The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  Stott came closer, seemed unsteady, and stopped a few paces from the jittery crowd of inmates. His guards fanned out behind him, their rifles leveled. Stott nodded to one of his men and then a three-shot burst was fired at random into the mass of huddled inmates. A large man, who Jeff recognized as the older guy from the table two days before, fell to the floor with blood spraying from an appalling wound in his throat. The same wound sustained by the Supreme Leader, the old man couldn’t even scream, just clasped at his neck while he bled out and Stott merely watched, waited for the man to pass, adding gravity and deliberation to the seriousness of the situation. Finally, when it was over, he took another step forward, a wave of facial ticks betraying his inner turmoil.

  “Every thirty seconds, I will kill one man … until I know who played a part in this.” He sounded remarkably calm considering his idol was in such a bad way, possibly dead. “I want to know who knew about this, who supplied this spring,” he held the weapon up for everybody to see, it was, as it turned out, a zip gun, exceptionally crude, but lethal, “who supplied this rubber band, who supplied this fucking pipe,” he yelled the last bit, breaking his cool and possibly bursting a blood vessel because the whites of the sclera in his left eye were now visibly red.

  A voice from near the back cried out. “What, nobody fucking knows anything, sergeant, the only ones what had anything to do with it is dead.”

  “Twenty seconds, you worms.”

  There wasn’t long to think before some other innocent died, all because of Jeff’s fuck up, his pathetic need for alcohol. He knew he ought to step forward, do the right thing and own up to his part in this but what stopped him was what would obviously come to pass if he did. He’d be in for a whole world of pain, endless torture, on and on, forever, until he begged them to finish it, and then still they’d persist. Still, he almost stepped forth, could even feel his feet tipping forwards, but he stopped himself. Yes, he was a coward, and he’d cause the death of other, better men, but really, how many others in his position would readily make a confession and condemn themselves to such an end? Besides, there was not a man in this gulag who was not dead anyway, and any who lived would endure worthless lives regardless. No, a quick death for staying silent was far better, even if he took everyone else with him.

  That was thirty seconds, and Stott’s lips moved to give the order, but then there was a loud pop and a splash, followed by the distinctive sound of water gushing from a pipe. Stott frowned, slowly turned his head toward the kitchens and then bounded in that direction with Deacon, disappearing for less than a minute and returning. He stood in front of the huddle, the best part of a thousand men, and an evil, sardonic grin slowly filled his face.

  “I’d like to have a few words with the spic and the sot.”

  They were taken to a small room with gray walls, no furniture, just two chairs, tied to them and given a beating. So far it was nothing too creative, just fists, mostly to the belly, chest, limbs, jaw, but the pain superseded even the withdrawal symptoms. Rodriguez had been kicked in the balls. For some reason, Jeff had been spared that. When they were done, they’d turned up the heating and left for the night, leaving them tied to the chairs. No water. Claustrophobic.

  The Mexican, Jeff couldn’t remember his name, wouldn’t stop complaining. Maybe he had right. He’d had nothing to do with any of it and now, so he said, he regretted ever supporting the Party. Eventually, both men fell asleep and throughout the night their heads lolled around uncomfortably on their axes.

  Morning announced itself with the crash of Stott bursting in through the door. The suit stepped in after.

  “I had a bad feeling about that one the moment I laid eyes on him, didn’t I tell you? Don’t ask me how but you get an instinct for them. Hardly seems the revolutionary sort, though, does he? I really should have requested his record from Sactown. Probably did it in payment for sexual favors, or more likely, a thimble of liquor. Well?” he stepped further into the room as the door sank into the frame behind the two of them, it seemed to suck out the atmosphere, “are you going to say which it was?” He removed his spectacles and breathed onto the lenses, produced a rag and commenced methodically cleaning the glass. “That’s what the occasional inmate has been known to do in their depression over the loss of their freedom, sergeant, their beloved Constitution,” he said the word in a mocking tone. “They regurgitate potato and ferment it in the sun. No matter how hard you work them, no matter how hungry they get, you’ll always get a few who’d rather use their rations to concoct vodka. Mind, you had your own supply, didn’t you, in the kitchens, so I can only assume it was the other thing you craved.”

  Jeff’s throat was beyond hoarse. “I admit it, it was all me, the chef had nothing to do with anything.”

  Beside him, the wetback was slumped in the chair, but awake, his medical boot apparently confiscated.

  “Oh, I believe that.” The suit’s face clenched in a sudden fit of rage. “How dare you do such a thing to our beloved Supreme Leader. Sergeant, hand me those brass knucks, no, on second thoughts, I think I’d rather enjoy the feel of his face crunching beneath my knuckles.” He swung at Jeff, connected on the point of the chin and yelped. “Oh, you fucking cunt.” He shook the pain from his fist, blew on his knuckles. Administrators should not be administering punishment. Sure, he looked powerful now, but a few years before, there was little doubt he was on some university campus waving a placard and screaming smash the patriarchy.

  Jeff had hardly felt the blow, though he knew better than to make it appear so, and he coughed, hacked up some yellow and spat it to the ground.

  “Your little plot failed, just so you know. Your co-conspirators have all been chopped into bits and the slush thrown out for the flies, and as for our beloved Supreme Leader … he’s expected to wake up and pull through, and when that happens, I’ve little doubt he’ll wish to watch your flaying with a glass of Laurent-Perrier.” The suit turned to Stott and obviously wanted both captives to hear. “So, until then, you’ll work these two creatures to the point of death, but not beyond it. If either of them dies, sergeant…”

  Stott did not need to hear it saying. He nodded, and never did he look so grim.

  A few minutes later, they were tied to a truck by a harness.

  “Pull, you dead men, pull.” It was Stott and Deacon who lounged back in the cabin.

  The gulag’s entire population had been made to line the track that led into the forest, an example of what happens when you attempt such heinous a crime as regicide. The ground, at least the stretch that ran out the immediate camp grounds, lay on a very slight decline. If that was any help then Jeff couldn’t feel it. His boots sunk into the gravel, skidded, slipped, inched. His companion, a squat cripple of a man, was having an even harder time of it. Ordinarily, owing to his width and low center of gravity, he might have been half useful in such an endeavor but now, having had a standard boot thrown at him, his legs were incapable of finding purchase on the ground. He was leaning at an awkward tilt and shifted forward with discomfort whilst forever complaining about his back and that without his boot he’d never be able to walk without pain again.

  Jeff’s twisted spine was also in agony and after five minutes he dared glance back over a shoulder, only to find they’d managed all of five yards, which was when he was whipped by a guard he hadn’t even known had been there, all whilst the early morning sun beat down, the leather straps dug deep into his flesh, itched obscenely, and every time he tried stopping to take a breath, he was whipped again.

  The inmates mostly kept their heads low, which was appreciated, as being taunted and spat at would only have added to the discomfort. Given privacy and a lick of alcohol, most of them probably even approved with the shit Jeff had haplessly become involved with. Might be he was a hero right now. Either way, he’d soon find out how popular he was when the rations ceased because when he’d earlier managed to steal a glance in the kitchens, nobody had bothered to find replacements.

  At best
guess, it was over an hour later when they’d finally succeeded in passing the final man lining the track and then all the other inmates were called to their trucks for the ride into the forest. Forty vehicles ground past, throwing dust and stones and wood chippings into their faces. Just ahead, the slope leveled out before beginning a great ascent that would eventually lead into the woodland.

  Fuck. There was no way they could ever hope to pull the truck up that. Even the decline had been a bitch.

  For miles, the land had been stripped of its trees and one had to glance into the mid-horizon before the brown barren landscape became green again, a line that was further receding by the day. Perhaps if Cali hadn’t alienated the United States and just about everybody else save for North Korea, they might have been able to import coal. Other shit too, like oil and food. It was sad. Those beautiful giant redwood trees had always been an iconic symbol of California. Now the commie bastards were felling them at a demonic rate and all to keep the charade going just a little bit longer.

  “Stop, you fucking weasels,” came the awful voice, as though they were actually going anywhere.

  Jeff wasn’t sure if being spared the trip was a good thing or not because something equally or even more punishing was sure to take its place. The truck door opened and a couple seconds later they were both jerked violently back.

  Stott snarled, “we haven’t got all fucking year, take off those fucking straps and get in the back.”

  They had to assist each other, Rodriguez helping Jeff with a hand under the boot before Jeff could pull Rodriguez over the top, because their tormentors were hardly likely to offer any help, and then the truck began rattling through the gates and up the verge, across the bare landscape and eventually into the forest. After fifteen minutes they began passing some of the men working in small teams, each watched over by a single guard with a rifle, and the distant grinding of chainsaws floated over on the hot breeze.

  Stott had removed his hat and now poked his brick-like head out the passenger side window. “Getting a good look, are you? Your days of cushy kitchen work are over, you can bet on that.” Just who exactly was doing the cooking now?

  For another thirty minutes, the truck persisted, deeper into the national park until Jeff was certain they were further from base than anyone else. The truck slowed to a stop in a small clearing with only a few felled trees, maybe ten or twelve, though the area was still heavily enshrouded. Stott and Deacon opened their doors as squirrels darted up into the trees. The tailgate was thrown down and Jeff and Rodriguez were both yanked off the bed so that they landed heavily on the earth. Two axes were tossed down.

  “You two can do it the old way, now get to fucking work.”

  Jeff looked up from the dry earth. “What?”

  Stott pointed to arguably the thickest and tallest tree that ever existed, his lip curling up to reveal teeth. “You heard. Oh, I’m under no illusions you’ll make much of a dent, but I’m gonna watch you sweat regardless.”

  All Jeff could do was stare at the thing. When he was a boy, Jeff had seen the famous General Sherman in the Sequoia National Park, which back then was thought to be the largest tree in existence, but here, now, this bastard could certainly stand up to the other. Beside it, the truck measured up like a flyweight beside a heavyweight. To be forced to hack down such a thing was a tragedy, but then Jeff saw there was a notch large enough to host a football game already taken out of it, and it was only because of the majesty of the tree that he didn’t immediately notice the rotting human corpse leaning back against it.

  Deacon laughed. “See, you ain’t the first to try felling this bitch.”

  Jeff walked around it, which took about thirty seconds at his wobbly pace. He was no tree expert but it was clear even to him that the thing was dead, having had a major chunk already taken out and when he took his first swing, and even with his reduced strength, he was able to remove a sizable dry chunk. It was obvious the job wasn’t about to be as hard as the guards had hoped but Jeff was far too canny to let them know that and he made sure to groan on impact and went even further by pretending to jar his arm, all for the benefit of his tormentors. Hopefully, Rodriguez would take the cue, but even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be easy for him anyway.

  Stott and Deacon watched closely for about ten minutes, periodically laughing every time wood shards flew into Jeff’s eyes, the exertion threatened to bring on a heart attack or Rodriguez, having to swing the heavy instrument at an angle, lost his balance and fell over. At one point, he missed the tree completely and blundered into the corpse, and he was so frantic in scrabbling away from it that he skidded and buried his face in its crotch.

  The two guards laughed heartily. “Ah, you two stupid little bastards, and you can be sure it’s all for nothing.”

  Jeff, taking that as an invite, stopped hacking at the tree and leaned on his axe for support, enjoying a small respite. “What do you mean?”

  Stott snorted. “Do you really believe you’re so special?”

  Jeff blinked, confused. “Me?”

  “Not you, you imbecile.”

  “Not me?”

  “You! All of you.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the camp. “Do you really think the Supreme Leader would come all the way up here, personally, just to recruit you worthless skinny bastards for the army?” He laughed mockingly. “Oh, I’m sure it made you all feel special, encourage you to sign up, swell the ranks some, die for Him, even.”

  Jeff gave Rodriguez a sideward glance and wondered if Stott was touched by the moon. “Sergeant, I don’t understand.”

  “Now, there’s a surprise.”

  “We all saw the Supreme Leader.”

  Stott shook his head and laughed again. “All your worthless co-conspirators did was maim one of His body doubles. Oh, don’t get me wrong, He won’t like losing one of His beloved doppelgängers one bit. Who does? And it’s still a major problem for the pair of you, regardless, but I’m almost certain that wasn’t our beloved Supreme Leader you had shot in the neck.” His head tipped back as he descended into a fit of hysterics. “Over a hundred camps, did you really believe He’d go to every single one just to recruit zombie fodder? No, all you did was cripple someone else, and for that, you’ll both die agonizing deaths.” He was still laughing when they went to the front of the truck and began rummaging around.

  Jeff turned to the Mexican. “Do you think any of that’s true?” He received no response.

  The guards returned with a small portable table and two camping chairs, which they assembled in a spot that was shaded. There was the distinctive sound of bottle caps being popped, they soon kicked back, and from then on the only communicating came in the form of the occasional threat issued over a distance.

  By this time, Jeff was hallucinating black bears, Red Blazers, Terrence, and had lost count of how many times he’d evacuated his belly, but he was relatively happy to be left alone. “Rodrigo, how are you coping?”

  The Mexican had taken to hopping around, leaning his hip against the tree and attempting fast swings that came from the shoulder, hardly efficient or effective in principle, but there was a large gash in the stump where he was concentrating. “It’s fucking Rodriguez, amigo, and what the fuck were you thinking anyway? We had it easy, homes, but you had to go and fuck it all up, and for what?” So, he was finally speaking to him.

  Jeff took a lump out of the tree and made a loud noise to demonstrate his agony. “I’m an alcoholic. They promised me a bottle of Scotch.”

  His gums pulled back to reveal the disgust. “Yeah, well I hope it tasted good, because now we’ve got this for the rest of our short lives, right up until we’re tortured to death. I hope you’re fucking happy for involving me.”

  Jeff decided not to tell him about the fate of the whiskey. In fact, he decided not to speak to him again at all.

  By the time the guards were on their third beer they began serving themselves cold cuts and cheese on crackers, a delightful combination that wa
sn’t easy to come by anymore. Every time he had the opportunity, he studied the two men from a distance, how they sat, spoke, moved, looked at each other, drank, batted at flies, walked back to the truck for more beers. Walked back. Sat. All very cozy.

  Being posted off in some isolated gulag. It sure was bereft of women. And they’d be far from the first to lower their standards.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Stott shouted over the distance.

  Jeff waved a hand, “nothing, sergeant.”

  After three hours, Jeff’s shoulder was aching for real, but more than anything it was his spine that threatened to give out. It was almost hard to imagine he’d ever served in Afghanistan and had once killed three Taliban in a bayonet charge. Those days were long gone. A different world. Different life. Now he was toiling with an axe in the blazing heat, swatting at flies whilst trying to ignore the presence of a fucking corpse perched against the stump. How far he’d fallen. And how long had it even been there? Impossible to say, though doubtless the goons knew. Its eyes had long ago been taken by the birds of the forest, its lips too, and the skin was pulled so tight over its skull that a single touch might cause it to break. The camp-issue white overalls were fairing far better than the corpse, even though it was patched with red, an indication of the torture the man had sustained whilst attempting to hack down the tree. What had been his crime? Was it as bad as being complicit in the death of the venerated head of state? Jeff conceded that if Stott had been the inflictor of those ghastly wounds then maybe he ought to be grateful that for now at least, the guards were happy to take advantage of being away from the watchful eyes of their superiors back at camp, to sit in the sun, rest, get drunk or whatever else they had in mind.

  “Don’t worry,” Stott shouted, “you’ll be joining him soon enough. Although I doubt your death will be quite so easy.”

  Deacon leaned closer to his companion and said something into his ear.