella,” I croak as the body does a roll and settles into a sitting position.
I decide to cut the grass and work on a new warning system I’ve been thinking of. I pause on the way back to the barn to grab some lemons and a couple of avocados.
Sitting next to the cold fire pit out front, I peel an avocado and bite into the mushy flesh. The lemons I juice and add to a pitcher of water from the pump. I sip and eat and wonder over the visitor from last night, chewing this with my meal, working it over with the teeth of my logic, it doesn’t taste right. After brunch, I begin the chore of cutting the grass.
Bill’s crappy push mower works pretty well as long as I keep it oiled and don’t have much to cut. In keeping with my attempts to make the place look deserted, at least to a
I don’t bother to wait for the sounds of others. I jog back to the front of the barn, open the door and secure it behind me. I drop the bar across the door and turn left, leaving the side entrance room and entering the big room. I keep the AK ready. Shouldering the strap, I climb up the ladder to the loft.
Once up, I test the ladder. Pulling the white nylon rope, the ladder slides upward on its tracks and I tie it off on the railing that overlooks the big room. The pulley squeaks like a bat. Maybe time to oil that.
From above, the loft looks like a blocky letter “c” with railing on the inside that circles the big room and looks down upon it. Standing as I am, looking over this railing and regarding the big room and the tall barred doors, the left arm of the loft is the space over the entrance room. I have set up a table and chairs there and it serves as a place to eat and work on things. The right arm of the loft is over the storage room that holds the bulk of my supplies. This area in the loft holds my bed and shelves of books. Behind me is a large open space confined only by the angle of the roof. Even with the floor, is a line of square windows identical to those over the front barn door. This space is over the press and various other bits of machinery in the workshop.
It is the line of windows I seek. With the slope of the hill and the height of the back foundation, I am about twenty feet off the ground. This commands a nice view west back toward the privy and the direction the dead soldier came from. Lying on my belly and lifting my head some to shade my view from the last rays of the sun, I freeze and lie still. I let my eyes unfocus and concentrate for signs of movement or colors. I lie there for some time and nothing else comes. The sun sinks over scraggly rows of overgrown trees, some now dead.
What brings these straggler zoms out to find me? Do they possess some unholy sense that allows them to lock in on the living and home in? Is it a smell or sound? Is it random? I hope for the latter and loose sleep over the former. Seeing nothing more, I fall asleep.
Dawn comes and goes. The sun is almost high when I seek my boots and lower the ladder. My night soil is carried down in its five gallon detergent bucket and dumped in the privy.
No scavengers have touched the remains of the undead. As far as I can tell, there are no zombie coyotes or vultures. The bullet entered through the space to the right of the soldier’s nose, leaving a 7.62mm entrance wound and a smashed lettuce head of an exit wound. I tie a rope around the thing’s ankles and drag it to the long pit. A search of his body brings some usable AK rounds and a folded letter in what I assumed is Mandarin.
“So long fella,” I croak as the body does a roll and settles into a sitting position.
I decide to cut the grass and work on a new warning system I’ve been thinking of. I pause on the way back to the barn to grab some lemons and a couple of avocados.
Sitting next to the cold fire pit out front, I peel an avocado and bite into the mushy flesh. The lemons I juice and add to a pitcher of water from the pump. I sip and eat and wonder over the visitor from last night, chewing this with my meal, working it over with the teeth of my logic, it doesn’t taste right. After brunch, I begin the chore of cutting the grass.
Bill’s crappy push mower works pretty well as long as I keep it oiled and don’t have much to cut. In keeping with my attempts to make the place look deserted, at least to a
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