The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  “The trick is not to remove the testicles. Just the cock.” Terrance ran a rough, calloused finger across the evil looking kite. “You want him to still have all his old urges, but no way of satisfying them. Can’t do that if you de-ball him.” Ignoring Jeff’s increasing discomfort, he persisted. “I know what you’re thinking. How does he piss?” At this, Terrence delved back inside his pocket, rustled about amongst whatever shit that jangled about in there and pulled out what resembled a straw, but one made of steel. “It has a medical name but I don’t fucking remember what it is, and neither is it important anyway. One day … one day, after I’ve removed his cock, he’ll need this to piss.” He held it up for Jeff’s inspection and despite the poor flickering firelight, he’d got the gist. “This will be my parting gift to the former man who destroyed my life, and as God is my witness, one day I shall see it through.”

  What astonished Jeff more than anything was how in the story, no blame was ever placed upon the wife. It was all the man’s doing. Women could not be blamed for anything. No matter what they did. And there was little doubting Terrence would take the bitch back in an instant. It was horrifying. Maybe that was what he hoped to achieve by removing her lover’s cock, leave her with no other options, but then, who could guess the motivations of a meth addict with only such vengeance in his heart?

  Jeff’s eyebrows pulled together as he tried to figure out the timescale. “You’ve lived in the Trench what … five, six years?” as it had been at the time of that particular night, “what’s the fucking holdup?” Jeff had asked, unsure whether it was wise poking a stick at the man’s soul. He was probably as close to Terrence as he was with any of the down-and-outs, they both being vets of the war in Afghanistan, though there were no friends in the Trench, not really, because at any moment, any one of the squatters might die in his sleep, get hit by a truck wandering drunk down the road, disappear with no explanation at all or, most likely, get murdered over a teen of meth. Murdered, maybe, by one of those men he’d considered a friend.

  Terrence became subdued at the question, stashed the implements back inside some secret pocket of his jacket, and let out a deep sigh that filled the surrounding air with the stench of slowly decaying internal organs. “If that’s not a stupid, dumb fuckin’ question then I don’t know what is.”

  “I’m sorry, I…

  “You not heard of the fuckin’ cops?” He thrashed an arm at the air, suddenly agitated, and commenced reaching through a tear into some deep crevice of his mattress. With the smallest challenge, his demeanor had changed from contemplative melancholy to borderline combative. “Not that I give a fuck about what they’ll do to me after … but the second I break through that door, then by my reckoning I have fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before I’m assailed on all sides by the bastards. No,” he was up to his shoulder now, grunting, grimacing whilst he fumbled about for the obvious, “this is something I’d want to take my sweet time with. String it out some. Have a nice little chat with the man. Make sure he knows exactly why it’s all happening. Can’t exactly do that if you can hear the sirens wailing from down the street.” Terrence pulled out his arm, a small transparent bag of white crystals clutched tightly in his hand. “Thing is, the way things are going in this town, fuck, the whole God damned country o’ California, the cops ain’t gonna be around much longer anyway.”

  Jeff threw some wood into the drum and there was a sudden flaring of flames and heat. “What do you mean?”

  Terrence gave a look as if to suggest it was obvious and that he was speaking to a dimwit. “Soviet Union, Kampuchea, Yugoslavia, North Korea, Venezuela? Well, the way Supreme Leader Weiner’s been spending all the money, it’s only a matter o’ time before the spigots run dry here too, just like all the others, and then what? You think the cops, the army, even the fuckin’ street sweepers will work for free?” He shook his head and crushed a quantity of crystal using the back edge of a spoon before tipping the powder into the small glass bowl he was fumbling with. “The only difference is, Cali has considerably more wasters, deadbeats, shit-heads, dope fiends, cripples, parasites and drunkards,” he said the last whilst tipping back a large swig of what was probably antifreeze, “than any of those other places, and guess what, they all need feedin’, paying their monthly tribute to stop them riotin’, so you can believe me when I say the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge’ll look like a day out picking strawberries by comparison, and when that day, that beautiful day comes, that’ll be my chance. Then, only then, will somebody’s door be getting a knock from an old ‘quaintance.” He applied the Zippo to the bubble, the meth slowly began to dissolve and then he was inhaling. A minute later, Terrence went looking for Daryl.

  The rest of that night, Jeff had gone easy on the hooch. Of course, he had his own ambitions with regards to those who’d done him wrong, and had often dreamed of how he’d go about doing it, should the universe ever align to grant him that one very special day.

  The fire spat as the smell of rat cooking on a nearby grill drifted over, six, seven vagrants engaged in a brawl over God only knew what, all the while cars whipped past from above, their drivers oblivious to the outcasts who merely existed beneath them, Terrence unbuckled his pants but found himself limp, and an exceptionally long stream of piss trickled a path from behind the wall to pool around Jeff’s battered boots. His body was racked with pain, so crooked his spine was becoming.

  There had once been a time he’d held the world in his hands, a time his ambition knew no bounds, a time he was so ecstatically happy.

  That night, for the first time since the death of his son, he’d wiped a tear from his eye.

  There would be no vengeance because life was never that kind. “Forget the idea,” he’d told himself for the thousandth time, even though he knew he could not because there was nothing else in this twisted world to live for. Nothing else but some vague notion of revenge against the people who’d destroyed his world.

  Jeff never touched meth. Endless alcohol, a bit of dope, sure, but not meth. That night, however, he came closer than ever to falling into the abyss with all the others. The one thing that stopped him was the one thing that always did.

  His son’s face that forever haunted him.

  “Forget the idea,” he’d told himself again.

  “…all able-bodied men.” The crackling voice wrenched Jeff from his trance.

  “Quiet!” Terrence growled. “Somebody’s saying something.”

  Was this it? Was this truly fucking it? The day Jeff and many others had awaited for so long?

  There was silence and then Jeff found his vehicle was being swamped by upwards of forty vagrants come to hear the news. Similar crowds had gathered around some of the other vehicles. Within eyeshot, one or two people were lucky enough to own radios.

  “Everyone?”

  “Do you know what ‘all able-bodied’ means? It means that if you can stand and you have a cock then you’re required to head south to protect the republic. The only exceptions are the disabled and comatose.”

  “In other words, people who can’t stand.”

  “Oh, fuck you, jackass.”

  “What about the elites?”

  “Those too, probably, and their children.”

  “And what about the thousands of homeless trash we have in this town?”

  “Of course, them too, you ever tried making them get a job? They’re hardly likely to heed the call now, are they.”

  “Not ‘all able-bodied men’ then.”

  “Fuck you, jackass, we’re in a state of emergency and all you can do is make cheap points.”

  “Are you getting ready to go, Jake?”

  “Of course, I’ve got a family to protect. I ain’t letting zombies get near them.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job protecting them.”

  “Thanks, um, oh fuck you … sarcastic bastard.”

  Whoever the fuck they were was overwhelmed by a stronger signal and the sound quality became flawless. “All acro
ss our beloved nation, our fine men are heeding the call. You are all instructed to assemble at your local designated meeting point. In most instances, this will be the main street through your town. Or outside your primary municipal building. All men must assemble. Bring essential provisions only. Enough to last three days. No more. In the worst case scenario, you will be supplied with anything above that. Await the transport trucks and jump on. The situation is not expected to endure. That is a promise. You will return to your homes when the dead have been neutralized. I repeat, all able-bodied men. Heed the call. Those who fail to step up, to protect our beloved California will face disenfranchisement. Immediate family too. For a period of five years. You will lose the right to services. Your monthly allowance. Education. Healthcare. Heed the call. Protect our beloved People’s Republic of California.”

  “This is bullshit,” came a hoarse voice, followed by murmurs of agreement, “it has to be some kind of a joke? It has to be. Whoever heard of fucking zombies being real?”

  Marcus jostled his way forward. “There was excitement in town. Long lines at the gas station. Lots of people thinking of bolting. Trying for Oregon or Nevada probably. Risking it all. There were speeches. Crowds gathering. Palming wallets was never so easy.”

  By now Jeff was in too much of a giddy state to hear any of it. “They said it’s not expected to endure?” Which meant he had to be quick.

  “Oh, that’s bullshit, man,” Terrence’s head had been leaning over Jeff’s crotch to better hear from the speakers and he now moved back, thank God, “since when could these commie retards hand out a loaf of bread without it taking ten people on full state pay upwards of three hours to accomplish? You really think they’re capable of finding and killing untold numbers of walking biological weapons this side of the century? That is if they’re real, o’ course, which I still doubt. No, it’s all probably just some scare story to trick the masses into enlisting because for all anyone knows, the war Sacramento and DC are busting for is right around the corner.” He spat into the dirt and threw up his hands. “Zombies…”

  There was a sudden commotion over by the cars nearest the slope, three, four vagrants shouting with the kind of incomprehension expected. People were getting out of cars, tents, or otherwise started rushing over from beneath the underpass, all dogs staying where they were. Deuce jumped off the roof and ran over, Terrence wobbled, and Jeff fumbled with the handle before almost tumbling out from the seat.

  By the time he arrived on the slope’s edge, he had to shove his way through the pack, only to find his fuzzy vision was as good as useless, and neither was there anyone close enough who was able to offer an explanation of why everybody was standing around looking down into the redwoods.

  “What we all doing here?” Someone asked with a bottle in one hand and a crack pipe in the other.

  One of the younger men began treading down the slope, then another, and before long at least half the crowd was going with them, stepping in that careful way people do when descending at a bad angle, while making the sort of noises you’d expect to hear at the back end of the short bus. Jeff went too. Snakes and frogs were making their telltale sounds. And then someone barked groggily, pointed, and suddenly people were on their asses, rolling or sliding to be the first to reach the foot. Jeff arrived somewhere in the middle but managed to shove his way toward the front, from where he found himself staring down into the old cesspit.

  What could only be a zombie had trod on the sticks and plunged in, either that or a wetback with a bad dose of syphilis. Whatever, he was up to his neck in the thick brown sludge, flapping his arms about and generally causing a fuss.

  “What do we do?” Deuce asked nobody in particular.

  “What do we do?” Morris undid his zipper. “I’ll show you what we do.” And he pulled out his cock, took aim and began clenching his face, grunting, whilst everyone waited for the stream to commence. “Damned fucking prostate, hold up, ugh, I’ll damned fucking shit myself before I manage a single drop.” He was hardly helped when everybody started laughing but finally the stream began, striking the unfortunate across the eyes, and there’s something to be said about the urine of a man suffering from chronic dehydration, as doubtless everybody in the Trench was, and Morris’s stream was positively rust-colored, with the inevitable accompanying stench of ammonia, which is the same thing they use to make explosives.

  Well, if there’d been any doubts the thing in the pit was a zombie, there were few now, as some of the lads began shrinking away, not wanting to risk an altercation, though most remained obliviously stuck to the ground and a few began contributing their own streams.

  “Why am I thinking about the two little mice that fell into a bucket of cream?” Deuce remarked to Jeff under his breath. “The way that guy’s thrashing about, he’ll soon churn that sloppy shit into a solid. Either that or all their piss’ll lift him right out. What then?”

  It was a fair point, Jeff thought, because although the authorities might’ve named these strange creatures after the Hollywood zombies of old, proof, if anything, they were lacking in imagination, there was no telling what they actually were, or of what they were capable. Certainly, not a man of the Trench knew, and most had even doubted their existence until this very moment. What if it did climb out and snag a brother with his pants down, literally? Most importantly of all, whilst numerous fully grown adult males were lining up to take their turn inflicting misery upon the wretch, perhaps the more salient question of where in the fuck it had come from had not even be ventured.

  The creature plunged down, then bobbed back up, and appeared to lack the capacity to reach for the side and pull itself out. It took a measure in the mouth and, in turn, flapped shit back at its tormentors. He was dark-skinned, had a bulky nose, Asian eyes and an apparent inability to grow facial hair, the telltale features originating from south of the Rio Grande which, of course, most likely meant he was, or had been, Californian.

  “Hey, come on now, that’s enough,” Jeff astonished himself by intervening and pushed back those still spraying the contents of their bladder. “What do you think you’re doing?” He shook his head at all of them, who in turn gaped back at the man as though he was even more unhinged than they already thought him to be. But Jeff wasn’t deterred from his purpose. “We’ve all suffered so much in our lives but these … these creatures are not the ones who took everything from us. These creatures are not the ones who seized our businesses, sent us to the camps, murdered friends for speaking out or fucked our wives.” He pointed to the hapless imbecile still thrashing shit all over the place. “He is not our enemy.” Jeff watched as his fellow vagrants tucked themselves away and pulled up their zippers. “Can’t you see it? These zombies have finally brought us what we’ve dreamed of for so long, the day we’ve all been waiting for, the day we take back our homes, take back our wives, that is if you still want them, take back all that was taken from us.”

  It hadn’t been much of a speech but to an outcast with no means of communication it was a rare barnstormer and suddenly everybody was cheering. All Jeff had wanted was to have the zombie helped out, maybe sent on its way, but instead it looked like he’d just unleashed the Trench upon the community. Well, Jeff conceded, they had as much right to their vengeance as he did.

  He gestured toward the pit, “would someone mind helping?”

  Deuce came forwards and together, they squatted and tried to catch the zombie’s flailing arms. They did and it was whilst they were tugging it towards the side that it bit Jeff on the finger. Instinctively, he let go and the ghoul fell back to again plunge down and momentarily disappear into the filthy depths.

  “Fuck!” Jeff was wearing his gloves, as did nearly everyone in the Trench to guard against the cold, and Jeff’s gloves were of thick, high-quality leather he’d kept from his time in the army. He inspected the finger, which hurt like fucking hell. It was a sentimental item, though luckily the material had not been busted, but it felt like he’d missed a nail and struck h
imself with the hammer, it was that kind of dull pain. “Have it your own way then, you ungrateful bastard.”

  Atop the slope, some of the dogs began howling.

  And then there was movement in the trees.

  “Fuck, there’s more of them,” someone yelled, prompting a delayed dash for the slope.

  Jeff squinted for a better look and cursed his inebriation. There was no denying the distorted movement, and it was close, he just had trouble making out the details. There was a loud snap, like a tree limb being severed, hisses, snarling and by the time one of the blurs started phasing to clarity, there was already another wetback lunging for his face. It blundered into the pit, and then there was panic and screams and Morris’s throat was spraying red, vagrants crashing into each other, every man for himself, scattering, and Jeff was powering up the slope, ejecting bile from his throat, breathless, men running past, sliding back down, clawing at the long grass, pulling themselves up, a few had already reached the verge and were making urgent beckoning motions with their arms, more screams, Jeff fell onto his front, got back up, rested against a tree, gathered himself for a big push, charged upwards with as much force as his crooked body could steal, and finally staggered past Terrence who was standing on the edge.