Life After: The Void

by Bryan Way

  “It doesn’t matter…”

  “Yes it does!”

  “No it doesn’t!” Rich continues. “Bad shit happens all the time… yeah, it’s worse now than ever… you don’t get pissed that it happens, you accept it and move on… because that’s the only thing you can do.”

  “Yeah, well, I get angry about it…”

  “So you admit that you’re stuck on anger?” Ally asks.

  “I’m not stuck on anger…”

  “You can’t even admit it…” Melody says, exasperated.

  “Alright, fine, I’m ‘stuck on anger’… that’s what you think, that’s what you wanna hear, fine…”

  “No…” Helen starts.

  “Shut. Up. What about you? Bitching your way out of responsibility, sittin’ in the security room all day on your fat ass… and Ally, you’re working on your goddamn thesis… for what? You’re not getting a diploma… you’ll never be a real shrink! Anderson, you’re not in Guard anymore, and no one cares what you did there… Rich can’t get over the bum thing… Rob’s eating up supplies… but somehow, I’m the problem. Yeah, I’m angry, I accept that… I fucking embrace it.”

  “…you’re still not dealing with it.” Ally starts. “There’s no way out of it for you. You can’t embrace it forever. Sooner or later… you have to get past it.”

  “You know… I’ll do that when the rest of you ‘get past it’. Until then… leave me the fuck alone.”

  I take advantage of the silence, grabbing my dinner and marching back to my room. What a load of shit. I can’t believe they had the nerve to sit down and pretend I’m the only one with a problem. I pound through my meal and try playing my keyboard, but their little talk just sapped me of the ability to feel anything but rage. I’m sure they’d tell me there’s something wrong with me for even thinking that, but what do they know? They’re lying to themselves about this anyway.

  I jump up and pound my fist into a cabinet until the wood snaps. I grab my computer keyboard and break it over my knee, blasting the letters and numbers across the floor like plastic teeth from a dusty mouth. I let out a scream that holds out until a headache forces me to stop, sending me staggering across the room, slipping through the piles of paper. My eyes pinch shut and I grab my forehead, trying and failing to make it go away. Those sons of bitches have no idea what I’ve gone through. No one had to kill anyone the way I did with Don, or John Squared. No one looked in the eyes of the person they loved to say goodbye. No one had to listen to their brother get ripped to shreds on the phone.

  My face gnarls as the tears rush out of my eyes. I lose all conception of time and space as wave after wave of traumatic images flood my brain. I heard my brother get disemboweled. Any sense of rage or denial I felt over his death is quickly overcome by crippling guilt. My limp body hits the floor and I cry so hard I begin to feel as though I’m trapped in a furnace, like my flesh is becoming so raw I could tear out of it. Autopilot takes over in my brain, seeing me slither over to the door and lock it as though someone else is pulling my strings.

  I crawl back into the mess of strewn papers and curl up in a ball. John Squared. My brother. Julia. So vulnerable, just flesh, blood, and bone. I’ve heard the idiom flesh and blood thousands of times, but I’ve never thought about my flesh being touched in places that make me cringe; my neck, my love handles, my thighs, and how those reflexes would respond to teeth closing in.

  Dave tried to bargain with a plague. The fight was futile and he knew it. His final gambit relied on the optimistic notion that the dead could be reasoned with, shown the savagery of their ways, but his flesh became nothing more than a barrier to protect his blood. I shudder to think his final thoughts were anger and fear directed at me, but I know the reality is that he would have done anything to live, including trading places with me.

  Still crying, I wince as I imagine teeth gripping a full chunk of his flesh and tearing it away as he looks down to see a red puddle pooling up in the wound, flowing freely from the raw meat. I remember how John Squared tried to put himself back together, and imagine myself in his place as he watched his intestines slithering out, trying to figure out which part to grab as the undead tried to pull it away.

  For centuries, humanity has addressed death with a variety of masks, and in the past hundred years, we’ve succeeded in pushing mortality farther and farther away from imminent certainty through the engaging static of confectionary distractions. Buy our product. Watch our program. Eat at our restaurant. Vacation at our beach. Get married. Have kids. Now the undead have stripped them away, revealing the embodied face of death: inexplicable, unavoidable, and meaningless, defying every scientific precept while defiling the peace and closure offered by our mortality. The undead are the abyss where reason dies.

  In the midst of my slobbering insanity, I find the willpower to move, dragging my body to the computer so I can grab my phone and dial the number for my parent’s hotel. After a cursory interlude with the hotel staff, I’ve got my mom on the line.

  “Jeff?”

  “Mom…”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry…” I sob.

  “Jeff, what is it?! What happened?”

  “I just… I miss you…”

  She opens up instantly, and I follow suit.

  “I’d give anything to be with you.”

  “Mom, I just… I want to be home with you and dad… I just want it to be okay again… I wanna go home…”

  “I love you so much…”

  “I love you too… I don’t know what I’m doing…” I can’t stop crying. “I wanna… I wanna know it’s gonna be alright… I just wanna go home.”

  I lose the rest of the conversation as I start hyperventilating, but I’m certain that I don’t fess up about Dave. Before long, we’ve said our goodbyes, and I manage to crawl into bed, where I attempt to lose myself in my pillows. My body is on fire. My ribs ache, my eyes burn, my throat is dry, and worst of all, I know I’ve been a terrible person. The furnace in which I’ve trapped myself just gets hotter, and when the flames crest, I feel an indescribably excruciating pain moments before I black out.

  12-24-04, FRIDAY

  I have absolutely no desire to be awake. I can tell by the windows that the sun has barely risen just as I identify a deep, reverberating thumping sound. My head still hurts, I didn’t sleep right, and I still don’t feel like I belong here, but I launch myself out of bed for what I know must be a helicopter. I don’t stop to get dressed as I excitedly unlock the door and spill out into the cold hallway where I see Anderson, dressed in his fatigues and traipsing toward the northernmost corner of the building as if possessed.

  I follow him into the classroom as the sound increases in volume. “Coming from the west… Chinook… maybe two.” Anderson mutters. I look behind us to see everyone in the group except for Rob standing outside 218. “Grey…” It takes me a moment to recognize Anderson saying my name.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “AlCon one. No radios, cell phones off. Tell Rich to prep for evacuation.”

  “…evacuation!?”

  “Just prep. And bring me binoculars.”

  I nod as he stands like a statue with his fists resting on his waist, then rush back to the group. “What’s going on?” Mursak asks while the rest of them mumble incomprehensibly. “Rich…” I get his attention, walking back into the keep with the entire group clambering behind me. Rich emerges as I stand by the weapons closet. “I need you to open the door.” He nods, reaching into his pocket to produce the key while the voices of the group reach a nervous fever pitch. I lock eyes on Elena, then Jimmy, both of whom look appropriately scared. The sound of the blades is almost on top of us.

  “Alright, everyone, AlCon one. No radios, turn your cell phones off. Prep for evacuation…” Their reaction is more confused than mine. “…you know what that means… travel clothes, backpacks, weapons loaded. Mursak, Jake, Melody, get the pallet truck, move the emergency rations to the southeast exit. Helen
, monitor… Karen, I need you to get Rob ready to move… Ally, get the kids ready, but keep them calm… Rich, where are the binoculars?”

  “Security office.”

  “Alright… Rich…”

  I turn back to see the group staring at me. “Guys, now…” They scatter off to their beds. As Rich gets the door open, I step inside with him.

  “Rich… I need you to oversee.”

  “…what about you?”

  “Anderson’ll tell me where to go. If we’re not using radios, you and I are the relays… you see who needs help and assess the status, I report Anderson’s commands.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Chinook.”

  “What’s that mean?” He asks.

  “It’s a military transport helicopter.”

  Rich smiles as I take my weapons and head down the hall to the security office. Once I have the binoculars, I rush back to my room and see Mursak and Jake heading out of 218. “Make sure all the lights are out and stay away from the windows!” I shout out over the chopper blades as the two of them run down the steps. I return to my room, get dressed, turn off my cell phone, and run back to Anderson with the binoculars. Everything in the room shakes as a heavy black shadow crests over the side of the school. A moment later, the body of a long, tandem rotor helicopter, pointed toward the football field, slides into view. It’s carting an enormous trailer underneath.

  “What’s going on!?” I shout in Anderson’s ear.

  “They’re looking for an LZ!”

  “What do we do?!”

  “Wait!”

  We watch the Chinook continue to ease forward for a moment, eventually speeding up and heading northwest. True to Anderson’s prediction, another long shadow swirls off the edge of the roof and aims for the football field.

  “Looks like a D, but I’ve never seen one like that before…”

  “What!?”

  “D, it’s a 47D, but it looks different!”

  We drop our voices as we watch the massive helicopters circle the soccer field just to the northwest of the football field and start descending behind the trees. “What the…” I start. Anderson has the binoculars glued to his eyes, remaining silent for several minutes as the trees continue to sway toward us before the rotors finally stop. By comparison, it is now dead quiet.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “You want me to guess?”

  “Well, Jesus, do we go out there?”

  “We don’t know why they’re here.”

  “It’s not a rescue op?”

  “Who are they rescuing?” Anderson asks. “They don’t know we’re here. If it was a rescue they’d send more than two hooks.”

  “What if they…”

  “Shh!”

  I look out toward the field, but I can’t see anything other than trees at this distance. Anderson’s jaw drops.

  “What, what?”

  “We’ve got… a dozen guys in hazmat suits… infantry… about thirty or forty… wearing masks… is that an A2?”

  “What?”

  “Humvee… looks like a… M1025A2” Anderson mutters.

  “…what?”

  “Never seen one like that… it’s towing a… I dunno… looks like a… trailer or something… maybe a mobile shelter…”

  I can now see the soldiers and hazmat suits followed by a Humvee heading up the road that connects the football field, the cemetery, and the back parking lot. Once they reach the cemetery, they promptly turn right and walk through the gate. The Humvee stops just ahead of the cemetery gate and someone detaches it from the trailer.

  “That’s it.” Anderson mumbles.

  “What?”

  “They’re checking the cemetery.”

  “Why?”

  “If you knew Zombies came from one cemetery, wouldn’t you want to check it out?”

  “…so the hazmats are CDC…”

  “That trailer’s a mobile lab… I’d put money on that.”

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  “Wait!”

  I have to squint to make it out, but I can see one of the soldiers giving instructions to several others, and a small detachment rushes off to the football field.

  “God… dammit…” Anderson mutters.

  “What, what?!”

  “In about a minute they’re gonna have a sniper on that bird’s nest.”

  “…what bird’s nest?!”

  “Press box. By the time they get up there we’re not gonna have eyes. They’re pooling at the gate… ahh… one of ‘em’s breaking off this way. Probably recon… that’s weird…”

  “What?” I ask after a moment.

  “I’ve never seen ‘em put one guy on recon… special forces… 193?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “193rd SOW… ANG from PA… they’re usually just psych ops…”

  His eyes stay glued to the binoculars while I stare at him in utter confusion. Finally, I turn to see two soldiers scale the bleachers.

  “They’re almost at the press box.” I say.

  “Thank god we didn’t turn the heat on.”

  “…what?”

  “He’s got a thermal scope…”

  “…should we move?”

  “He’s not in position yet.” Anderson mumbles.

  “Can’t they see through walls?”

  “…no. We move when I say we move.”

  I take a few steps toward the door. I can feel my heart pounding in my eye. I don’t even have the slightest idea what’s in store, but I’m terrified that the Humvee is just going to start shooting at the school. Why would they do that? I have no idea. Anderson continues staring out the window, making me more and more terrified that I’m going to watch a plume of blood snap out of the back of his head.

  “Je-sus Christ…” Anderson burbles.

  “What?!”

  “I know him…”

  The sniper and the soldier I assume to be his spotter have just finished scaling the ladder to get on top of the press box.

  “We gotta move…”

  “I know ‘im!” Anderson repeats.

  “Now!”

  Anderson turns tail and flees toward the door and I follow closely behind him. Anderson shuts the door gently by placing his hand on the bottom and easing it closed. He backs away and puts himself against the concrete outside of the doorway. Though I’m breathing heavily with my eyes closed, I can still hear him turn to me.

  “I know that guy.”

  “What? Who?” I ask.

  “The guy headed for the school… I fuckin’ know him.”

  “How?”

  “Six months ago the Guard brought in specials ops over a weekend… like, war game shit… I was trained in recon, so I buddied up with their guy… and he’s out there.”

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  “How many people you meet in the 193rd PA ANG with a name like Tech Sergeant Yoxtheimer?” He asks.

  “…alright… okay… so what do we do?”

  Anderson thinks for a moment.

  “You got a piece of paper?”

  “I… tons…”

  “Get me one… and a marker…”

  I pop up and keep my head down, running off toward my room. I grab the first sheet I can find, locate a permanent marker, and run out to Anderson. He writes something on the paper and rushes downstairs. I rush after him in an adrenaline fueled daze, spotting Mursak and Jake as they pull a massive pallet of MREs and water down the hallway toward the gate.

  “What’s going on?” Mursak calls out.

  “Keep your mouth shut and stay away from the windows!” Anderson shouts.

  “Keep your guns on you and drop ‘em if we get soldiers in here.” I call after him.

  “Smart move.” Anderson confirms.

  “It’s what you’d do.”

  Anderson starts folding up the paper as I follow him through the cafeteria. He unblocks the doorway that leads to the naked alley through which I once l
ead half a dozen scared teenagers, opens the door, and slowly peeks out. After a moment, he pulls it shut.

  “Alright, we’ve got about ninety seconds until he hits that seam…” Anderson says, referring to the gap between the cafeteria and the gym. “Press box has no visibility… I need you looking out the gym doors on that side to monitor. Through the glass… do not open ‘em. I dunno if this is gonna work, but if I go down, you pull everyone on the bus and move out.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me. Move. Now!”

  I bolt toward the kitchen, run through the back entrance, and negotiate the gate separating me from the gym hallways in enough time to see Anderson stealthily make his way through the cafeteria door and down the steps. The paper I gave him is folded up in an airplane cocked behind his head, which he throws casually so it sails underneath the bus blocking the exit and kisses the blacktop a few feet beyond. Once it hits, Anderson slowly stretches his arms out, places them behind his head, and eases down on his knees, letting his butt hit the ground so he can see under the bus.

  My breath is shallowing, so I reach into my pocket and take a hit off my inhaler, doing my best not to fog the glass. Anderson’s mouth starts moving, so I press my forehead against the window to get a better look at the bus, seeing nothing. Anderson comes to his feet just as the barrel of an assault rifle with a vertical forward grip comes into view, and I instinctively flinch at the possibility of Anderson getting shot.

  From what I can tell, Anderson says nothing. After a moment, the weapon lowers; its owner, presumably Yoxtheimer, raises his gas mask and steps forward. Anderson speaks again, and I can sense from his expressions that Yoxtheimer does indeed know him. He looks back, then returns his gaze to Anderson. I hear a noise to my left and turn to see Melody standing on the other side of the gate. I hold my hand out, raising my index finger to my mouth. She holds out her arms to signal her understanding.