The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  He slammed the trunk closed, removed his boot and hobbled around to the front. The blood gushed from his foot.

  Now it was time to trash the surgery and kill everyone inside.

  One Day Earlier

  “Come on, you little fucker, find the God damned signal.”

  “I’m fucking trying,” Jeff twisted the dial. Crackling. Fuzz. Broken Spanish, hardly useful. His entire arm was shaking from a mixture of excitement, foreboding, anxiety, euphoria, not to mention one heck of a fucking rough period of withdrawal, a strange blend that hardly assisted with the delicate work of twisting the knob. “Nobody around here got a functioning smartphone?” He glanced out the wound down car window, to the dozens of other vehicles, five destitutes gathered around the nearest oil drum fire, the shopping trolleys filled with whole lives, hundreds of tents, trash strewn all over the place, lethargic bitches, randy mutts, vodka bottles, whiskey, used needles, shit, mattresses, the overpass that offered some small semblance of shelter and finally to the men leaning against his door, waiting with still skeptical bemusement for the expected news.

  “You fucking stupid?” Terrence’s breath was like the very fire of Hell. “Perhaps you’d care for a week in Cancun, a new camper with room to stretch your legs, fillet steak and a functioning set of teeth to sink in it.”

  Jeff shook his head and sighed. “Never mind, idiot.” It had been intended as a fucking joke, though Terrence’s lack of awareness could not diminish the mood this day. Not today.

  Terrence slapped a gloved hand upon the roof. “Just find somebody who’s saying shit.”

  It was unusual for any of these gutter dwellers to give a fuck about the news but then, the anticipated story was hardly your average yard sale feature. There had been that forest fire a couple years back that burned down half the town, the smoke clearly visible as it curled into the atmosphere, air so bad you’d rouse halfway through the afternoon with a burning throat, the night skies illuminated to an often terrifying intensity and still, nobody had given a shit about any of it. Terrence, for one, had been way too preoccupied smoking meth to give a fuck about the horrifying event broiling only a mile away, and it had only been when a few dozen new fellows, broken and terrified after being denied refuge in the shelters that were filled to bursting arrived at the Trench that it so much as roused a sniff of interest.

  Those were interesting times, for the old vets, at least, because the newcomers had brought supplies; clothes, radios, food, even cash, and they shared it, whether they were willing or not, because what choice did they have.

  They brought skills too.

  One guy who’d lost everything in the fire had been a barber and for a couple of months nearly every down-and-out beneath the underpass had looked like one of those shampoo-ad models, despite stinking of garbage and having teeth like broken mints, and shit-colored broken mints at that.

  Another had happened to be an accomplished plumber, who’d routed a nearby pipe to a faucet on the verge and for a while there was clean water for all, at least until the state utility company realized what was going on and sealed it off. Cracked a few skulls that day. Dragged the poor fucker to the gulag and that was the last anyone ever saw of him.

  By far the most memorable, however, was the carpenter, even though nobody could quite remember his name, if they ever knew it in the first place. That guy had taken the trouble to knock together a shithouse, not that anyone other than those displaced by the fire ever used it. The rest were way too accustomed to shitting behind the support wall to bother walking down the slope into the redwoods where oddly, he’d chosen to build the thing. Took too long getting down there. And a fucking bitch hiking back up. Besides, what with all the hooch and meth, when you need to drop your back, you need to drop your back. It’s not a happy prospect, stumbling down that slope, intoxicated, doped up to the eyeballs, when it’s already dribbling out your hole. That’s why the back end of that support wall never resembled a minefield because the shit’s always so runny it only ever needs a matter of minutes to harden to a crust in the heat. On the rare occasion anything more substantial appeared, the accusations would start flying. Who’s not redistributing? Which inevitably led to more than a few brawls. A cardinal sin in the Trench; not the brawling, but hiding your spoils from the rest. Doubtless, the irony was lost on most of them. How they’d arrived cursing the very system that had disenfranchised them but that they were all willing to revert back to it just as soon as someone holding a shit load o’ goodies turned up. But then, what with all the drugs and alcohol, eventually most people forget their old beliefs, and would be willing to burn the old Flag for a single fix.

  In the end, that’s what happened to the carpenter, possibly. He’d built the shithouse but refused to share the grub he’d purchased by trading services, belongings, his precious tools even. Perhaps the only reason he’d lasted as long as he did was that he was so damned good at brawling, something about being a fan of that cage fighting phenomenon the nice people who still have homes and electricity like to watch. Still, there’s only so much a man cares to fight with his fellow itinerants, only so many teeth you can knock out before it all gets a little tiring. Was that why he left? He just got tired? Fuzzy, fried, frazzled memories. What was even real? The last few days, Jeff’s hallucinating had been so bad there was just no knowing anymore.

  Jeff found his eyes glazing over. “Hey, Terrence, what ever happened to the carpenter?”

  The old vet jerked back. “The fuck should I know? And what’s that got to do with convincing me this thing you keep saying is real?” He snorted. “Deuce, maybe if you point the aerial over them trees there, then maybe this useless fucker can find some signal,” on this occasion, Terrence was kind enough to turn his head away when spitting the words, saving Jeff from a shower of toxic vodka flavored spray. Damned vagrant interrupted his reverie.

  Where was he… Oh, yeah…

  In the end, that shithouse was torn down. Cold winter. Easier to use the ready available wood than slice down a tree, drag it back to camp and chop it into bits small enough to feed the drums. What was the point? There was already a tonne of planks, nicely planed, sanded, varnished, and all ready to be sacrificed for a few minutes warmth. Kind of reminiscent of all those medieval castles in Europe. Beautiful things. But soon as there was no need for them, the locals would filch the stone to build their hovels. Deny the world those fortresses. Fucking philistines. Maybe it wasn’t the same thing, the Trench denying themselves a place to take a shit, but in some ways it is. Terrence said it was because the cesspit beneath the thing got full and nobody could afford to have the pit dredged, and neither did anybody fancy scooping the shit out themselves.

  Maybe the shithouse was getting used then.

  Either way, the only thing remaining of the old masterpiece is a few sticks and leaves covering a giant hole in the ground. Oh, there’ll be a nice surprise awaiting the next hapless soul who steps on them, that’s for sure, and more than a few of the boys have come close going to fetch twigs and sticks in the dark. Cold winters. That’ll do it every time.

  Homelessness. It can happen to anyone. Deuce was a high school dropout who took to drugs early on, and a nigger to further compound his misery, so perhaps he’s a bad example, and damned if anyone can get any history outta Tiny, if he even remembers much of it, which is doubtful. But Larry was one of three guys who’d started a video games company based out of LA, and Murph once owned several of those Subway sandwich franchises. Or so he says. Ah well, it all belongs to the state now.

  When you suddenly find yourself homeless, you either sink or swim. Some, very few, get their shit together and make something of themselves with a renewed sense of vigor and urgency but most, by far the most, fall by the wayside and find themselves hooked on drugs and alcohol, all work ethic and purpose drained away so that there comes a point they’d rather destroy some shithouse for a few hours warmth than go just that little farther into the trees, do just that little bit extra work to find some w
ood, thus not destroying something of beauty that a better man once created.

  Of course, living in a communist utopia hardly helps.

  “I heard a voice. You had it and went past it. You fucking deaf?” This time Terrence sprayed Jeff with a good dose of venom, got it all over his lips and everything.

  Beyond his derelict form a small group headed by Marcus were returning after a hard day’s begging, or mugging, and were handing out coins and what looked like cooked chicken thighs to those gathered nearest because of course, everything had to be redistributed now. Even in this fringe micro-society, such an arrangement was ultimately doomed to fail, just as soon as those who realized they were better at stealing than the rest decided to go it alone. And who could blame them. No wonder the new republic had gone to shit so fast, the way it hemorrhaged doctors, businessmen, the usual lauded types, at least until they began punishing those who attempted to flee with time in one of the labor camps.

  Oh well, California’s loss is the United States’ gain.

  Marcus kicked somebody who’d passed out over a bed of anti-homeless spikes and got no response, no food for him then. Nearby, Morris was busy plowing Daryl’s ass into a mattress, so the chicken was placed down beside them, in case they felt hungry afterward.

  Jeff wiped his face with the back of a tattered jacket sleeve. “Why don’t you stand way back over there when you talk.”

  “And miss the news? Once I sit down, you know I ain’t getting back up till tomorrow afternoon.” He began patting his pockets with a sudden and intense agitation. Scratched his face. “Would you hurry the fuck up.”

  Jeff tried a different band and restarted the slow process of turning the dial for sound. Somewhere, some dissident was sure to be broadcasting from his shed; democracy, free-market principles, the right to bear arms, the right to pursue happiness, you know, radical shit like that. “Maybe they disabled the radio signals or something.”

  “Oh, that’s horse shit, man,” Deuce exclaimed, still bending the aerial from atop the roof, though in which direction, Jeff couldn’t see, “there’s gotta be some dude with a ham radio or a fuckin’ CB. You just makin’ excuses, in case your stupid crap heap o’ tin don’t pick up the signal. Maybe if I point it over the road?”

  “You do that.”

  There had been that one guy with a retarded case of OCD. Couldn’t stop cleaning the place. Good luck with that in the Trench. Sweeping. Pruning branches. Rearranging everyone’s shit. And of all the things he chose to salvage from the old home, it wasn’t an electricity generator, three-piece sofa set or George Foreman grill, but one of those cordless vacuum cleaners. Fuck knows how he managed to keep the thing charged. The stink of bleach fucking preceded him. I tell ya, he honked worse than the stench of the town burning down. Even had a go scrubbing behind the support wall, which just went to show how mad he was, or became. Threw himself off the overpass. Landed not six feet from Jeff’s car where he slept. Nobody could ever say if he was going for a murder-suicide and missed, too drunk on JD, because after he did it, it was too late to ask, and neither was there anybody around who could be bothered doing much about the body, so he was left for days until the sight and smell became so unbearable he had to be wrapped in a blanket and set on fire. Easier than calling the cops. No questions that way. And, of course, nobody ever did come around making inquiries. A year earlier he’d owned a bar, which had been confiscated in one of the later rounds of seizures, the same week his house burned down. Talk about rotten luck, but he was hardly unusual in that sense.

  The dead guy and Jeff did have their quarrels, to be fair, but most quarreled over petty shit in the Trench. Most likely he’d just had enough, as you’re hardly liable to jump off a bridge over a man’s firing of mucus from his nostrils, as Jeff constantly does, but who can say either way. Anyway, in the end it was a wasted effort because not only did he completely miss the piece of shit Toyota but the splat had failed to even rouse Sleeping Beauty, who’d been comatose after a particularly bad batch of moonshine he’d bought off one of those coyotes. Still don’t remember the man’s name. Or any of the others. What does it matter anyway?

  Women in the Trench? Everyone always says there’s no such thing as a homeless woman since all they ever have to do is lower their fucking standards and get a boyfriend, maybe that nice guy with a reliable state job she’s been teasing the past seven years with vague promises that one day she’ll spread her legs so long as he’s nice enough in the meantime. Spread her legs and think of someone she’s attracted to, at least until she’s back on her feet and can ditch him for the next cold-blooded drug dealer. That way, at least, she don’t have to shit behind an overpass support wall.

  No, even the ugly women have shelters not afforded the fellows, which was why, in five years, and of all the comings and goings, arrivals and deaths in the Trench, Jeff had seen but one female the entire time, an old girl, sixty or so, who’d been pestered for favors within ten seconds of arriving. A safe car or comfy mattress, drugs, drink in exchange for a moist hole. Sound fair? She’d lasted less than an hour before remembering there was an abusive husband some place, and suddenly he wasn’t so bad, after all.

  If there was such a thing as a homeless woman then Jeff had yet to meet her.

  Not one of the destitutes who’d arrived during the fire still lived at the Trench. Either dead, disappeared or they’d kissed the ass of enough local officials to be put on the list for a new place. One or two might have had relatives who took pity, put them up in some basement. Of course, the true advantage of those displaced at the time was that not a one had alimony or child support payments. A mere forest fire is not near as destructive to a man’s prospects as the divorce courts. Just ask anyone in the Trench what he’d rather have; his house along with all his possessions razed to the ground or a greedy lawyer and a corrupt judge.

  Take Terrence, for example, with his five kids and two ex-wives, he’s fucked. And even now, while he lives on a diet of moonshine and meth, his debt still accrues. Even before secession, California was not the place a man wanted to find himself getting a divorce, and even if he were able to get another job and earn the standard wage set by the regime, it would only be garnished anyway, immediately. In fact, it was to his great credit that after the judgment he’d managed to keep afloat as long as he did.

  And then they seized his company.

  Something about his name being on a list of registered Republicans, so his air-con business was amongst the first to be confiscated when Governor Weiner and the California State Senate finally felt confident enough they could split from the United States.

  He’d pleaded with the court to cut what he owed. No chance. Have to keep the ex living in “a manner to which she’s accustomed.”

  Terrence learned a new word that day. Malfeasance. And he was apparently guilty of it. A man, he was told, must continue to hold up his end of the marriage agreement, even after a fucking divorce, though nobody has yet to hear of a single case of an ex-wife, with a threat of imprisonment, being forced by the state to continue sucking his dick. Seven years living under a bridge and Terrence owes in excess of two and a half million California Dollars, all whilst he wipes the dribble from his ass using discarded newspaper he finds on the fucking highway.

  Want to get into a fight with Terrence? Call him a bum and tell him to get a job.

  Maybe that’s the mistake the carpenter made and his body’s lying somewhere in the redwoods. Come to think of it, was Terrence always missing his front teeth? Hard to recall.

  Over the years and despite everything, Terrence had so often spoken of slipping the border and getting back on his feet, such was the man’s steely resolve, he was, or had been, a very good businessman, or so he always liked to boast. There was barely a man in the Trench without some grievance against the new regime though Terrence, more than just about anyone else, often raved about running amok, going postal, purge day, dying in a blaze of glory, to be forever hailed as a martyr by sticking it to the com
mies who’d wrecked him, and everyone else. Pretty hard when there are no guns, but nobody ever had the heart to remind him of that.

  More than anything, however, what Terrence truly wanted was to find the man who’d stolen his wife, knock him unconscious, chain him to a table, strip him naked and apply a gelding knife before setting him free, no longer a man. It was a dream he was willing to go to the labor camps for, if necessary for the rest of his life, such was the hatred he nurtured for the man whose name he could never bring himself to say.

  One night around the fire, during a particularly harsh session with the Jack Daniels, Terrence had even shown Jeff the knife he intended on using. How he came to be in possession of such a wicked looking implement, he never said, and even with the help of inebriation, Jeff had been too fazed to ask. It was a short blade with a wooden handle, serrated edge covered in rust and a point that curved into a kite-shape, which wasn’t really a point at all, but Jeff did not doubt its ability to do as intended.

  “You see that?” Terrence pointed to some scratches in the handle, which Jeff’s liquor blurred eyes had no chance of making out in the flickering light. “That’s his name. See? The man who did it all.” Terrence had often spoken of his former life, usually in rum-induced chunks that were so incoherent it was never worth attempting to stick the bits together and truth be told, Jeff was still unsure if what he thought he knew about the inebriate was accurate, but that particular night, for whatever reason, the man was starting from the top, though he still lacked clarity and slurred more than usual. It had taken an unusual amount of cheap whiskey to arrive at such a point.

  From what Jeff had been able to gather, Terrence’s wife had spent most of the marriage cucking him whilst he traveled south in the days before secession, going where his air-con units were most needed, and he’d only found out one day after returning home earlier than usual. A familiar story, for sure. Caught the man balls deep in his wife’s ass, so there was no denying it. Only, with his head in turmoil, he’d shrunk away, an act of cowardice he regretted to this day, crept out the house and returned at his usual hour before sitting down for an evening meal with the family; two girls and triplet boys, all younger than five years of age. “It was meatloaf that night.” Well, call it a woman’s intuition, but she’d guessed something was up with his demeanor so she’d got in there first and gone to the cops, told them he’d been abusing her so he was the one who’d got carted away. Duluth Model, so there was no comeback for Terrence, even though back then he was way too much of a pussy to abuse anyone. She filed for divorce and meanwhile moved the other man into the house Terrence was still paying for, some worthless, unemployed steroid junkie from the gym. It had come as a stunning blow, so Terrence had said, when he got the kids secretly DNA tested and it transpired that not a one had come from his balls. Talk about hard news, the babies he’d worked his ass off to provide for. The children he’d loved. Well, at least he could use the test results as leverage in court, right? Wrong. Turned out the judge didn’t give a fuck, he was the husband, therefore the kids were assumed his in law, DNA be damned, and so he must continue paying, not only for those five poor bastards but the whore too. Doubtless she kept the buck in good living as well.