After Life (5 page)

Chapter 5: The Ones Who Thought They Were Strong

Madison was on the phone with a contact in Maine, about 40 miles from Salvisa’s ranch, which was as close a person to the old man as she could find. Mickey Lewis, an old man who was half-hermit himself, wasn’t willing to provide much help though, and as Madison got off the phone, she heard Donnie enter her office again.

“Hey, Michelle,” he said. Madison walked out to greet him. “Miss Crane,” he added.

“Donnie,” Madison said. “What can we do for you?”             

“Nothing, really. Same reason I was here before. Just trying to escape Lambert for a few minutes. He’s killing us down there.”

“Grumpy man,” Madison said with a sympathetic nod.

“Today more than ever. Between this whole Salvisa thing and him running back and forth to the bathroom every couple minutes, he’s on the warpath. I swear, I think he’s on his fifth or sixth hanky.”

Madison stopped to consider this. The thought had briefly crossed her mind when Lambert was in her office earlier, but she had tried to dismiss it. It persisted, though.

“Is that just the flu?” Madison asked.

“I guess,” Donnie said, shrugging. “Says he’s got some kind of bug. He went to the bathroom fifteen-twenty minutes ago, haven’t seen him since. Figured I’d try to be missing when he returns.”

“I wouldn’t stay,” Madison said. “He’s going to be in a bad enough mood, Donnie. You’ll want to be there when he gets back.”

Donnie sighed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He stomped, looking like nothing so much as a tantrum-throwing toddler. He left, the door standing open behind him.

Madison ran her fingers through her hair, straightening a bit and tucking it behind her right ear. Michelle noticed this.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Madison stopped short. Michelle always surprised her by how attuned she was with Madison’s mannerisms. She briefly considered lying to her, but was sure Michelle would pick up on it. “I’m just a little worried about Lambert.”

“Lambert?”

“You were locked down the whole time, right?”

“2010?” Michelle asked. “Pretty much. My sister put the whole place on lockdown — no one in, no one out, no matter who they were.”

“Your sister was smart.”

“Yeah. Was.”

“Anyway,” Madison continued. “You weren’t out there. Some guys — the proud ones, the ones who thought they were strong, like Lambert — wouldn’t let on when they had been bitten. It was crazy. Everyone knew a bite meant you were a zombie. But still, the cocky guys just refused to believe, thought they were too strong, they could fight it off, something. Ben at the gate told me Lambert refused to strip for inspection when he showed up this morning, and he’s been flushed all day, and getting worse quickly.”

“You think he’s …?”

“I don’t want to believe that. And if he is infected, it’s the slowest-moving infection I’ve ever seen. Usually, it takes only a few minutes, less if someone’s been bitten multiple times. But he’s been more worried than normal about these phone calls when it doesn’t seem that out of the ordinary from my perspective. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned.”

“So what do we do?”

“I’m not sure,” Madison said, then stopped. She cocked her head toward the hallway. Straining her ears, she thought for sure she had heard the tell-tale coughs that indicated Lambert’s exit from the bathroom and, judging from the fact that the sound was getting louder, he hadn’t then made the left turn down his own hallway — he was coming their way.

Michelle turned to see for herself. Lambert, who earlier had seemed under the weather but functional, was now stumbling along, face firmly pressed into his handkerchief, barely holding himself upright against the wall. His suit jacket was only a memory, and his white shirt was translucent with sweat.

Lambert nearly fell as he crossed the threshold into their office. He doubled over, his gut pushing his suspenders to their breaking point, and hacked something that even he found disgusting into his latest handkerchief, a brown one that didn’t match anything else he was wearing.

“Salvisa,” he rasped when he had gotten over his fit.

“What about him?” Madison asked.

“Any word?”

“No. Nothing about Salvisa.” Madison looked over to her assistant. “Michelle, can you go to Lambert’s office? See if you can help Donnie and Cal out a little?”

Michelle balked, and Lambert coughed. “What are you sending her away for?” he said angrily.

“Michelle, please.”

Michelle took a couple of steps toward the door, then looked back at Madison with raised eyebrows. The two held eye contact for a moment, then, when Lambert doubled over in another coughing fit, Madison raised her jacket, giving Michelle a glimpse of the ever-present handgun. Michelle nodded and left.

“And shut the door, please,” Madison called after her.

Chapter 6: All
A’
s

Stacy, Celia, and Andy had found a row of seats almost in the dead center of the auditorium. The room was built to house a few hundred but was not even half full, even with the number of parents still around.

“Zombie movies,” Barry Lowensen was saying, “were terrible.” As he spoke, he paced the room, ignoring the podium at the front except for an occasional stop-and-lean. He kept one hand in his pocket; the other waved in front of him, driving his various points home. Though his topic was grave, and the parents listening squirmed uncomfortably, everything he said was with a smile, almost a wink.

“Their zombies were so different from what they turned out to be. Part of why we weren’t ready. Some made them out like they were hyper-fast, super-agile, mega-strong. Others made them like turtles with arms. But neither way makes any sense, does it?

“Think about it — all Z’s are are infected people. Dead, sure. But infected, and people nonetheless. So wouldn’t they move like people? The only plodding or stumbling was due to people whose infections were based on leg injuries or other balance issues. No, the differences between their appearance and ours was more subtle. But once you saw it, you could never miss it again. The eyes.

“A Z’s eyes are white — the pupil, cornea, everything. Shades of white. Some think this means Z’s see only in black and white. I don’t know. Don’t see how it matters. All I know is that a Z looking back at you is one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen.

“Speaking of which,” he said, stopping and pointing with his free hand toward Celia. She stared back, confused, until she realized he was actually pointing to the kid next to her — a scraggly haired, dirty kid with dark sunglasses that were the same shade as his almost-black hair. “Those. Off. No sunglasses at school. Far as I’m concerned, no sunglasses anywhere. I can’t see your eyes, I might be in trouble. And I don’t want to be in trouble. So do me a favor, no sunglasses, and eyes forward as much as possible.”

The kid shrugged and removed the shades, though he kept his eyes for the most part down at his desk. Barry watched him and scowled briefly, but went on. Celia watched the kid for slightly longer. On the small tray table he had unfolded before him, he was drawing a picture. There was a person standing upright in the center, though it pretty clearly had a chunk taken out of its neck. It wore a T-shirt that read “Z’s rule.” All around it were smaller bodies, ones that looked clean, untouched.

Celia rolled her eyes. She knew there were some people who had grown to love the idea of zombies, just as there had been Nazi lovers as recently as 2010. But she couldn’t understand why.

“Their arms were out in front of them, because they reached,” the teacher went on. “Always reaching. And they didn’t clean up. If blood dripped or mud splattered, that was where it stayed. And really, from any kind of distance, that was the significant indicator.

“Even subconsciously, you and I, we brush away debris on our bodies. But not them. I remember one —” he went on, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the increased squirming by some of the uncomfortable parents. “I remember one that had this huge clump of dirt or mud or something right on his forehead. Sucker must’ve been a full inch thick. I was on this roof for a while, and all I could focus on was this Z and his face clump. It’s amazing the things you dwell on, but I just could not stand it. First time I got the chance, that’s the first one I took a bullet to.”

Celia glanced around and saw a few parents nod their agreement with Barry’s assessment. “Also,” he said. “They’ll eat anything with flesh. Except each other, for reasons we never could quite work out. It doesn’t matter if you’re alive or dead — so long as you aren’t reanimated, all you are is a tasty snack. But, and this is the big thing, they
always
prefer live meat. So if you come across a group that is chowing down on a dead boy, don’t think you can sneak by, that they’ll be satisfied with a stationary meal. They’ll come after you. The thrill of the hunt,” he added, with a mirthless chuckle that sounded completely unlike the one he had offered in the dorm.

“If, heaven forbid,” he said, growing more stern, “the Z’s ever do return, you need to know how to face them. But perhaps more importantly, you need to know who to trust. And who not to.

“I hate that I have to stress this, but it’s a simple truth of the human condition that some of us are
not
altruistic, some of us
won’t
protect anyone but ourselves. Now, it’s one thing to refuse to let someone into your hideout for fear of running out of food. That’s understandable, if frustrating. But if, God forbid, the Z’s ever do return, that’s not the worst thing you’ll see. There will be people out there who will shoot humans and zombies alike, shoot anything moving, just to keep themselves alive.

“Their thinking,” Lowensen said, shaking his head and offering a frown at the idea, “is that the fewer
other
humans that are out there, the less the zombies will have to eat, and the sooner they’ll die or starve into immobility, or something. I have to admit that it’s probably a true idea, but that doesn’t make it any less cowardly. If we’re willing to wantonly kill humans, I don’t see how we’re any better than the zombies.”

Lowensen paused, and Celia heard confirming murmurs roll through the parents in the room. The teacher stood in the front of the room, his hands plunged into his pockets, for a full minute. Finally, he raised his eyes again, and his broad, teacherly smile returned just as quickly as it had faded.

“Anyway,” he added. “That’s the big stuff. Just keep an eye out. You never know.” He motioned through the door behind him. “Cafeteria’s that way. With all the parents here, there probably isn’t enough seating for everyone to eat at once. Say we feed some of you now, the rest later on? Head through if you’re hungry. I’ll see the rest of you in a while.

“And remember what we said in our letters to you,” the teacher said, crossing his arms and smiling widely, winding up for a big finish Celia knew he had practiced, “Z’s are Z’s. And ‘A’ stands for Alive. So let’s have a year of all A’s.

“Class starts tomorrow, 10 sharp. Thanks, everyone. Should be a good year.” With that, the teacher gave a small wave, turned and trotted out of the auditorium. He passed through a back door, into a corridor Celia thought looked incomplete. From what she could see, it was just a concrete hallway, no decorations at all. It was a stark contrast from the auditorium. Layers of white or nearly white curtains hung from every wall, except for the chalkboard that spanned most of the length of one wall. It stretched from the left-hand corner to the edge of the door in the opposite corner — the door Lowensen had used. The mini-desks were not fastened to the floor, allowing for their removal or repositioning as needed.

As Celia looked around, she noticed a handful of students and parents getting up to follow Mr. Lowensen to the cafeteria area. Something like two-thirds of the attendees were going that direction. Celia wasn’t anywhere near hungry, and a glance at her father indicated he too was happy to wait to eat.

The non-eaters, students and adults alike, exited behind the rows of seats. The sunglasses wearer had slipped the shades back on almost as soon as the teacher had turned his back, and high-tailed it out as quickly as he could. Celia watched a girl in a skin-tight bright pink top, short skirt and heels — the kind of outfit she had asked to wear when she was a few years younger, the kind her father had never allowed — stumble as she missed a step on her way out.

Stacy, Andy and Celia lingered, letting the herd thin. While they waited, Celia saw a black guy about her age and who she assumed was his father get up from their seats near the front and walk toward them. The father was looking directly at Andy, but the son had his eyes on the two girls. Celia returned his gaze. Most of those there that were her own age — boys or girls — had been shifty and uncomfortable with prolonged eye contact. Truth be told, this boy didn’t exactly look confident. But he didn’t break his gaze, which was unusual. And he was looking, Celia was sure, right at her.

He was several inches taller than her, and obviously in good shape. His black hair was cut only a centimeter or so off his head, and his eyes were just deep enough to invite a return gaze. Celia didn’t know the boy, but she didn’t mind his stare.

“Andy,” the boy’s father said, as Celia, her roommate and her father approached.

“Roger,” Celia’s father greeted, nodding to the man.

“Amazing he’s so comfortable talking about it.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “It’s just talk, Dad,” he said, then looked quickly back to the girls, as though curious what they thought of his comment.

“I don’t think he was
that
comfortable,” Celia said. “Upstairs, he did. Down here, he stuttered, he fidgeted, he paced. He was putting confidence out there, but I don’t think he’s as comfortable as he was putting on.”

“Observant girl,” Roger said. Almost immediately, Celia felt her father’s hand on her shoulder, clasping it in approval.

“What’s your name?” Stacy asked the kid.

“Simon.” He looked to his father, then back to Celia and Stacy. He stood up straight and let out an almost-sarcastic laugh. “Dad thinks this is overrated.”

Roger shook his head in embarrassment and looked down at the floor. Andy turned to Simon. “What do you mean, son?”

“Says he thinks they aren’t coming back,” Simon continued, still looking at the girls.

“That’s not what I said,” Roger interjected. “Not at all. What I said was if they were coming back, I’d have thought it would have happened by now. Just that I’m not sitting on the edge of my seat anymore.”

“I know what you mean,” Andy said with a nod. “But you were in a bunker the whole time. You didn’t see when they all stopped the first time. If not for that, I’d agree with you. But I don’t trust anything that can do that to people.”

The crowd finally dissipated, and Celia led the five of them out of the auditorium. They climbed the stairwell that would lead them out. It was the only entrance to the classroom they had seen — that small building centered in the three-building triangle had housed a stairwell to the classroom.

Just before they exited, Celia stopped, looking at a phone at the top of the stairs.

“What’s this?” she asked her father. “Didn’t notice it when we came down.”

Andy surveyed the phone for a moment with an uncertain look. “If I had to guess,” he started, reaching up to pull the phone off the cradle. “It’s — ”

“I know what it is,” Stacy said with a hint of nervousness. “It’s the alarm phone.”

“About what I guessed,” Andy said, dropping his hand before removing the handset from its cradle. “There’s no keypad. What does it connect to?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Stacy said. “Stamford, maybe. Or maybe there’s somewhere closer where they’d know what to do.”

Andy looked at the phone with concern. “If I had picked it up, what would have happened?”

“Here? They probably would have just asked you questions, at first,” Stacy said. “At any of the real facilities — Stamford, Raleigh, those places — you don’t pick up that phone unless it’s confirmed. And as soon as it’s confirmed, they shut the phones down.”

“Shut them down?” Celia asked, surprised. “All the phones?”

“All of them,” Stacy said with a nod. “They decided that the worst thing for the spreading of the virus in 2010 was people who called for help. There’s an emergency government communication system, I think. Like CB radio or something. But the phones, for the general public, they won’t do anything. Basically, if they come back, you’re on your own, not infecting others.”

At that, they continued out of the classroom area. Once they were back above ground, Simon, who had positioned himself as close to Celia and Stacy as they would let him, asked, “How’d you know that about the phone?”

“My mom,” Stacy said. “She knows that system inside and out. Think she helped implement it.”

“Wow,” Roger said. “Friends in high places.”

The concrete path they were on hit the fork that meant boys one direction, girls the other. Celia and Stacy took a few steps toward their building, then stopped and looked back. Andy hadn’t followed.

“So, Roger,” he said, turning to the black man. “I’ll probably see you around. How long you staying?”

“Couple days, at least.”

Andy nodded. “Sounds about right. Might even sit in on a class, if Mr. Lowensen will let me.” He stuck out his hand, and Roger took it.

The three kids watched the interaction silently. Once the hands had separated, Andy followed the girls. Celia and Stacy, seeing him on his way, continued on their path.

Andy though, paused again and glanced behind him.

Roger and Simon hadn’t yet headed toward the boys’ dorm. Instead, Roger had his right arm wrapped around his son’s shoulder. He was leaning down to his son’s ear, as though he were telling him a secret, maybe teaching him a lesson. With his left arm, Roger pointed toward some windows a few floors up in the boys’ dorm. Andy watched as Roger’s arm traced a line from window to window, obviously telling Simon something.

Andy nodded at the sight of them. Whatever Roger was teaching his son, it seemed important. And if it was important, Andy felt pretty sure he knew the topic. And he liked that Roger felt it important enough to make sure his son had that knowledge, even if the man didn’t seem as afraid as Andy felt. In fact, Andy acknowledged, Roger was probably educating his son in some ways better than Andy had his own daughter.