After (Book 3): Milepost 291 (18 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

Okay,
I’ve already burned through Plan A and Plan B. Maybe I should just skip
straight to Z.

DeVontay
didn’t see any way to make it back to the slaughterhouse without being spotted
by the Zapheads. Even if he crept along the fence line, at some point he’d have
to cross to the loading dock. The only option was to hope they left the
compound again before the children gave away their location. But he wasn’t sure
Kiki and the others could stay quiet and wait for him if he was gone for hours.
The Zapheads could be here all night—or even longer—as far as he knew.

A
small group of them surrounded the fallen corpse and gathered it up, hoisting
it aloft and heading back toward the gate. The others scattered around the
compound, and DeVontay wondered whether they were collecting more bodies. He
could almost understand them gathering their own dead—since they seemed to have
some sort of telepathic link, or at least a hive consciousness—but he didn’t
know why they’d want the human corpses.

If
only he had some way to communicate with Kiki, a two-way radio or something, he
could create a diversion by running through the gate and leading the Zapheads
away. Then he could easily lose them in the forest and work his way back later.
But with the group waiting for his return, he would have to reach them before
the Zapheads got there.

Then
he remembered Stephen telling him about his and Rachel’s escape, and how they’d
accidentally set the gas station on fire. Stephen said the Zapheads had not
only been drawn by the explosion and the flames, they actually begun hurling
themselves into the fire. Stephen had related the tale with a mixture of glee
and revulsion, the image of the scorched flesh leaving a strong imprint on him.

DeVontay
pulled a musty sheet from one of the bunks and quietly rent it into several
long strips. By the time he returned to the door, the Zapheads were out of
sight. They’d been making a high-pitched keening noise, like insects, but now
they were either silent or else their sounds had so easily blended in with the
night’s that he couldn’t track their location.

Slipping
through the door, he retraced his route along the fence line until he was again
beside the fuel tank. The tank contained diesel, judging by its heavier aroma,
so it wouldn’t create a spectacular explosion. But it would burn.

He rubbed
one of the strips of cloth along the leaky bottom of the tank until it was
soaked, and then repeated it with the other strips. Then he flipped open the
tank lid so oxygen would feed the flames. The flap to the gas tank on the bus
was locked, so he climbed under the vehicle and wound a fuel-sodden cloth
around the tank hose a few times, then tied all the strips together until he
had one long fuse connecting the diesel and gas tanks. Since the diesel was
relatively slow-burning, he’d have plenty of time to get away.

Checking
the compound one last time, he lit the center of the makeshift fuse and hurried
back along the fence line to the shed. He could see the bright guttering flame
of the fuse as it expanded in both directions. He slipped inside the shed,
collected the bundle of food, and sped toward the loading dock.

Three
Zapheads came out of the shadows toward him.

They
didn’t hurry and they made no noise other than their high, sibilant squeaking.
DeVontay considered dropping the bundle and heading in the other direction, but
if he fled now, he doubted he’d be able to make his way back to the
slaughterhouse. He heard a
whoof
and the diesel tank caught fire, yellow
and red licking over the metal as if seeking a way inside. It wasn’t a
pyrotechnical marvel, but it drew the attention of the Zapheads, and as they
walked toward DeVontay, he saw the fire reflected in their eyes.

The
Zaphead in the center was a male wearing only cargo shorts and hiking boots,
apparently impervious to the night’s autumnal chill. Beside him was an older
woman in a filthy skirt, the frailty of her human years apparently erased in
this new condition of existence. On the other flank, a black woman walked with
her head tilted back, her scuffed platform shoes causing her body to roll with
each step.

DeVontay’s
grip tightened on the bundle and he wondered if it would make an effective
weapon if he swung it. He could also try just barreling through them like a
fullback attempting to break through a defensive line near the end zone. But for
the same reason he’d deliberately set down his shotgun earlier, he intended to
avoid violence if possible.

If
you fight, they win
. He stood his
ground, watching and waiting, as they came forward.

When
they were ten feet away, he braced, but they weren’t reaching for him. Instead,
their gazes were fixed at a point beyond him. It was almost as if he was
invisible to them.

He
shifted several trembling steps to the left, so that he was out of their direct
route. He could smell them now, an aroma of sweat and ozone, and the fire
glinted against their oily skin. His heart galloped and thudded against his rib
cage, but he forced himself not to panic. Then they moved past him just as the
flames roared up the side of the bus, the gas tank finally igniting.

DeVontay
felt the rush of wind at his back as the flash illuminated the entire compound.
Now he could see the silhouettes of other Zapheads, hurrying toward the source
of the roaring pyre. He walked quickly but didn’t break stride, hoping to draw
as little attention as possible. Once he reached the loading dock, he gave a
long look back and saw the Zapheads were gathered around the burning hulk of
the bus. They kept a small distance from the fire, clearly held rapt by its
destructive beauty but unwilling to test that destruction themselves.

DeVontay
jogged the rest of the way to the loading bay, calling Stephen’s name when he
was close. When Stephen poked his head out of the gap beneath the door,
DeVontay said, “Tell everybody to come on.”

Kids
began crawling out of the gap and onto the loading dock, Stephen among them.
“What took you so long?” Stephen asked.

DeVontay
handed him a couple of Slim Jims. “Had some friends over for a cookout.”

Cool!”
he said, starting to rip open the cellophane.

“Not
yet,” DeVontay said. “We’ll eat once we’re safe.”

The
fire wasn’t visible from the back of the slaughterhouse, but its glimmering
caused shadows to dance along the fence line. The petroleum stench filled the
air as smoke drifted around the building. Some of the kids coughed, and
DeVontay wondered what would happen if the group encountered a pack of Zapheads
on their way out. Would they be able to remain calm as DeVontay had done? Or
would they panic and throw the Zapheads into a murderous frenzy?

When
Kiki and Carole came outside with the last of the children, Kiki said to him,
“Try the fence again?”

“It’s
dark now. We should be able to sneak out.” DeVontay glanced from one
round-faced child to the next. Even in the bad light, he could see how
wide-eyed and vulnerable they all were. He grew more determined than ever to
get them all out of there alive.

“You
first, Little Man,” DeVontay said to Stephen, pointing up the slope to the gap
in the fence.

“What
about that other kid who went through and got grabbed by the Zappers?”

“I’ll
be right behind you.”

He
could tell by his large, brimming eyes and quivering lower lip that Stephen was
frightened, but the boy wasn’t going to show it. He just nodded. Kiki cradled
the youngest toddler, and DeVontay bent forward to peer at it. The tiny face
gazed up at him with curiosity.

“Everybody
ready?” he said.

“Yes,
we are,” Kiki said firmly, taking a child by the hand. Carole did the same.

“All
right,” he said. “Let’s all follow Stephen. Keep quiet, keep together, and no
looking back.”

DeVontay
fell in behind Stephen, the bundle of goodies swaying back and forth on his
shoulders. Kiki encouraged the children forward, shushing James when he made a
remark about kicking some Zaphead butt. As they emerged from the concealment of
the slaughterhouse, DeVontay resisted the urge to look at the conflagration.
His shadow in the firelight stretched ten feet long and gangly ahead of him.

In
only a couple of minutes, they reached the fence, and only then did DeVontay
look back. The group of Zapheads were larger, some of them still entering via
the main gate. They were in various states of undress, the light of the flames
coruscating across their bodies in waves. They might have been acolytes of some
bizarre cult, gathering to worship the primitive transformation of matter to
energy, with no knowledge of its science, serving mute witness to its awesome
destructive power.

“Go
on,” DeVontay said, rolling back the cut section of fence so the children could
slip through the gap. “Careful and don’t scrape yourself on the jagged wire.”

Stephen
again led the way, with Kiki the last to go through. DeVontay shoved his bundle
though the gap before following. The dark, cold forest awaited them.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

As darkness
fell, Franklin wanted to find a house in which he could hole up for the night,
but he realized he was near the boundary of the national park where homes were
scarce.

That
was a welcome sign, even though he might have to catch some shut-eye on the ground.
He was hungry, but exhaustion was a bigger problem at the moment. He’d
refreshed himself from the cold, clear springs that oozed from between granite
boulders, water driven by incredible pressure from the depths of the ancient
earth. As he’d ascended in elevation, the trees had grown thinner and barer,
already succumbing to winter.

Once,
he’d heard two men talking in the distance, and he’d pressed himself into a
mossy cleft behind a rotted stump until the voices faded, then waited an extra
half an hour just to be sure. They were most likely members of Sarge’s
platoon—although it was possible other survivors had headed for high ground in
the wake of the solar storms and subsequent collapse. He wasn’t willing to take
that chance.

Just
before sunset, gunfire had erupted somewhere in the mountains around him. He
couldn’t pinpoint the location due to the echoes across the valley, but it was
miles away from him and lasted less than a minute. He followed a muddy animal
path, keeping Grandfather Mountain’s dark profile to his left as he climbed.
Soon the path widened, and by the time the sun’s light had all but diminished,
he realized he was on one of the Blue Ridge Parkway’s hiking trails.

Night
travel was safe enough, since the stars and moon offered just enough light to
distinguish the deeper blackness of the forest from the open trail. He kept
alert for any noise or sudden flash of light, although many creatures seemed to
move through the treetops and scurry across the hidden carpet of fallen leaves.
After perhaps an hour, he carefully felt his way a few feet into the forest and
lay down in what felt like a grove of ferns. Removing his jacket, he rolled it
into a pillow and rested. Even though he shivered, he was grateful that the
October air was too cold for mosquitoes.

He
must have dozed for some time, although he had no way of judging how long. The
night had shifted into a deeper, more mysterious mode, a time that still
belonged to nature and was hostile to man. The insects hissed louder and
bolder, the night predators clawed bark and rattled branches, and the creeks
gurgled with a liquid menace. Franklin slipped into his jacket and found his
way back to the trail, some of the weariness banished despite the damp ache in
his bones.

He
came upon some deer, a buck and two white-tailed does, and the animals didn’t
bolt at his scent. The buck’s antlers had five or six points, a testament to
age and strength, and it stared at Franklin as if daring him to come closer.
Its eyes may have been tainted with solar sickness, or it might have just been
reflecting the moon. Either way, Franklin waited until the small herd moved on
before he continued.

Once,
he came to a bend in the trail that opened into a vast expanse of mountain and
sky, the quarter moon wedged above the craggy face of Grandfather Mountain. Mist hung like the smoke of primeval fires, veiling the canopy and wrapping shrouds
around the rocky, gray peaks. It was a world that seemed to have completely
forgotten the existence of human beings—indeed, a world that had never even
known of their presence. Even as a longtime outdoor enthusiast, Franklin was
humbled by the vast magic and beauty that made him feel simultaneously
insignificant yet unequivocally distinct.

He
wasn’t a religious man, although he’d pursued various spiritual paths in his
youth before cynicism had driven him to become a survivalist. Now, imagining he
might be the only living soul in the universe, he wondered if God approved of
him, and whether he deserved any special dispensation. He’d never considered
whether building a survivalist compound was a selfish act—he’d always told
himself he was protecting the future of his family. But like the ascetic whose
life of meditation hidden away in a Himalayan cave did little to make the world
a better place, maybe Franklin’s idealism amounted to little more than
intellectual masturbation, a monument in service to his ego.

It
disturbed him to consider his years of work to be so meaningless, yet he
couldn’t deny the essential truth. If his heart seized and he fell dead that
moment, the compound might sit idle until some future doomsday reduced it to
volcanic slag or the march of decades wore it down to black dirt. But he
diverted himself from self-pity. He’d long considered that the trait of fools.

“I’m
doing it for Rachel,” he said to the silent sky. “She’s still alive.”

Satisfied
that he’d reached some sort of accord with whatever higher power might be
listening, he continued up the trail.