The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  Jeff was still watching the men exit the coach and was just about to ask why the fuck San Francisco was importing America’s homeless when, from somewhere inside that mass of hopelessness, he spotted someone he recognized leaning back against a wall. “Holy fuck! Is that Big John?”

  Drake grunted in affirmation. “Stands out, don’t he, even now. I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to notice.”

  Big Bad John, also known as Titch, along with the late Caboose, had been the other two members known as the Four Horsemen, their tight little group bound by blood and war. Right now, Titch appeared to be sleeping where he leaned, all seven feet and two inches of him, a heavy beard now concealing his long sallow facial features.

  “I’ll never forget the looks on those little chink hooker’s faces every time he arrived to play.” Drake began laughing but Jeff wasn’t finding it funny.

  “What?” He shook his head, incredulous, and felt the anger beginning to stir, that his brother, a fucking war hero, had fallen on such hard times. “It can’t be.”

  “Yeah, it is. I found him whilst out distributing literature, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Jeff didn’t, “we should help him,” and his feet began moving to cross the street when he was stopped by Drake’s hand.

  “Whoa, not so fast there. Allow the man his dignity.” He pulled Jeff back. “The last thing he wants is to be seen by us. Why do you think I had to dive into the Starbucks the other day. Dropped all my fuckin’ leaflets. It was a close call, I tell you, and I’m still not sure he didn’t see me.”

  Jeff was in two minds and very nearly pushed his friend away. “But he was one of our best…”

  “Yeah, he was, and now look at him.” Drake brought Jeff back round with an arm across the shoulders. “You reckon the clothes he’s pushin’ around in that trolley have seen a washer these last few months? He was always a peacock, Big John, but he ain’t exactly spreadin’ his feathers no more, so maybe you should put yourself in his shoes, Suds, the shoes of a man with more pride than sense. Anyway … there’s no need to go ridin’ on over there like the cavalry coming to his rescue.” He began walking, pulling Jeff along. “I have a feelin’ he’s gonna be alright.”

  Jeff managed to pull his eyes away from Titch for long enough to ask, “how do you know that?”

  Drake winked and continued down the street in the direction of the bay. “For now, just trust me on that, is all I’m saying. Come on, there ain’t no bar that’s gonna come walking to us.”

  The light breeze upon reaching The Embarcadero came as a relief against the heat. Looking out into the bay, the waters rippled so peacefully it was hard to imagine California, and the United States by extension, was potentially at an important historical crossroads, at least if the gossip was anything to go by, though, objectively speaking, one only needed to turn the head slightly, to the hundreds, thousands of tents cramping for space to recognize that something, somewhere wasn’t working. Jeff still hardly knew what the fuck was going on and hoped his friend would soon clue him in.

  Drake pointed in a south-easterly direction, down the bay, perhaps a little over thirty miles to where from a distance, the real estate looked different. It was lower-density zoning within lush greenery. “Silicon Valley,” he said profoundly, “all those Palo Alto billionaires.” His hand balled into a tight fist, but he managed to loosen it enough to point a finger at a group of men begging for change from just inside the flaps of their tents. “And all this so close. What are they doing about any of it? Any of this shit that surrounds them?” A Ferrari rolled by, its owner, young guy, mid-twenties in shades and cell clamped to his ear spared not a glance for the homeless. “Look at them in their cars and suits. Rich fuckers. Mind, half those billionaires are in their fuckin’ teens. Never worn a suit in their entire pampered lives.” He waved an elaborate hand to encompass everything in front. “Any one of these kids might have a few mill stashed away in some bank account. Trust fund retards. Wouldn’t know a day’s work if it slapped ‘em in the face.” His jaw jerked at a hipster ambling down the marina. “Look at ‘em. That kid over there with his stupid paper latte cup. What do you think’d happen if he suddenly found himself digging a trench under a hail o’ fucking bullets in the middle of some Afghani desert shithole?” He made a contemptuous tutting sound. “You think this cunt ever stops by here to help out an old vet? Maybe pay a little respect, give a few coins by way of thanks for ensuring he don’t have to go squatting in no warzone, maybe buy an old guy a hot meal every once in a while? No, all he has to worry about is which sushi bar he’s going for lunch.” Drake sniggered suddenly, a wry smile appearing on his lips. “But don’t you worry about any of them. No, because something’s soon gonna come to pass. They’ll get theirs. All of ‘em. What I told you earlier, about things looking up…”

  Again, he left that one hanging whilst he held open the door to The Smuggler, a small place with a view of the Bay Bridge and Oakland across the water. It was decked out to resemble a pirate ship with a bartender who might easily be whoring himself out as a Jack Sparrow impersonator by means of a side gig.

  Drake ordered beers, which came in glasses with the writing ‘Drinkin’ beer afore noon makes a pirate, not an alcoholic.’ In that case, they were the only two pirates in The Smuggler this early. They took stools at the bar.

  “Ok, here’s what’s going on.” Drake pulled his seat closer. “Governor Weiner finally realized he owns a pair of balls. Well, Suds, my best friend, turns out those balls are large, heavy, and in all probability made of titanium. Right now, there’s a standoff at the border. Several places, in fact. Several standoffs. And to the uninitiated, it almost looks like the generals are just waiting for the order from Washington before they come rolling in. Start pushing their weight around. Start making demands the likes of which we’ve all come to expect. Well, this time they’re gonna come to regret forcing on us a president we didn’t want, I promise you, because in a few days, we’re gonna be seceding.” He slapped the table hard, emphasizing the sheer magnitude of his final word. It was the most excited he’d been since meeting outside the prison. No, in fact, it was the most excited Drake had been since the Afghan war.

  Jeff shuffled on his stool, tried blotting out the chorus to What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor that was pissing him off from a nearby speaker. “I seem to recall we tried this a few years back, you ever hear of it? It was called the Civil fucking War.” Jeff took a large pull of beer which, in contrast to the bar, was acceptable. “That standoff you mention. I’ve no doubt it involves something in the region of anywhere between two and three thousand tanks, not to mention around half a million men … our fucking countrymen, Drake. We can’t just secede.”

  “Yeah, man, we can, and we are,” he laughed, “and are presently in the process of so doing. And there’s not a damned thing they can do to stop us. They know it, we know it. And you can believe me when I say, I have that on high authority.”

  Jeff jerked back. “You gonna leave it at that?” What the fuck? “Whose high authority? That guy in the White House?”

  Astonishingly, Drake just waved it away, perhaps because he regretted saying too much, though in all likelihood, it was all just bluster. It had to be. Trying to impress a friend after six months without contact. Drake could be like that. Always was. Either way, he was quick to change the subject to something mundane but practical. “You staying at a hotel?”

  Jeff sipped his beer and spoke offhandedly, “not if I’m to make this month’s alimony payment. I was hoping my Toyota’s still sitting in the lot at Walmart but I’ll bet my left nut it ain’t.”

  Drake’s glass paused on its way up. “You mean to tell me that even after everything, you still have to pay that cunt alimony?” The glass slammed down on the counter, spilling beer. “They got you on child support too? Even after…” he knew when to stop talking.

  Jeff’s first beer in six months took on a sudden rancid taste. It had always been in the back of his mind.
Of course, it had. But now he was reminded of it, had to deal with it, pay it. And know it! Awarding her the house wasn’t enough, but if ever there was an injustice in this world, it was that even after everything, Jeff was bound by a judge’s order to pay her alimony until the day he dropped dead. He was suddenly beset with the memory of the judge’s nasty smirk, a woman who went by the name Gloria Taylor, a feminist bull dyke if there had ever been one, as she made her judgment. By a cruel act of coincidence, or perhaps not, it had been the same judge who’d slapped a restraining order on him, preventing Jeff from approaching either his ex-wife or his son. It had been the same judge who’d twice thrown him in county jail for breaching the order. It had been the same judge who’d refused him permission to attend his own son’s funeral, forcing Jeff to stand outside the chapel at a distance of fifty yards, Drake, as well as two cops at his side. Last but by no means least, it had been Judge Gloria Taylor who’d ruled in favor of Lara Delaney, that Daniel Harper must undergo gender reassignment surgery.

  Jeff had zoned out but Drake, snapping his fingers, brought him back. “Suds, you there?”

  Jeff’s hands were shaking. His heart beat fast. “I’m sorry, I was away for a moment.”

  Drake snorted. “If I were you, I’d be seething at the entire fucking system, not just the ex.” He snapped his fingers again. “Hello? Earth to Jeff. Ah, fuck.” He shook his head. “Are you really the same guy who fought beside me?”

  Jeff was having difficulty shaking the image of the judge’s face. Hour after hour, night after night, lying on that bunk in a tiny cell with three other guys watching every time he went to take a shit, it wasn’t merely the image of his ex-wife who haunted him, it was the judge too, as well as that greasy lawyer the med center held on a retainer, the same he’d been ordered to fund out of his own pocket, no less, right out of his inheritance; Gloria Taylor again. The last few years had been one insult after another and sometimes it almost seemed like there was somebody out there who, for no reason whatsoever, was trying to fuck him over at every conceivable opportunity. Insult after fucking insult. Again and again. Never-ending. Sometimes, Jeff truly wondered how he’d not yet succumbed to his darker moments and flung himself off the Golden Gate Bridge and have it done with.

  No. He knew the reason.

  One day, one beautiful day, he’d be the one with the upper hand. Maybe, just maybe, that day was drawing close. “The worst thing is that the payments continued to accrue even whilst I’ve been in prison.”

  “That’s the worst thing?” Drake gasped.

  Jeff shook his head. “Figure of speech.”

  “Sewing mail bags for twenty cents an hour don’t much cover it, right?”

  Jeff turned his glass. “I was on laundry.”

  “Right,” Drake said sarcastically.

  “I am the same fucking man who fought beside you,” Jeff pushed the still half-filled glass away. “Get me something stronger, and keep talking.”

  “Oi, pirate fucker,” Drake snapped his fingers at the bartender, “whiskey. And make sure it’s the real fucking stuff. Look, I’m telling you, man, any day now, the governor’s gonna make his move, he’s gonna tell Washington to go fuck themselves, and as soon as that happens we’re gonna turn California into a communist hellhole.”

  Drake was genuinely ecstatic at the prospect. It was kind of disturbing, though like Jeff, he had his reasons to be holding a grudge against the system, to want something different, something that didn’t fuck him over at every chance. Before, he’d always been a patriot, perhaps not the most vocal of Constitution advocates, nor the most visible of flag flyers, but like Suds, Horseman had signed up and put his life on the line for the Stars and Bars. A lot of shit has to happen to beat that out of a guy. A man needs to feel like the country in which he lives is no longer the country it once was, or what he always believed it to be. He needs to feel like America turned its back on him. What Drake was doing was advocating for the end of America itself and, truth be told, Jeff was almost too numb to give much of a shit about it. Almost.

  “How do you know all this? About Weiner making moves? And how can you be so sure Uncle Sam won’t snatch the bastard right outta his mansion in the middle of the night?” Jeff shook his head. “Nah, on second thoughts, that’s far too brazen, not exactly our style, is it. More likely Weiner’ll die in a benching accident.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Drake downed a shot of whiskey, Scotch in fact. It was good. “You really think that bearded asshole lifts anything heavier than those big cigars he chomps? Somebody needs to tell him, fast, Castro already used that gimmick, and the monobrow thing looks ridiculous.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  Drake breathed out profoundly. “Now, that, I can’t tell you. At least not yet.”

  Jeff rubbed his chin. What was his old friend involved with?

  Again, Drake was quick to change the subject to something practical. “So, what you gonna do now?”

  Jeff downed a shot. “I don’t know.”

  Drake surveyed his form. “You’re still strong. Healthy. At least, physically. You gonna go back to that shitty night job doing security, falling asleep at a desk, staring at fuzzy black and white images for little pay and no thanks?”

  Jeff stared down into the bar surface. “Six months in prison for stalking, I doubt they’ll be too happy if I were to suddenly breeze back in.”

  “Fuck them. You don’t need ‘em.” He pulled his stool closer. “I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna rise in the party, the new party that’s coming, that is. Kiss as many Marxist asses as I need to make it to the top. Then I’m gonna have my judge brought to me.” The bartender was eavesdropping but one angry glance from Drake was all it took for the pirate to realize he had shit to do elsewhere. “I’m gonna have my judge brought to me and I’m gonna torture the bastard. Don’t tell me you don’t dream of doin’ the same. I might have got a lousy divorce settlement that’s tantamount to indentured servitude, along with nearly every man you saw out in that street, as well as nearly everyone in that prison you just came from, but what happened to any one of us is nothing compared to what they did to you, so don’t tell me that you and I don’t feel that same thirst for vengeance because I won’t believe it. It’s normal, healthy even, for a man to wish nothing but hurt upon those who fuck him over.

  Jeff fell silent. Of course, he wanted revenge, but was destroying America really the only way of going about it?

  Drake snorted, “man, what’s the matter with you? If some pervert hacked off my son’s cock…”

  Jeff exploded, grabbed ahold of Drake’s collar and very nearly shoved him off the stool, in fact, that probably would have happened had Jeff’s grip not been so tight. Whiskey spilled all across the bar. Jeff’s face was red and close. He snarled, “don’t you ever…”

  Drake’s hands were caught between their bodies. “That’s right, show me your anger, that’s what you need. Use it. Feed on it. Our day’s coming. Soon. That’s a promise. All the Democratic congressmen have already left DC and the Republicans are too shit scared to come back. What does that tell you? Shit’s getting serious, Suds, shit’s about to fly in this state. We’re mobilizing. Soon. Real soon. We’re gonna turn this place into a dystopic fucking nightmare, and I’ll be laughing all the way to Hell.

  Jeff tightened his grip. “I want vengeance on the people responsible, not every innocent fucker in the whole country.”

  Drake managed to maneuver a hand free and grabbed ahold of Jeff’s wrist. He didn’t try gaining an advantage but just left his hand there, squeezing. “Don’t you understand? Every innocent fucker is responsible. They voted in the politicians who made all these laws, that’ve fucked up this entire country, that has taken away any authority a man has over his own fucking family. The right of a man to earn a decent living, to not have to pay off his cheating whore of an ex-wife for the rest of his days. To mind his own fucking business. To get by. Live in peace. They took it. And af
ter all you did for them, risking your life in some far off desert, how many of them came to you when you, and Daniel, needed them, huh?” His clutch was still tight around Jeff’s wrist, his face close. “How many donated so you could afford a decent fucking lawyer, to prevent them feeding him puberty blockers because that bitch lost her mind and suddenly decided she wanted a daughter instead of a son? How many stood with you, protesting outside that slaughterhouse they call a medical center?”

  Jeff found himself back there, his throat raw from screaming, his face puffy from tears, his nails chewed to the cuticles. He’d been stood out front amongst the media, Drake was there too, both doing interviews, praying for a last-ditch reprieve from somewhere. It didn’t come. And neither did he receive much sympathy. The reporter had been a brutal cunt, called him bigoted, said he was going against the wishes of the mother and daughter. Something had snapped in Jeff’s head. He’d given them a show. Had charged towards the building. Barged through five private security officers hired for the day. Knocked down two of the three cops on standby. Ran up the stairs. Shouldered straight through into the theater. Stopped…

  Daniel was lying back on the operating table. Doctors. Nurses. Lights. Screens. Wires. Tanks. White walls. Clamps. Scalpels. Everybody froze.

  A doctor was holding a needle, its plunger depressed. Daniel’s eyes blinked slowly. He was awake. Just. A nurse was holding a gas mask. The scalpels were already in situ beside the table. Jeff didn’t hear the beating footsteps. He was pitched to the ground, banging his face into tile.

  “It’s ok, Mister Harper, everything’ll be ok.” The cuffs clicked into place behind his back. He was hauled to his feet, semi-conscious. Dragged backwards. Head sagging. He saw her feet. Managed to tilt his head back. Lara’s skin was white, her hand covered her mouth.