Read Online The Zom Diary by Eddie Austin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eddie Austin
Tags: Zombies
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scabbard.
When I spin the blade behind me, I feel resistance and hear a ghastly slashing noise. I spin and behold a tall zombie, now headless, as it topples to the side; its head rolling, jaws still working. Open. Shut. Its bare feet on smooth asphalt almost cost me my life. Damn creeper! I wipe the blade on some dead grass and jog the rest of the way to the barn.
⃰ ⃰ ⃰
I am drunk, unnerved, and feeling careless. I swat the tall grasses with the flat of my blade as I jog past them. I decapitate the tall flowery weeds that top the grasses. I spin and weave back and forth across the road, dirt now, that leads to Bill’s; no, my farm.
I pause at the end of the long driveway and decide to check the mailbox. Holy crap! There is mail there for Bill. I almost cannot believe it. He must have forgotten to check it toward the end, and I have never thought to look. The mail feels stiff like it has gotten wet and then dried more than once over the past three years. I fold it and place it in the big cargo pocket on my pant leg and head up the driveway. Overgrown as it is now, I should give thought to knocking down the mailbox and hiding the driveway.
I round the pit that served as Bill’s pyre, and cross over to the barn ducking under the wire fence. I walk over to the well and pump out a nice cool stream to wash the road dust from my face and hands. I have sobered some and habit kicks in.
I round the barn checking the doors and peering up at the high windows. Everything is as it should be. Pausing at the back of the barn, I grab an armload of wood; nice chopped pear wood, and bring it out front to the fire pit.
I have a little while before dark and I am resolved to have a bath. I fill a kettle and hang it over the fire. While this starts to warm, I go inside and poke around. Again, all is as it should be. Walking through the entrance room, passing the door to the big room, I open the wide rolling door to my workshop.
The fruit press dominates one corner of the room; big brass hand wheel to force the plates together causing juice to flow from a spigot at the side. Various gas powered gadgets: chainsaw, generator, lawn mower are clustered in another corner and, the centerpiece of the space: my own addition, an old white claw footed bathtub.
Bill had this baby set up in a garden behind his house. He liked to take sun showers I guess, or his old mother did. I carted the thing over to the barn myself and I am rather proud of it. I have cut a hole in the wall and the water drains out and falls ten feet or so to the grass of the back yard.
I get a lantern ready for when it gets dark and open the wooden shutter on the back window. Light filters in and I can see that it is rather dusty in here. I stop the drain in the tub and take trips filling the tub halfway with cold water from the pump.
I take a side trip into the big room and throw my gear on the green couch. I strip down to shorts and sandals. Before I go out to check the kettle, I grab my bathing pistol from the supply room. It is an old stainless steel revolver; five shot, .357, but I keep a .38 special +p loaded in it. I sling the black nylon harness over my shoulder and pop out to the fire.
It is going nicely and the kettle is steaming, but it is not yet hot enough to warm the tub. I sit in the old rusty garden chair and munch some fruit leather and sip cold water from a coffee mug.
Later, sitting in the tub, locked in my barn, I watch the sun set on the world outside. I start to make a mental list of chores that need to be done. I like the idea of disguising the driveway and I have been getting lazy as far as upkeep goes. The trees need tending, and I need to restock my wood pile. Perhaps improve the smoke house, too.
I relax and let the hot water leech the
When I spin the blade behind me, I feel resistance and hear a ghastly slashing noise. I spin and behold a tall zombie, now headless, as it topples to the side; its head rolling, jaws still working. Open. Shut. Its bare feet on smooth asphalt almost cost me my life. Damn creeper! I wipe the blade on some dead grass and jog the rest of the way to the barn.
⃰ ⃰ ⃰
I am drunk, unnerved, and feeling careless. I swat the tall grasses with the flat of my blade as I jog past them. I decapitate the tall flowery weeds that top the grasses. I spin and weave back and forth across the road, dirt now, that leads to Bill’s; no, my farm.
I pause at the end of the long driveway and decide to check the mailbox. Holy crap! There is mail there for Bill. I almost cannot believe it. He must have forgotten to check it toward the end, and I have never thought to look. The mail feels stiff like it has gotten wet and then dried more than once over the past three years. I fold it and place it in the big cargo pocket on my pant leg and head up the driveway. Overgrown as it is now, I should give thought to knocking down the mailbox and hiding the driveway.
I round the pit that served as Bill’s pyre, and cross over to the barn ducking under the wire fence. I walk over to the well and pump out a nice cool stream to wash the road dust from my face and hands. I have sobered some and habit kicks in.
I round the barn checking the doors and peering up at the high windows. Everything is as it should be. Pausing at the back of the barn, I grab an armload of wood; nice chopped pear wood, and bring it out front to the fire pit.
I have a little while before dark and I am resolved to have a bath. I fill a kettle and hang it over the fire. While this starts to warm, I go inside and poke around. Again, all is as it should be. Walking through the entrance room, passing the door to the big room, I open the wide rolling door to my workshop.
The fruit press dominates one corner of the room; big brass hand wheel to force the plates together causing juice to flow from a spigot at the side. Various gas powered gadgets: chainsaw, generator, lawn mower are clustered in another corner and, the centerpiece of the space: my own addition, an old white claw footed bathtub.
Bill had this baby set up in a garden behind his house. He liked to take sun showers I guess, or his old mother did. I carted the thing over to the barn myself and I am rather proud of it. I have cut a hole in the wall and the water drains out and falls ten feet or so to the grass of the back yard.
I get a lantern ready for when it gets dark and open the wooden shutter on the back window. Light filters in and I can see that it is rather dusty in here. I stop the drain in the tub and take trips filling the tub halfway with cold water from the pump.
I take a side trip into the big room and throw my gear on the green couch. I strip down to shorts and sandals. Before I go out to check the kettle, I grab my bathing pistol from the supply room. It is an old stainless steel revolver; five shot, .357, but I keep a .38 special +p loaded in it. I sling the black nylon harness over my shoulder and pop out to the fire.
It is going nicely and the kettle is steaming, but it is not yet hot enough to warm the tub. I sit in the old rusty garden chair and munch some fruit leather and sip cold water from a coffee mug.
Later, sitting in the tub, locked in my barn, I watch the sun set on the world outside. I start to make a mental list of chores that need to be done. I like the idea of disguising the driveway and I have been getting lazy as far as upkeep goes. The trees need tending, and I need to restock my wood pile. Perhaps improve the smoke house, too.
I relax and let the hot water leech the
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