Life After (Book 2): The Void

by Bryan Way

  Yoxtheimer nods, looks back again, and returns his attention to Anderson. I’d give my left arm to hear what they’re saying. Yoxtheimer crumples up the paper airplane and tosses it at Anderson’s feet, and after another moment, Yoxtheimer takes off his backpack, pulls out a document of some sort, tosses it on the ground, puts his backpack on again and steps back. He holds his arm out to Anderson and speaks into a headset.

  The two of them talk for another few seconds, and then Yoxtheimer replaces his mask as Anderson offers a formal salute. Yoxtheimer returns the gesture, walking off toward the opening between the bus and the pool’s shattered exterior wall as Anderson picks up the document and cautiously returns to the cafeteria. I turn and flee, brushing past Melody as I slide under the gate, hearing her sneakers squealing against the tile behind me. I hit the throttle, darting through the back entrance to the kitchen so I can intercept Anderson just as he finishes glancing back through the door.

  “So?” I ask excitedly.

  “Okay… here’s what’s up…” Anderson says authoritatively, leading us back toward the hallway. “Special ops are assisting the CDC and USAMRIID in a fact finding mission to the cemetery… they’re testing water, testing soil, pulling corpses…”

  “They still don’t know how it happened.” Melody groans.

  “Right. Now, you don’t know I talked to him… we clear? That way if something goes down, we pay for it, not you.”

  “But what if you gave us away?”

  “He figured there was someone in here. He found Steve out back.”

  Shit. We have a corpse with bound limbs and a sock stuffed in his mouth in our backyard. After two months, he still hasn’t starved to death.

  “So… we go with them?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “What’d he tell you?”

  “That’s between me and him.”

  “Oh come on…”

  “What’d I say? “Anderson asks. “I didn’t talk to him, remember?”

  “Alright… so… what’s the… what’d he give you?”

  “The CDC’s report on Zombies… look, if they don’t find what they’re lookin’ for, they’re back within six months. That means if we hear another chopper, we book it.”

  “Why?” Melody asks.

  “Because we don’t know what they’re gonna do.”

  “No… but what if they find out we can’t get it or some shit?” Melody continues. “Or, like… I don’t know… it’s a virus and we’ve got it?”

  “What if they dissect you to find out?”

  “You don’t think that’s worth it?”

  I find it hard to mount a counterargument, and Anderson seems to be struggling with his response as well. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and exhales.

  “It’s all in here…” Anderson says impatiently, holding up the document and tapping it against his head. “They can’t figure it out.”

  “Does he know?” Melody continues.

  “No… but if I thought we’d do ‘em any good, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “What if they just wanna take us somewhere safer…? I’d rather get poked full of holes at some army base than spend the rest of my life here.”

  “Because here you have a choice.” I interrupt. “If you wanna go, you can. Once you walk out that door, it might be the last choice you ever make. They might do whatever it takes to figure this out, even if it means killing you.”

  “What if they do figure it out?”

  “What if they don’t? You wanna spend the rest of your life in a little white room, hoping you did something to make a difference? Or do you wanna stay here… and have a choice?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Alright then. If they don’t figure it out, you can stay here and they’ll probably come back. If they do… you’ll be glad you kept your mouth shut.”

  “Think of how many people we could help…”

  “Melody… it’s not the flu…”

  “Hey!” Anderson bellows, finally silencing us. “Shut. Up. Karen’s gonna read this and tell us what’s up. They move out at sundown…”

  “You sure?” Melody asks.

  “Yeah. I’m tellin’ you two that conversation with Yoxy didn’t happen… so do me a favor and start forgetting.”

  “We don’t have any cameras pointed out back, do we?” I mutter.

  Anderson stares at me in desperation as he thinks it over.

  “No… the one over the postern was already here.”

  “Thank god…”

  “Grey, we parked ourselves in with school buses and slashed the tires… it ain’t exactly subtle.” Anderson replies. “If they want in, there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Have the rations made it to the auditorium?”

  “In position…” Melody confirms. “But we never practiced getting it on the bus…”

  “Great. AlCon one stays in effect in case we have to bolt.” Anderson replies, holding out the report. “Karen’s gotta read this.”

  “Got it…” I reply, snatching it out of his hand. “Look, dude, can I get some sleep?”

  “Sure. Keep your door unlocked and your boots on…” Anderson pushes through the stairwell doors before he finishes his sentence. “By the way, it’s gonna snow later.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Yoxy said it’s gonna snow.”

  “…okay…”

  I bolt up the stairs to the medlab while Anderson heads toward the security office. Halfway up the steps, I realize Melody is following me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What…? What are we doing?”

  “…I’m taking the report to Karen.”

  “The group, numb nuts.” She replies.

  “What did I tell you about talking to me like that?”

  “Don’t you dare talk down to me.”

  “Then stop insulting me.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “…you’re right…” I start. “But that doesn’t mean you have to…”

  “For Christ’s sake…”

  “…I’m telling you I’m sorry!”

  “For what?” She asks.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes.

  “Can we please do this later?”

  “Why?” She asks.

  “I have to take this report to Karen, there are soldiers in our backyard, we have no idea what they’re gonna do, and I got four hours sleep last night… pick a reason… but if you ask me that now, I’m just gonna tell you whatever you want to hear. That’s how tired I am.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay!” She confirms.

  Melody descends the stairs and disappears through the doorway. I find Karen in medlab with Rob appearing quite docile. She graciously accepts the report and I quickly excuse myself. As I power walk back to my room, I try to convince myself that I have no reason to make this nap short as a psychological ploy to avoid waking up every fifteen minutes panicking that someone’s going to get shot. I recognize this possibility, but know that I’m better off lying to myself so I can sleep solidly for several hours.

  Per Anderson’s instructions, I keep my clothes on and rest my rifle against the side of my bed furthest from the door. As my brain spirals down the unlikely chain of events leading to this moment, I realize how unsettlingly normal this situation feels. With everything we’ve seen, I feel eerily insulated just by being inside the school. I consider myself fortunate that I fall on this thought so quickly in the process of trying to coax my conscious brain to give in and let the nonsensical background take over to do its work.

  Sleep wasn’t kind to me. As predicted, I woke up often to discover some tenuous connection to reality, fearing that some non-existent leviathan is hunting me in my waking moments. After long enough, I’m able to remind myself that I’ve woken up naturally, not coaxed by gunfire or shouting. Once I sit up, I recognize my room and see the wrecked pile
s of paper resting on my floor. My recollections of the previous few days infect my thoughts, and before I know it, I’m on the floor trying to sift through my life’s work.

  I get on my hands and knees to start re-organizing, but the train of thought driving my desire to classify the wayward sheets is derailed by a proverbial penny: what the hell am I doing? Who cares if my writing is preserved? It wasn’t published for a reason, and I’m the only one who cares about it. Sure, if we ever have children I can show them I was a writer, but does it ultimately matter? I didn’t catalog any stark reformations in the human condition via a plague or renaissance. My work would be no more useful to my companions if it were written in Esperanto.

  Overtaken by a desire to reduce my computer to a paperweight by throwing it out the window, I aim to punch the same cabinet I took my rage out on last night, but stop myself for fear of alerting the soldiers. I put the papers in unorganized stacks on my countertop, figuring that we might need kindling someday. What was the point? Did I really need these stacks of paper? Is there some reason I was so insistent upon bringing my DVD collection with us? Was my keyboard a necessary addition? Did I really want to hear that phone message from my brother?

  Since I don’t feel like I can cry naturally, I return to my bed and spend half an hour reflecting on the events of the last several days. I really have been awful to my friends, and I’m going to have to find some way of making it up to them. I hope a series of apologies will suffice, but if that won’t work, the Christmas present I have prepared will hopefully go a long way toward contextualizing our problems.

  This thought provides me with the energy to head to the cafeteria for some evening vittles. Due to either luck or the interference of fate, Anderson is the only person sitting at a table, dunking a spoon into a can of baked beans, something we’ve generally avoided in favor of eating perishables. I take yet another stale bagel and our recently defrosted cream cheese before choosing the seat across from him. He nods in abeyance as I plant myself on the circular plastic disc one could jokingly call a seat, but I opt to disrupt the natural order by attempting to introduce a conversational détente.

  “Any word on the soldiers?”

  “Haven’t come any closer.” Anderson dribbles.

  “Anyone keeping watch?”

  “I am… Mursak took over until I’m done eating.”

  “Took over what?”

  “We found a way up on the roof out of the bird’s nest’s line of sight.” Anderson continues. “He’s keeping an eye on the cemetery.”

  “Who’s got the kids?”

  “Ally.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “…you know…” Anderson starts after a moment. “We have to stay on watch the next couple days.”

  “Don’t we always?”

  “Yeah… but it’s gonna get worse. With the helicopters… and if they’re out there shooting… “

  “I’ll take the night shift.” I state.

  “Good.”

  We endure a reasonable pause.

  “Sorry about last night.” I mutter.

  “It’s alright…” Anderson replies sheepishly. “We kinda ganged up on you.”

  “It’s cool.” I lie.

  “Still angry?”

  “You know… yeah, a little.”

  He shovels more beans into his mouth.

  “Helen wants you to apologize.”

  “Do you want me to apologize?” I ask.

  “…you did tell her she has a fat ass.”

  “Damn. Well… one at a time.”

  We stay silent for a minute.

  “We’re good at this.” Anderson says.

  “Yeah?”

  “We shared a girlfriend in middle school, for Christ’s sake. We can’t stay pissed at each other. Rich’ll never get here.”

  “If I had a drink, I’d toast to that.”

  “If you had a drink, you’d drink it.” Anderson retorts.

  “If I had a drink, you’d drink it, alcoholic.”

  We both smile and snicker at our banter. After finishing up our meals, I seek out Helen and Rich for apologies. Neither apology is perfect, but both Helen and Rich seem pleased. Karen is next, and after some perfunctory conversation, we get to the report.

  “The Undeath Syndrome Surveillance and Diagnosis report…” She starts, holding it up. “Make a long story short… they haven’t got a clue.”

  “That’s why they came.”

  “Of course… but the way this reads, they’re not gonna figure it out. They know enough to give us some perspective… they think we reach the tippin’ point in the next two months.” Karen responds.

  “Tipping point?”

  “When they outnumber us. It’s a projection… but they got their facts straight.”

  “So it’s really not gonna end.”

  She nods quietly, leafing through the pages.

  “Karen… I’m sorry.”

  “…you mean that?”

  “I do. The truth is… you’re good with Elena. And I’m not. So I thought you’d taken over being a mom.”

  “Have you thought of some way to help out?”

  “No… and I know it’s not your place to tell me… but I need all the help I can get. Karen… I’m a wreck.”

  She laughs, and though I smile, she can see I wasn’t kidding.

  “What’s the problem?” She asks.

  “It’s not gonna end. ‘Survival’ used to start when you were stuck in a desert with no water, stranded at sea with no raft, or lost in the woods with no compass, and it ended when you died or got rescued. You don‘t get rescued from the apocalypse. Dying isn’t what it used to be either. So what do we have to survive for?”

  “That’s… grim, Jeff.”

  “I know…” I snicker, quickly becoming serious again. “But I won’t entertain optimism for its own sake. Even if it ends tomorrow… we can’t go home again.”

  “Well… no man is rich enough to buy back his past.”

  “…where’s that from?”

  “Oscar Wilde.”

  “…and you just… carry that around with you?”

  “I was my class salutatorian.” Karen replies.

  “And that is…?”

  “Second best to the valedictorian. I used it in my speech.”

  “I bet you killed it.” I state.

  “I did.”

  We both laugh, and I hug her to seal my apology. Feeling much better, I return to my room and quickly realize I have nothing to do, so I play solitaire until the sky gets dark. Fear wraps around my spine as I reach for the light switch, causing me to recoil to the windows so I can gaze into the courtyard at twilight. Fortunately, no lights are visible anywhere in the school, so I have to assume Anderson instructed our compatriots that flipping a light switch could be a fatal mistake.

  I draw my shades and locate a flashlight thanks to the ambient lights from the buttons on my computer, replacing my shattered keyboard with one from the room’s ancient PC. My fifth hand of solitaire is interrupted by the sound of a conversation. My first reaction is to ignore it, but when I remember the visitors perched in the backyard, I pop up and try to investigate the source, as it would not be unreasonable to assume that a loud conversation could be cause for investigation.

  I exit my room quietly to find the halls silent and dark. I wait a moment, turn back toward my room, and then hear more muffled chatter. It sounds like it’s coming from the hallway, but I can’t divine the source. As I walk away from 218, I finally pinpoint it: the greenhouse. I open the pinnacle door and hear a dialogue in greater aural clarity, though the exact words still escape me.

  As I sneak up the steps, I can distinctly hear the word ‘no’ muttered as a complete sentence from a woman. I instantly assume that I might be interrupting two members of the group having sex, and though I would normally be too embarrassed to continue, my fear of being locked in the depths of USAMRIID for testing drives me forward. At the top of the steps, I recognize Melody’s voice,
and though I can’t understand what she says, I follow Jake’s response clearly.

  “It’s quiet.”

  “Yeah, so…?” Melody replies.

  “I don’t want anyone to bug us.”

  “But why’d you wanna come up here?”

  As I approach the top step, I try to think of a way to introduce myself without startling them. Opting not to dwell on it, I quietly and calmly blurt out “Hey guys…” Melody takes in a shocked breath and pushes herself away to my left, nearly disappearing into a shadow. “What?” Jake’s adversarial voice comes in from my right; he’s sitting on the center greenhouse row, silhouetted by the ambient light of the night sky.

  “I heard you downstairs… I didn’t want to interrupt…”

  “And?” Jake cuts me off.

  “…you might want to keep it down.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve got special forces in our backyard.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Anderson…” Jake’s tone is rancid with sarcasm.

  “Jake, I don’t wanna go twelve rounds over this…”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t.”

  “Just by coming up here, you’re making it warmer… they have a sniper on the press box with a thermal scope…”

  “He’s not gonna shoot us…”

  “You’d better be sure. What if they spot you and come in?” I ask.

  “Anything’s better than being here…”

  Jake jumps down off the garden row and turns to face the windows. “If you want to go with them, no one’s stopping you…” I start. “But don’t you dare…” He turns back swiftly. “Do what ?!” I can tell he wants to hit me, but I’m more puzzled than alarmed. Is there any point in continuing this conversation? Every time I open my mouth he seems to get angrier, and I have no idea why.