Afterlife (Book 1): Home Again

by Lonergan, Cai

  "Ow. Gross. What?"

  I briefly gaze at the now cleaner spot on my right palm, then up at my house. Our garage door is open, and I don't see anything inside. The house beside ours is burning, but has already partially collapsed on itself without affecting my house, so far as I can see.

  I quickly walk up the driveway and all the way to the back of the garage. I hit the button hidden behind long, cluttered shelves of disorganized tools and garden equipment. A zombie begins walking up the driveway as the garage door lowers.

  Where did he come from?

  “Don’t think so.” I tell it as the garage door closes.

  I turn from the garage door toward the entrance into the living room and am greeted by a large silhouette in the doorway, framed by flickering firelight coming in from the house burning beside mine. I start breathing heavily and a whine rises up in my throat like thin bile. The light switch is next to the doorway this monster is standing in.

  I back up, bumping into the shelves as the ghoul takes a large step forward, missing the steps down into the garage and landing with a loud, horrible crack on one knee.

  The garage door shudders loudly as the zombie outside struggles to enter. The door sounds solid and I keep my attention on the thing in front of me.

  Without brighter light, the zombie is reduced to a crooked lump twitching on the ground, bathed in orange and shadow. Trying to get up unsuccessfully, its head swivels around to face me and it begins writhing forward, pulling with its arms and kicking its legs.

  The garage door keeps shaking.

  Now. I have to move now. If it crawls out of the light spilling through the doorway I won't know where its head is. I reach behind me for something heavy, and grab the first weighted metal I feel. Sharp metal bites into my raw palms as I lift, but I manage to raise the heavy tool over my head.

  I walk forward and as the monster grabs my ankle I bring down the metal on its head with as much force as I can muster while keeping my balance.

  Its grip instantly loosens as the loud crack echoes through the garage.

  I let go of what I now recognize as a carjack and hear it clunk to the ground, knocking the zombie’s head sideways into the cement floor.

  The garage door rattles.

  I step over the body and make my way toward the light switch. I close the door to the living room and turn on the overhead light. I look at the jack next to the head of the monster, who's missing a lot of the muscle of his upper right arm and a good chunk out of his left side.

  Oh no. Not a monster.

  "Mr. Norton?" I whisper. I recognize my middle-aged neighbor, the father of a friend of mine growing up. His house, next to mine, is on fire. He’s such a nice person. This is wrong.

  Another rumble from my garage door. Less violent this time.

  I start to twist the knob to my living room, but hesitate. The rest of the neighborhood could be waiting for me in my house. I close the door on the orange glow from the living room and turn to look at my neighbor and friend. He's an architect. He was. I sit down with my back against the wall, next to the door, and watch his face for a sign of movement.

  There isn't any, of course. None. Now, none.

  "no, none." I whisper. "No, none, nun, ha. AHHH!" I scream and then hush as another impact rattles my garage door.

  Mr. Norton’s eyes are green, a very dark green.

  The garage door shakes but holds firm and I allow myself to fall into the calm, emerald gaze of Mr. Norton.

  CHAPTER 3

  "Bitch."

  I startle and look up to see Mr. Norton.

  "Look at my head. You bitch."

  He sneers and his head wags from one side to the other, cracking on the hard cement floor over and over. Suddenly, Mr. Norton leaps at me all at once, flying across the garage. I scream and his teeth crack tremendously against my skull.

  I wake up screaming and then quickly shut up, remembering where I am. The garage door doesn't make a sound. I blink my eyes rapidly and rub the sleep out of them.

  My friend’s dad is not alive. He is very, very dead and the blood puddle from his head wound is scabby around the edges.

  "I'm so sorry..." I try to explain.

  Another loud crack sounds and I jump, thinking of hard teeth against my skull.

  Was that a gun? Oh my god is the Army here? Several smaller cracks sound out and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I look at the closed door between me and my house. I step forward and slowly unlock the door, then listen with my hand on the lock for a moment, ready to snap the lock shut again. I can’t hear anything except for some loud and encouraging pops from outside.

  I push down the handle and slowly pull open the door. I'm standing in the threshold of our entrance hallway, with the front door to my left and the living room on my right.

  Outside the large bay windows on the far wall I can see Mr. Norton’s house burning against the night. I step into the room and check the clock above the loveseat in the far right corner. A little after three.

  Another loud crack sounds, but even as I glance nervously around I realize that the noise came from outside. I look through the windows for large soldiers carrying large guns as several fainter, low pops echo through the neighborhood.

  I don't see anyone or anything on the dark streets downhill from my house. Rictus appears to have moved on as well.

  I think about his strained smile and my skin starts tightening, pushing the hairs on my neck straight up. I become very aware of the empty, dark space behind me and whirl around.

  Nothing in the living room. No sounds from the garage or anywhere else that I can hear.

  A loud crack elicits a shrill cry from me and I whip back around to the large windows facing what's left of Nr. Norton's home. What is that?

  I look sideways through the smoky glass and another loud crack issues from my house. The wood is burning and expanding, cracking as it internally bursts.

  No, not the wood. My house. My house is burning. I should find that address.

  The empty darkness behind me tickles the back of my neck again and I look back. My eyes dart to the bookshelf, the painting, the TV. The couch. Nothing. The couch.

  I start sweating. I have to look behind the couch. I swallow hard and step forward. Mrs. Norton? A dog? Dog zombies?

  I don't hear anything, but the roar from the fire might be covering low groans and shuffling sounds.

  I silently lean forward and see nothing behind the couch. A tidal wave of relief rushes through me. I laugh at myself.

  Good, I'll be looking over my shoulder and behind everything in front of me for however long this lasts. Who needs zombies? I'll drive myself insane.

  I look around. I need the address in Kansas and I need to get back to my car. I need the security of my car. I need a weapon. What would I have done if there was something behind my couch? Or under it...

  I nervously glance at the black line between the bottom of the couch and the carpet. Not even half an inch. I hesitate, then shake it off. There’s nothing there. They are not magic hide-and-seek monsters.

  Still, it's time to check the rest of the house and I need a weapon for that.

  I head back into the garage quickly. I frown and bite my lip as I see Mr. Norton and remember my nightmare.

  "I'm really sorry." I say to Mr. Norton and then turn toward the shelves.

  As I walk along the shelves staring at all of my father's tools, my right shoulder bumps into the handle of the gardening shears. I feel a slight ache from the tender skin around the bite, but nothing like the painful throbbing I've grown used to over the last week.

  I pull down the shoulder of my blouse. The bite mark is still there, and I can see small yellow crusts around each tooth mark. Infection. The deep purple blob, however, has mostly given way to yellow and seems to have reduced in size.

  Under the skin, branching out from each tooth mark are tiny green veins, clearly visible for an inch before fading away under the skin.

  "Hm." I
gingerly poke the area around the bite. My skin definitely doesn't hurt as much as it did yesterday.

  I stare at the green veins.

  "Are youuu...good or bad?" I ask the neon capillaries.

  I catch a sour smell in the air and turn around quickly, but nobody is there.

  "What is that?" I look back at the bite mark. Oh, no, don't smell like that. If injuries begin to smell...I lean in and raise my shoulder to smell the bite mark, then I cough and laugh. Oh.

  My armpits are rank, my hair and skin is oily and my underwear is five days old. I click the lamp next to me on and off once. Electricity.

  "I'm going to shower," I mutter, getting used to the idea. “Yea. Yes! I'm going to shower!” I walk back into the living room and look sideways through the window. My head feels clearer after a little bit of sleep. The side of my house isn’t on fire, all the doors are locked and my dad has a baseball bat in his study.

  I open the door leading from the living room into the study. I immediately smell smoke from Mr. Norton’s house even though the window is closed.

  I pick up the baseball bat next to the desk and leave the study. I quickly move through the living room to check my parent’s room for hints of their destination.

  Several rental property brochures are sitting on their bureau, but I don’t see any advertising locations in Kansas. Then I turn around and notice another pamphlet on the bed. Landacres Rental Property. Catch it in Kansas!

  "Catch what?" I grab the brochure advertising Kansas properties, fold it up and push it into my back pocket.

  I look for any other clues as to the location of my family, but only find evidence that they were gone. Several of my father's t-shirts are missing, and so many of my mother's possessions are absent that it looks like she never lived here. Encouraging, that she had enough time to pack up, literally, everything she owned before hitting the road.

  I walk back out into the hallway, then into Richard’s room next to my parents’. Mom must have emptied out his room his well. I think back to his elementary school and shudder at the memory of tiny, gray faces.

  I shudder at the memory and think about my parents watching over my little brother while I’m here. Paying close attention to him and keeping him safe. Tears well up in my eyes and I allow myself to cry for a few minutes.

  Blowing my nose on a tissue, I curtsy to the first Kleenex dispenser I have used in weeks and then continue my hunt.

  The dining room across the hall is vacant, as well as the kitchen. All of the dishes have been washed. Another sign that whatever happened to my neighborhood hadn't caught my parents by surprise.

  I pull open a drawer and look at the array of knives. Not much use for the zombies, since I want to stay as far away from them as possible, but if I need to cut anything, or... shave my legs?

  Maybe I won't go full GI Jane, but there have to be a hundred things I'll need a knife for. I pick up a foot long knife and then realize I can't really carry it around with me. Knives are less than pocket friendly. I set it down on the counter.

  The downstairs bathroom at the end of the hall is as clean as bathrooms ever get, and I pause to stare at the large, salmon-colored plastic tub longingly. It isn’t very fancy, but it holds water very well.

  It isn’t time for a bath. I have to go upstairs and see the rest of the house: the upstairs bathroom and my room.

  "Stupid...whatever. Zombies! End of the world.” I stamp my foot, furious at...something.

  I glance meaningfully at the hot and cold water faucets one last time and then I return to the living room, where nothing has changed. Several pops come from next door.

  I make my way upstairs with less trepidation than I had felt downstairs. The zombies seem a lot more comfortable walking than I have been led to believe by Hollywood, but I expect stairs are still a bit of an obstacle for them.

  My room is clear of the undead, so I sit down at my desk and eat the rest of an open package of fruit snacks. They should be stale, but are not and taste amazing. What exactly is the special "process" that makes packaged food last so long?

  I don’t really want to know. I pop another candy in my mouth and chew. Ignorance is bliss.

  "The undead treats," I mutter, turning back toward my bed and menacingly shaking the bag toward Pudge, my childhood panda friend.

  Even for a stuffed animal, Pudge seems unimpressed.

  "Tough guy, huh?"

  Pudge remains silent; he is both stoic and wise.

  I finish the bag and get ready for my real treat next door.

  The door to the bathroom is closed. Holding the wooden bat from the study in my right hand, I twist the knob, push the door and jump back. The door flings inward, hits the wall bumper behind it and slams back shut.

  I wince at the reverberating echo, but after listening to the house for a thankfully uneventful minute, I open the bathroom door back up.

  By the dim light coming in the window, I can see my soap, shampoo and conditioner on a shower shelf. I check the medicine cabinet and pull out a new pink razor.

  Oh, luxuries of civilization. I appreciate my tiny toiletries so much. There were small portable showers installed outside our school, but we were only allowed to wash every other day.

  I can take these bottles with me and be clean! All the time! How long will each bottle last? How long will this whole horrible situation last? I push away the unpleasant thoughts.

  I keep the light off to avoid attention, but turn on the shower and giggle as the electric wall-mounted water heater clicks on, humming. I reach out to touch the water.

  "Ow! Ow. That's hot. It's hot!" I smile broadly. This is what black-and-white movie characters mean when they say "pleased as punch."

  I close the shower curtain and turn on the light. I strip down as quickly as possible, leaning over and bumping into the wall as I struggle with the leg of my shorts.

  I jump into the shower the moment I'm free, and after a few seconds the rest of the world fades away.

  "Holy canoli." This is nirvana. I don't know how long I take washing and conditioning my hair, cleaning the filth of the past week off my body, or shaving my legs and armpits. My palms sting briefly and then settle into a tolerable ache.

  My bite marks sting, but look much better than before since the water has washed away all of the pus and some of the scabs. The healed skin underneath what is left of two of the smaller tooth marks is a violent hot pink, but the purple I remember from last night is almost gone and the skin itself isn’t very sensitive.

  After I'm done washing, I wiggle out a happy dance under the warm spray.

  This is good. This is my life. I'm running up the electric bill, but I'll deal with the utility company when they show up.

  I'm going to stay in the shower until... until...I think of Mr. Norton and sag, all of my bubbles burst.

  I sit down and hold my knees to my chest, then lean forward and let the water thrum away the ragged memories of my escape, the days on the road, the harrowing battles today and, finally, who and where I am. I cry for a long time, letting go.

  Sometime later, I look up. My fingers have become raisins. Hm. But I don't want to leave. I turn my hands around. My nails have seen better days. Maybe I can paint them. I try to remember which colors I left in my bedroom.

  With a sharp ping, the lightbulb snaps off.

  CHAPTER 4

  Two seconds later my water turns to ice. I shriek and jump up, trying to shut off the water in the dark.

  The light blinks on a few seconds later just as I manage to turn the water off and stand in the dark, shivering. Adrenaline is pulsing through my body. I am pulled back into the nightmare. New rules rush through my mind like whitewater rapids.

  No electricity, electricity running out, water pressure, house, neighborhood? Gotta pack, need food, my bat, is something outside, is something in the hallway NoNO NO-

  "NO!"

  A loud crash shakes the entire house and I freeze, dripping water onto the floor. Ten zombies shoving on the
garage door couldn’t make so much noise. The sky is slightly less black, but I can't see much of my house from the upstairs bathroom window.

  I wrap a towel around myself, unlock the door and double check the hallway, then race down the stairs.

  I can smell smoke in the living room now. I run over to the giant windows and peer sideways toward the corner of the house. The roof is gone. No, it's hanging downward, sticking to the side of our house.

  The house next door, on fire. The corner of my roof must have weakened until the overhang swung down like a door on a hinge. Maybe I can throw water on it from the study?

  I walk to the study door and push it open. I am greeted by a thick wall of smoke that makes me start coughing and choking violently. I do not understand what people see in cigarettes.

  The study window is completely shattered from the impact of the roof. I pull the door closed and continue to cough.

  Try to think...I'm naked and my house is on fire...okay, try to think better.

  Time to pack my bags and leave.

  I dash to the stairs and remember the knife in the kitchen. And I still don't have anything from the garage. The jack will come in handy for my car.

  I run into the garage and pick up the jack. A familiar crash comes from outside, then another. I hit the garage door switch twice, quickly, and it raises half a foot and then halts. I can see three pairs of feet walking forward, then stumbling back after the zombies bounce off of the garage door.

  They continue the pointless farce. It’s absurd. Completely mesmerizing and ridiculous.

  Thump. Thump. I look back and see that outside the windows of my living room, several zombies are thudding their heads into the glass and staring at me.

  Suddenly, there is a thunderous creaking rapidly building up to a crescendo and then the living room explodes. I scream, choke and swing my bat in front of me blindly as a cloud of ash envelops me. I drop the jack, which is way too heavy anyway.

  What is happening? I look behind me for anything else I need but I can barely see anything at all.