Earth Zero: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 2)

by Scott Nicholson

  So he owed Kokona his life. More than that, he owed her for these new opportunities.

  Let me kill her. Please.

  “No,” Kokona answered inside his head. “I still need her.”

  You have me.

  “You don’t know me like she does. And she’s been mine for a long, long time.”

  The girl—actually, she was a young woman with a figure that was just beginning to bud with curves—had skin not too much darker that Huynh’s, and the same jet-black hair. She didn’t speak Vietnamese like Kokona did, so Huynh had difficulty communicating with her. He understood English well enough to get along with his former human friends, but he couldn’t convey the complex ideas that now consumed him.

  Only when Kokona talked in his head did his own words make sense.

  Will you let me kill her when the time comes?

  “Yes,” Kokona said. “As my gift for your service. But until then, she’s mine.”

  So Huynh had sheathed his knife and waited while the girl drank her fill from the swift stream along the roadside. When he looked over her shoulder, he saw his own strange form rippling in the water. His eyes were on fire. He didn’t recognize himself.

  “You’re us now,” Kokona said.

  Huynh had only a vague understanding of what that meant. As a human, the soldiers had attempted to build camaraderie through training and fighting. But ultimately all of them acted in their own self-interest. Any time they engaged in battle, whether with mutants or monsters, they sought to preserve themselves above all, even at the risk of losing comrades or failing at the objective.

  Such a system wasn’t of highest efficiency. The best should be protected and preserved, just as he would gladly give his life for Kokona. They—the Us—needed Kokona more than they needed him.

  Besides, he wouldn’t really die. His raw material would be recycled and put to use for the greater good.

  Kokona helped guide him with a subtle directional pressure that was effective without words. As dusk settled, he no longer needed even that guidance, for he could see the pulsing, swirling column of color in the distance.

  Make war go home.

  Home lay beneath that tumbling, brilliant column with its violet and yellow lights. To others like him.

  Us.

  “I want to go back to the bunker,” Marina said, her voice thin and weary. She was straggling a few steps behind Huynh. She’d never tried to flee, which he didn’t understand—she must’ve known he’d killed those soldiers in the bunker—but Kokona assured him that she and Marina were inextricably attached. Not linked the way Kokona and Huynh were, but with a bond that Kokona had carefully nurtured over the years while Marina thought she was nurturing Kokona.

  “You’ll be able to rest in the city,” Kokona said. “And Rachel and DeVontay are going to be there.”

  “Nice,” the teen said. “What about Stephen? Is he there?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to say ‘probably.’ All roads lead to the city. We flow like water.”

  Kokona guided them off the road and into the forest, fearing the presence of humans. The route through the forest disrupted their view of the colorful column of light, but Huynh could sense its pulse now, like an embryo feeding from a mother’s heartbeat. Kokona stayed in his head, even as she spoke encouraging words to Marina.

  They had just crested a hill when Huynh saw the campfire below, with several silhouettes sitting around it. The river ran by the camp, swift and frothing, reflecting the aurora in its rippling current. The outline of a tent was visible beneath a giant oak tree, and the reflection of flames glinted off tin cans strewn on the ground.

  “Go around them,” Kokona told him.

  We would have to cross the river. I can no longer swim.

  “We can find a bridge.”

  “What is it?” Marina asked.

  A dog barked, and one of the silhouettes stood. He was holding a rifle. As the dog’s barking grew more frantic, Kokona told Huynh to return to the road.

  “What are you doing in the woods this time of night?” said a deep, scratchy voice behind them.

  Huynh turned to see a man in a hunting vest and knit cap pointing a pump shotgun at them. Huynh’s own weapon was slung on his back because of carrying Kokona. He’d never be able to wield it in time.

  “We’re lost,” Huynh said, the words coming to him from Kokona, who had her tiny eyes clamped shut.

  The man stepped closer, his eyes and nose the only facial features visible amid thick facial hair. “A soldier, huh? Where’s your unit?”

  “Dead,” Huynh answered. His English was much better now that Kokona controlled his thoughts and voice.

  “A young girl. She sure don’t look like your daughter. Is that her baby?”

  “No, it’s mine,” Huynh said. “We’re looking for Wilkesboro.”

  “You don’t want to go to Wilkesboro, friend. Nothing there but Zaps and ashes.”

  The man reached for Marina, who flinched and backed away. “She’s tired,” Huynh said.

  Huynh wanted to jump on the man more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. The compulsion was so intense that he was almost literally seeing red.

  “What’s with your eyes, friend?” the bearded man said. The dog was closer now, and Huynh was sure the people from the campfire were headed this way.

  “Too much sunlight,” he said.

  “You better come get some dinner. Not safe to be traveling out here at night.”

  “No, thank you,” Huynh said, with a politeness he didn’t feel. “We really should be going.”

  “Kind of rude to turn down an invitation. We all need to stick together now. The Bible says whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and He will repay him for his deeds.”

  “The Bible says many false prophets have gone out into the world.” Huynh had been a Mahayana Buddhist before moving to the United States, and he’d never opened a bible in his life. But Kokona had read the King James version several times in the bunker, enough to memorize most of its passages, with Marina turning the pages for her and helping with the clumsier words.

  “Well, I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” The man waggled his shotgun barrel at them. “Drop that rifle and get moving.”

  Kokona suppressed Huynh’s rage and ordered him to obey. The man had nearly forgotten Marina, who eased away into the dark shadows of the forest. Huynh switched Kokona to his other arm and shucked the rifle to the ground.

  The man picked it up and draped it across his shoulder, then yelled to the others in the camp. “Got us some company. A man, a baby, and a girl.”

  The dog barked wildly as they headed toward the campfire, Huynh calculating an opportunity to jump the man but Kokona preventing him from acting.

  “If you try, he will kill Marina.”

  “How old’s the girl?” an older man shouted back.

  “Old enough,” the bearded man answered. This drew a drunken laugh from the camp. “Also got a soldier. Must be from the same unit as that one we bagged earlier.”

  “I hope he’s got some C-rats. I’m sick to death of these canned pinto beans.”

  As they drew closer to the camp, Huynh made out two women sitting on the ground near the tent. The dog charged at him, snarling and growling, drawing more laughter from the two men.

  “He must not like Chinks,” said the older man, who wore a military cap and jeans jacket and had a bulbous red nose. Even from twenty feet, Huynh could smell the sour stink of liquor. “Or Chink babies.”

  “The girl looks Mexican,” the bearded man said. “Ever had one of them?”

  “Not for free.”

  “She’s just a child,” one of the women said. She was plump and wore a shiny vinyl jacket that featured some kind of sports logo Huynh didn’t recognize. Her blonde hair was tangled and hung about her shoulders in thick, oily strands. The other woman was hollow-cheeked and sickly, her eyes big amid the shrunken skin wrapped around her skull.

  “Sh
ut your trap, Marlene, or I’ll shut it for you,” the older man said.

  Huynh could see bundles of clothes and trash lying around the tent, as if the group had been there for several weeks. Several military uniforms were loosely folded in a pile, and two M16s leaned against the trunk of the oak. There were moist, dark stains on the clothes that Huynh recognized as blood.

  “Warren!” the older man shouted.

  The tent shook and seconds later, a teen emerged, dressed in a ragged T-shirt and gray sweatpants. He pushed at his bushy hair and said, “What?”

  “Got you a present.” The bearded man shoved Marina in the back with the shotgun, nearly causing her to fall. Huynh tensed but Kokona urged him to be still, even as the dog growled and bumped its snout against his leg.

  “Be like the Buddha.”

  “The girl’s worth keeping for a few days, but we don’t need these other two,” the older man said, slapping his rifle barrel impatiently against his thigh.

  “You can’t kill no little baby,” Marlene said.

  “That’s funny. I can do anything I want to, at anytime, to anybody.”

  “You shoot and every man-eating monster in a hundred miles will come running,” said the sickly woman.

  “Or maybe just the woman-eating monsters,” said the older man. He drew a pint bottle from his back pocket, removed the screw top, and gurgled down the last few inches of amber liquid. He tossed the empty bottle into the fire.

  “I’m going back to sleep,” the teenager, Warren, said. He looked about eighteen, sullen and pinch-faced. Huynh wanted to peel his scalp from his skull.

  “Boy ain’t got no appreciation for the finer things,” the bearded man said. “Gets it from your side of the family.”

  “The one with the shotgun is more dangerous,” Kokona silently told Huynh. “Take him first.”

  When?

  “Soon.”

  The older man drew his knife. “Marlene’s right for once. Shooting’s probably not a good idea. Better take them to the river and get rid of them.”

  Huynh went still like Buddha, waiting for whatever Kokona was planning. When the man with the knife was three feet away, the dog leaping around his legs in delight, Kokona opened her eyes and the flickering glare lit up his drunken face.

  “I’m Japanese, not Chinese, you racist fool,” Kokona said in her high, startling voice.

  The older man’s mouth gaped open in shock. Huynh tossed the baby to Marina, who somehow was ready, and then whirled toward the bearded man with the shotgun. This man must’ve been as drunk as the other man, because he swayed and the barrel of his shotgun wobbled in the air, his reaction impaired. Huynh launched into a kick, springing from coiled muscles, no longer like the Buddha at all.

  The shotgun exploded and the older man bellowed in pain and dropped his knife. A couple of pellets struck Huynh in one foot but he didn’t feel the pain, only the impact.

  Marina ran toward the woods with Kokona, the two women screaming for Warren. As the bearded man tried to pump another shell into the chamber, Huynh drew his own knife from inside his boot and plunged it into the man’s chest. The victim squealed and then choked as ropes of blood spurted from his mouth.

  Huynh turned toward the older man, who had fallen near the fire and was holding his belly. A red splotch spread along his jean jacket. He tried to sit up when Huynh approached. The dog launched itself toward him, but Huynh was fast. He kicked the dog in the ribs and it tumbled and then crawled off into the forest, whimpering. The two women had already fled and were out of sight.

  Huynh took his time slicing the man’s throat, letting the blood drip into the fire where it boiled away with a hiss. Warren crawled out of the tent, saw the carnage, and blubbered, “Duh-don’t kill me!”

  “Go,” Kokona said to him.

  As he vanished into the trees, Huynh wondered silently why Kokona had deprived him of another kill.

  Her telepathic response was cold and sharp and nothing the Buddha would ever say: “Monsters need to eat, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  President Abigail Murray couldn’t sleep so she rose from bed long before the dawn.

  Her residence was a lean-to constructed of loose sheets of tin, designed for privacy instead of protection from the weather. The temperature inside Luray Caverns was constant but chilly, so she often wore heavy clothing for comfort. This morning, she didn’t even dress, just eased into slippers, draped a blanket around her flannel nightgown, and headed through the caverns.

  Only a few lights were strung to alleviate the permanent dark inside the cavern. The shielded bunker in the heart of the caverns also held some gasoline generators, but those were only used in emergencies. Not many survivors chose to live at these depths, preferring instead to at least be able to see the distant haze of sunlight during the day.

  Some of the five-hundred-plus people living in and around the caverns never ventured outside, convinced of the sun’s constant ion bombardment, air-borne mutant viruses, and the more immediate threats posed by Zaps and monsters. Conspiracy theories hadn’t died with the apocalypse as she would’ve thought—they just shifted targets from political puppeteers to the natural world. The entire universe was against them now, not just foreign terrorists and shadowy cabals.

  The brusque odor of wood smoke hung in the air, drifting through the crevices seeking natural chimneys through the hills above them. As Murray walked through the clusters of tents with their sleeping occupants, she once again felt the weight of responsibility for their care. That was why she kept a residence in here instead of the secured and shielded bunker fifty feet below the surface, which had two guards posted around the clock.

  She was nearly to the cavern entrance when she heard the first low thrumming of a chopper. It had been running nightly recon missions in a three-hundred mile perimeter, seeking any human outposts that hadn’t been contacted by radio. A number had been found, ranging from populations of half a dozen to nearly a hundred, but the pilots were under strict orders not to evacuate them. The caverns had plenty of room but few resources, and gathering all of the region’s people in one area would be too risky.

  The Blackhawk’s red lights winked off and on as it approached from the north, a dark bug against the aurora-filled heavens. The landing would probably wake Helen Schlagal, but she was an early riser, too. Murray waved to the guard at the cavern entrance, whose face was lit by the glow of a cigarette. She was halfway to the base when the chopper’s engine hiccupped and died before catching again. It wobbled in flight, and now she could see a thin trail of dark exhaust trailing out from behind, whipped by the rear rotors.

  She ran toward it as it descended between the trees, taking an erratic path, its nose dipping precariously forward. She braced for an explosion, but instead the chopper slammed into high tree branches, the rotor blades chewing at the foliage. Then the chopper slid backward, its tail spearing the ground with a percussive crunch.

  Ground crew at the landing pad rushed toward it as the fuselage flopped forward and crushed the thin runners on which it landed. The windshield shattered and a small piece of metal whirred high over Murray’s head. By the time she reached the wreckage, the ground crews were already searching for personnel and standing by with fire extinguishers.

  Only two people were pulled from the wreckage. The pilot, Vicky Hardwick, suffered a broken arm and a vicious cut on the cheek, but her helmet had protected her skull when the windshield collapsed and the cabin crumpled like aluminum foil. The other occupant was her general, Arnold Alexander.

  Alexander’s shoulder sported a blood-stained bandage and his face was bruised. He was unconscious as he lay on the ground beside the chopper, and Murray knelt beside the medic attending him.

  “Alive but beat all to hell, Madam President,” the medic said. “I’ll have to run some tests, but barring internal injuries, he should be okay.”

  Murray left the general to the man’s care and went to where the pilot sat on a truck tailgate. “Warrant
Officer Hardwick,” Murray said in greeting, returning the woman’s salute. “What happened?”

  “We were on a routine recon to Baltimore and we spotted a strange column of colored light. We attempted to circle it but it created interference with our instruments. From what we could tell through the night-vision, the Zaps have constructed some kind of energy-collection process and machinery. Since the rest of the city is mostly leveled, we took some infrared photos and were heading back when we saw a similar light column in D.C.”

  “Two different ones?” That meant the Zaps were doing more than adapting to their environment, they were developing their own technology. She’d been secretly afraid of this development, because humans not only had no means of advancing their technology, they couldn’t even manufacture more of the weapons, ammo, and equipment they had left. The Zaps were progressing while the human race was slipping back to its Neanderthal roots.

  “We knew General Alexander was making a foray into the capital, so we made a sweep for aerial support,” the warrant officer said. “There were some firefights underway. We could see the muzzle flashes. We went in lower to provide support with our machine gun. We didn’t see any weapons in use by the Zaps, but the buildings were falling all around our troops. Some of them just collapsed on the spot, no sign of injury.”

  Murray’s gut tightened. Choppers flew with a minimum crew of four, so the fact that Hardwick was the only crew member to return was a bad sign. And Gen. Alexander would never abandon troops in the field—the old leatherneck would fight to the death first. “So you checked it out?”

  “When we landed behind what looked like the battlefront, where our trucks were parked, we could tell right away something was wrong. The air was vibrating and the ground seemed to have this little tremble you could barely feel. Like a thunderstorm when the electricity is gathering up to spit out a lightning bolt. There was no sound at all, though, besides the burning fires and the gunshots—no explosion or anything—and almost everybody dropped dead.”