After Life | Book 2 | Life After Life

by Kelley, Daniel

  Celia stood at the ready, gun raised. She didn’t have time to worry about much, though, as the first Z appeared in the doorway. It almost fell into it, lurching sideways like a dog running across a linoleum floor. Still, it straightened itself out quickly and faced Celia, those black-and-white eyes flashing in the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

  Celia aimed more carefully than she had in the hallway, suddenly mindful of her ammunition, and fired. The shot was good. The zombie’s head rocked sideways and back, and it fell, rolling halfway as it did, and collided with another one that was on its way in. It brought the trailing zombie briefly to its knees, which was enough of a delay for Celia to steady her new aim — rapid-fire was never her strong suit — and shoot again.

  This happened again and again, over the course of seven zombies. Each zombie had gotten slightly closer to her, but by the time she got to them all she still had several feet of freedom.

  Celia stepped back and surveyed the scene. Her ears were ringing from the loud gun going off in a small room with the acoustics of a bathroom. There could have been more Z’s outside the room groaning and she wouldn’t have known, except for the fact that the door was still open and they weren’t trying to get in. She took a few deep breaths, then checked the gun. She had emptied that magazine, so she switched back to her original one, which was down to its last two bullets. That was worrisome, but if Simon was still fine it wasn’t the end of the world. Still, as she moved to leave the bathroom, she did so carefully. Her father’s instructions had always been that she should shoot any Z’s that she wasn’t 100% about a second time, and of course that made sense, but with her limited ammunition, she wanted to avoid that and just leave any zombies that still moved to their own devices.

  That meant staying as close to walls as she could, and not getting any closer to any of them than she had to. But she was also hurrying, because she didn’t know what had happened to Simon. If he was fine, it didn’t really matter how long it took her. And if he was dead, it definitely didn’t matter. But there were other options. Maybe he had been bitten, and if so she didn’t want him to die alone. Maybe … she didn’t know. But not knowing was just as bad as some of the alternatives to her, so Celia wanted to hurry as best as she could do without being reckless.

  But then she stopped and reconsidered. Celia hurried back to the janitor’s closet and pulled out the broom she had found in there. It wasn’t much of a weapon in any real combat, but against wounded zombies it would do the job and let her save her few bullets. She went back to her wall to move by the zombies, and as she moved she reached the broom out in front of her and poked the bodies.

  The first three she checked were, and remained, still. The fourth had fallen on its side, and when Celia poked it it rolled onto its back in a way that made her stiffen nervously, but it was just the physics of the poke, and the zombie didn’t move again. She made it all the way out of the bathroom without incident and exhaled deeply.

  And then she looked in the hallway, having almost forgotten her first round of fighting the zombies. There were still several on the floor there, splayed out. Celia thought she was done shuddering at sights like that, but she was clearly wrong about that. She kicked up the doorstop and let the bathroom door close, which since it opened outward wouldn’t exactly do a lot to stop any Z’s but made her feel better anyway, and continued her wall-and-broom routine down the hall.

  Only one zombie made any noticeable move at Celia’s pokes. She cocked the broom handle to stab at it, but suddenly realized she wasn’t sure how to do that. Eye socket? Back of the head? It was an idea she knew would work in theory, but in practice it seemed too gruesome to actually attempt.

  So instead, Celia hurried past the zombie quickly and made a note to herself to watch her back. The broom would probably work if needed, but she wasn’t excited to make that happen.

  Other than that one — and it barely moved as it was — her path to the room was smooth. But still, there was no sign of Simon. The glass had never given way, but there was enough spider-webbing that Celia thought she had come out of the bathroom none too soon. And the door was still closed.

  Celia held her hand up to knock, then wondered why she would do that. Simon would know who it was. Still, she suddenly felt bashful, like she was entering his bedroom. At first she wasn’t sure why she felt that way, but then she decided it was because that had been the site of their fun interlude a few minutes earlier, and that meant that to some part of her it was Simon’s bedroom.

  She pushed past that feeling and made herself just open the door. “Simon?” she said, barely above a whisper. Any zombie left nearby would surely have heard her gunplay, but still, speaking at a normal voice felt wrong.

  There was a desk just under the window, where the person who was sitting would be able to see out into the hallway, and it was from under the desk that Simon poked his head out.

  “Celia?” he said, his eyes wide. “You’re okay?” He started crawling out slowly, and Celia saw that he had a tight grip on the little metal club like stick that had been resting on the green strip of fake grass.

  Celia nodded, but she felt her instincts taking over and already started eying Simon up and down to check for wounds. “I am,” she said. “Are you?”

  Simon returned the nod, slowly, like he wasn’t sure. “Yeah,” he said at last.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a door open down the hall,” he said. “Just a crack, I guess, enough to not be latched. I thought they were all closed. Stupid that I didn’t check when we came in. But I was waiting outside the bathroom, and I decided to check the stairwell down at the far end, just in case we can’t leave the way we came in. I guess they heard me, figured out I was out here when I passed the door. On my way back, suddenly they came out behind me. Suddenly they were coming after me.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot them?”

  He shook his head. “I screwed up,” he said, and even the phrase sounded weird coming from Simon. He hadn’t been one to make mistakes. “Didn’t track my bullets.”

  “You’re empty?”

  He nodded. “After the wreck,” he said. “Usually I check again after every time I use the gun. But…” Celia could see him blush. “I don’t know, I think I was kind of … excited? I don’t know, getting away, you know, from the group, and sort of, with you, it felt … I guess I just wanted to do it and I got ahead of myself. So I used the last ones in the garage earlier. And I didn’t even realize it until you were in the bathroom and they showed up from down the hall. Tried to shoot and … nothing. I had been pacing. Was too far from the bathroom door. So I tried to lure them away from you and hid in here.”

  It was Celia’s turn to blush. He had been feeling the same emotions she had been. She suddenly felt much less foolish.

  And then she felt foolish again. “I did the same thing,” she said, flashing an embarrassed half-smile back at him. “I, uh, I only have two bullets left.”

  Celia could tell Simon had a moment of feeling pretty hopeless after she said that, but he did his best to hide it. It wasn’t hard to read, though, and she had to admit to herself she felt the same. She hadn’t seen in the garage when Simon was surprised out there, but there had to be more than a few out there in the way, at least more than they could easily handle with their two bullets, broom handle, and little metal stick.

  “First things first,” Celia said, and even as she did she felt her blood rush, despite the inappropriate circumstances, “we should probably check each other again. Good habit to be in.”

  Simon nodded and pulled off his shirt. He quickly stripped down, and Celia saw that he was sweatier than he had been before, but otherwise was fine. As he started to get dressed again, Celia started the motions of removing her own clothes. She took her own shirt off and noticed as she did that Simon started to move toward her.

  Despite everything else, Celia almost smiled again, until she realized Simon had raised the metal stick in his hand. He moved quickly
past her and swung it down. Celia spun around.

  The one Z she hadn’t been able to figure out how to finish off with the broom. It was still crawling, still moving slowly, but with her still standing near the doorway, it had almost gotten to her before Simon acted. She jumped back, shocked at how close it had gotten to her. Simon’s swing was forceful. Ultimately the metal stick didn’t do much, but it did stop the zombie from reaching up toward Celia as it reacted to the attack. Simon cracked its skull one more time, then stepped on the back of the zombie’s neck and drove his foot down. It took a couple of tries, but eventually they both heard a slight but clear cracking noise, and the zombie lay still.

  “Wow,” Celia said, breathing heavily. Simon pushed the Z out of the doorway and shut the door, something Celia felt stupid for not having done herself. She suddenly realized she didn’t even have a shirt on and started to get redressed. Then she remembered she hadn’t yet proven to Simon she had no wounds and did the opposite.

  Simon wasn’t even watching Celia anymore. He was examining the stick. “Putter’s no good,” he said, using a word Celia didn’t know. “Club head won’t do much besides give them a headache.” He laid the stick on the ground at an angle and stomped on it, about like he had done to the zombie. It took a few tries, but eventually the head of the stick snapped, and Simon was left with a sharp metal stick.

  He whipped it back and forth a few times, first like a sword, then like a dagger. “Won’t really stop a group,” he mused, “but if this comes up again that’ll stab one really good.”

  Celia, now totally unclothed, started to get dressed again. Simon had gone full businesslike. She wasn’t sure he had ever actually looked at her without her clothes that time, which, despite the situation, felt a little disappointing.

  “Do you want my gun?” Celia asked once she was dressed again. “You’re better with it than I am.”

  Simon appeared to consider the offer, but in the end he shook his head. “No, that’s yours,” he said. “You saved me with it. I’m not taking that from you. I’ll be fine with this. And,” he added after a second, looking at her, “can I carry the broom? At least I’ll have something.”

  Celia passed the broom over. “Thanks,” Simon said, waving it around like he was gauging the weight. They stood in silence for a moment, and then he inhaled deeply like he was building up the strength to say something else. “I was kind of sad when you put your clothes back on.” He offered up the tiniest of smiles, but his eyes said he wasn’t at all sure if he had said the right thing and was searching for approval.

  He got it, in the form of Celia blushing again. “Thanks,” she said, looking down and letting her hair fall just in front of her face. They were silent for another moment. Finally, Celia, feeling like they needed to do something, spoke again. “So what do we do?” she asked.

  Simon shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “How many were out there when you were in the garage?” she asked.

  He shook his head again. “Not that many,” he said. He started to move out of the little office as he spoke. “More than I wanted to have to fight in the moment, but not so many that I couldn’t have if I had to. You know, if I had bullets.” He got to the door and put his hands against it, as though there were a fire outside and he was checking to see how hot it was. “But you fired a lot of shots,” he added. “We don’t know what that did to the group.”

  Celia nodded. She was worried what attention she had attracted too. “What if we used the walkie-talkie?” she asked. “They won’t have seen everything from out there, but they can give us an idea.”

  Simon looked down at the walkie-talkie in his pocket like he had forgotten it was there. He grabbed it. “Hey,” he said into the radio, “we’ve had some problems in here. Still okay, but not sure how many of them are out there waiting for us. Have you guys seen anything?”

  They waited a minute, just long enough that Celia started to wonder if something had happened to them out there or if they had left, before Michelle’s voice crackled back through.

  “We haven’t seen anything,” she said.

  That was reassuring, even if it was far from conclusive. At the very least, it was possible they weren’t in as bad a shape as they could have been. Celia found herself feeling optimistic. “How much can you open the door without them seeing you?” she asked.

  Simon took a deep breath. “Some, I think,” he said. The door opened outward, and the opening faced toward the back of the garage, so it wouldn’t give them a lot of information, but it would be better than nothing. Simon took a deep breath again, pushed the door open only an inch or two, and peered out. Quickly, he closed the door back and turned back to Celia.

  He looked terrified.

  Part 4: Pride Goeth Before a Fall

  Chapter One: One Deadly Sin

  2028

  As the water in the pot started to boil over, the man hurried over to lower the heat on the stove. He was an older black man, in his 60s, with almost no hair and gray flecks in what hair he did have. His posture was good, though his age had started to make him lean a bit. Otherwise, he appeared to be in excellent shape, with only the slightest of gut pushing out his tan shirt.

  Tan was the color of the day in the kitchen. The man had a tan shirt and tan pants. The wall was a beige color, and the countertops were an off-white. The refrigerator, which had once been white, had between age and dust settled into an off-putting tan color as well. The kitchen was organized — the sink was empty, the cabinets closed, and a shelf on one side was well-stocked with non-perishables and fresh-looking produce — but it certainly wasn’t tidy. It never would have been featured in any magazines.

  The one exception to the tan was on a window that was next to the back door. It held a window box that was nearly overflowing with different small green plants, spanning the entire length of the sill. It gave the room one of its few splashes of color.

  The man, though, was put together. His shirt was tucked into his pants. He wore a belt, socks, even loafers, despite the otherwise casual atmosphere. The holster around his waist held his gun, even though he was at home and the back door a few feet away had three locks all securely fastened and criss-crossing metal bars over the window.

  Somewhere in the back of the house, music was playing. It was scratchy enough that it was clear it was on a record, and likely not a new one. The man hummed along atonally as he worked on the food.

  He dumped noodles into the boiling water and gave them a cursory stir, just long enough to let things settle, before returning to his cutting board, where he had been slicing cucumbers. The cutting board — even it was beige — had the detritus of lettuce, carrots, green peppers, and celery scattered around it. A bowl just to the left of the board held the main components of the various vegetables, with a set of salad tongs poking out the top. He hummed as he sliced.

  There was a rectangular table on the far side of the room, with its short side pushed up against the wall and a mishmash of books set atop it. The rest of the table was set for dinner, with three plates, glasses, forks, knives and napkins all arranged neatly. On each long side of the table was a chair, while the one short side had nothing.

  As the man worked on his cucumbers, a face suddenly appeared in the window through the metal bars. It was a young black man, with nearly shaved hair just like the main in the kitchen. He knocked, and the man put down his knife and moved over to the door. He undid the handle lock, the deadbolt, and then the chain at the top and opened the door.

  The younger man walked in. Down to the holster on the waist, the men were dressed identically, and the younger man had the same haircut, same build, and same mannerisms as the older man, with the only real difference being the fact that his body hadn’t started to show the signs of age. He was carrying a cloth bag that held something heavy, so wide that he had to turn sideways to navigate his way through the door.

  Silently, the older man moved back to his cucumbers as the younger one came in. He p
ulled out the chair closest to him with his foot and with some effort put the bag on it, then turned back and closed and re-locked the door.

  “Looks like that went well,” the older man said as he kept cutting cucumbers.

  “Mostly,” the younger man said as he pulled the cloth bag down around its contents. As he did, he revealed some sort of model house, white, ornately designed. It was two stories, with a fancy chimney and a grand wraparound porch. The young man had to struggle to get the edges of the bag down around the porch, but he finally got it cleared and the whole house was on display.

  “What do you think, Dad?” he said.

  His father took a second to answer, finishing up the cucumber and putting the knife down. He wiped his hands off and turned around. He walked up to the table and appraised it. He crouched beside it and peered in a window, gently tapped the chimney, and examined the porch. Finally, he stood up.

  “She’ll love it, Simon,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.” He moved back to the stove and stirred the pasta with one hand while tapping at a smaller pot of sauce with the other. “Care to put that in the living room while I finish up dinner? We’ll bring it in and show it to her later.”

  Simon did so without a word while his father tasted the sauce. He made a disapproving face at the taste. When Simon returned, he motioned toward the window box. “Care to cut me a little bit of basil?” he asked. “This needs more.”

  He reached the kitchen scissors out to his son, and Simon got to work. As he did, his dad spoke again. “That old woman’s interesting, isn’t she?”

  Simon looked back. “Mrs. Cox? Yeah, she’s weird. How do you know her?”

  His father shook his head. “Childhood,” he said. “She was actually my fifth-grade teacher. That woman has to be nearly 90 years old.”

  “Really?” Simon asked, handing his dad the basil, which his father then tossed into the pot and kept stirring. “How did she survive 2010?”