Death After Life: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller

by Evans, John

  As she hurried away from the accident scene, Darla scanned the forbidding walls of trees. Though it was too dense to penetrate with her eyes, a disturbing rustling sound in the undergrowth froze her gaze on an area just ahead. She stopped and un-Velcroed her pistol. Its slight weight was reassuring in her palm.

  The curt voice of the operator in Darla’s ear made her jump. “What is your emergency?”

  Darla didn’t know how afraid she really was until she started to talk, and heard it in her own voice. “There’s an abandoned car on Black Loop Road, just outside Kenwood.”

  The operator was all business, without a trace of concern or compassion in her voice. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “There’s blood in the car. Like they were hurt… And then they left.”

  The operator paused. They were thinking the same thing, Darla felt sure. When she spoke again, the note of urgency in the woman’s voice scared Darla more than anything she’d seen thus far.

  “Ma’am, are you armed?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. Now I want you to walk carefully away from the car, as fast as you can, with your weapon in your hand and the safety off. Can you do that for me?”

  “You bet your ass I can,” Darla said. She started moving again.

  #

  At the Safeway, Winter and Nic had responded to their first call of the morning. They were talking to a customer who witnessed the shooting. The store manager stood by, discussing the situation with another employee.

  “I was walking to the store — it’s only a few blocks and I enjoy the exercise,” the woman said proudly. She was in her sixties, and did appear fit beneath her purple Washington Huskies sweatsuit. “This guy here was waiting for a parking spot…”

  She pointed to a corpse slumped behind the wheel of a red Nissan pickup truck. It was still idling. The rear of the man’s bald pate had been perforated by a bullet entry, several inches north of the brain stem.

  “This young couple zoomed in and stole the spot. The guy in the truck didn’t like it so he started hollering at them. The girl was screaming back at him. You know, ‘Eff you, we were here first….’ You get the idea. And he started shouting too. ‘I saw you pull up, that’s b.s.,’ blah blah blah. The girl called him a crazy Chink bastard. Terrible thing to say.”

  She glanced uncomfortably at Winter, then pressed on. “Her boyfriend flashed his gun — if I had to guess, I’d say it was one of those black SIGs.”

  Winter nodded. A popular choice was the police sidearm, the SIG Sauer P226. Even civvies recognized their distinctive look, nowadays.

  “You know your stuff,” Nic commented dryly.

  “Yeah, three years ago I couldn’t have told you the difference between an M-16 and an AK, but I got smart real fast,” the woman replied.

  “What happened next?” Winter asked.

  “The guy in the truck pulled a shotgun…looked like an old twelve-gauge, to me…and shot them. I think both kids caught some, but it mostly hit the boyfriend. He fired back, three times I think, and tagged the Asian gentleman in the throat. Looked like he was only using nine mils, but the kid was pretty accurate. They have good hand-eye coordination. Must be all the PlayStation, I guess.”

  Nic tried to keep the witness on track. “And after the shots were exchanged?”

  “The young couple took off. I came over to check on the guy in the truck…”

  “You euthanized him?” Winter’s tone conveyed no judgment. It was apparent that the bullet in the back of the head was delivered at close range.

  “He was bleeding to death. It was awful,” the woman said, apologetically. “There are a lot of families in this neighborhood….”

  “You did the right thing,” Nic said. “There is no cure.”

  #

  Darla hustled down the road with the 911 operator giving instructions in her ear.

  “Miss, I need you to go to the closest place where people are, do you understand?”

  “Got it,” Darla said, pistol in one hand and phone in the other.

  “Help is on the way. Stay away from anyone who looks hurt.”

  Darla was about to ask if they were tracing her call when she heard a branch snap behind her. She’d just passed the area where she’d heard the noise in the brush, and this sound originated in the same vicinity. Only closer this time.

  Darla turned her head and saw a young woman crash through the brittle undergrowth to gain the road about 10 feet behind her. It was clear from only a split-second glance that the girl was young, dark-haired, and her face an exsanguinated white. The source of her blood loss was a gaping hole in the side of her neck where, unbeknownst to Darla, buckshot had blasted through.

  Darla broke into a terrified sprint. As her arms pumped, the phone brushed her pumping knee and jarred loose. It skittered across the pavement and she slowed, glancing back.

  The dead girl was moving with the spasmodic, clumsy gait of a feeder. While the virus that hijacked her lizard brain and sustained its functions was a marvel of parasitic life, its puppetry had severe limitations. Feeders retained little muscular coordination.

  Still, she was moving fast enough to convince Darla the phone was a luxury. Escape was all that mattered.

  She raced onward, widening the gap on her quietly snuffling pursuer.

  As Darla rounded a corner, she was confronted by a young man in the middle of the road. He was coming right at her. His hair a blond mop, he was around Darla’s age; in fact, he reminded her of a particular kid, Joseph Attles, from her high school. The green T-shirt he wore was saturated with blood.

  It didn’t take a Virus Control cop to identify this unfortunate as another feeder. Had she been Winter or Nic, Darla would also have identified him as the girl’s boyfriend and instigator of the Safeway shooting that claimed both their lives.

  Darla screamed, pointing her gun at his head, but she was firing on the run and rushed the shot. The bullet zinged through the air several degrees left of the jaw of Joseph Attles’ doppelganger.

  When Darla’s father taught her marksmanship, he emphasized the importance of a steady firing position. But in the thick of battle, Darla compromised and zigzagged around her enemy. He flailed for her, ice-cold hand tearing at her jacket-sleeve but unable to grip the arm within.

  Darla’s feet pounded the gritty pavement. Her breath was harsh and rapid. She surged ahead, adrenaline pulsing through her veins and inspiring her muscles to perform at a level rarely demanded. In what felt like hours but was only a handful of seconds, she had outpaced her drunkenly lurching pursuers.

  Unfortunately, an unexpected third party was also present in the woods that morning and made himself known at the precise moment Darla glanced over her shoulder.

  Any triumph was lost on him, of course; the dead man had only an alligator’s sense of pleasure when he burst from a tangle of leafless branches and grabbed Darla’s throat.

  #

  Winter re-checked the magazine on his H&K and steadied himself as Nic took a corner at speed. While interviewing the supermarket’s manager, they’d gotten the call.

  “Unit 16, code 11-80, possible 10-91A in progress. Proceed to county district 14, Black Loop Road.”

  It was only a couple of miles north, in the hills. They told the manager to stay on premises and leapt into their car.

  “Witness saw a white Acura abandoned at roadside,” the dispatcher said. “Probable viral activation. Be advised, witness is still in the area.”

  “Copy that,” Winter said.

  The GPS displayed the origin point of Darla’s call and their short path to reach it.

  Nic flashed the Interceptor’s grille lights and sirens to prod an obliviously puttering minivan from their path.

  Winter glanced at Nic, savored the flash in her eyes as she returned it. She came alive in times like these, he thought. The brief moments of anticipation, knowing she was about to put her life on the line again and needing to be fully present. It was in facing death that this
woman remembered she was still among the living.

  Too bad the catalyst was not Winter but another contender for the Darwin Awards. “This is a bullshit call,” Winter muttered. “What kind of moron gets himself killed over a parking spot?”

  “Might be the lamest ever,” Nic said.

  “Oh, not even close,” Winter said. “Kuciak told me about one he had last year. Memorial Day weekend, Little League game. Batter’s dad runs onto the field to contest a strike call. The umpire feels threatened by the boos, pulls his piece and tells Stage Dad to back off. Well, guess what? Stage Mom is in the stands and loses it when she sees her hubby looking down the barrel of a .22. Of course she’s got her own piece, so what does the loving wife do? Lean over the fucking rail and put a couple bullets in the ump, that’s what! His family’s there too, so they start shooting.

  “By the time Kooch got there, five bodies were up and around and most of the live ones had cleared out. They took down six feeders and euthanized two citizens, all for a curveball that only kissed the strike zone. That was, my friend, a bullshit call.”

  Nic nodded. “Word.”

  Moments later a strange tableau appeared before them. Darla ducking from the clutching grasp of a feeder, its flesh so decomposed it clung only in hunks to its skeleton, and the plunging shapes of the dead couple gaining as everyone descended a large hill.

  Nic swept the wheel into a hard but controlled fishtail. The Interceptor skidded to a halt just feet from the scene.

  Winter leapt from the car and aimed his H&K at the feeders. Nic was a step behind him.

  The gun barked as Winter squeezed its trigger once, twice, and then twice more in succession. He only moved the gun’s muzzle a few degrees between shots.

  Three bodies slumped to the pavement, sprawling dead for the last time. Darla was left behind, shaky but apparently unscathed.

  Giving Winter a look that clearly said, “Showoff,” Nic slowly lowered her unfired H&K.

  Winter shrugged, making an attempt at apologetic. “You said I was getting fat.”

  “No, I didn’t. You did.”

  “True. You said I was fat already.”

  Nic approached Darla. The girl was still thrumming with frantic energy.

  “Are you hurt? Did you see any others?” Nic asked with official dispassion.

  “No. I mean, I’m fine. And I t-think you got them all.”

  Winter noted the .22 Darla still clutched in her hand. She’d regained her breath but was badly shaken. Mild shock, from the look of it.

  “You can put that away now, okay miss?”

  Darla remembered her weapon at last, slipped it into the ankle holster. “Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

  To Darla, Winter’s reassuring smile carried the chilling detachment of the routine.

  Winter unwrapped a plastic syringe and signaled for Darla to roll up her sleeve. His manner was somewhat sheepish, as though he regretted putting her through these technicalities.

  Nic stood unobtrusively nearby, hand on her holster very lightly. The silvery Glock 19 she carried was only a flick of the fingers away.

  Darla swallowed hard, gazing at the needle. She unconsciously shrugged off her windbreaker and gave Winter a nervous look.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said.

  “They didn’t touch me,” Darla said. “They didn’t. I don’t have it.”

  “I know,” Winter said, and you’d believe he really knew already. His certainty seemed sincere, and reassured Darla somewhat. Then he stuck the needle in her arm.

  Once he’d obtained the blood sample, Winter handed it to Nic and she brought it back to the car. They had both onboard and portable testing equipment.

  “Seriously,” Darla said. “I really don’t.”

  Winter nodded. His hand wasn’t on his holster, but the weapon was always within easy reach.

  Nic, sitting in the car, turned to call out, “Clean!”

  Winter and Darla relaxed noticeably. Nic opened the rear passenger door for her and Darla got in.

  As the Interceptor glided forward, Darla thought the forest seemed unspeakably dangerous, even outside the glass, and stared at it fearfully.

  “That a Beretta Minx .22 short?“ Winter asked, nodding toward her ankle holster.

  “Yeah, semiautomatic. Soft-points for shocking power,” Darla replied, rather vacantly, and looked out the window. She instantly forgot what she’d just said.

  “I like a girl who knows her hardware.”

  Darla blinked. It suddenly clicked with her that he was flirting. She couldn’t believe it. “Thanks,” she said, but with the polite rejection of a high school goddess gently slapping down the unworthy.

  Winter had, in fact, heard this very tone in high school and responded as such. “Anyway,” he said, turning back around. “The Minx isn’t a bad choice, but you gotta know how to use it. Otherwise you might as well be unarmed.”

  “Can I have your attention up here?” Nic asked him, pointing to the shoulder as she slowed the car.

  Another feeder, this one badly desiccated or perhaps thoroughly picked over by carrion birds, staggered from the tree-line just ahead. Weeks or months of exposure to the elements had reduced its clothes to stained rags.

  “Suspect confirmed to be a V-carrier,” Nic said.

  “You think so?”

  Nic threw it in park and jumped out. Before Winter had unclipped his seatbelt, she’d gone into a shooter’s stance and pulled the trigger. Once.

  Twenty yards away, the dead thing swayed and crumpled into the weeds.

  Nic cocked an eyebrow at Winter. He stared expressionlessly at her, as though she’d done nothing of consequence.

  “That’s right,” Nic said, and got behind the wheel again.

  Winter looked back at Darla. “You live around here?”

  #

  A short time later, the four bodies were lying side by side along the road. Draped by a blue tarp stamped with the insignia of the Dept. of Virus Control.

  A tow truck driver attached clamps to the Acura’s rear bumper. Winter took Darla’s statement on his tablet.

  Several cars were parked on the shoulder and a crowd of anxious bystanders was forming. Most had either heard the gunshots or been alerted by the Neighborhood Watch. This informal posse wanted to be certain that any threat had been eliminated.

  They spoke on their phones or brandished handguns nervously. It was an even mix of commuters, retired people and unemployed idlers. They either relished the opportunity to be late for work, listened to police-band radio all day, or simply had an ear for distant gunshots.

  Nic scanned the increasingly agitated crowd with a jaded eye as she spoke into the radio mic. “We’ve got a tow truck, but no meatwagon. What’s the problem, dispatch?”

  “All units are in the field, Sixteen. You don’t have a crime scene, just a body pickup.”

  Nic sighed. “I need these remains collected, goddammit! We got a block party starting out here.”

  “Unit 16, a county coroner’s agent will be on scene ASAP.”

  A car pulled up nearby and more paranoid neighbors got out, this lot carrying shotguns. A hard wind was blowing in from the west; it whipped their coats and scarves like flags.

  Nic joined the restive crowd. “I need everyone to keep their distance. This is an accident scene.”

  A goateed man in his twenties glared at her. His tone was sullenly belligerent. “Doesn’t look like an accident! More like an outbreak.”

  “The situation is contained,” Nic said. “The victims were all carrying identification, so we’ll notify the next of kin. Any additional, um, ‘infectees,’ are unlikely.”

  A second local, this a heavyset blonde woman in her thirties, was almost imploring. She clutched a yellow robe against herself in the buffeting wind.

  “But how do you know?!”

  Nic was losing her patience. “There’s always a danger, so you should go back to your homes or wherever you’re supposed to be and observe the usual precaution
s. Got it?”

  The first guy gestured with his .44 Magnum. It was an unmistakably aggressive, demanding move.

  “How do we know there aren’t more of them out here? We should sweep the area!”

  Nic was suddenly coldly threatening. “Don’t you wave a gun at me.”

  He lowered the weapon without a hint of complaint.

  Nic addressed the group as a whole. “I don’t care how many times you’ve practiced at the range, you’re not trained for this. We don’t need your help. In fact, you’re just food for the virus. So turn your asses around, keep your windows and doors locked, travel only in groups, and carry a firearm and phone on your person at all times!”

  With that, what was a nascent mob moments earlier dispersed with only mutterings and reproachful looks.

  Winter had returned from the tow truck and smirked with mock disapproval. “Page 52 of the manual right there, word for word.”

  “Like you’ve even read the damn manual,” Nic grumbled, but she was smirking.

  “What can I say…. You’ve carried me this long.”

  For some reason, this was for Winter more painful than any moment of their “breakup” thus far. But he smiled anyway.

  #

  On occasion, it was easier for the police to take a wounded suspect or witness directly to an Evaluation Center, where the decision to euthanize on-site was frequently made. In cases where a patient was clearly beyond hope of survival, even with best medical efforts, the law prescribed immediate euthanasia. While normal hospital staff were authorized to euthanize in this situation, studies showed that they were significantly less likely to do so than their Evaluation Center brethren.

  This merciful tendency was not in keeping with the government’s zero-tolerance policy toward contagion, so police and emergency medical technicians were encouraged to take serious cases directly to an Evaluation Center.