The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  Stott puckered his lips, met the beer bottle to the same, and stood, patting crumbs off his fatigues. “We’re … off to take a rest,” he glanced over a shoulder towards the truck and then back to Jeff, seemed to hesitate, “the second I stop hearing the sound of those axes, we’ll be right out and you’ll be in for it. You understand? Maybe we’ll drag you back to camp on a rope … so don’t make me…” he glanced at Deacon, who was waiting over at the driver’s side door, adjusted his pants and took a half step closer to Jeff. “No point running anyway, you dogs, there’s a reason we don’t bother keeping you all in chains,” he opened out his arms to encompass the seemingly never-ending wilderness and let out a bark, “even if you weren’t a cripple and a sot, you’d die long before making civilization. So don’t even think about it.” He glared a moment longer, let out an audible snigger, and strode over to the truck.

  Rodriguez sighed, “I’m fucking dying here, homes, I need food.”

  Jeff took a hard swing at the tree, separating a melon-sized chunk from its bulk. “Sometimes, I amaze myself with how little my body needs food.” A drink, however…

  “Yeah? Well some of us do need to eat. And you cost me my job.” This again? “I had it good, amigo, a job so easy even a cripple could do it. And they took my boot. That’s all down to you.”

  Jeff thumped the stump and for a second it almost seemed like the tree could feel it, that it sighed in the wind. “I had nothing to do with the loss of your boot … getting us in this situation, perhaps, but you can’t blame me for…” he buried the blade further in the crevice, wrenched it out, and there was a deep moan that seemed to come from somewhere overhead yet underground at the same time. “That you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  It happened in slow motion, the deep creaking, branches, leaves slapping into others, uncountable birds starting together from numerous up high places, the ground literally uprooting, and finally, nearly four million pounds of dead weight collapsing into the nook they’d spent the day widening. Jeff managed to find his feet and tugged Rodriguez back, not that he could tell which direction the trunk was about to fall, indeed, long before it became clear there was nothing he could do to stop it anyway so he just watched as it tipped, picked up speed, swatted neighboring trees aside like a giant’s hand a fly, a gust of earthy wind, insane squawking from animals losing their home, free falling…

  Jeff’s eyes were wide and his hand gravitated to cover his mouth and then the redwood plunged down to earth, squashing the truck like the giant crushing the fly beneath its boot.

  The noise was like calling in an airstrike, they had to have heard it all the way back at the gulag. Branches and leaves continued raining down.

  Jeff felt Rodriguez’ hand on his arm. “Homes? You think they alright?”

  Jeff shook his head. No words. “I … I … I’m not sure we can go back to camp.”

  The wetback shook his head, “nuh-uh.”

  They headed north, hoping to eventually strike the highway that was known to traverse the national park. It was a gamble. Neither knew where the fuck they were or whether the camp had been located to the north or south of State Route 36, though both understood they had to travel away from the place where only a flaying awaited. The shitty mountain track from which they’d come eventually phased from asphalt to stone to mud to nothing, from when it became a precarious descent down through thick overgrowth unfit for human passage.

  It wasn’t easy, the first six hours, especially with Rodriguez’ disability, and there were times when every step gave him pain, and neither was it one of those situations where the weaker found his bravery and declared, “leave me, save yourself, go on alone.” On the contrary.

  “Will you fucking carry me, homes?”

  “You really think I can fucking carry you?” By this point, Jeff could barely even carry himself. There had been at least three streams of crystal clear water trickling down from the hills, which had been a necessary blessing, though there comes a time when even habitual inebriates require food. Truth was that Jeff had spent at least half the journey with Rodriguez’ arm around his shoulder, which progressively began to weigh down heavy, though Jeff was determined not to abandon the spic, which he could so easily had he wanted. No. For whatever reason, Jeff felt he owed it to his kitchen mate to help him back to civilization, to salvation.

  “Where you live anyway, homes?”

  Jeff swiped a branch out the way of his face. “That’d be the infamous Trench, a sort of refuge for nearly every damned rogue, runaway, disenfranchised, former Republican, patriot and enemy of the state in the north of the country.” For some odd reason, he missed the place. It was a foul, rat-infested sewer with an average life expectancy of only a few months, but for the most part, the people were all in the same boat and they looked out for each other. At least if you could escape being killed. “You heard of it?”

  Rodriguez shook his head, which could only reveal how long he’d been a slave. How could he not know about the Trench?

  “You’re welcome to stop by if you like, I’ll vouch for you.” When no response came, Jeff changed tack. “Look, whether you like it or not you are one of those runaway enemy of the states now.” Jeff let out a laugh. “Hell, man, after what they’ve accused you of, you’d be safer flashing your old NRA membership card whilst singing The Star-Spangled Banner. Just share your shit and nobody does you hurt, and if you can stay awake when it counts then you’ll not find yourself back in a labor camp.”

  The wetback said nothing, which Jeff took as grudging acceptance. Nobody was ever thrilled at the prospect of living in the Trench, where you pretty much had to fend for yourself, stealing shit and selling it on the black market, mostly, though there were also drug pushers, pimps, a fair few musicians and selling your ass could usually guarantee a meal at the minimum, though Jeff had never had to do that. Give communism its dues. If you take a state job then you at least have your basics met, a roof, your daily portion, water, but when you decide to go rogue and somehow end up in the Trench, you have to once again resort to nature, survival of the fittest, or its modern equivalent, free-market capitalism, which today meant making soap out of your own shit and trading it for a half canister of gas your buddy siphoned from a state patrol car.

  Silence persisted. What was there to talk about anyway when you’re squelching through bog, arcing around lakes, avoiding black bears, all while wondering where and how in the hell you’re meant to sleep. At one point, Jeff asked how Rodriguez had come to be at Labor Camp 87.

  The story wasn’t anything remarkable, and like Jeff, he seemed somewhat embarrassed to tell it. He’d come up on a truck from Mexico, back when the commies were throwing money around at everything, wanting free treatment for his leg, which he got, but when other people’s money began running out and they started making cuts, it tends to be the weakest who get shafted first and hardest.

  “I was taken from my fucking hospital bed right before I was meant to go under the knife.” The skin bunched around his weary eyes. “I’d already been anesthetized, so I was powerless to run even if I tried. Woke up in the back of a truck on a bumpy road heading north outta LA, surrounded by other cripples, most of whom were still unconscious. Yeah, you can fucking believe it, homes, my treatment was the honey they used to trap me. Spent my first year working nights in a fucking foundry, until they eventually realized my disability was too much of a hindrance for such manual labor. But by then the regime was already shifting focus, from trying to make it look like they had a functioning economy to a possible future defense of the Republic, at least that’s my guess, so I was transported further north to number 87, working to put more people like me in a similar position.” Ahead, the road came into view and his mood shifted up a few notches. East on State Route 36 would lead to the Platina Road and from there it was straight onto Redding. It was some fantastic luck. “I tell you, amigo, I should have just stayed in Mexico. I had a modest life but at least I was my own man.”

  It
was less than a mile down the road when good luck would find them again.

  Ahead, the outline of a small car, a compact, was just barely visible in the dying light. It had stopped, or rather, badly parked half off the road on the grass verge at a forty-five-degree angle. Its rear blinkers were flashing. The driver’s side door was hanging open.

  They quickened pace as much as they could and as they approached, the distinctive smell of burning rubber was lingering in the air. The driver was slumped over the wheel, had made no reaction to the sound of their arrival, and neither did he flinch when Jeff touched his shoulder. He was warm.

  “Hey, you alright there?”

  The man jerked, then groaned. He was alive.

  “I got you, man,” Jeff gently moved him back, saw the patch of red, conspicuous through his white shirt sleeve. There was the rancid stink of body odor infused with raw meat. “Speak to me.”

  “I … I think I killed him.”

  “Killed him?” Rodriguez asked whilst attempting to look over the top of Jeff’s back to get a glimpse inside. “Who did you kill?”

  “Hitchhiker.” The man, caucasian, long black hair tied into a ridiculously tight ponytail that shined even in the dark shivered, his sweater and jacket were strewn over the back seat. “More like animal. Was staggering down road. I tried help. Offered lift.” He raised his forearm, the effort took a lot out of him. “He fucking bit me. I opened door. Pushed him out. Went back. Run over head.”

  Rodriguez walked around the back of the car and stooped. “Amigo, there’s blood and gore all over this wheel. Hair too.”

  The man coughed and groaned, “need hospital.”

  Jeff bit his lip, the man was in no fit state to drive.

  “Amigo, a word?”

  Jeff went to confer with his companion. “Yeah?”

  Rodriguez sighed and glanced behind into the gloom. “I’ve been thinking. This Trench place don’t exactly sound like the kinda community I’d feel welcome. Think I’d maybe like to try for Mexico. Home.”

  Jeff nodded and if he were to be honest, he felt kind of relieved to be done with the baggage, so he wouldn’t try persuading him otherwise. “What about the wall?” When the communists had come to power they’d bulldozed the entire California section, only to again rebuild the thing when people began to flee.

  He shrugged. “Trench, the border? Sounds like I’d have an equal shot either way. Besides, there ain’t a river, wall or pit of fire in existence that can keep my people from crossing that border. There’s no reason it won’t work both ways.”

  Jeff laughed and realized he’d miss the crippled bastard. “We’re what … fifty miles from Redding? Thing is, the kind of care they offer at the local medical facility ain’t exactly what this guy needs, if you know what I mean.”

  He didn’t. “If you don’t need a ride…”

  “I don’t. Take the car. Halfway to Sactown there’s a city that goes by the name of Chico, maybe ninety miles.” Jeff glanced at his friend’s leg. “You can drive?”

  “As long as it’s an automatic, yeah.”

  Jeff reached out for his hand, which was accepted. “After Chico, steal the damned car, that’s another thing your people are good at - you’ll have done him enough favors anyway - and avoid the major highways, maybe skirt Yosemite. You might make it, but probably not. Good luck either way.”

  The Mexican was grinning. “You too, amigo, and maybe the next time we meet, avoid the Scotch, maybe go for the tequila instead.”

  Jeff decided not to tell him he was going sober now. No point ruining a moment like this. “It’s been interesting, Rodrigo.”

  His eyebrows furrowed, for whatever reason, but the wetback said nothing as Jeff turned around and began the final leg home. He almost felt like his old self.

  Because maybe, just maybe, the time for vengeance was imminent.

  Seven Years Earlier

  A single bag slung over Jeff’s shoulder, he waited for the large steel shutters to open. Beside him, the fat officer had been testy the entire five-minute walk from the facility and had not attempted to engage Jeff’s small talk as the heat caused him to sweat like a pig in a foundry. Neither did he utter so much as a ‘so long’ as the shutters clanked open and Jeff strolled out the prison complex.

  Drake was leaning against his car and now sprang forward with open arms. “Suds! You made it.” They hugged it out. “Fucking awesome to see you, man,” he pulled back, revealing a grin the size of the Golden Gate Bridge, “we’re living in interesting times. They feed you any news in there?”

  Jeff made a half nod and attempted to return some of his old army buddy’s enthusiasm. He ought to be happy today. He was free. “Some. But I’d rather get the real skinny from a friend who’s been on the outside.”

  Drake flapped a dismissive hand. “We’ll get to all that, but first,” he punched Jeff on the shoulder, “it’s really good to see you. You’re looking good. Strong. Seems all that nigger cum you been swallowing is good for the bones.”

  “Fucking jackass.”

  Drake’s grin stretched even further. “How you doing, seriously?”

  Jeff took a deep inhalation of air. “I’m not sure you want to know the demons in my mind.”

  Drake nodded, the mood sobered a little. “Well, this time we’re gonna get you through it. Whatever you fucking need. But you gotta stop stalking your ex-wife, no matter how justified you think you might be. They don’t fuck around where those restraining orders are concerned. I just hope another six months in the can has finally made it all sink in.” He slapped Jeff again on the back. “We gotta keep you outta there because like I said, things are looking up in California and if we play our cards right then we all stand to benefit.” He didn’t elaborate on that final point, which was undoubtedly all the talk right about now. He jerked his head at the motor. “Jump in.”

  It was a Ford Fusion, faded blue and beat to shit with rust covering the skirts. More than a few nicks, scratches and a mashed front bumper. Inside it was spotless and stank of cinnamon from one of those hanging paper trees. Drake’s admirable attempt at polishing a turd. He screeched out the jail parking lot and roared onto the freeway. “This piece of shit’s twelve years old. Gave it to my nephew as an eighteenth birthday present. Had to take it back when the bills got a little tight. Broke my fuckin’ heart. But he’s a good kid. Understood.” He shook his head. Changed gear. Didn’t bother checking the mirror when he switched lanes. “Soon. I’ll surprise him with something better. By way of an apology. I’ll be upgrading myself too, shortly, to something a little more my style. Always fancied something open-topped like you see all those rich fuckers driving in the valley.” He pressed down on the gas and the car labored past a truck. He didn’t explain how the fuck he was meant to be affording something open-topped considering his alimony payments were eating up over half his take-home pay. At least that had been the situation the last Jeff had heard.

  They rolled down the 101, over the legendary bridge and into Frisco, The City by the Bay. Drake continued straight and eventually came to the famous Lombard Street with its numerous hairpin bends, enforced 10mph speed limit and houses worth tens of millions of dollars. They arrived downtown and left the car in a McDonald’s parking lot.

  “Let’s take a walk. There’s some things I need you to see. After that, we’ll get steaming drunk.” Drake jerked his jaw in the direction of the bay and they set off at a stroll. “Suds, tell me what you see.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Homeless people. Same as always.”

  “That’s right, but look harder.”

  They continued in silence for a while. Jeff hadn’t been in downtown SF for over a year. Back then there’d been homeless people, of course, they were numerous and stretched most the way down Columbus Avenue. A long line of tents. Every doorway crammed with blankets, men, glass bottles, destitution, hopelessness. The difference now was that the line of tents stretched both sides of the street, and as they turned onto Broadway, they were there too
, all the way to the end until the road turned onto The Embarcadero, from where, Jeff assumed, the long lines of homeless persisted. During the last year, it seemed, the quantity of impoverished men had increased exponentially.

  They stopped across the road from a bus station, stood, watched. Finally, Drake said, “a big fucking mess, don’t you think?”

  Jeff nodded and found himself focusing on one particular vagrant squatting down beside a fire hydrant, pants around his ankles as he shitted into a plastic bag. When he was done, he lifted his pants, tied the bag ends and left the carrier on the ground. Few people passing so much as even noticed.

  “Look at them,” Drake groaned, “you ever see anything like it?”

  “I have not.”

  It was a sobering sight. Men in their prime, most of whom were almost certainly fellow vets from various conflicts, in such numbers reduced to sleeping on the concrete, begging for coins and shitting in full view of pedestrians. His attention was drawn to a coach as it pulled into the station and then, one by one, men carrying large backpacks, the type you often found carried by travelers, stepped off and joined the mass of men drinking in the street. The coach had a Michigan license plate, the one beside it Ohio, another Texas, Florida, New York.

  “They’re coming from all over the country?” Jeff asked, astonished.

  “That’s right. Buses chartered by America’s homeless, all coming to California.” Drake laughed. “A fuckin’ army, my friend, an army of hardened bastards with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Our brothers in arms. Suds, just think about it. How many of these men once served with us?”

  Drake and Jeff had served together in Afghanistan and there were few bonds as strong as that between war brothers. Back in the day, Drake had been known as Horseman, owing to his reputation for getting shit done, as well as his penchant for frequenting the many Chinese brothels that began appearing in Kabul after the fall of the Taliban. The Horseman had been about as capable a soldier as you could ever hope to work with, to have your back, and even now there was something about his look that conveyed ability. Tall, relatively broad, a perpetual buzz cut and a shrewd face that together instilled a resting countenance that screamed don’t get on the wrong fucking side. Though now, admittedly, at least physically, he was a worn down version of how he’d been back in the glory days.