Then the radiance slashed into his face and burned there for a moment, blinding his one good eye.
“Better shape than the last one you brought in,” the man said. His voice was hoarse with age, but he spoke with an air of command. “So you finally figured out it was smarter to walk them in instead of breaking one of their legs first.”
“He was in the river,” Orange Cap said. “On one of them little pointy boats.”
“A kayak,” DeVontay said.
“Ooh, we got us a smarty-pants here,” said the man with the lantern. He stepped close enough that DeVontay could smell the booze and cigarette tar on his breath, along with a sicker, sweeter aroma as if something was fermenting inside him. “If you’re so smart, why were you out there all by your lonesome?”
“I was with some friends but…” He didn’t want to give this yokel the satisfaction of his pain. It wasn’t fair that Rachel and Stephen were dead and these assholes were getting by, apparently adapting to After and even enjoying it.
The man with the lantern gave a dismissive wave. “But they died. Big fucking deal. Everybody dies. That’s what we do. The point is to make others die first.”
“Is he a keeper?” said the man behind DeVontay, who was still wearing his sunglasses despite the twilight gloom.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. For now, put in him in the Block.”
“This way,” grunted Orange Cap, motioning DeVontay toward a large Quonset hut with curved metal sides. At least they weren’t jabbing him in the back with their rifle barrels.
The building’s wide doors were made of thick planks and reinforced with several steel plates. Kerosene lanterns hung along the wall near the entrance, glumly illuminating a midway. The floor was packed dirt and shredded straw, and the distinct tang of old manure and fur hung heavy in the dusty air. Mixed with the odor was a coppery stench that seemed embedded in the walls.
As DeVontay’s vision adjusted, he could see that the midway was lined on both sides with a series of wire-mesh enclosures featuring crude wooden frames. A massive hook rigged to a pulley-and-chain system descended from the beams of the roof, and DeVontay realized the place had once been a slaughterhouse.
At least there’s no fresh blood on the ground.
As the two men guided him deeper into the building, DeVontay forced away fantasies of a redneck cannibal cult, gleefully cranking out their own down-home brand of human sausage. Despite the collapse of the food distribution network, plenty of canned goods remained, as well as the bounty of abandoned gardens and fruit trees. Hell, there were enough Slim Jims in the world to keep them all going another hundred years.
Low voices trickled out from the darkness beyond the building’s entrance, and the two men stopped at the edge of the kerosene lamp’s reach. DeVontay stopped with them, straining to make out the words. Something bustled behind a sagging stretch of wire, and then a milky face appeared. Before DeVontay could really make sense of the shape, it was gone.
What the hell?
“Go on,” said Orange Cap.
DeVontay didn’t budge. “Who is in there?”
“You’ll find out.”
DeVontay took one scuffing step forward, but the men stayed where they were, as if reluctant to touch the darkness. Or allow it to touch them.
DeVontay didn’t have much choice. Even if he somehow knocked over the two men and made it outside the building—a pen; it’s a PEN—he was sure a dozen rifles would be trained on him before he could escape the compound.
Besides, whatever was back there couldn’t be much worse than the world beyond these walls.
“Don’t I get a lamp?” DeVontay asked.
“You don’t need one,” said the man with the sunglasses. “Trust me. You don’t want to see.”
He didn’t want to smell, either, but he couldn’t escape it; despite the drafty tunnel of the midway, the stink of death and disease crowded him, seeming to smother the insides of his lungs like a corrupt coat of paint.
Then another face pressed against the grid of thick wires, and another.
Small faces.
Children.
“Hello?” DeVontay said.
A giggle leaked out from the darkness, followed by a scurrying like that of a nest of oversize rats. DeVontay thought of the expression the lookout had used: “Fresh meat.”
No. It’s just some scared kids. At least their eyes aren’t glittering.
The men had retreated to the entrance and one of the kerosene lamps was extinguished, casting the cavernous space even deeper into darkness.
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” said Orange Cap. “Or anything else.”
The door banged shut behind him, and DeVontay was grateful for the one remaining lamp, even though its glow was already diminishing.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
Another giggle. The rattle and clatter of something hard, dry, and brittle, like bone.
No, like WOOD.
“I won’t hurt you,” DeVontay said.
The giggle rose by a notch into a gleeful cackle.
DeVontay thought about retreating back toward the lamp and huddling there until it sputtered away the last of its fuel. But if these men were holding others captive, there were likely beds, or least blankets. But why would they cage up a bunch of kids? Even in the best of times, kids were a burden, a drain on resources and a constant annoyance. Heartless men like these would have more readily killed the weakest instead of offering shelter, food, and compassion.
But how heartless are YOU, DeVontay? If they’re kids, they probably need some comfort and help.
DeVontay thought of Rachel. She wouldn’t hesitate. Even if it cost her life, she would offer everything she had to help the weak and innocent. “Hell with it,” he wheezed under his breath.
“Okay, guys,” he said, striding into the darkness toward the faces pressed against the mesh. “My name’s DeVontay, and it looks like we’re all getting to camp out tonight.”
“DeVontay?” came a small voice.
A familiar voice.
“Stephen?”
One of the little lesser shadows came out from the wire and sprinted toward him. “DeVontay!”
DeVontay’s heart soared despite the grim surroundings as he bent down and embraced the boy. “Hey, Little Man, I never thought I’d see you again!”
“What, did you your good eye get poked out, too?” the boy said.
DeVontay rubbed the boy’s greasy, matted hair. “Where’s your Panthers cap?”
“Lost it.”
“Where’s Rachel?”
“Lost her, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Franklin, Jorge, Robertson, and Shay had walked half a mile away from the scene of the slaughter, and as the sun sank below the towering ridge, they decided to find a house for the night.
They chose a small cottage set back from the road, figuring Sarge’s soldiers were unlikely to check it out. The cottage had no vehicles out front and the landscaped yard, now overgrown and unkempt, was wide enough to allow them to see anyone approaching from the forest on either side. They were relieved to find the place empty. Franklin didn’t think any of them could stomach more corpses that day.
With the last of the fading light, Robertson and Franklin searched the house while Jorge and Shay put together a simple meal of tinned food from the kitchen. Franklin figured the cottage was a seasonal vacation home because the air was stale and smelled like mothballs. Despite the chilly night, he opened some of the windows, allowing fresh air to flow through.
Now, as they sat around the kitchen table in the glow of a fat holiday candle eating tuna fish and spinach, Franklin was the first to bring it up. “No way to tell if they were Zaps or not.”
“They were dirty,” Robertson said.
“All of us are dirty. I haven’t seen many survivors jumping in a mud puddle with a bar of soap.”
Shay self-consciously pushed a greasy strand of hair behind one ear. “Those two kids…who could
do that to anybody, even a Zaphead?”
“The eyes,” Franklin said. “That old man’s eyes were open. But they didn’t have any sparks.”
“What’s that?” Robertson said.
“I forgot; you haven’t seen any Zappers up close. Their eyes have these glowing little specks in them. Not all the time, but they seem to get brighter when they get excited.”
Jorge pushed away his plate, which was still heaped with cold food. “If they’re dead, they would have no spark, right?”
“Okay, let’s say they were Zaps,” Franklin said. “That leaves a couple of possibilities. They were killed by Sarge’s soldiers, or maybe by some other crazy-assed group we don’t know about yet.”
“Or by other Zapheads,” Shay said. “They’re raging killers, right?”
“That would be just dandy. All we’d have to do is sit back and wait for them to wipe each other out. But that doesn’t explain the message written in blood. That’s the mark of a seriously deranged mind. An intelligent mind, but one without a conscience.”
“The fire in the fireplace,” Jorge said. “It couldn’t have been more than a few hours old. Would a Zaphead build a fire, or write, or leave the bodies arranged that way?”
“Those two soldiers who split off from the patrol. Maybe they didn’t head back to the bunker. Maybe they went rogue. Maybe they wanted to leave us a message.”
“Us?” said Robertson. “Do you think we’re the only people around here who aren’t in that army troop you told us about?”
“You know this area better than we do,” Franklin said.
“Yeah. I was a postal carrier. I didn’t do this route much, but I dropped mail at that house more than once. I don’t remember any kids there, though.”
“That may not have been a real family,” Jorge said. “The killers might have accumulated the people from different places.”
“That makes them even sicker,” Franklin said. He looked at the girl. “Sorry you have to hear all this.”
“Sorry the world ended,” she said without emotion. She’d found a can of Sprite somewhere and clutched it with both hands, like a sacred talisman delivered through a time machine. Franklin marveled that the four of them would never have had any reason to cross paths, much less sit down for a meal together. And now they depended upon one another.
“Who else would know about Milepost 291?” Jorge asked.
“Just our bunker buddies.” A wad of tuna fish got caught in his throat. “And Rachel, my granddaughter.”
Does this have something to do with her?
“She could have told someone,” Jorge said. “Maybe lots of people. If they thought your compound was safe, who knows how many people were heading there?”
“At least that would mean she’s alive,” Franklin said. He hadn’t fully believed it—much like Jorge’s desperate desire to find his family, Franklin had held on to Rachel’s arrival as a reason to hope.
“If bloodthirsty maniacs are on the loose, I’ve got first watch,” Robertson said, scooting his chair back and retrieving his shotgun as he stood. “Besides, this gourmet cooking is a little rich for my delicate constitution. I need to squat down for some quality time out in the woods.”
“Don’t step in nothing,” Franklin called as Robertson went out the back door.
“Gross,” Shay said. “Too much information.”
“No, this canned spinach is gross.” Franklin collected their plates and carried them to the sink. He started to scrape the scraps into the trash, and then realized how ridiculous that was. The cottage’s owners wouldn’t be up for vacation anytime soon. They were probably maggot meat by now.
He stacked the dishes and wiped his hands on a towel draped from a cabinet handle. “I’ll go close up and check the locks. You two figure out where we’re all sleeping.”
Franklin glanced out of each window as he shut it. The forest was sweet with autumn’s decay, the air moist with the promise of coming dew. The darkness was almost total, punctuated only by a high scattering of stars. Crickets and other insects chirruped in the loam.
Whoever would have thought Doomsday could be so peaceful?
But the pastoral view of the black ridges and the ceiling of speckled sky overhead was nothing but a veil. In its milieu were savage killers, Sarge and his ruthless troops, and mutants who seemed to be adapting to the new ground rules much faster than Franklin and his fellow human survivors.
“If you’re out there, Rachel, may God watch over you,” he whispered.
Rachel was religious, but when Franklin looked at the sky, he never sensed a greater power looking down. In a way, the apocalypse almost made it easier for him to believe. The Biblical prophecies had sure gotten things wrong, but Franklin could appreciate an omnipotent being who cared so little for His creations that He’d torch their asses with a wave of solar flares.
And then laugh at the remaining few fools who tried to pick up the pieces.
If God had truly made Man in his image, could they have expected any other outcome?
The cottage had only one bedroom, with a set of twin beds in it. Shay set a candle on the nightstand between the two beds, took off her shoes, and slid under the covers. “I’ll take next watch,” she said. “Tell my dad to wake me when it’s my turn.”
“Okay, hon,” Franklin said, although he was sure she’d be asleep in minutes. Teens needed their sleep, and he doubted he’d be able to nod off anyway, so he didn’t mind standing sentinel for half the night. It would give him time to think.
“You go ahead, Jorge,” Franklin said. “We’re all going to need our rest. Long walk tomorrow.”
Jorge tested the other mattress. “Better than those cots in the bunker.”
“You got that right, my man.”
Franklin bent to blow out the candle but Shay suddenly turned her face to him and said, “No. Please.”
The little flame likely wasn’t visible from outside, even if anyone were looking. She looked so frail, despite her tough talk and quick recovery from almost being raped. But what did he know about her thoughts and feelings? He had more than five decades on her. Most of his rough edges had been worn smooth, like a stone tumbled down an endless turbulent river. She was still sharp and raw, and most of her life—whether that ended up being a day or many years—would have a backdrop of death.
On impulse, he stooped down and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a tough girl,” he said. “You remind me of Rachel.”
“You remind me of the janitor at our school.”
Franklin chuckled. “I hope he kept the toilets looking spiffy.”
“I wonder what happened to him.”
“He’s probably out there with a mop, waiting for school to start back. And if not, I’ll gladly take the job.”
Shay giggled and closed her eyes. She looked younger than ever.
“G’night,” he said to both of them.
He went out into the night air and found Robertson walking slowly around the edge of the yard. Robertson spotted him and waved. Franklin approached, listening for any signs of butchering killers who might want to make an artistic red tableau out of them.
“All tucked in,” Franklin said. “She’s a good girl.”
“I wish her mom was here,” Robertson said.
“I hate to ask, but what happened to her?”
In the dark, Franklin couldn’t make out Robertson’s face, but he thought the man was weeping. “She dropped right away, even before the Zaps started turning. You remember the news reports, saying some people might be more susceptible to the electromagnetic radiation. Well, she was one of them.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. At least she didn’t become a Zaphead. And she’s better off now than any of us.”
“I reckon you’re right there.”
“Who do you really think killed those people in the brick house?”
“Somebody who knows me, that’s for sure. And I have a feeling the next message is going to be i
n bigger letters.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“She’s finally asleep,” Campbell whispered to the professor. “Or at least out of it.”
“The infection took its toll, even though the fever broke.” The professor was wearing another sheet, still naked despite the October chill. “She’ll probably be weak for a few days while she recovers.”
“I’m still not sure I believe it, even though I saw it with my own eyes.”
“They’re operating on some quantum level,” the professor said. “We can’t even hope to understand.”
“But we have to come up with an explanation. Or else we’ll have to call it a miracle.”
“In science, the simplest answer is often the correct one. And ‘miracle’ is just a good a word for it as any.”
The Zapheads still paced ceaselessly in the dark house. The only light in the living room was a candle burning low on the mantle, although the darkness was punctuated by the eerie constellations cast by the eyes of passing Zapheads. Campbell and the professor both sat on the floor beside the sofa. Campbell was shivering despite his extra blanket. The professor had to be freezing. “What about her eyes?”
“Maybe whatever transference of energy they performed somehow changed her,” the professor said. “If the electromagnetic pulse of the solar storms made them what they are, they might have disrupted or altered the electrical impulses of her brain. Maybe even her whole body at an atomic level.”
“The laying on of hands,” Campbell said. “I thought that was the domain of snake-handling charismatic preachers.”
“These are God’s creatures,” the professor said. “Performing God’s work.”
Campbell didn’t like the rapt wistfulness in the professor’s voice. Playing messiah to a bunch of mutants was one thing, but elevating them to messiahs was a whole extra level of weird.
And Campbell couldn’t bear it if things got any weirder.
“I’m getting out of here,” Campbell said, not sure if he could trust the professor. His allegiance might lie with the Zapheads now. “As soon as Rachel’s better, we’re heading for Milepost 291.”
After (Book 3): Milepost 291 Page 10
