Half Life: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 6)

by Scott Nicholson

  Franklin almost added “if we live that long.” He recited the plan without really hearing himself, not believing a word of it.

  “That’s a hundred miles away,” K.C. said. “In case you haven’t noticed, we lost our Humvee and our horses. Unless we get lucky and flag down that helicopter we haven’t seen in a week, we’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”

  “And that’s worse than taking our chances with a bunch of armed psychos? What if we get caught between two rival gangs?”

  “It might be the military.”

  “To hell with the military. They’ve done nothing but get people killed. Or have you forgotten Colonel Munger using us as bait to lure out the Zaps?”

  “Not all soldiers are evil. They risked their lives for us in the Zap city. And we have no idea what’s happening out there”—K.C. waved to the world beyond the window—“or if there’s a chance of beating the Zaps.”

  “Zaps get stronger and we get weaker. Why is that so hard to swallow?”

  “Because you’re feeding me bullshit, Franklin.”

  She folded her arms and turned away, storming to the door. Franklin waited for her to leave, but she paused and lowered her voice. “I thought you were a fighter.”

  Then she was gone.

  Franklin clenched his fists, wishing he wasn’t sixty-five and tired and beaten. He wished the sun had never spewed its devastating flares across the sky, killing billions and changing most of the survivors into savage mutants. But even that might’ve been bearable if the Zaps hadn’t taken a detour along the evolutionary path. The mutants grew obscenely intelligent, developing clairvoyant powers and new technology that allowed them to harvest the excess electromagnetism in the atmosphere.

  Science had betrayed the planet and built a nightmare from the raw material of the human race.

  He gathered his rifle from where it leaned against the wall, checked once more out the window where the sunrise cast bloody gauze over the East, and went downstairs.

  Squeak had arranged the dolls around a coffee table in the living room. She’d neatly brushed each plastic head and set cups and saucers before the dolls. The tea party was complete with a cute blue kettle, and Squeak was busy pouring out a serving. The tip of her tongue poked between her lips in concentration.

  A drop spilled and she let out a cheerful “Oopsie!”

  K.C. brought a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and helped Squeak clean up the mess. Even though the farmhouse was just a temporary layover, it had the feel of home. Despite the lack of running water, the house was well-stocked thanks to Franklin’s forays into the surrounding neighborhood. The farmhouse was set in the middle of a ten-acre pasture which, although overgrown and pocked with saplings and scrub, offered a good line-of-sight for detecting possible threats.

  Maybe we should stay here for the winter.

  But K.C. was right. No matter the source of the gunfire, he should investigate. If it wasn’t a military unit, it was likely a rogue band of survivors—and most survivors were ruthless and desperate. They might see K.C. and Squeak as competition for scant resources. Depending on the disposition of their leader, they would either force all three of them to join their band or kill them on the spot.

  Zaps had no use for guns. Why should they, when they could build metal men and beasts?

  But bloodthirsty humans and a decimated military were not the only threats. Mutated creatures of flesh and blood prowled the lands, their genes perverted by whatever radiation and toxins filled the heavens. Franklin had been lucky during his supply runs, spotting only a few wild dogs and two-legged lizard things that were the size of a monkey. He’d been able to evade detection, but he doubted he’d be so lucky with K.C. and Squeak in tow.

  But killing time here in this mockery of a modern American family was worse than death. K.C. was right; better to meet Fate head-on than cower in a corner and wait for it to kick down the front door.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor between two of the dolls. He made an exaggerated bowing to each and said, “How do you do, me fine ladies?” in a terrible British accent. Squeak giggled, and K.C. flashed him a forgiving grin. Squeak poured him a cup of the tea, which was actually flat cola from a plastic bottle. He sipped with his pinky stuck out, feigning good cheer even though his arthritic knees sent flares of agony up his legs.

  After all the dolls were served, Squeak clapped her hands in satisfaction. Then she asked Franklin, “Who was shooting?”

  Franklin’s instinct was to lie and claim the noise was thunder. But this kid had been through so much. Didn’t she deserve honesty? If humans had a future, she’d be part of it. She needed as much information and knowledge as possible.

  And even if they made it to K.C.’s walled estate in the foothills, what kind of life would Squeak expect? Eventually he would die, and while K.C. was healthy for her age, the toxins would probably affect her long before Squeak. So the child might be left alone with few survival skills and nobody to help her.

  Finally, Franklin answered, after it became clear that K.C. was leaving the job to him. “I don’t know, hon. Other people, most likely, since Zaps don’t use guns. We don’t know if they’re bad people or good people.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we find out?” Squeak gave K.C. a coy look as if they’d set him up.

  “Maybe we should vote on it.” Franklin slurped noisily at his tea.

  “Sounds fair,” K.C. said. “All in favor?”

  K.C. raised her hand and then Squeak followed suit. Franklin set down his cup and grabbed the rubber arms of the dolls beside him. He lifted them up and said, “Looks like the majority wins.”

  They were packed in half an hour, knowing they were unlikely to return. K.C. still had the M16 she’d collected from a dead soldier in the domed city but only had two clips of ammo. Franklin carried a Glock 9 mil in a hip holster and had scavenged a Marlin 30-30 and three boxes of rounds from an empty house. The rifle wasn’t great for long range but it worked well in the forest. Plus, he liked the lever action—he felt a little like a rugged cowboy from the Wild West.

  They took enough canned food for two days. Squeak was allowed one doll, which she stored in her backpack along with some packets of freeze-dried fruit, a change of clothes that were a size too big, and a toothbrush. The sun had burned away much of the mist by the time they left, and the eerie skeins of colorful aurora were faintly visible overhead. The road passing beside the farm headed northwest. With no map, Franklin decided a direct hike toward the sound of the gunfire was the best bet.

  Besides, Franklin didn’t like feeling exposed on the open road. Even though abandoned cars cluttered the shoulders and ditches—many of them replete with skeletal passengers—the vehicles would likely offer little protection in the event of an attack. Traveling through the forest provided some concealment and also kept their senses alert on a primal level.

  At one point they came to a stream that flowed with greasy water. Franklin didn’t trust it, preferring the filtered rainwater they’d collected in metal thermoses. They were crossing the stream when Squeak slipped on a mossy stone and fell in. The water was shallow, but as Franklin reached to pull her up, he saw a four-legged, yellow-spotted salamander slithering toward them.

  It was at least three feet long, black eyes bulging from each side of its broad, sloping head. Franklin drew his Glock, not wanting to fire and give away their position. He dragged Squeak away from the water but the creature climbed onto the bank. Its gummy lips peeled back, revealing rows of jagged teeth. When a skinny red tongue flicked out, Franklin almost pulled the trigger and emptied the magazine.

  But before he could react, K.C. jabbed down with her K-Bar hunting knife and pierced the creature’s skull with a soggy crunch. Purplish goo oozed from the puncture. The salamander’s tail whipped back and forth for a few moments and then stiffened. K.C. withdrew her knife and wiped the sticky blood on the leaves and slipped the knife back into her ankle holster.

  “You’re losing it in your old age,” she
said to Franklin.

  “Oh, it’s been lost, darling.” He helped Squeak adjust her pack, wondering if the creature would haunt the young girl’s dreams. Or if they would encounter even worse.

  They reached the highway well before noon and although Franklin wasn’t exactly sure where they were, he chose a direction with such confidence that K.C. didn’t challenge him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Franklin thought he was doing a fine job keeping them out of sight while traveling parallel to the highway.

  But he almost walked right on top of the sentry. It was only when he heard a metallic click that he discovered the outpost.

  “Drop it, old man,” came a raspy voice from maybe twenty feet in front of them.

  K.C.’s reflexes were quicker than Franklin’s and she already had her weapon raised. But Franklin knew they had no chance since their opponent was in a secure defensive position. The redoubt was dug into the hillside, camouflaged by dead branches and shielded by a couple of fallen trees. It was so cleverly constructed that Franklin couldn’t see the man who addressed them even though he was looking right at the sentry post.

  “I know what happens if I don’t drop it,” Franklin said. “But what happens if I do?”

  “That’s not my call.”

  K.C. didn’t budge, even though Franklin waved at her to lower her M16. Squeak edged behind her and clung to her jacket with one trembling hand.

  “We don’t mean any harm,” Franklin said.

  “That’s what they all say,” the unseen man said. “But plenty of harm seems to get done anyway.”

  “I doubt if you can get both of us before we get a few shots off,” K.C. said in such a cold-blooded tone that Franklin wondered just how well he knew this woman who’d been sharing his bed.

  “Maybe, but do you really want to take the chance of getting that pretty little girl hurt?”

  “Sounds like you’re the dangerous one here,” Franklin said.

  “Maybe so.”

  Franklin shook his head at K.C. He didn’t expect her to obey, and he had no illusions of being her boss. But she must’ve pictured a spray of bullets sweeping across Squeak’s fragile body, because she tossed down her rifle, upper lip curled in disgust.

  Franklin bent down and rested his weapon on the ground and then eased the Glock from its holster and set it beside the rifle.

  “Solid decision,” the man said.

  He called to someone behind them. A woman came out of the forest, dressed in green camouflage trousers and a deerskin jacket. Franklin hadn’t even heard or seen her. He wondered how many other eyes and gun barrels were focused on the three of them.

  The woman collected the weapons, smiling at Squeak. “I’ll take you into camp. Just don’t make any sudden moves. I’m not as mean as Martin, but I’ll kill you if I have to.”

  “That’s a lie,” Martin called from his redoubt, still hidden. “She’s way meaner than me.”

  The woman swung her rifle to usher them onto the pavement and up the highway. “And don’t reach for that knife at your ankle, ma’am.”

  They walked a few hundred yards, and the forest thinned into a rural neighborhood, with houses sprinkled here and there among the trees. A set of fresh tire tracks were cut into the mud.

  “You’ve got a vehicle,” Franklin said to the soldier. “What unit are you with?”

  “You’ll have to ask the captain. I just work here.”

  “Do you know Abigail Murray?” K.C. said, keeping a firm grip on Squeak’s hand. The girl was silent but appeared somewhat at ease due to the soldier’s breezy manner.

  The soldier faltered despite her aloofness. “The president?”

  “Former president,” Franklin said. “She died when the city blew. But you probably knew that already.”

  “Yes, but how did you know?”

  “We were there with her,” K.C. said.

  The soldier looked stricken. “She was our last hope.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” K.C. said, taking on a mothering role despite having a gun pointed toward her. “As long as you have breath, you have hope. Right, Franklin?”

  Grrr. Putting me on the spot. “You got it. Nothing but blue skies.” He glanced up at the aurora-tainted clouds. “Well, make that fluorescent green.”

  They passed a house where two soldiers sat on the porch, smoking cigarettes. Franklin had indulged in an occasional cigar over the years, but he imagined any cigarettes that had sat in a cellophane pack for five years probably tasted like goat turds. But at least they didn’t have to worry about lung cancer. The Zap poisons would finish them long before manmade chemicals could do the job.

  “What was all the shooting about this morning?” K.C. asked the soldier.

  “Nothing. Just some metal buzzards.”

  They passed a BP gas station whose pumps were sheared off and windows broken. A couple of military transports were parked beside it, including a Humvee that looked like the one Franklin had stolen and then left behind. The two vehicles were mud-spattered and dented but looked operational, and a sentry sat in the cab of the tactical truck, eyes closed behind the wheel.

  The houses were more concentrated here and groups of soldiers walked about, paying them little attention. Franklin wondered how many civilians they’d brought into the ranks, voluntarily or otherwise.

  When they came to a concrete garage, the soldier stopped them, then fished in her pocket and gave Squeak a lollipop and a rub on top of the head. “Emergency use only.”

  Squeak smiled and said, “Thanks for not killing us.”

  The soldier was taken aback and quickly shouldered her weapon so as not to appear menacing. “I’m just doing my job, honey. If we all do our jobs, things work out better.”

  Ordinarily Franklin would’ve called out such nonsense as regimented fascism, but he couldn’t offer any better instructions for survival. He couldn’t help it—he chafed under any suggestion of authority. He was helpless, which annoyed him just as much as did the priests and politicians and tax collectors. K.C. noticed his discomfort and silently signaled that he’d better behave himself.

  “Prisoners to see Captain Ziminski,” the soldier said to a guard in civilian clothes who was posted by the open garage door. He nodded and entered the garage, indicating they should wait.

  “Ziminski. I recognize that name,” K.C said as Franklin pointed out the solar array on a steel frame angled against the building’s south-facing side.

  The captain emerged from the garage, looking scruffy and sleepy and way too young to be leading what looked like a sizeable outfit. “Let me guess,” the captain said. “You’re Franklin Wheeler.”

  “How come all you brass monkeys know my name but I don’t know any of you?” Franklin said.

  “Because you put a burr under the saddle of Colonel Munger,” Ziminski said. “He bitched about you to headquarters. And Munger knows how to carry a grudge.”

  “Give me my guns back and tell him to bring it,” Franklin said.

  Ziminski chuckled. “He’s hiding out in a bunker in the Virginia Mountains. He thinks he’s part of the new government.”

  “So they know President Murray’s dead?” K.C. asked. Squeak wasn’t paying attention to the conversation as she licked at the stale lollipop, evidently deciding this was an emergency.

  “No,” Ziminski said. “But let’s not get caught up in gossip. From what I know about you guys, you’re red-blooded patriots, but we have to keep some of this stuff classified.”

  “Sure,” Franklin said. “That makes you feel important. Rules and protocol and chain of command. Meanwhile, the Zaps are taking a huge shit on the laws of nature and nobody has the guts to stop them.”

  “The president did,” the captain said. “And the squadron she went in with. They’re heroes.”

  “More than that,” Franklin said. “She gave her life to take down that city.”

  Ziminski gaped at him open-mouthed for a moment, and then waved away the guard. “Come into HQ and tell me
about it.”

  “What’s in it for us?” Franklin asked.

  “News about Rachel.”

  At the mention of his granddaughter’s name, Franklin’s initial reaction was anger. But it was driven by guilt. She’d been used by the army and she’d been used by the Zaps, especially that tiny little tyrant Kokona, and the officer shouldn’t be disrespecting her memory. But the captain was probably just as protective of President Murray and her legacy.

  Memories and legacy won’t mean anything once the human race is extinct. Alien archaeologists of the future will discover a layer of irradiated plastic and conclude we killed each other fighting over which invisible man in the sky was the biggest and baddest.

  “Don’t be messing with me, or you’ll be in the same boat as Munger,” Franklin said. “I’m also a man who knows how to carry a grudge.”

  K.C. put her hand on his forearm to restrain him, and the guard, who watched them from a distance, stiffened and brought his rifle to bear. Ziminski was calm in the face of Franklin’s storm.

  “I’d never do that,” he replied.

  “Rachel’s dead, you son of a bitch. And I practically signed her death warrant.” Franklin had killed Kokona, severing the mutant baby’s telepathic connection with Rachel even though it would destroy his granddaughter. But he was willing to pay that price to defeat the Zaps. He just didn’t want to be reminded of it.

  Ziminski misread his expression. “She’s here with us.”

  Franklin’s heart skipped a beat and then jammed two beats into the space of one. “Where?”

  “She’s with us. She believes in our mission.”

  Franklin charged the captain, not caring that the guy was forty years younger and much stronger. Ziminski stepped to one side as K.C. growled at him. The guard fired a warning shot that sent the camp into a frenzy of activity. A dozen soldiers sprinted toward Franklin, including the woman who’d escorted them to the headquarters.