The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  The eighth room was the very worst and Jeff found himself having to pause, to brace himself when faced by it. The door had a keypad so the crowbar was in order. Jeff worked the claw into the crack and savored the sensation of wood splitting as he levered against the doorframe acting as fulcrum.

  “We have money … if that’s what you want?”

  “Will you shut the fuck up!”

  Jeff removed the crowbar from a deep wound in the pine and used it to gently tap on the ninth door. “Patience, my friends, I’ll be with you soon.”

  There was a terrified gasp from within.

  “No … would you listen … listen … you don’t want to get in trouble … this situation … it can’t last forever and…”

  “He just rammed his car through the fucking building … did you forget that? … You really think he’s listening to you … that he can be reasoned with … you fucking cunt.”

  “Oh, but I have a wife and…”

  “And he’s clearly deranged … a nasty bigot … homophobe … transphobe, obviously … racist too, most likely. You think you can reason … bargain with him?”

  There was the grating sound of what had to be something heavy being dragged across the floor, followed by the clatter of furniture and Jeff assumed they were adding more shit to whatever else they’d stacked against the inside.

  “Please … I never wanted to work here … I…”

  “Took the money willingly enough … for many a year, if I’m not mistaken. Took the knife to more children than I can count, didn’t you.”

  “Oh, God, please.”

  Jeff tapped the door again. “Excuse me one moment, gents.” He wrenched the lock mechanism out from door eight and shoved his way inside to be immediately struck by the agonizing flashback that took ahold of his body as he relived the painful memories being played back in his mind, like his own personal horror movie. The crowbar fell from his grasp to clatter against the tile and only after near retching to the point of asphyxiation did clarity return.

  It was the faint smell of chlorine that struck first and after he’d blinked away the fog, then came the theater table in the center. White walls. High-tech equipment. Lights. Lots of lights. Monitors. Wires. Oxygen tanks. Various tables. Chemicals. Tools. Scalpels, so many scalpels.

  He made use of the bat, destroyed everything, struck so hard his arm jarred, continued regardless until it lost all feeling. Once or twice he again lost clarity so that things were smashed he had no recollection of smashing. Everything. Except for the oxygen tanks.

  By now there was a furious commotion coming from inside the adjacent room. Arguing amongst themselves. Maniac. Please. Reason. Bigot. Dead. Zombies. Flooding. Money. Police. Not coming. Guns? California, dumbass! Help. Not coming. Not coming. NOT COMING!

  “It’s time,” Jeff said calmly as he read the ‘Staff Only’ sign and tried the doorknob. It was hardly a surprise to feel the great weight pressing against it. Save for a sharp, terrified gasp, all fell silent within.

  “What … what do you want?”

  Jeff’s lips involuntarily curled upwards. “Justice is all I want. Won’t you let me in?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Jeff tutted. “That’s no way to ingratiate yourselves. Do you speak for all your colleagues?”

  “No! He does not … please … if I let you in, do you promise to let me go?”

  Jeff gave it a few seconds. Even rubbed his chin. Imagined the sound of the rough stubble scratching upon his jaw was audible through the gushing of water, screaming of the fire alarm, through the thick pine door. “I could promise to make it less severe?”

  Another gasp.

  “See! There’s no way out … unless you fancy jumping from the window … Now, why don’t you expend your energy on helping rather than colluding with a madman.”

  Jeff moved his face closer to the door. “I’ll be one minute. Please don’t go anywhere.”

  Casually, he walked back down the corridor, past the destruction he’d wrought, and took care to use the bannister as he splashed down the steps. He whistled. The water cascaded down the point of least resistance, the nearside wall, to surge downwards and flood the lobby, to run out through the gaping hole in the building. That was where zombies were still clawing at each other to get inside and one had somehow managed to wedge itself between the steel of the mangled entrance and the driver’s side door. The angle of the collision meant Jeff had better access to the passenger side so he opened the door and leaned inside towards the back seat, plucking out the axe. The view through the back window revealed the receding daylight.

  Returning to a straightened position sent that familiar shock of pain surging through Jeff’s spine. That was when he noticed the zombie had, in fact, impaled itself on the protruding shard of glass that had very nearly snagged him earlier. Long like a Chicago icicle, it pierced straight through the yapping zombie’s throat and came out the other side. He took a moment to study the dead guy, middle-aged with a large ginger beard and blue overalls as it strained to get closer, further sticking itself on the spike until it became fully skewered to the hilt, yet still, it persisted and repeatedly butted the twisted door frame, further opening up the appalling wound. Still, it pressed forth with no outwardly visible signs of distress, only extreme annoyance at being kept from its prey, and neither did it appear to possess the cognition to remove itself from the encumbrance, to simply step back, unstick itself and try again, perhaps with a side step to the left.

  Jeff found his face softening and he attempted to use the back of the axehead to gently shove the creature off the snare by pressing firmly against its ribs. The glass broke off, which hadn’t been the intention, but at least the zombie was free and for a couple of minutes Jeff watched as it wandered aimlessly away into the redwoods, the lethal shard forever embedded in soft tissue.

  Jeff splashed back through the floodwater and could hear the bickering from halfway up the stairs. “You sure you really want to do this the hard way?”

  “Quiet, he’s back … listen here, mister, sir, whoever you are … we’ll do whatever it takes to…”

  “What did I tell you about shutting the fuck up? He’s not gonna go easy on us just because you’re pretending to be nice to him … He probably lost…”

  “I will deal with this in my own … ouch … why did you do that? You three … help me shift this table, would you? Ouch! How dare you.”

  “Don’t touch that fucking table … sit on it, if anything … that’s right, you too.”

  Jeff embedded the axe deep into the pine and at least five people screamed. It required a boot against the door to wrench the blade free and then the second swing dug into the target even harder, tearing away a chunk and creating a visible slit of light through the crack. The bastards had a generator, which weren’t easy to come by these days, not that it would help them, but their plans to see out the present state of uncertainty in comfort were now over.

  “You sure you wouldn’t rather make this easier?” Jeff twisted the axe free. “If you save me some sweat, I might only torture you a bit.”

  “Don’t listen to him … just a fucking door … the barricade will keep him away … and there’s more of us than him … even with Bentley going against us.”

  “I’m not against you … I’d just like to live.”

  Jeff continued hammering and tugging out chunks, gradually widening the hole until it gave way to a bookshelf still holding thick volumes. Peaking out above was what had to be a three-seater sofa. Five blood-drained faces were looking down from it, their white trembling fingers digging into the bulk of the leather. Something flashed, a blinding light, and immediately after the contents of a large saucepan was tossed through the opening. It was by a miracle that the light, startling Jeff, had prompted him to raise an arm to cover his eyes, and most of the boiling water scolded his forearm.

  “You mother fuckers,” he snarled.

  “Grace, hurry up with the next batch.”

  Jeff
quickly kicked away the remaining splinters of door and stepped back. He could pluck away the books and persist with the axe but there was little guarding against boiling water. And who knew what else they had. It was a fucking surgery, after all, they’d be sure to have acids, gases, sharp instruments and all types of strange lethal shit. But Jeff had come prepared so he now delved into his knapsack and pulled out the bottle of Mountain Dew.

  They knew it at once, that it wasn’t Mountain Dew, and Jeff unscrewed the cap and began flicking the gas over the books, sofa and whatever or whoever else was waiting behind it.

  “Fuck, he’s going to burn us. Tom, it’s not too late to…”

  “Oh, fuck off, Bentley. One more word and you’re volunteering for the window.”

  In his zeal, Jeff had managed to get a few drops over the sleeve of the old army fatigues he was still wearing after his visit to City Hall, but he shook them off and kicked the empty bottle against the wall. He delved bagwards and brought out a zippo, flipped the lid and produced flame. “You sure you wouldn’t at least like to repent for all the shit you’ve done?”

  “Yes! Please, I never wanted to … ouch!”

  “I said shut it, Bentley.”

  Jeff tossed the instrument toward the obstruction and the entire bookshelf immediately went up in a wall of flame.

  “Hurry up with that water, you fucking cunt … no, don’t boil it … any fucking water.”

  As it turned out, the bookshelf was made from a high-quality wood, probably more of that black walnut, and judging by the slow way it burned the fire would need a while before a path was cleared. The slimeballs inside would have it doused long before then if they continued chucking panfuls of water over it, which meant Jeff would again have to resort to using the axe. Dangerous, under the circumstances. There was more gas inside the tank of his car but siphoning a large enough quantity was out of the question, given the dead were presently in ownership of the fuel cap.

  He dashed into the theatre.

  “Fuck, he’s gone somewhere.”

  Jeff returned with the tank of oxygen and made sure to drop it down with enough of a clank that the moment held gravity. He pointed the tube in the direction of the flames and began turning the valve while the fucks on the other side had gone suddenly very silent. He wasn’t sure exactly how this would go but the staff seemed to recognize their predicament as there was a sudden and frantic scattering of feet. Something heavy crashed from atop the barricade.

  Water was desperately thrown over the flames but most of it missed the mark as the release of pressure was announced with a low hiss, then louder, faster, and a ball of red was thrown over Jeff and the pain seared through his skull. Disorientation. Blinding light. Flame. Shock. Agony. Red. Red. Red. Roaring. Noise. And he gathered his wits enough to throw off his jacket whilst hurtling down the corridor and diving for the water that all but submerged him as he sprawled and rolled and writhed upon the hard tiles.

  An indescribable agony overwhelmed Jeff’s entire world as he attempted to curl into a ball, made harder and even more painful because his flesh was sticking to the ground. The water trickled serenely around him. Pink tainted. The pain was so awesome, so terrible that a few seconds was all he could endure before he was unable to stop himself from plunging his face into the flood and inhaling as deeply as he could. The images of why he was doing this, the boy’s face, stabbed through his mind, and he wrenched his head up, retched, howled and twisted onto his back, shivered.

  Minutes past.

  He might have blacked out but he didn’t know.

  The pain diminished. And not just the pain from the burns, but the pain from the day before that had been gradually taking ahold of his entire body, his spine, his blood that felt like it was both boiling and freezing inside of him. “Damn … I think I’ve fucked my nerves up.” He flexed his foot and clenched his toes. Oddly, that pain, sustained around two hours prior, still hurt like fucking hell, and there was no denying the headache.

  Using the wall, he tore his flesh from the ground and hauled himself to his feet. He held out his hands. Fine. Thank God. His arms though. The burns. Twisted flesh. Sinews. Muscle. The fire. It had burned away his vest. Most of his pants too. His chest, stomach, body. All scorched. Raw. An obscene sight. Ahead. Burning. Furniture. Must kill the evil bastards. He collapsed sideways against the wall. Pushed off with his forearms. Ripped more flesh off his shoulder. Boots fine. Knapsack still there. Leather. Staggered forwards. Vomited. Continued. One step. Two. Three. Gently touched his face. Nothing. No sensation at all. Hair gone. Nose. Fuck. Lips. Fuck. Ear. Ok. Other ear. Fuck. Not there.

  Well, it was done now, sir. After this, there’d be no returning to society. No climbing the career ladder. That thought made him cackle. Career.

  He retrieved the axe and was still laughing when he plunged straight through the inferno and into the staffroom, collapsing the barricade and emerging from the flames. “You’re fired.” His biggest regret was that he was unable to make out the reactions, his eyesight was a bit fucked, to be fair, but he could discern the human shapes that were mostly all clustered in the corner, as far away from the newcomer as the room’s limits would allow. “Looks like you can either take your chances with the window, the fire,” he made a practice cut through the air, “or with me.” His voice sounded different but then, he was pretty sure his lips had melted from his face.

  A shape did indeed make a dash for the window and Jeff felt the distinct cold draught wash over his cooked flesh, which temporarily took his body in rictus. The woman raised one leg over the side, glanced down and hesitated, so Jeff smashed her kneecap, apparently with the wrong end of the axe. She fell back inside, banged her head on the ground and knocked herself out. Feet stamped from behind and something hard struck Jeff on the back. It wasn’t the impact itself that hurt but the tearing of yet more flesh when the object was pulled away. When Jeff turned around, Doctor Henry Metcalfe, the surgeon, was standing there holding the pan.

  Jeff swung the axe at his mouth, erasing his face and then cleaved the back of his head open as he went down.

  What had been silence now turned to pandemonium. Women screamed, children cried, three men reluctantly took position in front of the group and stood with placating, pleading hands.

  Jeff stepped calmly towards them and paused, rubbed his chin and instantly regretted it because it fucking hurt. “I don’t get it…” he counted four women, three men and two children, if his half-blinded eyes were telling the truth, as well as the two already unconscious, or dead, “I thought that of all the places, here you would not give in to traditional gender roles.” He raised the bat and everybody jerked back. “Switch fucking positions.”

  They all looked at him aghast, perhaps not surprising under the circumstances, as pink fluid bubbled from a fissure in his neck.

  “Too slow,” he shoved the haft into the belly of the nearest man, who was Bentley, the other surgeon, causing him to double over, “move it.”

  There was a reluctant exchange as the men went to comfort the children and the four women stood in front, shaking uncontrollably. Even with greatly impaired senses, Jeff knew the one he wanted, there was no mistaking that cunt, and it required all his will-power to stop himself from shoving his thumbs into her eyes and squishing them against the back of her head. He’d waited so long, he could wait a few minutes more.

  He turned again to the men and told them to kneel, to comfort the children who, evidently, were being braver than the adults. They were all here; Bentley, Wolfe and Kramer. Surgeon, psychotherapist and chemist, dispenser of death. Jeff jerked his jaw at the latter and noted the resemblance to the boy in his arms.

  “He yours?”

  Kramer said nothing, at least not verbally, but the look was something else.

  Jeff rooted in his knapsack and pulled out a bottle, followed by a syringe.

  “Oh, please,” Bentley hissed.

  “You have got to be fucking joking,” Kramer shrieked.

&nb
sp; Jeff stuck the needle in the bottle and slowly drew the liquid into the syringe, taking care to ensure the label ‘Estrogen’ was turned to face Kramer. When it was done, he held the needle out to the man. He didn’t move so Jeff hovered over his son, twitching the axe suggestively until the father reached out and snatched the needle from the hand of his tormentor.

  “Inject the boy,” Jeff said, almost like he was issuing an instruction to add more butter to the pan.

  Kramer physically baulked, the chemist knew better than anyone the effects of injecting estrogen into an eight-year-old boy. “N…no, he’s my son…”

  “And yet, you had no problems poisoning other people’s sons, daughters, against their parent’s wishes,” Jeff tapped the lad’s shoulder with the butt, “inject the boy. Either he lives as a girl or he does not live at all.”

  “Sir,” Isla Bergmeyer, the lawyer spoke for the first time and again, Jeff had to physically stop himself from stoving her teeth in, “we do not, and have never acted, against any parent’s wishes, we always…” one look from what was left of Jeff’s face was all it took to silence her.

  He turned back to Kramer. “You have ten seconds to administer the shot or…” he made it pretty clear with the axe.

  Kramer’s face screwed into a ball of utter hatred, a look Jeff recognized in himself. The others were grimacing, making noises, turning away, weeping, telling him not to do this, for the love of the God that barely a one of them believed existed. Kramer took the boy’s arm and said, “I’m sorry, David, we’ll fix this, I promise.”

  “No, you won’t,” Jeff stated matter of fact, remembering the promises he’d once made and had been unable to keep. One promise did eventually come true though, the one evolving presently.

  Kramer rolled back the boy’s sleeve and flicked at the needle tip, just the way they do in all the movies. His hand trembled as he brought the point towards his son’s vein and he’d not quite pricked the skin when Jeff spoke.