Afterburn: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 1)

by Scott Nicholson

  “They…one of them…,” she gasped. “Here.”

  “One of what?” DeVontay grabbed his rifle leaning against the wall and crouched by the window, lifting his head just enough to peer at the street outside. “I don’t see nothing.”

  Rachel hated her helplessness, but she wouldn’t allow herself to indulge in self-pity. “Zaps,” she said, and the word filled the cavernous room like a storm cloud.

  “Damn,” DeVontay said. “In Stonewall?”

  “I don’t know. Close enough to know I’m here.”

  “I don’t like this. No sign of Zaps for years, and all of sudden they find you on the same night somebody’s blowing up half the damn mountain.”

  The humming came again, as if the signal had to power up before delivering its message. Rachel tried to block it in much the same way her grandfather had shielded his tech gear from the solar storms.

  Call me crazy, but I’d give anything for a tinfoil hat.

  But she couldn’t build walls around her mind, and she had no way of knowing whether the words came from somewhere outside or simply birthed directly in her brain. Hatching like little alien reptile eggs. After all, she was them.

  DeVontay’s silhouette was reflected in the window. The lambency of her eyes would allow anyone or anything outside to know the building was occupied. She would have to close her eyes and trust DeVontay to protect her.

  “You’re charged up, like a battery,” DeVontay said. “I can feel it from here. Like you’d shock me if I touched you.”

  The hollow voice came to Rachel again, and this time it said her name.

  “I see it,” DeVontay said. He chambered a round into his M16 and clicked off the safety.

  “It knows I’m here.”

  “It’s not getting you.”

  Rachel strained to catch any signal that might be radiating from that mysterious mutant source. “I’m not sure it wants me. And there’s only one.”

  “You might as well look, then.”

  She opened her eyes and noticed their radiance wasn’t as brilliant as before. Their energy must have transmuted into something else, perhaps in summoning will to resist the intruding voice. As he looked out the window, which was fogged by their combined breath, the night seemed to grow colder and more mysterious, with only the brightest stars burning pinpricks in the aurora.

  The figure on the road seemed small and forlorn. It was about a hundred yards away, standing on the asphalt that resembled a silver-green ribbon in the strange light. The aurora was echoed in the windshields of the scattered, desolate vehicles, giving the air around the Zap a flowing, ephemeral quality. The Zap wasn’t moving, and just like its voice, the shape offered no suggestion of gender.

  When last seen, the Zaps had adopted human clothing—not surprising, given that they had begun their new state of existence as raging, primal humans whose minds had been erased and subsequently rewired by sunspots. But this mutant wore a one-piece uniform made of some kind of reflective material. The aurora reflected off the clothing much like it did off automotive glass. The Zap’s facial features were indistinguishable, but its head was topped with a dark, closely trimmed hairstyle.

  As exhibited by Kokona, Zaps didn’t age—they were fixed at whatever stage the solar storms had caught them. That was the one trait of theirs Rachel almost envied, but she was apparently human enough to fall prey to the slow decay of years. She couldn’t tell whether this Zap was old or young, and the overall appearance suggested an attempt at generic uniformity.

  It didn’t appear to be armed.

  “What kind of suit is that?” DeVontay asked.

  “Almost looks metallic.”

  “Like that damn fake bird.”

  “Maybe they’ve created some kind of synthetic material that’s got the strength of metal but the flexibility of fabric.”

  “That’s not no robot,” DeVontay said. “Not like the bird.”

  The Zap stood still, arms at its sides. Rachel wondered if she should try to communicate with it somehow—she wasn’t sure she was a transmitter as well as a receiver, since she could not longer link with Kokona. She also wasn’t sure she wanted to know. So much about her bizarre condition was a mystery, one she’d been happily able to suppress for years.

  Now the pigeons are coming home to roost. Now you’re going to find out the hard way.

  What if the Zaps wanted her again? What if they hurt DeVontay in order to get to her? What if they made her hurt DeVontay?

  She went to the bed where they’d been napping and retrieved her own rifle from beside it. She’d kill every damn one of them before she let DeVontay get hurt. And that went for Marina and Stephen, too.

  Kokona, however…

  She and Kokona shared a bond, but Rachel often suspected the hyperintelligent infant knew more than she was letting on. The baby’s physical helplessness masked a cunning, almost manipulative personality that was belied by those cute, chubby cheeks and dark, glinting eyes.

  When she returned to the window, DeVontay asked, “You going to shoot it?”

  “If I have to.” She knelt, put the gun to her shoulder the way her grandfather had taught her, pressed her cheek against the stock, and stabilized her elbow against the side of her knee. She focused on the sight so the target was just a shiny blur beyond it, clicked the selector switch from safe, and slid her finger inside the trigger guard.

  Leave us alone.

  She didn’t know she’d said the words aloud until DeVontay answered, “Maybe it’s going away.”

  But the mutant still stood silently on the highway, the black trees and bushes rising around it and a low autumn mist seeping in. There was no hint of dawn yet, so it was impossible to tell the hour. Perhaps time had no meaning to Zaps, since they didn’t age.

  “It’s waiting for something,” Rachel said. She maintained her sights on the mutant.

  “Waiting on you?” DeVontay said.

  “It quit talking in my head.”

  “It might follow us if we go back to the bunker.”

  “We can’t let—”

  She was interrupted by a burst of movement from the trees to the Zap’s left. There came a deep, gargling roar and a sleek silhouette bounded out of the shadows. It galloped with its torso low to the ground, claws audibly clicking on asphalt. It was the same size as the Zaphead, although leaner and four-legged. Even from this distance, its slanted eyes revealed it as a feline, and its snarling mouth held rows of jagged yellow teeth.

  The Zap broke from whatever stasis had consumed it and turned toward the rapidly approaching beast.

  “What the hell is that?” DeVontay said. “Some kind of saber-toothed devil kitty?”

  “That’s the world we live in,” Rachel said.

  She half expected the Zap to scream, or push some kind of panicked plea into her mind, but all she heard was the stealthy predator’s low, purring growl. The big cat closed the distance in seconds, and the Zap didn’t flee from the attack.

  The animal reached up with one mighty paw just before it reached the Zap, batting its prey to the ground. The Zap rolled onto its back, lifting its legs as if to kick the cat away but making no move to defend itself.

  The cat’s whiskered jowls descended and snapped at the Zap’s torso, but the teeth couldn’t penetrate the material.

  If it goes for the head…

  Before she could think, Rachel shifted her aim to the aurora-dappled fur of the cat. She squeezed off a three-round burst that shattered the window and resonated loudly in the warehouse. The cat yelped in startled pain and tumbled to the pavement, then rolled and began dragging itself away as if its rear legs were broken. Two wet gashes glistened along its flanks.

  “What was that all about?” DeVontay said, wiggling his ear with a finger to make the ringing stop.

  “Instinct,” Rachel said. She only hoped she hadn’t followed some sort of tribal compulsion to help others of her kind. She wasn’t Zap. She was human.

  No matter how many times she ha
d to remind herself.

  The silver-clad figure slowly rose to its feet and resumed its former stance as if already forgetting the assault.

  “It was going to be Meow Mix and it acts like it doesn’t give a damn,” DeVontay said. “Whatever Zaps are like now, they’re still weird as hell.”

  But before Rachel could answer, the Zap finally moved, turning its back on the warehouse and walking stiffly down the road toward Stonewall. It was soon swallowed by darkness.

  Its parting words were heard only by Rachel:

  Thank you.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The thunderstorm awakened Franklin Wheeler just as he was reaching a particularly salacious moment in his dream.

  There had been no signs of a coming storm, since the worst ones often pushed in from the northwest and were heralded by a drop in temperature and rising winds. As he peeled aside the old patchwork quilt and placed his bare feet on the cabin floor, he tried to recall which woman had been his subconscious romantic interest. Certainly not any of his four ex-wives, because he’d actually been enjoying himself. Probably someone from his college days, when he’d been something of a poet-philosopher and armchair revolutionary.

  Those interests led to no career paths at all, but they had impressed some sweet young things whose passion was often misplaced and confused for social justice. But they were as much a part of the past as his militia days, when he’d been convinced that preparing against the U.S. government’s aggression was a citizen’s highest duty. The trouble with being a leader, even though he was mostly an Internet rabble-rouser, was that you eventually got followers.

  Those followers included some of the most deranged crackpots to ever invade a message forum, and their threats of violence and mass destruction had drawn the attention of a host of federal agencies. Franklin had quickly unplugged from the patriot scene and, after a few inconvenient tag-team interviews by the FBI, ATF, and Department of Homeland Security, he’d gone so dark he could barely find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight. And those co-ed honeys were nowhere to be found after that, only women who were unfortunate enough to wear his golden ring for a while.

  Even though those dalliances of the past only came to him in dreams now, he was relieved to find the equipment still worked. Not that he had much use for it, but considering he was pushing north of sixty, he’d take whatever he could get.

  The thunder came again and Franklin shuffled to the cabin’s only window, scratching at the stained armpits of his longjohn underwear. His compound was surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence that was thick with impenetrable vines and poison oak. Even though he couldn’t see much of the surrounding forest, a portion of the sky was visible and it was mostly clear aside from a skein of thin clouds and the ever-present aurora.

  Maybe we got zombie weather to go with the man-eating monsters prowling the woods.

  The ruckus had riled the goats, and they bleated and kicked the sides of their pen. Grumbling, he slid his feet into his boots, slid his night-vision goggles into place, tugged a ratty oilskin outdoorsman hat onto his balding head, and grabbed the twelve-gauge pump from its rack. At times like this, he wished he didn’t live alone, but his solitude was best for all concerned—especially him.

  He exited the dark, cramped cabin to the relative agoraphobia of the compound. Since it was situated on the peak of a ridge, the enclosed half-acre almost seemed like it was built on a cloud, floating above the old world far below. But gravity was just as persistent here as anywhere, and Franklin felt the years as he slogged through the autumn mud to the pen.

  The thunder boomed again, punctuated by a faint, distant glow on the horizon.

  That’s not thunder. That’s some kind of military-grade ka-blooey shit.

  Franklin immediately forgot about the goats and climbed the wooden rungs up into an elevated platform nestled in the branches of a gnarled oak. From there he had a slightly better view of the valley, but with the autumn foliage still stubbornly clinging to the trees, he couldn’t locate the origin of the commotion.

  Explosions and detonations weren’t exactly rare. In the aftermath of the solar storms, those who survived the immediate Zap rampages eventually figured out they were in a war for the future of their race. So they banded together and collected what weapons they could, then destroyed as many mutants as they could. Scattered military units, like the one that had occupied the bunker Rachel and the others now possessed, wielded whatever armaments they could muster against the strange new enemy. Occasionally, those roving bands and the military fought each other or among themselves, so there was plenty of killing to go around on all fronts.

  But as the population declined drastically and the Zaps congregated in the largest cities, the explosions and gunfire diminished. While a migratory hermit or small group might fire a weapon at one of the increasingly odd predatory animals that stalked the wild, Franklin couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard such a fight.

  A civilian group likely wouldn’t own that much destructive power, anyway, especially this late in the game. Which promoted a less agreeable option: the military.

  Franklin descended from the lookout post and returned to the cabin. Dropping a blanket over the window, he lit a lamp fueled by pig fat and connected the battery converter hooked to his solar array. He plugged in his short-wave radio, hoping Rachel and the others had stuck to established protocol.

  He tracked the dial on his decades-old radio receiver until he had scanned all the bandwidths, picking up nothing but static. Most of the world’s communications devices were burned out, but the few that had been shielded from the sunspot activity were probably owned by the military and its surviving government. Franklin had made contact with a few paranoid hermits like himself, but they were as coy about their locations as Franklin himself, so he’d never established a wider network.

  Still, the radio was a convenient way to contact the bunker when necessary, even though anyone within range and under the right atmospheric conditions could eavesdrop. His equipment was far too crude and dated for encryption.

  Franklin figured he’d better risk it. No matter how many times he told Rachel, DeVontay, and the others, you couldn’t just instill sufficient paranoia. You either had the trait or you didn’t.

  Besides, whoever was blowing up stuff and shooting guns on the other side of the mountain was far to busy to be squatting beside a speaker.

  He triggered the mic. “Eagle One, this is Rhinestone Cowboy, you got your ears on? Eagle One, come in.”

  Franklin waited. He couldn’t hear any more gunshots over the faint hiss. The party was over.

  After thirty seconds, he tried again. “Eagle One, this is Rhinestone Copy. Talk to me.”

  He heard Stephen on the receiver: “Eagle One in the nest, Cowboy. What’s happening?”

  “Trying to get some sleep and heard some shitterhawks flapping around. Got me out of bed, so I figured I might as well jabber. What about you?”

  “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “How’s the weather down in your neck of the woods?”

  “Georgia’s hot year round.”

  On air, they maintained a fiction that Eagle One was in Georgia and Franklin was in Alabama, although in truth only five miles separated them. “Well, come on down and cool off in the swamp. We can net one of those atomic gators and eat for days.”

  “Hard to get the family together for a trip like that.”

  Franklin wondered why he mentioned the family. He didn’t want to use Rachel’s and DeVontay ‘s names, so he said, “Is Mom and Pop home?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  That meant they were on a supply run. This wasn’t good. Franklin used the code for spotting a stranger. “Are the neighbors behaving?”

  “Negatory, Cowboy. Definitely disturbing the peace.”

  So Stephen and the others were aware of the nearby shooting. Which was also odd, because the packed earth and rocks surrounding the bunker muted any outside noise. There were only t
wo ways Stephen could’ve known about the battle—either he’d been outside, or he’d heard something on the radio.

  That was easy enough to determine. “Do you have mud on your shoes?”

  “No, Cowboy, I’m clean enough you could kiss my feet.”

  The boy was taunting him, knowing Franklin couldn’t freely scold or punish him. “Well, just maybe I’ll come over and do that. And bring a hammer to smash your toes.”

  “If you hurry, maybe you can make it in time for breakfast.”

  So Stephen didn’t expect Rachel and DeVontay until morning. “What’s Mom and Pop cooking?”

  “Ham and eggs.”

  That wasn’t a code, and it made Franklin hungry. “Brew up some coffee and I’ll accept your invitation.”

  “Don’t kill yourself getting over here, Cowboy. Plenty of cups to go around. Three, in fact.”

  So Marina and Kokona were in the bunker, too. Good. He didn’t think Rachel and DeVontay should be taking the kids out into this hostile land, but maybe they must learn to survive like everyone. Kokona, though…that bizarre child was a constant reminder of her kind, and her helplessness seemed a little too convenient for Franklin’s taste. In five years, she hadn’t grown an inch, but her gaze didn’t miss anything—she was rapidly absorbing and analyzing the world around her.

  Possibly a tiny, drooling spy, but you can’t tell Rachel anything. Birds of a feather flock together.

  “Okay, Eagle One, hope the bed bugs don’t bite. I’ll catch you on the flipside.”

  “I read, Cowboy. Over and out.”

  Franklin disconnected the converter so as not to prematurely drain the battery. He began dressing in layers both to ward off the cool night air and hopefully repel the teeth of surprise predators.

  He collected a sidearm—an old-school Colt revolver—and clipped it to his belt along with a tactical combat knife. While most survivalists favored automatic or semi-automatic high-caliber rifles, Franklin liked the profile of a shotgun, as well as its absolute shredding power at close range. An M16 could knock down a target, but the twelve-gauge would turn it to soup.