After (Book 3): Milepost 291 (5 page)

CHAPTER
SIX

They
hadn’t hurt Rachel, but she didn’t dare risk provoking them.

The
Zapheads had closed around her in the darkness, grabbing at her hair, pulling
and squeezing her flesh. One of them touched the pulsing bite wound on her
thigh and she yelped in pain, causing an eruption of mimicked yelps that sound
like a pack of wolves. She couldn’t count them in the dark, but they numbered
at least half a dozen. Their eyes swam like glints of fire thrown off a
grinding wheel.

At
full strength, she would have made a run for it. But she doubted she would have
made it ten steps before they dragged her down and—
then what?

The
ones behind her nudged her forward, gently bumping her with their bodies. They
were herding her. She soon realized they were guiding her downhill, ninety degrees
from the way she’d come, although she couldn’t be sure in the darkness. She’d
long since lost her way.

They
fanned out around her, leaving her only one direction. She stepped, staggered,
slid, and limped down the slope, all the while nearly surrounded by the
Zapheads. Their eerie silence was broken only by the times they echoed her
panting and gasping as exhaustion set in. She’d lost all sense of time as well,
and when the blackness eased to gray, she saw that the forest had thinned to
scrub vegetation.

Once
she edged to one side, too weak and hurting to make a serious run for it, but
the Zapheads closed ranks, their grim, blank faces made all the more horrible
by the bright, animated forges of their eyes. She wondered what they would do
if she stopped to retrieve the revolver from her backpack, but even if she
succeeded in securing the weapon, she only had six shots, and now with the dawn
light she could count eleven of them.

They
were all ages, a cross-culture of former humans: a couple of teens like the
girl who’d mimicked Stephen, three middle-aged women, a fierce-looking man in a
ragged delivery uniform, an overweight young man whose balance and grace seemed
almost uncanny, and a wiry old woman who looked like she could walk a thousand
miles with neither bread nor water. A nude, dark-skinned man hovered close
behind her, muscular as an athlete, his presence like obsidian tar. The others,
besides their filthy and ragged clothing and their dancing eyes, were as
ordinary as any customers she might have once found in a supermarket line.

Throughout
the seemingly endless night, she worried about Stephen. Without his backpack,
he had no basic supplies, charcoal-filtered water pump, or food. Was he out in
the woods, lost and frantic in his solitude? Had Zapheads found him and taken
him captive as well? Or had he met some other horrible fate in the wilderness?

As
the sun burned away the lingering morning mist, the strange group emerged onto
a mountain valley. The scrub gave way to a barbed-wire fence, and beyond that
was knee-high golden grass that would have been cut and baled as hay weeks ago
if the world hadn’t ended. Lower in the valley, a two-story white farmhouse and
a tin-roofed barn stood among other small structures and a rectangle of dirt
that had once been a garden. Small figures moved in the driveway and yard—
people!
—and
she nearly called out for help.

But
Rachel’s heart sank as she realized they moved with the same stilted yet oddly
balletic movements as her escorts. Zapheads, dozens of them, milled around the
house and barn. The Zapheads closed around her, forcing her against the fence.
If she didn’t cross, they would crush her against the strands of barbed steel.
She lifted the top strand and stretched her wounded leg in the gap above the
middle strand, afraid to put any weight on it. Something broke loose beneath
the bandage and a smelly, dark juice leaked from beneath the cloth.

She
groaned in pain and revulsion. The Zaps around her immediately began groaning
as well, their calls like the mooing of cattle in a slaughterhouse. Rachel
forced herself through the opening and rolled to the ground, flattening the
brittle, damp grass.

The
Zapheads were on the other side of the fence. This was her chance.

Rachel
bolted to the left, following the fence line even though the route was uphill,
because the forest was nearer on that side. She didn’t have any plan besides
putting distance between herself and the odd mutants. Her leg throbbed with
each jarring step, and her heart hammered against the inside of her rib cage.
The dewy grass soaked her jeans in seconds. She thought about peeling her
backpack to shed weight, but if she reached the woods—when she escaped—she
would need the food, blanket, first aid kit, tools, and weapon to survive.

At
first the sound in her ears thundered in sync with her racing heartbeat, but
then she realized the noise wasn’t in her head. She glanced to the left and the
nude black Zaphead was running beside her, keeping pace on the other side of
the fence. While Rachel was slowed by having to wade through tall grass, the
Zaphead was totally oblivious to the branches and thorns on his side of the
fence. The others trailed behind him, the sound of snapping vegetation reveling
that they trailed them both by thirty or forty feet.

Unable
to endure the Zaphead beside her, Rachel veered down the slope of the pasture
even though that path brought her nearer to the farmhouse and the Zaps below.
One of them must have seen her, because a small, dark figure headed up the hill
toward her. As if all the Zapheads below were of one mind, they turned in her
direction and closed in. Rachel spun to try another direction, but no avenues
remained—the Zapheads behind her had crossed the fence and approached in a
line, fanning out to enclose her again.

Frustrated,
on the verge of tears, Rachel dropped to her knees in the damp grass and slung
her backpack from her shoulder. With the gun, at least she’d buy a little more
time. Or end her time on this planet if the madness became too unbearable.

She
dug into the backpack’s main compartment, sure she’d laid the gun on top, along
with the medicine for her wound. But it wasn’t there. Whimpering, she turned
the backpack upside down and shook it. She clawed through its contents, hearing
the moist
swish switch
of approaching legs.

No
gun. But where would it—

Stephen.

She
wasn’t sure why he would have taken it, but she was glad he had a means of
protection. She and DeVontay had let him fire both the pistol and rifle, to
introduce him to the weapons with the intention of training him as they
progressed in their journey. But right now she craved its ability to kill from
afar.

The
only other weapon was a pocketknife. She dug her thumbnail into the groove of
the blade to flip it open, aware of the Zapheads looming all around her. She
crawled with the blade open, the knife in one fist, mud soaking into her
clothes, bits of grass seed and chaff in her teeth, hoping that if she stayed
low they wouldn’t see her.

Without
warning a hand grabbed her shoulder and she swept the knife up in an arc.

“Rachel,”
the man said, stepping back.

She
held the knife before her, ready to jab, confused. Had this Zaphead heard her
name, too?

Then
she recognized him.

The
guy from Taylorsville.

And
his eyes didn’t spark.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

The
man in the bedroom was maybe forty, and despite the mess he’d left in the
bedroom and bathroom, he’d obviously taken some care of himself. His
salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, and his cheeks were
clean-shaven. Although his clothes were ill-fitting, they were free of wrinkles
and tears. He was well-armed with a 12-gauge shotgun and two semi-automatic
pistols. Franklin figured the guy had made the best of a bad situation.

A
situation which had just gotten worse.

“Who
are you?” Hayes asked him, his semiautomatic fixed on the man, whose own
shotgun was pointed toward the ceiling. Bandana Boy also aimed at the man,
although from a much closer distance. Franklin could tell Bandana Boy was just
waiting for the man to twitch or cough.

“Nobody,”
the man said in a low, flat voice.

“You’re
under the jurisdiction of Milepost 291 and Sgt. Harold Schrader. We don’t allow
nobodies on our territory.”

“Just
trying to survive. I’m not hurting anybody.”

Franklin
admired the man’s attitude: fearless, calm, and
cautious. Hayes and Bandana Boy, on the other hand, acted more like doped-up
members of a street gang than people trained by the U.S. military.

“We
decide who does the hurting,” Bandana Boy said.

“Where
do you get your supplies?” Hayes said.

The
man rolled his eyes to the left, indicating some direction south. “Country
store three miles down that way. A little community called Stonewall.”

“You
expect us to believe you walk three miles for food? Why don’t you just stay
near the store?”

“Safer
here.”

Franklin
wondered where Jorge had gone. The Mexican had
managed to slip away with none of the others noticing.
May as well make a
run for it. You have a better chance on your own.

“Have
you seen any Zaps around?” Hayes asked.

The
man nodded, the butt of the shotgun locked against his hip.

“Care
to elaborate?”

“Along
the road, in the woods. None around here, though. That’s why I stay here.”

“You
know what, Hayes?” Bandana Boy said, voice rising in excitement. “I think
there’s somebody else here. I don’t think he could have carried all that food
by himself, not that far. And there were tampons in the bathroom.”

The
stranger’s fingers visibly whitened as they gripped the shotgun harder. Franklin took a couple of steps back, anticipating a showdown. “Go easy,” Franklin said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“And
which side is that, Wheeler?” Hayes said.

“Survival.
The
human
side. You and Sarge can fight turf wars all you want, but we
don’t know how many Zapheads are out there. Could be millions, for all we
know.”

“Probably
not millions,” the man said. “Not judging from the population density I’ve
observed.”

The
man glanced to the left again, and now Franklin realized he was looking at the
closet door. Was someone in there? Should he warn Hayes? He eased a couple of
steps toward the exit in case a shootout erupted.

“Doesn’t
matter,” Hayes said. “We’ll kick their asses eventually, even if we have to go
hand to hand.”

“Anybody
with you?” Bandana Boy asked the man.

The
man flinched just a little, and Franklin noticed the hesitation. “Just me.”

“Want
to put down that shotgun real slow?”

“Put
yours down first. This is my house.”

Franklin
had to admit the man had balls, although he suspected
Bandana Boy was about to deliver a rapid-fire castration.

“Hey,”
Franklin said. “Sarge said no prisoners, but he didn’t say anything about
recruits, did he? This fellow”—he glanced at the man—“What’s your name?”

“Robertson.”

“Robertson
looks like he knows how to handle a weapon, and he sure knows how to improvise.
If we’re fighting the Zaps, shouldn’t we better keep every fighter we can get?”

“Shut
up,” Hayes said to Franklin. “I’m in command of this patrol.”

Sounds
like somebody’s feeling his oats. A man on a power trip. I bet Sarge is
sleeping with one eye open.

“Okay,
no problem.” Robertson eased the shotgun onto the bed beside him. “If I wanted
trouble, I would have shot you when you came through the door.”

A
soft thump issued from the closet. Bandana Boy spun and unleashed a hail of
semiautomatic fire, the report pummeling Franklin’s ears. Splinters and drywall
dust exploded from the waist-high row of pockmarks as the room filled with the
stench of gunpowder.

Robertson
roared in rage and dug at his hip for a sidearm, but Hayes jutted his gun
barrel into Robertson’s gut to stop him. Bandana Boy, almost dancing with
sadistic joy, yanked the closet door open to count coup.

“Get
him?” Hayes said, keeping his eyes and his weapon fixed on Robertson, who
groaned in rage.

“
Her
.”

Franklin
pushed past Hayes, who cussed under his breath.
Robertson rose from the bed and took a step toward the closet, but Hayes drove
the tip of his rifle into his gut hard enough to drive the breath from his
lungs. Then Franklin saw her and understood why Robertson had been so well
armed. She was probably fourteen, maybe fifteen, huddled in blankets so that
only her face was showing. Her blue eyes were wide and frightened, and blonde
wisps of hair curved around her cheeks. If she hadn’t been bundled up on the
floor, Bandana Boy’s bullets would have ripped her to shreds.

“Get
back,” Franklin said to Bandana Boy, stepping in front of him and kneeling to the
girl. He didn’t see any blood, but she could have been struck by shrapnel. “Are
you okay, honey?”

She
stared past him at Robertson, whom Franklin assumed was her dad. Her mouth
opened but no words came out.

She’s
probably in shock.

“What’s
your name?” Franklin asked. A hot ring of metal pressed into his neck,
scorching his flesh, and he slapped away the gun muzzle that had inflicted the
pain.

“She’s
mine,” Bandana Boy said. “Finder’s keepers.”

Robertson
let out a roar of anguish and leapt for Bandana Boy, but Hayes swung the butt
of his rifle into the back of the charging man’s skull. The crack was so loud
that it surely caused a concussion, and the man flopped heavily to the floor.

“Daddy!”
the girl wailed, and crawled out of the blankets toward him.

“Get
out,” Bandana Boy said to Franklin, pressing the gun against his neck a second
time. Franklin balled his fists, stood, and eyed the shotgun on the bed, but
Hayes shook his head to deter him.

“Been
way too long for Jimbo,” Hayes said. “I wouldn’t mess with a man who’s been
deprived.”

“She’s
just a child,” Franklin said.

“Not
for much longer.” Bandana Boy grabbed her by the back of her jacket and yanked
her to her feet. She kicked and screamed, and he snickered wetly in response.

“Get
out of here,” Hayes said to Franklin. “If you behave, maybe you can have a turn
later. If you got anything that still works, that is.”

Both
men erupted into animalistic laughter, and Bandana Boy shoved Robertson’s
shotgun to the floor and flung the girl onto the bed. He leaned his own rile
against the headboard, climbed atop the girl, and straddled her, loosening his
belt buckle. Robertson’s head oozed a dark thread of blood, and his splayed
fingers twitched.

Lord,
I don’t ask for much, but please let him be dead so he doesn’t have to hear
what’s coming next.

“Better
hurry,” Hayes said to Bandana Boy. “The others probably heard the shots and
they’ll be coming around before long.” To Franklin, he said, “Now get out of
here, you old goat, unless you want to watch a real man in action.”

Franklin
turned as if to leave the room and saw Jorge in the
hall, just outside the door. From the angle, neither Hayes nor Bandana Boy
could see him. Jorge gave a slow nod, his dark face nearly rippling with barely
suppressed rage. Franklin could imagine these pigs treating Jorge’s daughter
Marina in the same manner. And so, apparently, could Jorge, judging by the
tight grip he held on the fire poker.

Franklin
walked back to the closet, eliciting a sharp command
from Hayes. “Stop it, you bastard.”

“Thought
I saw something,” Franklin said, rubbing at the burn on his neck. The girl
whimpered and slapped at Bandana Boy, who only laughed at her struggles as he
tried to undress.

Jorge
burst into the room, swinging the poker in a two-handed grip as if it were a
baseball bat. The metal bar
thwacked
Hayes across the back of the skull,
cracking bone and jolting the semiautomatic from his hands. Franklin dove for
the shotgun, joints shrieking in agony, and he came up with it just as Bandana
Boy realized the party was over.

“Don’t
do it,” Franklin said, but the man glanced at him and then Jorge, a sinister
smirk crossing his face.

“You
ain’t got the balls,” Bandana Boy said, going for his rifle. Franklin pulled
the trigger and painted the walls with the top of his head. The girl screamed
beneath him as the corpse wobbled for a moment and collapsed, the soggy bandana
dropping to the floor with nothing left to hold it in place.