After Life (3 page)

“Virus’d been going for a long time by then, but we were still stupid. We saw that food, and we just went to town. First night I had three cans of Spam, two of Vienna sausages. Don’t know who the hell’s house that was, but they stocked up on food before,” he paused, “whatever happened to them. But Carl and Mike and Faith were the same way. We hadn’t learned yet. We were used to going to the store, going to Applebee’s, you know.” Celia didn’t know what Applebee’s was, but didn’t think it was an important enough detail to interrupt to ask. “Saving food, stockpiling didn’t really make sense to us. We got bored; we did what any red-blooded American did — we ate. And with the electricity gone, no TV, no computers, what did we have? A 50-card deck and a hundred cans of spam.

“…And the gun,” he added with a flinch. “Carl used two bullets getting that one off me. After that, we had to preserve. When we realized the food was already running low, we agreed we’d have to eat Max eventually. And we knew Mike would have to go next, if it came to that. He even offered. We hadn’t heard any sign of the Z’s in a while, but we sure as hell weren’t gonna go looking. Not ‘til we had to. No, we figured we’d stay in until they found us — and they always seemed to find you eventually. Bastards had some kind of Alive Radar.

“We might not have had the world’s greatest plan, but it was all we had at the time. And you gotta do something, you know? But damned if that food didn’t run out a lot faster than I thought it would, even once we realized how fast we were going through it. And Carl started getting hungry …”

Andy trailed off again. Celia let him sit in silence for a few minutes before she tried to prod him further. “Dad…” she started.

Andy jumped in his seat. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “The point,” he said after another bit of silence, “is that they left twice. They came back once. Are
you
willing to bet your life they won’t do it again? I’m not.”

He shut his mouth again, with a sense of finality this time. Celia had questions — about Max, about Faith, about Carl and Mike, about all of that. She had no memory of any of them, but she didn’t know who had died during the outbreak and who had simply not remained a part of her father’s life in the aftermath. She wanted to ask more questions, but she could tell that even relating this to her had taken effort, and she didn’t feel the need to press her luck just yet. There would be time for that.

So, instead of badgering her father, Celia leaned her head back against the window and watched the scenery pass by, though the glass was no longer cool to the touch.

Chapter 3: Crazy, Paranoid

In Stamford, Connecticut, a lone man stood on the sidewalk just below a sign that said, “Checks cashed here.”

The sign looked to be a lost cause, as the neon bulbs were all either burned out or burst, and so what could be made out looked more like “heck cahed her,” and even that was tough to see. A bit to the right of the sign was another, smaller one. It was a yellow diamond, with the outline of a large human figure holding a smaller one, with the words “Safe Place” written below. The signs were mounted on the front of a tiny cement building wedged into a city block that, in the years before 2010, was likely a hub of activity in the northeastern city. These days, though, the block was run down, and the little building, with its wooden door and yellow sign, fit right in.

The lone man, though, stood out. He was standing erect, his back to the neon sign, his head occasionally rotating right, then left, watching nothing.

Streetlights and crosswalk lights up and down the block sat, inactive. There was no need for them to be on; no cars passed.

He stood there silently as the moments, but no people, went by. Eventually, though, someone appeared. Madison Crane walked around the corner, striding with a purpose. Madison was in her mid- to late-40s, but in another era could easily have passed for at least a decade younger. Her brunette hair was cut short, but fashionable. She wore a navy pantsuit that hugged her body tightly. On her feet, she wore flats. She carried no purse; presumably, any vital possessions were tucked somewhere in the tiny pockets of her suit.

The man under the no-longer-neon sign saw her coming, but didn’t make a move.

“Morning, Nick,” Madison said as she neared the door.

“Ma’am,” Nick replied, sparing only the slightest head turn and nod toward her.

Madison opened the door next to the Safe Place sign and entered the small concrete building.

Inside, Madison entered onto a small platform that led to a downward staircase. The only thing on her level other than the door was a small phone with no keypad — whatever it connected to, the connection was automatic. Madison passed the phone without a glance and descended into the earth. She took the steps briskly, unbuttoning the front of her suit jacket as she did so. By the time she had reached the bottom, she had pulled the jacket off and was already removing the gun from the waistband of her pants. Another man, Ben, exited a small guard’s room adjacent to the landing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi there, Miss Crane,” Ben said, a lilt in his voice.

“Morning, Ben,” Madison said. She pulled her pants down to her ankles, then removed the red sleeveless top she had been wearing under her jacket. She deftly removed her bra, pulled her underwear down to her ankles as well and did a quick 360 turn, momentarily wearing only a gold ring on the third finger of her left hand, as Ben watched.

“Fine,” he said, reaching behind him to open the door as Madison redressed.

When she first had to strip down for the guards to gain entry, Madison had balked at the idea, even argued briefly. She knew, though, that it was not exactly negotiable, and by now had grown accustomed to the routine. Modesty was a small price to pay, she figured, to ensure safety.

“Lambert pitched an absolute fit this mornin’,” Ben said while he waited for Madison to put herself back together. “For whatever reason, the man absolutely refused to strip down.”

“Really?” Madison said, not that curious. Zachary Lambert, her boss, was notoriously fussy.

“Yes, ma’am. He gets that way once or twice a week. Never quite sure what sets him off, but he’ll just get himself in a tizzy and flat-out refuse.”

“I guess he eventually did, though, right?” Madison said.

“Actually no,” Ben said quickly. “But what can you do, you know? Man holds my job in his hands. He says no, I can’t very well argue. It’s Lambert, anyway. Happens with him every now and then. Man knows the deal.”

“That he does, Ben,” Madison said. Finally dressed again, she bid him goodbye and entered the body of the facility. She turned left, facing a long concrete hallway — fifty yards, bare minimum. There were doors about fifteen feet apart all the way down, save one spot on the left about halfway, where a second hallway ran into that one, creating a T-junction.

The hall had a musky odor, as though it hadn’t been used in years, which Madison, having been in there nearly every day for all that time, knew wasn’t true. The whole place was lit up by bright fluorescent lights that, combined with the cement and the smell, gave the whole place a clinical feel. Even in her flats, Madison’s feet clicked as she made her way down the hall toward her office, which was the last door at the end.

The hallway, like the street before it, looked deserted, but Madison could hear some action in the offices she passed, and heard a toilet flush when she passed the men’s room near the hallway junction. Just as she reached her office, she heard the restroom door open. Looking back quickly, she saw Donnie Neyer, one of Lambert’s assistants, exit, wiping his hands. The two of them shared a nod, and Madison entered her office.

The office was more inviting, more feminine than the hallway had been. Though everything was still cement, Madison and her assistant, Michelle Rivers, had made an impact on the décor, adding a rug and some artwork. The smell too, was different, and more pleasant here. It was still clinical, but more waiting room than exam room.

Michelle was sitting at her desk, which faced the door. When she looked up to see Madison, she smiled widely, then stopped and simply offered a small grin.

Madison, too, caught herself before she greeted her too warmly. Just before the door closed, Madison said, “Michelle, I’d like to see you in my office, please, when you get the chance.” She crossed the floor, just behind and to the right of Michelle, and entered her inner office. Seconds later, Michelle hurried to follow.

Madison waited just inside her door. When Michelle was through, she quickly closed it and pinned her assistant against the wall.

Michelle was a bit younger than Madison — maybe in her late 30s. Her blonde hair was longer than Madison’s, but beyond that the two looked quite similar — same thin build, same bust, even same style of shoes. Michelle was shorter maybe than her boss, but even that was marginal.

Michelle happily backed against the door against Madison’s push. It was exactly what she had expected when she had followed her into the room. Madison grabbed Michelle’s bare left hand with her right, placing it against the door as well, even with Michelle’s head.

She leaned in and kissed her, a long kiss that was nonetheless shorter than the one they had shared only a couple hours earlier when Michelle had left Madison’s house.

After a moment, they separated, and Michelle heard the tell-tale signs of a door opening in the room behind her. Madison heard it too, and quickly pulled back. Michelle exited the office just as Madison said, “Thank you. We’ll continue this later.”

Michelle nodded and returned to her desk, where Donnie was standing. He had placed himself at the side of her desk and was standing, his hands in his pockets, bouncing back and forth against the desk’s wooden edge on the balls of his feet. The movements made Donnie, who must have been in his late 30s, Michelle figured, look no older than 25. His wavy, dirty-blond hair and poorly knotted tie only added to the young look. He was the newest member of the facility, barely six months into his employment, but didn’t seem to love his new digs.

“Hey,” he said, giving no indication that he had any idea what had been going on in Madison’s office.

“Hi, Donnie,” Michelle said as she straightened her blouse and returned to her seat. “What’s going on?”

“Eh, Lambert getting on my case,” he said. “Figured I’d escape for a few minutes. And what better place to go than to my favorite two people?”

Michelle smiled. Donnie, despite his immaturity, was a nice guy. “You’re welcome to hide out for a bit,” she said, though she found herself wondering how she’d entertain Donnie while he was there.

Donnie nodded. He opened his mouth as though he were about to say something else, but seemed to think better of it and kept bobbing up and down, hands in his pockets, watching Michelle work.

He stayed that way for nearly two minutes. Finally, he leaned in conspiratorially and waited for Michelle to look up. When she did, he smiled and whispered, “Big deal going on down the hall, looks like.”

Michelle waited for him to continue, but Donnie just stood there, leaning forward and smiling at her. “What do you mean?” she asked at last.

“Not sure,” he said. “Lambert and Cal don’t really keep me in the loop. But I know he’s been up in arms over Salvisa all morning.”

“What about him?”             

“Not sure,” Donnie repeated. “But you know if it’s something noteworthy involving Peter Salvisa, it sure isn’t good news.”

“True,” Michelle nodded.

As if on cue, the office’s outer door opened. Donnie, still leaning forward, was surprised and tripped forward into the desk, toppling Michelle’s pen holder and moving several other things around. He turned to look just as Michelle saw who had entered — Zachary Lambert, head of the facility.

“Mr. Lambert!” Donnie said, alarmed. “I’m just —”

“...Going back to the office,” Lambert growled. “Been there ten minutes waiting for you to get back, and I find you here?”

Donnie blanched and nodded, hurrying around his boss and out the door. Lambert turned and watched his young worker until he made the turn toward the office, then turned back to face Michelle. He saw her looking and gave her a curt nod, then walked toward Madison’s door.

“Madison in?” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door to Madison’s office and walked in.

Madison was at her computer when he entered and didn’t give away her surprise at the intrusion. She wasn’t used to interruptions unless they were by Michelle, and Michelle always entered quietly, but she had a practiced poker face. Lambert flung the door open so loudly that it slammed against the cabinet she had on the other side, but Madison looked up passively.

“Morning, Lambert,” she said, as though he were arriving for a scheduled appointment.

“Madison,” he grumped, closing the door behind him. Lambert was a gruff man, bald with and a forehead that jutted forward so far that his head seemed to make a straight line from the top of his head to the tip of his nose. It gave him the impression that he was always on the verge of head-butting someone, similar to those solid-domed dinosaurs or mountain goats.

He wore a suit that had once been custom-made for him but, as he aged, had begun losing the fight against his expanding waistline and refusal to iron. The suit was ratty and strained, and Lambert’s suspenders looked on the verge of tearing clean in two.

His cheeks were normally red and his body usually perspiring, considering his tremendous girth. Today, though, both of those conditions were in overdrive. Lambert looked like he was transforming into an over-condensing Kool-Aid Man as he waddled across Madison’s floor. In his left hand, he held a handkerchief, which he alternated between mopping his brow and blowing his nose, a combination that left Madison nauseated.

Lambert walked up to a chair opposite Madison’s desk wordlessly and sat down. He readjusted a few times before he found a position comfortable enough for both him and his enormous gut, then leaned back, hands barely clasped around the belly, and stared at her.

“What’s going on?” she asked when it became clear he was waiting for the question.

“Salvisa,” he said.

“Salvisa? Salvisa, from — ?”

“Salvisa, president and operator of the ‘Out-Theres’ Web site, Salvisa. Salvisa,” Lambert said.

“What about him?”

“I don’t know,” Lambert said before coughing briefly and falling silent again.

Madison sighed. Lambert, while technically her boss, didn’t often make a point to visit her or her office. When he did, though, the conversations were almost always maddening, as he often took much longer to get to the point than necessary. “Then what about him?” she said eventually, hoping her voice wouldn’t belie her annoyance.

It did. “Don’t get testy with me,” Lambert said. “Had a hard enough morning as it is, and haven’t gotten any help from you.”

“You haven’t asked, sir,” she said, careful not to sound accusatory. It was a gambit, as Madison had only been at work a few minutes, but she wagered that Lambert, always a proud man, wouldn’t have bothered her particularly early.

“True,” he conceded. Silence again, only broken by a couple of Lambert’s coughs.

Madison waited a maddeningly long thirty seconds, fiddling with her phone cord the whole time. “So... Salvisa?”

“Haven’t spoken to him.”

“Then why are you worried?”

“I just said. Haven’t spoken to him. Haven’t heard from him.”

“Is that rare?”

“Matter of fact, it is,” Lambert growled, as though Madison were the slow kid in class. “Speak to Salvisa three, four times a day, usually.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Really.”

“So what does that mean? Couldn’t he just be sick?”

Lambert snorted, which caused another coughing fit. “Could be. Could be the man had a heart attack, drank himself into a coma, forgot. He is pushing 90. But when you combine the fact that he hasn’t contacted me with everything
else
going on, it’s concerning.”