Bone And Cinder: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Zapheads Book 1)

by Nicholson, Scott

  All residence hall doors required a keycard that doubled as student ID for entry. The glass panes in the front pair of doors and first floor windows remained surprisingly unbroken, but the glass in the doors was reinforced by wire mesh. No point in trying to shatter it to enter the building. The first-floor dorm room windows were an option, but the blinds were drawn and Mackie wasn’t about to enter a room he couldn’t case first. The sound of breaking glass might also draw other Zapheads.

  But...wait. The solar storm shut down all power. Anything powered by electricity is useless now, even electric locks.

  That should mean...

  Mackie gripped the handle, pressed down on the latch with his thumb—

  —and felt his heart speed up as he pulled the door open smoothly and without even the squeaking of a hinge.

  3.

  The lobby was deserted. No corpses on the floor or on either of the couches that formed a right angle facing a television mounted on the wall. The air was rich with decay and a moldy stuffiness, like poisoned rats behind a basement wall.

  Allie’s old room was on the fourth floor. He hadn’t spoken to her in so long that he had no idea if she had changed rooms. He wouldn’t even have known she was attending this summer session if he hadn’t spotted an online post from a friend of a friend, one of the few people in Allie’s life that hadn’t severed all ties to Mackie.

  Working for Lucas Krider meant access to certain resources. Information wasn’t particularly hard to come by. But sometimes social media made detective work unnecessary. That was another casualty of the solar storms.

  If she’s here, she could be anywhere in the building. Dead or alive or Zap.

  The prospect of searching six floors of dorm rooms was daunting. Mackie felt exhausted just thinking about it. The Vicodin made him want to sleep. What a stupid move, popping those pills...

  Shit.

  I guess I’ll start with her old room and go from there.

  Allie had always loved that particular room and likely wouldn’t have given it up. Mackie himself had spent many nights there, even after graduation. Far from a sure bet, but a logical place to start. At the very least, some fond recollections might swim up from his numbed brain.

  Mackie crept carefully up the stairs, his finger near the Glock’s trigger, eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom. Even though the sun wouldn’t set for another couple of hours, without the overhead fluorescent lights, visibility was poor in the stairwell and hallways, with only little slits of high windows allowing daylight.

  Mackie hated the idea of entering an area where he had roughly the visual acuity of a fruit bat. You didn’t need to be a film scholar to know that sort of thing rarely ended well in the movies. This movie was 3-D without the ugly plastic glasses, and central casting had dished out some particularly vicious son of a bitches that looked amazingly human except for their eyes. On this stage, dead was dead when the final credits rolled.

  The stairwell was clear, but the stink warned him there were bodies lying behind the door to the second-floor hallway. All those aspiring graduates, the hope for the future, had gone to rot. Sorority Suzies and geek girls shared the same pathetic pile, with no one around to judge their fashion sense.

  The heat inside Linvale was stifling, ductwork ticking and humidity laying a slick skin on the plaster walls. Although summers in the Blue Ridge Mountains were considerably cooler than in Florida, the improvement wasn’t as significant as he expected. It was much too hot for the thin windbreaker he was wearing, but he welcomed the extra protection of long sleeves and a second layer of fabric.

  Though they weren’t contagious, a bite from a Zaphead—as Punk Chick had so aptly demonstrated—was no less painful for it. Likewise, his dark blue cargo pants, though much too heavy for the season, offered both extra defense and plenty of pockets in which to stuff gear, food, and other necessities.

  Mackie quickly covered the remaining stairs beneath the fourth-floor entrance and threw open the door, dashing headlong into the hallway, his eyes trained to the left where Allie’s room would be, near the end of the hall. He was eager to see her, to culminate the journey.

  Get this over with, one way or anoth—

  He plowed face first into a Zaphead charging out of the gloom.

  Shit! Stupid, careless...

  Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

  Mackie tumbled backward into the stairwell with the Zaphead clinging to his jacket, spittle spraying in his face. They fell onto the staircase, the supplies in Mackie’s backpack jabbing painfully into his spine. The Zaphead’s weight pressed down on Mackie, choking off his breath.

  This Zaphead wasn’t as dainty as Punk Chick. This was a linebacker-sized frat boy that obviously put in some time at the gym. Here to engage in some extracurricular activities with one of the girls before the storms hit, no doubt. And maybe even after that.

  Mackie wedged his right forearm under the Zaphead’s chin. He wanted to get the bastard’s snapping jaws as far from his own face as possible.

  It didn’t help that Mackie was holding his Glock in his right hand and had no chance of getting off an effective shot in his current position. His left hand was pinned beneath the Zaphead’s weight.

  A second Zaphead tumbled out of the hall’s entrance before the door closed shut, and she staggered into the stairwell. A blonde, slim, her skin a shade too pale, wearing a knee-length T-shirt and a skewed pink headband.

  Not Allie.

  But not what Mackie needed right now, either.

  A third form dashed out of the dark hallway, but instead of joining the attack, it rushed right by Mackie, a red high-top sneaker flapping inches from his face.

  “Sorry, man,” someone said, hurrying on.

  A survivor.

  “Get it off me,” Mackie pleaded.

  “Sucks to be you.” The sneakers slapped down the stairwell.

  Created a distraction. He’d probably been trapped for days.

  Mackie dragged in as much breath as the Zaphead’s weight would allow and tried lifting his knees for leverage. He didn’t have much luck, but he raised just enough of the Frat Zap’s weight to wriggle his left hand free.

  Mackie slammed his palm against the Frat Zap’s forehead, forcing his face back just far enough so Mackie could remove his forearm from the Zaphead’s throat and press the Glock’s barrel against it.

  The female Zaphead stumbled down the stairs like a drunken, jealous lover. If she fell on top of them, Mackie would have a hell of time excavating himself from beneath the combined weight of two Zapheads.

  A three-way’s the last thing I need, babe.

  Mackie squeezed the trigger, and a spray of blood warmed his neck and chest. The Frat Zap sputtered, fighting to suck air through his shredded trachea. Ropes of blood fell from his mouth onto Mackie’s face.

  Mackie spat away the coppery slime.

  The other Zaphead lost her footing on the stairs and fell straight for Mackie and the dying bastard on top of him.

  Mackie squeezed off a second shot but missed, the bullet ricocheting down the hall. The concussion reverberated in the stairwell and inside the curved bone of his skull, ripping through the Vicodin buzz like an air-raid siren.

  Ears ringing, disoriented, he braced himself as she fell on top of the Zaphead pinning him to the stairs. The added weight squeezed out what last little breath Mackie held in his lungs, and he felt certain his backpack would push his spine out through his chest.

  He was also pretty sure he could taste his spleen.

  The girl thrashed and snapped and clawed but couldn’t find purchase with the dying Zaphead between her and Mackie. Mackie grabbed a fistful of her hair and pressed the Glock against her temple with his other hand.

  The bullet drilled through her skull and sent shards of bone and chunks of brain tissue flying in a reddish-brown burst, like a saucy burrito heated too long in a microwave.

  Mackie wriggled from beneath the two Zapheads. If there were other Zapheads inside the buildin
g, the sounds of struggle and gunfire hadn’t alerted them yet. Or maybe the weird acoustics of the building made the noises difficult to locate.

  Mackie leaned against the stairwell wall and pulled in as much breath as his aching lungs allowed. His back felt like some kids had used it as a Piñata and Zap stink was all over him—a metallic aroma of ozone mixed with sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids. When his breathing found its rhythm, he opened the hallway door again. He stepped inside, slower this time, sweeping his Glock left and right.

  A female corpse sprawled inside the entrance to the communal bathroom, naked except for a lavender towel wrapped around her waist.

  A long thread of toilet paper, as if someone had hurled a roll down the hall in a final collegiate prank.

  A wrinkled tube of toothpaste, oozing two moldy inches of muck.

  No Zapheads.

  Allie’s old room was on the left, second to last. If she was in there, alive and unaffected by the storm, she surely would’ve heard the struggle in the stairwell. And she certainly would have locked the door. Even back then, he’d trained her to exercise caution, because the campus was full of wolves.

  Now, the wolves ran free and only the fearful survived.

  Mackie tapped on the door with the Glock’s barrel and called her name.

  It felt strange on his tongue, like a piece of gum that had long since lost its flavor.

  “Allie,” he called again.

  4.

  Please, God.

  No response. But Mackie thought he heard something stirring inside the room. Possibly the sound of soft footsteps, but maybe that was just what he wanted to hear.

  Do Zaps answer when you knock?

  He was about to call again when the door flew open.

  On the other side was a blonde girl, a foot or so shorter than Mackie, her hair not much longer than Punk Chick’s pixie cut. She wore a pale green T-shirt and tight, stretchy jogging pants. The kind that accentuated curves so well. But he didn’t have the time or interest in scanning her figure.

  His eyes fixed on one thing: the pair of scissors in her left hand.

  Sharp and silver and quivering, ready to plunge.

  He met her stare, saw the uncertainty there, an analysis of whether he was a Zap, a threat, or a fellow survivor. And her eyes harbored none of that strange glittering that marked a mutant.

  Her pert lips parted. “Who are—?”

  Mackie pushed her inside the room. He stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind him. The space was cramped, with books and papers scattered around, a Kurt Cobain poster on the wall, rumpled clothes piled high on a dresser. The fading sun broke through the slats of the window shade, reflected in a mirror to illuminate portions of the room. This was definitely Allie’s world.

  But the girl wasn’t Allie, and it wasn’t anyone Mackie recognized. She still gripped the scissors but made no effort to raise them in her defense.

  “You going to stab me?” he asked.

  “No, it’s freshman crafts hour. What do you think?”

  “I’m looking for Allie. Allie Williams. This used to be her room.”

  The girl had no time to respond before Mackie’s eyes fell on a huddled, writhing form buried beneath a blanket in the closet space to the left.

  No.

  Mackie rushed over and ripped away the blanket as his heart nearly punched through his chest.

  Allie’s wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape. A saliva-sodden pair of panties was stuffed in her mouth and bound in place by more duct tape. Her chestnut hair was disheveled and slick with sweat, and her eyes had the distinctive redness and uncontrolled frenzy of a Zaphead, as well as those flecks of glinting turbulence that suggested an inner storm.

  “Allie,” he whispered, reaching out a hand but not knowing how or where to touch her. Afraid to touch her.

  She seemed groggy and sluggish, but that was now wearing off. She struggled against her binds with more fervor, her mouth working furiously at the panties stuffed between her teeth.

  Mackie’s guts felt as if they were about to drop through the floor. This wasn’t Allie. Not like this. Even though he’d imagined the worst, his imagination had fallen far short.

  She wore a filthy Hello Kitty T-shirt, a totally incongruous bit of fashion, and corded gym shorts that showed off her legs. But the skin was welted and bruised, as if she’d been fighting. Drool leaked from around the tape over her mouth. She writhed upward in a mockery of longing, and Mackie reminded himself that she had no idea who he was.

  Just like he had no idea who she was.

  The girl behind him spoke. “Are you...are you Macklin?”

  He turned and stared at her, but not really at her; it seemed more like his gaze had pierced through her and into the wall behind, to a train of oblivion barreling down a bleak set of tracks.

  And then he was on her, one hand clutching the back of her head, the other jabbing the Glock into the soft flesh beneath her chin.

  “What...the hell...” he spat. “Why the tape?”

  The girl still held the scissors but seemed to have forgotten them. The weapon hung limp from her fingers.

  Her throat worked against the muzzle. “She...she kept trying to attack me. Had to...to restrain her...”

  Mackie held her in place for a moment, letting the rage cycle through. He was blaming this stranger for his discovery, for the confirmation of his worst fears. The display was pathetic and hollow, and the anger was soon replaced by a paralyzing, resigned lethargy.

  He released her head and lowered the Glock. He looked back at Allie still huddled in the closet space, her face tightening into a mask of demonic contortions, those eyes blazing like two tiny forges of hell.

  “Who are you?” he asked the girl. Exhaustion settled into his muscles and bones again. Vicodin rushed in to fill the void that anger had vacated. Even so, it wasn’t like the early days, when he could melt into a chair with a smile stretching his face. A junkie’s worst enemy was the immutable opiate law of diminishing returns.

  The girl hadn’t seen the change, preferring the evidence of her eyes that suggested he was highly unstable. She tried keeping her distance, but that wasn’t easy in such a small room.

  “Kara,” she said. “Kara McAllister.”

  “Are you her roommate?”

  “No, we’re friends, but not roommates.” And then she added, as if it would protect her, “I’m here for the summer session, too. After everything that happened out there…well, I was stuck here.”

  He aimed his gaze at Allie and held it there. He’d imagined the worst, and now that he’d been proven right, he couldn’t jump to the next thought. He’d imagined finding her dead, and then apologizing for being such a shit to her before heading on his way to oblivion.

  But this state of purgatory left him frozen in indecision.

  “After I taped her up, I gave her some Benadryl I found.” The girl fidgeted uncomfortably with the scissors she held, snipping air. “To, like, calm her down. Help her sleep.”

  Allie’s seasonal allergies were brutal. Of course she would have Benadryl lying around.

  And apparently, the drug’s sedating quality worked on even Zapheads. That meant other medicines might affect Allie. Maybe there was a way to reverse what the storms had done.

  Mackie pushed aside the flickering ember of hope.

  “I’ve seen what some of these things can do,” Mackie said. “How the hell did you get her restrained to begin with?”

  Kara’s eyes fell. “I had to hit her a few times. I’m sorry, but I had to. She went crazy, kept trying to hurt me.”

  Mackie moved closer to Allie again and took a more careful look at her face. Beneath strands of damp, lank hair were a scattering of bluish bruises on her forehead.

  Kara answered his unasked question. “I grabbed a stapler from her desk and hit her with that a few times. I’m sorry, I just—”

  “How did you get the Benadryl in her?”

  “Just, y’know, fo
rced the capsules down her throat. Flushed them down with some water. She bit me.” Kara held up a hand, showing where Allie’s teeth had scraped off some flesh from a few of the fingers.

  “Do you have any more?”

  “Benadryl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t think so, no.”

  Mackie’s exhaustion rolled in. All the miles piled up at once now that he’d reached his destination, and on top of that lay the realization that he had no next move, no fallback plan, nowhere else to go. Allie was the goal. And she was gone, replaced by this...

  He stumbled over to the bunk beds near the opposite wall and sat down heavily on the lower bunk.

  “You are Macklin, right?” Kara asked.

  “Mackie. But yeah.”

  “How did you get here? Are you alone?”

  Mackie placed the Glock beside him on the bed’s comforter and rubbed his eyes. “I’m alone. I was in the next county over when all this shit started. I knew Allie was here for the summer session, so I wanted to find her, see if she was okay and get her out of here. My car stopped working when the shock hit, so I walked for a while, and then found a bike.”

  Kara still kept her distance but seemed more relaxed. “How did you make it all the way here on a bike? Aren’t there more of those things out there?”

  “A lot of them, but it’s impossible to tell how many. They’re all scattered. I met a few survivors along the way here, but they’re disorganized, mostly going it alone. No plan, no direction, just taking it a minute at a time.”

  Mackie reached into his pocket and pulled out two more Vicodin. Chewed and swallowed. He was playing Russian roulette with his liver by ingesting so much acetaminophen in such a short period.

  Maybe a week ago, he would’ve cared. Now, he’d be lucky to outlast his liver.

  “Are you hurt?” Kara eyed the gore painted on Mackie’s face and clothes.

  “Ran into a few of those things out there. But I’m fine.”

  “I heard the shots but was afraid to go out there. How did you know Allie would be here?”

  Mackie didn’t answer, though he saw no reason to lie. A little Facebook stalking was hardly his greatest sin. “You were both here together when the storms came?” he asked.