After Life | Book 1 | After Life Read online

Michelle stopped and looked at him. “Fine,” she said. “Then I’m heading to the storeroom to stock up on food. Want something to take with us. That a better answer?”

  “Hell no,” Calvin said. “I’ll find food as I go. I’ll end up somewhere with food. Not sure if you know, babe, but there’s no locks on that storeroom door. Means we were supposed to lock down the whole goddamn facility, and we already failed at that one. Means we can get all the food we want, but we gotta be able to carry it. I already ate my lunch. I’m leaving. And you two are coming.”

  Michelle and Calvin stared at one another. She broke the eye contact first. “Sorry, Calvin,” she said. “I have to see if they’re there.” She started walking again, turning her back to Calvin. Donnie followed, right on her heels.

  “You two are crazy!” Calvin called after them, almost laughing. “You’re gonna fucking die just so you can see an empty room or a pair of bodies.”

  Michelle glanced out of the corner of her eyes at Donnie, who had turned to look back at Calvin, and Michelle saw his eyes open wide. “Look out!” he cried.

  Michelle spun around too, just in time to see a female zombie—Jeanine Malloy had once been its name—bite into Calvin’s neck. It had come from the restroom behind him. He never had a chance.

  Both Michelle and Donnie raised their guns, but Calvin pushed the zombie back into the restroom, and he followed. Seconds later, they heard a gunshot, and Calvin stepped back out. “Go!” he called.

  Donnie followed his order and continued toward Madison’s office. Michelle had no such intentions. She took two steps toward Calvin, her gun still raised. Before she could do anything, though, he lifted his own gun and fired into his temple.

  Michelle watched him fall. Tears in her eyes, she turned and ran after Donnie. The stench at that end of the hallway was almost unbearable, and her eyes stung just being there. When they reached the office, she pushed at the door. It was unlocked, but there was something blocking the door. She could only open it about four inches.

  Michelle pushed and felt the door give another inch or so. Donnie stepped up to help, and together the two of them pushed the door all the way open.

  Chapter Eleven: Bites, Scratches

  Andy came across some bodies on the eighth-floor landing. The history wasn’t hard to determine. The first, the body of an older man, maybe 60, lay face-up, with a bullet hole through its forehead, blood smeared through its beard, and a bloody mark on its right leg. The second, a few feet away, was another man, maybe 20 years his junior. He had bloody marks around his shoulder and a hole in his temple that must have come from the weapon still in his hand. Several feet away was a younger body, one of the students, with blood around its mouth and a bullet hole in the neck, but it was still twitching in its death throes. Andy ended its existence with another gunshot that he thought merciful.

  Other than that group, Andy and the girls hadn’t seen any bodies—living, dead or otherwise—since entering the building. Celia had gasped when they first caught sight of the landing, but Stacy had walked right past. Andy tucked his gun back into its holster and walked over to the younger man’s body.

  “Daddy, what are you doing?” Celia asked.

  Andy didn’t answer. He knelt down over the man’s body, lifted the man’s arm and removed the weapon from his hand.

  “Daddy?” Celia repeated.

  He looked up at her. The gun he had just picked up felt heavier than his, but after a glance, he saw they used the same ammunition. He pulled his weapon back out and passed it to his daughter. “You need a gun,” he said.

  Celia looked at the weapon for a moment with a scared look, but took it at last.

  “All right,” he said, standing up. “Keep going.”

  They made it the rest of the way down to the ground level without incident. Andy stopped the girls just inside the door, wanting to check the outside world for himself first. He peered out the door’s small window.

  Outside, Andy saw the chaos he expected. There were bodies scattered around, and several of the survivors—mostly the kids, the students—were crying or had gone catatonic. One of the first things he saw was a girl who sat motionless as a zombie ran up to her. She made no effort to fight it as it tore into her skin, barely even crying out at the bites. A few feet away, he saw a broken zombie flailing around. It had two obviously broken legs and probably a broken arm as well, and was dragging itself along by its one intact limb, dragging itself toward the catatonic girl and her attacker. Andy recognized it as the first zombie they had seen—the one that had plunged out the girls’ window.

  In the center of the three buildings, though, Andy saw exactly what he had hoped for—order. Just outside the tiny outbuilding that marked the passage to the classroom, and safety, Roger Stone stood sentry, herding unbitten people down the stairs, while Simon held the gun high. Andy saw the boy take three shots, hitting his mark with two.

  “The classroom,” he said to the girls. “All we have to do is make it about twenty feet and we’re safe. You can do this.” He looked back. Both girls were nodding, though he could see the nerves behind the nods.

  He pulled the door open and the three of them took off on a sprint. He fired a shot to their right—one that was probably unnecessary, given the distance of the zombie, but Andy was taking no chances with his daughter.

  He was the first to arrive to Roger, Simon, and the building.

  “Bites, scratches?” Roger said.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Stacy said, breathless.

  Roger eyed them suspiciously, and looked like he wanted further proof. Instead of asking for a strip search, though, he looked up and met Andy’s eye. Andy nodded, and Roger returned it. “Go on in,” he said.

  Celia started to make her way into the building, but she saw out of the corner of her eye a young man step out of the boys’ dorm. It was the sunglasses wearer, the zombie-lover, and he ran out and swiveled his head with what looked to Celia like desperation. He bore no signs of injury. A few feet behind him, she saw another figure. This one was obviously a zombie, and it was running straight for the young man. Celia tried to wave her arms, to warn him, but she was too late.

  The running zombie, though, didn’t bite the sunglasses kid. It didn’t even acknowledge him. Instead it ran right by, merely running into his side as it did.

  The collision knocked the sunglasses off of the kid’s face, and they fell to the ground. As they did, Celia saw his eyes—they were not the sunken, almost black dots she had seen when he had removed his sunglasses in the classroom; they were the horrifying, black-and-white orbs that she could already tell would haunt her dreams.

  She stopped still, staring at what she had thought, only seconds before, was a fellow student. There weren’t even any bite marks. Finally, she felt Stacy tugging at her elbow, and Celia realized where she was and entered the stairs.

  Celia ran down the stairs as quickly as she could. As she got to the bottom of the stairs, she realized the only steps she could hear behind her were Stacy’s, so she turned to look. Her father was sharing a couple words with Roger Stone at the top of the staircase. She saw Roger shake his head about something, and her father nodded and came in after her. He stopped at the top. Behind him, Celia saw another man run up to Roger, who crossed his arms. The man looked at him pleadingly, but finally nodded and unfastened his pants.

  Andy, meanwhile, was fiddling with the tiny phone at the top of the stairs that they had looked at earlier. Celia could see he was getting frustrated with it, and he finally gave up whatever he was doing and slammed it down on the cradle.

  He came down the stairs, and Celia continued on her way into the classroom.

  It was nowhere near as full as it had been during the orientation less than an hour earlier—there were fewer than 50 people there. But it was exponentially louder, as students and parents alike cried and commiserated. Andy strode past Celia, leading the way to the front of the room. She watched as he scouted them a space against the wall, far from any door. I
t was a spot below the corner where the chalkboard met wall. He leaned heavily against the wall below the board, then slid down it until he was in a seated position. She and Stacy joined him in the corner.

  “What now, Daddy?” Celia asked, sitting next to him.

  He looked at her, seeming almost surprised. Celia had never seen her father as take-charge as he had been in the dormitories, but now he looked as nervous as he had in the car on the way to Hyannis.

  He looked at her for a moment, but finally smiled. “Nothing,” he said, reaching up with his right hand and rubbing her head. “We’re fine now. They built this place to keep us safe in the event something like—” he gestured toward the stairwell they had come from, “—this happened. Again. We’re fine. This isn’t going to be like me, and Carl, and Mike before. We can stay here as long as we need to.”

  Celia watched him as he spoke, and felt herself almost relaxing. He was right. Mr. Lowensen had told her earlier that the classroom was fortified, that they could stay down there for a long time if need be. It was reassuring, to be sure.

  “What about the phone you tried?” Stacy asked. “I saw you try to call out.”

  Andy shook his head. “Dead,” he said, then winced at his choice of words. “Couldn’t call out. Didn’t seem like it was even hooked up yet. Guess that system wasn’t actually planned to be operational ’til school started. Or maybe they’ve already shut it down. Either way, I couldn’t reach anyone. For better or worse.”

  From the stairwell, Celia heard the heavy door to the outside world close. She hadn’t seen anyone else enter since they had—not even the man who had unfastened his pants—but she watched with interest as Roger and Simon Stone came into the room without any accompaniment. Roger scanned the room for a second, saw them in their corner and quickly joined them, Simon his miniature right behind him. The young man looked shaken.

  “I think we did all we could,” Roger said as he got over to them. “I didn’t see anyone else healthy after you three, and they were starting to overwhelm us.”

  Andy nodded. “You did well, Roger,” he said. Then he squinted, remembering. “What about the last man? The one after us?”

  Roger shook his head. Simon suddenly walked away, against a curtained wall, and appeared to start crying. “Bitten,” Roger said. “Ankle. Tried to keep it covered up. When I called him on it, son of a bitch drew his gun.”

  Andy almost spat. “Damned fool. He’d have killed us all. You drew first?”

  Roger shook his head again and cast a glance at his son. “Simon. I was not prepared for that. One of the kids, I might have understood—they might not know. That guy was in his 50s. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing. So I didn’t have my weapon ready. But Simon saw what was happening and brought him down.” As Roger described what had happened, Simon nearly doubled over in the corner. Celia thought he might throw up, but the boy soon stood back up and walked back over next to his father.

  Gradually, the room got quieter, as everyone calmed down and settled in for what they assumed was a long wait. Celia slunk down even farther in against the wall, resting her head on her father’s chest. Stacy paced back and forth in front of them, her arms crossed across her midsection as though she was worried she might vomit, while Simon and Roger both leaned against Mr. Lowensen’s desk a few feet away. Andy absent-mindedly stroked his daughter’s hair as they sat there in silence.

  Celia closed her eyes, shocked at how tired she was. She was asleep in minutes.

  Chapter Twelve: Where Else Would I Have Gone?

  The first thing Michelle saw when she got into the office was Lambert’s prone form, lying flat on the floor. She saw his legs sticking out from his white underwear, and his suit jacket draped across his head and giant torso. Seeping out from below the jacket—which looked to Michelle like Madison’s—was a pool of blood.

  She and Donnie pushed the door until it was open all the way, and she glanced down at the pair of bodies that had been blocking it. Neither one was Madison’s.

  Donnie stepped over to Lambert’s body and lifted the jacket. “Dead,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, dropping the jacket back in place.

  Michelle nodded. She had already been sure of that, but she supposed it had been worth confirmation. She took another step into the room, and noticed two pairs of legs sticking out from behind her desk. Michelle gasped and felt her legs give out. She fell to her knees. From there, she could see that neither of these bodies was Madison, either, but that the creature that knelt over them, eating away at the neck of one, was.

  Michelle cried out, a noise the zombie that had been Madison heard. It spun its head toward her, and Michelle saw what Madison’s eyes had become. They were bleached, soulless. Her face was streaked with blood, which appeared to still be flowing out of her mouth and down her cheeks.

  The creature pulled itself up, favoring its right foot. It limped toward Michelle as quickly as it could. Michelle knew she should do something, pull her weapon or run, but she was frozen. This was Madison, after all.

  She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t react.

  Donnie, though, could. Within seconds, he fired off a shot, catching the zombie in the side of its head. It pitched sideways and fell face-first to the floor.

  Michelle watched the body fall, watched it lie there, and still didn’t respond. She kept staring until she felt hands on her shoulders—Donnie had come up behind her. She flinched, startled by the sensation, then leaned back against him. She could feel herself welling up. She had known that Calvin was probably right—if Madison and Lambert were still in the office, that probably meant they were dead. It probably meant that Madison had been right, that Lambert had been infected, and Michelle hated him for that. But she hadn’t been able to actually talk herself into that truth. Here, though, was proof.

  “Michelle,” Donnie said after a moment. “Michelle, we have to go. We can’t stay here.”

  Michelle nodded and stood up slowly. She turned to leave, then stopped. “What was on her chest?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I… There was a piece of paper on her chest. It had something written on it. I didn’t see what it said. I have to read it.”

  Donnie nodded. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and guided her to the body, where they together rolled the body over.

  There, scrawled on a piece of paper that looked to be stapled directly to Madison’s chest, was one word, written in black marker: “Stacy.”

  “Stacy?” Donnie asked. “Any idea what that means?”

  Michelle mustered a tiny nod. She couldn’t have figured out anything else the note might have said. “Stacy,” she said. “Madison’s daughter.”

  “Madison has a daughter?”

  Michelle nodded again. “Dropped her off at Hyannis just the other day.”

  “And she, what, wants you to get to her?”

  “You didn’t need the note,” Michelle whispered to Madison. “You didn’t need the note. Where else would I have gone?” She knelt down and lifted Madison’s left hand, removing the ring from it.

  “I never knew you two were this close,” Donnie said, helping Michelle up again.

  She turned to him. The tears, which thus far had been stopped just at the edges of her eyes, finally flowed out. In her right hand, she showed Donnie Madison’s ring. With her left, she fished into her jacket pocket and pulled out the ring’s match.

  “We were married,” she said.

  Part 2: The God Damned

  Chapter One: Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch

  2010

  The young man stepped out of the airport coughing. Despite his tan arms and floral-print shirt, his face was pale. He squinted as the sunlight hit his face, then dug into his chest pocket for a pair of sunglasses, which he donned between coughs.

  He couldn’t have been older than his late teens, still a high schooler. His shaggy blond hair was stringy and wiry, looking like it hadn’t been washed in several days. His
fingernails, too, carried dirt and grime around their edges, and his shirt and khaki shorts similarly lacked freshness.

  Behind him, he pulled a small suitcase on wheels that looked to be near bursting. A small tag attached to the suitcase’s handle indicated his name was Donnie Neyer, and he had come from Queen Beatrix International Airport in Aruba.

  He finally stepped up to the line for cabs and hailed the first one that approached. The cabbie, a bulky Pakistani with a thick mustache and a dark, stained shirt, scowled when he climbed out of the driver’s seat and saw the state of his passenger.

  “You clean?” he asked with a suspicious eye. The young man coughed again, but nodded. The driver looked unconvinced, but finally shrugged and helped the kid load his wheelie bag into the trunk. They each climbed into the vehicle.

  “1437 West 42nd,” the young man said between coughs. The cabbie programmed his GPS. Once the cab had pulled away from the airport, the kid leaned back as far as he could and put his arm over his head.

  “No sleeping in the cab,” the cabbie said, his voice a tight staccato. The kid didn’t move at first, while the driver watched in the rearview. His head lolled to the side eventually, and the driver turned and yelled, “Hey! You drool on my interior, I’ll—” He stopped there, as the young passenger sat up and fell into yet another coughing fit.

  The cabbie nodded. “Good. Cough means awake.” He turned his head back forward, repositioning a St. Christopher doll on his dashboard as he did so.

  He kept driving, eventually reaching the downtown area. As he reached the red light at 36th, he glanced in his rearview again and, for a moment, couldn’t see the young man at all. He wheeled around and looked. The teen had fallen to his side, and was lying flat across the backseat

  The cabbie banged on the glass partition that separated the two of them. The kid waved his arm weakly, showing he was still awake, but kept his head down.