After Life

by Daniel Kelley

  As Andy and Roger drew near the woman and her son, he heard her quiz him. “Imagine you’re in a room with one exit and outnumbered by zombies 30 to 1. Do you leave the room and risk the zombies escaping with you?”

  The son took a second to prove he was even paying attention before turning and stammering through an answer. “Well… yeah,” he said. “I’d never survive inside.”

  His mother shook her head. “You’re right that you’re probably going to die,” she said, “but sometimes that’s the best choice. If it’s a choice of you dying, but the zombies being contained, you choose containment. We aren’t in this for ourselves; we’re in this for all of humanity.”

  Andy wasn’t sure he agreed with that sentiment but didn’t say anything to the woman as they passed and entered the foyer of the dorm.

  Upstairs, Celia had found her room on the fourteenth floor. She entered and looked around. It was a small room, barely furnished. Two tiny beds and one desk made up the lot of it.

  The bed closest to the door was unmade, and a pair of suitcases sat between it and the wall. The closet door to Celia’s left was open, and what had been placed in there was messily piled up.

  Celia tossed her purse on the other, clean bed. While the room wasn’t anything fancy, the view was impressive. From this vantage point, she could see the ocean just off in the distance. Eventually, she mused, when everyone had realized the danger was no longer there, she could probably walk down to the beach.

  Though her old house was only a couple miles from Cayuga Lake, her father had barely ever let her get so much as in sight of the water. They had been once, when she was 13, and she relished being able to see the ocean whenever she wanted. Celia tried to open the window and found it sealed. Nonetheless, she leaned against it and breathed deeply, imagining sea air filling her lungs.

  “Careful, the Z’s might pull you right out there,” someone said behind her.

  Celia turned. Standing in the doorway was a short brunette, perhaps a little overweight, but still attractive. She was leaning against the doorframe, her dark hair falling in front of her left eye. She wore a clingy, black sleeveless top and pink sweatpants that were rolled over two or three times at the top, an odd combination Celia wasn’t sure what to make of. To top it off, there was a belted holster around her waist, which didn’t mesh with the sweatpants at all. On her feet she wore a pair of running shoes.

  Celia paused. She stared for a moment, not sure what to say. Contact with her peers had been limited, so she hadn’t a clue how to relate to her own age group.

  “I’ve… never had a roommate before,” Celia mumbled at last.

  “Have any of us?” the other girl said, walking into the room and diving onto Celia’s made bed, messing up the covers. “I’m Stacy.”

  “Celia.” She turned back to the window and looked for a moment before remembering Stacy’s earlier comment. “We’re on the fourteenth floor. Think I might be safe. Don’t think there were any Z giants.” She smiled to herself. “You just arriving?”

  “Nope,” Stacy said, rolling over and knocking Celia’s purse onto its side, where a few of its contents spilled out. “Been here a few days now. You’re one of the last to show up, I think.” She started picking through the things that had spilled from the purse.

  “My dad,” Celia said, “wasn’t a big fan of leaving any earlier than we had to. What are you doing?” Stacy had pulled a tube of chapstick from the pile and was twisting the tip until the contents were all the way out.

  “Nothing,” Stacy said, dropping the chapstick back on the bed and getting up. As she did, there was a knock on the still-open door. They both looked to see a 40-something man there holding a clipboard.

  “Room check. No boys?” he said with a laugh. He was an attractive guy, with wavy, perfectly coiffed beige hair and large blue eyes. He wore a Morgan College T-shirt that looked new, dark blue jeans and a pair of Velcro sandals. Just below the end of the shirt sleeve, Celia could see the tip of a tattoo. Celia noticed that he didn’t have a weapon on him. “You all must be… Celia and Stacy, yes?” At their nods, he went on. “Which is which?”

  Stacy sat down on her bed and inspected her fingernails. “I’m Stacy,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you girls,” he said, stepping only a few inches into the room. “Barry Lowensen, resident adviser and Zombie Survival instructor.”

  “Zombie Survival?” Stacy asked. “That wasn’t just a rumor?”

  “’Fraid not,” he said with a laugh. “Zombie Survival was non-negotiable. We re-open the college; we gotta have the class. Only way Morgan was likely to go along with it. And after we named the school after him and everything. You’d think the guy would have been a bit more appreciative.

  “Guess I can’t blame him,” he went on. “I mean, I’m sure your parents have told you some, but doubt they know it all.” Celia felt herself giving an involuntary nod. Stacy, she noticed, didn’t move. “Well, that might not be true for you two ladies, but for most of the kids here. Anyway, you can’t —”

  “— be too careful,” Stacy jumped in. Celia continued nodding. “Think we’ve heard that before.”

  Barry’s chuckle, which hadn’t seemed really to end, picked up steam. “Fair enough. It’s the truth, though.”

  “So where are the classrooms?” Celia asked. She felt surprisingly comfortable with the teacher. “This all looks like dorms. Classes in one of the other buildings?”

  “No, ma’am,” he responded quickly. “Classes are down.” He pointed at the floor with his clipboard. “Underground. Limited access, food storage, whole nine yards. Dead guys come a-knocking, we go down there, good for months. Not making the same mistakes this time.”

  Celia nodded. Stacy turned back to her. “Your parents staying?”

  “Staying?”

  “Short-term parent housing, third dorm,” the teacher jumped in quickly.

  “And it’s a good thing,” Andy said, struggling down the hallway carrying Celia’s three bags. “They didn’t have those, I’d be sleeping out in the hall tonight.”

  Celia rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  Barry turned warmly. “Mr. Ehrens,” he said, pulling the lightest of the three bags out from under Andy’s arms and handing it off to Celia. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Barry Lowensen. You and I have a bit in common.”

  “What do you mean?” Celia said.

  “He means that he and I were both Out-Theres, honey,” Andy said, his eyes not moving from Barry Lowensen.

  “Not the most creative name, I admit,” Barry said. “But that’s what Peter Salvisa decided to call us on the ’net. You must know the site. Just about all the Internet is used for anymore, zombies and porn.”

  “Never been much for the site, myself,” Andy said. “Guess she gets that from me.” He turned to Celia. “But I did try to tell you, once upon a time. Your dad is something of an online celebrity.” Outside, a horn blew, sounding like an old steam engine. Andy flinched. It wasn’t a sound he was used to. “What was that?”

  “It’s time,” Barry said with a grin

  “Time for what?” Celia asked.

  “Orientation. Down in the classroom.”

  “Classroom?” Celia asked.

  “For now,” Barry said, that laugh still in his voice. “More under construction. But for all the space we have, there’s still only 200 or so students, and you’re all starting with the same lessons. Keeping us all together seems more prudent in any case.”

  “Listen to him, girls,” Andy said. “You can’t be too careful.”

  Chapter 5: The Ones Who Thought They Were Strong

  Madison was on the phone with a contact in Maine, about 40 miles from Salvisa’s ranch, which was as close a person to the old man as she could find. Mickey Lewis, an old man who was half-hermit himself, wasn’t willing to provide much help though, and as Madison got off the phone, she heard Donnie enter her office again.

  “Hey, Michelle,” he said. Madison
walked out to greet him. “Miss Crane,” he added.

  “Donnie,” Madison said. “What can we do for you?”

  “Nothing, really. Same reason I was here before. Just trying to escape Lambert for a few minutes. He’s killing us down there.”

  “Grumpy man,” Madison said with a sympathetic nod.

  “Today more than ever. Between this whole Salvisa thing and him running back and forth to the bathroom every couple minutes, he’s on the warpath. I swear, I think he’s on his fifth or sixth hanky.”

  Madison stopped to consider this. The thought had briefly crossed her mind when Lambert was in her office earlier, but she had tried to dismiss it. It persisted, though.

  “Is that just the flu?” Madison asked.

  “I guess,” Donnie said, shrugging. “Says he’s got some kind of bug. He went to the bathroom fifteen-twenty minutes ago, haven’t seen him since. Figured I’d try to be missing when he returns.”

  “I wouldn’t stay,” Madison said. “He’s going to be in a bad enough mood, Donnie. You’ll want to be there when he gets back.”

  Donnie sighed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He stomped, looking like nothing so much as a tantrum-throwing toddler. He left, the door standing open behind him.

  Madison ran her fingers through her hair, straightening a bit and tucking it behind her right ear. Michelle noticed this.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  Madison stopped short. Michelle always surprised her by how attuned she was with Madison’s mannerisms. She briefly considered lying to her, but was sure Michelle would pick up on it. “I’m just a little worried about Lambert.”

  “Lambert?”

  “You were locked down the whole time, right?”

  “2010?” Michelle asked. “Pretty much. My sister put the whole place on lockdown — no one in, no one out, no matter who they were.”

  “Your sister was smart.”

  “Yeah. Was.”

  “Anyway,” Madison continued. “You weren’t out there. Some guys — the proud ones, the ones who thought they were strong, like Lambert — wouldn’t let on when they had been bitten. It was crazy. Everyone knew a bite meant you were a zombie. But still, the cocky guys just refused to believe, thought they were too strong, they could fight it off, something. Ben at the gate told me Lambert refused to strip for inspection when he showed up this morning, and he’s been flushed all day, and getting worse quickly.”

  “You think he’s …?”

  “I don’t want to believe that. And if he is infected, it’s the slowest-moving infection I’ve ever seen. Usually, it takes only a few minutes, less if someone’s been bitten multiple times. But he’s been more worried than normal about these phone calls when it doesn’t seem that out of the ordinary from my perspective. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’m not sure,” Madison said, then stopped. She cocked her head toward the hallway. Straining her ears, she thought for sure she had heard the tell-tale coughs that indicated Lambert’s exit from the bathroom and, judging from the fact that the sound was getting louder, he hadn’t then made the left turn down his own hallway — he was coming their way.

  Michelle turned to see for herself. Lambert, who earlier had seemed under the weather but functional, was now stumbling along, face firmly pressed into his handkerchief, barely holding himself upright against the wall. His suit jacket was only a memory, and his white shirt was translucent with sweat.

  Lambert nearly fell as he crossed the threshold into their office. He doubled over, his gut pushing his suspenders to their breaking point, and hacked something that even he found disgusting into his latest handkerchief, a brown one that didn’t match anything else he was wearing.

  “Salvisa,” he rasped when he had gotten over his fit.

  “What about him?” Madison asked.

  “Any word?”

  “No. Nothing about Salvisa.” Madison looked over to her assistant. “Michelle, can you go to Lambert’s office? See if you can help Donnie and Cal out a little?”

  Michelle balked, and Lambert coughed. “What are you sending her away for?” he said angrily.

  “Michelle, please.”

  Michelle took a couple of steps toward the door, then looked back at Madison with raised eyebrows. The two held eye contact for a moment, then, when Lambert doubled over in another coughing fit, Madison raised her jacket, giving Michelle a glimpse of the ever-present handgun. Michelle nodded and left.

  “And shut the door, please,” Madison called after her.

  Chapter 6: All A’s

  Stacy, Celia, and Andy had found a row of seats almost in the dead center of the auditorium. The room was built to house a few hundred but was not even half full, even with the number of parents still around.

  “Zombie movies,” Barry Lowensen was saying, “were terrible.” As he spoke, he paced the room, ignoring the podium at the front except for an occasional stop-and-lean. He kept one hand in his pocket; the other waved in front of him, driving his various points home. Though his topic was grave, and the parents listening squirmed uncomfortably, everything he said was with a smile, almost a wink.

  “Their zombies were so different from what they turned out to be. Part of why we weren’t ready. Some made them out like they were hyper-fast, super-agile, mega-strong. Others made them like turtles with arms. But neither way makes any sense, does it?

  “Think about it — all Z’s are are infected people. Dead, sure. But infected, and people nonetheless. So wouldn’t they move like people? The only plodding or stumbling was due to people whose infections were based on leg injuries or other balance issues. No, the differences between their appearance and ours was more subtle. But once you saw it, you could never miss it again. The eyes.

  “A Z’s eyes are white — the pupil, cornea, everything. Shades of white. Some think this means Z’s see only in black and white. I don’t know. Don’t see how it matters. All I know is that a Z looking back at you is one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, stopping and pointing with his free hand toward Celia. She stared back, confused, until she realized he was actually pointing to the kid next to her — a scraggly haired, dirty kid with dark sunglasses that were the same shade as his almost-black hair. “Those. Off. No sunglasses at school. Far as I’m concerned, no sunglasses anywhere. I can’t see your eyes, I might be in trouble. And I don’t want to be in trouble. So do me a favor, no sunglasses, and eyes forward as much as possible.”

  The kid shrugged and removed the shades, though he kept his eyes for the most part down at his desk. Barry watched him and scowled briefly, but went on. Celia watched the kid for slightly longer. On the small tray table he had unfolded before him, he was drawing a picture. There was a person standing upright in the center, though it pretty clearly had a chunk taken out of its neck. It wore a T-shirt that read “Z’s rule.” All around it were smaller bodies, ones that looked clean, untouched.

  Celia rolled her eyes. She knew there were some people who had grown to love the idea of zombies, just as there had been Nazi lovers as recently as 2010. But she couldn’t understand why.

  “Their arms were out in front of them, because they reached,” the teacher went on. “Always reaching. And they didn’t clean up. If blood dripped or mud splattered, that was where it stayed. And really, from any kind of distance, that was the significant indicator.

  “Even subconsciously, you and I, we brush away debris on our bodies. But not them. I remember one —” he went on, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the increased squirming by some of the uncomfortable parents. “I remember one that had this huge clump of dirt or mud or something right on his forehead. Sucker must’ve been a full inch thick. I was on this roof for a while, and all I could focus on was this Z and his face clump. It’s amazing the things you dwell on, but I just could not stand it. First time I got the chance, that’s the first one I took a bullet to.”
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  Celia glanced around and saw a few parents nod their agreement with Barry’s assessment. “Also,” he said. “They’ll eat anything with flesh. Except each other, for reasons we never could quite work out. It doesn’t matter if you’re alive or dead — so long as you aren’t reanimated, all you are is a tasty snack. But, and this is the big thing, they always prefer live meat. So if you come across a group that is chowing down on a dead boy, don’t think you can sneak by, that they’ll be satisfied with a stationary meal. They’ll come after you. The thrill of the hunt,” he added, with a mirthless chuckle that sounded completely unlike the one he had offered in the dorm.

  “If, heaven forbid,” he said, growing more stern, “the Z’s ever do return, you need to know how to face them. But perhaps more importantly, you need to know who to trust. And who not to.

  “I hate that I have to stress this, but it’s a simple truth of the human condition that some of us are not altruistic, some of us won’t protect anyone but ourselves. Now, it’s one thing to refuse to let someone into your hideout for fear of running out of food. That’s understandable, if frustrating. But if, God forbid, the Z’s ever do return, that’s not the worst thing you’ll see. There will be people out there who will shoot humans and zombies alike, shoot anything moving, just to keep themselves alive.

  “Their thinking,” Lowensen said, shaking his head and offering a frown at the idea, “is that the fewer other humans that are out there, the less the zombies will have to eat, and the sooner they’ll die or starve into immobility, or something. I have to admit that it’s probably a true idea, but that doesn’t make it any less cowardly. If we’re willing to wantonly kill humans, I don’t see how we’re any better than the zombies.”