After the Apocalypse Book 1 Resurrection: a zombie apocalypse political action thriller

by Warren Hately

  “I was only on the road during all of this for about three months total,” he said and shrugged. “That’s why I have such good skin, lalala. I heard about this place almost at once, headed here, arrived just before last winter. Man. Brrr.”

  “What happened to the college?”

  “We had terrible security,” Magnus said and solemnly shook his head. “The Furies, we learnt to handle them. We just weren’t prepared for other survivors – not when they came as a sizable force.”

  “I know that story,” Tom said. “How big?”

  “A hundred of them at least,” Magnus said and shrugged like it didn’t affect him. “Military, we thought. The writing was on the wall after that. Most of us cut and ran.”

  “You too?”

  “Damned straight.”

  A few people came into the bar requiring service and Tom eavesdropped on Magnus’ good-natured banter as he haggled, trading a dead wristwatch and what the woman delightfully called “dumpster muffins” for two tall glasses of briny ale. One of the booths cleared out as Tom eyed his drink still undrunk, steepled between his chipped fingertips. A new couple entered, Tom at first mistaking the big man for Claypool with his high-domed head. But the newcomer had taken a catastrophic injury to his upper lip and teeth at some time in the past, and the recovery’d left him with demonic, threatening look. Magnus lingered to deal with them, watching on cautiously as the woman argued with the big man and left, not doing much to leaven his mood as the newcomer set a pair of 7.62mm rounds on the counter, balanced on their ends, and Magnus quickly served another tankard and a shot of some other different kind of hooch, making a note on a pad with the pencil behind his ear before returning to Tom.

  “You must have a story to tell,” Magnus said and gently smiled. “Forgive me for saying, you don’t strike me as the school chaplain type.”

  His eyes fell on Tom’s full drink. Tom nodded, knowing the moment had arrived as he exhaled and downed the thing, burning liquor in his throat a temptation to a full drunk he simply wouldn’t allow. He set the empty down, taking a second or two before he regained speech.

  “I wanted to hear what you were saying at Speakers Corner the other night.”

  “Stick around long enough and I’ll be there again, damned fool that I am.”

  “Gimme the short version?”

  “The short version,” Magnus said and grinned. “You really don’t know me well yet, huh?”

  He went to refill the drink, but Tom put his hand over the glass.

  “I’m not in a position to run up a tab yet.”

  “One last one on me,” Magnus said. “That way, I can have one too.”

  “Have mine.”

  Tom pushed the empty glass forward. Magnus shrugged and refilled his own glass, though he didn’t take it at once.

  “OK, the short version,” he said and his eyes wandered off.

  The solitary drinker pushed his empty tankard for attention and Magnus served him, again scribbling into his pad. Then he came back.

  “I think we’re missing an opportunity with the City.”

  “OK, good hook,” Tom said. “Explain.”

  “Sorry, I’m trying to give you the short version,” Magnus said. “If you think about what we had, before everything went awry. Here in the US and almost everywhere else, we had this thing they called ‘democracy’, right? I don’t have to give you a short history of democracy, do I?”

  “You do not.”

  “Good, sorry,” Magnus said and put up his hands and then threw back the drink. “Suffice to say, like most the institutions of mankind, it was ever an imperfect beast. Same for almost everything. Can you believe the City Council wants to formalize a return to schools. School? In the midst of all this?”

  “I can believe it,” Tom said. “I have kids.”

  “You should’ve been at Council to speak on it tonight,” Magnus said.

  “I had work.”

  “Uh-huh,” the other man said. “You should come along one night. It’s instructive of every point I’ve been making. The Council’s done a great thing, forging this . . . City out of the ruins, out of the dust. Saving civilization from the waste. But as you know, Tom, the backside of every problem’s an opportunity, right? That’s the paradox built into almost everything in this thing we call life. Smarter men than me just accept there’s God’s hand in it, when they glimpse the . . . physics of it . . . how everything connects.”

  “Smarter men?” Tom said. “I thought religion was the opiate –”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about religion, sorry, Tom,” Magnus cut in on him and made a face and just as quickly airbrushed any concerns away. “I’m digressing already and we’re only about two minutes in.”

  “So you think we should be doing things differently?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The hulking customer at the other end of the bar now slid into their conversation in a plume of alcoholic breath, meaty shoulder deliberately forcing Tom aside.

  “How about your other customers, gramps?”

  “Gramps?” Magnus said.

  Tom was disturbed to see their host’s bottom lip quiver. The ugly customer turned to eyeball Tom from too-close range, aggression or maybe the old injury turning the man cross-eyed. Tom eased back.

  “It’s nearly Curfew,” Magnus said. “I only got to open for two hours tonight. I’ll give you another shot and another schooner and you can keep the second round of ammo. Deal?”

  But the ugly man kept his eyes locked on Tom throughout the barman’s speech, by which time the staring competition had gone on so long it wasn’t going to end any other way.

  Tom stood from the stool. The cleft-faced customer was already standing, but he straightened big enough to throw a shadow over Tom, clearing intent on taking out his pent-up anger on somebody.

  “Hey,” Magnus said. “You cause a fuss in here and it’s the last time you’re welcome.”

  “You threatening me, gramps?”

  “You call me that again and I fucking will,” Magnus replied.

  The big man threw his sneer across the bar like a boxer’s feint and Tom made fists the same moment Magnus backed away, his bluster exposed.

  And Tom’s anger flared like a match.

  He put his knee hard into the big bruiser’s thigh, crippling him as he hammered his right elbow around in as fatal a blow as he could manage, not quite getting it right as his target grabbed the bar to catch his weight and took Tom’s strike in the middle of his back instead of his neck, half-blocking it with his raised elbow.

  Like many do, the ugly customer grabbed Tom by the shirt rather than strike in return, and Tom drew back fast, sacrificing his t-shirt and a few chest hairs for the chance to catch one of the man’s wrists instinctively pawing at him. Like any recovering metrosexual, Tom never learnt to fight until survival required it of him, but now he wrenched his target’s arm around, achieving what was first intended as he slammed the man’s head into the side of the bar and then swept out his feet.

  The groggy man managed to keep to his knees, grasping at the bar above him and looking up as Tom brought down the heel of his boot. The man’s ugly head rebounded off the brass foot rail and Tom looked around for something he could use as a bludgeon as Magnus’s eyes widened, seizing the options offered by Tom’s fury.

  “Don’t you dare wreck my furniture!”

  Magnus held out a baseball bat.

  “Put him down and the drinks are on me,” Magnus said. “Hell, come here often enough and I’ll put you on staff.”

  Tom eyed the fallen man rather than the barkeep, knuckles white around the bat, so sorely tempted to use to batter the intruding bully into near-permanent submission. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it wasn’t just uncertainty about the “rules” staying his hand. It wasn’t smart to make more enemies than needed – and he also didn’t like the suggestion he could be bought for a few bottles of moonshine.

  “Staff here other than you, is there?” Tom
said after a few long seconds as he slowly set the bat down on the bar.

  The shirt was ruined. He zipped up his jacket.

  “You can finish him yourself, if you like,” Tom said. “I should be getting home.”

  “I mean it,” Magnus said. “I’ll put you on a tab.”

  “Like I said before . . . I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Moves like that, I’m serious,” Magnus said.

  “Believe it or not, I’d rather words than violence.”

  He nodded to the reformed philosopher and headed out, but the proprietor’s voice followed him into the night.

  “If you see any troopers out there, send someone in before this prick comes to, OK?”

  *

  Fury attack spikes Public Safety plan

  by Melina Martelle

  A woman was killed and four Furies put down at a house fire on Elsemere Street on Tuesday morning.

  Witnesses said neighbor Rosario Andretti, 40, was visiting the home investigating smoke.

  The incident around 9am saw a swift response from Public Safety troopers.

  A two-person patrol was in the area when the victim opened the front door of a home seen with smoke coming from upper-floor windows.

  “The Furies were all at the door like they were just waiting for her,” neighbor Williams North Dakota, 54, said.

  “I don’t know what she was thinking, going in like that. She paid for it with her life.”

  It was believed the four residents died from smoke inhalation in the night and escaped after Ms Andretti forced the exit.

  Council president Dana Lowenstein said it was a “very sad freak accident” unlikely to affect the otherwise low death toll for July.

  Last week, the Herald reported low fatality rates were linked to the Administration’s weapons control policies which have angered some Citizens.

  Dr Lowenstein said Tuesday’s incident was put down quickly.

  “Citizens were spooked in May after the Transport Depot tragedy,” she said.

  “The numbers are trending downwards. We’re getting those safety risks licked.”

  However, Dr Lowenstein reported weapons thefts were on the rise.

  “Last winter showed us automatic weapons and desperation are a bad mix,” she said.

  “I urge all Citizens to remember the ideals that bind us and work together for peace.”

  Tuesday attack witness Dan Salkeld, 33, said the troopers were “quick and effective” after hearing Ms Andretti’s cries.

  “The Dead were all on the front porch tearing Rosario to shreds,” he said.

  “The two troopers just lined them up and fired. Like fish in a barrel.”

  Ms Andretti was a City orchard worker.

  *

  THERE WAS A special visitor waiting at their usual point of departure that morning.

  With a name like Ernest Eric Wilhelm III, Tom expected someone different than a bookish-looking black man in his early fifties. Wilhelm was a City Councilor – one of the bona fide “Founders” and thus an elder statesman – of the City, a veteran of the early fortification of Rickenbacker Air Force Base. He waited for the Foragers with a woman assistant, the bureaucratic types uncomfortable in their ballistic vests.

  Tom and most of the other crewmembers didn’t merit introduction. Tucker gave his ear over to the Councilor, odd to see their unit leader diligent in his subservience. Tucker nodded at everything Wilhelm said while keeping it out of earshot from the troops. When it came time to ride out – the Councilor and his aide with them – the visitors climbed aboard the open-backed truck and Wilhelm did a good job introducing himself to the other workers in pairs, making his way around the benches as the two-car convoy left the City on its increasingly familiar route. The woman with him carrying folders of paperwork stayed uncomfortably wedged between Jenks and Hodge, two of the company’s biggest weirdos enjoying every minute of their forced proximity.

  The journey was half done by the time Wilhelm switched places with Graves to plant himself next to Tom with a deliberate weary sigh.

  “See many biters out there these days?” the Councilor said by way of introducing himself, though his eyes fell on Tom’s blue tag as they shook hands.

  “Oh, sorry about that,” he said. “You’re new. Ernest. I’m Ernest.”

  “Yes you are.”

  Tom traded looks with the Councilor and the black guy slowly broke into a begrudging grin. The expression breathed life into the man.

  “Funny how those old names get so easily divorced from their intended meanings,” Wilhelm said. “Once upon a time, people called their newborns Charity and Hope and . . . Felicity . . . and a bunch of other things we don’t immediately connect them with, right?”

  He fixed an amused eye on Tom.

  “Unless maybe you’re you, of course,” Wilhelm said.

  “Yes I am,” Tom said.

  “I wonder what sort of names we’ll be giving to the children of the future, hmm?” Wilhelm chuckled. “Serenity? Diligence? Does that sound good for a girl? How about ‘Durability’?”

  “I’m Tom,” Tom said, making up for his own lack of introduction. “Pretty reliable name, that.”

  Wilhelm nodded slowly. Excellent with the eye contact, Tom thought.

  “You don’t see ‘Tom’ dying out any time soon?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Got any little Toms running around or do you have a sad story like the rest of us, Tom?”

  “You’ve got a personable touch,” Tom said in a neutral voice, ignoring the question. “Sure you’re not a preacher?”

  “Daddy was a preacher,” Wilhelm said with a grin.

  “That true?”

  “No,” the Councilor said and laughed as if glad Tom asked. “My family were in tobacco money. Don’t ask me how black people got into that racket because I couldn’t tell you, Tom. I ran away from it all when I was thirty.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “Thirty,” he said. “Yes . . . it took me a while to grow a conscience. Tell me why you have such a suspicious vibe, Tom? I’m not playing you.”

  “Call me Tom a few more times,” Tom said.

  “I’m a Councilor, not a politician,” Wilhelm said and hoped for a mutual grin. “Is that it? Never trusted ‘the Man’, Tom?”

  “You’re not a politician?” Tom replied and chuckled slightly, dropping his gaze to lower the skepticism of his reply. “That what you tell yourself? Funny.”

  Tom gave a small theatrical sigh of his own.

  “It’s a shame, actually,” he said. “I thought I might’ve lucked out and got the ear of someone who could tell me why the fuck none of us are carrying firearms and relying instead on only two sentries to protect fourteen, now sixteen, people?”

  Wilhelm eased back, not entirely without good reason given the veiled ferocity in Tom’s voice. It was a good thing no one knew about him nearly kicking a man to death just the night before.

  “OK, opinion noted,” the Councilor said.

  Wilhelm withdrew his examination slowly, wry smile cooling as the truck continued along, no clue to suggest he’d regret dismissing Tom’s banter sooner than any of them could suspect.

  *

  THEY PUSHED THROUGH their usual midday break to finish the office clear-out, Tucker playing the benevolent leader and giving them an extra twenty minutes to piss and fool around before the truck and the APC fired up again. But they only turned a short way down the next road, the two vehicles communicating the details of some previous plan via staticky chatter made audible when the convoy soon pulled over once more.

  Hsu got out of the lead truck and motioned beyond a bank of trees at an overgrown embankment leading down to a solitary house, one of the old twenty-acre hobby farms not yet acquired by developers at the moment in history where property acquisition became a far more complicated game.

  “Tucker wants us to mark this place off before we exit,” Hsu says. “Makes a clean break for our weekend.”

>   She performed an unconvincing fist pump, though a few of the truck’s disembarking passengers cheered at mention of the coming two days of rest. Fitz and Hugh spilled from the garish APC ahead of them and moved towards the house with Claypool, as usual, trailing along like he was Security too. Ernest Eric Wilhelm III and his assistant stepped cautiously from the APC with Miranda, Chicago and Graves. The Councilor glanced Tom’s way, not on purpose, then gave a fey wave, gesturing to Tom as if indicating the beauty of the day.

  It also probably wasn’t a coincidence the serene afternoon undermined Tom’s point about their security – and he knew that was Wilhelm’s point too.

  While the patrol did their thing checking over the farmhouse, the truck passengers took a water break. The mousy woman named Hanna brought Tom the cup he’d fallen into the habit of using in recent days.

  “Uh, thanks,” he said.

  The abandoned hobby farm was out of place amid the suburban housing carved into the land around it. The farmhouse was modest in size and the inspection was quick, Tucker trudging over the property’s collapsed fence and waving for Hsu and the APC driver Bol to drive the vehicles into the yard. The Councilor and his aide followed Tucker down the slope. Tom saluted Hanna with the now-empty cup and let her take it from him, then he joined Miranda, Jones, and Graves following the others down into the settlement.

  “Miranda, Tom, check the farm shed,” Tucker called as he ducked inside the house.

  Tom and Miranda swapped bemused smiles. The shed was fifty yards from the house and looked set to fall over in the next strong wind, but the house itself wasn’t grand either, a sunken feeling to it, the tile roof sagging under the growth of wild grass in the years of mulch fallen from the trees cupped around the rear of the property.

  Beyond the standalone wooden shed, the land sloped progressively downward, abandoned vegetable gardens and a rusting tractor backlit by a thick line of trees concealing a local water source.

  Miranda rattled her can of orange paint and waited expectantly for Tom to do the honors on the door.

  “You must have a lot of that stuff, huh?”