“You’re alive!” Stephen said, his arms tight around her waist.
“Yes…” She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she had no desire to repeat it. Her heart swelled with an unidentifiable warmth that frightened her at first, but she surrendered it into the serenity offered by her other senses.
“She’s…a little sick,” said the man, and now Rachel remembered. He was Campbell. She didn’t remember everything, not clearly, but she understood they had been together. Same as she had been with Stephen.
“DeVontay’s here,” Stephen said. Then he peered at her. “Your eyes. They look weird.”
“I’m okay,” she said, a phrase lodged in her head. She did feel okay, although her head ached a little and her legs were sore from walking.
Then she saw the man coming across the pasture, leading two horses by leather loops. He was dark-skinned, dressed in a familiar denim jacket, his black leather boots shiny from the dew. His eyes looked weird, too—at least, one of them did.
DeVontay put his foot against one of the fence posts and gave it a couple of kicks, and then pushed until it leaned to the ground. He led the horses over the wire, and they gracefully jumped until they stood in the weeds alongside the ditch, watching with curiosity and perhaps amusement.
“DeVontay,” she whispered.
“Rachel,” he said, as wary of her as she was of him. DeVontay looked at Campbell, who said something she couldn’t understand.
“You’re the guy from Taylorsville,” DeVontay said to him.
“She’s gone through some changes,” Campbell said.
“She’s sick, but she’s okay,” Stephen said with evident happiness. “She’s not a Zaphead.”
“What’s a Zaphead?” she asked.
“That’s a Zaphead,” DeVontay said, pointing up the road.
Rachel turned and saw a small group of figures, still distant but obviously coming their way. She was struck by a desire to run toward them, but DeVontay’s voice pulled her away and broke the signal.
“We’d better get out of here,” he said. “Do you know how to ride?”
DeVontay helped Rachel astride the horse, holding the reins as she struggled to keep her balance as the animal swayed. Campbell started to climb up after her, but DeVontay said, “I’ll hold her. You take care of the boy.”
Rachel had ridden before, but she had no distinct memory of it. She gripped the animal’s flanks with her legs as best she could. DeVontay launched himself up onto the horse in front of her, and she had to wrap her arms around him to keep from toppling off. The shape of his body and his smell were familiar and comforting in a way that words couldn’t describe.
I’m Rachel. Why does it seem so new?
When Stephen and Campbell were likewise mounted, DeVontay guided their horse until its hooves clopped on the asphalt. They headed upriver, the jostling of the beast tossing them gently against each other. DeVontay wheeled the horse after a minute, and Rachel saw the group of figures had grown smaller against the horizon.
Then they turned once again toward the great gray ridges with slopes that burned with autumn colors gone to rust that hid the bones of winter beneath them.
“Where are we going?” she asked DeVontay.
He turned halfway so that his good eye was studying her. “Milepost 291. You ever heard of it?”
“No, but I can’t think of anywhere else to be.”
“Your eyes…they…”
He didn’t finish. He faced forward, gripped the reins, and urged the horse onward, Stephen and Campbell in their wake.
Rachel looked up at the sky. Thank you, God.
She didn’t know what those words meant, either, but they seemed old and familiar. That other signal, the high, brittle keening of a single purpose, faded altogether as they rounded a bend and passed lifeless cars and houses, and she soon forgot it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Franklin’s knees were aching by the time the first gray hint of dawn teased the eastern sky. The moist air had soaked his clothes, but he was determined to push on. The trail had widened, with occasional wooden signs describing plant species and more landscaping features that suggested formal park development. When he saw the mossy picnic table, a surge of joy pushed through the tired chambers of his heart.
The terrain leveled somewhat, and he soon came to a restored cabin, the kind the park service had preserved in an attempt to show tourists the hardscrabble life of European settlers, although in truth their days had been less hectic than those of salaried corporate commuters of the late, great Twenty-First Century. The cabin was unlocked and abandoned, and even though the wide gaps in the logs seemed to draft colder air inside than out and the dirt floor was no softer than the forest carpet, he rested for a spell, knowing he’d soon arrive at the roadway.
Franklin reached the pavement just before dawn, a familiar stretch that bore abandoned cars with license plates hailing from many different states. Death had recognized neither boundaries nor luxury class, as a primer-spotted Ford Fiesta shared the automotive graveyard with a Mercedes, the occupants of both sharing the same speed of decomposition.
He took a risk by walking the parkway—he was much more exposed to Sarge’s patrols, since the road was easily viewed from the surrounding ridges—but now he was eager to finish his journey.
He came to Milepost 288 and rested again. For the final three miles, he stayed in the high weeds along the road, even though the grass was thick with dew. The sun was well up by the time he reached the concrete marker at Milepost 291 and looked up the mountain where Wheelerville was hidden among the trees and boulders.
He took the logging road that wound to the peak. Even though he’d cut several footpaths that were hardly noticeable to the casual hiker, he decided to stick with the relatively easier route he’d used to haul supplies and materials to his compound. Aside from the occasional beer can, there was no sign that civilization had ever touched this rocky series of switchbacks and rhododendron thickets. The air was rich with decaying leaves, muddy springs that smelled of salamanders, and the heavy sweetness of goldenrod and snakeroot.
If anyone had passed this way in the two weeks since he and Jorge had been away, there was no sign of their passage in the loam and black dirt. He moved quietly, like an animal, alert for both soldiers and Zapheads. He didn’t think Sarge would have spared the resources necessary to locate the compound, but Franklin would never sleep fully as long as they remained regional neighbors. On the other hand, any Zapheads would be more likely to encounter the bunker and its noisy occupants than Franklin’s hideaway.
He considered leaving some signs for Rachel, such as lining up rocks in formation or breaking branches in a detectable pattern, but he’d given her enough veiled clues about the compound’s location over the past couple of years. If she was out there, she would find it.
If.
The compound looked much the same as when he’d left it, with the gate open in case Rosa and Marina returned. Goats milled around the compound, staying close to home even though Franklin had released them from the pen to forage. The chickens appeared fewer in number, likely thinned by hawks or foxes, but enough remained to provide eggs and meat for the winter. Fortunately, the animals had not broken through the fence to plunder the garden. The cabbages, broccoli, potatoes, collard greens, butternut squash, and other crops were vital for his survival.
Their survival.
Franklin had a feeling he wasn’t going to be alone when the icy winds and snow swept over the Appalachian Mountains from the northwest. This might be the last outpost of the human race, and he was more determined than ever to stand against the hostile forces of the world, whether man or mutant, nature or time.
He checked the cabin, saw it was much the same as he’d left it, and then grabbed his ax. He’d need plenty more firewood.
It was going to be a long winter.
THE END
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Look for the other books in the series, After: First Light, After: The Shock, and After: The Echo.
After #4: Whiteout coming soon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Scott Nicholson is the international bestselling author of more than 20 thrillers, including the Solom supernatural series, The Home, McFall, Disintegration, Liquid Fear, Speed Dating with the Dead, and the After post-apocalyptic series. His books have appeared in the Kindle Top 100 more than a dozen times in five different countries. Visit his website at www.AuthorScottNicholson.com or his Amazon Author Central page.
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After: First Light
After: The Shock
After: The Echo
The Scarecrow (Solom #1)
The Narrow Gate (Solom #2)
The Home
McFall
Creative Spirit
Disintegration
The Red Church
Speed Dating with the Dead
The Skull Ring
Drummer Boy
The Harvest
Kiss Me or Die
Liquid Fear
Chronic Fear
Cursed (with J.R. Rain)
Bad Blood (with J.R. Rain & H.T. Night)
Ghost College (with J.R. Rain)
The Vampire Club (with J.R. Rain)
Spider Web (with J.R. Rain)
Meat Camp (with J.T. Warren)
October Girls
Crime Beat
The Dead Love Longer
Fangs In Vain
Burial to Follow
Story Collections
Curtains
Flowers
Ashes
The First
Zombie Bits
Head Cases
Gateway Drug
Missing Pieces
These Things Happened
American Horror
Children’s Books
Bad Day for Balloons (with Sergio Castro)
If I Were Your Monster (with Lee Davis)
Too Many Witches (with Lee Davis)
Ida Claire (with Lee Davis)
Duncan the Punkin (with Sergio Castro)
BOX SETS
Ethereal Messenger
Mystery Dance
Horror Movies: Three Screenplays
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 1
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Box of Boo (Library, Vol. V)
Mad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
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After: First Light
After: The Shock
After: The Echo
The Scarecrow (Solom #1)
The Narrow Gate (Solom #2)
McFall
Liquid Fear
Chronic Fear
Creative Spirit
The Home
The Gorge
Disintegration
The Red Church
Speed Dating with the Dead
The Skull Ring
Drummer Boy
The Harvest
Kiss Me or Die
Cursed (with J.R. Rain)
Ghost College (with J.R. Rain)
The Vampire Club (with J.R. Rain)
Bad Blood (with J.R. Rain & H.T. Night)
Spider Web (with J.R. Rain)
Meat Camp (with J.T. Warren)
October Girls
Crime Beat
The Dead Love Longer
Burial to Follow
Fangs In Vain
Collections
Curtains
Flowers
Ashes
The First
Zombie Bits
Head Cases
Gateway Drug
Missing Pieces
These Things Happened
Children’s Books
Bad Day for Balloons (with Sergio Castro)
If I Were Your Monster (with Lee Davis)
Duncan the Punkin (with Sergio Castro)
Too Many Witches (with Lee Davis)
Ida Claire (with Lee Davis)
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Write Good or Die
The Indie Journey: Secrets to Writing Success
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Mystery Dance
Horror Movies: Three Screenplays
Three Ghost Stories (with J.R. Rain and Aiden James)
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 1
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Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 3
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4
Box of Boo: Library, Vol. 5
Mad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Bad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Odd Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Table of Contents
After#3: Milepost 291
About the Author
Other Books by Scott Nicholson
Scott’s Kindle UK Links
Look for After #4: Whiteout
http://www.AuthorScottNicholson.com
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After (Book 3): Milepost 291 Page 22
