The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  The herd hung disheveled and exhausted, their faces flecked with earth and grazes, white overalls filthy, their eyes tired and sunken, chatter constrained to mere groans and wheezes. They were in far worse shape, Jeff knew, than prison inmates, who at least possessed enough energy for the occasional lunchtime riot.

  Scoops in hand, they stood beside each other, Rodriguez on the tripe, while the men lined up, shuffled past and received a modest portion from each before taking seats at long wooden tables that sat a hundred apiece and were arranged in a horseshoe figure with an enormous portrait of the Supreme Leader on the wall in the divide. Ten, twelve guards around the walls faced in. Rifles.

  Jeff noticed one of his gray hairs had somehow found its way into the mash but he was able to conceal it by stirring it in. Men grumbled at seeing their meager rations and at least one appeared on the verge of making a scene but thought better of it because Stott was looming close, barking at everybody to hurry the fuck up. It was when Jeff had counted around twenty scoops distributed when he wondered just when he was supposed to eat, nobody had told him anything, and he glanced across toward the tripe and could do nothing to stop himself vomiting into the tank of mash.

  “Fuuuuccckkk!” The inmate about to receive his portion looked appalled and then those around him commenced groaning, cursing and issuing threats. Understandable maybe.

  Jeff was still hunched over the trough when Sergeant Stott stamped over, shoving various men out of the way and casting a shadow over everything. “Worm,” he boomed.

  Slowly, and with a terrible cramp in his belly, Jeff managed to raise his head, but if he was expecting to be taken around back and given a whipping, he was to be left astonished.

  “Stir it in,” Stott ordered, uncharacteristically casual, though his voice still hurt Jeff’s head, “stir it in, now.” One inmate stepped out of the line so Stott threw him back in. “Men who don’t eat don’t fulfill their quotas.” He raised his voice and pointed at Jeff. “You will all eat every last bit of food that this man has tended, lovingly slaved over, and puked in.” It was one of those rare occasions when the silence can be truly terrifying.

  Rodriguez’ scoop was hanging limp in his fingers. Jeff felt bad for him because the Mexican took some pride in his work and he remained quiet as Jeff began blending it all together whilst being unable to do anything about the beads of sweat that trickled from the tip of his chin, adding further to the mix.

  “I’m very sorry,” Jeff told the next man to receive his bounty, whilst finding himself unable to look directly at him.

  Stott beckoned Deacon over, whispered something in his ear and the subordinate left the room, shortly after returning with a small, ornate table with a plush chair carried by an orderly, which were then placed in the center of the five large communal tables.

  There was time to wait before anybody was allowed to touch their food, a ritual Jeff was by now used to, as was any man who’d done a stint in a Californian labor camp. It takes time to serve five hundred people their ration and those already with plates had to sit quietly and wait, maybe reflect a little, until the last man was seated before thanks could then be given.

  Stott was standing beneath the portrait of the Supreme Leader and then turned on his boot so that he was facing the image the world knew so well, of the man himself looking at the lens so sternly it might have been taken during a particularly bad bout of constipation. Stott thrust a clenched fist into the air and there was a collective groan as five hundred men struggled to their feet, inhaled profoundly and began belting out The International, all six fucking verses of it. A hot meal in California was a thing of days long gone.

  The words the whole country knew by heart reverberated off the wooden structure as the guards stepped between tables in search of those not singing enthusiastically enough. Mostly, a stern look was all it ever required to prompt an inmate to try harder, whereas those who could not be motivated, or worse, refused to sing at all, were marched out for a beating. On this occasion, there were no such instances because what was the point in fighting it when you’re in their house? It was all part of the so-called re-education, though even some of the most ardent closeted opponents had long ago learned to simply embrace it, because to do otherwise was to place your life at risk, and besides, to croon with such over-the-top enthusiasm that it became sarcastic was in itself, a means of protest of which few men could tell the difference anyway. Finally, when the chorus had been sung, no less than for the sixth time, every man had to thrust a clenched fist toward the sky and pledge their allegiance to the Party, to whom the bounty they were about to consume was owed, so you’d better be grateful.

  Finally, the inmates were permitted their seats, from when the tripe and mash, with a small helping of Jeff’s oral discharge, could be vanquished.

  Throughout all this, Jeff had been stood out of the way, forlornly going along with the charade from behind his station, but then he was astonished to be beckoned over towards the small private table in the very center of the hall.

  “Sit,” Deacon told him.

  With a little reluctance, Jeff did, and noticed the quality of the silverware laid down before him, not to mention the stares he was getting from about five hundred starving men whose once-daily sustenance he’d accidentally fouled. A trolley was wheeled in by a man wearing a chef’s hat because of course, some people were more equal than others, and then a large platter was placed down. Jeff could really sense the stares now and then, fearing the worst, the lid was removed to reveal a large steak, sirloin, wet with juices, and fries, golden, cut thick, garnished with finely trimmed onions, coleslaw, and a large dollop of peppercorn sauce. The smell alone was better than just about anything he’d experienced since the foundation of the republic.

  “Enjoy.” The chef, looking fairly bemused himself, trundled out and then Stott was hovering in front.

  “Enjoy your meal, good sir.” He didn’t add that it might be his last, before walking away and leaving Jeff to the glares of his compatriots.

  He understood it all now. This was not a reward for a day’s labor and it certainly wasn’t an apology for his kidnapping. This was Stott’s way of having fun, and probably condemning Jeff to death because at some point, probably even this night, he’d be alone with these people. He could leave the meal, refuse to eat it, offer to redistribute it among some of the others but what use was that? Stott had singled out Jeff for treatment and this was what he was getting.

  Jeff tried blotting out the blurry shapes of inmates grimacing with their every mouthful but he could not blot out the names, insults, threats; cunt, bastard, cunt, cunt, fucker, dead man, cunt. Jeff was missing half his incisors and all of his canines, which meant having to cut the meat into tiny pieces for the molars. He was long used to that necessity but steak, even steak as well marinaded and cooked as this, is far different to consuming liquor, nettle or vine soup, his usual staples. It tasted good, beyond good, which of course was the whole point of the exercise. His last meal. And he was still eating when the men had finished and began exiting, still issuing threats and taunts as they passed, before finishing the day felling trees and dragging them onto trucks.

  When Jeff finished he was about ready to crash out on the back seat of his Toyota, and then he remembered where he was and that he had to go through it all over again, peeling and preparing enough spuds for the next round of five hundred. When he sheepishly entered the kitchen, Rodriguez already had his head down over the carcass and he looked up briefly to smile reservedly. Jeff could only wonder how many kitchen hands he’d seen pass through.

  Save for his worsening nausea, a couple of minor kitchen accidents and the guards poking their heads in every fifteen minutes, the afternoon phased to evening with only one other incident of note.

  It was when a squad of Red Blazers appeared unexpectedly and then for the next hour the camp administrators were in a state of panic, flapping about, getting themselves in a sweat and generally not knowing what to do with themselves. At o
ne point, a suit with a dead fish for a face and a Party badge even found himself wandering into the kitchens from when Jeff received a silent appraisal from across the floor before he turned to Stott, who’d followed in sheepishly after him.

  The suit scowled again at Jeff. “Is there nothing that can be done about that?”

  Stott shrugged apologetically. “Sir, you’re in a labor camp, not the Hilton Hotel.”

  “Ah, yes, I suppose we get what we pay for, right?” He spent another ten seconds chewing his bottom lip, not once taking his eye off Jeff where he stood, minding his own supposed business. “Still, I’d like that kept out of the way.”

  “Sir, that’s why I stuffed him in here.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, because nobody will notice him here … Sergeant, please tell me this is not the gutter rat you chose to make a spectacle of?” He asked the question whilst turning around to look squarely at the guard, whose reaction confirmed all.

  Stott stepped away and sucked his cheeks in. “Sir, I…”

  “Oh, you fucking imbecile.” He glanced back to the peeler and not for the first time Jeff genuinely feared he’d be taken out back and shot. Rodriguez was conspicuous by the speed he was working. “Can he be moved?”

  Stott sounded panicked, “sir, I considered other positions but I didn’t think him fit for anything else. They picked him up in Redding, the Trench, and the back of the truck was so covered in sick we took him for four or five people. They’re still hosing it down and we had to ask if anyone had escaped in transit.” There was a long silence, uncomfortable, which prompted Stott to suggest, “sir, he’s unlikely to survive very long anyway, it might just be easier to send him to the shed and be done with it.”

  Jeff’s heart thudded but mercifully, the suit flapped a hand. “No, no, no, we need every fucking man we can get, temporary as it may be in this case.” He sighed and delved beneath a pair of wire frames to rub at an eye. “The United States is automating their labor, meanwhile we barely have enough power to keep the fucking lights on. Keep him here, out of the fucking way, but next time, please, no spectacles, not when we have visitors.” The suit pushed past Stott, who reserved a final, withering scowl for Jeff, before hurrying after him.

  They were California’s answer to the United States Secret Service, and the presence of the Red Blazers could only mean one thing. The Supreme Leader was paying a visit. It could be today, it could be tomorrow, or it could be any time thereafter. Or maybe he wasn’t coming at all. Their arrival might even be a decoy. Undoubtedly, there were enough enemies in the Party who wanted to see the Supreme Leader replaced with someone either more radical, less radical, or by any man who merely granted better favors, and it was hardly unusual historically for such heads of state to employ similar devices. Either way, it meant nothing to Jeff, and even when three of the distinctive and most elite soldiers in the country came into the kitchen to sweep the place, the only thing there was to do about it was continue peeling.

  It was after nine when the cleanup was finished and Jeff could finally leave for the dorm. There were no rules against leisure activities during an inmate’s free time, but after working thirteen hours, all most ever wanted to do was fall asleep. Besides, there was nothing much to do anyway.

  Jeff didn’t know how many nights throughout his life he’d spent sleeping in rooms with upwards of twenty or thirty other men, after all, he’d been in the army. More recently, he’d spent the occasional night in the shelter, though it was rare that he was lucky enough to get a bed there and since the fire, he’d given up trying. The gulag, however, took communal boarding to a whole new level and one hundred beds to a dorm was something quite different, especially when you were marked.

  It was a grim looking place of bouncing wooden floorboards that groaned with every step and apart from the bunks, which were lined fifty a side down to the far wall, there was nothing much else at all. Nothing. To the regime, the men were mere human production units and that was it. What’s more, the beds were positioned so close together that there was scarce room to stand between them and were composed merely of a flat board of wood elevated on four stilts, no mattresses or pillows, and only a single sheet for warmth. Jeff was used to it, in fact, he’d had worse. What was different, though, was the ceiling, essentially a giant sheet of plastic meant only to keep out the elements. It flapped about relentlessly.

  Sleeping men make noises, and on Jeff’s first night that dormitory was a constant of snoring, discharging gas, cries for mothers, moaning from all sorts of pains, and worse. Not one man so much as dared intervene when some unfortunate was dragged from his bunk by three others and taken to the bathroom from when it was obvious he was being gang-raped. An hour after the assailants had finished, the victim still hadn’t emerged and there was no knowing if the man was even alive. It was around then that Jeff felt a heavy weight bearing down upon the back of his legs.

  “Shhhhhh,” came a harsh voice so close to Jeff’s ear that he was scratched by the rough stubble covering the intruder’s jaw and it was so dark, there was no way of knowing if there was one, two or more of them. Jeff tried to cry out but was cut off from doing so by what had to be a length of rope pulling up against his windpipe. The man in the next bed scampered in a patter of feet.

  “How was the steak, Mister Chef? You enjoy that, did you? Didn’t consider redistributing it amongst your friends, did you?” The reality was that the man, whoever he was, did not possess an unworldly amount of strength, and the weight upon his legs was not overly great either. These were semi-starved men, after all, and with Jeff being a recent arrival, he judged that had he been in any kind of respectable shape himself, he might have been able to take them, or at the least make a good go of it. As it was, in his present state, he felt powerless to do anything.

  The chord tightened, Jeff’s chest was pulled off the bed as his back arched and his head was tilted back. There was, Jeff could now see, an outline of a third man hovering close to the wall, which tipped the odds even further against him. The final assailant must have correctly judged his additional force was surplus to requirements.

  The stubble was back against Jeff’s ear, the breath hot. “Sorry I have to do this, comrade, but we can’t be having the rules being broked, not around here, not in my dorm.” The rope was now constricting Jeff’s neck with such force that surely, he’d pass out any second, perhaps never to wake again. “Now, why don’t you part your cheeks nice and wide so you can at least go out happy.”

  There was a sickening thud and within a second, the pressure around Jeff’s throat diminished to nothing. Just as fast, the man sitting on his legs was yanked off and whoever was standing over his head was using his forearm to block multiple blows coming from what had to be a sap. At about the fifth or sixth strike, his arm shattered, causing him to scream and when he lowered the limb he was struck with a headshot. There was a thump as the man slumped sidewards onto the next bed. Meanwhile, the strangler had tipped forwards and Jeff could feel blood oozing down from above. He was dragged off and landed heavy on the ground, and then there was a different mouth close to Jeff’s ear.

  “Sleep, friend, we’ll talk tomorrow.” It wasn’t Rodriguez, although he couldn’t be sure, but Jeff could not think of another person in this fucking gulag who came close to being a friend. Certainly nobody who would save his life.

  There was the sound of what had to be three men being dragged across the floor.

  Simultaneously.

  Which meant three rescuers.

  Jeff rubbed his neck, heaved for air…

  …and threw up all over his bed.

  Jeff did manage some sleep. Intermittently.

  When the morning sun blazed through the plastic sheeting that had rippled through the night, there was barely a man not still crashed out. Battered, withered bodies. They needed energy. A hard day of labor awaited.

  Jeff’s neck still burned. It hurt to swallow. He sat up. Glanced about the dorm. Three trails of blood each leading from his bed
to three others. All across from him. Spread out. Where the trails ended, three men lay sleeping. The man closest had an arm dangling off the edge. His face a mask of red. Skull misshapen. Sheet laid neatly over him. Feet not tucked under like most the others. The other two trails were too far away for a clear look but if the blurs were anything to go by, they didn’t move either. He swallowed. Felt a shooting pain. Felt sick.

  The door was thrown open and Stott and Deacon strode in. Started striking bed legs with batons. Making noise excruciating to the head.

  “Get the fuck up you capitalist bastards, those redwoods are not gonna fall on their own, drag themselves to the trucks, strip themselves, make themselves into motherfucking planks, become nice and smooth unless you get the fuck up right this motherfucking minute.” They marched down the entire length of the dorm, tugging off sheets, thumping anyone still asleep, slapping those who were awake, alert and getting into their overalls. A foot was poking out from the bathroom and Stott had to force the door open to get in. “Oh, you randy motherfuckers, what in the fucking hell did you do to this man?” The squelches of a few well placed boots to the belly carried across the floor. “Oh, you motherfucking killed the man.”

  By now, every single inmate was up and standing still like an army cadet at the foot of his bed, every man, that is, but three. Jeff followed their lead and stood, rubbing at his neck and enduring the pain.

  Stott and Deacon marched back down the length of the dorm, ignoring the men who were ready and stopping at the first bed something was different. “You motherfucker. Get your fat ass up this…” he pulled back the sheet and even Stott physically baulked at the sight of the man’s caved in face. “What the…” his eyes slowly tracked from the bed to the floor, the trail of blood leading a straight path toward Jeff standing hunched wondering what the fuck was going on, to another two trails leading from the newcomer directly to two more beds both containing mangled corpses.