Afterlife (Book 1): Home Again

by Lonergan, Cai

  "Give me the bat." I say weakly.

  "What? No." he shakes his head.

  I feel sick. "Give me the bat, I'll get rid of her."

  He shakes his head.

  "Do you have another bathroom?"

  He shakes his head again.

  "It’s my fault. Give me the bat, before she gets in." I take two steps forward and hold out my hand.

  The man, looking down at his hands, doesn’t say anything. Tears start falling from the corner of his eyes.

  I move forward and gently put my hand on the bat.

  "Come on." I say, and tug the bat. He pulls back, but without any real force.

  "Let me do it." I say, and pull the bat away steadily.

  The man looks at his empty hands for a moment, then turns around and walks back into the living room. He sinks into an armchair.

  I watch him settle down into the chair and put his face in his hands before I turn to face the bathroom door. Super.

  I take two deep breaths and pull the door open.

  I was wrong. Time is not of the essence. Mary is caught halfway through the window. She's cut up her midsection and the leftover glass on the window frame is slicing further into her stomach. Blood is dripping down the eggshell tile. She pauses twitching for a moment as she registers my presence and tries to raise her head. Then she makes the choking noise I keep hearing and spits on the floor.

  The spit is a deep, deep red. There are strange black lumps in the red puddle. The sight of the small pile of gore on the shiny, clean floor sticks in my mind, and it hurts. My ankle hurts, my shoulder hurts, my palms hurt and my throat hurts. My eyes are stinging. I cough and my throat briefly seizes.

  I'm very angry. Livid. I raise up the bat and bring it down on Mary's head. Her head is knocked sideways briefly, but otherwise she doesn't react to the blow. I try to hit her harder, and I can hear the man in the other room crying out with each crack of the bat against her skull. It takes five more hits before I hear a satisfying crunch and Mary falls limp.

  At the moment of its death, my mind clears. I look away from the body, deeply sick. My right shoulder is throbbing around the bite mark and when I yank the collar of my shirt down I yelp sharply. The teeth marks are all black and the surrounding skin is a vicious purple.

  I let go of the fabric and hang my head. I immediately become dizzy and sway lightly on my feet.

  I start crying and begin coughing again. Every breath still tastes like smoke. How much poison is sitting inside me right now?

  Blood is spattered all over the wall and sink. I look down and see drops of red on my jeans and shirt. In the mirror, I can see tiny flecks of blood, small crimson freckles. I always wanted freckles. A frown of frickin'... freckles.

  I choke again and cough. I turn to the sink and run the water, but it's all I can do to keep down a single mouthful of water. I must be exhausted if I can't even drink water.

  I wash my face and hands before dealing with the body still lying halfway in and halfway out of the bathroom. Blood is dripping down from the window and beginning to pool on the tile next to the toilet.

  That will stain the grout.

  I push the thing’s chest with the end of the bat so it slips out of the window and collapses into a heap. I rinse the bat off in the sink and use toilet paper to dry it off in order to avoid getting blood on the towels.

  I pull the right side of my neckline up over the purple blotch and walk back out of the bathroom to see the old man standing with an aluminum bat, eyeing me warily.

  I toss the wooden bat I had borrowed onto the living room carpet and wearily roll up the legs of my jeans. I rotate my legs back and forth, indicating one ankle and then the other for his scrutiny. The old man lets his arms fall to his side, the shiny aluminum of his bat reflecting the overhead light.

  "Look, I'm going to-" I motion toward the couch and walk towards it. As I lie down with my head on the armrest, the old man sinks back down into his armchair, staring straight forward toward the bathroom.

  "It's really - there's a lot of blood." I say.

  Nothing.

  "I'm Angela." I say.

  The man doesn't say anything back, which is fine. I stare at the living room wall, shivering and coughing until I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 8

  I wake up much later, the glow of sunlight from behind the curtain is gone.

  I can feel slime on my cheek. Drooling in my sleep. Classy.

  I wipe the mess from my cheek, looking around self-consciously. There's a dull orange glow from a streetlight straining through the curtains, but as I turn my head and inspect my surroundings all I can tell is that nobody is in the living room with me.

  I listen carefully but don't hear anything. Where did the old man go?

  I sit up, but the hallway is a dark rectangle and I don't feel like testing out any lights. The living room has windows on every side and I can't help but think a cozy suburban glow will attract the wrong attention. A tug from my bladder tells me what to do next.

  First door on the left in the hallway. I cross the living room and wince as my hiking boots clunk on the hardwood flooring in front of the bathroom. I lock the door and fumble around in the dim outside light. The glass! I search the tile floor with my boots, but from what I can tell every trace of glass and blood has been removed from the bathroom.

  The old man must have cleaned up. That was thoughtful.

  Even the broken glass around the inner window frame was removed. I look out the window briefly and then whirl away, gasping. It's still down there, the body with a broken skull. The skull that I...with a baseball bat.

  After catching my breath, I look around the bathroom.

  I find the towels in a recessed cabinet near the door. I bring a towel to the window, then tuck two corners between the window frames. I push the inner frame as high as possible, and let the rest of the towel cover the window. After I repeat the process with a second towel and spread it around the frame as widely as possible, I flick on the light.

  "Ah!" I flinch at my reflection, and my throat burns.

  I reach up to touch the long trail of red blood smeared down my cheek to my neck and jump as I discover more bright red down the back of my hand. Was this what I looked like after I killed that thing? I remember washing my hands.

  I went to bed...and drooled in my sleep. Then I wiped my cheek.

  Oh, no. No, please, Smoke? Does breathing smoke do this? Please, not the - the other thing.

  I stare dumbly at the red streak painting my cheek. It isn't that. It's the smoke. Not - well, if it is... I don't think - aaaAAHH!

  “aaa.” I groan quietly.

  I turn on the faucet and start washing my face and hands, and then rinse out my mouth thoroughly. I feel a little better and realize how thirsty I am. I drink from the faucet greedily, and then look around.

  I want a cup but the thought of exploring a strange house in the dark is terrifying.

  I open the cabinets above the sink and reassess the old man. Everything is organized beautifully: medications, bandages, empty orange prescription containers, extra toothbrushes and three blue cups with wavy ridges around their sides. I examine the top cup and cannot find a speck of dust, much less a stain.

  I take it and slowly drink several full cups of water. After a long time, I feel stronger and able to think more clearly.

  For instance. I need to use the restroom and have been standing next to a toilet for ten minutes.

  I pull down my pants and sit down. Relief, I haven't been able to use the restroom since my house burnt down and I had to run away from zombies!

  I suppress a hysterical giggle with one hand.

  "Oh, geez." I say shakily, grimacing and shaking my head. I cross my arms and lean forward onto my knees. Then I freeze.

  "Ohhh, come on!" I say, squinting down at a tiny red spot on my panties.

  "Not the time!" I scold my womb. I didn’t see anything I can use in the medicine cabinet, and my tampons are out in the backyard
. Unless the box burned up in the fire.

  I glance around the bathroom, looking for a plan.

  Tampons, clothes-no, I have to clean the sofa first. That man seems like he will react badly to a bloody sofa.

  I fold up a wad of toilet paper for the short term and finish my business in the restroom.

  I know how to get out blood. A trick, from the days of nosebleeds.

  I soak one of the bleached-white washcloths in water, wring it out and click off the light. I open the bathroom door and come face to face with a massive shadow looming right in front of me.

  CHAPTER 9

  I can't help screaming a choked gasp of terror and I stumble backwards and fall down, landing hard against the toilet.

  "Whoa there, missy! Gerald! It's Gerald!"

  Okay. His name is Gerald.

  I have one elbow on the toilet and one leg up in the air to kick away any horrible, horrible undead people.

  "fffFuuaaahhh!" I explain. Rather calmly, in my opinion. "What the hell?"

  "I was curious why you had the light on." says a dark mass, stepping forward.

  "No!" I shout, and the shadow stops. "Just...wait a-" I push myself up and smack the light switch with the tips of my fingers from as far away as possible.

  A middle-aged man, Gerald, with a pronounced paunch and a round chin is standing in front of me in a sky blue bathrobe.

  "No! The - oh, a towel. Good idea." Gerald nods thoughtfully.

  "Two. What the hell?" I ask.

  "I was really worried about the light." he explains, and shrugs.

  "Uh, so knock?" My heart is pounding and I can feel my hands trembling.

  Gerald knits his eyebrows together and looks down. "Oh. I thought - I mean - I didn't have to go."

  He looks back up at me.

  "Are you-" I begin.

  "What’s the washcloth for?" he asks, pointing at the damp rag in my left hand.

  Oh, right. It's not for cleaning up blood I puked all over your couch! "I think I got some blood on your couch; I didn't wash my hands well enough yesterday."

  Gerald backs up with a jolt and his eyes widen. He runs into the living room and flips on the lights.

  Light flooded the hallway. I rush out to find Gerald studying the stain on his couch.

  "This is bad, this is not okay!" Gerald is staring at the stain and gesticulating wildly.

  "What?"

  "I need bleach and-"

  "I can get it out." I say.

  "No, it'll stain, it'll stain!" he says too loudly.

  "Shh!"

  Thump.

  Gerald leaps away from the glass doors beside the sofa he was throwing a tantrum next to, then turns to point at me as they rattle in their frame. I turn off the lights.

  "They can smell it! It's your fault! They can smell it!"

  "Shut up!" I snap loudly. "It's the light, I turned off the light, shut up!”

  "They know, they can smell it, they can smell it." he mutters to himself, shaking his head.

  Thump.

  “It’s okay, Gerald.” I say.

  I take his arm and lead Gerald to his armchair – thump - as I quietly explain what I'm doing. "Sit down, Gerald, and wait a minute. Don’t talk, I think they need to see or hear us. It'll be gone soon.”

  Thump.

  I walk back to the sofa - thump - I had been sleeping on, which is much closer to the racket than I'd like to be.

  Thump.

  Gerald is shaking his head violently, but he is staying quiet.

  I place the washcloth on the dark spot I had drooled earlier and let the water soak into the fabric.

  Thump.

  Please go away.

  After a couple of minutes and only one more thump, I shift the cloth and let the next clean spot soak the fabric more.

  Gerald suddenly snaps up his head and rises into a crouch. He takes a wide step toward me - thump - and freezes. By the time he makes it over to the couch, I've shifted the cloth again.

  "What are you using?" he whispers, staring down at the cloth.

  "You actually don't need anything to clean cloth." I explain. "Just soak the material and apply pressure. Move the cloth every couple minutes. It takes a little while."

  "Hm." Gerald sits back, put his hands on his knees, and watches the cloth.

  "My mom did this whenever I had a nosebleed when I was younger." I whisper. I tactfully neglect to mention the times it has helped me cope with other monthly issues.

  Gerald continues to stare at the washcloth, watching carefully as I shift the position of the cloth and press down firmly every minute or so.

  I had been sleeping for a long time, so the blood soaked pretty deeply into the fabric. I have to get up once to rinse out the rag, but the thumping has finally stopped and from the moment I return until the offending spot has been completely leeched off of the couch, Gerald and I sit in silence.

  After I tell him it was done, Gerald pulls himself forward and scrutinizes the couch as closely as possible under the filtered orange of the streetlamp outside.

  "Wow, I have got to tell Gladys. She does all the cleaning."

  "Gladys?"

  Gerald nods his head. "My wife, upstairs. Safer for her up there, you know? Maybe tomorrow you can meet her. Well - she'll be after me for spending time with a younger woman." He chuckles to himself harmlessly and I feel uncomfortable. "I'll head back up. Have a nice night...Andrea?

  "Angela. Angie. Good night, see you tomorrow."

  Gerald pushes roughly to his feet and nods. "Alright." He walks away down the hall, opens a door down the hallway and then walks back. He returns with an armful of sheets and holds them out to me.

  "Here are some sheets. Good night. Do you need a pillow?"

  "I don't think so, thank you. These are fine." I tell him, holding up the sheets.

  "Okay." Gerald walks away down the hallway, then returns with a pillow.

  "Here you are. Just in case. Good night. Are you all set?"

  "Yes, thanks. Good night."

  "Alright, good night. Night." Gerald turns around and walks down the hallway, then I hear him walking upstairs.

  I exhale deeply and cough lightly. His wife.

  I return to the bathroom to look for feminine products but come up empty-handed again. Gerald is older, Gladys probably is as well. Menopause.

  I think about the box of tampons I left outside with my clothes.

  Thump, I remind myself.

  Wait until morning.

  I switch out the wad of toilet paper to be safe and then remember my shoulder.

  I pull down my neckline again and am relieved to see that the large bruise is not as bad as I thought. I can still see bright green veins, but none of my skin hurts too much and none of the bruise is poking out past my collar.

  Heartened, I shut off the bathroom light and return to the living room. I lay down on the sofa. I hug the pillow, solely as a tribute to Pudge, and try to relax.

  I feel so on edge that closing my eyes is physically uncomfortable and I shift onto my side. I already slept all day, no time for bedtime. Daydream...

  CHAPTER 10

  I wake up and look around. It's morning and I am thirsty. I get up and quickly dash into the bathroom. I drain several cups of cool, refreshing water, then replace my ersatz hygiene product with more toilet paper. I have to go get my tampons. I can't smell my shirt, but I could probably use a change of clothes as well.

  I point my toes and roll my right ankle, which is still sore but doesn’t feel as bad as it did when I was suffering from exhaustion and smoke inhalation.

  I pull my collar away from my neck and study the small pink marks left from the attack. Only a couple scabs are left, although there is a thick yellow crust around their edges. The skin tone is almost normal again. It's really healing!

  Suddenly, I notice a familiar and delicious smell wafting through the air.

  "No way."

  A thick sizzling ramps up in volume and I'm sure. I leave the restroom and
walk quickly down the hallway to find Gerald wearing a chef's apron over his bathrobe and a hairnet.

  He turns around and smiles when he sees me entering the kitchen.

  "Good morning there, Angela!" says Gerald brightly. "I hope you like bacon!"

  I gape at the sizzling strips in the pan. "Yeah, I don’t hate it." I say, and smile brightly.

  "Take a seat, please!" Gerald motions to a particular chair at the table, where three plates and sets of silverware are neatly arranged. A slice of toast with a pat of butter sits on each plate

  I look around. "Where'd you get bacon?"

  "Oh, it's been in the freezer for weeks. I was waiting out this whole-situation to be over. But Gladys suggested we eat the rest this morning since the electricity keeps blinking on and off. Not to mention we have a guest!" Gerald chuckles and nods at me.

  "Wow, thanks. I feel so lucky. I've been eating processed crap for... weeks, I think. I've sort of lost track of time, what's the date?"

  "Sorry we don't have any eggs, but they don't keep so they were gone after the first few days of, uh..."

  I sputter out a protest that I was extremely grateful for what he and Gladys were sharing with me and felt lucky to be eating anything.

  Gerald slides the bacon from the front pan onto a thick sheet of paper towels. He turns to the refrigerator and flips through a calendar. "8th. September.”

  Geez. Close to three weeks now since this started. Since we were locked in our classrooms, anyway.

  "Well, I hope you're hungry, I'm just going to cook the rest of the bacon now.” He nods at the bacon. “Electric stove, and I sure can't build a fire, haha! Here we go." He slides four thick pieces of bacon on top of the toast and I can barely restrain myself.

  Gerald gestures at the meal.

  "Eat up while everything's hot. Oh! Speaking of-" Gerald wipes his hands on his apron and jogs over to a little cabinet. He pulls out three mugs and I jump up to help.

  The coffee pot is full and has been whispering sweet, bitter nothings to me since I entered the kitchen.

  "No, no-" Gerald begins to wave away my offered assistance.