Life After (Book 2): The Void

by Bryan Way

  “Well, you’re right. I don’t trust you. Never will.”

  “I can’t take back what I did… and it’s not something you can just… apologize for.” He mutters.

  “We still talking about us?”

  He looks up slowly and stares into me.

  “I don’t blame you for not accepting my apology. You had to do it for the group. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life… for which I will atone…”

  “Don’t give me that… you were a holy man last I checked… a sin is a sin, is it not?”

  “Yes. But the sin doesn’t define the sinner… and no man is without virtue… sometimes they go unrecognized, but we have survived because we are virtuous. Even if we’ve sinned along the way.”

  “Bullshit.” I spit.

  “Jake mentioned… you’ve spoken of Anderson’s pride. Has he not shown diligence? Charity? Selflessness? Which is greater, the sin, or the virtue?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “If it takes forever…” He sighs. “I’ll wait forever. I have to earn your trust more than anyone. I intend to.”

  “Well… I’m not gonna stop you from trying.”

  Rob smiles.

  “I wanted to ask something about your Christmas gift.” He starts. “Did you realize… that Uranus is the only planet named for a Greek god?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “In Greek mythology, Uranus sired children with Gaia… he hated them and cast them into Tartarus, as far below hell as the Earth is below the Heavens. With Gaia’s help they revolted, castrating Uranus. Those children… the Titans… were pale cannibals raised from the nether.”

  “Zombies?”

  “There certainly are… similarities. Any reason you chose Uranus?”

  “It was the only one visible in the sky. I would’ve preferred Jupiter.”

  “Must be Tyche.” He says with a smile.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Greek deity of chance. Anyway… Prometheus sided with Zeus, Uranus’ grandson, and rebelled against the Titans… he also created man and did everything he could to help them despite Zeus’ objections.”

  “…so what? Is there a point to bringing up a bunch of tall tales about fake gods?”

  “Well, it’s an important part of culture… you take solace in our understanding of the universe. History is replete with legendary parables, the enduring ones aren’t just… fun stories. If you’re open to them, they teach you a lot about yourself. And man.”

  “…so that’s where Operation Prometheus came from?”

  “…I’m not prepared to judge your trip logistically… but I think you did the right thing. Even if you called down the thunder.”

  “Great. Just so you know… I don’t think you’re a good guy. You’ve lied to me. And you’re still lying to me. But even if I never trust you again… that doesn’t have to affect our friendship.”

  Rob smiles, nodding a few times over the course of the next minute. Just when I think we’re about to part ways, he takes a deep breath to insinuate he has more.

  “I picked my song.”

  “Oh?” I assume he’s referring to Jake’s initiative.

  “Sure. You know the word dirge comes from Latin… from the first words of the first antiphon in the Matins of the Office for the Dead, from Psalms…”

  “None of that means anything to me.” I interrupt.

  “…fair enough.” He concedes. “Peace of Mind, by Boston.”

  I can’t stop myself from laughing.

  “What?” He asks, slightly hurt.

  “Nothing… after that… I was expecting… Mozart’s Requiem?”

  “Well, yeah… maybe not as lofty… but it works for me.”

  “Sooner or later.”

  He pats my shoulder and walks away, at which point I become acutely aware of my stump again. I take a few steps down the hall, sulking and weeping before I take notice of a sound in the distance. I glance in the cafeteria doors as I pass by, but no one else has heard it. As I continue quietly down the hall, the sound gains more definition; it’s oscillating quickly enough to give me a chill. Suddenly, the cheaply synthesized electronic buzz settles in: it’s a car alarm. Barefoot, in my pajamas, clutching my stump, I run immediately to the main lobby, up the steps, and into the flank.

  Once inside, I instantly collapse. When I regain my sight, I take note of the combined head rush and debilitating headache as being the most disorienting pain I’ve felt in my entire life. I stumble over to the window, immediately seeing the dead in the street migrating toward the black truck I noticed when we returned from Penn State. The car alarm has gone off. Breathing heavily, I try to get back to the cafeteria as fast as I can without passing out. All eyes are on me as I brazenly wobble through the door. “Anderson… the car alarm… it went off…” When I let go of the door I fall over again, looking up to see Andy, Levi, and Rob run past me through the doors.

  I lay on the ground for a while. I should have listened to Karen. She’s probably with the kids now, trying to keep them unaware of the gunshots and car alarms, doing her best to maintain their childhood as long as she can. Since I spent two days chained to the floor in 218, I think I can survive an hour or two laying here. “Come on.” A voice intrudes as two strong arms wrap around my torso. It’s Mel, and not only can she support my weight, she manages to drag me up the steps, pulling me into the furthest classroom from the gate with an unobstructed view of the street before quietly closing the door behind us, leaving me on the counter by the windows.

  “I’m going for your walkie and binoculars…” She says, moving for the door. I want to express my profound distress, but she’s gone before I can open my mouth. I squint at the headache and glance through the slit in the freezing window pane to see Anderson’s group trot conservatively across the bus lane to the grass, keeping their heads down and limiting the motion of their arms and weapons, but Anderson is curiously absent. I refocus to see the undead dragging in the wake of the black truck with the blaring alarm. The fact that it’s moving suggests that someone is driving it, so I assume it must be Anderson.

  Two of the humans approaching the vehicle have M-16s strapped to their backs and all of them are carrying crowbars. In addition to their relative stealth, their movements are well covered by the shaking, flashing, screaming truck to which the hands of the undead seem to be magnetically attracted. Anderson opens the door and rolls out onto the snow, loosing half a dozen shots from his M-16 and gesticulating wildly at the group behind him.

  I turn my head back as Mel enters with my walkie and binoculars; there isn’t any radio chatter, but I can follow Anderson much more easily with the binoculars. He strafes alongside the truck, taking potshots as it continues slowly down the street. Rather than engage, the group merely fans out and kills any walking corpse not drawn in Anderson’s wake. There seems to be a plan, but I can’t figure what it is or how it’s being executed. Anderson reaches into the truck to produce a Molotov, lighting it an instant before tossing it into the swarm. I sigh.

  “What?” Mel asks.

  “I don’t know if that was the best idea.”

  “…why not?”

  “…I meant that. I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  “No. It’s called improvising.” I say, smiling. “Fake it ‘til you make it.”

  “Asshole. I meant if you have a better idea, spit it out.”

  I nod as Anderson continues to fire at the non-flaming corpses.

  “Was he pissed about the Humvee?” Mel asks.

  “Not really, I don’t think… but who can tell these days?”

  “You can always tell with him.”

  I look back through my binoculars and watch Jake, Mursak, Andy and Ally continue to spread out and send countless bodies to the ground in a sepia haze beneath the burnt orange and fluorescent purple of the low-hanging clouds. Though the majority of the horde seems to be closing on Anderson, there are too many behind
him to assume that his plan is working. I lift the walkie.

  “Anderson, you’ve got more rolling to you, over.”

  “No shit. We’ve gotta make a dent before we retreat. Over and out.”

  “Yeah, but is the fire gonna draw more?”

  “Anything we can do about that? Over.”

  “Now that you’ve thrown it, no!”

  “Yeah, well… you’re not down here…”

  I think about saying something, but I instead let the words sink in. I look back at the street through the binoculars to catch a glimpse of the growing chaos. “What’s the deal with Rich?” Mel asks. I look back at her while I consider mounting a response.

  “Don’t know.”

  “What if… ah… if he doesn’t…”

  “Come back?” I ask, turning back to the binoculars. “Karen takes his place.”

  “You guys decided that?”

  “We talked about it… the only way we can replace someone is with a unanimous three-way vote in advance. Karen’s it. Can you think of anyone better?”

  “…I don’t want to think about it.”

  A silence lingers as Anderson fails to make a serious dent in the undead around him. My heart leaps when he fails to notice a Zombie closing in from behind. I sit up involuntarily just before he turns and sends it stumbling to the ground. He pulls off his toque, the sweat spraying off his steaming scalp.

  “Pick your song yet?” Mel asks suddenly.

  “I thought so… might be a bit too… I dunno, dour.”

  “Whatever. It’s your funeral.”

  “Exactly…” I mutter.

  “Yours has gotta be epic, though… you’re the guy who wrote about Zombies.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Why did you?”

  “…it appealed to me.”

  “Well… duh… why ?”

  With my eyes glued to the binoculars, I witness Anderson pulling the pin on a grenade and tossing it up the street before pulling another one. There’s barely a breath of wind, so the black truck disappears into the artificial haze filling the street, gliding toward a destination it can’t choose. Anderson waits, and then signals a retreat as he darts through the yellow smoke.

  “It’s like the opposite of winning the lottery. I wasn’t interested in what money could buy… I was interested in a world where it didn’t matter. Where the rules, written or not, no longer applied…”

  “And the Zombies?”

  “Cannon fodder. We love making villains…” I sigh. “Christians, Jews, Indians, witches, Nazis, Commies, terrorists… it’s easy to reduce evil to a moral absolute, even though we’re just animals with rules. Once you remove the vanities of consciousness… we’re more dangerous than they are. More afraid… and god, I miss what fear used to be.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It used to be… stupid shit… like what others think of you. Not being good enough… not having control… not having enough… feeling helpless… we still deal with it. But we get up every morning not knowing if we’ll wake up tomorrow. Brings out the worst in us…”

  “Or the best.” Mel interrupts. “We’ve made it three months… and we have each other. For better or worse. There’s something to be said for that.”

  “You ever heard of the concept of orbital resonance?” I ask.

  “Is that when a guy sings into a wine glass and cracks it?”

  “No…” I smile. “It’s the idea that… celestial bodies… planets… exert force on each other… for better or worse. It’s the difference between a harmonious balance or planets crashing into each other. There was an awful lot of chaos before this solar system settled down… still more to come.” I nod to myself, sensing that she’s wondering where this is going. “You were right. I have been an asshole. I accept that. I don’t know… maybe the stupid shit does bring you down.”

  “Only if you spend all your time dealing with it.” Mel replies. “What were you saying to me just this past week?”

  “…you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

  “To err is human. You forgot the second part though.”

  I consider saying that Alexander Pope added the second part to the ancient proverb, but that’d just be pedantic.

  “Lucky.” I whisper.

  “I don’t think that’s the second part.”

  “No… that’s my song. Lucky. Radiohead.”

  “We’re falling back…” Anderson cuts in on the radio, breathing heavily. “We need everyone not tied down in the lobby, now. Karen, Sak’s gonna switch with you. Grey, you on lookout?”

  “Copy that.”

  “Keep us posted. Over and out.”

  Mel grabs her rifle, mounting it on her shoulder as she lifts herself off the heater.

  “Sounds pretty bad.” She mutters.

  “Looks about the same.”

  “I’ll keep you posted…”

  “Hey, Mel…”

  She stops before she can get to the door, signaling her attention. “You still think I’m an asshole?” A huge grin slowly grows on Mel’s face as she hikes over and plants a kiss on my lips, then walks back for the door. “Is that a yes?” I ask, and she doesn’t stop or turn back as she responds. “Probably. But I can let it go. You’re only human.” I hear her feet echoing down the stairwell, followed by silence.

  I take up the binoculars again to see the smoke dissipating in the wake of the truck, and the fire from Anderson’s Molotov smoldering around the individual corpses strewn across the ground over two hundred feet. The largest group of bodies is following the truck, which will strike the dead traffic at Route 3 if it doesn’t run off the road first. Behind the smoke, about three dozen Zombies are already moving in toward the high school. In spite of this, I find myself smiling.

  Only human. There’s no telling how long we can last, and we may not see tomorrow. Our future could be short lived, but I’m content knowing we’ll face it together.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  The lifeblood of any small-market or self-published author derives from their work making an impression sufficient to impact another potential reader. Therefore, I humbly request that you make your opinions known by reviewing my work on Amazon or Goodreads. Whether that review is positive or negative, short or long, I only ask that you be honest. I realize how valuable your time is and I consider it an honor that you’ve dedicated some to my work. Thank you.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Neil Ross may not have directly contributed to the publication of this book, but the first would have been impossible without him. Neil, I told you my gratitude is endless.

  Marty and Lisa Leicht, two authors of superior ability and acclaim who nevertheless took the time and effort to get me closer to representation than I ever could have come without them.

  John Henderson, who, after I’d toiled away writing and editing the novel for almost eight years, finished his beta read in less than 36 hours.

  Rebecca Larsen, a tireless reviewer, supporter, booster, conspirator, proofreader, and all-around superhero who keeps me writing.

  Amy C. Shannon and Kimmy McLoughlin gave their time to read and review every single work I’ve published. My gratitude for that level of dedication is something I cannot put into words.

  Kenneth and Valerie Frank worked hard to put my face on a magazine cover for the first time in my life. It was a surreal experience, and something for which I will always be grateful.

  Jake Moats provided some necessary guidance on a few psychoanalytical questions I could not have had answered by anyone else, and I look forward to asking a thousand more in the future.

  Frank Bessey has made it his business to be my number one fan, and the mere knowledge that anyone would crave that status is enough to make me titter in delight.

  Lauren Moatz ushered my first novel onto Goodreads. I don’t know how long it would’ve taken me to find it otherwise, but she has my gratitude for getting me there first.

  Julia Clare, my hard-working personal assi
stant, and the street team of Bridgett Brown, Jolene Huber, Anibet Castro-McEvoy, Lisa Renfrow, Janneke Wolbers, Shelby West, and Stacy Stewart, none of whom I would have met without Jennifer Rebelle Alvarez.

  Jackie Chin has provided me with multiple opportunities to promote my work with Zombiepalooza Radio, and I’ve never had more fun talking about writing publicly than I have on her show.

  Scott Lefebvre engaged me in my most invigorating interview by far, so I encourage all authors to visit You Are Entitled To My Opinion.

  Robert Drake (Philly Zombie Prom), Julie Leeds (Tom Zombie Festival), Joanna Harrison (The Great American Pub) and Miguel Gomez (Viva Video) have continued to support my work through their various organizations. I have no doubt that my career as a writer would be far less successful without you.

  Ofc. Clint Cunningham of the Newtown Square Police Department was polite enough to let me ask questions about the role of law enforcement during a zombie apocalypse.

  The book text is Crimson font (Sebastian Kosch), the header and information is Share font (Ralph du Carrois), the title and chapters are Dirty Ego font (Misprinted Type), and they were all found thanks to FontSquirrel.com.

  All-Silhouettes.com, Tetyana Ksyonz (Ntnt), FreeGrunge.com, and Daniel Davidson (ByDan.us) provided the free vector silhouettes that I used to create the majority of the cover. I thank them all for granting impoverished businesses excellent promotional artwork out of the goodness of their talented hearts.

  Anyone who bothered to read this far. I’m glad I held you through to the end.