“Worse than Zapheads? Hell, maybe we’ve all changed for the worse. My feet smell like rotten bacon.”
Jorge heard a scuffing noise in the corridor outside the cell. He pressed his face against the steel grate and saw a soldier in green camouflage gear. The man was carrying a tray.
“Must be dinner time,” Franklin said.
The unshaven soldier stopped at a door across the corridor, where a captured Zaphead was confined. “Hey, Sparky, rise and shine,” the soldier shouted at the Zaphead, and then dumped the tray’s contents through the grate. “You better eat before the rats get it.”
“I request to see your commanding officer,” Jorge said to the soldier.
The soldier turned, his uniform unkempt and eyes bloodshot. “You ain’t in no position to make demands. This ain’t Mexico.”
Franklin flung his sock to the concrete floor and padded to the door. “Listen here, Private Shitheel, this is still a free country. Maybe you’ve heard of a thing called the Fourth Amendment, if you weren’t too busy in grade school smearing boogers under desk and eating paste.”
The soldier banged the tin tray against the grate, causing Jorge to flinch, but Franklin held his ground.
“I’ll string you up by your leathery old balls,” the soldier said.
“Come on in,” Franklin said, pushing up the sleeves of his filthy long john shirt. “Make my apocalypse.”
The soldier glowered a moment and then retreated back down the corridor as Franklin snickered.
“That’s not helpful,” Jorge said.
“Sure as heck helped me feel better.”
“We need to figure a way out of here. Maybe if we negotiate.”
“You heard the president. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“Your president is probably a Zaphead now.”
“Son of a bitch was never too bright in the first place. Might be an upgrade.”
“You can stay and wage your ideological battles, but I have a family out there.”
Franklin frowned and nodded. “Yeah, the end times are easier when you go it alone. And my Rachel is on her way to the milepost. She’ll never find me in here.”
Jorge wasn’t sure the man’s granddaughter was foolish enough to head for the isolated mountains, assuming she’d even survived the solar storms. The Wheelerville compound was like a holy land, a mythic destination that demanded a great degree of faith. If Rachel Wheeler was alive, would she risk traveling through a land of violent mutants?
The soldier came back down the corridor, accompanied by two comrades with rifles. “Step back,” he bellowed, and slid a key in the door lock.
After pushing the door open, he waved Jorge and Franklin out of the cell. “Sarge wants to see you.”
“Let me put my boots back on,” Franklin said.
One of the soldiers motioned with his rifle barrel. “You won’t be needing them.”
Jorge was eager to exit the cell and work the soreness off his limbs, but Franklin dawdled, annoying the impatient soldiers. “Get your ass out here, old man,” one said.
“I march to my own drummer, and my drummer says I don’t go barefoot,” he said. He took his time putting on his boots, smiling a little.
The soldiers marched them down the corridor, and Jorge checked out the bunks and storage rooms that lined each side. The bunker appeared sparsely populated. He saw only one other soldier, wearing a khaki T-shirt and boxer shorts while sorting through cans on a shelf. They reached a steel door at the end of the corridor and the two armed soldiers stood guard while the unshaven soldier waved Jorge and Franklin through.
Franklin’s eyes flicked to one of the guns and Jorge thought the old man might go for it, but the soldier put his finger on the trigger and smiled. Franklin shuffled into the room, where Sarge sat behind a metal desk smoking a cigar. His face was craggy and deeply angled, as if a stone mason had shaped it with a trowel and left in the middle of the job for a coffee break. Eyes like tarnished nickels stared out at his captives, opaque and hiding any thoughts that might lay behind them.
“That cigar’s real smart in a bunker,” Franklin said. “Bet you’re failing to meet the government standard for indoor air quality in the workplace.”
“I’m the government now,” Sarge said. “Sure, there might be other bunkers like this one. Maybe even our beloved president is playing a hand of poker and drinking beer in one as we speak. I’ve heard rumors there are serious bunkers out in Colorado where they have entire armored divisions and even planes in shielded bunkers, where the electromagnetic pulse wouldn’t have affected them. Maybe even the Russians and Chinese are already rolling this way. But as far as I’m concerned, what you see is the only country left in the world.”
“Lucky for you the bunker was shielded,” Franklin said. “But I doubt you had enough brains to fry anyway.”
The unshaven soldier balled his fists and stepped aggressively toward Franklin, but Sarge waved him off. “Still playing Last American Patriot? Good, because Uncle Sam has a job for you.” He glared at Jorge. “I doubt you’re American, but we’ll throw you in as a bonus.”
Jorge kept his face impassive, although the anger boiled in his gut. He’d have to stay calm if he wanted to escape and find Rosa and Marina. These men could play their machismo games until the sun burned them all to ash. This wasn’t his war.
Sarge walked around the desk, crushing out his cigar on its scarred metal surface. “You wanna fight for freedom, Wheeler?”
“That’s the difference between us,” Franklin said. “You fight for it, but I just live it.”
“‘Live free or die,’ huh? Well, we’ll see how the Zapheads feel about that.”
He passed between them, close enough that Jorge could smell the oniony stench of his sweat. He motioned to the soldiers and one of them jabbed the barrel of his rifle into Jorge’s back. They all followed Sarge back down the corridor until they came to a double set of metal doors. The unshaven soldier slid back a large deadbolt and swung them open, and bright sunset blinded Jorge.
After the long confinement, the rush of fresh air was almost dizzying. The trees had lost more of their leaves, and autumn’s decay was evident, but there was life in the hills and streams and breeze. Jorge didn’t have time to enjoy it, though, because the soldiers shoved them toward a makeshift camp. More soldiers were gathered around a fenced pen, but as they drew closer Jorge could see that it was actually a pit, with barbed wire ringing its upper rim.
The soldiers cheered and hooted, some of them bare-chested despite the October chill. A few campfires flickered, and blackened chunks of meat dangled from metal poles over them. Metal pots and tin cans sat on firestones, and trash littered the ground. A couple of halogen spotlights hung from trees, extension cords winding back into the bunker, but they were dark.
At the camp’s perimeter, sentries stood alert, watching the darkening forest. The bunker’s doors were set against a rocky hillside, and several soldiers perched on guard atop the ridge. More soldiers were undoubtedly scouting the woods. Altogether there were dozens of people in Sarge’s platoon, all males.
Jorge wondered what had happened to the women. And what might happen to Rosa and Marina.
The soldiers around the pit parted so Franklin and Jorge could be led to the edge. The pit was about fifteen feet deep and appeared to be a natural ravine that was blocked on one end with a massive pile of stones. The bottom of the depression was dark, but Jorge could see several figures milling around in the mud.
“Live free or die,” Sarge said. Someone switched on a handheld Maglight and shined the beam into the pit. Three disheveled, glittering-eyed faces peered up at the light.
Zaps.
Two were male, one about Jorge’s age and the other a decade older, both in good shape aside from their soiled and ragged clothes. The younger one was missing a shoe and his bare foot was bloody, but they’d obviously been eating something to maintain their strength. Jorge swallowed hard and glanced at the cooking meat. Th
e last Zaphead he’d encountered had shown no signs of menace, but perhaps they’d discovered an endless and convenient supply of protein.
The third Zaphead appeared to be the star of the show, as the Maglight tended to fixate on her. She was college-aged, with a dark complexion and wild black hair. She wore only a pair of frilly panties but showed no embarrassment or even awareness of her exposed skin. Her full breasts swayed as she peered up at the raucous spectators and she swiveled like a performer in a strip club as soldiers shouted encouragement and taunts. Although the Zapheads couldn’t be heard, their lips moved as they tried to make sense of the sounds above them.
“The boys are a little riled up,” Sarge said. “Thought we’d give them a little show, and it doesn’t look like the USO is going to chopper in Lady Gaga.”
“Did your ‘boys’ strip down that woman?” Franklin said with evident disgust.
“That ain’t a woman, that’s a Zaphead. She’s a hottie, but they’re all afraid to stick it in there. Might get some kinda zombie rot.”
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t volunteering.”
Sarge smirked. “I want to entertain them, not give them any more nightmares than they already got.” He pointed to a gap in the barbed wire. “Go.”
Jorge now understood. Sarge wanted him and Franklin to climb down the rocks to where the Zapheads were. In ancient Roman culture, Christians had been thrown to the lions for the amusement of the crowd, and Sarge had adapted the hobby to fit the times. Jorge had long admired American culture—the vibrant society from before the solar storms, anyway, not anything he’d witnessed since—but he’d always considered the country too aggressive and decadent. Little surprise that the military represented the most extreme flaws of its people, since power begat arrogance.
The soldiers crowded around behind them and one said, “Party time.”
Someone shoved Jorge forward and he had to steady himself so he didn’t tumble into the barbed wire. Franklin was right behind him and he’d have to descend the stack of rocks or be flung to the bottom.
“Think of it as a research project,” Sarge said. “We’ve been killing them but maybe we need to figure out what makes them tick. Had one of our guys cutting on them but as far as we can tell, there’s no physical difference besides their weird eyes. So it’s something going on inside their skulls.”
“Do we not get a weapon?” Jorge asked.
A couple of the soldiers laughed. One held up a pistol and said, “Well, it’s not that we don’t trust you, but what if a Zap takes it away and figures out how to use it?”
“This war has three sides,” Franklin said. “How many bunkers like yours are spread out across this great land? Five? A hundred? I wouldn’t be surprised if President Zaphead was holed up somewhere happy as clam at the chance to play dictator. But I bet you and your kind will end up killing each other off before long.”
“Maybe so,” Sarge said, fishing a cigar from his shirt pocket and nodding toward the pit. “But I bet we kill off their kind first. And your kind, too.”
“Get down there,” said the unshaven soldier, who appeared to be second-in-command. He jabbed Jorge in the back again.
Franklin pushed past Jorge to the opening in the barbed wire. “Can’t smell any worse down there than it does up here with you bunch of assholes.”
The Maglight and cheers followed his progress. Jorge thought about running, but getting shot wouldn’t help Rosa and Marina. Plus he felt a strange loyalty to Franklin Wheeler. The stubborn old man had gone against his instincts and helped the Jiminez family. With a last glance around at the wild, sweating faces, Jorge scrambled over the edge, clinging to the rocks as he descended.
The Zapheads moved to one side of the pit, pressing their backs against the dirt. Franklin crouched in a defensive posture, but Jorge just waited for their reaction. Their odor carried a faint metallic tinge over the stink, and it mixed with the swampy air of the pit. Someone hurled a stone from above and it thunked off the arm of one of the Zaphead men.
The stricken Zaphead didn’t make a sound but erupted into a flailing fit, and the other two Zapheads broke into a similar frenzy. Their rage didn’t seem directed at Jorge and Franklin, but the soldiers hooted gleefully from above anyway. More stones rained down, a couple of them bouncing off Jorge’s shoulders. The three Zapheads went berserk, waving their arms. The nearly naked female was struck on the bare belly by a rock, and her body drew back from the impact but she didn’t wince or cry out.
“Don’t move,” Jorge said.
“The faster we get this over with, the faster we’re out of here.” Franklin balled his fists and headed for the Zapheads. They didn’t seem to notice him at first, but one of the men spun and elbowed Franklin in the chest.
“Damn you!” Franklin grunted, as the soldiers let out a cheer. Shouts of “Smack her around” and “Kick some Zap ass, grandpa!” emerged from the chatter above them, as well as what sounded like men placing bets.
Jorge tried to grab Franklin but the old man shrugged him off and swung at the closest Zaphead. His fist pounded into the man’s temple, dropping him to his knees. A stray rock bounced down from above, hitting Franklin on the cheek and drawing blood.
He stooped and grabbed the rock and flung it wildly back up at the soldiers, who laughed. Then the Zapheads bent and grabbed rocks and made awkward tosses. The one Franklin had punched stood and wobbled toward Franklin, his fists clenched.
“Come on, shitterhawk,” Franklin said, his eyes bright and wild.
The macho aggression of the soldiers lent the air an electrical charge. The Zapheads seemed to feed off the energy, growing more frenetic in their flailing. The pit wasn’t large enough to allow evasion, and they struck Jorge as he tried to dodge. Now he was scared—they were out of control, mindless, dangerous, their eyes glittering like bomb bursts.
The older Zaphead wrestled a wedge of stone from the wall of the pit and raised it over his head. Franklin charged and lowered his shoulder into the Zaphead’s gut. The Zaphead grunted as air exploded from his lungs. The impact carried both of them into the scantily clad female, who danced away and slammed into Jorge. Her bare skin repulsed him, and the heat of her body was a perversion of eroticism. He looked into her eyes for any sign of understanding, but the only thing there were the mad yellow sparks, made even more brilliant by the Maglight shining down from above.
“Give it to her, Taco!” one of the soldiers yelled. Sarge’s boisterous laugh rained down on him, antagonizing Jorge even more. As Franklin wrestled with the Zaphead he’d knocked the ground, the woman and the second Zaphead closed in on Jorge. The claustrophobia sent a jolt of panic coursing through him, and he lunged forward to escape.
The woman raked at his face, her dirty nails drawing blood. He clenched his fist to punch her but old-world chivalry gave him pause. Then the other Zaphead slammed his spine just below his shoulder blades and his lower body went numb. As he dropped to his knees, fear rolled over him like dark water on a shipwrecked man.
“Jesus, Jorge, get off your ass and fight back,” Franklin yelled, knocking the woman aside and grabbing the Zaphead by his shirt. He yanked down on the man’s torso, lifting his leg at the same time so that his knee drove into the Zaphead’s face. Blood spurted from the victim’s nose and mouth, and he spat a tooth onto the ground.
The soldiers cheered at the site of blood. Jorge looked over at the first Zaphead Franklin had attacked, who was now rolling slowly to his feet. Franklin took two giant steps and kicked the Zaphead in the belly.
“Surely you can handle the woman,” Franklin said. “If you ever want to see your family again, it starts here.”
Rosa had shot a Zaphead to protect Jorge. A kind and gentle woman, she’d been horrified at her actions, but she’d also done what was necessary to protect her family. Could Jorge do any less?
Jorge let his fear morph into rage and he lashed out with his fists. The soldiers bellowed and cheered, more stones rained down, and the Maglight cut dizzying
arcs around the dark pit. Jorge had seen videos of rave dances, and this tableau had the same kinetic mania, only with a soundtrack of demented rooting rather than throbbing techno music. His fist smacked against soft skin, and he wasn’t sure who he was striking, but he punched again into yielding flesh. The woman whimpered and the yellow sparks in her eyes danced madly. She crouched like a tigress, her fingers curled like claws, lips peeled back in a sneer.
Jorge was struck from behind and his legs gave away. The damp dirt jammed into his mouth and nose, its ancient decay clotting his senses. He shook the descending gray veil from his head and kicked backward, connecting with the Zaphead, but the woman was on him, her naked body wrapping obscenely around him as she bit at his neck. He tried to buck her off like a bronco tossing a rodeo cowgirl, but she clung tight.
He rolled instead, so that she was beneath him, and then drove an elbow into her stomach and crawled free. At the edge of the pit’s shadows, Franklin grappled with the bloody Zaphead.
“Okay, we’re done here,” Sarge shouted, and that must have been a command, because the words were followed by the crack of several rifles.
A stray bullet pinged around the stones of the pit as the three Zapheads fell. Jorge wiped cold sweat from his face as he looked down at the woman. Her eyes were open but they no longer glittered, just reflected the muted light like a dying planet slipping away from its star.
Franklin rubbed his raw knuckles and squinted up into the lights and the crowd of soldiers ringing the rim of the pit. “Who’s next, assholes?”
A rope dropped down the side of the pit. “Guess you passed the audition,” Sarge said.
CHAPTER THREE
Rachel limped through the forest, straining her ears for any sounds of leaves scuffing from Stephen’s footfalls.
The boy must have a snake phobia, or perhaps his post-traumatic stress had merely been sleeping beneath the surface and waiting for a chance to erupt. But with dusk settling in, the dark forest offered even more horrors than a venomous snake could.
After (Book 3): Milepost 291 Page 2
