The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  Jeff shook the memory away, was brought back to Drake. “She’d made an effort for the cameras that day.” He blinked, shook his head again. “Nobody, you were the only one who stood by me. The whole time.”

  “Right, because everybody else believed all the lies your ex-wife had been feeding the media, who willingly blew her trumpet, about your beating her ass. Fuck, maybe if you had given her a taste of the back of your hand every now and then it’d never have come to…” Drake sighed and managed to temper his growing anger. “You already said you got nothing else to do. You need something to take your mind off things. It’ll make you feel better, if nothing else, and you’ll be making a difference. And remember, you don’t owe them nothing.” Drake implored, “look, help us, is all I’m saying.”

  Jeff relaxed his hands from around Drake’s collar. Patted his shoulder. “I’m one guy who only just got outta fucking prison. I’m about to be spending the first night of my life sleeping in a car that might not even be where I left it. How the fuck am I supposed to help anybody right now?”

  Drake patted him on the back. “There’s a gathering tonight someplace. You should come with me.”

  It took nearly two hours to drive the fourteen miles to UC Berkeley, over the Bay Bridge through traffic that barely ever seemed to budge.

  “I tell you, maybe we can do something about all this after…” Drake didn’t elaborate and went back to complaining about his ex-wife. “Five thousand fucking dollars a month. That’s what I got to pay to an ex who bore me no children and gave nothing but headaches for twelve years. You know how many software packages I got to sell to earn that?” His grip tightened around the wheel of the battered Ford. There were several spots impressed by what had to be fingernails and at least one where the leather had been ripped away completely. “I’d intentionally downgraded jobs in prep for the hearing. 150k I was pulling in and on some bad advice from a lawyer friend, I quit for something only a fraction as lucrative. Yeah, you heard me right, I downgraded, hoping to do one over on the bitch. So, I turn up at family court with all the paperwork saying I only earned eighty-five,” he thumped the wheel. “Didn’t fucking matter though. She was used to the good life, 150k, so all must go on as though that’s what I was still making. After tax and being garnished, I’m left with barely enough to fucking eat, all while that cheating bitch spends her days, and my future, at the nail salon. Five thousand a month,” he glanced right and grinned at Jeff, “you can guarantee that’ll all be extinguished when nobody’s allowed to earn a penny more than anybody else. She’ll have to get herself a fucking job then, earning whatever low standard wage the state decides to set.” He laughed, “I pray I’m the one who gets to break her the news.” He shook his head. “I tell you, man, you went about it all the wrong way, waiting outside the old home like you did. There are much better ways of going about getting your vengeance. I mean, what the fuck were you gonna do if she came out anyway? Have angry words in full view of the whole fucking street?”

  Jeff hadn’t known at the time. But Drake was right. Even a bad plan was better than none at all. The mistake he’d made was being drunk on Jack and getting emotional, which went against all his training, but when it came to her there was no way of helping himself. He’d not even seen her that day, just three cop cars that came screeching out from nowhere, threw him in front of Judge Taylor for breaking the terms of his bogus restraining order, and six months in jail. How the cops had missed him throwing the hammer into the bushes, Jeff didn’t know, and that, at least, had been a miracle, because otherwise such an incident would have meant a permanent end to his freedom.

  Jeff couldn’t afford to make the same mistake again.

  And even if Drake’s plan was full of uncertainty, there was no doubting it was better. Thinking long term. Strategy. Keeping cool. But always remembering. And using those memories as fuel. Life force. A sort of reverse muse.

  There could be no more getting emotional and making mistakes that could get a man locked away for months, maybe even life. Play the long game. Years, if necessary. Plan. Do this communism thing. Kiss asses. Rise in the hierarchy. Gain power. Then calmly call in all favors with the full authority of the new country of California behind him.

  He who laughs last laughs best.

  Arriving at the college, they entered a lecture theatre and sat on the back row, watching as a long line of delinquents shambled in. UC Berkeley was a notorious nest for socialists, communists, Marxists, feminists, activists, agitators and just about every other fifth-column subversive type you could care to mention. Jeff watched, appalled, as the auditorium gradually filled with skinny, pale-faced, fragile, sickly looking kids, few of which looked like they’d lifted a barbell their entire lives. Worse, it was probably a fifty-fifty gender split, though many of the women appeared more masculine than the men. Drake sensed what Jeff was thinking and leaned closer to quietly explain that women were useful because they could be pushed straight to the front at protests in the hope the opposing side would take the bait and start attacking. The cameras would be waiting and the resulting propaganda was gold. “It’s a dirty tactic but this is war.”

  The excitement could definitely be felt. In fact, it was almost electric. If what Drake had said was true then these people were on the verge of seeing their dream realized. They might not be turning the whole of America into a socialist republic, but they’d be carving out a sizable chunk to do with as they wished, and doubtless they all felt they could do better out of a system that was rigged in their favor rather than against them.

  Jeff had always thought of free-market capitalism as merely nature further evolving for the betterment of man, man who no longer fought constant wars against neighboring tribes, but who still needed to compete for women and resources, that rather than killing each other to demonstrate dominance, he instead traded, invented, explored, out-worked and out-performed his peers. There were always going to be losers in any economic system and the sensible thing, it seemed, was to choose the one economic system that produced the least amount of losers. In a free-market, even losers, the dimwits or physically incapable, could still get ahead. They just needed to work a little harder. Jeff could only question how many of these kids had done even a day’s work in their lives, and how many expected to find life easier simply because a president was being exchanged for a probable dictator. What then if things remained the same, or got worse?

  They continued filing in, an over-abundance of the great unwashed, blue hair, pink hair, green hair, and bad fashion, tablets and cellphones along with headphones and all kinds of other gadgetry brought into existence through hard capitalism, large companies competing against rivals for supremacy, over and over, one moment being down, the next being up, again and again, and thus driving the progress of mankind. The air-con was failing at removing that distinctive stench of rancid body odor.

  Jeff recoiled at the sight of one kid with a dozen piercings in his face as he slid past to take a seat on the same row. “This is our revolution?”

  Drake shrugged apologetically. “Hey, I never said we were bringing our best.” He looked beyond Jeff to where people were now having to use standing room against the walls. There were, to be fair, now several tough looking son-of-a-bitches thrown in, definitely not typical student protestors, instead possibly a few malcontented ex-army types who were likely expecting to do well out of a change in regime. A partial relief. Drake shifted. “The irony is that half these losers are trust fund retards who stand to lose the most when we abolish inheritance in favor of spreading it out amongst the prolet… um, whatever fucking word they use to call the workers, and the other half are only here because they reckon it’s the surest way of one day losing their v-cards.”

  Jeff dragged a hand through his blond hair, which was in desperate need of a cut. “Jesus Christ.” He also badly needed a wash and a shave.

  “Oh, they’re losers to the man, or woman, if that’s what you want to call them but hey, give them their dues, they’re kee
n. Oh, boy, are they ever keen to smash the fucking patriarchy. And you can bet they all know how to use a computer. Skills we’ll need.” He leaned closer, not wanting to be overheard. Feelings could get hurt. “Anyway, this lot are not exactly the brains of the operation, you can thank your God for that, and they certainly aren’t the muscle either, but every movement needs numbers. Fodder.”

  Jeff grinned and shook his head. “Now I understand why you need a few good men.”

  “That’s why I wanted you here.” Drake agreed, matter of fact.

  “We must be quick, give me your attention.” A man entered from the front and the hum of several hundred conversations diminished. “Quiet!” He was approached by two students who quickly engaged the man in conversation, from when he glanced beyond them into the auditorium and began checking his watch every few seconds.

  Drake leaned close and whispered, “he’s our guy, Doctor Graft.” Jeff physically jerked at hearing the name. This had to be a fucking joke. Drake continued, the irony completely above him. “He’s professor of political sciences here, and a very close advisor to you know who. The governor’s been creating a paramilitary force of mostly reds,” he waved a half-hearted hand about the theater, “you know, the usual antifa types. Of course, there’s no doubt Washington’s fully aware it’s Weiner behind it all, but without evidence, they don’t got a pretext to march in and start arresting the ringleaders.” He jerked his jaw out front to the small, elderly man with silver hair who was anxious to get the meeting underway. “That’s Graft’s job, to act as the middle link in the chain between us and the governor. That way, we get our faux-military, ready to act on a moment’s notice, stir shit up, get things done and beat down the oppressors when the order to move finally comes.”

  “And Weiner’s hands remain clean, right? It all appears spontaneous. Just a group of kids taking their protests a little too far. No embarrassments that might jeopardize the movement.”

  “Right.”

  “But won’t a pretend army causing trouble turn the public against us?” Jeff squinted. “We could do without that.”

  “No,” Drake answered immediately, “you’re forgetting we’re in California. We’ve spent the last year busing in nearly every homeless vet in the country, those who wanted to make the trip anyway, and with things finally heating up, every comrade the world over has been flying in for this moment,” he grinned, “and you can bet they’re the real hardcore believers who’re willing to break their bodies to make this a reality. And last but not least, don’t forget the last few decades of bringing in millions from south of the border. They’re not all commies, sure, but they all know they stand to benefit the most when we take control. For the most part, they’ll not fight against us. Besides, the public won’t be turned against a pretend army because we won’t look like a pretend army. Like you said, it’s just a bunch of kids protestin’, ordinary citizens concerned about the direction of our beloved state.”

  Jeff exhaled air. Up until this moment, he’d been going along with this whole secession thing largely through lack of alternatives, desperation, anger, but slowly, it was beginning to look like something unique in the big book of history might seriously be about to happen.

  Realistically, what the fuck could Washington really do when such a high proportion of the state’s citizens were against them? March in and arrest everybody? Gun them down in the streets? If a man has a gangrened leg then surely there comes a point when in order to save his life, he must cut it off.

  The only major concerns that remained were for himself and his own supposed role in all this. That and the United States. Numbers aside, for the life of him, Jeff could not understand just why the fuck they weren’t flooding the place with patriots, marching into every town and city hall, government department and public building across the entire state, before dragging out the traitors by the hair and sending them to Guantanamo Bay. Jeff was just about to enquire upon that very point when Graft loudly cleared his throat and began addressing his audience.

  He wasn’t a gifted speaker, to be charitable, and neither was the topic of discussion particularly thrilling. Graft spoke mostly about logistical shit and did so with the impatience of a man who had more pressing matters to be worrying about, ignoring raised hands and responding irritably whenever questions were shouted. He read from lists, informing individuals where they and their groups were expected to protest, where the buses would be waiting, the cities and buildings they were supposed to cause the biggest stink and who precisely they were meant to harass. There was a reminder to push the women and disabled up front, to antagonize any patriots who were stupid enough to show with their flags and ramblings about the Constitution and promises of civil war, in the hope they’d lose control and start lashing out. How best to provoke these people into doing just that. That groups of patriots were indeed expected, and that volunteers were needed to ‘go undercover,’ to dress like brainless Joe Six-packs for the day, embed themselves in the enemy camp with a Stars and Stripes flag and baseball bat, and start swinging at the reds right under the noses of the international press. Oh, they were dirty bastards, for sure, zealots to rival any religious fundamentalist, though as far as communist tactics went, it was all pretty standard. Grassroots, however, they certainly were not, and Jeff was astonished to learn the level of organization present, and that almost every attendee, to the man, was being paid to agitate. Where the money was coming from, Jeff had in mind to later ask, though doubtless there’d be several billionaires who might not be opposed to the cheap labor the new regime would guarantee, several countries, even, who’d stand to benefit from a weakened United States or from an independent California with the autonomy to make its own trade deals.

  Finally, promises were made. The theater was filled with angry people who’d spent their lives in a state of permanent disgruntlement at being unable to fairly compete in a free-market. They’d all be expecting rewards come secession. How things might go then, when the communists confronted the defeated oppressors still clinging to their wealth and mansions and expensive vehicles and vast stock portfolios was anyone’s guess because the guns, as Jeff knew all too well, had over a period of time become ever more difficult to own in California, until such a point had arrived that they had been all but fully confiscated from the average citizen of the state. About the only people in all California still with guns was, of course, the state government, and that government was on the precipice of declaring itself an independent communist republic.

  The theater emptied from all corners as the occupants filed out. Jeff and Drake descended the steps and waited beside the lectern whilst Graft stood at the front door, holding it open and motioning with a withered hand for the stragglers to be quick. Four other men, older, almost certainly ex-military, had also remained back and now ambled down the steps to wait at the front.

  When everybody was out, Graft came forward, holding out his hand. “Your cells.”

  Jeff shrugged but everybody else, one by one, handed over their devices. Drake was giving the kind of polite nods to the others that people do when they’re mildly acquainted but not overly friendly. It was business.

  Graft dumped the cells in a drawer and closed it before turning to Drake. “You can vouch for this man?”

  Drake nodded. “Like my brother.”

  Jeff began moving his arm to shake Graft’s hand but the professor was already turning away, leaving Jeff feeling foolish, and shifting around to the front of his lectern so he could lean against it. He was old, easily in his eighties, yet still grafting. He glanced at Jeff with tired eyes. “Why weren’t you at the other meetings?”

  Jeff coughed into a closed fist. “I was released from county jail a few hours ago.”

  One of the other men, a fat beard in a Harley Davidson jacket puckered his lips appreciatively. If he was a vet, he’d let himself go. As had his twin standing next to him. The other two men were both younger and almost looked like the kind of guys you’d want as backup.

&nb
sp; Graft nodded and sighed. “I should really learn how to delegate the task of coordinating the rabble, though in my defense, when I roused this morning, I wasn’t to know that this might just be the day I’ve waited for my entire life.” Considering the man’s state, he could be forgiven for failing to properly rouse a roomful of young and restless out-and-out Marxists, but when speaking to a small group such as he was now, he sure knew how to grab people’s attention. If this man was as close to Weiner as Drake said then he, more than just about anybody else, would be appraised of the current predicament.

  “Gentlemen, we’re in for a busy few days and…”

  “Sir … the Supreme Leader, how is he?” It was one of the younger men who interrupted, with what could only be described as a starry-eyed look. At closer inspection, the man was probably around thirty-five, just five years younger than Jeff and Drake, with long black hair tied into a bun at the back of his head. A handsome man and apart from the fact he was here, there were no obvious signs of war damage. It hadn’t escaped Jeff’s attention, however, that he’d referred to Governor Weiner as no less than the Supreme Leader. Rather odd, if nothing else, and it was the first time Jeff had heard the term used to describe the man who he’d always considered a bit of an eccentric, especially when it came to his dress and infamous obsession with cleanliness, if not an outright nut-job. Jeff glanced about for any noticeable reactions to the title being used. There were none. Not even a blink. Which perhaps was the first sign he’d just joined a cult.

  Graft’s face softened and for a beat, he looked ten years younger. “He’s well as ever, and we can all rest easy that as events teeter on a knife-edge, His safety does not. The Americans might be stupid and evil, but even they would not be so insane as to attempt a hit on Him now. No, any opportunity for that has slipped away because to do so would be too obvious and would cause an outcry even worse than nuking Sacramento or Los Angeles.” He shook his head. “That’s not, however, to say they won’t still attempt to cause embarrassment in order to harm His, and our, credibility. Obviously, He is aware of all this, which is why it’s a testament to His character that there are no skeletons in His closet. No battered ex-girlfriends. No history of bestiality, pedophilia, cuckold fetishism, illegitimate sons they can use to discredit Him. Not even an incorrectly checked box on a tax return they can get Him on. Nothing at all, and you can bet they’ve looked. The man doesn’t even dick His staff which, for someone of His stature and eminence is remarkable when you think about it. As you all know, our Supreme Leader is a spiritual man who wants only to build a fairer society for all. The whole world, ideally, though for now He’ll have to settle for one American state, and let those who share His convictions come to us.” Graft sniffed, “a brilliant man, dedicated, beyond intelligent, photographic memory. Anyway, John, thank you for enquiring…”