After: Whiteout (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 4) (17 page)

“We’ll
have numbers. The group I was with is headed this way. And one of the guys said
some survivors in Stonewall knew about your compound.”

“Might
be why all the birds are gone.”

“Birds?”

“You
spend enough time up here, you get used to the soundtrack. And when a note goes
sour, it really stands out. Something spooked the animals.”

“Might
be the people I was with.”

“Yeah,
and may be something else. Best to scout it out. But if it is your people, how
come you’re here and they’re not?”

“The…Zapheads
attacked us. We got scattered. I figured the best thing would be for all of us
to meet up here later. We had a better chance of slipping through if we
separated.”

She
described the members of her group, pointing out that Hilyard had been part of
the same military unit that Franklin was worried about.

Franklin
stood and collected his rifle. “We’d better go out
and rescue them. Assuming they didn’t all get killed.”

That
wasn’t part of the plan. Rachel had arrived early so she could spare her
grandfather, not lead him into hell. She was still human enough to know she
loved him, and therefore wanted him to survive. If he was part of the human
group, and things went bad, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

But
now that she was here, away from the influence of the New People, she could
barely remember why she had split. Stephen needed her, and both DeVontay and
Campbell had saved her life. Even Lt. Hilyard had risked himself to help them
all. They were good people. Old People, but with heart and a strong will to
live.

“I
need to rest first,” she said.

“Oh,
okay, that was stupid of me.” He helped her to her feet and motioned toward the
structure that was half tree house, half rustic cabin. “Got a couple of beds
inside, pick your poison.”

He
reached for her satchel, and she put a protective hand over it. “I can carry
it. I made it this far, didn’t I?”

She
smiled, and the old fool fell for it. He stared into her eyes with adoration,
or maybe he was studying them for something. “My, but you’re all grown up now,”
he said. “You look different on the Internet. What’s it been, five years?”

“You
haven’t changed much. The beard’s a little longer and has a little bit more
gray, but other than that you don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

He
had a good laugh at that. “Okay, you go settle in and get warm, and I’ll take a
peek outside and see if anything’s happening.”

She
entered the dark cabin, which was as cluttered as the compound. A little
propane grill and a metal basin served as a kitchen, and a mattress took up
much of the floor. A head-high loft held another bed, and several sleeping bags
and foam pads were rolled up and tucked away beside it. A radio and a dusty
computer sat on a desk, a single electrical cord running through a hole in the
wall. One end of the single room was dominated by a wood stove, with split
firewood stacked on the stone hearth. The room was askew, the angles out of
true. For all his ingenuity, her grandfather wasn’t much of a carpenter.

She
wasn’t really tired, but she sat on the bed anyway, just in case he came
inside. She opened her satchel and took out the metal butane lighter. There
were some books, maps, and papers piled on the desk, and no doubt its drawers
he’d plenty of combustible material. If she needed to give a signal, she could
always set the cabin on fire.

Rachel
doubted it would come to that, though. She flicked the lighter into bright life
and stared into the flame for a moment. Then she closed the lighter with a snap
and looked around.

There.
That’s better.

The
radiance of her eyes illuminated the room.

Much,
much better.

She
might grow to like it here. It wasn’t home, but it would do for a while. After
all the killing, running, and destruction, she welcomed a chance for
reflection. She could already feel the influence of the New People fading, like
an echo off the walls of a well after a pebble is dropped into the water.

She
had a choice now. She could be herself again. A survivor, working with others
to build a worthwhile life.

What
the New People—
the Zapheads
—offered was a different life, maybe even a
better one. But it wasn’t natural, was it? It wasn’t
her
life.

She
rose to her knees and looked into the blank computer screen. In its smeared
surface, she could see the fire darting in her eye sockets.

Freak.
Look at you.

She
put her hands over her eyes and warm tears wet her palms. Real tears, not like
the crocodile tears she’d squeezed out to get sympathy from DeVontay and the
others. Used as a tool to serve the better way.

But
was the New Way truly the better way?

If
only Rachel could explain it to them, maybe they could help her. But they
wouldn’t understand. DeVontay, Grandpa, Campbell, and certainly not Stephen.

She
needed time. If the New People stayed away, she wouldn’t have to kill. She
could think for herself. She could feel. She could remember.

When
the sparks faded from her eyes, she tucked her satchel under the grimy pillow
and went outside, where dusk crept from the edges of the world. The sun was
hidden behind a boiling mass of thunderheads to the west, and the entire sky
was bruised and angry-looking.

She
touched her jeans over the spot where the dog had bitten her and inflicted a
dangerous case of gangrene. The Zapheads had healed her, but they had also
harmed her. A surge of anger rushed through her, but it also carried pleasure.
Because those were human emotions.

And
she wanted to be human more than anything.

She
ran her finger along where a scar should have been.
What have you done to
me?

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

Something’s
wrong.

Franklin
couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Rachel was
not the same person he’d known years ago. But with all that had happened in the
meantime, how could she not have changed? Even ordinary life events, like
graduating from college, becoming a school counselor, renting an apartment, and
dealing with the dating scene would have made her a stranger. She was an adult
now, not the child he’d tried to guide and inspire over the years.

And
she had been forged in a new kind of fire, as well—a post-apocalyptic chaos
that no amount of coaching could have prepared them for.

Perhaps
she had suffered more trauma on her journey than she cared to share. Franklin understood that. It was a Wheeler trait: Never let them know you hurt.

The
wind had picked up, and brown leaves skirled from the trees. The flurry helped
camouflage Franklin but also made it more difficult to detect motion. He was a
quarter of a mile below the compound, making a circuit of the perimeter. If he
encountered anyone, he wanted Rachel to be safe. The animal trails here were
familiar to him but not so overused that they were obvious to anyone but a
trained tracker.

The
temperature had dropped so much that he was already planning a fire for his
return. He was scouting around for deadfall he could haul back to camp when the
pattern of the foliage changed.

Damn.
Almost walked right out into the firing line. It’s hell getting old.

He
eased behind a stunted stand of balsam and rhododendron, evergreens that were
as thick in November as in May. He studied the fluttering movement that was
barely visible through the scraggly branches, unsure of its source. It looked
like cloth, maybe military fatigues. He eased his rifle barrel into position
against his shoulder and sighted through the scope at the target a hundred
yards away.

Definitely
military, but why is it moving like that? He’s shimmying and shaking like a
redneck hoeing down at a square dance.

He
tilted the scope lower, and the crosshairs were centered on an opened backpack,
the contents scattered as if a black bear had been pawing through it. He
focused again on the glimpse of uniform. It seemed to be billowing. Maybe this
had been someone’s camp and—

The
cold circle of steel in the back of his neck broke his thoughts.

“Don’t
move, old man, or your brains will be buzzard food.”

Franklin
sighed. Who was he trying to kid? He was out of his
league in the apocalypse, no matter how much he’d prided himself on prepping.
The new world was always one step ahead of him.

The
guy behind him sounded young and irritable, which was not a stable combination.
Franklin said, “Does shitting my pants count as moving?”

The
guy gave a raspy bark of a laugh. “Wheeler. I knew you were still alive, no
matter what they said.”

“Do
I know you?” Franklin asked, without turning around.

“Not
really. You probably saw me in the bunker, but I’m just another crewcut.
Nothing you’d remember.”

“You’re
one of Sarge’s boys, huh? So how come I’m not already dead? Or do you just like
talking?”

The
gun barrel bit deeper into his flesh. “Couple of reasons. One, a gunshot would
let everybody know where we are, Zap and human alike. And two, I figure you
have some information that just barely makes you worth more dead than alive.”

Great.
Captured again. He’s going to march me back to the bunker and I’ll be right
back where I was a month ago, only with Sarge a little bit more psycho. I think
I’d just as soon go ahead and die here.

“I’m
not going back there,” Franklin said. “You guys are probably eating each
other’s livers with pinto beans and pot liquor by now.”

“Who
said anything about going back there? Especially when you have a nice little
set-up of your own.”

“No
way. Go ahead and shoot. I don’t give a damn.”

“Oh,
I think you do. Because I heard your sweet little granddaughter was on the way
here. And she won’t be that hard to find. Because you wouldn’t stray too far
from home if you’re waiting for her.”

Does
everybody left in the whole goddamned world know about my compound? Guess I
should have gone dark a decade sooner.
“You heard wrong. It’s just me and a few goats.”

“I
don’t need to hear about your love life, Wheeler. I need shelter and
protection.”

“So,
what, have you gone rogue from the Rat Patrol?”

“Put
down your weapon and I’ll tell you about it.”

Franklin
mulled his options and decided he didn’t have any. If
this soldier was part of a squad, his comrades would be raising hell looking
for him. And if any of Rachel’s friends came along, a misunderstanding could
lead to gunplay. And both of those scenarios would probably draw Zapheads from
all over the mountain.

He
leaned his rifle against the gnarled tangle of rhododendron and rolled slowly
into a sitting position. The soldier was right—Franklin didn’t recognize him.
He wore a green parka with the hood up, the synthetic fur framing his face. His
blue eyes were hollow and bloodshot, and thick brown stubble populated his
upper lip and chin. An M-16 was slung over one shoulder, and the barrel of his
9mm pistol was as gaping as a subway tunnel to hell.

“How
did you get away from Hayes and his unit?” the soldier asked.

“Killed
them deader than Elvis. But it’s okay, because they needed killing.”

“You’ve
got a lot of lead in your pecker for such an old fart. But you’re right. Hayes
was as loony toons as Sgt. Shipley.” The soldier worked his free hand inside
the chest of his parka and came out with a cigarette. He perched it on his
cracked lips, repeated the motion to withdraw a Bic, and lit his smoke.

“So,
here we are,” Franklin said. “Two strangers, a million miles from nowhere.
Shooting the shit while the world dies.”

“Get
up. You’re taking me to your compound.”

Franklin
rose and wiped the mud from his pants. “Do I get to
carry my gun? We might need it if we run into trouble.”

The
soldier scooped up Franklin’s rifle and slung it alongside his own. “This ain’t
a buddy-cop movie. Head on back down to my camp site.”

Franklin
walked ahead of the man toward the backpack. He soon
saw that the dangling cloth was a uniform shirt strung between two branches.
A
scarecrow to fool the shitbirds like me.

“A
couple of other privates went AWOL with me, but they wanted to try for a big
city,” the soldier said. “Figured they’d find some sane survivors. Mostly I
think they wanted to get as far away from Shipley as possible.”

“Sounds
like a wise move. Why didn’t you go with them?”

“Not
sure. Maybe I got intrigued by the Wheeler myth.”

Franklin
waited while the man collected his goods and crammed
the shirt in the pack. He tossed the pack to Franklin, who let it bounce off
his chest and tumble to the ground.