After (Book 3): Milepost 291

by Nicholson, Scott

  The door gave a juddering creak and DeVontay froze at the noise, but after thirty seconds of silence, he whispered, “Okay, Little Man, up about a foot.”

  After they wrestled a suitable gap, DeVontay laid flat on his back, his cheek against the concrete. It was twilight outside, the insects in the forest already embarking on their nightly orchestra. He detected no movement, and the only light was that provided by the vanishing sun.

  DeVontay reached through the gap and grabbed a wooden packing crate. He scooted it near the door and said, “Lift until we can jam this under.”

  Once the door was leveraged into position, DeVontay let the weight rest on the crate, leaving a gap of about two feet. “If anybody comes, kick this crate out of the way and let the door drop.”

  “Even if you’re outside?” Stephen said.

  “No matter what.”

  “Will you come back?”

  DeVontay hoped his grin showed in the dim light. “We’re sticking together from now on.”

  “No matter what?”

  “You got it.” DeVontay rolled through the opening and rose to his feet, his scalp tingling as his senses heightened for signs of danger. He crept across the dock and peered around the side of the slaughterhouse. One corpse was sprawled on the dirt between the front gate and the old school bus, but DeVontay couldn’t tell whether it was a Zaphead. The door to the shed that the men had been using as living quarters was open, so DeVontay suspected it was unoccupied. By humans, at any rate.

  He debated trying for the school bus to see if it contained any more firearms, but he decided gunfire would only draw attention. Besides, if their situation got to that point, they had no chance anyway. Likewise, the tool bin might offer something blunt and heavy he could use as a weapon, but he just couldn’t see himself defending a group of helpless children via hand-to-hand combat.

  No, this would have to be a stealth mission.

  Taking a deep breath, he crouched and dashed across the compound, expecting a bullet to strike him in the back at any second. But he reached the shelter of the school bus without incident, heading from the abandoned vehicle to a concrete block building with shattered windows that might once have served as an office. Without checking inside it, he eased around it and moved along the fence until he reached the storage shed.

  DeVontay put his ear to the metal siding, listening for acoustic disturbances inside the building. After twenty seconds of hearing only the rapid thrush of his own pulse, he worked his way to the front, once more scanning the compound. A shot rang out, but it was easily two miles away, almost like a forlorn message from a lost outpost.

  DeVontay entered the shed. The space was dark, but he was able to make out rows of makeshift bunks that ran along both walls, stacked ten beds high. He moved away from the door so that his silhouette wouldn’t make an easy target for anyone lurking inside.

  Guiding his path by touch, he eased past the bunks until he bumped into a table. He ran his hands along the cool surface. It held tin cans, greasy dishes, cardboard boxes, and crinkling plastic bags. He didn’t know which of them contained food, but this was obviously a dining table.

  Then he felt a cool cylindrical object with a lumpy, waxy top—a candle. Of course they wouldn’t sit in here in the dark. Excited, he felt around for matches, found a pack, and put one against the striking pad. Then he realized if he cast a light, anyone in the compound would be able to see the glowing outline of the shed door.

  His eyes had adjusted well enough that he could walk between the rows of bunks and ease the door closed. It gave a rusty groan of protest but he managed, leaving a gap of a couple of inches in case he needed to make a fast exit.

  Retracing his steps, DeVontay struck the match and applied it to the candle. The sudden burst of light revealed a messy array of food on the table: half-eaten cans of beans with flies buzzing around their rims, bags of moldy bread, oil-stained jars of peanut butter, and boxes of cellophane-wrapped individual snacks that looked to have been taken from a store, probably the same one in Stonewall that’d he raided.

  He couldn’t help grinning when he found some Slim Jims among the candy bars and cheese crackers. Stephen will be happy.

  No doubt the men had their own supplies stashed in their bunks or secured inside the shed, but they wouldn’t be able to carry much anyway. DeVontay yanked a gray wool blanket from one of the bunks, laid it on the floor, and collected a pile of edibles and drinks. He gathered the corners of the blanket and hoisted it like a hobo’s bundle, then blew out the candle and returned to the door.

  He nudged it open wider with his foot and surveyed the compound again.

  A dozen Zapheads walked in a line across the compound, heading for the corpse sprawled on the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “I’m normal,” Rachel said, almost to herself.

  “Anybody who has to keep reassuring themselves about that may have a problem,” Campbell said.

  As darkness settled in around the house, Campbell had checked all the windows and door locks. Since Rachel’s strange catatonia from the music, they had spoken little. Rachel was frightened, but her anxiety only made her more defiant. And Campbell’s concern was beginning to grate her nerves.

  Or is that another symptom of the change?

  Campbell lit a pile of twisted newspaper under logs he’d stacked in the fireplace. His face was reddish-orange in the glow cast by the crackling flames. They’d agreed that the heat would be worth the risk since the smoke would be mostly hidden by darkness. The flickering fingers of light dancing on the walls suggested Neanderthals huddled in a cave, somehow both simple and safe.

  “I have to…visit the woods,” she said, too embarrassed to leave her waste in the dysfunctional toilet.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “Only if you wait on the porch.”

  “I’m just worried that you might freak out and run off.”

  “Worry about yourself, not me.”

  “Hey, you’re the one that was talking about our future. If we don’t stick together, we’ll never rebuild civilization and I won’t ever get to play video games again.”

  “I think evolution took a U-turn,” Rachel said, unlocking the door and stepping into the cool night. She wondered for a moment if Campbell might slam and bolt the door behind her, but he followed her down the steps where she made him stand.

  She went around the dead Volvo in the driveway, pulled down her pants, and squatted. As she urinated, she ran a palm along the site of her infected bite wound. No scab, no scar, no pain or itching. Just smooth, healthy flesh.

  Above her the stars winked on, the belt of Orion stitched across the dome of darkness. The moon rose somewhere in the east, still just a faint smudge of haze below the horizon. The surrounding treetops hid many of the constellations, although most of the leaves had fallen to reveal the black sticks of branches. November would arrive soon, and with it the bone-jarring wind, snow, and bleakness that would prove far more challenging an opponent than Zapheads or trigger-happy militants.

  She thought of Stephen and wondered where he was at that moment. She hoped he was somewhere safe and secure, hopefully with an adult to care for him. She didn’t want to consider the likely possibility of his death. She still blamed herself for allowing him to get lost. She considered offering a prayer for his safety but no words came, only resentment.

  She finished and let the cool breeze dry her a moment before she pulled up her pants. Around her the forest was silent except for the faint flapping of stubborn leaves that didn’t know their time was up. Insects chittered in a piercing cadence so inviting that Rachel was afraid she’d start imitating the sound. She clapped her hand over her mouth as she walked back to the house, but the resonance roared in her ears, digging deeper and deeper until she thought her skull would burst.

  By the time she reached the porch, she was so dizzy she almost fell into Campbell’s arms.

  “Jesus,” Campbell said, supporting her weight a
nd leading her up the steps. “Maybe you’re not as healed as we thought you were.”

  Rachel didn’t want to tell him that the dizziness was not caused by anything inside her. No, it radiated from Out There, as if the insects were merely broadcasting a message that she would have heard clearly if she’d been tuned to the right frequency. She almost laughed.

  I’m fine. I’m normal. I’m crazy. I’m a goddamned Zaphead.

  Once inside, Campbell eased her onto the sofa in front of the fireplace. He checked her forehead for fever, but her body felt as if it was filled with ice water. The same tingling numbness she’d experienced during her fugue state swept over her again and she was afraid she was sliding into unconsciousness.

  “You’re burning up, Rachel,” he said, rolling her sweater up her belly and tugging at its shoulders until it slipped past her neck and arms. He pulled a lace cotton comforter over her and she closed her eyes.

  Campbell put a bottle of water to her lips and she sipped, even though the liquid tasted oily and unpalatable. Soon the roaring in her skull eased a bit, and she wondered if it was because they were now inside and out of range of the insect calls.

  “I’m okay now,” Rachel said. She didn’t plan on getting into the habit of letting Campbell lay her down on couches and undress her.

  “Which okay is that? The ‘I’m just a normal human being okay’ or the “I’m a freaking mutant but I’ll survive okay’?”

  “Leave me alone,’ she said.

  “I…I can’t.”

  She couldn’t tolerate his clumsy schoolboy crush any longer. “Look, we’re not soul mates or anything. You may be glad all this happened, that the sun burned our world to toast, and that you caught me in a vulnerable state, but nothing’s going on here. You and me…that’s not a possible future.”

  He groaned in annoyance. “You think that’s what this is about? Sure, I like you, but I’m more concerned about what you mean for all of us. Think about it. If you’re a Zaphead, or even a partial Zaphead—“

  “A half-breed, right?”

  “You should see your eyes when you get angry. They’re popping like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Don’t try to tell me that’s normal. But listen—if you can empathize with them, or function like them, then you can help us understand them. Maybe one day even communicate with them.”

  “What makes you so sure I’m on your side? What if I turn out to be some kind of spy? What if they intentionally infected me somehow so that they could send me back to enemy lines? Maybe that’s why they let us escape when they attacked the professor.”

  Campbell shook his head. “We don’t really know how they think, do we? All we’ve seen is larger patterns of organized behavior. But you…you’re bound to feel like they do, at least a little.”

  “I’m trying not to think about that. I want to feel like me. I want to feel normal.”

  “There’s no normal anymore. Not for any of us.”

  Now that the dizzy spell and flush of heat had passed, Rachel was cold, and she drew the comforter higher up her shoulders. “I need to move closer to the fire.”

  Campbell dragged some cushions from the other chairs and arranged them on the floor near the hearth. He left the room and returned shortly with a stack of blankets which he proceeded to spread out in a makeshift bed. Then he helped Rachel off the sofa until she was bundled and shivering, trying not to cry in front of him. She was way more scared than she wanted to admit.

  He sat beside her and rested a tentative hand on the blankets. “Don’t freak out,” he said. “I’m not coming on to you or anything.”

  “Why not? Afraid you’ll get Zap cooties?”

  “No, I just want you to know you’re not alone.”

  “Right, because now I’m your pet project. Now I have some value. If you can get me to a lab somewhere, maybe the Army scientists can crack open my skull and see what makes a Zaphead tick.”

  “No,” Campbell said, stroking his hand slowly back and forth along her body. “Not because you’re a Zaphead. But because you’re Rachel.”

  She couldn’t help laughing despite her fear. “You’re so dorky.”

  “Schoolboy crushes do that to me.”

  “What if I turn full Zap in the night and mutilate you?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  The crackling of the fire almost seemed like mirthful giggles, building inside her head, but Rachel didn’t fight them. Instead, she followed them deep inside her head until at some point they became soft echoes that faded until she was able to sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Okay, I’ve already burned through Plan A and Plan B. Maybe I should just skip straight to Z.

  DeVontay didn’t see any way to make it back to the slaughterhouse without being spotted by the Zapheads. Even if he crept along the fence line, at some point he’d have to cross to the loading dock. The only option was to hope they left the compound again before the children gave away their location. But he wasn’t sure Kiki and the others could stay quiet and wait for him if he was gone for hours. The Zapheads could be here all night—or even longer—as far as he knew.

  A small group of them surrounded the fallen corpse and gathered it up, hoisting it aloft and heading back toward the gate. The others scattered around the compound, and DeVontay wondered whether they were collecting more bodies. He could almost understand them gathering their own dead—since they seemed to have some sort of telepathic link, or at least a hive consciousness—but he didn’t know why they’d want the human corpses.

  If only he had some way to communicate with Kiki, a two-way radio or something, he could create a diversion by running through the gate and leading the Zapheads away. Then he could easily lose them in the forest and work his way back later. But with the group waiting for his return, he would have to reach them before the Zapheads got there.

  Then he remembered Stephen telling him about his and Rachel’s escape, and how they’d accidentally set the gas station on fire. Stephen said the Zapheads had not only been drawn by the explosion and the flames, they actually begun hurling themselves into the fire. Stephen had related the tale with a mixture of glee and revulsion, the image of the scorched flesh leaving a strong imprint on him.

  DeVontay pulled a musty sheet from one of the bunks and quietly rent it into several long strips. By the time he returned to the door, the Zapheads were out of sight. They’d been making a high-pitched keening noise, like insects, but now they were either silent or else their sounds had so easily blended in with the night’s that he couldn’t track their location.

  Slipping through the door, he retraced his route along the fence line until he was again beside the fuel tank. The tank contained diesel, judging by its heavier aroma, so it wouldn’t create a spectacular explosion. But it would burn.

  He rubbed one of the strips of cloth along the leaky bottom of the tank until it was soaked, and then repeated it with the other strips. Then he flipped open the tank lid so oxygen would feed the flames. The flap to the gas tank on the bus was locked, so he climbed under the vehicle and wound a fuel-sodden cloth around the tank hose a few times, then tied all the strips together until he had one long fuse connecting the diesel and gas tanks. Since the diesel was relatively slow-burning, he’d have plenty of time to get away.

  Checking the compound one last time, he lit the center of the makeshift fuse and hurried back along the fence line to the shed. He could see the bright guttering flame of the fuse as it expanded in both directions. He slipped inside the shed, collected the bundle of food, and sped toward the loading dock.

  Three Zapheads came out of the shadows toward him.

  They didn’t hurry and they made no noise other than their high, sibilant squeaking. DeVontay considered dropping the bundle and heading in the other direction, but if he fled now, he doubted he’d be able to make his way back to the slaughterhouse. He heard a whoof and the diesel tank caught fire, yellow and red licking over the metal as if seeking a way inside. It wasn’t a pyr
otechnical marvel, but it drew the attention of the Zapheads, and as they walked toward DeVontay, he saw the fire reflected in their eyes.

  The Zaphead in the center was a male wearing only cargo shorts and hiking boots, apparently impervious to the night’s autumnal chill. Beside him was an older woman in a filthy skirt, the frailty of her human years apparently erased in this new condition of existence. On the other flank, a black woman walked with her head tilted back, her scuffed platform shoes causing her body to roll with each step.

  DeVontay’s grip tightened on the bundle and he wondered if it would make an effective weapon if he swung it. He could also try just barreling through them like a fullback attempting to break through a defensive line near the end zone. But for the same reason he’d deliberately set down his shotgun earlier, he intended to avoid violence if possible.

  If you fight, they win. He stood his ground, watching and waiting, as they came forward.

  When they were ten feet away, he braced, but they weren’t reaching for him. Instead, their gazes were fixed at a point beyond him. It was almost as if he was invisible to them.

  He shifted several trembling steps to the left, so that he was out of their direct route. He could smell them now, an aroma of sweat and ozone, and the fire glinted against their oily skin. His heart galloped and thudded against his rib cage, but he forced himself not to panic. Then they moved past him just as the flames roared up the side of the bus, the gas tank finally igniting.

  DeVontay felt the rush of wind at his back as the flash illuminated the entire compound. Now he could see the silhouettes of other Zapheads, hurrying toward the source of the roaring pyre. He walked quickly but didn’t break stride, hoping to draw as little attention as possible. Once he reached the loading dock, he gave a long look back and saw the Zapheads were gathered around the burning hulk of the bus. They kept a small distance from the fire, clearly held rapt by its destructive beauty but unwilling to test that destruction themselves.