by Mark Tufo
“That’s why we have to maintain radio silence,” Marina said. “If they figure out anyone’s here, they’ll want their bunker back.”
Stephen touched the handset mic that lay on the desk. The mic was connected by a coiled, duct-taped cable. “Would that be so awful? We’re out of C-Rats and MRE’s, and the batteries for our solar array are on their last legs. It won’t be long until we’re boiling our mattresses for stew.”
Marina shook her head. “Rachel and DeVontay will score something good. They always do.”
“Slim Jims,” Kokona said, patting her chubby little hands together with delight.
Even after all these years, Stephen was still slightly startled whenever the infant spoke. Like other infant Zaps, Kokona was highly intelligent and perceptive. Nobody knew if the old rules still held true, but the youngest Zaps were tribal leaders and the quickest to evolve and adapt. Even creepier, Zaps didn’t age, so unless some weird new radiation emerged, Kokona would remain fourteen pounds of strangeness.
Luckily, Kokona was distant enough from the rest of her kind to avoid telepathic influence. Stephen didn’t know what they would do if Kokona asserted her dominance. Hopefully Rachel could serve as an early-warning system, given that the woman was half-Zap herself.
Marina frowned at him, narrowing her dark eyes. Man, why did I get stuck with the weirdest family ever? And why does she sort of have to be my sister?
The radio squawked again: “Copy, Alpha One Niner.”
“Let me,” Stephen said.
“Franklin told us not to.”
Stephen flashed a devilish grin. “I don’t see Franklin, do you? He’s holed up in his compound with his books and goats and buried gold. Nobody will ever know.”
“We’ll know,” Kokona said. The baby looked up at Marina. “Si, chiquita?”
“Si, niña.”
Stephen was annoyed whenever they spoke Spanish, because he couldn’t keep up. Kokona was teaching Japanese to Marina and Rachel, and that was even harder. If the Zaps someday invented their own language, Stephen was sure the English language would die as fast as everything else from the old days did.
“Nobody will know if you don’t tell,” Stephen said. How could such smart people be so dumb sometimes?
“Our instructions were very clear,” Marina said. “Keep the door locked, monitor the cams, and don’t talk on the radio.”
Stephen tapped anxiously at the mic. “But what if it’s important? Like life or death?”
“Everything’s life or death, Stephen. That’s just how it is now.”
Stephen hated this stupid bunker. Being a teenager was hard enough without TV, sports, and friends. And it wasn’t like he could get his diploma and head off to college, either. Worst of all, he found himself thinking more and more of Marina as something besides a sister. They weren’t related. They weren’t even from the same country. They just happened to have been raised by the same people.
Hard to believe they’d bunked in the same cell their first year here, but then Stephen had started feeling really awkward about the whole thing. He pretended like he just wanted a room to himself so he could plaster comic-book covers all over his walls, but he forced himself to sleep as far away from Marina as he could.
Her presence didn’t bother him when Rachel and DeVontay were around, because they were usually all so busy doing chores he didn’t have time to think. But when they were alone and taking care of Kokona, it was almost like they were the grown-ups and Kokona was their baby, and…
I’m going to go nuts if I don’t talk to a real human being.
The radio interrupted his thoughts.
“Alpha One Niner, do you copy, over?”
He snatched the handset the way he’d seen Franklin do it and depressed the mic key. “Hello,” he said, as Marina shot him a horrified look.
“Alpha One Niner, can you confirm, over?”
“I don’t know,” Stephen said into the mic. “I’m just Stephen.”
“Stephen? What’s your unit?”
“I don’t have a unit. It’s just me.”
When Stephen released the mic key, Marina said, “Are you crazy?”
“Yeah,” Stephen said to her, before the person on the other end of the broadcast could reply. Kokona added, “Franklin’s not going to like this.”
“Stephen, this is Bravo Victor Romeo, copy. We’re on a sweep of the Blue Ridge Mountains and looking for survivors. What’s your location?”
Stephen didn’t need to know the codes to understand the speaker was military. And he was crafty enough to avoid using any sort of language that might give away their position. He would play it as a dumb kid, see what information they would share.
“I’m not sure,” Stephen replied. “Somewhere in the mountains, I think. I don’t know if it’s North Carolina or Virginia.”
Marina scooted into the room and rested Kokona on the little metal desk that held the radio, then sat on the edge of it and glowered down at Stephen. She smelled like Ivory soap. Even her dark green T-shirt cast a clean scent. Stephen didn’t know how she did it. No matter how many times he scrubbed, he always smelled like armpits and dirty socks.
The soldier’s voice grew more informal. “Are you alone, Stephen?”
“Yeah, just me.”
Marina elbowed him in the arm. Kokona said, “Ask him if there are any like me out there.”
“You’re lucky to have made it this long. How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Stephen lied.
“Let’s see if we can pinpoint your position and arrange a rescue mission. Sound good?”
“Sure,” Stephen said. “Are you the Army?”
“U.S. Marines. Got some units up and running but we’re still putting the pieces together. As soon as we get organized, we’re going to kick some Zap ass and blow them mutant bastards back to the Stone Age.”
Kokona pursed her lips and frowned at the violent boast. Stephen couldn’t believe the Army hadn’t figured out that the Zaps only fought if you attacked them. And when Zaps fought, they went all the way.
“We see the helicopters once in a while,” Stephen said, then realized he’d screwed up.
“‘We’? Sounds like you’re not alone there, Stephen.”
“I meant the ‘we’ before everybody else died,” Stephen said, realizing how lame that sounded even as he spoke. Marina ruefully shook her head.
“Don’t be afraid, son. As long as you’re human, we’re all friends here. And you sound human to me.”
Stephen pushed the mic away to consider his next move. “Good job,” Marina said, haughty and sarcastic. Kokona said, “Maybe you should let me talk to him.”
Not a good idea. That’s like letting the fox talk to the hen.
“I need to find out where they are,” Stephen said to them.
“You better have a Plan B, because so far you’re not doing so hot,” Marina said.
“Tell them you’re in Newton,” Kokona said in her high, thin voice. “That’s three days away on foot, so you can find out how long it will take them to get there. That will give you a general idea of where they are.”
“Not bad,” Stephen said. “Assuming they even know where Newton is. It’s not a real city like Charlotte or something.”
“They’re the military,” Marina said. “They have maps.”
“Stephen this is Bravo Victor Romeo, you still there?”
“Copy,” Stephen said, winking at Marina and Kokona.
“Verifying location, over.”
“I’m in a little town near a river. Saw a sign that said ‘Newton.’”
“Any Zap activity in the area?”
Kokona shook her head. Stephen depressed the mic key and said, “Not for a long time. I don’t know where they went. I hope they’re all dead.”
Kokona’s eyes sparked fiercely as the reply came: “Oh, they will be, my friend. Soon.”
After a pause, the voice spoke again: “Let me do some checking. In the meantime, here’s m
y CO. That’s ‘commanding officer’ to you civilians.”
“Copy,” Stephen said. Soldier language was as hard as Japanese.
A new voice came on, this one older and scratchier. “Stephen, this is Capt. Antonelli, Third Battalion, Eighth Marines, do you copy?”
“Yes, sir.” Stephen thought the show of respect would relax the captain and maybe cause him to slip up. He even managed to whimper a little, as if he was about to cry. “Can you guys come get me?”
“Hold tight, soldier, no humans left behind on my watch. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. How soon can you be here?”
“That depends. First, you need to tell me where you requisitioned a radio, since the solar storms burned them all out.”
Stephen released the mic as if it was made of molten metal. “Smooth move,” Marina said. “He knows it’s a military radio.”
“Ask him where the Zaps are,” Kokona said. “We don’t call ourselves that, but if you say anything but ‘Zaps,’ he’ll suspect something’s wrong.”
“He already knows something’s wrong,” Stephen said. But he could just act confused and scared, which wouldn’t really be much of a stretch.
He activated the mic. “I…I found this radio in a building. There were some dead soldiers there, but the Zaps must have carried them away. They do that, you know.”
“Copy that. We had a unit in the area. Alpha One Nine. We’re still looking for them, or what’s left of them. Do you know anything about that?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen anybody since summer, and I was scared to do anything. I just hid and waited until I didn’t hear anybody anymore.”
“You sure they weren’t Zaps?”
“Pretty sure. They didn’t move like Zaps. Unless the Zaps have changed so much you can’t tell the difference anymore.”
Kokona giggled at that. Stephen shook his head at her, and she smiled with bright, wide-eyed innocence. The surreal sparks in her pupils faded a little, dimming the room.
“You run into one, you can sure tell the difference, all right.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds, Stephen thinking of what else to say.
“One other big problem with your story, Stephen. Newton’s gone. Burned to the ground.”
“Wonderful,” Marina said to Stephen. “I had to get stuck in a Doomsday bunker with the world’s worst liar.”
The captain came on air again. “So tell me where you really are. Every little bit of information helps Team Human, but I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”
“How about naming a large city that’s far away?” Kokona suggested.
“We don’t know the range of his signal,” Stephen said. “If I lie again and he knows it, then this is just a waste of time.”
“It is anyway,” Marina said. “Maybe you should obey the grownups once in a while. They’ve lived longer than you for a reason.” She glanced at Kokona. “Nothing personal.”
“If you want to know his real location, you need to give him something close to where we really are,” Kokona said. “That way we can find out if he’s a threat.”
He’s only a threat to YOU, not us. But Stephen couldn’t let that attitude show. For all he knew, Kokona could summon her tribe at any time. Plus Rachel would be endangered, and she’d saved his life more than once.
“Stephen, you there?”
“Yeah.”
“So where are you?”
“The Blue Ridge Parkway.” Stephen ignored Marina’s frantic waves. “Sleeping in the back of an SUV. I remember seeing a concrete marker for Milepost 330.”
“That’s North Carolina, all right. One more question: Where are you getting your power from?”
Crap. There’s not supposed to be any electricity.
Kokona said, “Batteries. If the radio was stored in a shielded enclosure, there would be batteries with it.”
“Batteries that last for five years?”
“You got anything better?” Marina asked.
“Maybe I should just stop talking,” Stephen said.
“Getting you to shut up?” Marina said. “Then we better bring him on board, because this captain is a miracle worker.”
“Hilarious,” Stephen said, and then triggered the mic again. “It has a big battery on it,” he said to the captain. “I don’t know anything about it. I just turned the knob and it worked.”
After a ten-second pause, Capt. Antonelli replied, “You just sit tight and keep an eye out for us. We’ll be back in touch in a day or two. We’re doing some recon, but we’re headed your way.”
“Sweet,” Stephen said, feigning enthusiasm. “It’s going to be nice to see a human face again. Where’s your unit now?”
“On the parkway, making a sweep to the west. We have to check out a military installation first. See what happened to our boys. Keep breathing in the meantime. Over and out.”
“Dang it,” Stephen said to Marina and Kokona. “Franklin said this was a secret bunker.”
“If your government still exists, there aren’t any secrets anymore,” Kokona said.
“At least we know they’re on the way,” Stephen said, trying to salvage some good news from the conversation.
“What good does that do us?” Marina said. “Franklin’s not here and Rachel and DeVontay won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”
“We can go out and do some scouting,” Stephen said. “Figure out where they are.”
“That’s an even worse idea than talking on the radio. I mean, that’s tops on the ‘What not to do while the grown-ups are gone’ list.”
“We can defend the bunker,” Kokona said. “That’s what the guns are for, right?”
“You seriously want us to take on our own military?” Stephen asked.
“The alternative is for me to call on my people,” Kokona said, and even though she grinned toothlessly, Stephen couldn’t tell whether her cuteness disguised some deep malevolence.
“Even if you wanted to go, it’s dark,” Marina said.
“All that means is the surveillance cams won’t help,” Stephen said. He got up from his chair at the radio desk.
“Where are you going?” Marina said.
“To lock and load.”
As he left the room, Marina picked up Kokona, who said, “This isn’t going to end well, is it?”
Chapter 187
Lars Olsen felt like he’d been running for weeks.
His legs were like sacks of wet cement, his lungs burned, and his head weighed fifty pounds. Adding to the burden was the sick dread that he was the last human left in the world.
As he dodged through the trees, clambered over fences, and ducked around cars, a mantra rolled through his brain like a broken locomotive: Mutants, monsters, murderers, oh my. Mutants, monsters, murderers, oh my.
The mutants had been part of the nightmare from the very beginning. Lars was a freelance web builder and graphic designer in Asheville when the solar storms swept over the planet. Lars had seen blog posts and tech articles warning about the threats, which mostly warned of interruptions to satellite broadcasts. The Internet offered a few wild conspiracy theories, too, as it always did, but Lars had no interest in going down that rabbit hole.
And when the power browned out, he chalked it up to Asheville’s aging infrastructure instead of the solar activity. Asheville was one of the more progressive cities in North Carolina, with thriving gay and pagan communities, but its construction was largely left over from the middle of the last century. The disruption led to other problems, and then came the reports of random violence.
The media was no help, suggesting the murder spree was the work of opportunistic looters they dubbed “Zapheads,” although no matter how many experts they brought in to describe the crowd psychology behind it, nobody could serve up a reasonable explanation.
Still, the urban chaos was largely remote from Lars’s life, since he lived in the outskirts and worked from home. His wife taught at the same charter school his daughter atte
nded, so they were safe, too. Then came that Wednesday in late August when everything changed.
He was right in the middle of a major redesign for an upscale real estate agency when the electricity blinked out completely. The work was backed up, so he was more annoyed than worried. A car horn blared outside, followed by a crash of metal and glass. He went to the window of his upstairs office, which looked out on the street.
Two cars had collided head-on, and one driver crawled from his vehicle, blood pouring from his scalp. The other was slumped over a sagging air bag. Lars’s first instinct was to fish out his cell phone and dial 9-1-1, but the phone had no signal. He ran downstairs—little did he know at the time how much running was to become such a constant part of his life—and outside to help the strangers. It was an impulsive, utterly human act.
He soon learned that human acts could get you killed.
The first thing that struck him was the lack of traffic. Even though his was a quiet suburban street, three or four cars were usually traversing its narrow lanes. But nothing moved except the groaning driver, who scrabbled on hands and knees in wobbly circles, painting the pavement with his blood.
A couple of cars were angled to a standstill against the sidewalk, and a panel van had hopped the curb and knocked over a fire hydrant. Water slooshed out of the water main and swept down the gutter in silver runnels.
The traffic signals at both ends of the block were out, and none of the houses exhibited any signs of life. Then he saw his neighbor, Annie Hodges, collapsed across her boxwood hedge, a pair of trimmers dangling from one gloved hand. She wasn’t moving. Neither was the driver in the air-bagged sedan. Lars hurried across the lawn to check on Annie. It took only seconds to see that she was dead.
She was in her thirties, a jogger, healthy and wholesome. A heart attack made no sense, and he saw no signs of injury. Then the man crawling in the street issued a strange, rattling hiss. Lars turned to him, wondering if he should call for help. But something about the neighborhood filled him with a nameless fear—it was too still and dead. No lawn mowers, no bicyclists, no postal carriers or UPS drivers or stay-at-home mothers pushing baby carriages.
