by J. Thorn
“Were you arrested?”
“They just wanted me to go dark. Even with all these new laws that let them throw anybody in jail forever without a trial, they knew that arresting me would draw publicity, and then more people would find my websites. So in a way, me going into hiding like this was the best thing for both of us. I’m fine with being a martyr, but I want it to be for the right reason, and the right reason hadn’t come along yet.” Franklin swept his gnarled, calloused fingers to the world beyond. “And now, the right cause came along, but there ain’t no Internet left.”
Jorge remained cautious. “So you want us to help you spread the word about your survival camp? If you help us, we can help others?”
“Hell, no,” Franklin said. “It’s too late for all that. I’m not even helping you. I just couldn’t let that little girl die.”
Jorge realized the old man did have a compassionate streak beneath his wary, antisocial façade. “We are grateful and we promise to work hard while we are here, and to leave whenever you ask.”
Franklin appeared not to hear. “My granddaughter, Chelsea, was Marina’s age when she drowned.”
Jorge had a good idea of the man’s pain because of his own worries. “I am truly sorry to hear that.”
“I was working on the camp even back then, using a network of dealers to get all these solar panels, wind turbines, water tanks, and such as that. I suspect the government had their eyes on me. Hell, I didn’t know which of those things flying overhead were hawks and crows and which were surveillance drones. They got ‘em the size of insects now…well, they did, I mean.”
Jorge picked a lime-green caterpillar from a collard leaf and studied it a moment before squishing it between his fingers. “Why did they let you come here if they knew?”
“Like I said, it got me out of the spotlight. I planned to bring my family up here, but by then my wife had left me and my kids and grandkids had pretty much written me off as a crazy old coot. The ones who didn’t were my granddaughters, Rachel and Chelsea. Rachel, she’s a real Christian, acting the way Christ taught instead of the way these idiot preacher politicians are telling people they ought to behave. You a religious man?”
Jorge had learned in the United States to always say he was a Baptist, especially in the South, but he saw little reason to lie to Franklin. “I was raised Catholic, but we haven’t gone to church much lately.”
“Never hurts to believe in something bigger than you. Just make sure it’s a thing of the sky and not a thing of mankind. Because mankind isn’t bigger than any of us. Mankind is not bigger than life. It’s exactly life-sized and hates to admit it.”
Jorge was trying to figure out what that meant when Franklin went back to his story, apparently used to coming out with random musings but just as quickly, discarding them. “Rachel was the only one who didn’t think I was a survivalist wacko. She said God needed the world to end in order to renew itself as a better place, just like Jesus had to die on the cross in order to save everybody’s soul. I guess there’s some comfort in that, since all the doomsday preachers use fear as a fundraising tool. She’d even been reviving some of my old websites, putting them under different names.”
“Did she get in trouble, too?” The sun was lower in the sky now, pushing shadows across the compound.
“She’d barely got started when Chelsea died.” Franklin swallowed with the bitterness of the memory. “They were out at the lake, the two of them, and Rachel turned away just for a second—had to go use the bushes. And she came back to find Chelsea face down in the water.”
Jorge wanted to offer condolences but decided silence was more respectful and appropriate. Customs were different in the United States, but shutting up worked in any language.
“In three feet of water. But she was a good swimmer. They did it to send a message.”
“They”? Does this man really think the government would drown his granddaughter?
Franklin spat in the dirt and stood, wiping his hands and picking up the basket. “Well, that’s when I came up here. Is your wife a good cook? I’m passable, but I keep it simple.”
“She cooked for Mr. Wilcox on weekends.”
“Well, this ain’t no fancy rich-people’s food, but it’s clean and free of poison and you can really taste it. So, let’s treat it like it’s The Last Supper.”
Jorge followed Franklin back to the house, wondering if they should leave far sooner than their host might wish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Holy crap!”
Campbell swerved his bike, narrowly missing the little kid. The front tire hit the curb and the bike flipped, pitching Campbell across the sidewalk and into the weeds along the side of the street.
Campbell had pedaled in the direction of the gunshots, figuring it was the most likely place to find Pete, and the first exit off the highway had led right past a gas station into a middle-class neighborhood. He had slowed, hoping not to get shot or attacked, but he had mentally prepared for any possibility except the one that had occurred.
His elbow throbbed and his knees were skinned, but no bones appeared to be broken. His first thought was that the kid might be a Zaphead, which would explain why he’d run out into the street toward the bike.
But the boy simply stood there, staring at Campbell, a baby doll dangling limply from one hand.
Definitely not a Zaphead, or he’d be on me while I’m down.
Campbell sat up, his shirt wet from a broken water bottle in his backpack. “Hi there,” Campbell said, in his friendliest voice, as if they were crossing paths on a playground instead of in the middle of the apocalypse.
The kid said nothing, merely hugged his doll. He looked about ten, an age when most kids were carrying baseball gloves and iPods and Gameboys instead of dolls. But he’d likely seen horrors that even the most violent video games had not displayed.
“Live around here?” Campbell asked, even though the street looked as dead as all the others he’d traveled over the last few weeks.
Had it only been a few weeks since the solar flares? The world felt as if it were covered in a great layer of dust already.
The boy’s head twitched just a little, which Campbell took for a negative shake. Campbell scanned the houses that bordered both sides of the street, vacant cars parked here and there along the curb and in the driveways, another neighborhood caught unaware when the catastrophe had struck. Human flesh was moldering and decaying behind those closed doors.
Campbell dug in his backpack and pulled out a granola bar. He unwrapped it and stood, holding it out to the boy. He felt like a parody of the stereotypical pervert, gaining a kid’s trust with a treat. “You hungry?”
The head twitched again, eyes peering warily from beneath the bill of the Carolina Panthers ball cap.
“What do you say we get away from the street?” Campbell said. “Might be some bad guys around.”
The boy’s lower lip trembled. “B-bad guys?”
Ah. So you know about the Zapheads. And yet somehow you’re still alive.
“Come over here, out of the street,” Campbell said. “Maybe you can help me fix my bike.”
The front rim was hopelessly warped, but Campbell pretended to check the bike’s condition. The boy eased a few steps closer and Campbell took a bite of the granola bar, chewing deliberately.
“Dang, I forgot this was yours,” Campbell said around a mouthful of honey-coated oats. “You can have the other half. I don’t have cooties or anything.”
The boy almost smiled. He came closer, loosening his grip on the filthy doll, which was wrapped in a makeshift bandana with a length of yarn wrapped around the waist to make a dress. Campbell nodded at it. “That doll’s really rocking that outfit.”
“She’s not real.”
“Nice of you to protect her from the bad guys,” Campbell said, checking both ends of the street for movement. “You must be a superhero.”
The boy shook his head more vigorously. “Just a boy.”
> “Me, too. Come on, let’s go over here out of the street.”
“Rachel made the dress,” the boy said, once Campbell had led him to a covered garage that at least gave the illusion of protection. A late-90s model Cadillac was parked inside, the chrome buffed, polished and gleaming like a mirror.
“Rachel? That your sister?”
“No, she brought me here after my mom died, but then she left me. We were going to Mi’sippi to find my dad.”
Jeez, what a heartless bitch. “Yeah, I lost a friend, too. I came here looking for him. His name is Pete.”
“I’m Stephen.”
“I like that name. If I ever had a kid, I’d name him that.” Campbell peered into the Cadillac to make sure it was unoccupied. The keys were in the ignition, taunting him. “Have you seen anyone else around?”
“After Rachel left, some guy in an Army suit let me out of the shed where she hid me. Said I was Zaphead bait and I’d better start running. So, I did. I didn’t stop until you almost run me over.”
So, Stephen knows what a Zaphead is. I guess they grow up fast these days or not all. “This guy in the Army suit? He was one of us? I mean, not a Zaphead?”
“I think there was more of them in a big brick house where DeVontay went.”
“DeVontay?”
“Rachel’s friend.”
“Can you show me the house?”
Stephen shook his head, squeezing the doll. “I don’t want the Zapheads to get me.”
“I promise I won’t leave you like Rachel did.” Campbell wondered if he was doing the same thing Arnoff had done to him and Pete, forcing him into servitude.
“Will you take me to Mi’sippi if I show you?”
“Sure, Stephen. Anything you say.”
“Okay, then. But you have to take Miss Molly, too.” Stephen held out the doll, as if testing Campbell’s commitment.
“Sure, all of us.Even DeVontay if he’s still there.” Campbell looked around the garage for a weapon. On the bicycle, he’d felt relatively safe because he could easily escape a Zaphead, even though they seemed to be faster and better coordinated now. If he was about to travel on foot, he wanted a way to defend himself.
But the garage offered nothing in the least bit deadly. The Cadillac’s owner was as meticulously ordered as the car’s condition suggested. Old issues of Car & Driver were stuck in plastic organizers on a set of metal shelves. Electric power tools were arrayed in a line along the wooden work bench, their cords neatly coiled around the handles. Bottles of motor oil, windshield washer fluid, and antifreeze stood at one end of the shelf, as well as a gasoline can. Campbell shook the can and it sloshed.
Great. Now all I have to do is toss this on a Zaphead, light a match, and walk away. Ridding the world of Zappers, one human torch at a time.
Campbell put down the gasoline can, and then remembered what Arnoff had said about the Zapheads loving to watch stuff burn. Maybe something in their short-circuited brains loved the simplicity of destruction, or maybe it was some deeply buried desire for purification that lived in the ghosts of their human selves. Either way, he might have a way to distract the Zappers until he figured out his next move.
You guys like to play firebug, let me get it started for you.
He twisted the lid from the gas can and poured it all along the bench. The fumes of the gasoline stung his eyes and made his head swim. He flung a trail of gasoline over to the Cadillac, wondering if it would blow like in the movies.
“You ever had a weenie roast, Stephen?”
“No, but my dad likes to barbecue.”
“Okay, then, think of this as one big backyard barbecue.” Campbell moved a few feet away, wondering if he’d spilled any gasoline on his clothes. He didn’t think he’d impress Stephen much if he managed to accidentally immolate himself.
He pulled one of the issues of Car & Driver from its rack. The cover featured a decked-out muscle car that looked like a ’69 Chevy Camaro. Campbell ripped a few pages from the interior and pulled a lighter from his pocket. He lit the corner of the twisted, makeshift torch.
“Okay, let’s roll,” he said to Stephen, tossing the torch onto the wet stream of gasoline, which had now soaked into the concrete. It immediately swelled into a thick, bright flame and spread outward in both directions, but they were out of the garage before it reached the Cadillac.
Campbell led Stephen across the backyard of the house, wondering if the Cadillac’s owner was taking the big sleep inside the house. Perhaps he should have checked. It wouldn’t have been right to burn another man’s car without asking, even though the big gas-guzzler was just another dinosaur now.
“We’ll follow the street from over here, then come around to the house from the back way,” Campbell said, the bonfire now crackling behind them as thick smoke roiled into the sky. “Think you’ll be able to find it again?”
“Yeah,” Stephen said, tugging his hand free from Campbell’s. “I’m not a baby, you know.”
“Well, I’m just a little scared.”
“But you’re a superhero.”
“Yeah, but I’m in my secret identity right now.”
“See that big tower? That way.”
Through the trees, Campbell could see a bulbous water tower framed against the scattered iron-gray clouds. The town’s name was spelled out in black letters across the circumference, but the first part was hidden, so Campbell was left to wonder where in the hell “-iston” was.
They climbed over a waist-high fence, Campbell boosting Stephen over after first transporting the baby doll. The rows of houses faced the backs of similar houses, and the gaps in the landscaping and fencing revealed yet another street, as if the neighborhood was just another homogenous suburb, with American flags, lawnmowers, and the occasional corpse lying facedown in the grass.
Campbell saw movement behind one of the sliding-glass doors and wondered if he should check for other human survivors. But then the glass shattered and a Zaphead staggered outside, a half-naked man wielding an aluminum baseball bat. Campbell pulled Stephen into the concealment of a boxwood hedge, covering the boy’s mouth so he wouldn’t call out. The Zaphead passed within twenty feet of them, headed toward the burning garage.
“Bad guy,” Stephen whispered after the Zaphead had vanished from sight.
“Yeah.”
They continued to pick their way across the yards. They came to a dead dog tied to a length of chain. Flies buzzed around the bloated body and the stench was overpowering.
“Why did Rachel leave you?” Campbell said, drawing Stephen’s attention away from the grisly scene of death and the blunt reminder of what was waiting for all of them.
“She went into the Army-man house to get DeVontay.”
“Why did DeVontay go in?”
“He thought there were people like us. You know, good guys.”
Campbell wondered about the wisdom of finding other survivors. So far, his luck had been pretty bad, and he wondered if humans under duress could truly work together for the common good.
Nothing like a good, old-fashioned apocalypse to blow that peace, love, and understanding horseshit to the moon.
“There’s the shed she put me in,” Stephen said after they’d crossed another yard that featured an unkempt vegetable garden. “She promised she’d be back. But the Army men came and let me out and told me to run or die.”
The door to the shed was open, and Campbell warily scanned his surroundings, wishing he had a gun.
“Somebody’s been in there since I left,” Stephen said. “They threw tools all over the ground.”
“Maybe Rachel came back.”
“Or maybe the Army men did.”
They heard a shout to their left, from the direction of the street. Campbell dropped to his belly and crawled along the ground until he saw the fight. A woman in military garb was fending off a Zaphead, and two bodies were piled around their feet.
“I’d better help her,” Campbell said. “You stay here.”
&nb
sp; Stephen grabbed the back of his shirt as he tried to stand. “No. She was one of the ones who told me the Zapheads were going to get me.”
“But she’s one of us.”
“If you help her, she might give me to the Zapheads again.”
Before Campbell could make a decision, the soldier solved the dilemma by plunging a knife deep into the Zaphead’s abdomen, ripping upward in a flash of silver and gush of crimson. The soldier’s high-pitched curses were likely to draw the attention of any other Zapheads in the vicinity.
The boy stared transfixed as the soldier shoved the dead Zaphead away and wiped her knife on the leg of her camouflage trousers. His face showed no real shock or surprise. Campbell wondered if this was how children reacted to warfare, after the repeated exposure ultimately gave way to numbness.
Welcome to the new normal.
“Where’s that house?” Campbell asked him.
“Ruh-round the corner, I think.”
“Okay, we’d better stay away from the street.”
By the time they’d crawled back into the relative seclusion of the back yards, the soldier had recovered and collected her rifle. Campbell didn’t want to be around when the Zapheads came out and the bullets started flying.
He was just about to start jogging when a female voice called out: “Stephen!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Rachel hugged Stephen, hardly believing he was alive.
Guess I owe you for another answered prayer, Lord.
They’d ducked into the nearest house after finding the door unlocked. A sweep had revealed that it was empty, the former occupants apparently packing hastily and heading off somewhere after hearing the news of strange phenomena. Pete checked the fridge, finding only molded food and half a bottle of Sprite that had long since gone flat, while Rachel discovered a hand-operated can opener and served Stephen a cold can of chicken soup. They gathered in the darkening kitchen, Pete creating a stink with a tin of sardines that he ate with his fingers.
