Life After (Book 2): The Void

by Bryan Way

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 10th, 2004, 12:52pm.”

  “Jeff, it’s Susan. I just talked to your mom a little while ago and she told me she can’t get a hold of you. I’m calling to let you know you can come here and stay … that’s what your mom wants. I’m calling Alan to tell him to call you too, I don’t know if you’re not answering your phone or still asleep, but call your mother, then call me back…”

  “End of message…”

  This isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of nice to hear these people’s voices and know how concerned they were.

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 10th, 2004, 12:57pm.”

  “Yo Jeff, it’s Alan… uh, my mom just called me and said something about there being a riot in Broomall? Uh… I dunno… she said, uh… you might be screening your calls or something? So, uh… she said your mom wants you to go to my house if you can… and, uh, if you’re at college you should just stay there. I guess… I don’t know? Call your mom, call my mom, and if you get the chance, call me back…? Bye.”

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 10th, 2004, 12:59pm.”

  “Ah, yo G, it’s Jack, sittin’ like… five feet from Alan, who, ah, just called you. I don’t know, thought you might be screening for some reason, but I’m figuring like forty people called you this morning, and… uh, well, I figured one more couldn’t hurt. I mean, obviously call your mom… but if you get the chance, call Alan or me back. Later dude.”

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 10th, 2004, 1:35pm.”

  “Yo dude, Drew. Just got off the phone with Jack, saying something about a riot in Broomall. I know Bandrome was last night, so I figured you’d be there. I don’t know. Just wanted to make sure you were okay and everything. Uh… lates…”

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 10th, 2004, 7:50pm.”

  “Jeff, it’s your father. I’d like to think that if you could get to a phone you would’ve called us, but I think I know what’s going on. You don’t know the number here. If you don’t have your phone, you probably don’t have anyone’s number. If you were at home, you would’ve used that phone already, so you must be at college and you forgot your phone at home…”

  If I ever had to spot my father’s line of thinking, it’d be this sort of on-the-spot theorizing. Doesn’t matter what happened; if someone is late, if one of my friends died in a car accident, his first response is a logically-reasoned guess as to how it happened.

  “…isn’t gonna matter much if you aren’t gettin’ these messages. Look pal, it goes without saying you have to call your mother. Everyone’s worried, even if you told ‘em what an expert you were on… Zombies. They grounded air traffic goin’ in and out of the country… I don’t need to tell you how big a deal that is. We’re gettin’ a flight back to Philadelphia and we’re comin’ to find you, no matter what it takes. I love ya, pal.”

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 11th, 2004, 10:31pm.”

  “Jeff, it’s Susan again. We heard on the news that the military barricade didn’t work… they’re sayin’…they’re sayin’ we have to evacuate… we have to leave our house… we’re all goin’ to one of the rescue centers… you know the Y on Garret Road? I don’t know if you’re gonna get this, but if you aren’t at one already… that’s where we’ll be. I can’t… Jeff… I know you’re alive. Just… if you get these messages, please get in touch with us as soon as you can.”

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 12th, 2004, 10:44am.”

  “Yo Jeff, it’s Alan again. Uh… just got word that you’re alright. I didn’t hear about your phone or anything, though… I guess… uh, just call when you get this? My mom told us that she wanted me, Jack, and Dave to come down to the Y in Upper Darby, ‘cause it’s a rescue center? I don’t know. A lot of people are tryin’ to leave and the roads are pretty clogged up… but, uh… seems pretty stupid to go out in a car… I think… we’re all staying up here. I haven’t talked to Dave, but my mom said he’s staying too. I don’t know. Anyway, hopefully… I’ll get to hear from you soon. Later.”

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 14th, 2004, 3:58am.”

  “DON’T COME HERE! DON’T COME TO THE Y!”

  I hold the phone away from my ear, shielding myself from a torrent of screaming and gunfire. I think I hear Susan screaming something about Alan’s little brother, but I erase the message before I can hear much more, wondering if this is something I should share with Alan.

  “Message erased. Next Message: October 22nd, 2004, 11:42pm.”

  “Jeff, it’s Dave. I just talked to my friend Dory yesterday but, uh… we had to, uh… I’m… I’m just… I’m in the closet. I’m in my apartment… we just… we could see them in the street… I, uh… I don’t think we can get out…”

  He sounds terrified. I have to remind myself that this is a message. I’m not actually talking to my brother.

  “…we can hear ‘em in the halls. Mom, uh… she gave me some phone numbers… one just kept ringing… I don’t know, the other one was just some girl’s voicemail… I guess I hoped you’d found your phone. We… uh… we don’t know what to do. There’s just … we can’t climb on the balcony… we’re just… we’re running out of… we’re running out of food, you know…there’s, ah… we have our couch blocking the door, and it’s… it’s pretty sturdy, I think… I don’t… I mean, they won’t make it through… maybe… I dunno, Dory said maybe she could get Alan to come by? We just… we have to get out, you know… but, ah… I think we can make it… through the night, you know… if we’re sleeping we’re not doing much, so they won’t hear us… I guess… I’m just gonna call mom tomorrow and make sure the numbers were right… I’ll try… I’m gonna try ‘em again… I think… I’m pretty sure mom’s asleep now, so I don’t wanna wake her up… so, uh… I guess… ugh, you’re not there… well… if you get this… I guess, just call me back. If I don’t pick up I might have the phone on silent… the phone’ll be on silent, but I’ll call back… I don’t think they can hear me in the closet… but, uh… whatever, I’ll just… call me back if you get this.”

  “End of message. To erase this message, press 7…”

  My brother’s last words. I know from Alan and Jack that whatever happened couldn’t have taken place any more than a day or so after that phone call. Ally was right, there’s nothing I could’ve done. As I hear the automated voice repeat my options, I realize I’m not sure whether I want to erase it or keep it. “Message erased.” I sigh. Two more to go. “Next Message: October 23rd, 2004, 6:38am.”

  “JEFF! FUCKING ANSWER! THEY’RE GONNA GET IN! WE CAN’T HOLD THE… OH GOD… OH GOD… NAAAHHOOOO…. PUSH IT! ERRRAHHHHH!!!”

  David’s screams are interrupted by snarling and scraping, followed by a loud plastic crack as the phone hits the floor. I can barely hear over my racing pulse and quickening breaths.

  “Push back! Push! Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg! No, NO! JUST R-aahhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGG! RRRRRAAAAW! GET IT OFF OF ME, GET HIM OFF OF ME! HELP! HELP! NAH-STOP! STOP! UH-AHHHHUHHHHAAHHHHHHH! HAAAAAAAAAAAA! PLEASE! GRRRRBLURAHHHHHH-HAAAAaaaaaaahhh…”

  “Message erased. Next Message: November 1st, 2004, 7:45pm.”

  “Hey guys, this is Lindsey Lohan, and if you don’t vote, you can’t complain, so register and vote at RockTheVote.com!”

  “Message erased. You have. No. New messages. In your mailbox.”

  I hang up, turn to my right, and look at the clock: 6:15. I become aware of a soft, distant ringing in my ear. What just happened? I stand up, and after a standing still for about a minute, I walk to the bathroom and splash water in my face. I can’t be sure whether it makes me feel more awake. I walk back to my room and sit in my chair, feeling as though I stood up too fast, but I’m stuck between the moment of discomfort and the point where my vision blurs. Thinking about it just makes my heart beat faster.

  I stand up slowly and take a deep breath. It’s as though I’ve been injected with the rush of panic I get w
hen I realize I’ve missed an important deadline. Okay, this happened to me at college once. I realized I had an assignment due the next day a few hours before going to bed. I made myself a drink, calmed myself, and ended up doing better than I had on most papers I worked on for several days.

  I take the long way downstairs to avoid anyone else, using the same steps we used to exit and enter the greenhouse a few weeks ago. From there I circle to the refrigerator in the teacher’s lounge, where Rich, Anderson, Mursak and I have stored some of our nicer bottles of alcohol. Using a small cache of powdered milk I’ve stored in the cupboard, I make myself a white Russian in a tall glass and proceed to sneak back upstairs.

  I sit down and play Age of Empires II while drinking, and about twenty minutes into the game, I feel much better. I enjoy the rest of the drink slowly; fortunately, it was strong enough to ride the intoxication out for a while. Playing against two computer opponents, I secure victory in three and a half hours. I play solitaire for a few minutes to wind down, then turn off my computer screen and get up.

  The room is nearly black, lit only by my computer’s power button and the glow of the clouded sky. Navigating the piles of paper to get to my bed feels wrong. Maybe I’m dreaming. If I were, I’d rather not wake up, so I try to calmly change into my sleeping clothes and slip into bed without disturbing myself. The ceiling feels like it was imported from some other place in my life. Not enjoying that sensation, I close my eyes and concentrate on the absurd thoughts in my subconscious to help me asleep.

  12-21-04, TUESDAY

  I wake while it’s still dark, feeling no desire to get up.

  I wake again, this time seeing light poking around the shades. Still feeling sore and exhausted, I have a half hour debate as to whether or not I should get up. I finally reason that there have been times in the last few months where I’ve been awake for 24 consecutive hours, so I’d better make the best of this opportunity.

  I wake up and check my old clock radio to discover that I’ve slept until 12:30, giving me about fifteen hours. Feeling stiff, I decide to exercise. I never manage to shake a feeling of unease, even after sufficient stretching, push-ups, and planks. When I get up to use the toilet and head to the cafeteria, I become aware of a swimming, dizzying headache. Now that I think of it, I may still be a little drunk after last night. I make myself some tea with sugar and toast a stale bagel alone. When Ally comes in and makes her way to the kitchen, I quickly finish up my breakfast and rush back upstairs.

  Once I get back to my room, I debate if I need more sleep. Maybe I hit my head and didn’t realize it? Did I pass out at some point? Maybe if I just get a shower I’ll feel better. I get my towel and head downstairs, making sure to avoid areas where I might be seen or heard by anyone else. As I lift the gate to access the gym, I can’t hear any sounds, so I may get the benefit of some private time; it’s harder to come by than one might think, particularly around the school’s only shower.

  As soon as my bare feet hit the cold tile in the bathroom, I feel a bit better. I turn on the water, testing it with my hand until it gets warm enough for me to step in. This is definitely what I needed. I kneel, letting the hot water run down the back of my neck, over my shoulders, and coat my entire body. After enjoying this for ten minutes, I dry myself off and get dressed. Something still feels off.

  As I head for the door, Anderson huffs inside, sweaty and breathing heavily. When he nods at me, I smile and look down. He pops out an earbud attached to his CD player and drops his backpack on a bench. “Wanna meet me up on the roof later?” For some reason the question freezes me. “Huh… uh… why?” I ask, looking back. He shrugs forcefully with both his shoulders and his eyebrows. “…okay.” I respond.

  When I walk out, I hear voices at the end of the hall. I turn to see Jake and Melody leaning back against the gym mats blocking the doors to the parking lot entrance driveway, otherwise known as the rampart. They get quiet when they see me, and I consider a warning about the dangers posed by making too much noise that close to an exit, but I’d rather not talk to either of them.

  Once I drop my stuff in my room, I head up to the pinnacle. The staircase we’d previously blocked with chairs is just down the hall from my room, so I opt to take them rather than walk to the main stairwell. When we picked up the trees and seeds from the nurseries, we also brought back a quarter-ton of bagged soil and toyed with the idea of using the greenhouse for its intended purpose, but after the amount of Zombies that passed through here, we’re not willing to risk contamination.

  Fortunately, one of the science rooms facing the football field has a drain in the floor that flushes to the sewers. Under Karen’s direction, Mursak will identify the remaining aspects of the food groups represented by our supply, at which point we will sterilize the room as best we can, fill it with dirt, and start planting. The windows stretch from waist height to the ceiling and face the northwest, giving the room interior plenty of balanced sunlight. In addition to whatever takes root in the garden, we’re confident we can produce a crop.

  I touch my hand to the cold floor of the greenhouse and remember what it was like to sleep here. The metal desk that once blocked the door has been pushed to the corner, and my trampled bowler is resting atop it. I can’t believe I ever wore one. I feel as though I lived an entire life before this, and by touching the icy ground, I can regain contact with a part of myself that died in the greenhouse on the floor. With Don. And John Squared. And Julia. “What are you doing?” Anderson asks, startling me into the realization that I have my cheek pressed against the tile.

  “Just, uh… remembering what it was like to sleep up here.”

  “…it sucked.”

  My uncomfortable chuckle stokes a hearty laugh out of him as he points to the door with his cigarette. I nod and we step outside, heading toward the back of the roof to observe the dusting of snow on the football fields. I run my hand over my damp hair, regretting not bringing a hat. Though my bowler is inside, I have no desire to wear it again.

  “Helen was checking out the scanner today…” Anderson starts.

  “Yeah?”

  “Heard a beeping sound on one channel… never heard it before. Could be a transmitter, I guess… no idea.”

  I shift uncomfortably. “I hate this weird shit.” He mutters, and I aggressively nod in agreement. A long silence resets the tone of the conversation.

  “Snow’s gonna help.” Anderson opines.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah… not like they can cover their tracks.”

  “Well, I doubt it’s gonna be any fun for us. We might get stuck inside for a while. After yesterday…?”

  He nods as he stares off into the middle distance and blows the smoke out of his lungs. I don’t feel entirely present in this conversation. Maybe I just overslept. “You know…” Anderson starts. He wants to bring up our conversation from yesterday.

  “I don’t think we’re in a place where we can talk about it.” I reply.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Was Helen pissed?”

  “She’ll survive.” He grumbles.

  “How’s that going?”

  “Good.”

  “That bad, huh?” I reply with a grin.

  “What… makes you think that?”

  “Come on, we’ve been friends… I dunno, fifteen years?”

  “I don’t know. She’s pretty… religious.” Anderson mutters.

  “Ouch.”

  “I don’t know… she’s just… weird about being touched.”

  “Why didn’t you, uh… say anything before?”

  “Mursak… you know how he acts… he’ll say anything if thinks it’ll make girls like him.”

  For a moment, I wonder what makes Anderson any different.

  “Was Melody pissed?” He continues.

  “At me…”

  “Are you two…?” Anderson starts.

  “Certainly not.”

  “It’s nice to have high school problems again.”

  �
��I’d smoke to that… but I’m asthmatic.”

  Anderson chuckles. “Well, we’re better organized than a high school, that’s for sure.” I don’t know what he’s getting at, so I just nod in agreement until I think of a way to refocus the conversation.

  “You know what I found out last week?”

  “What’s that?” He replies.

  “I’m actually not a bad shot left-handed.”

  “With the Colt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “…how’s that useful?”

  “I can fight okay with one hand on a melee…” I start.

  “Yeah, but why are you dual wielding?”

  “Sometimes we do more killing than one weapon can handle.”

  I chuckle as he takes a drag and smiles. Before we can continue, Melody bursts through the greenhouse doors. “Guys, the news is on!” Anderson flicks his butt off the roof as we bolt inside; this marks the first time in weeks that we’ve been able to get anything other than static on the TV. We adjourn to 218, where the school’s largest television, a 60 inch cabinet, is hooked up to the still functioning satellite.

  “…information as it’s coming to us… local militia and law enforcement have positioned themselves outside the building. All network leadership has vacated and recommended that we do the same, but many of us have volunteered to stay. We apologize in advance for the format of these broadcasts, as they will no longer fulfill a standard to which we have all become accustomed. As we continue reporting at odd hours, we apologize for our mistakes and miscues. We apologize in advance for appearing disheveled as the weeks go on… the premium our society once placed on entertainment and aesthetic has been erased, and so graphic inserts and edited tape segments are a thing of the past. The one thing for which we will not apologize… is content. We are no longer bound by the limitations of corporate sponsorship or network bias. We will not hesitate to share the most informed analysis of any situation, no matter how grim it may be. We find ourselves… in a moment… where millions of lives have been lost… and each day is a test of our mettle as individuals, and as a society. In spite of any… personal… losses… we may have faced… we regard our profession as our sworn duty. Ladies and gentlemen, you have my guarantee that, as long as there’s a breath in my lungs, I will be reporting your news.”