Shay sucked in her breath and dropped her pistol, clutching at a sudden bloom of blood on her throat. Robertson moaned her name and scooped her up as she fell, ignoring the two bullet wounds in his legs. Jorge was also hit, but he rolled toward his discarded weapon before the soldier could get a bead on him.
Franklin realized he had no chance to escape the next fusillade so he stepped backward and went off the ledge, falling ten feet before bouncing off a mossy stretch of stone pocked with scrub. An orange sunburst flooded the inside of his head as his skull bounced off rock. He rolled another five feet as a second hail of gunfire erupted, finally stopping his fall by jamming one leg into the branches of a tree.
His left shoulder and upper arm throbbed, and his head felt as if an army had goose-stepped on it during a long march. The pain brought a sudden tsunami of nausea. He spat and drew a deep, aching breath, wondering if he’d broken a rib. The shotgun fired on the ledge above him, and then a sudden silence descended. The bitter odor of gun smoke drifted down to him.
He tugged himself back up the ledge, gripping the stems of saplings and whatever crevices he could find in the stone. Robertson’s sob of “No, no, no” broke the hush, and somewhere a bird chirped, too smart or dumb to acknowledge the violence below. Dark spots swam before his eyes, and he closed them so he didn’t get dizzy and tumble down the ravine.
Jorge’s face appeared above him, reaching down with a trembling hand. Franklin grabbed it and Jorge encircled his wrist and dragged him back on the stone, the treetops careening wildly above him, the sunlit red and yellow leaves like the bottom of a kaleidoscope.
“Okay?” Jorge asked.
“I’ve had better days.”
Franklin turned his head and saw Robertson huddled over Shay, her limp head lolling in his embrace. Blood spattered both of them, and Robertson shook with sobs. At the edge of the rocks, both soldiers lay still.
“Is she…” Franklin whispered.
Jorge nodded, his face grave, and it was only then that Franklin saw the raw, jagged wound in Jorge’s side. Blood trickled from a gash in his shirt.
“If any more of them are around, they’ll have heard the shots,” Franklin said.
“I don’t think any of us is good for—what do they say in your crime movies?—a fast getaway.”
Franklin tilted his head toward Robertson. “I doubt if he’d leave her, anyway.”
“She got both of them. She saved our lives.”
Franklin could tell Jorge was thinking about his own daughter, and how it might have been her life lost to violence. Or maybe he had already accepted Marina was dead, even though he had yet to admit it to himself.
“Her dad trained her well.”
Robertson turned to them, bleary-eyed and mumbling incoherently. He kissed the top of Shay’s head and gently brushed the hair from her face. She was angelic in death, peaceful, all signs of trauma and horror fled forever. Franklin thought religion was a tool used for control, but he took a little comfort in the notion that she might be in a better place.
Wouldn’t be hard to find something better than this hell.
“Whyyyyy?” Robertson wailed.
It was a question Franklin had been asking for two months. Some of the nausea lifted, although his head still throbbed mightily. He reached up and touched a welt the size of a duck’s egg. He rolled onto his side, bracing for the pain as he attempted to stand and comfort Robertson.
Then he heard a faint sound, almost like the rush of wind building in intensity. But the leaves overhead were still.
“Where’s your rifle?” he asked Jorge, keeping his voice level.
The Zapheads came out of the trees, echoing Robertson’s plaintive “Whyyyyyy?” with a dozen or more voices.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Men with guns poured out of a storage shed, scattering along the fence lines and climbing onto roofs and rusting farm equipment. Rooster bellowed orders, waving his walking stick to direct men to their positions. The men didn’t seem to be well trained, certainly not when compared to the precision of a military squad, but they projected a deep eagerness to lock down on their triggers.
Several men mounted horses, their rifles slung over their saddles, and galloped off down the dirt road toward the main road. DeVontay admired the grace and power of the animals and wished he had such an easy means of escape.
As the compound erupted into action, DeVontay wondered if he’d be able to slip away while Rooster was distracted. But before he could make a decision, Rooster tapped him on the shoulder with the walking stick. “So are you with us or against us?”
DeVontay didn’t think he had the option of neutrality. At any rate, better to buy a little more time than get gunned down before he knew the lay of the land. “I’m in. What do you want me to do?”
Rooster squinted at him. “Cover up that glass eye a sec.”
DeVontay placed a palm over it.
“Do you swear allegiance to the Republic of Stonewall?”
Holy shit, is this guy some kind of redneck Hitler?
DeVontay was about to make a wisecrack but Rooster’s face was grim. He believed in his “country,” apparently. He also considered himself a flawless judge of character. People like that were dangerous, but also easy to fool because of their vanity.
DeVontay thought of Stephen in the dark, windowless building with the other children, frightened by all the chaos. “I swear.”
Somebody shouted at Rooster but he ignored the man, instead keeping his gaze on DeVontay as if mulling it over. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said, pointing his walking stick—which apparently he used like a baton—to a man standing guard by an old school bus whose tires had long rotted away. “Go tell Hardison you’ve enlisted. We’ll talk after we kill some Zaps.”
Rooster turned away, giving commands to two men who perched on the top of a water tower. “See anything?”
One, wielding binoculars, answered, “Looks like a whole herd of the fuckers.”
“Don’t shoot until we’re in position. We don’t want to attract any more of them until we’re ready.”
DeVontay felt Rooster’s eyes on his back as he crossed the compound. Although a few of the armed men had hurried out of the main gate in the wake of the makeshift cavalry, most had fanned out around the perimeter. Even if a battle erupted, DeVontay wasn’t sure he’d be able to get Stephen and slip away without being seen.
Hardison, standing at the rear emergency door of the bus, scowled at DeVontay. He had an old scar on one cheek and a scrap of mustache that looked as if it still held some of his breakfast. “What’s the password?”
“Rooster didn’t give me a password. He just said to tell you I’ve enlisted.”
Hardison swung open the rear door.” That’s the password.”
Stacked on the floor of the bus were several piles of weapons, mostly rifles, along with a few shotguns and handguns. “You a peashooter man or a bazooka?” Hardison asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Pistol or a twelve-gauge?”
“Might as well have a shotgun,’ DeVontay said, shrugging. “With only one eye, my aim isn’t so good.”
Hardison dug in the pile and pulled out a Remington pump. “We’ll set you up with a twenty-gauge. That way if you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot, you’ll probably not end up dying.”
DeVontay worked the pump and saw that the chamber was empty. “Won’t shoot much of anything at this rate.”
Hardison cracked open a box of yellow plastic-coated shells and gave him a handful. “Four in the magazine and one in the chamber.”
DeVontay nodded as if that made sense. He started to shove a shell into the slot on the side of the gun and Hardison laughed. “Better turn that around.”
DeVontay shoved the shell in and slid the others into the magazine. He wondered if Hardison had intentionally limited his supply of ammunition. If DeVontay turned on them, he’d only be able to take down a few before they got him. Maybe this was some kind of test.
Rooster certainly seemed psycho enough to play deadly games. His way of weeding out the weak so the new breed would be strong.
“Where do you want me?” DeVontay asked.
Before Hardison could answer, a gun fired in the distance. Hardison grinned and closed the bus door, a shotgun across his arm, a rifle slung on a strap across his back, and two pistols shoved in his belt. “Get a front-row seat. It’s show time.”
Hardison hurried to the front gate where Rooster stood in the bed of a pickup truck surveying the surrounding terrain. DeVontay slipped between the bus and a storage shed until he was out of their view. He couldn’t reach the slaughterhouse without being seen, and the door was barred with a big metal hasp lock. He wasn’t sure he could find another way inside, but at least Stephen and the others would be safe. The walls were thick enough to repel bullets and, even if the Zapheads overwhelmed the compound, they’d have a hard time breaking in.
But Stephen would have a tough time breaking OUT, as well.
A few more shots rang out in a staccato burst, maybe half a mile away in direction of the village. DeVontay circled the slaughterhouse and found more abandoned vehicles, along with processing equipment, a concrete loading dock, and piles of warped pallets. Large plastic barrels were stacked on their sides along the back of the slaughterhouse beside a sliding metal door. That door, like the front one, was fastened with a thick lock.
Someone shouted at him from the fence line. A chubby man standing sentinel on a weed-covered slope motioned him forward. He wore a battered fedora and the top half of his face was hidden by the shadow of the brim. DeVontay climbed the bank and the man said, “You must be new.”
“Enlisted this morning.”
The man leaned his rifle against the fence, pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from his coat pocket, and took a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and said, “You ever shot one of them?”
“Never had a reason.”
“You’ll get your reason soon. They’re all over the place.” He held out the whiskey bottle but DeVontay waved it away.
“Why are you here?” DeVontay scanned the trees beyond the fence, but all seemed quiet at the moment.
“I was a truck driver,” the man said. “Hauling cow shit one week, ground beef the next, tankers, fridge units, flatbeds, anything. This was one of my regular stops. That’s my rig outside the gate. It just stopped running that day, and I got out to check under the hood. Some meat packer ran toward me, waving a bloody cleaver and making weird noises.
“I thought it was a gag—these guys get a dark sense of humor from cutting up parts all day. I figured he’d say something like ‘Did you know it’s Friday the thirteenth?’ and all that, but I was pissed because of the truck breaking down. But when he got close enough, I saw something was wrong with his eyes—and the look on his face—and I got my ass back in the cab and quick. He knocked the door a few times with the cleaver, and by then I saw a few other workers come out of the slaughterhouse, chopping and slicing at each other.”
“And that’s when you realized everything had gone to hell?”
“The scientists on the news said to expect weird shit because of the sun storms, but nobody said nothing about no killing. But I figured they had to be connected. So I waited for a few of them to wipe each other out. I got my pistol out of the glove box and climbed into the sleeper to hide. By sunset, only one man was left, walking around outside the slaughterhouse calling for help.”
“Rooster,” DeVontay said, changing his mind and plucking the whiskey bottle from the man’s hand. He took a sip and the liquid burned like molten needles.
“He was calling out, so I figured he was okay. He told me everyone else was dead, and I went into the slaughterhouse and he was right. Fifteen corpses in there, another half a dozen out here. Some of them were guys I knew, teamsters and such. By then I figured out this was bigger than just Hillbilly Holler, North Carolina, and tried to get my wife on the radio and cell, but neither worked. I live in Kansas City, and I didn’t see much use in heading that way. So I stayed on with Rooster, and here we are.”
“You helped him build the community?” DeVontay mulled another shot of whiskey but decided he’d better keep alert.
“At first, but then he got more…excited about it than me and the others. I still don’t agree with all his crazy ideas—like keeping the women and kids separate—but I’m just biding my time and staying alive until I see the next move.”
You and me both, brother.
Another volley of gunfire erupted in the east, rumbling like heat lightning on a dry day. “That would be the cavalry,” the man said. “Rooster thinks it’s the Civil War all over again and he’s Robert E. Lee.”
“Does that mean he’s pro-slavery?”
“You’re still here, ain’t you?”
“So are you.”
The man toasted that remark with a hoist of the bottle, and the liquor glinted golden in the sunlight. “Well, if they get in, I don’t want to be trapped in here. That gate’s the only way or in or out.”
DeVontay had assumed the same thing, but he hadn’t scouted the entire perimeter yet. From his vantage point on the hill, he could see the center of the compound, the storage shed where the men bunked, and the black-stained diesel fuel tank on cinder blocks by the school bus. Hardison was nowhere to be seen, and DeVontay could only locate a few of the sentries, including the two on top of the water tower. “No retreat, huh?”
“Yeah,” the man said, taking last drink of whiskey and hurling the bottle into the weeds. “Like I said, Rooster’s a Confederate. Got that defeatist attitude.”
“And you’re going to sit here and die?”
“Hell, no.” He pointed his rifle barrel down the hill to a large metal bin by the loading dock. “They keep the tools in there. Why don’t you slip down and snag us a set of heavy-duty wire cutters just in case?”
DeVontay wondered if this was a test. As far as he could tell, all the compound’s occupants were sold on Rooster’s vision. “You’d leave?”
“I’m not from here,” the man said. “My family’s half a country away, in Missouri, if they’re still alive. All I got is what’s in my pockets and the chamber of this rifle. Nothing here for me to fight for.”
DeVontay figured he’d better pass the test before he declared his own intentions. “Our chances are better if we stick together.”
“You’ve been out there. You know the Zapheads outnumber us a hundred to one. Even with all our guns, they can soak up bullets until Doomsday and still keep coming.”
As if to punctuate those words, another volley erupted. It sounded closer than before. One of the men on the water tower shouted and settled into a firing position.
“Okay,” DeVontay said. “Cover my ass.”
“Only ‘til we’re out of here. Then you’re on your own.”
DeVontay studied the man’s smudged, weary face a moment and nodded. “Cool.”
He scrambled back down the hill the way he’d come. Rooster had done a masterful job of inspiring his little community of worker bees. The fence was solidly constructed and his armed forces seemed to follow his orders. But he’d skimped on the living conditions and basic needs like food and waste management. A secluded area near the loading dock buzzed with flies and a heap of dark-brown matter was strewn with rotted toilet paper.
A man ran by forty yards away, headed for the main gate. DeVontay hunched into what he hoped looked like a battle posture and continued to the metal bin. The bin’s lid was held in place with a lock, but it was a small one. DeVontay looked around, saw no one looking, and rammed the butt of his shotgun against the hasp. The stock split but the lock didn’t break. He swung again and the hasp loosened, and DeVontay was able to wedge the shotgun barrel in the gap and pry it loose.
He’d probably damaged the shotgun but he didn’t intend on firing it anyway. Inside the bin were rows of tools on narrow trays. He found the wire cutters, a thick pair with rubber handles, as well as a mea
tier version designed to sever bolts. He stuffed the wire cutters in his back pocket, laid his shotgun on the ground, and ran to the back of the slaughterhouse.
Gunfire had erupted on the opposite side of the compound, along the section of fence he had yet to see. Now shots clapped and spat in staccato bursts, and men yelled on the other side of the slaughterhouse. DeVontay brought the bolt cutter to bear on the lock holding down the rear door. It took three tries before he worked the heavy blades though the steel, but he was able to kick the lock away and slide up the door with a rumbling creak.
The rush of fetid air almost took his breath away. A single boot protruded from a lumpy pile that was covered with a vinyl tarp, and DeVontay realized the mound was decomposing bodies. He tugged the front collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose and stumbled into the dark depths of the building, calling Stephen’s name. When his eyes adjusted, he found the main corridor that led from the loading area.
“DeVontay!” Stephen’s voice came too him from the slaughterhouse’s interior.
“Can you see me?”
“Yes, we’re here,” said Kiki, her voice quavering.
“Zapheads are coming. Let’s get out of here.”
DeVontay heard shuffling in the dark and then Stephen stepped into the gray light of the loading area. DeVontay gave him a quick hug and led him to the loading dock. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
Stephen froze and looked up with imploring eyes. “What about the other kids?”
“Every man for himself.”
“But they’re not men. They’re kids.”
DeVontay remembered how Rachel and the others had saved him when he’d been captured in Taylorsville. If they gave up on one another, and After was now ruled by “Survival of the Fittest,” then what was the point? To survive for another day of selfishness?
But Stephen was his first responsibility. And the more people he tried to help, the higher the odds that Stephen wouldn’t make it.
Kiki stepped from the darkness, a child at each side. They all blinked as if they hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.
After (Book 3): Milepost 291 Page 14
