The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  There were gasps from everybody watching and the journalists descended into a panic, holding cells to their mouths and reeling off strings of unintelligible shorthand. Graft clenched his fists and started beating at the desk. “He did it, the old bastard came through.”

  The two terrorists were wheeled out in cages that were so small there was no room to stand or even properly sit, to spare their broken and weary legs after having their femurs pummeled by a prize boxer. Drubber Hammond was gurning like a circus chimp as he pushed Baker’s cage out the foyer from when they were loaded onto trucks bound for a secure location at some undisclosed airbase.

  “You did it to yourselves,” Graft told them coldly as they were wheeled past, “you had it all,” though it was doubtful they heard. He turned to Jeff and opened a small tin he pulled from his pocket. Inside, there was a single capsule, small and black. “If you play this game you must always have your cyanide. They didn’t and now the world is changed. Let that be a lesson.”

  Maybe the two men had valued their lives over ideology and country, even though it looked like they were about to spend the rest of theirs in agony. It was a pity, Jeff thought, because there were moments they’d been likable.

  Graft insisted that the two heroes return with him to Berkeley and from the helicopter there was a very visible police cordon now around Baxter, news vans, satellites and large crowds. The professor spent almost the entirety of the flight donning a set of oversized headphones whilst gazing into a screen. Staring back at him was none other than Governor Weiner looking like it was any ordinary day. Behind him, however, his staff were rushing in and out, dropping papers, constantly interrupting and yet never succeeding in flustering the man who might soon be choosing a new job title for himself, that’s if he wasn’t planning on sticking with the name Supreme Leader. Dropping that might be good counsel.

  The quickest flight path to Berkeley followed the highway in an almost straight southwesterly line, passing Sacramento at about the halfway point. Because of the present instability, it was thought wise to give the capital a wide berth and when the pilot again picked up Highway 80 ten miles outside Sactown, there was still gridlock in both directions. Army Humvees, hundreds of them, were at a standstill and people had left their vehicles to gather at the roadside. When they were over Fairfield, a city of a little over a hundred thousand souls, the ongoing looting was clear to see. If Graft noticed it, he made no comment.

  The looting was also ongoing in Berkeley, as Jeff assumed it would also be across the bay in Frisco and probably in many places all across the state, the larger cities especially. A little over an hour after leaving Baxter, the chopper landed on one of the college sports fields. They jumped off, Jeff aiding Graft with his balance.

  Jeff had to shout to be heard above the noise of the propeller. “Might I have a word?” Now the skullduggery was out the way, he’d had enough of setting the world right. All he wanted was to fix his own world. Settle his old scores.

  “Can it wait? I have an urgent,” whatever he said was lost to the propeller as Graft’s silver hair blew wildly with the rush of air, “but do come, I’d like you to be present for it.”

  “For what?” Jeff shouted.

  “For the moment I’ve waited my entire life.” He was striding across the lawn with remarkable energy for a man of his age. “It’d be a great pity to celebrate all alone.”

  He showed Jeff and Drake into his office. The tables were made from high-quality black walnut, the sofas of vintage brown leather, the decanter of finest French glass and doubtless the brown fluid within was not the cheap bourbon shit. Turned out that old communists enjoyed their luxuries. Behind the desk was a portrait of the professor with Fidel Castro.

  He waved for his guests to sit, which they did, sinking into soft leather. He pressed a button on the desk phone and said, “Jeanette, can you get me the campus nurse.” He glanced at Drake, who’d spent the duration of the flight pressing a bag of ice against his face. “You deserve to be present for this. You both do.”

  The wall screen flickered to life but the image showed only an empty desk in a bland, undecorated room with white walls. Graft checked his watch. He then flipped open a laptop, moved a finger about the pad, pressed a few keys, “Professor,” came a voice back.

  “Supreme Leader,” Graft returned but there the conversation ended. Jeff could only see the back of the laptop screen.

  Minutes past. The nurse came. Tended Drake’s face with ointment. Injected him with something for the pain. Left. Graft filled a glass with water. Filled two more. Stood to hand one each to his guests. Sat. A few more minutes. Finally, the screen was filled by a man’s back as he entered the small room from behind the camera. He sat at the desk. It was nobody Jeff recognized, though his intuition told him it was Washington’s version of Graft, though a lot younger, smoother, tanned, movie star good looks. He glanced to his right, appeared to be tapping his fingers on what had to be a laptop of his own slightly off-screen. He nodded to whoever was looking back at him and Jeff could only wonder if it was the President of the United States. Finally, the man looked toward the camera.

  “Professor Graft,” he said, simply.

  “Professor Armstrong,” Graft returned.

  “Give my regards to the governor.”

  “And likewise mine to the President.”

  The man nodded. “After recent events, the United States of America is left with no alternative but to enter into a state of war against the Californian rebels.”

  “The People’s Republic of California likewise declares war against the United States.”

  “We will make our declaration public at eighteen hundred hours this evening, but immediately afterward will offer an armistice. We will begin pulling back our troops over the course of four weeks, as long as there is no escalation against us.”

  “The People’s Republic of California shall accept your armistice and will not seek to escalate tensions, as long as the United States honors their agreement to pull back their troops. We make the additional request that the United States returns all Republican congressmen.”

  “The United States denies the request. The United States requests that the rebels return the special agents known to you as Baker and Durrant.”

  “The People’s Republic of California denies the request. We have a list of prominent names who’ve recently fled. We make the additional request that the United States return these people, along with their assets.”

  “The United States refuses the request to return those prominent names and their assets. We make the additional request that the Californian rebels return the gold held in the vaults at the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco.”

  “The People’s Republic of California refuses your demands and makes the additional request that water from the Colorado River Aqueduct continues to be supplied.”

  “The United States refuses the continuation of water supplies from the Colorado River Aqueduct. Further, the United States requests the return of its nuclear stockpiles, specifically those held at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. We request the return of our fighter jets, tanks, and our aircraft carriers Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln. Further, the United States requests that the rebels cease construction of the Enterprise, which was paid for by American taxpayers using American resources, planning, engineering and expertise.”

  “The People’s Republic of California refuses all requests and demands that the United States allows access to all research and data relating to instant language translation, virtual reality training, stem cell limb regeneration, ghost tanks, precision-guided firearms, laser weapons, hybrid insects, corner shooting and underwater firing.”

  “The United States denies your request and makes the additional demand that the rebels allow access to all research and data concerning the undertakings at the laboratory in Baxter, specifically technology relating to super-soldiers, as well as all hybrids. We request full access to all personnel.”

 
“Denied. The People’s Republic of California requests all routes in and out of our territory be maintained for a period of one year, that active borders shall be permitted during this period, and that all Californians are allowed to return home.”

  “The United States agrees to allow any Californian to return home of their free will. The United States demands that all Americans who wish to leave rebel territory be permitted the same courtesy, for the duration of one year.”

  “Agreed, on the proviso their assets are not already held in California.”

  “The President of the United States would like to remind the rebels that the secession of California guarantees a Republican White House into perpetuity and that the rebels are unwittingly surrounding themselves on all sides by the world’s most powerful enemy.”

  “The People’s Republic of California would like to remind the United States that your demographics say otherwise, and that it’s only a matter of time before the entirety of the United States falls to communism.”

  Armstrong’s bottom lip quivered. “Professor Graft, enjoy your Champagne.”

  “Enjoy the time you have left.” Graft tapped the remote and the screen went black. He glanced at the laptop screen to his fore. “Supreme Leader, congratulations,” he closed the screen.

  Jeff had listened to the entirety of the exchange with a mixture of emotions, more, in fact, than he’d felt about anything in a long time. He’d played an almost unwitting part in bringing about the end of America and now, in the luxurious office of an old communist, he’d just witnessed the dirty backroom attempt at haggling that had brought about its dissolution.

  Drake was leaning forward, wide-eyed and clasping both sides of his face. “Fuck,” he said, as though what he’d just witnessed was hard to believe. Indeed, it was.

  Jeff felt very dizzy and wasn’t sure what to say or feel or what was to come next.

  Graft, very slowly leaned back in his seat, the leather creaking as he did, and clasped his hands behind his head. He took a deep breath and in that breath, there was the satisfaction that can only come from finally seeing your life’s hopes, dreams and work all coming to fruition near its end. Graft couldn’t have many years left in him, the man had just made history and yet few people even knew he existed. Indeed, few would ever get to learn the name Professor Larry Graft.

  He seemed to want to enjoy the moment a while longer, continued leaning back, chair tipped against the wall, eyes closed, a strange satisfied expression emanating from his wrinkly old mouth. What was going through the old bastard’s mind? Finally, he tipped forward and stood, stepped without a word toward the minibar, removed a bottle. “I gave up alcohol the day I left Cuba but today, gentlemen, is special. This is something I’ve been saving for just this very day and there’s nobody else on earth with whom I’d like to share it.” It was a bottle of 1959 Dom Pérignon, which itself looked as though it had a story to tell. “It’s one of the finest bottles of Champagne in existence, a gift from Hugo Chávez himself. If only he was alive to see this moment.” These old commies truly did enjoy luxuries denied the masses.

  Drake collected three glasses from the cabinet. “Enjoy the moment, professor, you’ve done so much to make this day a reality.” He sounded drowsy from whatever the nurse had given him, and perhaps mixing alcohol wasn’t the best idea, but this was a once in a ten-lifetime event and Drake had been as responsible for making it happen as anyone else save for Graft and Weiner themselves.

  Graft popped the cork. Didn’t spill a drop. “Clearly, they expect we won’t last long as an independent People’s Republic, but we’ll show them. We’ll show the world.” He filled the three glasses and they clinked crystal before sending them back. It tasted full yet light at the same time, sweet but not too much, cold yet it warmed the throat as it fizzed its way down.

  “What next?” Jeff asked.

  Drake closed his eyes, it went straight to his head. “The looting ain’t gonna end any time soon. Stupid retards. Why steal toilet roll when you can just take some poor fucker’s penthouse.” He touched Graft’s arm. “Remember your promises.”

  The old man nodded. “You’ll have the help you need to get what you want. You both will. Oh, by the way, the Supreme Leader sends his regards.” Was that it? His fucking regards? What could anybody possibly do with fucking regards? And why didn’t Weiner want to personally thank the two men responsible for making his little dream a reality, to see their faces, know their fucking names? Wasn’t he even curious?

  “About that,” Jeff took his cue, “I was wanting to ask the gov… the Supreme Leader a favor but you hung up on the man.” He noticed Drake at his side bristle.

  “Ah,” Graft sucked in air, “you must excuse the Supreme Leader, alas, He is otherwise indisposed. Something about becoming the first Head of an independent Californian country.”

  Jeff shook his head and placed a hand on the professor’s as it was on its way up to take another sip. “Still, if it wasn’t for Drake and myself, you’d have blown that lab and crippled your one advantage, your one weapon that going forward guarantees your sovereignty. You, professor, were willing to sacrifice it in a game of chess. Well, we saved it,” he jerked his jaw toward Drake, to the cooked flesh covering the right side of his face, “and not without sacrifice to ourselves, I’ll remind you. Now, I have a list of three names that…”

  “Relax, Suds,” Drake put an arm around his friend, “there’ll be time for all that, believe me, I feel you, and I want the same for myself, as you know. But there are certain things we have to do first before the paramilitary beat us to it, so let’s get a fucking move on while we still have a head start.”

  Jeff knew what he meant and nodded. “Right,” he conceded.

  They were in the back of a military Humvee heading through the Presidio district, gated communities overlooking San Francisco’s northern woodlands and golf courses that gave way to the Golden Gate Bridge and beyond. It was obscene wealth and extravagance when so many down below were burning their own shit for warmth and even Jeff had to admit the disparity was almost disgusting. Drake gave him a hard elbow in the ribs.

  “You see? You fuckin’ see?” He smacked the side of the door. “I told you, man, I did my fucking research and this is where the top of the new hierarchy ought to be, people like us, Graft and a few others you’ll meet in good time. Fuck,” he whistled at one particular luxurious residence, its stone gatehouse larger than most people’s homes, “would you look at that.”

  “They’re nice,” Jeff spoke matter of fact, mansion after mansion set apart in wide expanses, even wider streets, palm trees, every blade of grass lovingly tended, there was not a stack without a balcony or a porch smaller than a tennis court, marble pillars, long driveways, most with an array of sports cars lining it, fountains, and all far away and protected from the noise and filth and shit and people of the city. “So, we’re in a stalemate? What exactly does that mean?”

  Drake made a double-take and a flick of anger crossed his face at having the subject turned away from his hunt for a new home. “It means, Jeff, that we’re officially at war but through our back channels, Professor Graft, the United States has agreed to be a good little bitch and not get hostile, at least not overtly, but you know what they’re like…” he shook his head and turned back to gaze out the window. “If Korea’s anything to go by then we could be in a cold war condition for a while. Who cares, man, right now we got more important shit.” He raised his arm and called out for the driver to halt. “We’re here.”

  The Humvee stopped and then Jeff, Drake, and six soldiers leaped out besides what was probably the grandest house on the grandest block. If anything, it resembled a scaled-down Palace of Versailles. It even had a giant fucking hedge maze out front.

  “You remember I told you about that fat billionaire?” Drake sniggered, he was positively bouncing, despite the pain he must still be feeling. “Let’s go boys.”

  Three males were standing on one of the balconies, looking out
over what Jeff could now see were some of the paramilitary members in small groups wearing all black attire who’d evidently beaten everyone else to the community, and who were busy dragging screaming people out of their homes by the hair. Drake waved up to what was probably a sixteen-year-old boy watching the group make their approach, baseball bat in his young hands. The front door was huge and was set in an ornate stone arch. Drake cleared his throat, rolled back his shoulders and struck the heavy brass knocker against its plate.

  An enormously fat man immediately threw back the door. “Thank God you’re here. They’re terrorizing the whole neighborhood.” The white of his flesh forced out his shirt at the front, sweat staining the same. He saw the uniformed men, rifles, and breathed deeply. “The fucking taxes I pay… maybe you should have arrived hours ago,” he said not kindly, “you’re too late to save John three doors down. He’s not answering his cell. Anyway,” he waved it away, “now you’re finally here, you’re most welcome.”

  Drake shoved his way past and began gazing about at the marble interior. “I’m glad they didn’t make it here yet.”

  The man shrugged, sweat poured off his face, and he seemed to grimace at the sight of Drake’s cheek. “My wife always complains about the long driveway. Well, not anymore. Still, they’d have made it here eventually so thank God you arrived with the muscle. Can I get you anything?”

  Jeff shuffled sheepishly inside at the back of the six soldiers and watched as Drake clapped a reassuring hand upon the man’s tubby shoulder and squeezed. “You know, I think there are a few things I might need.” He began rubbing his chin as several people stepped cautiously down an incredibly large marble staircase. Drake’s eyes seemed to fix on what had to be a seventeen-year-old girl, beyond beautiful, but with the veneer of assumed superiority that comes from being the daughter of a billionaire. She was about to be knocked down a peg, as was everybody else. Drake pulled his eyes away from her and back to who was obviously Oli Bryant, Founder and CEO of RoboCore. “I’ll need the gate, alarm, safe and WiFi codes, it might save time if you or one of the maids tells me where the fresh linen is, oh, and last but not least, the keys to the liquor cabinet. I feel like celebrating tonight.”