by J. Thorn
Luggage. And people.
Campbell coasted down the hill, riding the hand brakes and weaving between the cars, trucks, and vans. In this section, the vehicles were in an orderly line, with few rear-end collisions, as if traffic had been moving slowly when the big electromagnetic eraser had wiped out their engines. The stench of rotted bodies hung in the air, the putrefaction hastened by the greenhouse effect of the windows. Campbell did his best to avoid looking inside the vehicles, but curiosity suckered him in again and again.
Part of it was his faint hope that maybe he’d see a survivor, injured and unable to escape. The other part was his coming to grips with the scale of the apocalypse.
If the professor’s right, and this is a worldwide deal, then I’m one of the last men on Earth.
And what the hell did I do to deserve it? Why am I upright and breathing while that poor lady with the blue hair at the wheel of the BMW is maggot food?
He swerved around a spare tire lying in the road and slowed the bike even more. Tools, clothing, and oil jugs were scattered on the road, and the trunks of several cars hung open. The back doors of a bread truck gaped wide, with plastic racks of molded bread spilled from the opening. A clutch of blackbirds flew away from the spoils. The flapping of their wings was the only sound in what should have been a rush-hour melee.
A man’s corpse flopped out of the driver’s side of a Toyota sedan. The passenger door was also open, and a woman sprawled dead on the pavement several feet from it.
Someone has moved those dead people.
Campbell stopped the bike and dismounted, looking at the nearby cars. The doors were open on about a dozen of them, the corpses inside apparently disturbed from their original positions. Most often, victims had died on the spot, collapsing wherever they happened to be. Many of the vehicles had endured collisions, although the loss of engine power had minimized much of the damage. A driver might flop over the steering wheel or loll back in the seat, but these people had been carelessly shoved out of the way of…what?
A survivor—maybe a group of survivors—might have prowled through the vehicles for food and supplies. That made sense. Campbell had done the same thing, except he’d not touched any corpses. Whoever had conducted this search had been disrespectful, almost to the point of obscenity. His unease was confirmed when he saw that a young woman’s blouse had been torn open, her pale breasts left exposed to the sun.
Zapheads?
No, the Zapheads he’d encountered wouldn’t have bothered with desecration, because they sought to inflict destruction on the living. To a Zaphead, the dead were no different than a tree or a car. They were inconveniences and obstacles, nothing more. Only a human—a human unaffected by the cataclysmic solar flares—could have indulged in such behavior as this.
A chill crept up Campbell’s neck, even though the morning sun was now high and hot in the August sky. He was mounting his bike, eager to return to Arnoff’s tribe, when he spied a blue backpack on the asphalt beside an empty child-restraint seat. Pete had a backpack just like that one.
Campbell ran to the backpack and peeled back the zipper on the pouch. He dug into the pocket and brought out a melted Snickers bar. The backpack smelled of beer and chocolate and stale sweat. It was Pete’s, all right.
Why would he toss his backpack here?
But maybe Pete hadn’t tossed his backpack to the pavement. Maybe it had been tossed for him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rachel wasn’t sure whether she’d blacked out or had been knocked unconscious.
The first vestiges of grayness brought no pain, only confusion. She remembered entering the house to look for DeVontay—
Stephen. How long have I been here? Wherever I am.
She rubbed her eyes and then realized it wasn’t her vision that was blurred. The room’s windows had been covered with sheets, blocking out most of the light. She was sitting on a hard wooden chair. Dim shapes stood around her at various intervals.
“Are you one of us?” a man said.
Rachel turned in his direction, unsure if the man was addressing her. He stood near the window, so she could barely make out his silhouette. He was tall and broad-shouldered, appearing to glance out the window and back again.
“Who is ‘us’?” Rachel said. She tried to stand and realized she was bound to the chair. That made no sense, because she didn’t feel any ropes. She wriggled her hands. They were so numb she could barely tell where they ended.
I must have been sitting here for a while. Real charmers, these guys.
“If you are one of us, you know what we are,” the man said.
She nicknamed him The Captain, even though she was pretty sure he wasn’t a Zaphead. She peered at the shapes of men. Four that she could see, maybe more standing behind her. At least two of them appeared to have rifles.
None of them looked like DeVontay.
“We heard a shot,” she said. “We thought someone might need help.”
“We?”
“Me and DeVontay.”
“The dark one,” the man said.
Dark one? Well, I guess it could be worse. Could be calling him the N-word.
She raised her voice. “Are you here, DeVontay?”
A muffled moan came from somewhere inside the house. The Captain moved from his post by the window and crossed the room. The additional light gave definition to the edges and shapes. Rachel could make out a desktop computer, the dull rectangle of the window reflected in miniature on its blank screen. Loose papers were piled around it, and unkempt shelves were stuffed with books, board games, and ceramic cats. An exercise bike stood in the corner, a windbreaker dangling from one handlebar.
Rachel turned her head, working blood flow back into her fingers. She couldn’t see them, but she sensed several more people standing behind her. The air in the room was stale, body odor mingling with dust. Someone smelled of tobacco, and the cloying corruption of rot lay under it all, the new base aroma of the planet.
A hand gripped her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but not gentle, either. “You know what this is, correct?” The Captain said.
She shook her head. “We were only trying to help. We saw the Zapheads coming for the house—”
“Zapheads?”
“Yeah.The crazy people. The ones who changed after the solar storms.”
“We’ve all changed.”
She couldn’t argue with that, and she had a feeling The Captain wasn’t in a mood for arguments anyway. “Yeah, but they’re the ones trying to bash our brains in.”
“You may have noticed that we—that is, if you are one of us—are no different. Morally, you could make a case that ours is a greater sin, because we’re aware of our violent actions.”
Whoa. This guy’s been out in the sun a little too long.
“You’re aware you’re giving a morality lecture to a woman you’ve tied to a chair, right?”
“Shall I gag her?” one of the shadowy figures to her left said. “Like we did with the other?”
So DeVontay’s alive.
“No,” The Captain said. “We need to find out if she is willing.”
Willing? These guys can’t be rapists, or they would have done their business while I was unconscious. And it’s not like I can resist all that much right now.
“Like I said, we heard a shot and saw some Zapheads headed for the house,” she said, doing her best to sound calm even though she wanted to scream. “We figured somebody was in trouble and came to help.”
“And these…Zapheads, as you call them…what do you think makes them attack?”
“I don’t know. Different theories, you know. The sun boiled their brains. The radiation mutated them. The electromagnetic pulse scrambled their wiring.”
“Have you considered that maybe they are enlightened?”
“No. I haven’t considered that at all. Been kinda busy staying alive.”
“Do you believe in an all-powerful God?”
“What is this, the Spanish I
nquisition? What next, the rack?” She struggled against her bonds. Feeling crept back into her limbs, in tingling pinpricks of fire. She rocked back and forth, testing the sturdiness of the chair. It was a cheap dining-room model, the legs loose and the slats digging into the backs of her thighs.
“We have to know if you are one of us.”
She whipped her head around, taking in the perimeter of the room, at least as much as she could see. Three of The Captain’s chums had changed position, one taking up a post by the window. Rachel couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman until the person spoke.
“Movement on the street,” the woman said. Her tone wasn’t quite military, but it was all business.
These guys have either spent some serious time together, or had something going on before the sun went nuts. Before After.
“Is it one of the enlightened?” The Captain asked.
“Appears to be.” The woman tracked the barrel of a gun across the veiled window.
“Stay quiet, everyone,” The Captain said. “We don’t want to hurt it.”
“Let me get this straight,” Rachel said. “You jump me and tie me up but you let those things wander loose?”
“Live and let live,” The Captain said. “They’re children of the sun.”
“The Sixties are over,” Rachel said. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re all that’s left. And we should be helping each other. We’re on Team Human. Right?”
“We are here to serve,” The Captain said.
The woman at the window raised a hand. “There’s somebody else outside.”
“Enlightened?” The Captain said.
“Hard to tell. Looks like a boy, maybe ten.”
Rachel’s heart froze in her chest. Stephen!
“Time for the test,” The Captain said. “We shall see if she is worthy.”
The doorknob gave a brassy squeak behind her and the shadowy forms moved toward it. The female sentinel reached up, one skinny arm silhouetted against the daylight beyond the sheet. Then the makeshift curtain came down with a rip and sunlight poured into the room. Rachel squinted against the sudden yellow brightness, and by the time she’d recovered her sight, the room was empty. Footsteps echoed down the hall and The Captain said, “She’s all yours.”
Rachel scooted in little hops until she was turned and facing the door. Her first impression was correct. The room was a home office or den, bookshelves lined with paperbacks, loose sheaves of papers stuffed among them with the haphazard care of someone who loved information more than artifacts. A globe on a swivel and a heavy oak lamp stood on a small bureau near the door, with statuettes and photographs behind the glass of the cabinets. The floor was tiled with pressboard, but the hallway beyond the door was carpeted. She twisted against the ropes, chafing her wrists as she cast about the room looking for a sharp edge that could sever the ropes.
Maybe there’s a letter opener or scissors in the desk.
Rachel tried not to think about Stephen wandering around the yard, lost and looking for her, or the circling Zapheads that might kill him. She couldn’t bear another death. Billions had died and she had been helpless, God had abandoned her in her time of greatest need, like He had Jesus when the flesh of his palms shredded beneath the steel spikes and his lungs sagged in suffocation.
Or when the cool water had pulled her little sister, Chelsea, into its deep blue heart.
I don’t like this theme. God is never there when you need Him most.
She gripped the edges of the seat and lifted as she pressed down with her toes. The chair slid forward a good three inches, and she repeated the movement twice, three times, gaining more distance with each bounce. She was so intent on her goal, the metal desk with the computer atop it, that she didn’t notice the person in the doorway until a lamp crashed to the floor.
Rachel twisted her neck around. Budget Bieber came toward her, eyes brightly vacant beneath the brown bangs but somehow fixed on her, just the same. He carried himself in an insouciant slouch, stooping to the floor to retrieve the lamp. He appeared to test its weight with one short swing of the wooden base, as if first learning of its potential as weapon. Satisfied, he yanked at the flimsy lampshade until it tore free.
Rachel pitched forward, away from him, forgetting her feet were tied. When she felt herself falling, she twisted so that the chair toppled to the right. Her elbow banged against the floor, but the flimsy chair broke apart. She tried to roll, but the back of the chair clung to her, dangling from the ropes that bound her wrists.
Budget Bieber hovered over her, the lamp raised. His mouth parted wide as if about to embark on the first note of a churlish pop song, but only a strange deep chuckle emerged. He brought the lamp down toward her head, the bare gray bulb leading the way.
Rachel barely had time to scoot to the left before the bulb smashed into the floor, sending shards of glass into her face. The Bieber Zaphead raised the lamp again, the jagged broken bulb now resembling a row of teeth. This time, Budget Bieber rammed it toward her, as if to pin her against the floor.
She took advantage of his lunge to sweep one leg against his shin. Off balance, he clattered to the floor, again issuing his peculiar low chuckle as the lamp bounced out of his hands. Rachel’s elbow throbbed as she struggled to her knees, shaking violently to rid herself of the remnants of the chair. One ankle slipped free and she was able to stand.
Still splayed on the floor, the Bieber Zaphead made a grab for her leg. She danced out of reach and then jumped forward again, driving the heel of her sneaker onto his wrist. He moaned in the monotone of unheralded pop stardom, although it didn’t seem a reaction of pain. His inner rage was driving him now, the way it apparently compelled all Zapheads to crush, pummel, and slash any living creature that wasn’t like them.
Rachel backed against the desk and yanked open the top drawer. Keeping one eye on the Bieber Zaphead crawling toward her, she rifled among the papers, business cards, and zip drives, looking for something sharp and shiny. She heard a whimper of frustration and realized it had crawled from her own throat, making her angry at herself. Only the faithless gave in to despair.
On the desk was a clay jar stuffed with pencils, pens, and postage stamps. A thick plastic handle protruded from the collection, and she snatched it, sensing the Zaphead’s approach. The object was a flat-head screwdriver, its tip gleaming silver.
She raised the screwdriver like a knife, ready to plunge it into the Zaphead’s vacuous face. But before she could skewer the bangs-covered forehead, she looked into those eyes and saw a glimpse of the human he had once been.
Somebody’s son, somebody’s brother.Maybe somebody’s favorite singer.
His eyes were brown, glittering with a manic golden flecks. She hesitated, holding the screwdriver a foot above his face.
Then he went for her and she fell back onto the desk, knocking the computer to the floor.
Should have killed him while I had the chance. But maybe I’ve killed enough.
She kicked the broken bits of chair and loose rope from her feet and fled toward the door, Budget Bieber in pursuit. Before she could escape, The Captain stepped from the hall, blocking the doorway, and clapped his palms together. “Halt,” he shouted.
Rachel thought he was speaking to her, but no way in hell was she going to stop running until Budget Bieber was shrinking in the rearview mirror of her life. When The Captain repeated his command, she realized he was addressing the Zaphead, and by then she was at the door.
She shoved past The Captain and reached the relative safety of the hall, turning to see how close the Zaphead was to catching her. The Captain stepped into the room, raising one arm and pointing a revolver. “Stop now!”
The Zaphead paused only long enough to take his eyes from Rachel and fix them on The Captain. Rachel backed down the hall, even though the Zaphead had already forgotten her. A new target was closer. The Zaphead hunched for an assault, just out of arm’s reach of The Captain.
“Do not cross this line,” Th
e Captain said to the Zaphead.
He thinks he can communicate with it. He’s even crazier than I thought.
Budget Bieber looked at the gun as if harboring some dim memory of its capacity for harm, then snarled and jumped with outstretched arms. The gunshot roared and echoed down the hall, cordite filling the air. The Zaphead’s skull exploded like a bloated melon, spraying the study with flecks of red and gray.
“I told you to halt,” The Captain said, his voice just as steady as before.
Rachel looked from the Zaphead to The Captain, assimilating this new discovery of After. “Did you expect that thing to listen to you?”
“They must learn that violence is not the answer,” The Captain said, plucking the screwdriver from her hand. “A lesson you apparently need to learn as well.”
“But you and your goons jumped me and tied me to a chair. Doesn’t that count as violence?”
“You are worthy,” he responded. “He didn’t kill you.”
The Bieber Zaphead trembled in the center of the room, as if destruction was the source of his passion and grace. Without the raging intent to kill, he was just a teen. Harmless and lost, abandoned in a world that had changed for all of them. All of them.
“Great, so I’m worthy,” she said. “What about Stephen?”
“Who is that? Your dark-skinned friend?”
“No. The little boy who was out in the street.”
“Oh, him. I’m afraid…I’m afraid he isn’t worthy.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We would have ridden the horses right past it and never noticed.
Jorge cradled Marina against his chest and pushed through the thick rhododendron branches. The trail was little more than an animal path winding through the dense vegetation, but the man in the green jumpsuit navigated it as sure-footedly as a goat. The man paused once in a while to look back and make sure they were following, although he hadn’t removed his cloth mask.
