The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Bartholomew, K.

  Jeff’s belly was tormenting him and the alcohol seemed to be reacting badly with the raw, possibly uncooked eggs in the filling. “That’s great news, Horse, but you’ll have to make the meeting a quick one, or else postpone it.”

  That seemed to bring him down a peg. “The fuck, what?”

  “You promised, friend, we’re heading to Redding, straight after, and we’re taking the men.”

  “What?” He needed a second for it to sink in. “Oh, that.” He showed teeth and rolled his head back in annoyance. “Fuck it, Jeff, it can wait. I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to become one of the most powerful men in the country just so you can fuck up your ex-wife. Let it go … at least for now, I mean. There’ll be time later. If they make you my deputy then you can go up there anytime you want with a full fucking battalion of armor.”

  Jeff threw up his hands. “There’s always something else, and it’s not about that necessarily. You fucking promised, man.” Jeff’s belly quivered.

  Drake’s hand was squeezing his glass. “Now you’re sounding like a little bitch. In fact, I might just have to consider whether I want you as my number two.”

  “You think I want that anyway?” Jeff shook his head and clasped his belly. “I was always content just sitting at a desk, buzzing out the late shift at the factory. I’m not cut out to betray my own countrymen and take pleasure in it.”

  Drake checked quickly over each shoulder. “Fucking keep your voice down.”

  “And what exactly are they going to do with all these thousands of ordinary people after you’ve rounded them up?” He needed to take a shit, fast.

  Drake rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You really are one slow mother fucking son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you. A stupid bastard who knows nothing. You really want me to say it?”

  Jeff jerked. “Say what?”

  Drake pinched at the skin atop his nose and sighed. “You know absolutely nothing about history, do you. It’s called the fucking gulag, dumbass. In communism, there has to be a slave class to prop up the proletariat. That’s how it fucking works. Where do you think all those fuckers from Presidio were going? There, you made me say it, so can you please now get on board with it?”

  Slavery? Jeff felt his mouth fall open. “But … but … I don’t want anything to do with that.”

  Drake grabbed ahold of Jeff’s arm and squeezed. “Now listen here, you little cunt, all my life I’ve been a fucking nobody, following orders, selling malfunctioning software, being fucked over by the courts, sharing a box with a family of chinks. Now, for the first time in my life, I am somebody, and I couldn’t give a fuck about your moral objections or anybody else’s. Do you have any idea the work I’ve been doing whilst you were busy taking it up the ass in prison? No! Fuck, I had my face burned for this, and now I’ve made it, I’m not about to let you take it the fuck away from me just because ‘I don’t want anything to do with that’.” His grip pulsed. “You just happen to be lucky you’re my best friend, still, which is why I’m willing to forget that you’re acting like a little bitch.” He let go of Jeff’s arm and blew out air. “Ok, Suds, here’s my suggestion to you.” He dragged a hand across his buzz cut. “You’re gonna go take that shit I know you’re dying for, and when you come back, we’re gonna grab our seats behind our Supreme Leader and forget we ever had this conversation. Then, after the swearing-in, the parade, fanfare, all the fancy fucking ribbons, we’re gonna meet with Graft and his degenerate son and we’re gonna suck their balls until they beg us to agree to head this new extraordinary commission. You got that?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned away to the table and began filling a plate. The back of his neck was red.

  “Right,” Jeff muttered to himself, his arms dangling limp. His skin was white, his belly lurched. He glanced around for a bathroom and saw it beside where the waiters were coming in and out. The place was humming with VIPs and he had to negotiate a path around various groups who'd left little room to pass. Everybody was so happy. Well-placed, important people. He pushed through the door but all three stalls were occupied and the line to use them next was five deep, all grinning suited men.

  “Fuck,” he quickly left and dashed through the arch both Grafts had earlier disappeared through. There were armed cops on the door but the pass was still dangling around Jeff’s neck and they didn’t rouse to him.

  A small vestibule, marble, oak panels, two doors, one flight of steps. Too many people through both doors, he took the steps. His belly felt like a washing machine now, each step a sickening experience. He paced down the first-floor corridor but the bathroom was locked from the inside. “Fuck!”

  On the way up to the next floor, there were more of those strange men in red space suits lurking on every other step. Their eyes appeared to scan Jeff’s pass but it wasn’t until he reached the top that he was stopped.

  “Pass?” He looked like a character from a low budget Star Trek knock off, stretchy red padded out lycra-type material that showed off his muscles, sunglasses, small red bicorn hat, dyed red leather boots that came up to the knees, belt buckle with the hammer and sickle beneath star of California and an armband with the word ‘BLAZER’ in fancy font. He took a moment to scrutinize Graft’s signature on the pass and then looked Jeff up and down before waving a handheld metal detector. It buzzed. “Empty your pockets.”

  “What the fuck?” Jeff sighed, there was no point in dithering, especially when he was so close to bursting, so he quickly removed his keys and belt and tried to stop his hands shaking.

  The character again waved the device and when there were no sounds, Jeff was given back his things and nodded through.

  The second floor was different. No furniture, a faint smell of bleach, no people hanging around, though their excited chatter permeated the walls. That, however, was almost completely drowned out by the noise now coming from outside and Jeff dared spare a moment to glance out the window that overlooked Cesar Chavez Plaza.

  A breath escaped him.

  The crowds consumed everything, every patch of grass, every square inch of concrete, every arch and doorway. Even most of the windows looking out into the square had faces pressed against the glass and several platforms had been constructed to accommodate even more people. A section in front of City Hall had been kept clear for the military to pass through and no doubt they’d be making several laps to fool the world into thinking California was stronger than it really was. The angle of the stone made it hard to see where the Supreme Leader’s platform would be positioned, where the infamous speech was about to be made. His belly lurched.

  He took off and crashed through an empty auditorium, another hallway and a cloakroom with several identical maroon tunics dangling off hangers before he finally discovered a bathroom that was open and not occupied. As soon as he pushed through the door, he was struck by the almost blinding and overwhelming force of bleach.

  “Fuck!” It actually hurt the nostrils to take a breath. The walls were white tiled and still damp from a recent scrubbing. The one window, black tinted, looked straight out at another white wall. Basin you could eat your dinner off. Liquid soap in a plain black dispenser. Stack of paper towels. Mirror. No trash can. No urinal. One stall.

  Jeff entered. “What the fuck?” There was no toilet seat. Great. And there must have been an entire industrial-sized bottle of bleach tipped down the thing, enough to turn shit transparent.

  He closed the door, the latch had what must have been four or five layers of clingfilm wrapped around it. He unfastened his belt and dropped his pants. By this time the bleach was causing his nose to stream thin strands of mucus he had to sniff back. He lowered himself and it felt strange having to perch on the narrow porcelain ledge. At least it was clean. With one heavenly blast, the turmoil roiling within his belly was expelled, coating the bowl’s interior in all manner of cancerous nastiness and instantly filling the small room with a stench that almost overwhelmed the bleach. For several minutes, he remained in situ, shivering, breathing, re
laxing, banishing the followups that persisted to leak from within.

  There was a documentary, he recalled, that showed there were some countries that shunned toilet seats in favor of squatting over the pan. Italy, he remembered, was one of them. Taxing on the old quads, no doubt, especially if you were going for a marathon, though probably more hygienic, not that Jeff minded that. Drake, though … he’d changed. Not once throughout all the years had Jeff known his friend speak to him that way, not once had Drake threatened him or laid a hand upon him. A bit of power was all it had taken for him to change. That and the prospect of potentially unlimited wealth. That was not the Drake who’d served alongside Jeff in an Afghani desert, who’d always found time to drift in and out when their lives had taken different courses and who’d been there as a rock through all the more recent hard times. Or maybe, Jeff thought, he was the one who’d changed. How could he not have after all the shit he’d faced these last couple of years. Fuck, even California had changed. No, all Jeff knew for certain, this very moment, was that he’d not changed so much that he wanted to get involved with this new regime, at least not in the way they were wanting.

  That wasn’t Jeff Harper at all.

  And as long as he did not change so much that he was no longer in control of his faculties, it never would be.

  All Jeff could do now was go to Drake and wish him luck. Part ways as amicably as possible. Go north. Alone. Do what he needed to do on his own. It was his burden, nobody else’s. Far better this way. Soothe the demons that raged inside his head. Find peace. Eventually. Live. Live for Daniel. First thing first, however, he needed to wipe his ass.

  He moved for the toilet roll. “What the f…” Where the fuck was it? This was the last thing anybody needed. He searched around. Left. Right. Under. Behind. Above. Repeat. Nothing. “Fuck!” His wallet. There were three one-dollar bills in there. Not adequate, but better than nothing. They’d have to suffice.

  The door to the bathroom opened. Sniffing. A sigh, almost feminine in pitch. Feet traipsed across the floor. Silence. Two sets of toes appeared in the gap under the door. Brown felt loafers.

  Jeff cleared his throat. “Nearly done.”

  Silence.

  The feet moved back. Then forwards again. Who stands that close?

  Jeff stood, pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and turned around. No handle. A small square, red transparent glass, which meant it was one of those mechanisms you flap a hand in front of to make it flush. He did. Nothing. He waved at it. Knocked a knuckle against it. Red flashing but no flush. Fuck. “Not my fucking problem.” He peered down into the bowl, which now resembled an admirable attempt at painting the interior, with three one-dollar bills floating on top. He thought, very briefly, about salvaging those but quickly dismissed the idea. He was beyond poor but they were almost certainly no longer legal tender anyway.

  The tips of two brown loafers were still protruding beneath the door. Jeff slid the clingfilm covered latch to the side, pulled the door open and came face to face with the man standing there.

  “Weiner?” Jeff said in shock. There was no mistaking the silly outfit.

  The Supreme Leader made a quiet “e” noise, sniffed, and attempted to peer beyond the larger man into the can. His eyes darted up at Jeff and back into space again.

  “Well, this is a surprise, sir, I must admit,” Jeff quickly shook away his astonishment and held out his hand, “name’s Jeff Harper.”

  Weiner bobbed on his loafers in a forlorn attempt at squeezing around. Up close, he was a lot shorter than the TV always made out, and very slim with clever eyes that were obscenely quick to movement, though that might have been because the soon-to-be head of state was dying to take a shit. It was the tidy, trim brown beard that dominated the face, that and the monobrow, which together bestowed upon the man the appearance of an overburdened groundsman at a low-grade golf club. In his hands was a pack of wet wipes. “Please,” he whimpered.

  “Had some of the quiche too, huh?” Jeff’s hand, not being met, he instead moved to sidestep Weiner but stopped and touched a finger to his lip. “Say, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask, someone who might know, and who better to ask than you?…”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Are American bills still legal tender?”

  “What? Oh, for a few more days, yes.”

  “Gonna fire up the old printing presses, right? One second…” Jeff went back inside the stall and fished out the three bills. “I’m gonna need to buy some gas on the way back up to Redding. Of course, most people are just stealing it but that was never much my style.”

  “Hurry.”

  “This won’t take long…”

  “Very busy…” he glanced back toward the door he’d entered through. Outside, what had to be an enormous brass band had started playing.

  “I said this won’t take long,” Jeff snapped, “now, it just so happens I think you owe me at least a few moments of your time, considering you wouldn’t, even now, be in this position had I not been on hand at that lab place you made me go.” He wouldn’t tell Weiner how little he actually had to do with anything, and that he just happened to be standing close to the real actor at the time; Drake. Jeff still felt he deserved at least some recognition from the man who stood to gain the most. He didn’t want money, a house, or even a car, and he certainly didn’t want any government post, but the fact he’d received not even a phone call and a thank you was truly irksome indeed, bad form entirely. Now, given the opportunity, Weiner had not even accepted Jeff’s hand, another insult, though he allowed that Weiner might not have been aware of who exactly it was he was face to face with coming out of a restroom stall.

  Weiner blinked. “That … that was you?”

  “Yes, Weiner, that was me and my … well, it was me and some other guy.”

  “Drake, was it?”

  Jeff nodded. “Remember him, huh?” Interesting. “Looks like he’s scored a big role in your new regime. I’m sure he’ll do a good job. Was never too interested in being a big dick myself. Just give me a desk, a few monitors to watch over, a comfy chair and I’m set, which is why I’m heading north. Gonna try finding me a security job at some sort of business entity someplace. Night shift, probably, there’s nobody around to bother you playing online poker at three in the morning, so I thank you for the offer but I’ll have to decline.”

  Weiner squinted at that, “what?” and again glanced around Jeff toward the stall.

  Jeff frowned and shook his head. “Do you even have any fucking idea what my name is?”

  “Name?”

  Jeff exhaled. “I told you already. My name’s Jeff Harper, remember? From the lab. I saved the fucking place. For you!” Jeff jabbed a finger at Weiner’s maroon tunic covered chest, “and you, Weiner, owe me a fucking thank you.”

  His eyes glazed over for a while. “Ah, yes, now I recall the name.” His monobrow bunched up and his hand gravitated to touch his chest. “My gratitude for your act is divided equally amongst all Californians.” What? Was he fucking serious?

  By now, Jeff was shaking. This was outrageous. “I don’t give a rat’s ass for all Californians,” Jeff’s hand found its way to wrap around Weiner’s arm and he felt the flinch immediately, “they weren’t the ones risking their lives on such a harebrained plan involving fucking TNT, Black Hawks and espionage so clandestine it still gives me a headache to think about it. Oh, and my head got stamped on.”

  “Yes, I can see that, ugh,” Weiner tried to jerk his arm away but Jeff’s grip was too strong.

  “No, that’s just not good enough,” Jeff vigorously shook his head, “the rest of California wasn’t even there, risking their lives, so I don’t see why I should have to share your gratitude with any of them…”

  “Get your hand off me…”

  “And what about all these people you’re sending to a gulag, Weiner? Do they get to share in your gratitude too?”

  “Leave me alone, how dare you…” he yanked his arm away, freein
g himself, and struck at Jeff with the outside of a closed fist.

  Jeff instinctively raised his forearms to block the attempt, saw red, and shoved Weiner hard so that his lower back smashed into the basin.

  The Supreme Leader’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream as the pack of wet wipes fell to the floor. Must have got him in the kidney.

  “Fuck!” Jeff said, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth. He was only now, kind of, realizing who it was he’d just shoved and, by the looks of it, bruised at least. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.” What was the penalty for that? “Please, I’ll leave now, enjoy the rest of your…”

  Weiner flew at him, claws outstretched and aiming for the eyes, but Jeff managed to turn so that the Supreme Leader collided with his shoulder, it didn’t hurt but he lost his balance and banged his head against the wall. Before Jeff could react, Weiner was already going again for the eyes, his nails long and manicured like a kept housewife’s, and it was only by a miracle that Jeff managed to catch both wrists before they were scratched or gouged out. Weiner was stamping down now, aiming for Jeff’s toes, and making good with at least half the attempts. Outside, the crowds cheered and a deafening whoosh announced the fighter jets had flown overhead and then the Supreme Leader grabbed ahold of Jeff’s hair and tugged out a large clump.

  “Owwww, you litter fucker,” Jeff attempted to twist around, to restrain the maniac, but he fell sideways instead and both men went crashing through the stall door. Weiner smashed his face against the back of Jeff’s head and fell to his knees, his nose streaming blood. Jeff was still hoping to skirt the man and leave, fast, but then Weiner reached up and clamped a hand around his nuts and squeezed.

  Now, blinded with the kind of insane rage that every man who ever lived has evolved to possess, the kind of rage that strikes out with all the fury of Hell whenever his loins are endangered, Jeff grabbed the back of Weiner’s head and thrust him forward, straight down the can.

  “All you had to do was say thank you, you little bastard.” Jeff pushed down harder and through the shit, a hundred bubbles rose up to pop at the surface. “All my life I’ve been unappreciated, well not anymore, you understand me?” He was using both hands to hold him down now, Weiner’s legs kicking, arms flapping, his snout inserted up the u-bend. The bubbles kept coming, along with muffled gargles, and Jeff took a moment to lean back and glance at the exit. He would soon require a clear run, oh boy, did he ever.