The Zom Diary by Eddie Austin Page A

as rugged and dependable as you can expect any firearm to be.
         Named: Avtomat Kalashnikova, the AK 1947 is simplicity and beauty and killing power married in form.  The firing mechanism is powered by the gas expelled when a round is fired.  The firing pin falls forward igniting the primer cap which ignites the powder which causes a quick burn and expulsion of gas.  This gas forces the 7.62mm round out of the barrel at terrible speed, and at the same time, the design of this weapon shunts this gas backward over the top of the barrel ramming back the carrier rod and seating another round.  Repeat.  Ad nauseam.  A hulking, klunking, rattling wand of death.  In production in various countries for almost seventy years before ‘the end’. Unchanged.  Perfect.  As numerous as the stars in the sky or sand on the beach. 100,000,000 dispersed to mankind, like pollen on the wind, seeking the fruit of death.  Simple to clean and to maintain.  A survivalist’s dream.  Lovely.
         My AK is a Chinese Poly-tech.  One of the best varieties ever made.  Of course, I also have a Romanian and a Russian AK kicking around somewhere, but this one is my favorite.  Polished-to-glowing cherry wood stock, a heavy wood, perfect for ramming into an uncooperative face.  Molded steel frame, rather than cheaper stamped models.  I’d grabbed it off a guy wearing urban camo; a wild look in his eyes, hunger, madness.  I never forget these men.  They would likely have killed me, stolen my possessions, raped or eaten me, or both (in either order).  I was lucky to get them first.  That’s all.
         How in the world did a lazy, flunky misanthrope like me get to be so hard?  It’s all about choices.  I chose to leave the riches of the soft world behind.  During the three years working for Bill, I lost fifty pounds and grew calluses like a catcher’s mitt.  I studied the world around me, and when I looked at the horizon, I didn’t see a golden city on a hill.  I saw the end, and I was ready for it.  Lots of other people weren’t.
         “The weak die, and the only choice is to grow hard or to join them.”
         I surprise myself by uttering these words aloud.  Chalk it up to my massive hangover, or a subconscious desire to prevent vocal atrophy.  I am in a grim mood.
         I grab the pail with the snake in it.  I’d thrown a shirt over the bucket.  All the while the rattle buzzes away, but I don’t think it will strike at me.  What the hell did I get up to yesterday?  Watching the snake pail warily, I open the door to the entry room and peer around the corner to the workshop; nothing.  I step outside and almost drop the bucket.  Bill’s pickup is parked in front of the barn.  The passenger side door is open.  Good lord.
         I begin to piece together some scenes from yesterday:  using a fishing net to capture the angry snake,  messing around in the garage with Bill’s truck, hooking up a battery to it and gassing it up.  Evil black smoke had issued from the tail pipe.  Music had blared from the truck’s CD player, Led Zeppelin.  Driving over to the barn, I had knocked over tomato stakes and a fencepost that ‘got’ in my way.
        I walk over and check the ignition.  At least I haven’t run it dry.  If my memory serves me, the dome light would have shut off after fifteen minutes and the lights aren’t switched on, so the battery might still be good?  Stupid. 
         I walk well past the burned out mess of Bill’s old house and let the snake go by setting the bucket down and walking six feet away; pushing the bucket over with a long stick.  The snake slithers into the ditch after a few minutes and I retrieve the bucket.
         I am already this far out, so I keep walking, determined to get something unpleasant out of the way.  I turn left past the mailbox and keep walking.  After a time, I run into the road.  Turn left again, and back a ways to an old