After: Whiteout (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 4) (24 page)

Once
inside, Franklin lit a fire in the woodstove while DeVontay and Hilyard sliced
vegetables that would be put into a cast-iron pot on the woodstove. Rachel
gutted a pumpkin, saving the seeds so they could dry behind the stove. By
candlelight, Stephen read one of Franklin’s books—a tattered paperback of
Slaughterhouse-Five
by Kurt Vonnegut—while occasionally asking Rachel or DeVontay what a certain
word meant and how to pronounce it.

“Couldn’t
we ease him into Vonnegut?” Rachel asked. “Maybe start with Isaac Asimov or
John Steinbeck?”

“You’ve
seen my library. Most of the books I had to use for kindling. But Vonnegut is
somebody you can read over and over if you have to.”

“I
would have thought you’d be stocked up with Karl Marx, John Locke, and Ayn
Rand,” Hilyard said. “Or at least some Lao Tzu.”

“I
don’t have time to be smart anymore. Plus, most of what I thought I knew no
longer applies. Seems like the bulk of our intellectual duty now lies in
forgetting how it used to be and learning what works today.”

“
Heil,
Kamerad
,” Hilyard said. “What kind of social structure are we going to
build? Shipley created a fascist dictatorship, the Zapheads created some kind
of communal anarchy, and it looks like we’re heading toward a true democracy,
where everybody gets a say.”

“Not
really,” Franklin said. “This is still my home and you all are guests. I reckon
that makes me king for now.”

That
was the Franklin that Rachel knew and loved. His gruffness was a front for his
wounded hopes. She was reminded of something she’d heard in graduate school: “
Scratch
a cynic and you’ll find a disappointed optimist
.”

“Well,
Mr. Hilyard’s a lieutenant, so he outranks you,” Stephen said.

“A
king decides whose head gets chopped off,” Franklin said. “And get those muddy
feet off the bed, or you’ll be sleeping outside with the goats.”

They
had rearranged the layout of the cabin to accommodate the extra people, leaving
the loft for Stephen and Rachel. She’d enjoyed precious little privacy, besides
in the ramshackle outhouse beyond the animal pens. Several sleeping bags were
spread out on the floor, and Franklin claimed the cot for himself. Kreutzman
had threatened to string a row of hammocks in the main room, but so far he
hadn’t followed through. The close quarters created a slight tension and plenty
of interesting odors given the lack of running water, but so far they had
managed to function as a loose tribe.

DeVontay
rubbed the lone window with the bottom of his fist to remove the condensation
and then peered outside at the rapidly settling dusk. “Ground’s covered
already,” he said. He turned to Stephen. “Good news. School will probably be
cancelled.”

“Don’t
count on it,” Rachel said. “Not until you know what ‘pilgrim’ means.”

“I
think he does,” DeVontay said. “I think we all do now.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

The
snow began in earnest a week after DeVontay and the others arrived at
Wheelerville.

By
then, they had settled into a routine. Kreutzman had taken on the role of
hunter and scout, often spending entire days in the woods. Hilyard became
de
facto
chief of security, manning the lookout post and helping Franklin build another surveillance platform on the back end of the compound. DeVontay and
Rachel stocked and dried food, including salted flanks of deer that were dried
to jerky over an open fire. Autumn squash, cold-weather greens like collards
and kale, and stores of potatoes, beets, and turnips rounded out their diets.
The sweets and snack foods DeVontay had collected on the journey were nearly
depleted, and the exercise, fresh air, and organic food had them all feeling
healthy and energetic.

Stephen
buried himself in Franklin’s small library, and soon declared George Orwell’s
Animal
Farm
his favorite book of all time, even better than Spiderman. Franklin managed to resist explaining the political allegory of Orwell’s classic, although
he did joke that the other animals should have discovered the wonders of bacon.
He spent his mornings on his shortwave radio, rationing the voltage in the
solar-powered batteries while scanning the various bandwidths in search of a
callback. DeVontay’s shoulder was finally healing, although a few days of fever
provided a scare of something more serious. Hilyard and Kreutzman buried the
three dead soldiers from Sgt. Shipley’s unit in shallow graves, not because
they felt their former comrades-in-arms deserved respect, but to deter
scavengers—the natural ones like coyotes and the unnatural ones like Zapheads.

DeVontay
was relieved that Rachel’s symptoms had vanished and her temperament had
improved. They didn’t talk much of her changes, as if they’d mutually agreed that
her mutation had never happened. They grew closer in some ways, but the
intimacy was diminished by their lack of privacy. DeVontay suspected Rachel was
cautious, too, after Campbell’s affections had created conflict between him and
DeVontay. Kreutzman was clearly interested in her and didn’t seem to take
DeVontay seriously as a rival. DeVontay suspected racism but didn’t know the
man well enough to judge him—not that he didn’t harbor his own suspicion and
resentment.

With
dark coming earlier each day, the group had time to discuss their plans. Franklin wanted to fortify the compound and prepare for the inevitable showdown with
Shipley. Hilyard favored a reconnaissance mission to locate the military bunker
in anticipation of a surprise assault. Kreutzman thought surviving the winter
and then moving into the valley and settling in a town was the best move.
Rachel was content to stay where they were, arguing that they’d come all this
way for refuge and that they had not discovered any better alternatives in the
last few months. DeVontay was the only one to consider the mutants part of
their future—he was worried that the others had put them out of mind in the
face of more immediate problems.

DeVontay
was restless from spending so much time around the compound, and one morning he
asked Kreutzman to take him out on a patrol. Since they only had four rifles in
their inventory, DeVontay borrowed Hilyard’s pistol. “I can only lift one arm
anyway,” he said.

“Just
make sure to keep me to your good side,” Kreutzman said. Like the other men,
he’d given up shaving, and his beard was thick and unruly. But his growth
lagged behind Franklin’s impressive possum-colored facial wool. “Don’t want you
mistaking me for a Zaphead.”

“I’ll
keep an eye out for you,” he said, pushing on his glass eyeball to elicit a
giggle from Stephen.

Rachel
gave him a hug good-bye, refusing to kiss him in front of the others. “Be
careful,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You’ve
got a flare,” Hilyard said. “Pop it if you run into trouble.”

“Aye-aye,
sir,” Kreutzman said with an insouciant salute.

“Give
that salute to Shipley and you’ll be picking teeth up off the ground.”

“Sarge
would probably skin him alive and drop him in the Zaphead pit,” Franklin said.

“You
think he’s still holding some of them prisoner?” Hilyard asked.

“He
only had half a dozen when I boogied out,” Kreutzman said. “He claimed he was
conducting research, but it looked like torture for entertainment to me. That’s
one of the reasons I decided to get the hell out of there. A psycho with an
armory is a man best avoided.”

“Keep
that in mind while you’re out there,” Franklin said. “Don’t take any chances.”

“It’s
a world with melting nuclear power plants, a million rampaging mutants, and a
bunch of high-caliber crazies who shoot everything that moves,” DeVontay said.
“What could possibly go wrong?”

“Remember
Code Red?” Franklin asked Stephen.

“Yeah.
If the dookie hits the fan, we get the heck out of Dodge and meet at the Milepost
291 marker.”

“Be
sure to take a coat,” Rachel said. “It won’t do any good to get there and then
freeze to death.”

DeVontay
smiled.
That
was a Rachel thing to say. She was back.

The
snow in the forest suffocated all sound, and DeVontay and Kreutzman hiked half
a mile before either of them spoke. “So, what’s the plan, bro?” Kreutzman
asked.

DeVontay
was scanning the ground for deer prints, the silver mist of his breath
billowing from his mouth and nostrils. “What do you mean?”

“You
sticking it out here with the geezer wearing the tin-foil cap, or are you
taking the honey and heading for the beach?”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come
on. Remember television? This is like the cast of a reality show. Which is not
reality. No way we make it through the winter without getting cabin fever and
chopping each other to bits with an axe.”

“We
have food, shelter, and heat. We’ve got it pretty good, compared to what I saw
in the cities.”

“Where
it was eye for an eye, right?”

“Funny.”
DeVontay hid his annoyance and tugged his wool cap farther down his forehead.
“We’re doing all right. We haven’t had to shoot anybody since we reached
Wheelerville, and we haven’t been shot at. No Zapheads in sight. Been pretty
chill for an apocalyptic hellscape, if you ask me.”

“Sure.
But how long can it last?”

“For
as long as we’re willing to put in the work.”

“You’re
shitting me, right?” Kreutzman wiped his nose with a gloved hand, studied the
result, and then brushed his glove clean against his jacket. “Old Man Wheeler
is a ticking time bomb. That brand of paranoid schizophrenic is a snake
swallowing its own tail. He’s liable to wake up one morning and think the
Zappers are beaming secret radio messages into his brain, telling him to kill
us all.

“And
the lieutenant—he’s brass balls through and through. He talks like the unit
kicked him out when Shipley took over, but plenty of guys were grumbling under
their breaths even before Sarge got a wild hair. The world goes all to shit and
Hilyard’s sitting there following protocol. What kind of idiot still goes by
the book when the pages have been written in backwards Chinese ink?”

“He’s
done right by us so far. He risked his life to save us.”

“Yeah,
but he got you shot.”

“We
won that round, and that’s all that matters,” DeVontay said.

“And
the boy—dead weight, man. I know you’re fond of him, and it’s cool to play hero
or father figure or whatever. But what are you getting out of the deal?”

Kreutzman
suddenly lifted his M16 toward the treetops and sighted down the barrel.
“Bang,” he said. He grinned at DeVontay. “Just a squirrel. Not even worth a
bullet.”

“We’re
supposed to take care of each other, especially the vulnerable,” DeVontay said.
“That’s what makes us human. If we can’t maintain some of that in After, then
it doesn’t even matter whether we make it or not.”

“‘After’?
What kind of hippity-dippity horseshit is that? Do we have special names for
everything now?”

“There’s
Before and there’s After. Makes sense to me.” The trail narrowed and
intersected a creek that cut a zigzagging black line through the field of
white. DeVontay wondered if they should turn back, but Kreutzman would likely
take the suggestion as a sign of weakness.

“And
that brings us to your lady friend,” the soldier said. “I guess that’s reason
enough to stick around. She seems like a real sticky honeypot to me. Wouldn’t
mind finding out, but then you guys say she has some kind of Zap infection
inside her. I mean, is it worth the risk just to dip into that sweet stuff?
Might pull it out to find it’s shooting little fireballs or something.”

DeVontay
stepped in front of Kreutzman and their faces were only inches apart. “If I had
two good arms, I’d bust you in the mouth. Hell, I might do it anyway.”

“Ease
off, Romeo. You’re losing sight of the big picture. We need a woman around the
place, even if she doesn’t do anybody’s laundry. But we should be sharing, just
between fellows. Like you said, we all got to work together.”

“I
don’t think there’s going to be a ‘we’ that includes you. You’re right; it
won’t last, so you might as well bolt. You have your rifle and ammo. I’m sure
you can take care of yourself until you find a new home.”

“Oh,
you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Leave the honeypot all to you. Well, I’ve got a
different plan.” He leveled his rifle at DeVontay. “You die out here. What a
tragedy that we got ambushed by Shipley’s soldiers. She’ll be sad for a little
while, maybe get all Zap-eyed for a couple of weeks, but then the lid’s open
and all that sweet honey is there for the taking. I’ll even manage to be
sensitive.”

DeVontay’s
breath settled in his lungs like sacks of ice. His heart turned over and then
galloped in place. He was scared, but most of all he was angry. Kreutzman had
never really bought into the vision. DeVontay didn’t trust the man, yet he’d
joined him for a nice little wilderness stroll where anything could happen.