After Life | Book 2 | Life After Life Page 7

  It had always bothered Mickey. The only way he could be at peace with the zombies’ existence and disappearance would be if he could justify it as having, in some odd manner, made the world a better place. And he supposed he could stretch some arguments to that end — people were more family-oriented than before, you didn’t hear the “he’s always at the office” arguments that were everywhere in the early 2000s, the “cell phone” generation was largely silenced — but those were superficial benefits. The fact that Mickey, a fine, good person who was nonetheless nothing special and had lived well more than his share of years, was still running around in 2030, having buried two children and a grandchild who were at least as good as him but with many more years to act on that goodness, made it painfully difficult to rationalize any benefit to the world of the undead.

  More than once in the last 20 years, Mickey, having lost his internal argument, had considered turning one of his guns on himself. There was no sense, he thought, in maintaining a world that would inflict that sort of pain and torment on its inhabitants. Adie’s birth had put a hold on those thoughts the last few years, but it was all Mickey had been thinking of for a few hours now.

  It was why he had no issues storming into Sean’s flame-filled home, twice, when Jack had hesitated. It was why he had finally agreed to Jack’s proposal that they go to Salvisa’s. Sure, if they made it, if Salvisa knew more than he had let on, they might get answers, and some semblance of closure on Adie’s death, on Lily’s death. But if they didn’t make it, that would mean they were dead. And at least dead, Mickey wouldn’t have to live in his awful world anymore.

  The ideal, Mickey thought, was that he would get his son to Salvisa’s place, get whatever answers the old man had, then move on. He would give his son his keys and leave. The beach wasn’t far from Salvisa’s home, and Mickey wanted to see the ocean again. But he was tired of this life.

  He had no legacy. His granddaughter was dead, the rest of his family long gone. He still had Jack, but Jack was alone now too. Mickey didn’t feel the need to stick around any longer. His job was done.

  He said none of this to Jack. Jack wanted to get to Salvisa just for answers, and he wanted, as far as Mickey knew, to live a long life after that. With Adie gone, it wouldn’t be as happy a life, but there was nothing in Jack’s actions to indicate he was considering the same thing Mickey was considering. Jack had always been a happy man. It had waxed and waned — the departure of Adie’s mother had been a bad time and Adie’s own death worse — but even when his son struggled, Mickey had no problems seeing his zest for life in there.

  He was sure his son would be fine, ultimately. He’d miss his daughter. He’d miss his father. But Jack was a survivor, someone who would make the best of whatever life put before him.

  As he drove, Mickey glanced at his son. Jack looked nervous, maybe a little scared. He looked annoyed when he let himself peek at the backseat. But he looked alive. His eyes were moving and active, his cheeks full. Jack was in excellent shape for a man in his mid-40s. His brown hair hadn’t even started to gray beyond the temples. He had never had any sort of real gym setup — no weights, no treadmill — but Jack had maintained a stout physique by simply living on a functioning farm his entire life. It wasn’t a reference anyone had recognized in years, but Mickey always thought his son looked like the old Brawny Paper Towel mascot, right down to his flannel shirts.

  Mickey liked to imagine he had once looked like that. In some ways, he supposed, he had, but his son had always been more well-built, more muscular than Mickey. These days, with Mickey’s life winding down, the difference between them was only more obvious.

  Still, Mickey couldn’t know for sure what was going on in his son’s mind, just like his son couldn’t know for sure what his father was thinking. Mickey needed to see for himself, as best he could, that Jack was going to be okay in the long run. And he needed to do it without letting on his own plans.

  “What do you think we’ll find out from Peter?” he asked.

  Jack snorted. “Old guy better be able to tell us something.”

  “Sure,” Mickey said with a nod. “But is there any answer he’ll give you that will make you feel better?”

  His son started to speak, then stopped. It looked to Mickey like he really hadn’t thought about the fact that an answer from Salvisa might not satisfy him, and from what Mickey knew from having lost his own child, there was every chance answers wouldn’t be satisfactory.

  Jack stayed quiet for a minute. Finally, he shrugged. “Whatever he tells me will have to be helpful,” he said, as though that sentence had any real meaning.

  “What if all he says is ‘I don’t know’?” Mickey asked.

  Jack repeated his shrug, though he did so angrily somehow. “If he doesn’t know, then no one knows. And if no one knows, I can tell myself there was nothing I could do. In some ways, ‘I don’t know’ might be the best answer.”

  “I bet no matter what you ask him, you’ll get a baseball metaphor,” Mickey said.

  “Baseball?”

  Mickey nodded. “Salvisa had two things he cared about. The first was zombies, of course. The second, though, was baseball. Man was a die-hard Yankees fan. Losing baseball after 2010 had to have been his least favorite thing of the whole affair. I swear, he showed me his Yankees … shrine, I guess, every time we went there.”

  Jack snorted. “Glad the man had his priorities in order,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  After a second, Mickey spoke again. “So we see Salvisa, find out what we can find out. Then what?”

  “Then what?”

  “What are you going to do after that? Just go back to the farm and live the rest of your life?”

  Jack shook his head. “I’ll find somewhere. Not the farm. But somewhere. I’ll start over. First, though,” he said, and his voice got deeper, more significant, “I just need to find out if there was anything I could have done for Adie. Anything I should have done.”

  Mickey nodded. Of course, he couldn’t know Jack’s mind 100% — he never would have told his son his own true plans — but he was talking like someone who envisioned his life extending beyond a short road trip to an old man’s farm.

  That was good. Mickey was done with his life, but he didn’t want his son — his last remaining family — to be done with his. Jack was older, but he wasn’t old. He had plenty of time. And, Mickey thought as he swerved into the left-hand lane to avoid a small group of zombies running toward the truck, he was in a good position to be starting a new life, whenever the current outbreak ended. Jack was powerful, he was smart, and he wouldn’t be weighed down by caring for an aging father.

  Mickey suddenly felt as though he were at peace with his decision. He knew what he was planning all along, and felt it was for the best, but that niggling survival instinct had kept leaping up and telling him he was making a mistake. Now, though, feeling sure his son would make a life even after his death, that voice had subsided. Mickey was driving to Peter Salvisa’s for the last time.

  Part 2: Regrets Only

  Chapter One: Mistakes

  2030 — A month ago

  “I’ll be home by six,” the woman said, running her hand over her short brown hair.

  The girl sitting on the old sofa didn’t respond. She had a book in her lap that she stared at, and didn’t look as though she had even heard the older woman’s words.

  They were together in a sparsely furnished living room. The late-teens girl was lying on the couch, nearly flat, with her feet on the coffee table. She had her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, with a bit of her bangs hanging down partially in front of her left eye. Her right foot tapped gently as she lay there, as though she were keeping the beat to some unheard music.

  Other than the couch and coffee table, the room held little. There was an end table on one side of the sofa with a lamp that wasn’t on. A bookcase was opposite the sofa, with a mass of books piled haphazardly on and in it. Two hallways extended from t
he room, with one appearing to lead to a kitchen and dining room area, and the other toward bedrooms. The two hallways met in one corner of the room, and there was a long mirror on the wall near the intersection. This intersection was where the woman stood as she spoke to the girl.

  “I said I’ll be home by six,” she repeated.

  The girl glanced at her watch. “Okay, Mom,” she said.

  The woman looked at her. “What in the world are you wearing?”

  The girl looked up from her book, then down at her body. She had on a sleeveless top that clasped at the neck, then opened again into a loop, showing off some cleavage. It ended a full inch or two above her belly button. Below that, she wore tight jeans that rode low on her waist.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Those aren’t exactly lounge-around-the-house clothes,” her mother said.

  The girl shrugged. “I always wear the same thing. Thought it’d be fun to try something different for a day, see how I like it. Found this in a box of your old stuff.” She looked down at herself again. “Think I like it.”

  “I only wore things like that when I was going to go out for the night, to a bar or something,” she said. She stopped then smiled. “But if it’s what you want to wear, you have fun. You look cute.”

  The girl nodded, but didn’t speak again. Her mother turned to the mirror.

  “What are you going to do today?” she asked after a moment.

  She rolled her eyes. “Same thing I do every day, Mom,” she said. “Books. Paint some. Maybe I’ll go for a walk down to the lake.”

  Her mother nodded as she looked in the mirror and straightened her pantsuit. “If you go out,” she said, “you’ll remember to…?”

  “Uh huh,” she said, looking back down at her book. “I’ll have my running shoes, I’ll have my gun. I’ll be fine. Just go to work already.”

  Her mother smiled. She walked over to her daughter and patted the top of her head, then leaned over and kissed the same spot. “Okay, Stacy,” she said. “Have fun.”

  Stacy didn’t respond as her mother left. Her eyes scanned the page of her book closely, until the very second the sound of the door closing behind her mother came. Almost immediately, she threw her book onto the coffee table in front of her and jumped up. She grabbed some wedge sandals that were tucked away beside the couch and slipped them on, then moved to the mirror her mother had been using. Stacy performed the same actions as her mother — adjusting the top, smoothing her hair — but with far more care and attention to detail than her mother had given.

  After a minute or two, seeming satisfied with her appearance, Stacy moved into the kitchen where she pulled a bottle of water from a case underneath a side table and took a drink from it. She recapped the bottle, put it on the table, and moved back into the living room. From under the sofa, she slid out a large, flat plastic container and put it on the coffee table. She snapped off the lid and pulled a tube of lip gloss from it, which she quickly applied. She put the tube back, then started digging through the rest of the box for a moment.

  Suddenly, a small rap came on the window. Stacy jumped up, and spun around to see what had made the noise. There was a line of bushes at the window, mostly blocking any view of the street. Between the hedges and the house, tucked in a small corner of the window, with one hand raised, was a young man, about the same age as Stacy. He was smiling, and when she met his gaze, he waved.

  He was of Indian descent, with light brown skin and thick brown eyebrows. His equally dark, thick hair hung over his ears in a shaggy sort of way. He wore a black shirt with a vest that was only slightly less black and had dark jeans.

  Stacy smiled back at him. The boy mouthed “Is she gone?” to Stacy, and when the girl nodded, his smile grew and he vanished from the window. Within seconds, there was a knock at the door on the opposite side of the house.

  Stacy hurried back through the kitchen and opened the door, where the same boy was standing. He bobbed on the balls of his feet happily when she opened the door. The two of them standing beside one another underscored the boy’s height, as even with her heels Stacy was several inches shorter than him.

  “Hey,” he said slowly.

  “Hey.” She smiled back.

  The boy started to take a step into the house, then stopped, then moved forward. Stacy started to hold her arms up to hug him, then realized he was going in for a kiss, and she adjusted on the fly. The result was an awkward kiss, with his mouth partly open and hers closed, and him leaning too far forward to make it work. After a second, he stumbled into the house, and she jumped backward to avoid him, breaking their liplock.

  He laughed as he caught his balance. She grabbed hold of his arm and he stood back up.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He smiled again. “Yeah,” he said. He locked eyes with her for a moment, then licked his lips. “You taste good.”

  Stacy smiled, almost growing taller at the compliment. She pulled him all the way into the house by the vest and shut the door behind them. “You surprised me,” she said. “Wasn’t sure when you’d get here.”

  “I couldn’t wait any more,” he said. “I had to see you.” He looked at her. “And you look beautiful.”

  Smiling, she led the way into the living room with her hand in his. Their eyes didn’t leave one another, to the point that Stacy bumped into the chair next to the end table, knocking her bottle of water over. Once in the living room, Stacy quickly resnapped the lid on the plastic container and stowed it back under the table. “What’s that?” the boy asked.

  “Nothing,” Stacy said. “Just some stuff.” She pulled him forward and encouraged him to sit on the couch, where she almost immediately joined him, sitting close beside him. Their lips met again, more smoothly this time, and they remained in that state for a full minute or two.

  “That was nice,” the boy said when they separated.

  Stacy didn’t respond. She stretched her legs across the couch and rested her head on his chest. With her left hand, she traced lines up and down his thigh.

  “Wha…,” the boy started, then stopped as Stacy’s hand reached the top of her back-and-forth. When she moved back toward his knee again, he started again. “What do you want to do today?”

  Again, Stacy didn’t say anything in response. She shifted her weight to lean more against him and stayed where she was for another moment, during which neither of them spoke. The boy moved his hand onto Stacy’s shoulder and started patting it uncertainly. He stopped after a few seconds and slowly moved his hand down toward her side, where he rubbed back and forth a few times.

  After a minute of that, Stacy looked up at his face, and the two kissed again. This time, things accelerated, and within minutes she had pulled his shirt and vest over his head, revealing a light brown, skinny, yet-to-fill-out torso. Her hands started moving south, just as his started working on her top.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” he asked when he got an inch of separation from her face.

  By way of answer, Stacy unfastened the boy’s belt and undid the button on his jeans.

  20 days later

  “What’s the emergency?” the woman asked as she hurried into the house. Stacy was sitting at the kitchen’s small table looking nervous. Her knees were bouncing, she had her gaze locked on the floor, and she looked tiny inside her enormous T-shirt. “Why’d you need me to come home from work?” the woman asked as she placed her small purse on the kitchen counter.

  Stacy looked up at her. She had either been crying recently or was just about to. “I can’t tell Mom, Mich. I can’t.”

  “Can’t tell her what?”

  Stacy reached behind her on the chair and pulled out a small rectangular box. It was plainly decorated, with some fine print on the back and just the words “E.P.T.” in large font on the front. “This,” she said. “Michelle, she’ll kill me.”

  Michelle’s eyes went wide, and she pulled the box from Stacy’s hand. “Stacy!” she cried, breat
hless. “You’re…” she stopped, turning the box over in her hand. It was sealed. “You haven’t taken this test.”

  Stacy started shaking her head. “I needed someone here with me.”

  Michelle nodded. She put the box on the table and crouched next to Stacy, one arm on the table, one on Stacy’s knee. “What makes you think you’re pregnant?”

  Stacy rolled her eyes. “What makes anyone think they’re pregnant?” she said with a sarcastic tone.

  Michelle smiled at her. “You’ve got to remember, my own sex life doesn’t lend itself to many pregnancy scares. Your mom and I are missing some important pieces for that.”

  The younger woman returned the smile, looking strained. “Ew,” she said.

  “So, why do you…?” Michelle asked again.

  “I had sex a few weeks ago,” Stacy said softly. “And, as of a few days back, I’m late. I’ve never been late, Mich. Never.”

  Michelle nodded, while Stacy turned her gaze to the floor. Neither of them spoke for a moment, before Michelle finally broke the silence. “There’s no sense getting worked up over what might be nothing,” she said. “You haven’t taken the test yet. Let’s do that before we freak out too much.”

  “Too late,” Stacy said, her voice a monotone, but she picked the box up and opened it. She poured out the contents onto the table. There was the little stick that would be the test, wrapped tightly in plastic, plus a small folded pamphlet of instructions. On Stacy’s second shake, another piece of paper fluttered out. It had been pressed up against the box and wasn’t folded, just a single small rectangle of thin paper.