The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  “I said, where the hell are your parents? Answer me, or so help me God!”

  “They ain’t here,” the boy said.

  “Are they coming back?”

  “No.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you alone? Are there more of you?”

  There was no answer. Simon figured they knew better than to admit if they were alone. But the kids could be lying all the same. Maybe the adults were out on a hunt and would be back at any moment.

  “All right,” Simon said, “this is what we’re going to do. First, you’re going to throw that gun of yours on the ground. Next, I’m leaving in that van. When I’m gone, you can pick up your gun. I don’t want it; you can keep it. Is that clear?”

  There was no reply.

  “I asked, did I make myself clear?” Simon chambered a fresh round in his rifle so they could hear the clicking sound that it produced. He picked up the expelled bullet.

  “Do it, Mitch! Listen to the man.”

  Simon readied himself to fire another warning shot, then a small black pistol flew out from the brush and landed in the grass.

  Without hesitation Simon ran forward, his rifle aimed the entire time, and motioning for Winston to run ahead to the van. He put the keys in the ignition, threw the gear in drive, and stepped on the gas pedal, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

  He swung to the road, eyeing the boy he had shot. The kid had not moved, and a cloud of dust swirled over his body.

  Simon hightailed it down the deserted road. A half mile out, he screamed loud and began punching the steering wheel.

  “Winston! Why didn’t you bark; why didn’t you warn me! Why didn’t you bark, Winston! Why didn’t you bark?”

  He kept punching the steering wheel, tears rolling down his face. “Winston, why didn’t you bark? Why didn’t you bark?”

  A mile farther and Simon came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. He hunched over the steering wheel.

  Winston lay curled on the floor of the passenger side, his ears pinned back, and he stared up at Simon with his big brown eyes. Simon held his own face in his hands, and Winston slowly stepped up on the seat, nudging his wet nose close to Simon, and began licking at his face. Simon held Winston’s head. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m sorry.”

  A moment later, Simon got out of the van. The back door was still open. The first thing he did was inspect the gas barrels. They looked to be holding up. Luckily most of his supplies were tied down, but he took a quick mental inventory. If anything had been lost, it wasn’t much. A box of survival energy bars was ripped open, as if an animal had torn through the packaging, and the silver wrappers were blown about the cabin. The two kids had eaten enough bars to supply a grown man with sufficient calories for a week. Simon threw the empty box out the door and re-strapped the food that the kids had begun to ravage.

  Simon had no doubt that the boy, Billy, was only there to stall him while his friends raided the supplies. Only the kids were so hungry that they started eating rather than emptying the truck. Or maybe they thought they had all the time in the world because Billy was supposed to kill him. Either way, it didn’t matter now. He was alive, and that boy was dead—most likely dead. Simon sat in the trunk of the van, quieting his mind, and deciding his next move.

  A few minutes passed, and Simon was in the driver’s seat, putting the van in reverse, and turning back toward the children.

  He sped past the gas station, and saw the two small kids dragging Billy’s rag-doll body away. When they saw the van, they dropped the boy and ran back toward the woods.

  Simon made another U-turn farther down the road and then sped to pass again. He veered close to the dirt lot and slowed just enough to toss a duffel bag out the window where it bounced over the ground, kicking up a dusty trail. The duffel bag was stuffed with energy bars, basic medical supplies, a thick wool blanket, and a few emergency pouches of water that hopefully didn’t burst.

  Simon continued down the road, looking back through the mirror as the gas station grew smaller and smaller until it vanished altogether.

  He had managed to stay hidden from the war and the savagery for two years as it soured and destroyed humanity, but now, after leaving the cocoon of the cabin and entering society for only a short period of time, he had been forced to become a part of the brutality that had ravaged mankind.

  Chapter 13

  Demons in the Night

  Steven sat with his back pressed to the wall under the window, his rifle aimed at the doorway. He had a clear line of sight straight down the hallway to the bedroom at the far end.

  He leaned into Brian’s ear and whispered, “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

  Brian’s eyes shot large, and he hushed Steven quiet.

  Muffled voices rose from the rooms below, laughing at times. The smell of cigarette smoke came creeping through the floorboards. From somewhere in the valley, shots rang out, and a bolt of fear stabbed at Steven’s heart. A warm fluid spread down his thighs and under his legs and butt, and he realized too late that he had pissed himself.

  Oh Jesus Christ …

  The urge to cry was nearly overwhelming.

  They did not move as the room faded to dark with the night, and it became difficult to see down the hallway. Steven could just make out the form of the bed in the far room and could occasionally see the movement of curtains blowing in the wind.

  The voices grew louder, raucous.

  “They’re drunk,” Brian whispered.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t. We don’t know if there’re more outside, and it’s too dark to see anything.”

  “What are we gonna do? I ain’t staying the night.”

  “We don’t have a choice. When they leave tomorrow, so will we.”

  “No Brian, we can’t—”

  “We got to stay.”

  There were many noises outside, farther down in the valley, and Brian and Steven took turns sneaking glances out the window. The bouncing glow of a raging bonfire chased away shadows from behind a cluster of buildings, just out of view. Occasionally, a gunshot rang out, and crazed laughter was frequent. They even heard the sound of a guitar being played. There were screams—deep, guttural and human—slaughterhouse sounds, which made Brian and Steven cringe.

  The urine around Steven’s legs was now cold, damp and awful. He doubted Brian noticed, as wet and filthy as they both already were in their long ponchos, but he still burned with shame. Get yourself together, Steven, for Christ’s sake. Get yourself together. You’re tougher than this. You’re Albert Driscoll’s nephew. You don’t piss yourself. Pull yourself together. You’re the strongest man in this town.

  He remembered his old summer job with Brian over at Frank Meyer’s farm when they were just teenagers, moving rocks from Frank’s fields and piling them in mounds nearby. Brian would later go on to making produce deliveries, but Steven stayed out in the fields doing the heavy work. No other man could carry the weight that he burdened on his shoulders. Nobody.

  He thought about the various bar fights he’d been in over the years, and how he’d never been afraid, never been bested. People liked to test themselves on the largest man in the room. Most of the time the fights were nothing more than a blur. He wouldn’t know the outcome until the fight was over and Brian was holding him back from killing the other person. His mind would snap back to reality, and a bloody heap would lay before him.

  Steven called those experiences his seeing red moments. His peripherals would throb in red, until it enveloped his entire vision. Usually, he blacked out completely. And when that happened, God help whoever was standing in his way.

  The voices downstairs quieted as the night became black, then stopped altogether. Brian tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Want me to take first watch? You can get some shut-eye.”

  Steven nodded, but it was too dark for Brian to see.

  After a moment Brian asked, “You th
ere?”

  “I’m here.”

  “That good?”

  “It’s good.”

  They pulled the canvas drop cloths from the ground and used them as blankets. Steven turned away from his cousin and closed his eyes. For hours he lay there, but sleep never came. Images of the horrid procession in the valley were fresh in his mind. The reality that some of those wretched men were sleeping below him caused his heart to race. Occasionally, his mind would come to the brink of dreams, in a state of total exhaustion, only to snap back to a panicked vigilance. The tiniest creaking of branches outside or the flapping of loose roof shingles in the wind set his mind in a whirl.

  He thought back to earlier that day when Brian asked if he wanted to find a house for the night. As badly as he had wanted to sleep under a roof, the thought of all the corpses, all the dark and foreboding windows, had made words impossible to form. At the time, he was envisioning men eating children’s fingers like buffalo wings, throwing the tiny bones over their shoulders. No, he did not want to go into town. No, he did not want to risk his life to sleep under a roof. But Brian never waited for him to respond. If Brian had waited, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Steven played out the conversation in his mind. He saw himself telling Brian that they should bypass Odyssey, that it wasn’t safe.

  I would have saved our lives.

  Time passed, and he did not turn from his side; curled up in the fetal position with gritted teeth. Every manner of wicked thought raced through his mind. The bunker was a luxury compared with the outside world.

  The feeling of a hand on his shoulder made him jerk, and he realized that it was Brian waking him up for his shift.

  Did I sleep at all? Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m so tired.

  He sat up in the darkness and Brian rolled over to shut his eyes. They did not speak.

  Steven stared, blinking down the black hallway, rubbing his swollen eyes. His eyesight was well adjusted to the darkness, and some shapes could be made out, like the outline of doorframes.

  It was very quiet …

  … and in a rush, the thoughts racing inside Steven’s head went from dark to pitch-black.

  The corpse is there, at the far end of the hallway, Stevie. Can you see it? Can you smell it? Can you taste it in the air?

  Steven shook the voice out of his head and started rubbing his temples. He was unbelievably fatigued. Popping and snapping noises seemed to be going off in his mind, and the rushing of blood made the arteries in his temples feel like an overwatered dam on the verge of catastrophe.

  The last thing he wanted to do was look down the hallway into the blackness. There were noises outside, things in the wind, crunching and crackling.

  They’re coming to get you, Stevie. They’re right outside the window. They’re right beneath you. They’re going to eat you, slowly, for days, so you don’t … spoil. Tell me, Stevie, did Stanley Jacobs … spoil? Or did you keep him … fresssh?

  Steven gulped, and shut his eyes tight. Images flashed in his mind, so vivid they might have been real. Nancy. Benjamin. The conversation he and Brian had with Uncle Al, sitting at the table with hands crossed.

  “You do right by them,” Uncle Al had said. “They raised you lads, and now it’s your turn to care for them. They’re old, and it’s not right for them to live out their remaining years in this hell-storm that’s brewing.”

  I failed you … I failed them.

  “You make them go down in the bunker, come hell or high water. Ben and Nancy, they’re old now. They probably won’t make it two years underground. But you make them comfortable, and when they pass…

  … that’s,

  for when they die down there …

  … what the walk-in freezer is for …”

  Steven shot his eyes open, chasing the memories away. Every muscle in his body contracted. His forehead swelled as if his head was going to pop clean off his neck. He wanted to wake Brian. He wanted to reach out and shake Brian’s shoulder. In the darkness, he reached his hand out, could see the outline of Brian’s body … but he stopped.

  Go on, wake him up. Wake up Brian so he can protect his little Stevie. Wake up Master Brian so he can protect his sidekick. You can’t take care of yourself. You’re incapable. Look at yourself, sitting in your own piss. Wake Brian up so he can take care of you, like he’s been doing your entire life. He never wanted to stay in Nelson, you know. He stayed because of you, because you’re pathetic, because you’re—

  There was movement in the hallway.

  Wait … was there?

  Was it in the bedroom?

  … Or was it nothing at all?

  Steven clutched his rifle.

  It’s the corpse on the bed, Stevie. It’s awake and dancing around and around. Can you taste the death that it brings? Can you smell the pungent odor of the earth dying, crumbling to its core? The skeleton is dancing, Stevie. It’s dancing around and around, and Nancy and Ben are there too, dancing and dancing. Stanley is with them, but Stanley can’t join in the dance. You know why, don’t you, Stevie? You know why Stanley can’t dance. Because Stanley is … fresssh. You remember me, don’t you, Stevie? You know who I am. I was with you in the bunker. You remember my voice.

  Steven’s head was between his knees, his palms gripping his ears, his eyes closed tight. He tried to speak against the voice in his mind, but every word he spoke was lost.

  The voices in my head are my own, he told himself. It’s only fear talking, just like last time.

  But his logic was indecipherable.

  Then the voice bellowed, reverberating the walls, shaking the floorboards.

  LISTEN TO ME!

  Steven looked up.

  The corpse in the bedroom down the hall was awake, throwing back the soiled sheets from its withered bones and crawling on all fours down the hallway, closer and closer, blurry in the darkness. And with that, all manner of demons awoke in the night. They crawled through the doorway like a swarm of ants from an anthill, over the walls and ceiling, covering every square inch, and getting closer and closer, bones clicking and cracking. The corpse was almost to their doorway, dragging along the ground, its bones rattling, closer and closer, its long pointy fingers reaching out, clawing at Steven’s toes—touching the blanket …

  ***

  Brian awoke in sunlight. Sleep was tough, but total exhaustion had forced him to close his eyes. He might have slept longer if the voices downstairs hadn’t woken him.

  Sitting upright, he pushed the drop-cloth sheet off his legs. Steven was awake, sitting up straight, his back like a board. He was staring wide-eyed down the hallway, as if in a trance. The voices downstairs were grumbly, unclear … then Brian heard the unmistakable sound of stair treads creaking.

  Neither he nor Steven moved as the sound grew louder.

  A man entered the hallway from the staircase, clear as day. He was wearing pants, but no shoes, and a greasy T-shirt that was no longer white. The man walked straight across the hallway to the bathroom on the other side without so much as a glance in their direction.

  Brian and Steven looked at each other in panic, then got to their feet. They hurried to either side of the doorway, their shoulders only inches from the corners. Brian heard the man pissing in the toilet. The fucking plumbing still works?

  The man yelled to the other man downstairs, “Don’t burn the bread!”

  “I ain’t burned nothing.” The voice of the other man was gruff. Brian could smell food in the air, maybe beans and something charred, burning.

  The man in the bathroom said, “Hmmm,” as he pissed, and mumbled, “Shit, my head’s throbbing.” Then there was silence. It seemed to last many minutes. Brian and Steven looked at each other across the doorway. They held their rifles to their chests, and Brian unsnapped the button securing his knife in the sheath.

  The man downstairs yelled, “What the fuck you doing up there? Breakfast is ready!” A sigh came from the bathroom, and the man answered, “Yeah, yeah.” They heard the sound of his feet shuffle acr
oss the hallway floor. The floorboards creaked as he approached the stairway … then the noise ceased. Brian’s heart seemed to skip a beat.

  “Why’d you leave a rifle up here?” the man asked.

  Brian and Steven both turned to see Brian’s scoped rifle leaning against the window frame. Their backpacks were there too, and so were the ruffled canvas cloths they’d used as blankets.

  Brian’s heart was now hammering in his ears. He looked across the doorway at his cousin, and saw the look in Steven’s eyes … red was coming … red was here. Yet, there was something more, something crazed lurking in the dark circles around his eyes.

  The man downstairs said, “What? I didn’t leave nothing up there. C’mon, the beans is ready.”

  The man in the hallway did not answer back, but he also did not move from where he stood.

  Please go downstairs, please go downstairs, please go downstairs …

  Then the floorboards started squeaking directly toward their room.

  “I’m looking right at a goddamned rifle, and it ain’t mine.” He was getting close, his feet shuffling audibly.

  And then he walked clear into the room.

  “And you left a backpack by the wind—” Steven reached out and grabbed the filthy man around the neck with one hand, his other hand going over the man’s mouth. The man was yanked out of the doorframe in a flash, his head squeezed into Steven’s chest. The man’s feet were off the ground, wriggling, and then Steven threw him face-first against the hardwood floor.

  “Jeees—”

  Brian could not finish the sentence before Steven was running. Brian grabbed the closest backpack and ran after his cousin, who was already at the stairway. He looked briefly at the man on the ground, not moving, blood pooling.

  At the bottom of the staircase, Brian saw Steven run toward the other man, who was scrambling to stand from a small circular table with two plates of steaming beans upon it. He stared slack-jawed at Steven, scratching at a holster on his belt. Steven did not stop moving as he swung his giant fist straight into the man’s face, producing an awful crunch. The man was thrown backward, his head bouncing over the ground, the table falling over in a crash.