After Life (20 page)

Some time later, Andy didn’t know how long and didn’t care, he heard a car door open and close behind him. Several seconds later, he felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

“Mr. Ehrens,” Lowensen’s voice said. “Mr. Ehrens, we have to go. We don’t know how many more of them are in there, are coming now. We need to go before they come out. You need to get to your daughter.”

Andy nodded. The teacher was right; while Andy no longer felt he deserved to keep going, Celia needed him. He clapped his hands against his face once and pushed back, opening his eyes as he did.

Andy’s greatest fear in that moment — being confronted with Amanda’s body — went unrealized, as Lowensen had draped some sort of blanket over her body before coming to Andy. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Andy loved the teacher.

Without sparing another look at Amanda or the others on the sidewalk, Andy rose and turned away from the building.

“Let’s go,” he said as decisively as he could. “We need to get back. Tell everyone there’s no safe place here.”

Chapter 7: We are Who We Surround Ourselves With

Donnie’s foot hadn’t left the accelerator in what felt like hours. When he looked down, he realized he was driving north of 120 miles per hour, and he finally let his foot relax and the car slow down.

In the twenty-some minutes since they had left the service center, Donnie had seen a handful of zombies on the interstate. Some were alone, but most had at least one or two companions. No group, though, had even come close to preventing passage east, something Donnie was enormously thankful for.

“I hate driving on the interstate,” he said, the first thing either of them had said since Michelle’s vomiting episode. “I don’t trust it. I’m sure we’re going to come around a curve and there’ll just be a hundred of them waiting for us.”

Michelle, who still looked pale and shaken, didn’t respond, so Donnie continued driving, letting the car decelerate to about 90 mph before trying to maintain his speed. Considering the distance they had already traveled, he estimated there to be about another 45 minutes to an hour of travel before I-95 crossed over into Rhode Island, and from there it was only a few short hops to Cape Cod and Hyannis. A faded green sign indicating that Providence was 74 miles away reinforced this estimate.

Suddenly, a memory struck Donnie, and he leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out a small folded pamphlet that had been placed on top of the owner’s manual and handed it to Michelle.

“What’s this?” Donnie’s companion said, her voice hoarse.

“Just a note. Something I added to the package. Read it.” Donnie knew the message by heart, but it hadn’t been publicized in any way. He wasn’t sure anyone other than he and a handful of others even knew it existed.

Michelle frowned down at it, but sat up, held it closer to her face and read:

“If you’re reading this,” she started, “that means a few things. First, it means the Z’s have returned. The thought is difficult to comprehend, but it must be true. So I wish you luck. Second, it means you have, for one reason or another, been unable to find a safe haven, and have had to resort to this car. So I wish you
more
luck. And third, it means you have been in the car long enough, and feel secure enough, to take the time to check the glove compartment. So it seems you’ve
had
luck. At least some. For what it’s worth.”

Michelle gave a small chuckle at that line, and her chuckle made Donnie smile as well. “In my experience, the people who make a point to seriously travel — interstate, which means going quickly
some
where — in the world of the Z’s do it for one reason and one reason alone: love. If you choose interstate travel in the Z world, that means you have a specific destination in mind. Otherwise, you would stick to towns, anywhere you might find a temporary home. And if there’s somewhere you are trying to get to, odds are there is someone or something you love in that place.”

Michelle stopped reading. She raised her head and looked out the windshield. The sun was almost gone behind them, so everything she saw was shrouded in a hazy twilight, but Michelle still imagined that she saw some small sign of light off in the distance, directly in front of them. She was sure it
was
just her imagination, as there was nothing that should have been producing such illumination in that moment. And so she assumed that she was imagining a light shining over her destination: Stacy. Donnie was right; traveling meant love. And Michelle felt a new surge of determination to find her stepdaughter, something that she had felt leaving along with the vomit a bit earlier.

She sat up even straighter and kept reading: “If this is true, and I assume it must be,
get to your love
. You have to. Survival is paramount, of course, but what is survival without the people worth surviving for?

“So, do whatever you can to protect yourself. But also, do whatever you can to protect those you love. This might run counter to government advice that says look out for number one, but it’s true. We are who we surround ourselves with. And I’d like to think those I love would make sure they got to me. So make sure you get to them.”

Michelle flipped to the back page of the pamphlet, but it was blank. That was the end. There was no survival advice, no clever tips for combating zombies. After a second, she realized that was intentional. For twenty years, everyone from President Morgan to old Betty Bluehair had been offering advice about what to do, how to survive, if the zombies
did
return. Nothing Donnie could have included in a small, four-page pamphlet in a glove compartment could have added to someone’s knowledge, especially considering the fact that Donnie hadn’t exactly had to do a hell of a lot to survive in 2010.

“Donnie,” Michelle said, “this is…this is perfect. Did you write it?”

Donnie nodded, his eyes on the road. “Every word,” he said.

“What made you do that?”

Donnie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he made a point to keep his eyes forward. “In 2010,” he said, “I was alone. I holed up with a handful of people from the church, sure, but I was just some kid who had gotten home from a mission trip. No parents, no friends there with me.”

Donnie coughed, choking back some emotion. “I stayed in that church for three full months. I tried to leave once, about three days in, desperate to find my family, my mom. But Father Burns said no, said he wouldn’t let anyone out unless he had to. He was right, of course, but I never saw my parents again. Never saw
anyone
I had known before 2010 again. I don’t know if they died at the beginning, or if I might have found them if I had left when I tried to, but I always regretted not knowing. He was right; leaving would have been suicide. But if I had been out in it already, surviving? There’s not a force on heaven or earth that could have stopped me from searching for the people I loved, if there was any way possible.”

Michelle again looked out the front windshield, and again imagined the light over where Stacy would be. “Is that why you’re helping me?” she asked.

He nodded. “Stacy is the person you love. You are the person I love. If it’s at all possible, we’re all going to be together. Even if it’s just for a few minutes. You have to find her. You have to.”

Michelle felt a fresh batch of tears welling up inside her, and she looked again at Donnie’s pamphlet. She read the words, stopping again at, “We are who we surround ourselves with,” and closed her eyes. For the first time, the thought occurred to Michelle that she couldn’t have picked a better person to make this journey with. She had spent the whole time wishing Madison was there, and of course she still did. But she had also hoped Nick, Cal, even Lambert — someone with more battle experience — had been her traveling companion. But in that moment, she realized that Donnie had one thing going for him that none of the others would have. Conviction. Donnie would not give up hope until Michelle and Stacy were reunited. That much was clear. And that conviction made up for a hell of a lot of inexperience.

Just as Michelle had that thought, her eyes still closed, Donnie apparently had a different one, as she heard him utter a surprised “What the hell?” and slow the car down.

Michelle opened her eyes and looked over to Donnie, who was squinting at something ahead and to the left. Following his gaze, Michelle saw an ancient-looking man, definitely not a zombie, waving his hands at their car as he hobbled as quickly as his old body would move in their direction. He was shrouded in the growing dusk, but the man’s movements were clearly human, clearly non-zombie.

Donnie kept braking, pulling the car to a stop about twenty yards from the approaching man. Michelle kept her eyes on him. As best she could tell, the old man showed no outward signs of injury. He was 85 if he was a day, but moved like a younger man. The top of his head was bare, but there was still a smattering of hair on the sides and back, with a little more coming out from his enormous ears. His facial features were crunched together, making the rest of his head look that much larger by comparison. He wore cargo pants and a flannel, snap-button shirt with a shoulder holster acting as a near vest, and bore a heavy pack on his back. In each of his hands he carried a shiny pistol. In the close vicinity — as far as the darkness allowed Michelle to see — the man was the only human, or former human, in sight.

“What the hell?” Donnie said again as the man drew closer to the car. Donnie put the car in park and opened the driver’s door. Michelle noticed he clutched his weapon in his hand as he stepped out of the vehicle.

“Right there,” he said, leveling his gun at the man, who stopped some fifteen feet from the car. “That’s close enough.”

The man stopped and lowered his hands, stowing his guns before holding his hands before him in a peacemaking gesture. The car’s headlights fell upon him, making him squint as he tried to focus on Donnie before him.

“Don’t fret, son,” the man said. “Don’t fret.”             

“I won’t ‘fret,’” Donnie said. “I’m fine. Just cool it there for a minute.”

Michelle couldn’t bear sitting on the sideline while this confrontation went on, so she opened her own door and stepped out of the vehicle, though she left her gun stowed safely in her holster.

“You’re handling yourself well, my boy,” the old man said, his face breaking almost into a smile. “Very well.”

This clearly caught Donnie by surprise, and he withdrew his gun an inch or two. He caught himself, though, and straightened his arms again. Michelle couldn’t tell if the man could see Donnie’s hesitation beyond the headlight beams. “That’s all well and good,” Donnie said. “But what can I do for
you
? Why did you flag us down?”

The man turned and looked to the sides and behind him. The look he gave Donnie at the conclusion of his scan was an amused one. “Why did I flag you down?” he said. “Why did I flag you down? Who else do you suppose I’d hitch a ride from, son? Who else?” The old man let out a chuckle.

“And why should we give you a ride?” Donnie said.

The old man shrugged. “Why not? You wouldn’t be carrying me, you know. It’s a car. I won’t exactly slow you down. And I suppose I might be able to offer you some semblance of advice, sometime.” He whistled. “Yessir, some semblance of advice.”

Donnie’s look didn’t waver. “You can offer us
advice
?” he said. “What sort of advice could you offer? Who are you, old man?”

The man’s small smile broke into a full grin, and he started to strip down, standard operating procedure for a meeting between strangers in a zombie world. “Oh,” he said, “I expect you’ll find I have all sorts of words of wisdom I can offer to a pair of travelers stuck ‘out there’ in the world of zombies. Yes sir, you might find I’m something of an expert in the department of being ‘out there.’

“Son, you can lower that weapon any time you want. I’m a person you want to have with you, trust me on that. I am a person you want to have with you. We’ll make for excellent traveling companions.

“You want to know who I am?” he asked, smiling even more broadly and dropping his underwear so that he was standing there naked in the headlights. There wasn’t a mark on the man that hadn’t come through nearly a century of normal life. “My name’s Peter Salvisa. You might have heard of me.”

Chapter 8: Whatever Version of Salvation

“She was
fine
!
She wasn’t bitten!”

Stacy’s words were still echoing in Andy’s ears as he lagged behind the girl and the teacher. The two would hurry ahead, trying to get back to the cars. A few seconds later, one or both would realize that Andy was lagging behind, and they would slow down. Inevitably, though, their nervous energy would cause them to speed up again, and the whole cycle would repeat.

For his part, though, Andy had only one speed left. In his heart, he knew he had to get back to his daughter, make sure she was safe, but he couldn’t find the energy, the drive to speed up. He had been the one to take charge, to know what to do all along, but he had made a bigger mistake than just about anyone — perhaps even bigger than the mistakes Lowensen made to get them all here. The teacher had gotten them in a bad situation, sure, but he hadn’t
actually
killed anyone.

The only thing — the
only
thing — pulling Andy forward at this point was Celia. If it weren’t for her, he very well might have wandered off into the wilderness, to whatever Z’s were out there waiting for him.

For the third or fourth time since they left the supposed Safe Place, Lowensen slowed down to Andy’s pace, trying to encourage greater speed.

“Mr. Ehrens?” he said, prodding. “We’ve really got to speed up. There’s no telling what we’ll find at the cars.”

Andy nodded, but didn’t turn his head to meet the teacher’s eyes. They were less than a half block away from the right turn that would put their co-travelers back in sight, and Andy felt, somewhere within him, that the actual sight of his daughter would help to speed him up, if anything could.

In the next few seconds, two things happened. Stacy, a few feet ahead of the two men, reached the corner. She turned toward their destination and stopped in her tracks. At the same time, from a distance that could only be the cars’ location, several gunshots rang out almost simultaneously.

That sped Andy up; those gunshots came from Celia’s direction. He and Lowensen quickly joined Stacy at the street corner and turned to see what she saw.

Even in the darkness, there were no surprises in front of them. Not after the gunshots. There, not four hundred yards from where they were standing, Andy saw that his companions were under siege. A horde of zombies, forty strong at least, had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, from a small side street near where they had parked. Celia and the others were scrambling to get into the cars, with a Stone behind each wheel. The gunshots too, were coming from the Stones’ weapons, as the others — Celia, Travis, Carla and Amanda’s son — were far more focused on simply getting into a vehicle than they were in firing their weapons.

Where the zombies had come from, how they had been able to surprise the others, Andy didn’t know and couldn’t guess. He didn’t care. What he did care about was ensuring that Celia got to safety, and, as he watched her slam her car door shut, with Simon climbing into the driver’s seat next to her, it seemed to be a goal that was being realized. Seconds later, the car lurched forward, and the younger Stone sped toward Andy, Stacy and Lowensen, carrying the other two students as well. Just behind it, the elder Stone navigated his car behind his son’s, leaving a mob of zombies sprinting behind them. Carla, with her one good arm, leaned out the rear passenger window, firing at the zombies. Her body barely fit out the window, but the woman was firing as quick as her finger would flex. Andy saw no zombies fall, but appreciated her gusto nonetheless.

Their problems weren’t over, though. Andy glanced behind him and saw with a fair level of dread that some zombies — presumably, though he couldn’t be sure, the ones from the safe house — were fast approaching from their rear. The group was smaller, maybe 10, but formidable regardless, especially since Andy’s group’s only chances were to take the time to try to climb into the moving vehicles or to try to keep the army of undead at bay.

Andy’s first worry was that the Stones would honor self-preservation above all else and drive right past his crew and him without stopping. Somewhat sheepishly, Andy wondered to himself if, in a role reversal, he would pass right by the Stones, saving himself, and he admitted that there was a chance he would.

The Stones, though, did not drive by. Simon, in Andy’s Camry, reached them first, some ten seconds or so before the first Z’s would arrive. As Simon pulled to the intersection, bringing him in sight of the side road the Z’s were advancing on, Andy saw his eyes grow wide. He recovered quickly, though, and waved them over.

Andy ran around the car and threw the back door open, climbing in next to a shocked Travis. Lowensen did the same on the other side, pushing the two boys into the middle. Celia opened the front passenger door, and Stacy squeezed in with her.

“Go!” Andy cried once they were all on board. Simon hit the gas, and the car sped forward on the road Andy had turned away from during their initial sojourn. He turned in his seat, checking to make sure Roger went the same way in his car.

He didn’t. As Andy watched, Roger swung left, driving toward the Z’s. Simon, though, didn’t look back, speeding away as quickly as the old car would go.

“Where’s he going?” cried Lowensen, also watching. “Why isn’t he following?”

“Decoy,” Simon said dully.             

“What?”

“He told me,” Simon said. His tone was low, his pitch never rising. “At the cars. ‘They come,’ he said, ‘you get out of here. I’ll draw them away.’”

“But…we have cars,” Lowensen said, sounding incredulous. “He could drive with us.”

“He couldn’t,” Simon said. “We were running on fumes. That was why he stopped in the first place. That car has maybe a mile left in it, he said. He was just ashamed to admit it to you, Mr. Ehrens.

“That lady,” he continued, “said she’d stay with him. Said she’d help him, as long as she could.”

“Why would she do that?” Lowensen asked.

Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, Andy thought, as Carla’s hopelessness had been obvious since they had fetched her from the remains of her own vehicle after the Guardsmen attack. Her family was dead, at peace if anything, and she was stuck in this living hell. She was a shell of a woman, and Andy knew the only way she could find whatever version of salvation she could find for herself was to help the others. And, based on the certainty Simon spoke with, it was a decision Roger and Carla had come to during their drive earlier. Either way, Andy was glad he had kept his gas tank as full as possible, and maintained two five-gallon portable tanks in the trunk in case of emergency.

“They’re sacrificing themselves?” Celia asked in a horrified voice.

Simon let out a laugh, a hollow, lifeless noise that had no humor in it. “Well, he hopes not,” he said. “He’s hoping the car can go long enough for them to get through, make it away from the Z’s. He said that if all else fails, we meet up at Morgan College.”

“At the school?” Stacy said. “Why would we go back there?”

Simon shrugged. He was trying, and failing, to separate himself from the likely loss of his father. “We didn’t have any other landmark,” he said. “Mr. Ehrens, if it’s okay with you, unless you all found anything more promising, I’d like to go back to school.”

From a few feet to Andy’s left, Lowensen let out a snort, echoing Andy’s own emotions in that moment. They already had no better option than going back to school, if only to try to make their way to Wal-Mart, and now fate seemed bound and determined to direct them back the place where their whole misadventure had begun.

Andy sighed. There seemed to be no avoiding it. He looked ahead, at the dim view illuminated by the car’s head lights.

“That’s fine, Simon,” he said. “We’ll go back to Morgan College.”