The Zom Diary Read Online Free PDF

point, I only mow the front pasture of the barn—less than an acre.  This is to accommodate the fire pit and also it is nice to have an open space.
         I keep the mower in the garage next to the burnt out pit of Bill’s home.  As a rule, I never throw anything out unless it is rotting.  Although many useful things I don’t need at hand in the barn often end up here as well.  Among the rows of junk, are some thin green tomato stakes.  I grab a huge bundle of these on the way out.
        After the yard is mowed, I run some water over my head and arms and gather the tomato stakes.  I walk to the edge of the orchard and begin to drive them into the ground a foot apart, ringing the space around the barn.  By the time I am done, I’ve made two more trips to the garage to grab more stakes.  My idea is this:  If any non-living person passes through this area while I am away, they will knock down a stake.  If they keep going, they’ll knock down another giving me an idea of the direction they were headed. It is worth a shot.
         I am planning another trip out, and yesterday’s encounter has kind of set me on edge.  What is the deal with the Chinese UN soldier?  He wasn’t too fresh, but he wasn’t old enough to be from the start of this mess.  I have been on the farm for six years.  Three of these I worked for Bill, and roughly three, I have been on my own. 
         I mark the passing of time by the phases of the moon and the passing of seasons.  I figure roughly ten moons to one of my years.  Lord, that makes me almost 32 years old.
         I shake my head and focus on my surroundings.  This line of thought is depressing. I close the door to Bill’s garage as I leave, and cross the dirt road ducking under the electric fence and coming around the door to the barn.  It is time to plan and pack.
         I decide to back track the UN zombie, at least as far as the edge of town, and then come back the same way.  I will avoid the road if possible.  That place, more than any, often has eyes.
         I rummage in the supply room and choose a camo suit and a light green backpack.  I chance upon a couple MRE’s and wrap some fruit leather and venison in paper just in case.  The backpack has one of those fancy plastic pouches for water built in with a hose attached to the shoulder for drinking.  I also fill a canteen.
         I have just used the AK and I know it is working, so I replace the round I shot, grab another two banana clips taped together opposite from one another, and check out the swords.
          Ninety-nine percent of the swords are knock off samurai katanas.  There must have been one of these in every college kid’s closet in America.  I have tossed the cheap ones, and kept a few that are sharp, stainless steel with real grips.  I select one that feels right and examine the blade.  I am not a swordsman, but chopping off the head of a slow moving zombie with four feet of razor sharp steel isn’t rocket science.  Plus, I’ve had lots of practice.
         I set my gear on the green couch in the big room and pick out a boonie hat to round out the outfit.  I eat some spare avocado and venison, polish off my lemonade, and call it a day.
         In my bed, I think about what the town must now look like. Selma.  I haven’t been out that way in over two years.  Not very pleasant that last time.  Deserted, mostly.  It begins to rain.  I sleep horribly.  The sound of the rain keeps me awake until very late.  It makes me nervous. The drumming of the rain can drown the tell tale scratching and thumping of unwanted guests.
         When I do awaken, my eyes feel dry and tacky.  It has stopped raining at some point, and by the position of the line of rectangular sun patches on the wall/roof, I can tell it is later than I hoped.  I had planned to be on my way as soon as it was light out.
         Oh well.  I regard the open space to my right.  I sometimes