Death After Life: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller by John Evans Page A

deserved.
    A burst of laughter and coarse voices startled him and heralded the addition of three disheveled youths to the end of the line. He noted with suspicion their grimy faces and truculent air before turning back to the line.
    Voskuil preferred not to think about things over which he had no control, which is why he’d come to the movies tonight. Two hours of distraction would unwind him to the point of being able to sleep. And he was willing to endure the hassles of a public theater if it broke his monotonous pattern of hospital to apartment and back.
    Next in line was a bulky African American fellow with a balding head and glasses. He was accompanied by a pretty teenager whom Voskuil presumed was his daughter.  
    At the ticket window, a uniformed staffer stepped in front of the cashier to say, “May I see a recent health certification, sir?”
    The fat guy instantly took offense. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m perfectly healthy.”  
    “Federal regulations, sir.”
    “You didn’t ask that lady for hers!”
    Voskuil rolled his eyes as the debate continued.
    “I’m sorry sir, but it’s theater policy to require a physical for patrons who may pose a health risk. If you would just step over to that line over there—”
    “No, I will not step over there. You can’t treat me like some invalid because of a few extra pounds—”
    Voskuil stepped forward, “Look, buddy, I’m a doctor — it takes five minutes to check your blood pressure and vitals—”
    “Oh yeah? Our movie starts in five minutes!”
    “So you miss some goddamned previews. Deal with it.”
    “Ridiculous,” the man muttered, glowering at Voskuil before stepping into the second line. The girl, clearly mortified, hurried after him. Voskuil assumed their place and addressed the cashier.  
    “One for ‘The Predicament,’ please.”
    “Five dollars.”
    Voskuil paid up with a smirk. One nice thing about living in America A.V. — “after virus” — was that to get people into a theater, exhibition chains were forced to slash ticket prices. Fewer movies were being made and on smaller budgets, but cinema was once again an egalitarian experience.
    As Voskuil approached the concessions counter, he passed the terminus of the second line. Behind a portable curtain, nurses examined overweight, elderly or possibly ill patrons. Stationed nearby were a pair of rent-a-cops. Impassive observers.
    Voskuil bought some Junior Mints and a caffeine-free root beer. He didn’t want to be up all night — quite the opposite. This would be his pleasant coast from madness to unconsciousness, for all too few blissful hours.
    When the lights dimmed, there were only 20 or 30 people spread throughout a cavernous theater. The place was built in the headiest days of the multiplex, so it sported stadium-style seating and there was no such thing as a bad view.
    Voskuil sat alone near the front and ate his Junior Mints.  
    Unbeknownst to him, the three teens whose boisterous eruption startled the ticket line were the closest patrons. They sat six rows back, at the front of an elevated second section.
    Once the trailers started, the kid in the middle, his stringy blond hair cut short by an amateur hand, leaned over to his friend and whispered, “Pass that shit, man….”
    Manuel shook his head. He hadn’t had his snort yet. Silverfish was eager, of course — they all were — but Manuel always went first. ‘Fish should know that.
    Manuel made sure all eyes were on the screen and carefully unfolded a piece of blue construction paper. The white powder stood out nicely even in the projector’s pale light.
    Manuel prepared a nice fat line and used a straw to snort it. He felt instant bliss.  
    Good cocaine was so easy to get these days. The market was flooded, so prices were way down. The U.S. government had basically waved the white flag in the war on drugs. Demand was too high (people needed to escape this hell on Earth however they could) and law