Hell's Children: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (23 page)

The blows stopped, but Lisa’s pain seemed only to grow.

T
he morning
before Jack left on his clandestine mission into hostile territory doing Chosen One stuff, Greg and Steve snuck into Front Royal by way of a back road. Steve knew where all the Dragsters lived, and most didn’t live near Carter. Only his favorites were so honored.

Greg taped handwritten notes to their doors:

Introducing Radio Free Front Royal! Broadcasting live on channel 19 all day today! Be sure to tune in for the latest news, sports, and entertainment! Make sure to tell Carter (because he can’t read)!

Once the deliveries had been made, they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned house in the center of town and broke in through the back. Then they hauled in food, water, sleeping bags, and the equipment they’d need for the show.

“
You’re
putting that stuff together,” Steve said, eyeing the radio equipment dubiously.

“No sweat,” Greg said. “So long as you do the talking. I get stage fright.”

After Jack brought back that first CB, Lisa had taken to the technology like a long lost hobby, reading the manuals and everything. Since then, she’d managed to increase the range of the house units by an additional ten to fifteen miles through a variety of tricks.

As Jack was fond of saying, “Tough break, bro: your sis got the beauty
and
the brains.”

“Muscles too,” Greg always said, mock sadly.

In truth, he was more proud of his sister than anything. Every time she did something cool, he technically shared in the credit. They had the same genes, didn’t they? On those occasions when he felt like showing off
his
cerebral prowess, he did so in math, or looking through telescopes with his astronomy club, or writing short stories. After his parents died, he’d stopped writing. Too painful—his parents had been his only readers.

These days, there wasn’t a whole lot of use for calculus, and the astronomy folks—mostly adults—were dead and gone from the Sickness. His sister and Jack only wanted to look at the moon, or Jupiter or Saturn, which got boring real fast. Deep sky stuff—
that’s
where the action was. He’d tried to get Tony to find him a good telescope—a big cassegrain or dobsonian—but all he’d brought back was one of those cheap toys they sold at Walmart.

Steve interrupted his thoughts with a nudge. “You daydreaming or something? Be careful with that stuff—you’ll get shocked.” He was staring at the wires, batteries, and the CB on the table like it all might suddenly explode.

“Nah, I’m totally safe,” Greg said, stacking the batteries side by side. “It’s the voltage you have to worry about. If we screw up and put it in a series, it’ll blow out the radio. So we stack them this way, see?” He connected them in parallel using thick copper wire, being careful not to complete the circuit with his other hand. “This way we get more amps for the same voltage. More amps means more range. Come on—let’s go run the antenna.”

The antenna was a five-foot-tall car-mounted unit with a magnet on the bottom. Great for clamping to the roof of the rusty shed in the back yard. After that, they connected it to the radio with a twenty-foot length of coaxial cable fished through a gap in the window.

Greg attached the final cables, turned it on, and smiled at the glowing display and static hiss coming from the built-in speaker.

Steve, who’d been cringing the whole time, said, “Holy cow. It worked!”

“Course it worked. Easiest thing in the world.”

“Yeah, well … electricity freaks me out.”

Greg snorted. “You ready for the big show?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately.

“Well?”

“Actually,” he said cautiously, “can you do it?”

“I just risked my life attaching all those wires!” Greg said. “You said
you’d
be the DJ. Like I said: I get stage fright.”

“Stage fright? I thought you were homeschooled. What kind of stage have
you
ever been on?”

Greg sighed. This was Lisa’s doing, letting slip that they’d never been to public school. Since then, Olivia—lovely maiden of the green hair—had treated him differently. She used to smile sometimes and say,
hey,
what’s up?
Now all she said was,
hey
. No smiles, no question mark at the end.

“Okay, fine,” Greg said, and took up the mic. “But if I suck at it, you’re taking over.”

“Deal,” Steve said and tuned to channel 19.

Nothing but static.

“Testing one, two, three,” Greg said and released the switch. More static. He squeezed it again. “One, two, three were the first numbers I ever learned. My grandpa—rest his wrinkly soul—told me they used to teach numbers like that when he was a kid, but now the numbers are all equal. That way, they don’t get their feelings hurt. Before the Sickness, they were basically down to one number per school, and that was it. If you wanted a number
two
, you had to shut the door and turn on the fan.”

He cut the mic and laughed out loud at his own joke.

Steve looked at him like he’d grown tentacles out of his head. “
What
the
hell
was
that?
”

Greg shrugged. “Gotta say something, right? If you can do better, give it a try.”

Steve raised his hands in defeat and backed off.

It was still too early for primetime, so Greg left the radio on, curled up in his sleeping bag, and tried to get some sleep. Not so easy, because it was freezing, and they couldn’t start a fire for fear of giving away their position. Also, there was a dead body somewhere in the house. Not fresh—old and sour, and a little musty. Nasty things to look at, dead bodies, so they didn’t go exploring.

Maybe two hours later, Greg woke suddenly with a start. He’d heard talking.

“Beats me,” someone said on the radio. “Did everyone get one?”

“I got one,” another voice said.

“Me too,” said yet another. “Hello? Someone out there? Hello?”

The radio went silent. Greg looked over at Steve, who stared back in terror.

Stage fright
, Greg thought smugly.

“All right,” he said, “time to whip out the ol’ guitar.” He picked up a guitar they’d scavenged at some point, and which he fully intended to master one day. Olivia seemed like the type of girl who liked a guitar-playing man. “You hold the mic open while I let ’er rip. Okay?”

“Sure,” Steve said, grabbing a chair.

Greg placed the strap over his neck and nodded for Steve to click the trigger.

“Hello, Front Royal!” he said, strumming the guitar theatrically, smiling at how awful it sounded. “As you can see, I can’t really play this here gee-tar. But I’m gonna try anyway, because that’s what the ladies like—a gee-tar-playin’ man. Ah, the ladies … Speaking of ladies, you know who used to be a lady but isn’t anymore? Carter’s mom!”

He strummed the guitar loudly for effect, like a rimshot off a snare drum.

“If there’s one good thing about the Sickness,” he said, “it rid the world of that horrible, ugly woman.
Oh come now
, you say.
Don’t speak ill of the dead!
Normally, I’d never do that. But seriously, folks, is Carter’s mom
really
dead, or is she just a few degrees cooler and a little bit prettier? I suppose you’d have to ask her ugly husband, Mr. Ugly. He married her, or so the court records say. On the way in, I had a look at those court records. Turns out Front Royal was the first town in the nation to legalize necrophilia!” He strummed the guitar again. “Now the bastard’s parents can actually get married. Carter won’t be a bastard anymore!”

Steve released the button, his face white as a sheet, and said, “What the hell are you doing? Carter’s gonna kill us!”

From out of the little speaker, a voice said, “Um … whoever you are, you shouldn’t be saying stuff like that. He gets real mad if anyone, uh … says stuff like that. Just saying.”

Another voice broke in, deliberately high-pitched to disguise his voice: “I think it’s funny as shit! Let her rip, kid!”

Greg smiled, pointed at the mic, and nodded. He strummed the guitar again.

“Before I tell you all of the various animals, minerals, and vegetables Carter’s mom used to have sex with on a daily basis,” he said in a deadly serious tone, “here’s a few words from our sponsor, Jack Ferris, brilliant and fearless leader of the Rippers!”

He strummed the guitar for ten seconds, really getting into it.

“Jack Ferris is a great man, even though he’s a teenager. He feeds his people the best food—even the little kids, who he bravely saved from murderers and wild animals. He taught us gun safety, and brought us books to read so we wouldn’t grow up stupid like Carter’s parents. Incidentally, Carter’s parents are so stupid, when the Sickness came, they shot themselves in the head and lived. No brains. Get it?”

Greg strummed the guitar again.

“But back to Jack. Jack wanted me to tell you all about an amazing opportunity. You can join us at the farm after we kill Carter. Just stay out of the upcoming fight and you’ll be fine. We plan to start school again for those who want to learn. All the adults are dead, and the world is messed up now, but Jack figures we can bring it back if we don’t sit around being stupid like Carter’s mom and dad. Jack wants us to raise cattle, not shoot them and eat their legs and leave the rest to rot. That’s just wasteful. He wants to raise crops so we don’t have to eat corn grain all winter. He wants to bring back electricity, clean water, and yes, even the Internet! All these things and more. If our parents could do it, why can’t we? We’re human, and humans are smart. Especially Jack.”

Greg strummed his guitar a final time and nodded at Steve, who released the mic.

Carter’s voice carried through the little speaker: “…
kill you, you son of a bitch!
We’re gonna find you and then you’re
dead!
Everyone get off this channel
now!
Anyone who listens to it is out of the gang!”

There was about half a minute of dead air. Then the concealed, high-pitched voice from before said, “Hey kid—tell us again how dumb Carter’s mom is!”

Steve held the microphone like it was a bomb, his eyes very round.

Greg laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s running off less amperage than us. That’s what the two batteries are for. We can drown him out easily. Go on, hit the button again. Let’s do this.”

For the rest of the day, Greg described the various members of Carter’s colorful family. The Dragsters of Front Royal learned a great deal about Carter’s dog-slash-half-sister Barky, the barking girl. They also learned about his half-brother, Poop Boy—half poop, half boy, and all charm. It turned out that Carter had about thirty different half-sisters and half-brothers, each of them with their own unique stories.

Sometime in the afternoon, Greg’s voice started to get tired, and he signaled to cut the mic.

Steve shook his head in wonder. “Man, you got some lungs. You said you get stage fright!”

“I thought I did too,” Greg said wonderingly. “I think it helps that nobody can see me but you. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But hey, I’m kind of hungry.”

“Me too, and my voice is getting scratchy. Go on and hit it one more time.”

Steve nodded.

“Okay, Front Royal,” Greg said. “Time for me to shut this puppy down and eat some of that tasty Ripper food I told you about. Unless Jack shows up to kill Carter tonight, we’ll be back tomorrow at nine for more fun!”

He strummed the guitar again loud and long, and that was the end of their first day spreading propaganda in that small, dead town.

* * *

T
he next day
, the Dragsters of Front Royal learned that Carter didn’t just have a bunch of half-brothers and half-sisters. He also had half-
uncles.

Sammy Sewage (half-uncle, half steaming pile of sewage) was captured by a group of well-meaning government scientists who’d heard how ugly Carter’s mom was. They’d wanted to see if they could weaponize the family’s ugly-DNA for use against good-looking terrorists.

Two hours and about twenty half-cousins, half-uncles, and half-grandmothers later, Greg was still going with no sign of letting up. He only stopped when Steve made distressed motions and closed the mic.

“I’m all cramped up,” Steve said, flexing his fingers and rubbing his hand. “I keep switching back and forth, but I need a break.”

Greg thought quickly. “I have an idea: tape the button down.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

Then he remembered the tape was in the car.

“Be right back.”

Steve slipped through the back door and around to the front. He peeked past the gate and saw nobody driving and no one on foot. Both very good signs. Quickly, he ran to the car, opened it, and searched frantically for the tape they’d used to post notices the day before.

He still couldn’t believe that guy, Greg. He’d always seemed so nice. Chipper, upbeat, but overall, normal. Not brilliant and tough like his sister, and not cool and decisive like Jack. According to Molly, Olivia thought Greg was an annoying weirdo who wouldn’t stop saying
hi
to her at every opportunity. Steve sort of wished the green-haired girl could listen to the show—
that’d
change her opinion. The dude was a genius.