by Mark Tufo
“You have marriage on the brain all of a sudden?”
“Beats thinking about whatever’s waiting in Stonewall.”
Rachel’s voice fell. “Are those kids still in the back seat?”
She thought of Stephen, Marina, and Kokona back in the bunker. Usually during these forays, Franklin stayed and watched them, but now they were old enough to take care of themselves. Even though the bunker was secure and defensible, she imagined plenty of things going wrong.
Especially since Kokona was a mutant.
So am I. But I’m stuck halfway and she’s not.
“Kids are still there,” DeVontay said, turning away from the Honda. “Looks like they’re resting in peace.”
What a wonderful lie that was. As if all the horrors of the solar storms—the deaths of billions, the end of civilization, and the evolution of the Zaps—were geared toward some great benevolent purpose. But that was philosophy, and Rachel was done with it. Why couldn’t she just turn off her brain?
Because part of it is running on automatic. Hearing little whispers from far away.
They were still eight miles from Stonewall. They could likely make it before dusk if they pushed, but tracking the sun was difficult because of the haze and she didn’t know how much daylight remained. The continuous auroras that skirled through the heavens like lace curtains were scarcely visible under full sunlight, but at night they cast their supercharged neon glow across the land.
Despite the pollution, the sky had once been far worse. In the second year, thick smoke from burning cities required them to wear gas masks. No doubt they were courting lung cancer, and the air still bore a faint scorched odor, but breathing freely was worth the risk.
As they resumed their march, DeVontay fished a canteen from his pack. He gulped down a drink and passed it to Rachel. The water was stale but clean, carefully filtered. She splashed some into her palm and rubbed the back of her neck.
“Maybe we should turn around,” DeVontay said. “We can sleep in that garage at the turnpike.”
“No. I’m not giving up hope.”
“Even if we find somebody, what are we going to do? Bring them back to the bunker and let them join the big, happy, freaky family?”
“We’re not that freaky,” Rachel said. “Two teenagers, a mutant baby that never grows up, and us. Not to mention a crotchety old hermit.”
“Yeah, fine representatives of the human race. Except two of you are Zaps.”
“I’m only half Zap, thank you very much. You of all people shouldn’t be such a racist.”
“Depends on who we count as ‘people’ these days.”
DeVontay’s skin was a rich, ebony shade, and his short curly hair revealed patches of gray above each temple. Although he was in his early thirties, he’d aged fast under the duress of the apocalypse.
Not that Rachel had fared much better. She wasn’t exactly a survivalist calendar girl, as her pale skin exhibited an unhealthy lack of sunlight. She sported creases and crinkles around her eyes, which she inspected often to see if the unnatural, glimmering flecks in her irises had multiplied. She was constantly on watch for physical signs of change, although the internal effects were the ones she feared most.
Because you can never trust the Zap inside.
Something roared in the forest, distant enough to elicit a shiver but not inspire them to immediately scramble for cover.
“Sounded big,” DeVontay said.
“It’s all relative. Bigger than a car, smaller than a house.”
“Mammal or reptile?”
“Maybe some of both.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.” DeVontay looked down at his rifle as if it finally dawned on him how puny the weapon was against the dangers of the new world. They’d only encountered a few creatures today, and those had been rodent-sized and elusive, scurrying into the grass before they could glimpse any details. The animals gave the impression of disjointed menace, as if their bones were knitted together with barbed wire and their faces glinted like razors.
“We have to think about it,” Rachel said. “They’re changing. Just like the Zaps.”
“So you can sense them?”
“No. They’re doing their own thing. Thank God. I don’t think I could stand dwelling in a reptilian brain.”
“Yeah, but it would help if we knew when they were coming.”
“That would be predictable and boring,” Rachel said. “Life is full of surprises.”
DeVontay’s good eye mirthfully squinted at her. “So is death.”
Rachel shared a perceptive connection with the Zaps ever since the mutants had healed her life-threatening wound years ago. They hadn’t infected her so much as affected her, but she was able to suppress their influence as long as she stayed well away from them. She still bore some physical symptoms of the change, and she feared she was a ticking time bomb that threatened the small group of survivors.
But the years of relative isolation had also reduced the mutant influence on Kokona, the intelligent Zap infant in their care. Rachel could only hope the strange communal influence was fading by the day. If the Zaps had congregated in the larger cities as suspected, then their remote bunker in the Blue Ridge Mountains was probably the safest place to be.
Unless more of these abnormal creatures were roaming the world, in which case nowhere was safe.
“We’re almost to the bikes,” DeVontay said. “So we’ll have to decide between making time and holing up for the night.”
“I vote for bikes. Better than risking a random house.”
The little town of Stonewall was twenty-four miles from their bunker, but the elevation change was several thousand feet above sea level across the span of that distance. Because the grade was so steep, bicycles were only useful on two long stretches of highway. They planted bikes along the route both to speed up the trip and fool themselves about the possibility of a fast getaway. With gasoline-powered engines wiped out by the same electromagnetic radiation that erased the electrical grid and communication systems, two-wheeled transportation was their only alternative to walking.
“One of these days, we’re going to have to find out,” DeVontay said.
Not this again.
“Why?” Rachel asked.
“Because we don’t know what the Zaps are cooking up. If we want to defend ourselves, we can’t just stick our heads in the sand.”
Rachel waved to the surrounding forest and its chirruping, squeaking insects. “Nothing around here but mud.”
DeVontay stopped walking and gave an exaggerated, heaving sigh. “Why do you always get like this?”
Rachel kept moving forward, but slowly. The words were easier to take if they slid off her back. “Like what?”
“Afraid of who you are. You don’t want to know if the Zaps are still evolving because you might want to join them.”
She spun, and she knew her eyes sparked as they always did when she was angry. She could even see their glow in the settling dusk, casting out before her like miniature headlights. “That’s low, DeVontay. I’m committed to us. To this family. To the human race.”
DeVontay didn’t draw back from her rage. “Sometimes I wonder. Are we doing this so we can find other people, or because we might encounter some Zaps?”
“After sleeping beside me for the last five years, you’re still worried I’m going to go all zombie freak on you, tear out your liver, and eat it?”
“We don’t know anything about what’s happening.” DeVontay jabbed his rifle barrel toward the sky. “Just look. The sun’s still spewing shit all over the planet, the animals are changing, and we’re pretty much back in the Dark Ages. We keep on pretending we can put things back the way they were, but it’s way too late for that.”
Rachel forced herself to calm down. DeVontay was right—he shouldn’t trust her, not when she couldn’t even trust herself. She could never be sure whether the Zaps were subtly and insidiously influencing her behavior. But he didn’t have to co
nstantly remind her.
“Adapt or die,” Rachel said. “The rules haven’t changed.”
“Nature’s a pure, heartless bitch.”
“But I’m not.”
DeVontay nodded and sagged as the tension left his body. “Your lights are on.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“I kind of like it, but some of these critters might see them. I don’t want to wind up as dinner. If I’m going to be eaten, I’d rather it be by you.”
Rachel closed the distance between them and wrapped him in a hug. She kissed his neck and then playfully nipped at the soft, dark flesh. “Careful what you wish for.”
“Right now I just wish we were back in the bunker, but we got a job to do.”
“Let’s get to those bikes.”
Five minutes later, they removed the bikes from the back of a stranded van where they hid them. DeVontay’s front tire was a little low and each crack in the asphalt sent him juddering, his backpack threatening to throw him off balance. However, they made good time, racing against the veiled sunset. Thunder rumbled to the south, although the clouds there didn’t appear any thicker or ominous than the rest of the sky.
They talked little as they pedaled, instead concentrating on the road and the surrounding vegetation. They passed a gas station and several roadside shops but didn’t stop to explore them. They’d long since cleared those buildings of any useful supplies. Their overnight refuge was five miles outside Stonewall, a furniture warehouse whose owner had been the paranoid type.
The few windows were barred, and DeVontay had found a key in the office that allowed them to keep the front door locked between stays. After removing a few bodies and arranging a bedroom suite, they could pass a night there in comfort and, if the mood struck, which it often did, romance.
Rachel’s breath was a little short but she enjoyed the exercise. The endorphins combined with the adrenaline of her anxiety to keep her alert and fueled up. She challenged herself to outpace DeVontay even though his legs were longer and stronger.
The Doomsday weight-loss plan kicks ass.
“Hey,” DeVontay called behind her. “Slow down.”
She pumped her legs faster, bending over the handlebars to balance the weight of her pack. “Keep up, old man. Only a few more minutes.”
“Rachel?”
She grinned to herself. He was falling farther behind. She would reach the store, retrieve the key from its hiding place under a loose brick, and do a quick sweep before DeVontay arrived. She might even have time to light a candle and set the mood for…whatever.
He called her name again, from even farther behind. He had stopped.
And his voice sounded strange and confused.
She laid on the hand brakes and the bicycle skidded to a halt. When she looked back, DeVontay’s head was tilted toward the darkening sky, his rifle butt against his shoulder.
The screech resonated across the valley like a metal glacier grinding against stone.
The crows were back. Surely they couldn’t be the same ones?
But they weren’t alone. The flock circled another bird, pecking and worrying it, cawing madly. Rachel had previously seen crows harassing a hawk, which always amused her given their difference in size, strength, and predatory skills. But this strange thing was no hawk.
It was silver and its wings didn’t flap, as if it was gliding, and its eyes burned with a fierce electric-green radiance.
The birds were coming straight for her.
Rachel dismounted the bike, letting it bounce off the pavement as she dropped into a defensive crouch. No time to bring her rifle to bear, and the machete wouldn’t ward off all of the dozen birds if they meant to her harm. They were barely thirty yards from her, swooping low out of the aurora-limned gloom.
Then came the pak-pak-pak of DeVontay’s rifle.
A few feathers broke loose and wafted to the ground as the screeching crows broke away and gained altitude. The silver bird glided straight for Rachel, and she rolled away toward the shoulder of the road, bones knocking painfully against asphalt.
“Stay down,” DeVontay called, squeezing off another burst of shots.
The silver bird tumbled and bounced along the highway, scuffing to a stop just a few feet from Rachel. She stared at the dented, torn form and its one cold, round eye that faded and went black.
DeVontay came on the run as Rachel picked herself off the ground.
“You okay?” he said, checking her over as he kicked at the bird. Which didn’t seem to be a bird at all, or any kind of animal. “What the hell?”
Rachel joined him, rubbing at a scuffed elbow, hoisting her machete in case the thing moved. “What is that?”
DeVontay gave it a tentative nudge with the toe of his boot. “Some kind of drone? Maybe some kind of military surveillance thing? That looks like a camera lens in the front.”
While the solar storms and the intense electromagnetic radiation had destroyed the power grid, computers, and electronic equipment, turning the technology of the early Twenty-First Century into useless clutter, some equipment had been protected via grounded and shielded Faraday cages. Her grandfather Franklin had salvaged a shortwave radio and a solar power system, and their own bunker contained an operating radio, gas-powered generators, and a solar array.
They’d witnessed occasional helicopters and other gear that suggested the U.S. government had foreseen the cataclysm and made large-scale preparations against electromagnetic pulses. But Rachel had never seen such an airborne entity as this, which appeared to be either a complex imitation of an animal or else some type of synthetic mutation.
As DeVontay bent down to retrieve it, Rachel grabbed his arm and pulled him back, struck by a sudden anxiety. “Don’t touch it.”
“What, you think it’s a bomb or something?”
“It’s alive.”
“No way,” DeVontay said. “Looks like some kind of weird metal or plastic. And I see some wires there where its neck is broken.”
Rachel scanned the sky. “Hope there’s not any more of these.”
“I was more worried about the crows plucking one of your eyes out.”
Rachel slid the tip of her machete under one crumpled wing and flipped the bird. Its two legs were bent like pipes, feet fanning out in tiny webs. “You hit it,” she said, pointing at a gash in the material of its underside where a turgid, milky fluid oozed out.
“Looks like circuits and stuff in there. Where did this come from?”
One of the legs twitched.
“I told you it was alive,” Rachel said.
“So birds are mutating into machines or something? That’s even crazier than Zaps.”
With a whirring sound, a small telescopic arm extended from a tiny orifice. A pliers-like appendage on the end reached into the gash and deftly plucked at the inner workings, moving almost too fast for them to see. In a few seconds, the bird’s “eye” blinked on and the object rolled onto its legs.
Rachel and DeVontay both jumped back in surprise. Rachel swung her machete at it, but it hopped away and the blade pinged off the asphalt.
“Get back,” DeVontay shouted as the bird rose into the air, hovering unsteadily before them, the telescopic arm flitting around, conducting repairs. Another small articulated wand protruded from its head and carved at the damaged material, raining little bits of the silver material as it worked.
“It’s rebuilding itself,” Rachel said.
DeVontay raised his weapon to fire at the object, but Rachel put out her hand to belay him. “Don’t,” she said. “What if it explodes?”
“I don’t care. It’s creeping me out.”
But he had no time to aim, for the bird suddenly soared brokenly toward the south as if migrating for the winter.
“What the hell just happened?” DeVontay said.
“I don’t know, but it’s getting dark fast.” Rachel hurried to her bicycle. “I don’t want to be out here with God knows what dropping from the sky.”
“Me, either.”
Chapter 186
“We’re just supposed to listen. In case Franklin calls.”
“That’s the first broadcast we’ve gotten in two months,” Stephen Henderson said. “Spots must be down so there’s less interference.”
As he adjusted the gain and squelch on the radio, Stephen wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard anything besides white noise. He’d spent so many hours sitting in front of the receiver that he sometimes heard ghosts from the past—canned laughter from television sit-coms, verses of pop songs, political sound bites, and aviation chatter. Once he thought he’d heard his mother, which was impossible, because she’d died five years before and left her ten-year-old son trapped in a hotel full of Zaps.
But now he had an aural witness, someone to confirm the voices. Marina Jiminez gave him a skeptical look as the radio hissed again.
“Alpha One Niner, do you copy?”
Stephen noted the third repetition of the query in his logbook, and then marked the time: 7:49 p.m. None of them were sure of the exact time, but using calendars and moon phases, they’d made a decent guess of the date and then used sunrise and sunset to synchronize wind-up clocks and wristwatches. It wasn’t Greenwich Mean Time but it was close enough. Stephen didn’t think accuracy mattered, but crotchety old Franklin Wheeler made synchronicity sound like the linchpin on which the return of civilization depended.
The radio hissed and crackled, filling the closet space that served as the telecommunications room. The unit had been busted by a gunshot, but they’d managed to patch it together enough to get a weak signal.
“I guess we’re Alpha One Nine,” Marina said. She was a year younger than Stephen and wasn’t lucky enough to lose her parents in the Big Zap. No, they had been killed by the freaks almost before her eyes.
Dang it. Can’t really call them “freaks” anymore, since they’re part of the family.
Stephen glanced at the almond-skinned infant that dangled from Marina’s shoulders in a sling. Kokona’s exotic, slanted eyes sparked as she grinned toothlessly at him.
“That’s what Franklin says,” Stephen said. “Alpha One Nine is just one of the bunkers in their chain.”
