Life After: The Void

by Bryan Way

  8:02. Surely Rob isn’t happy about something, and he seems like the type of person to take up these cowardly tactics in an effort to pay his displeasure forward. When the news banner appears accompanied by triumphant music, I feel a tad guilty.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman, this is Wyatt Hays bringing you a special broadcast. Traditionally our network has avoided editorial comment in favor of objectivity in the nightly news, but we recognize the importance of transparency, now more than ever. It has been several days since we last televised a live report, and though we would like to remain on the air throughout the day and night, we must first ensure the security of our staff, and indeed the very building we occupy during this crisis. We endeavor to provide you, our viewers, with a standard of news worthy of your attention, and we hope to continue to do so indefinitely.”

  Wyatt rotates in his chair to face a different camera, allowing an appropriate transition for the graphic of an explosion appearing in the upper left portion of the screen.

  “Our top story tonight is a continuation of our report on the explosions in Eastern Europe. Scattered accounts of radiation sickness have been confirmed; the explosion in Romania was, in fact, a nuclear weapon. Though it was not suspected at first, the lack of reporting from the area due to a presumed electromagnetic pulse has been officially addressed by members of the Russian government. Bucharest, both the capital and largest city of the country, was struck by an airburst from a Russian SS-25 Sickle, an 800 kiloton ICBM, at approximately 12:30am local time on December 21st, following an exodus that included much of the city’s surviving population. According to our sources in the Russian government, the fallout is not expected to cause significant health problems outside the region, but of greater concern is the success or failure of this detonation in destroying or incapacitating the bodies of the recently dead, which may spur other countries to explore a nuclear option in densely populated areas. A press conference was convened at the White House earlier today, where Secretary of State Colin Powell took the podium… to answer this question.”

  The broadcast switches to previously recorded footage of Colin Powell in the White House pressroom.

  “Let me be clear… our administration has not… and will not consider the use… of nuclear weapons… on American soil.”

  “But if the Bucharest experiment proves that nuclear weapons are effective, will the President reconsider that policy?”

  “We are currently awaiting a full report on this incident from both the Romanian and Russian governments… the American public can rest assured that no decision will be made on this issue until all the facts are in, and that any decision will be made after considerable deliberation and with the clearest judgment. Our greatest fear is that the situation in our country, indeed, all over the world, would necessitate the use… of the greatest weapon ever devised, and no decisions will be made without appropriate calculation. And I must stress again… that we have not considered the use of nuclear weapons on American soil. Thank you.”

  The broadcast returns to Wyatt at the news desk.

  “Secretary of State Powell refused to answer questions regarding the health and location of both President Bush and Vice President Cheney, although it has been previously reported that both have been moved to separate, undisclosed locations for the duration of this crisis. Here to report on the potential dangers presented by the use of nuclear weapons within our continental borders is CDC epidemiologist Lon Miller.”

  “Thanks Wyatt. There can be little doubt that the localized effects of a thermonuclear weapon will devastate an entire city and its population, but the true question is the one in which the Secretary of State is so interested: what effect the irradiation and nuclear fallout will have on the undead. The study of undead physiology has, to this point, become a series of questions that, once answered, only pose exponentially more questions. Is it likely that radiation will affect the undead in much the same way it does healthy people? Yes. Will the effect be as profound? No. Is it a viable solution to the problem? That has yet to be seen, but conventional wisdom says the use of nuclear weapons creates more problems than it solves. An unsuccessful campaign would see thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of undead corpses carrying radioactive particles into lakes and rivers. Wind is generally a good predictor of fallout patterns, but there is no predictive model when it comes to fallout being carried by walking corpses. With no discrete methodology in place to observe these effects, it can be assumed that the radiation exposure levels presented by the unaffected bodies walking the streets pose a larger threat to the general public than previously imagined… if the undead are immune to the effects of radiation, the possibility that radiation sickness could claim healthy people who would then reanimate upon death is our most serious concern. At this point, we have no method of distributing radiation countermeasures such as potassium iodide, filgrastim, Prussian blue, and DTPA to the general public, so short of taking shelter in a lead enforced safe house, there is no available protection from Zombies carrying radioactive particles.”

  Dr. Miller rotates to the left, prompting the camera angle to change as he is accompanied by a vectorized Zombie image accompanied by a receding trail of question marks in his wake.

  “One area that has made the possibility of a positive outcome in the use of nuclear weapons more troubling is the rate of decay in the bodies of the undead… in simple terms, the disruption of the body’s natural autolytic functions, commonly understood as a given cell’s self-digestion upon the death of the host organism, is such that the bodies of the undead are either not decaying, or decaying slowly enough that appreciable decomposition has not been observed… it is possible that radiation could affect this process, but the mechanisms are thus far unknown, and no observed specimens have ceased function due to what one might call ‘natural causes’. Though the expiration date on the undead remains unknown, lab testing has produced some noteworthy results. I… believe Dr. Kimberly Sharp has more.”

  “I do, Dr. Miller. One of the biggest questions at the start of this crisis was whether the Zombie plague manifests as a communicable disease. There can be no doubt that those bitten by the undead are certain to succumb to the same fate, but rigorous testing has proven that no direct contamination is transmissible through water, airborne, or fomite vectors… the flu, for example, is easily transmissible from contact with doorknobs, money, counters, tables or chairs. As it stands, the affliction, which has been termed Undeath Syndrome, is only communicable via direct fluid contact. The blood of the previously affected deceased, whether in their veins or dried outside the body, will retain virulent properties for approximately 24 hours… much like HIV, dried blood carries zero risk of affection. Though this pandemic has brought about almost universally bad news, rigorous testing has recently revealed a standard by which a person can survive potential affection through a bite, scratch, or direct contact with affected blood. This report has been compiled from the behavior of hundreds of patients, some of which have survived unharmed…”

  As she continues speaking, a lump in my throat becomes impossible to dislodge no matter how many times I swallow.

  “A bite to the extremities, such as the lower halves of the arms and legs, will afford a one day gestation period if untreated and as high as a five day gestation period if properly treated, though there is a high possibility of the victim becoming what we refer to as a short-term reanimated specimen, or ‘runner’. Further up the arms and legs cuts that time by roughly a quarter. Bites to the torso yield nearly half a day untreated and as much as two if treated, though the victim transitions into a long-term specimen, or ‘walker’, in 90% of all cases. On the other hand, a bite to the neck offers both a few hours and, at the same time, the chance of escaping infection altogether. Due to the quicker rate of circulation in the carotid artery, blood escaping the wound is just as likely to flush out potential pathogens as to kill the victim through blood loss… this fact alone seems to confirm that the cause of Undeath Syn
drome is some sort of biological pathogen. Though cases of contact with the blood of the undead and the blood of a healthy victim have carried the stigma of presumed affection in the past, the issue has only become muddier with recent testing…”

  The lump solidifies, and now I can’t swallow.

  “…in rare cases where an open wound has been exposed to the blood of the undead, the probability of being affected by Undeath Syndrome drops from close to 100% down to 50%, particularly if the vulnerable wound is on an extremity such as the forearm or calf. With no medical care, the gestation period drops to a week, and with medical care, it could be as high as two weeks, though the victim will exhibit signs of infection well before then…”

  Julia was cut by a scalpel covered with blood, and now I’m being told there’s a 50% chance she could have survived. If I’d flipped a coin, I’d have had an equal chance at the outcome correctly identifying her fate. I gag on my way to the door, and by the time I’ve made it to the bathroom, I’ve begun recycling half-digested crackers and bile into the toilet bowl. What a waste of supplies. What a waste of life.

  The tears explode out of my eyes at some point during another dry heave, and the feeling I’ve struggled to avoid coats my spinal cord before radiating out to my limbs: lying naked in a reeking, squalid dumpster on a rainy night, starving, freezing, sick, soaked to the bone, completely exhausted, losing blood from an infected wound in my stomach and addicted to a drug I can’t identify, sure that I won’t survive to the morning and certain that no one will care when I’m gone.

  When I try to level myself out and aim for the toilet again, my arm gives out and my face slaps down on the cold tile surrounding the porcelain bowl. Was the blood on the scalpel dry or wet? How can I not remember something this significant? A wave a panic shocks me back into self-recognition, but it only lasts long enough to remind me that Julia’s death could have meant nothing.

  It was a mistake. My mistake. Not only do I deserve to be reduced to a bottle of ashes, it should be me stuffed in that depressing little jar. My thoughts return to her naked body crammed into a kiln to be immolated and I cry harder, dining on the abstract notion that a person’s body, in life, carries the essence defined by the contents of their brain. Naked, motionless, stuffed in a furnace, that essence was stripped away by heat and flames, rendering as smoke and ash. Some of her is sure to remain in that kiln. Hopelessness washes through my nervous system, and if I had a gun in my hand, I’d be using it. Before I can explore that line of thinking, I slap myself hard.

  Enough whiny, narcissistic grief. I’m not crying for her, I’m crying because I’m guilty. I loved her. I still love her. I can’t change what happened and crying about it certainly won’t help. Julia’s dead, and she died at peace. Something tells me the rest of us won’t be so lucky. I pick myself up, wash my face off, and return to the group to be greeted by peripheral stares.

  “What’d I miss?” I ask quietly, hoping to reset the subject from my meltdown to current events. “There was a tsunami in the Indian Ocean last night… said it was hard to say how much was affected… now they’re saying the Zombies have almost spread to California…” Jake replies. “And they’ve confirmed that the recently dead return to life after the undead spread to an area, whether they’ve been bitten or not… they think it’s more evidence that they carry some kind of pathogen.” Hoping for more, I turn to the television to find Wyatt Hays apparently in distress. The camera switches to show another reporter, identified as Cyril Diavatopoulos, providing coverage from a warm, sun-washed Santa Monica Boulevard as he describes some pre-recorded segments.

  “… and as you can see behind me, Los Angelenos aren’t taking any chances… wherever possible, barricades are being constructed diagonally as well as vertically to prevent the undead from scaling or gaining leverage on the walls… our remote unit was able to catch up with a few celebs… here we see Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston helping out the volunteer effort underway to restrict one lane of the 101 for emergency use… it, ah… it’s been reported elsewhere that there’s some turmoil with the world’s most popular couple… for years Aniston and Pitt have been considered red-carpet royalty…”

  “Cyril…”

  “…the rare Hollywood romance…”

  “…Cyril… I… why are you reporting this…?”

  “Well, Wyatt, we got this footage earlier today…”

  “No, I’m asking why you’re… what’s the point of reporting this?”

  “It’s just… it’s the news… we’re covering the stories that matter…”

  “That matter? To whom?”

  “The viewers…”

  “Are you telling me the people watching these broadcasts really give a shit about celebrity news? Now?”

  “Yes, I think they do…”

  “While you’re waiting for the first wave to hit the Pacific seaboard and reporting tabloid garbage…”

  “Tabloid?!”

  “Yes, tabloid… those by the Atlantic, and nearly everywhere else in the nation, and around the world, are fighting to protect their homes and families… we are trying…”

  “This is not tabloid reporting, Wyatt…”

  “We’re trying to provide international coverage so our viewers can be informed… that’s the news, Cyril…”

  “That’s right, this is news, and… we’re trying to give our audience something they can identify with…”

  “Celebrity couples on the rocks?”

  “Yes, Wyatt, this is the sort of thing we’ve been reporting for years… it gives people a sense of continuity…”

  “The rest of the world is struggling to survive… thousands of people will be infected today alone, and the people who care about them want to know what they can do to help… we can’t afford to pretend this isn’t happening, and maybe we can’t help, but god dammit, this is the news! We’re going to keep people informed!”

  “And that’s going to help the infected?”

  “A lot more than fucking Hollywood gossip, Cyril. Cut the feed. I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen… I apologize for my language, and for the coverage from our former affiliate in Los Angeles… it’s insulting… and unforgivable, that any newscaster would pepper their reporting with… with… tabloid garbage at a time like this. I’m disgusted… and ashamed… and I apologize, on behalf of newscasters across the country… disgusting… just disgusting… it’s an insult to human life… we’re going to take a moment to collect ourselves, at which point we will return to reporting actual news. We’ll be right back.”

  Following a slow pan out from a wide shot, the screen cuts to color bars accompanied by a sine wave tone. We watch in silence until Anderson turns down the volume. The ensuing calm is decidedly stillborn.

  “So…” Jake clears his throat. “Wanna take bets on how long until they start nuking cities?”

  “Never.” Rich says quickly.

  “They’ll do their tests.” Karen replies.

  “What if they pick Philly for a test?” Jake asks.

  The room stays quiet. My eyes remain fixed on the color bars. “What’s the big deal?” Mel asks after a moment, prompting half of us to turn to her.

  “What?” She continues. “We’re not in Philly…”

  “Yeah, I’m sure the people who lived outside of Hiroshima felt the same way…” Jake snipes.

  “They’re not gonna do it…” Rich insists.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “We wouldn’t survive if we stayed.” Mursak offers.

  “Jesus, they’re not gonna do it!” Rich repeats.

  “If we make plans under that assumption, we might as well dig twelve graves and sleep in ‘em.” I add.

  Karen looks at me crossly, putting an arm around Jimmy.

  “So what…” Mel starts. “If we hear it or something… we move to the basement?”

  “…have you ever seen The Day After?” Rich asks.

  “Oh god…” Karen mutters.

  “You have…” />
  “November ’83… watched it with my parents, slept in the basement for a week.”

  “Wait, isn’t that, like… the global warming movie?” Mel asks.

  “No… it’s about a missile strike in Kansas.” Karen replies.

  “We should watch it…” I continue. “Might be worthwhile.”

  “You have it?”

  “Yeah. I’m a Trekkie… Nick Meyer did the best movies, so I watched his other stuff.”

  “What the hell’s the point?” Jake asks.

  “It’ll save us from having a discussion.” Rich sighs. “It speaks for itself.”

  “Didn’t you just say they weren’t gonna?”

  “Jeff’s right all the same. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”

  “Any objections?” I ask.

  “I’ve seen it…” Karen responds. “I’ll take the kids out.”

  I return to my room for my DVDs, find The Day After, and arrange the exhibition. It strikes me when the bombing begins that the subject matter is too heavy for those already in distress from the apocalypse. As the screening continues, I reason that the injection of this particular evil is unavoidable, but that doesn’t stop Anderson and Helen from excusing themselves about halfway through. By the time we’ve finished watching, I feel as though I’m hosting a wake. I take a deep breath to transition out of the silence and step toward the front of the room.