After (Book 3): Milepost 291 (2 page)

“We’ve
got enough light to read,” Stephen said.

“But
no glow sticks, ‘kay? Once it’s dark, no sneaking.”

Stephen
groaned a little. They’d found a box of toy glow sticks in a convenience store,
although Rachel insisted they save them for emergencies only. She hated to take
away his one escape from the bleak reality of After, but she didn’t want any
wandering Zapheads to see the stray light. Stephen took off his backpack and
knelt in the dirt to open it.

“What’s
on the menu?” Rachel said, unwrapping her bandage and letting the blood flow to
the wound. The slit she’d cut in her jeans allowed her to see the damaged flesh.
It looked green around the scalloped edges, and she wondered again if the dog
might have been carrying some new sort of disease. After all, if the solar
storms had altered many forms of life, why wouldn’t they mutate bacteria?

Zombie
herpes. Just my luck.

She
didn’t want to dwell on it. The Zapheads were bad enough, but at least they
were large enough to detect and avoid. All things considered, it could be
worse. And she didn’t want to dwell on
that
, either.

“What’s
for dinner?” she asked Stephen, who was rummaging in his pack.

“Clif
bars. You want chocolate chip or vanilla yogurt?”

“Two
wonderful flavors of hippie goodness.” She heard the crackle of wrappers and
figured Stephen had made the decision for her.

“What’s
that?” Stephen said.

“What’s
what?”

The
crackling grew more vigorous. Stephen looked over at the boulder across from
Rachel. A large gray-speckled shape was coiled on the stone, its blunt,
diamond-shaped head tucked against its body, tail lifted and quivering in the
air.

Rattler.

“Snake!”
Stephen shrieked, flinging the snack food away and nearly tripping over his
backpack as he fled past Rachel. She reached out to grab him but nearly fell
herself as pain flared up her leg.

“Snake!”
Stephen shouted again, and the word was echoed in the distance as Zapheads
heard the boy’s panic.

The
snake was probably out of striking distance, but Rachel was in no shape to flee
or dodge if it rose to bite her. She grabbed her makeshift crutch and swung it
like a baseball bat, nearly losing her balance. The wood connected with the
snake’s body and knocked it into the dark crevices of the cave. She didn’t know
whether she’d killed it, but she wasn’t going to risk recovering Stephen’s
pack.

She
called after him but he kept running and was quickly swallowed by the trees. He
shouted “Snaaaake!” as he ran.

Without
stopping to wrap her wound, she grabbed her pack and limped after him. The sun
was dying beyond the hills and would soon leave the world in darkness. And she
wasn’t sure Zapheads ever slept.

And
she also discovered a new phobia of her own: Zapheads across the forest
repeating “Snake! Snake! Snaaaake!”

CHAPTER
TWO

Jorge
wasn’t sure what time it was, and therefore couldn’t tell how many days he’d
been imprisoned in the cell with Franklin Wheeler.

The
military bunker’s strands of weak lights burned constantly, supporting Franklin’s belief that they were wired to solar panels. Once they’d heard a gas-powered
generator humming, and the bunker had reeked of exhaust, a reprieve from the
stench of the metal bucket they were forced to use as a latrine. While Franklin sprawled on the bottom bunk, Jorge paced, worrying over his wife and daughter.

“Better
get some rest,” Franklin mumbled without opening his eyes. “They’re going to
have to let us out of here sooner or later.”

“I
need to find my family.”

“Rosa is a strong woman. She’ll be all right.”

Jorge
couldn’t tell if the elderly man was just trying to comfort him. Rosa had
worked hard at Franklin’s survivalist compound, digging in the garden and
tending the goats. Even little Marina had helped. But after Jorge had rescued a
young mother, Cathy, and her Zaphead baby, Franklin had become paranoid and
aloof, seeing the infant as a threat. Jorge wondered if Franklin was right—that
the Zapheads somehow sensed the baby’s presence and attacked the compound.

The
problem with that theory was there had been no sign of a struggle. Jorge and
Franklin had been away on a scouting mission and had returned to find the
compound empty. They were attempting to track the others when the sadistic
Sarge and his troops surrounded and captured the two of them, and they’d been
confined in this cramped, dim cell ever since. Two weeks of stale air, military
meals from cans and pouches, and taunting soldiers who issued veiled threats.

“If
they’re out there, these Glory Boys will probably find them,” Franklin said. He
sat up and removed one of his filthy socks to rub the sole of his foot.

“That’s
what I am afraid of. These men are animals.”

“Worse
than Zapheads? Hell, maybe we’ve all changed for the worse. My feet smell like
rotten bacon.”

Jorge
heard a scuffing noise in the corridor outside the cell. He pressed his face
against the steel grate and saw a soldier in green camouflage gear. The man was
carrying a tray.

“Must
be dinner time,” Franklin said.

The
unshaven soldier stopped at a door across the corridor, where a captured
Zaphead was confined. “Hey, Sparky, rise and shine,” the soldier shouted at the
Zaphead, and then dumped the tray’s contents through the grate. “You better eat
before the rats get it.”

“I
request to see your commanding officer,” Jorge said to the soldier.

The
soldier turned, his uniform unkempt and eyes bloodshot. “You ain’t in no position
to make demands. This ain’t Mexico.”

Franklin
flung his sock to the concrete floor and padded to
the door. “Listen here, Private Shitheel, this is still a free country. Maybe
you’ve heard of a thing called the Fourth Amendment, if you weren’t too busy in
grade school smearing boogers under desk and eating paste.”

The
soldier banged the tin tray against the grate, causing Jorge to flinch, but Franklin held his ground.

“I’ll
string you up by your leathery old balls,” the soldier said.

“Come
on in,” Franklin said, pushing up the sleeves of his filthy long john shirt.
“Make my apocalypse.”

The
soldier glowered a moment and then retreated back down the corridor as Franklin snickered.

“That’s
not helpful,” Jorge said.

“Sure
as heck helped
me
feel better.”

“We
need to figure a way out of here. Maybe if we negotiate.”

“You
heard the president. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Your
president is probably a Zaphead now.”

“Son
of a bitch was never too bright in the first place. Might be an upgrade.”

“You
can stay and wage your ideological battles, but I have a family out there.”

Franklin
frowned and nodded. “Yeah, the end times are easier
when you go it alone. And my Rachel is on her way to the milepost. She’ll never
find me in here.”

Jorge
wasn’t sure the man’s granddaughter was foolish enough to head for the isolated
mountains, assuming she’d even survived the solar storms. The Wheelerville
compound was like a holy land, a mythic destination that demanded a great
degree of faith. If Rachel Wheeler was alive, would she risk traveling through
a land of violent mutants?

The
soldier came back down the corridor, accompanied by two comrades with rifles.
“Step back,” he bellowed, and slid a key in the door lock.

After
pushing the door open, he waved Jorge and Franklin out of the cell. “Sarge
wants to see you.”

“Let
me put my boots back on,” Franklin said.

One
of the soldiers motioned with his rifle barrel. “You won’t be needing them.”

Jorge
was eager to exit the cell and work the soreness off his limbs, but Franklin dawdled, annoying the impatient soldiers. “Get your ass out here, old man,” one
said.

“I
march to my own drummer, and my drummer says I don’t go barefoot,” he said. He
took his time putting on his boots, smiling a little.

The
soldiers marched them down the corridor, and Jorge checked out the bunks and
storage rooms that lined each side. The bunker appeared sparsely populated. He
saw only one other soldier, wearing a khaki T-shirt and boxer shorts while
sorting through cans on a shelf. They reached a steel door at the end of the
corridor and the two armed soldiers stood guard while the unshaven soldier
waved Jorge and Franklin through.

Franklin
’s eyes flicked to one of the guns and Jorge thought
the old man might go for it, but the soldier put his finger on the trigger and
smiled. Franklin shuffled into the room, where Sarge sat behind a metal desk
smoking a cigar. His face was craggy and deeply angled, as if a stone mason had
shaped it with a trowel and left in the middle of the job for a coffee break.
Eyes like tarnished nickels stared out at his captives, opaque and hiding any
thoughts that might lay behind them.

“That
cigar’s real smart in a bunker,” Franklin said. “Bet you’re failing to meet the
government standard for indoor air quality in the workplace.”

“I’m
the government now,” Sarge said. “Sure, there might be other bunkers like this
one. Maybe even our beloved president is playing a hand of poker and drinking
beer in one as we speak. I’ve heard rumors there are serious bunkers out in
Colorado where they have entire armored divisions and even planes in shielded
bunkers, where the electromagnetic pulse wouldn’t have affected them. Maybe
even the Russians and Chinese are already rolling this way. But as far as I’m
concerned, what you see is the only country left in the world.”

“Lucky
for you the bunker was shielded,” Franklin said. “But I doubt you had enough
brains to fry anyway.”

The
unshaven soldier balled his fists and stepped aggressively toward Franklin, but Sarge waved him off. “Still playing Last American Patriot? Good, because
Uncle Sam has a job for you.” He glared at Jorge. “I doubt you’re American, but
we’ll throw you in as a bonus.”

Jorge
kept his face impassive, although the anger boiled in his gut. He’d have to stay
calm if he wanted to escape and find Rosa and Marina. These men could play
their
machismo
games until the sun burned them all to ash. This wasn’t
his war.

Sarge
walked around the desk, crushing out his cigar on its scarred metal surface.
“You wanna fight for freedom, Wheeler?”

“That’s
the difference between us,” Franklin said. “You fight for it, but I just live
it.”

“‘Live
free or die,’ huh? Well, we’ll see how the Zapheads feel about that.”

He
passed between them, close enough that Jorge could smell the oniony stench of
his sweat. He motioned to the soldiers and one of them jabbed the barrel of his
rifle into Jorge’s back. They all followed Sarge back down the corridor until
they came to a double set of metal doors. The unshaven soldier slid back a large
deadbolt and swung them open, and bright sunset blinded Jorge.

After
the long confinement, the rush of fresh air was almost dizzying. The trees had
lost more of their leaves, and autumn’s decay was evident, but there was life
in the hills and streams and breeze. Jorge didn’t have time to enjoy it,
though, because the soldiers shoved them toward a makeshift camp. More soldiers
were gathered around a fenced pen, but as they drew closer Jorge could see that
it was actually a pit, with barbed wire ringing its upper rim.

The
soldiers cheered and hooted, some of them bare-chested despite the October
chill. A few campfires flickered, and blackened chunks of meat dangled from
metal poles over them. Metal pots and tin cans sat on firestones, and trash
littered the ground. A couple of halogen spotlights hung from trees, extension
cords winding back into the bunker, but they were dark.

At
the camp’s perimeter, sentries stood alert, watching the darkening forest. The
bunker’s doors were set against a rocky hillside, and several soldiers perched
on guard atop the ridge. More soldiers were undoubtedly scouting the woods.
Altogether there were dozens of people in Sarge’s platoon, all males.

Jorge
wondered what had happened to the women. And what might happen to Rosa and Marina.

The
soldiers around the pit parted so Franklin and Jorge could be led to the edge.
The pit was about fifteen feet deep and appeared to be a natural ravine that
was blocked on one end with a massive pile of stones. The bottom of the
depression was dark, but Jorge could see several figures milling around in the
mud.

“Live
free or die,” Sarge said. Someone switched on a handheld Maglight and shined
the beam into the pit. Three disheveled, glittering-eyed faces peered up at the
light.

Zaps.

Two
were male, one about Jorge’s age and the other a decade older, both in good
shape aside from their soiled and ragged clothes. The younger one was missing a
shoe and his bare foot was bloody, but they’d obviously been eating something
to maintain their strength. Jorge swallowed hard and glanced at the cooking
meat. The last Zaphead he’d encountered had shown no signs of menace, but
perhaps they’d discovered an endless and convenient supply of protein.

The
third Zaphead appeared to be the star of the show, as the Maglight tended to
fixate on her. She was college-aged, with a dark complexion and wild black
hair. She wore only a pair of frilly panties but showed no embarrassment or
even awareness of her exposed skin. Her full breasts swayed as she peered up at
the raucous spectators and she swiveled like a performer in a strip club as
soldiers shouted encouragement and taunts. Although the Zapheads couldn’t be
heard, their lips moved as they tried to make sense of the sounds above them.

“The
boys are a little riled up,” Sarge said. “Thought we’d give them a little show,
and it doesn’t look like the USO is going to chopper in Lady Gaga.”

“Did
your ‘boys’ strip down that woman?” Franklin said with evident disgust.

“That
ain’t a woman, that’s a Zaphead. She’s a hottie, but they’re all afraid to
stick it in there. Might get some kinda zombie rot.”

“Well,
I sure as hell ain’t volunteering.”

Sarge
smirked. “I want to entertain them, not give them any more nightmares than they
already got.” He pointed to a gap in the barbed wire. “Go.”

Jorge
now understood. Sarge wanted him and Franklin to climb down the rocks to where
the Zapheads were. In ancient Roman culture, Christians had been thrown to the
lions for the amusement of the crowd, and Sarge had adapted the hobby to fit
the times. Jorge had long admired American culture—the vibrant society from
before the solar storms, anyway, not anything he’d witnessed since—but he’d
always considered the country too aggressive and decadent. Little surprise that
the military represented the most extreme flaws of its people, since power
begat arrogance.

The
soldiers crowded around behind them and one said, “Party time.”

Someone
shoved Jorge forward and he had to steady himself so he didn’t tumble into the
barbed wire. Franklin was right behind him and he’d have to descend the stack
of rocks or be flung to the bottom.

“Think
of it as a research project,” Sarge said. “We’ve been killing them but maybe we
need to figure out what makes them tick. Had one of our guys cutting on them
but as far as we can tell, there’s no physical difference besides their weird
eyes. So it’s something going on inside their skulls.”

“Do
we not get a weapon?” Jorge asked.

A couple
of the soldiers laughed. One held up a pistol and said, “Well, it’s not that we
don’t trust you, but what if a Zap takes it away and figures out how to use
it?”

“This
war has three sides,” Franklin said. “How many bunkers like yours are spread
out across this great land? Five? A hundred? I wouldn’t be surprised if
President Zaphead was holed up somewhere happy as clam at the chance to play
dictator. But I bet you and your kind will end up killing each other off before
long.”