The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  The silence protracted for an ominous period whilst people gradually began turning to stare at Jeff, most of whom must surely have known he had nothing to do with any of it. He’d been the intended victim.

  “Motherfucker,” Stott stamped straight over and stopped when he was but a nose from Jeff’s face. He regretted that, blanched, and stepped back. “What the motherfucking hell happened here?” His gaze fell down to the pile of green vomit that had pooled on the ground below where Jeff’s face had spent the night and when his eyes came back to Jeff’s there was nothing but contempt in them.

  Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Stott might have been a mean son-of-a-bitch but he wasn’t, Jeff hoped, completely stupid. There was no way in Hell he could believe Jeff, on his own, in his poor physical condition, could murder three men from where he lay and drag them back to their beds. Stott was about to speak but stopped himself when he noticed the blood around Jeff’s throat. He turned to take another glance at the floor, possibly in search of bloody footprints leading to the real culprit or culprits but there were none. Stott’s jaw clenched. “Now listen here, you little worm. The republic needs men. Workers. We’re down four in one night. I would gladly make that five, right now, if only we didn’t need even the worst of maggots so fucking bad.” He grabbed ahold of Jeff’s still raw neck and squeezed. “But if you are so much as drawn to my attention one more time, I will personally take you out into the forest and stand and watch as I work you to death.” He let go with a shove. “Please, I beg of you, make my day.” He turned on his boot and screamed. “Get to fucking work.”

  Jeff’s first night at Labor Camp 87. All in all, it was about on par with the Trench.

  Again, during the long monotonous hours working, all Jeff could do was think, mostly about the obvious. Who had saved him and why? His thoughts were continuously broken by the intensifying pains of withdrawal that it became increasingly difficult to think about anything else, or to work. Try peeling a spud when you’ve got the tremors and can barely coordinate your hands. Sweating. Nausea. The hallucinations, however, were new to Jeff, and at one point Rodriguez had to interrupt his conversation with a Red Blazer who wasn’t there.

  At first, the spic had found it amusing, if a little disturbing, but by the end of the brief interlude, Jeff definitely got the impression his colleague had had nothing to do with saving his life. For one, his arms were short and pudgy, which made it all the more incredible he’d not yet been accused of stealing food and removed from his relatively undemanding job and as punishment made to hack down trees like everybody else. It wasn’t that short-limbed people could not be killers, but when added to Rodriguez’ lazy left eye and general soppy demeanor, it was just too hard to imagine such a man as being capable of cold-blooded and impressively efficient slaughter. Most telling of all, however, was the way he walked. Jeff hadn’t noticed it the day before because, quite frankly, he’d had his own problems, but now that he was paying attention it appeared that the chef had one leg several inches shorter than the other, and was wearing a special boot with a lifted sole to compensate for his shortcoming. There’d be no creeping silently across the dorm in those clogs, at least not without absolutely everybody else knowing about it and without them, he’d be having to crawl to Jeff’s rescue, such was the discrepancy. Finally, working in the kitchens, why use a sock filled with stones when Rodriguez had access to knives?

  Which prompted the obvious question. Who the fuck had saved Jeff’s life, and why?

  When the men began lining up at lunch, Jeff had it in mind to look every one of them in the eye, perhaps for any signs of something knowing between them, a familiar face, a wink, but he gave up on the idea, suspecting most of the inmates would still be angry from the day before and generally, when confined with so many potential loose cannons, it’s never a good idea to stick your head out above the rest, and certainly not more than he’d already done. By the time the line was served and Jeff and Rodriguez had helped themselves each to a plate and sat down at a table, all there was to do was question whether the incident of the night before had even happened at all. Jeff was, to be fair, an alcoholic suffering from all kinds of withdrawal symptoms and he’d already had at least one conversation with a non-existent elite soldier in a red blazer.

  Stott gave thanks the same as the day before, the same way every schoolchild, student, apprentice and worker was required to do up and down the country. Finally, when it was over, Jeff determined to keep his head down, listen, and try to keep the fuck off Stott’s radar.

  “I’m telling you all, they’re rattled in Sactown. There’s talk of some big military recruitment drive, lots of sergeants going into colleges, factories, schools even … need men, you see … and they’re offering an extraordinary bounty in exchange for a signature.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, um, you know, meat … remember that? Bread. Maybe even an extra potato by way of greasing that palm. And if they’re willing to recruit from schools, stands to reason there’ll be few qualms about recruiting from the gulags either.” He flexed a bicep for his friend beside him to feel. “I’ve been keeping myself in shape for just such a happening.”

  “Gee, um, there might be something in that. People are saying there’s been Red Blazers snooping about, sweeping the place for weapons and shit, what normally happens before Sausage Boy goes any place.”

  The oldest amongst them shuffled against the bench and glanced anxiously over a shoulder. “Keep your fucking voice low when you take the name of you know who in vain.”

  “Huh. Is that a fact?” The first man, young, baldheaded, white and with the biceps you’d expect from a semi-starved man, puckered his lips and nodded. “Now I’m even more convinced they’re stuffing the ranks, and I didn’t even know nothing about no Red Blazers being here.” He slapped the table a little too hard and had to wave in apology to one of the screws standing over at the wall.

  “But why would they be recruitin’? The military’s massive enough as it is. Why they be rattled so?”

  The first guy gave the second a look as if to suggest he were an idiot. “Cos, Dwain, things are getting so bad in Cali that they need a fresh middle class to devour. Steal all their shit. Spread it out amongst the workers. Keep them all thinking this bullshit is working. Might buy us an extra year or two. And then we’ll do it all over again. If you want my best guess, I’d say we’re heading for the state of Oregon.”

  “Oregon?”

  “Yeah, that ways, we take Oregon and then Washington State joins the bloc. No land barriers between us then. And when that happens, we’ll possess the entire eastern seaboard and that’ll be some serious threat we pose to the United States.”

  Most of the man’s companions were regarding him as though he was some kind of a profit, or at least the cleverer amongst them.

  “Hey, that’s bullshit, man,” it was a nigger who spoke, “there might be a recruitment drive but if there is, it’s not for no invasion of the US.” He shook his head. “If you’d listened to people’s talk then you’d know there’s drama brewin’ down in the southern parts of the country.” He shoveled a spoonful of stomach lining down his throat whilst everybody else waited patiently for an explanation.

  The older man turned into him. “Well? You can’t just leave it there.”

  The young upstart fixed a hard stare upon his rival. “Yeah, come on, Luther, if they’re not recruiting for an invasion of the United States then what would be the fucking point?” He glanced at one of his sycophants, hoping to find backup and joked, “the Japs coming for another pop at Pearl Harbor?”

  The nigger shook his head and seemed reluctant to talk. “It don’t matter. You can have this one, Piper, I concede.”

  “No, no, no, you got something to say so why don’t you come out and fuckin’ say it.”

  By this time, Jeff himself had turned toward the group. If they weren’t planning an invasion, or at least had intelligence that a defense was urgently neede
d, then why a big push for recruiting men, if indeed the rumors were true.

  Luther put down his spoon, looked hard at Piper and waited for silence before making the big revelation. “It’s zombies, man.”

  One, two, three … the entire table erupted into laughter, prompting Deacon to shout across from the far wall.

  “Hey, why don’t you boys keep it the fuck down over there.”

  Most of the table waved in apology. Luther shook his head and picked up his spoon again. “I fucking told you, dude, you knew I didn’t want to say it.”

  “I can see why.”

  “I, um,” it was the older man who began whilst rubbing the back of his neck, “I too have heard things about…” he glanced cautiously over a shoulder, “about what he says.”

  “What? You been smokin’ the same crack as Luther there?”

  “I’m not saying it’s true. All I’m saying is what I heard.” He paused, the old man had everybody’s attention now. “Yesterday, some San Franciscan was running his mouth about what apparently happened the other week. Overrun. Zombies. So he says.” He shook his head from what must have been some unfortunate memory of the man. “Never seen a fully grown adult male so bad with an axe. Manicured hands. Must have worked in Silicon Valley before…” he shook his head, “anyways … says there were … zombies … pouring over the Bay Bridge into Oakland, which was where he got lifted from before being brought here. Stood in front of a cop and started talking shit about communism, you know, that it never works, even though he’s a diehard believer.” The old man shrugged. “Guess you’re safer in a gulag protected by razor wire and guards than in the cities where there’s no guns. Quite clever, if you ask me. Just fucking useless with an axe, was his problem. No doubt he knows all that, and that he’ll be better guarded here than just about anywhere else apart from the Supreme People’s Assembly, or the border, o’ course, but by the looks of this pussy, he ain’t walking all that way. Doubt he’ll last long here either, if he ain’t dead already. Probably should o’ taken his chances with these,” he lowered his voice, “zombies.”

  The table had gone silent and there were even some on the adjacent benches listening in. Finally, the nigger broke the silence.

  “Oh, so you believe this old white dude but not me?”

  “That’s right,” Piper said, matter of fact.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t hear the story from some pansy-ass Silicon Valley pussy, but from another nigger, which is why I’m betting there’s something in it all.”

  “Because you niggers would never lie to each other, right?”

  “That’s right, motherfucker.”

  Rodriguez nudged Jeff in the ribs. “Hey, amigo, this is what I was trying to ask you yesterday but it didn’t look like you had much of a fucking clue about what was going on.”

  They all heard that and turned to stare at Jeff and Rodriguez, Piper especially was conspicuous in the way he slid down the bench. “Hey, hop-along, how’d you swim the river with one leg shorter than the other?” The upstart was whipped up by the laughs on his side but Rodriguez shrunk away so Piper altered the angle of his body to instead face Jeff. “Hey, sickboy, you’re clearly rotting away, ain’t you? How do I know you’re not one of these zombies?”

  Jeff kept his head down and played with his pile of potato, which he’d barely managed to touch.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you.” Piper scooped up a heap of mash and let it fall back down to his plate from a height. “Anyone else’s have a weird texture to it? I don’t know … something like the vomit of a man decaying from the inside?” More laughter, which only encouraged the damned fool, and he reached across the table, thrust a hand into Jeff’s tripe and transferred it to his own plate. “You never heard of that little thing called … redistribution?”

  A shadow loomed over the table and then a man was leaning over Piper. “You might want to give the man back his food, son.”

  It was the fastest flip Jeff had ever seen, as Piper’s eyes widened and his bald head brightened by several shades. Immediately, he picked up his plate, hands shaking, and used the back edge of his spoon to shove the tripe, and half of his own in pre-emptive compensation, across to Jeff’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything.”

  The man, whose face was still obscured, turned his attention toward the rest. “You’re finished. Now take your plates over to the trolley and fuck off.” They did and the newcomer waited for the last, the older guy, to leave before slowly turning around and taking the seat across the table from Jeff. He glanced at Rodriguez, who was quick to take the hint and leave. “Jeff?”

  Jeff bent his neck forwards. Stared. Didn’t want to be rude but…

  “Oh, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff…”

  He didn’t have a clue. There might have been some vague familiarity there but damned if he knew for sure, and a name was completely out of the question. Jeff shrugged.

  The man shook his head forlornly. “Sometimes, I don’t know why I even bother.” Whoever he was, he seemed to be taking some amusement from it now. “Give it time.”

  Jeff’s eyebrows pulled closer together. He chewed his lip. The man was of average height, perhaps a bit taller, stocky, filled out his gulag’s overalls better than most, his arms especially, tattoos covering his forearms, a bald eagle, football, Stars and Stripes banner, closely cropped hair. Some things were becoming familiar.

  “Shithouse?”

  The man sighed. “It’s Tom, Jeff, my fucking name’s Tom. I’ve told you so many times.”

  Jeff nodded. “Some of my faculties are on the way out, to be fair.” These days, it seemed the only thing his head wanted to remember was the very thing that kept him going, the one thing he wanted to forget but couldn’t.

  Tom’s eyes glanced down towards Jeff’s plate, full as it still was. “Jesus Christ, man, will you eat something, you look like fucking shit.” His eyes peered over Jeff’s shoulder. “Listen, eat your goddamned meal and head for the bathroom, nothing strange in that, but continue past it. Turn right at the very end and take the third door. I’ll be in there sawing the lumber. Don’t mention this to anyone. Come alone.” He made to move but came back to give Jeff a scowl. “If you remember one thing the rest of your fucking life, let it be this.”

  “I won’t forget.” Jeff watched Tom kick back the bench and walk away, leaving Jeff with a plateful of food he had no stomach for. He threw it away and went to take a piss. Was that the second or third door? No matter, the familiar sound of wood being processed by circular saws cut through the door and Jeff gently pushed his way through.

  He was outside, in a section enclosed by what was probably an electrified fence, razor wire, though the closest guard tower was out of sight. A canopy covered some of the working area, protecting the machinery from the elements. Three men toiled, pushing pieces of timber past the blade, trimming, shaping the lumber into planks. The ground was so thick with sawdust that the concrete beneath was completely concealed and it was like walking on sponge. There was that familiar smell that accompanies lots of wood.

  Jeff trod closer to Tom, who was donning safety glasses and mufflers. One of the other men was stacking planks into piles while the third was using a plane to remove strips from a board with shocking efficiency.

  Tom noticed Jeff and the awful noise of a blade cutting through lumber like a hot knife through butter ceased, he lifted up his glasses and pulled down the mufflers. “I know what you’re thinking … they’re not exactly making best use of my skills but, you know, commie retards and all that…”

  The two other men dropped what they were doing and moved closer, leaned against opposing walls, one which possessed an impressive assortment of tools.

  “Tom?” Jeff found he was standing between the three men. “You wanted to see me?”

  Tom nodded and sat back against the table. “You know Weiner’s visiting?”

  Jeff’s entire body was trembling and he could do nothing to stop it. “They say he might be.”

  “Tell me,�
�� the carpenter appeared to be studying Jeff, the shrewd eyes of a man who’d seen a lot, even though Jeff had no idea what that was, “what’s your honest opinion of the man, how things are going around here, this country?”

  Jeff’s head jerked back. A man does not volunteer his opinion of the Supreme Leader, not unless he trusts the person implicitly, at least not if he values what passed for freedom today. Jeff opened out his palms. “I’d be a bum no matter the system imposed; Weiner, that other one in DC or anyone else. Makes no difference to me. All I care about is the next bottle, how strong it is and where it’s coming from,” also that other thing that lingered in the back of his mind like a closeted monster that refused to die, that ate away at his soul.

  It was obvious from Tom’s expression that he found Jeff’s answer unsatisfactory, that he was supposed to give a fuck about something greater, some higher purpose. Tom glanced at his companion, who stepped away from the wall toward a large pile of sawdust heaped against the corner that he plunged an arm into. He pulled out a bottle and tossed it over the circular saw to Tom, who caught it in one hand.

  The carpenter held it up for Jeff’s inspection. “You work in the kitchens, right?”

  Jeff’s neck bent forwards, he squinted and gasped. “Yes, yes, I work, I work in the kitchens.”

  The carpenter slowly, deliberately, turned the bottle in his hand and read from the label. “McMurray. Established 1830. Single malt Scotch whiskey. The distiller’s edition. Double matured in Amoroso cask wood.” He glanced up from the text. “This is not just whiskey, Jeff, but actual fucking Scotch, in that it once saw the Highlands of that far off mystical country, and the Cuillin Hills on the Isle of Skye are about as Scotch as it fucking gets.” He tossed the bottle up and caught it, Jeff’s head following the blur the entire way. “And this, my friend, this might just be the only remaining bottle of such a thing in all of The Golden State, as we still prefer to think of it.”