“So what’s their ‘game,’ if that’s the word you want to use for it?”
Kiki gave him a rueful smile. “We’re breeding stock. Rooster wants us to provide him with an army.”
“He can’t be for real.”
“You’ll find out.”
DeVontay looked past her into the darkest depths of the barn. “What’s back there that Stephen didn’t want me to see?”
“The bathroom. And we had to bury two children. Plus there are more dead in the very back, in what used to be the loading bay. Those are from the Zap, as far as I can tell.”
“They wouldn’t even take the bodies out?”
She shrugged. “Rooster.”
DeVontay shook his head. “When things go to shit, crazy fuckers sure seem to ascend to the throne, don’t they?”
“I’d better hang this lamp by the door in case they come to check on you.”
DeVontay clenched his fists. “I hope they do. I sure hope they do.”
After a quick meal of cellophane-wrapped snack foods that left him thirsty, DeVontay went to the pen where Stephen slept with James and another boy. The lamp flame burned low and then faded to nothing, leaving the building in darkness. A child cried softly somewhere deep in the building. DeVontay lay down but his mind raced too fast for sleep to dig in its hooks.
“DeVontay?” Stephen murmured.
“Yeah, Little Man?”
“Are you awake?”
“Yeah. What about you?”
“I’m glad you found me again.”
“I’ll find you no matter where you go. And we’re going to find Rachel, too, one way or another.”
Stephen yawned audibly. “I may have done something bad.”
DeVontay turned toward him in the dark. “What?”
“I told that man Rooster about Milepost 291. He was acting all friendly and asked me who I was with, and he gave me candy. He said he knew Franklin Wheeler. That’s Rachel’s grandpa, isn’t it?”
DeVontay thought about it. Rooster had his own fiefdom here. Maybe he saw Franklin Wheeler as a territorial threat, but the man seemed more interested in consolidating his power here. “Yeah. But you didn’t do anything wrong. Milepost 291 is like a whole other country.”
“Are we still going there?”
“As soon as we can, Little Man. Now stop talking and get some shut-eye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Looks like the rain’s holding off,” Franklin said, checking out the gray skyline of morning. “We’re in luck.”
“First time I’ve heard the word ‘luck’ since summer,” Robertson said. “If you don’t count bad luck, that is.”
The group had arisen with the dawn, except for Jorge, who had taken the last watch. They gathered on the porch of the cottage, adjusting packs that bulged with the food they’d scavenged from the cupboards. Franklin had drawn out a crude map of the area, using Grandfather and Sugar mountains as landmarks. The Blue Ridge Parkway was far more sinuous than he’d depicted it, but as long as they headed north, they would eventually hit it, and then they could just count up the mileposts to figure out the rest of it.
“The way I figure it, we can cut across to Stonewall and hit the Appalachian Trail,” Franklin said. “That will add a few extra miles to the trip, and maybe even an extra day, but it lowers our chances of running into unwelcome company.”
“What’s in Stonewall?” Jorge asked. “All I know is the Tennessee side.”
“Then most of what you know is wrong,” Franklin said. “Folks over there still think they won the Civil War.”
“Wonder if they think they won this war?” Robertson asked.
“We aren’t going to war. We’re outsmarting it. Like Robertson said, Stonewall is just a little community in the foothills, nothing more than a few stores, a volunteer fire department, a produce stand, and such as that. We can swing around it or stop in if we need supplies.”
“The more stops, the more chance we’ll run into somebody,” Shay said. She’d taken advantage of the bathroom mirror to brush her hair and tie it back in a ponytail, which somehow made her look older. She rested one forearm on her holstered pistol, and she looked like she was getting comfortable with its presence. Franklin hoped they’d get a chance for target practice, if they could find a remote area where they could risk the noise.
“We don’t want to meet anybody,” Franklin said. “Chances are they’ll be marauders or soldiers.”
“And there is a chance they have seen my family,” Jorge said.
“We just can’t trust other people.” Franklin nodded at Shay. “We’ve already seen what we can expect.”
“I think you’re just—how do you say, paranoid?”
“And it’s kept me alive a lot longer than most everybody else in the world.”
“What kind of life is it to hide out like a hunted animal?” Jorge stepped off the porch and headed across the yard.
“Wrong way,” Franklin called after him.
“If you’re heading north away from people, then I am heading south. Where the people are.”
Robertson glanced at Shay and shook his head. “We owe him.”
They both followed Jorge. Franklin stomped one boot on the pine boards of the porch. “Goddamn it, hombre, you’re going to bust a vein in my head one of these days.”
Shay turned around and walked backwards as she goaded him. “I thought you lived longer than most.”
Franklin muttered a final “damn,” mostly for the benefit of the juncos and warblers that perched in the high trees. He debated heading back to his compound alone.
I owe it to Rachel. I should be there in case—WHEN—she finds it. Family first, that’s what I’ve always said.
Then why did it bug him so much that Jorge was putting his family ahead of his own safety? Because Franklin ultimately was a coward. He’d isolated himself from his family because he told himself he was sacrificing for them, planning for a future none of them hoped would ever arrive.
In truth, living by himself was easier than getting along with his fellow human beings. The disembodied voices of survivalists with ham radios made better company than somebody who might prove inconvenient and demanding.
He headed after the group, which had now reached the valley road and headed down where the houses were more congregated. I’m probably going to regret this. But at least I’ll be around to get in one last “I told you so.”
He caught up with them as Jorge was peering through the passenger window of a Chevy Suburban that had stalled in a ditch. The corpse at the wheel was so far gone even the flies had abandoned it.
“Keys are in it,” Jorge said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to drive into town?”
“Every bit of circuitry in that thing is fried,” Franklin said.
“I read that older vehicles, without electronic parts, would survive a nuclear attack,” Robertson said.
“When the U.S. government tested vehicles near a blast site, many of them did function after the detonation,” Franklin said. “Problem was they’d borrowed the vehicles and had to return them after the test, so they were afraid to put them too close to Ground Zero. When the Russians did a real test, none of the vehicles started. Just another case of science not being near as smart as people claimed.”
That made him think of something Rachel once said at the precocious age of eleven: “When you think about it, somebody has to be the world’s dumbest scientist, right?”
Amen to that, pumpkin.
“Why didn’t you put one in your shielded box at the compound?” Jorge asked.
“My Faraday cage. You saw how small mine was, and it cost me twenty thousand dollars, plus I had to haul the materials up that mountain. I should have stashed a motorcycle away, or at least some alternators and ignition parts, but, hell...none of us expected the end to get here so soon, even me.”
As they started back down the road, Shay said, “But couldn’t others have done it? Surely some survival wackos—no offense—stashed
some wheels. Why aren’t we seeing or hearing any cars?”
“Our buddy Sarge back at the bunker had an electrical generator and other goodies like lights and radios stowed away. He believes the government had a huge shielded facility near D.C. stocked with helicopters, tanks, and other toys of mass control. Wouldn’t surprise me none, but I’d imagine the roads around big cities are all but blocked, and do you know how much fuel a chopper sucks down per mile? Even the asshole president—if he’s not a Zaphead now—would have a hard time justifying a joy ride.”
“I wish we had our horses,” Jorge said.
Shay’s eyes widened with delight. “You have horses?”
“We turned them loose at the compound so they could free range,” Franklin said. “Livestock requires a lot of upkeep. But I suppose your generation will be learning that soon enough. You can’t just look up everything on the Internet anymore.”
“You think it’s wise to be walking out here in the open?” Robertson asked.
Franklin shrugged. “Depends. If Zaps come out of the woods, it’s a good move. If somebody starts shooting at us from one of those houses, we’re total dumbasses.”
“I didn’t ask anyone to come,” Jorge said. “This is my duty. No one else’s.”
“We’re better off sticking together,” Franklin said.
Jorge shook his head. “I thought you said you weren’t going to play hero.”
“I’m playing the odds, that’s all. If some Zapper pops out of the bushes, I’m counting on you to serve as bait.”
Shay stopped. “Do you guys smell something?”
Franklin sniffed at his underarms. “Should have used some of that soap back at the cottage.”
“Smoke,” she said. “Greasy, not like wood smoke.”
Franklin turned his nose into the breeze. Smell was one of the first senses to fade with age, but even he could make it out—an acrid, pungent odor like fried wiring. Then they saw the smoke curling up in gray columns at the far end of the valley.
“Out of the road,” Franklin said, but they were already scrambling for cover among the pines that bordered the ditch and fence lines.
Robertson pulled out a pair of binoculars and thumbed them into focus. “Road’s blocked. Looks like somebody pushed some cars across it and started a fire.”
Franklin grabbed the binoculars and took a look for himself. “If I had to guess, I’d say somebody is sending us another message.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You sure you’re okay?” Campbell asked for maybe the tenth time.
Rachel was almost annoyed. They’d logged maybe three miles before dawn arrived, and even though she was holding him back at first, she soon regained her stamina and was practically dragging him through the woods. She’d not felt so much energy since the first panicky days of After, and her night vision was remarkable, like she’d drunk some radioactive carrot juice.
They had taken a path loosely parallel to Highway 321, through thin groves of ash, poplar, and hickory where the branches were high and the forest floor thick with falling leaves. Rachel figured they were maybe fifteen miles from the Blue Ridge Parkway. With some hard, steep walking, they could reach it by sunset. But she wasn’t leaving the foothills until she found Stephen.
Now, with the sun fully up, they were stopped for a breather by a creek. Campbell kept looking around for Zapheads, sweating despite the cool morning and the shade of the autumn trees.
“They’re not coming,” she said.
He squinted suspiciously at her. “How can you be so sure?”
“I would have heard them.” She cupped her hands in the creek and scooped some water toward her mouth.
“I wouldn’t drink that,” Campbell said, rubbing his bare feet. “Might be some nasty microbes. We’re only a few months past the Pollution Age.”
Rachel drank anyway. The water was swift and cold enough to hurt her teeth. It seemed as pure as anything left in the world, scrubbing over sand and rocks while cascading down from the high peaks. The taste had layers—tart, sweet, mineral.
“How’s your leg?” Campbell asked, for only the third time.
She unconsciously rubbed her calf where the dog had bitten her. She could barely remember the wound, and she wondered if the fever had inflicted a form of traumatic amnesia such as that reported by car crash victims. “Fine. Were you guys seriously going to chop it off?”
“The professor…he went a little soft in the head.”
“And you were just going to go along with it?”
“If you could have seen the rotten meat…Christ, if you could have smelled it.”
She nodded at his foot. The nail of the pinky toe had torn free, and a cut on the big toe oozed blood. “Maybe I should cut that off for you. Probably a sharp rock around here somewhere.”
He folded his foot under him so it was hidden from view. “I’m fine. But we ought to check one of these houses.”
“I don’t have time for shopping. I need to find Stephen.”
“What if he’s holed up somewhere? You’ll never find him if you just wander around the woods. Besides, what if he’s…”
“No. Don’t even think it. He should be able to make it a few days on his own. He grew up pretty fast.”
“And if the Zappers got him?”
This guy is a clod-head. It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long. Or maybe he’s just lucky the Zapheads took him in.
She stood, peering through the tree trunks. “I see a car over there. Probably a house with it.”
Her own feet were scraped and sore, but she refused to complain. She hopped from one moss-covered stone to the next to cross the creek. She lost her balance and nearly fell into the water.
Weird. That was just a baby step.
“Hey, wait up,” Campbell said behind her.
She broke into a run, the morning air sitting in her lungs like water. Branches tore at her clothes and skin, but a sudden exhilaration dulled her to the pain. She lost herself in the moment, the dizzy dappling of the sun through the golden and scarlet leaves, the high breeze rattling the branches and singing across the stony slopes, and the cool, fecund soil beneath her bare feet.
She broke into a clearing where the grass was ankle deep, and it took her a moment to realize it was a lawn. Or used to be. Now it was just a stretch of scrubby meadow leading to a small white house with black shutters, one that would have been more fitting in the suburbs than here in the remote mountains. A Ford pick-up was parked in the driveway, with a green Volvo sedan right beside it.
Campbell caught up with her while she was scanning the windows for any movement. “Looks dead,” she said.
“To coin a phrase.”
She started across the driveway, and Campbell followed, making little “ouch” noises under his breath. It was only then Rachel realized the gravel was piercing the soles of her feet.
Feet must be numb from all this walking.
“Should we call out?” Campbell said. “In case someone’s sitting behind the door with a shotgun?”
“Why would they shoot us? We have no weapon and nothing to steal.”
“Could be Zapheads in there.”
“No, I told you, none of them are around. They’re either back at the farmhouse or gathered in other packs. When’s the last time you’ve seen one wandering around solo?”
“I haven’t had much time to look, remember? I was kind of a prisoner.”
“Or a guest. They never hurt you, did they?”
“Jesus, Rachel. You heard the professor’s screams.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Taylorsville, then. Where they almost killed you?”
His voice annoyed her, as well as his reasoning. “I don’t care about them. I just want to find Stephen and get to Milepost 291.”
She looked through the Volvo window to make sure it was unoccupied and then opened the driver’s-side door.
“Electronic ignition is fried,” Campbell said. “Battery’s dead, too.”<
br />
She ignored him and flipped open the glove box, digging around until she found a map. As she unfolded it, Campbell warily looked around. With her finger, she traced a line from the highway to the foothills where she’d gotten separated from Stephen. “There,” she said.
“Where?”
“That little community. Stonewall. He probably would have headed that way, because he knew we were going north.”
“He’s just a kid. How would he know directions?”
She gave him a look as she folded the map. “DeVontay taught him how to use a compass and the position of the sun. What about you?”
He shrugged. “I dropped out of Boy Scouts. I’ve just been following the highway.”
“You were heading north, too?”
“After my buddy Pete got killed, I gave up on trying to reach my parents. Seems stupid anyway, when they’re either dead or zapped. I’d just as soon not know.”
“So you thought you’d just show up at Milepost 291 and be part of my grandfather’s tribe?”
“You think I have a plan? The professor kept talking me out of making a run for it, but mostly I was afraid. Not afraid that the Zapheads would kill me, but that I’d be out there all alone.”
She shoved the map in her back pocket and headed for the house. “We’re all alone now, even when we’re with somebody.”
Rachel debated knocking but instead just tried the handle. The door was unlocked and she stepped inside, bracing for the smell of weeks-old cadavers. Instead, the air was a homey kind of musty, redolent of dried flowers, soap, and clean linens. The living room held a padded sofa, a television, rows of books lining the walls, and an out-of-place oil painting of a seaport bay. White lace doilies were draped neatly over the sofa’s arms. The scene was so calm and domestic—so normal—that Rachel was struck by a wave of nostalgia for her childhood.
“You okay?” Campbell asked again.
She turned, enraged. “Damn it. All my friends are dead, I’ve lost DeVontay and Stephen, and I don’t even know if my grandfather is a Zaphead. I may as well be hunting for the Wizard of Oz or the Great Pumpkin. And now your fake concern is becoming a pain in the ass.”
After (Book 3): Milepost 291 Page 12
