Jorge didn’t know, but he nodded. “Si. Let’s get back to the others.”
But that turned out to be easier said than done. Because a crowd of Zapheads waited at the front door, heads pressed, against the window, and hands tapping against the glass.
“Hell fire,” Wanda whispered. “Guess I should have been a little quieter.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“So, do we head for the hills or look for survivors?” DeVontay asked Rachel.
They had taken refuge in the cab of a pickup truck in the parking lot of a shopping center. He didn’t like being out in the open like this, but he had to trust Rachel’s instincts to protect them both.
Trust. A mutant. Momma was right; I have weird taste in women.
He was shaken by Willow’s death, the struggle with the Zapheads, and Rachel’s strange connection with the mutants. He’d assumed he could just prance in and haul her up on the back of his white horse and gallop off into happily ever after.
But this After was grim and gritty and gray, the air choked with ash and sparks, a nightmare rather than a fairy tale. DeVontay wasn’t even sure which direction was north, because the massive wall of fire had spread around the town, finding fresh fuel among the row houses along the outskirts. They weren’t in immediate danger of immolation, but the wind could turn at any moment.
“I can’t leave them,” Rachel said, face red from the flames.
“Willow told me most of them escaped during the attack. At least, the ones who aren’t dead.”
“It’s not the survivors I’m talking about. I mean them.”
She pointed to a hill where the courthouse once stood. Dark silhouettes milled among the mounds of steaming rubble, backlit by the red-orange of the great blaze beyond.
“What are they doing?” DeVontay asked.
“They’re looking for the other babies.”
“So they’ll find Bryan in the basement. I won’t be a baby killer after all.”
“The babies are their hope,” Rachel said, feverishly gripping his hand. “They’re really not so different from us. From humans, I mean.”
“If only eleven are left, the Army could wipe them out pretty easy. So much for a superior species. They can’t even change their own diapers.” Even with the rifle across his lap, DeVontay didn’t buy his own brand of bluster.
“The adults will regress without the children to guide them. At least until they join up with another tribe.”
“Another tribe?” DeVontay had understood intellectually that these weren’t the only Zapheads in the world. Groups of them were likely massing all over the world. He recalled all the Zapheads they’d encountered and fought through in Charlotte and Taylorsville, and if those numbers were multiplied by all the major cities, then this war would never end.
Oh, it will end, all right. When humans are extinct.
“It took the babies some time to master their talents, but they eventually knew how to gather into tribes,” Rachel said. “They see the value in social order, just as we do.”
Despite the glow of the fire, the golden glimmer in Rachel’s eyes was evident. As she spoke, DeVontay couldn’t be sure whether she was speaking for the Zaps or herself. He suspected his proximity was enough to disrupt her psychic connection with them, but he didn’t know the tipping point. A Zaphead could pass near the truck and send her right back into the strange trance of otherliness.
“So even if we beat them here, the next wave will eventually come along,” DeVontay said. “They don’t age, they don’t really need to drink or eat, and they get smarter every day. Plus their intelligence will be communal. While we get dumber and weaker and fewer in number.”
“Don’t forget the part where they can heal their own injuries. And heal us, too.”
“They won’t give you up without a fight. You’re the one that can help them figure out what makes us tick, and you can teach the babies about us in ways that books or their carriers never could. You’re special.”
“I’m not the only one,” she said. “Just the first for this tribe. There are dozens of Rachels out there, maybe hundreds, all of them caught between two worlds. And I sense most of them went over to the other side.”
DeVontay put his arm around her and pulled her close. She might be a mutant, or at least infused with whatever biomagnetic changes the solar storms had brought to Earth, but damn if she didn’t feel good in his embrace.
“You are special to me,” DeVontay said, and he cupped her chin and turned her face toward his.
She gave him a sweet, human smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look a lot better with your glass eye back in place.”
“That so? Well, did anybody ever tell you your eyes hold the light of the world?”
“This is why I can’t totally surrender myself to them. Even if it might help save the world.”
“Why what?”
She closed in, and her breath was warm and full of life. She was thoughtful enough to close her eyes just before their lips met, so DeVontay could forget all about mutants and doomsdays and guns and survivalist compounds. Their differing chemical compositions didn’t matter now, nor the color of their skins, nor the destruction all around them that spread to the four corners of the planet.
He leaned into her, hugging her more fully. He shifted his body toward her, cramped by the pickup’s bench seat and the steering wheel. The rifle slipped to the floor, butt first, the barrel blocking his knee.
His chuckle broke the kiss.
“Damn, this is more awkward than high school,” he said.
“Doesn’t feel very high school to me,” she said, teasing with her hands. Her cheeks were flushed by more than just the wafting heat, and her eyes harbored a brightness that was not just sparked by mutant electricity.
“Feels kind of natural, doesn’t it?”
“Supernatural, even.”
“Don’t go there.”
“How about here?” She slid against him, her limbs enveloping in his.
He pushed the rifle with his leg until it leaned against the steering wheel. Despite the carnage all around them and the Zapheads wandering the streets, DeVontay wanted this. They kissed again, her ardor almost hurting his mouth, her tongue insistently probing. He returned the kiss with an equal hunger.
The mighty blazes had warmed the air, but not enough to completely ward off the winter chill. Their bulky clothing shielded their intimacy, but they wrestled against the fabric as best they could. He suffered a stream of odd thoughts, even as he reached for the top button of her blouse.
What if I catch something? What if she gets pregnant? Will we have a Zaphead baby, a mixed-breed, or a human? Mulatto mutant. Wouldn’t that be something?
But those worries fell aside in the path of a biological drive as old as the Earth. He’d wanted this a long time. He’d been simultaneously afraid, horrified, and obsessed, all the while trying to lie to himself about his desire. Beautiful things had no place in After, and giving in to his desire was selfish in a world where all humans had to fight together if they wanted their race to carry on.
He’d walked hundreds of miles to be here.
He’d endured pain and hunger and danger to be here.
Hell, he’d killed to be here.
And there was no denying the surging blood in his veins, the pulsing in his body, and the pounding of his heart.
Rachel removed her lips long enough to whisper, “Is this crazy?”
He nodded. “What’s not crazy these days?”
He had three buttons undone, and of course she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breast was like milk and honey rolled into a pillow of heaven. Her own hands were busy exploring, expressing a familiarity with him that suggested she’d taken the journey many times already in her mind.
He was preparing to take a journey himself when three dull, metallic thumps rang off the side panel of the truck.
“Hey!” someone yelled. “You better come with us before the Zappers get you.”
&nb
sp; Damn. Won’t be any coming with ANYBODY at this rate.
DeVontay’s passion leaked away like a shriveled balloon bobbing along the ground long after the circus has left town.
Rachel folded her coat closed over her chest while DeVontay grabbed his rifle. A man’s face appeared in the driver’s-side window—his eyes bearing none of the fiery mutant gleam—and he wiped at the glass before realizing it was fogged from the inside.
DeVontay glanced at Rachel, who had more or less regained her composure, although her lips were a little puffy. And she was still half Zaphead. That hadn’t changed.
“Can’t get no damn peace in the apocalypse,” DeVontay said. “No peace at all.”
“Whichever way you want to spell it.” She smiled, and that made it all right.
He rolled down the window.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wanda sat on an uncomfortable couch in the reception area. “Shoot it out, or make a run for it?”
Jorge was surprised she even asked. Her pleasure at being reunited with a shotgun was plain. Add a splash of alcohol on top, along with a built-up resentment of the Zapheads, and she must be struggling to restrain herself.
“I want revenge as much as you do, but not like this,” Jorge said. “Even if we kill these, more will come, and where will that leave the others?”
“You got family. Me, I got nothing. I don’t care.”
The Zapheads slammed against the thick glass of the door. A crack appeared in the upper corner. There was more movement along the dark street.
“The back door,” Jorge said. “The alley’s probably still clear.”
They’d still have to cross the street at some point, even if they tried to find the rear of the café and seek entry there. Or they could hole up and wait in one of the back rooms, which would offer some security if the Zapheads managed to break through the front. But he’d already been away from Rosa and Marina too long. And he was horrified to admit that he no longer trusted his wife to look after their daughter.
“I’m tired of running,” Wanda said. “Time for a little payback.”
“I can’t.” Jorge retreated to the dim interior of the office.
“All right,” she said, as another spider-web crack appeared in the glass. “I’ll give you a couple of minutes to get out of here.”
She laid a box of shells on the receptionist’s desk. Although her plump, creased face was cast in shadow, Jorge could see her smile.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Just bring me that bottle out of McCutcheon’s bottom drawer before you go.”
“How did you know there was a bottle?”
“Zaps aren’t the only ones with a sixth sense.” She mushed her sibilants together, but seemed sober enough to make a suicidal decision. Jorge wasn’t going to argue with her.
Jorge retrieved the bottle from the bottom drawer of the desk. He thought about bringing another box of shells along with it, but Wanda would never live long enough to reload. He handed her the bottle, which had a good four inches of amber liquid in it.
“McCutcheon is a fine, uppity Scottish name but I’m glad the whiskey is Irish.” Wanda twisted the cap and toasted the Zapheads squeezed against the door and windows. “Cheers, folks.”
As she took a deep swig, Jorge made his way down the dark hall to the rear exit. He took one last look at the woman, not sure if he should be grateful for her sacrifice or angry that she was wasting herself on a meaningless confrontation. Even if she killed a dozen, it wouldn’t change the outcome here. The Zapheads would still outnumber them a hundred to one.
The back alley was barren, a red-orange river of light running down the center of it. Jorge stuck to the shadows and crept along the wall, keeping an eye out for movement not only along the intersecting streets but the doors and windows of the buildings across the way.
He let the .30-.30 lead him a block down, all the while bracing in anticipation of a shotgun blast followed by all hell breaking loose. The town was strangely quiet despite the destruction, like the aftermath of a storm.
Jorge took a side alley nearly clogged with vehicles and trash dumpsters, working his way through until he reached the street. Wanda must have held out to give him enough time to get well away from the crowd of mutants. While most of the street was clear except for the pack trying to reach Wanda, three mutants stood between him and the café two hundred feet away.
He slipped across the sidewalk, ducking behind the cars parked along the street. A dead body lay in the shadows in front of him. Jorge couldn’t tell whether it was human or Zap, and he didn’t really care. Everyone had their opportunity to escape. And death was probably preferable to whatever the mutants had planned for them all.
You know the plan. Like that baby said: Turn everyone into New People.
Whether dead or alive.
So maybe death wasn’t an escape after all.
Jorge’s rifle scraped against the side of a vehicle, and he froze. Raising his head to peek through the passenger’s-side window, he saw the three Zapheads moving in his direction. One of them took a couple of tentative steps.
Jorge didn’t want to shoot it out yet, but he might not have a choice. He ducked down and listened for their approach. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and held his breath.
At first he thought the nearest Zaphead was panting or shuffling his feet, and then he realized it was whispering. “Come now come here, come now come here.”
Then the words faded. They were moving away from him.
And toward the café.
Kuh-booooooom.
The shotgun blast triggered a shivering rain of falling glass, and Wanda’s drunken laugh followed the concussive echo that rang off the glass and brick storefronts. The three Zapheads didn’t head for the noise, and Jorge understood what that meant.
The babies are calling them.
The café would likely be secure enough to withhold such a small group of them. But what if Rosa let them in? Or Father Casey?
No time to look for a back entrance. Jorge sprinted across the street, waiting for the Zapheads to notice him. The shotgun boomed again, tearing a path of destruction through the crowd, although some of the mutants pushed their way into the shattered office windows. Wanda would likely be swarmed in seconds.
One of the Zapheads reached for Jorge as he passed. Impossibly, this one still wore a baseball cap that must have been clamped tightly to his head. He was four inches taller than Jorge and much heavier, and his right arm swung like a rotten log.
Jorge dodged the blow and drove his rifle butt under the man’s arm pit, then swung the barrel and clubbed the mutant’s skull. Although the cap flew off and a dark, wet furrow opened in the man’s scalp, he grabbed at Jorge again.
Wanda’s shotgun blasted two more times as Jorge danced away from his attacker.
And right into the thin, crablike arms of another.
This one squeezed him, her breath rich with rot, soiled clothes strong enough to smother the aroma of smoke. She moved with a lithe, animalistic fury, clawing at his chest. His insulated jacket protected him from harm, but he couldn’t twist free. Then her mouth passed over his neck and clamped down on his ear.
The pain ran through him like a live wire jabbed into his brain. He swallowed the scream that swelled up from his belly, but he couldn’t contain it all. The other two Zapheads closed in, still whispering, “Come here come now.”
The Zaphead’s teeth dug deeper into his earlobe. Jorge nearly dropped the rifle, catching it with one hand as his other arm jabbed backward at the mutant’s face and ribs. He relaxed his legs and let his weight drop—knowing and dreading the price of the maneuver.
He did scream this time, barely hearing himself over the red wall of agony that washed over him.
He rolled across the asphalt, skinning his knuckles but managing enough distance to raise the rifle. The female mutant’s eyes gleamed, a flap of Jorge’s flesh dangling from her mouth and dripping blood. The first shot struck he
r between the eyes, and they widened even as they dimmed.
Jorge worked the lever and reloaded before she even hit the ground, and his second shot struck the bulky mutant in the gut. That didn’t stop him, and Jorge clacked another cartridge into place, took his time despite his shaking, slick hands, and took off the left side of his skull.
The third mutant required only one shot, this one to the knee, and it collapsed and flailed uselessly after Jorge as he limped around it toward the café. He touched his ear and felt a ragged, slippery stub.
Wanda’s shotgun thundered yet again, and her colorful curses rang through the streets. She sounded hurt but strangely jubilant.
By now, the streets were full of Zapheads, pouring from side streets, alleys, and open doors. Although they still appeared confused from the earlier attack, they staggered closer, half of them coming for Jorge.
He’d never be able to shoot them all, especially without reloading. He hurried to the café and found the door locked as he’d instructed. He rapped on the glass with the tip of his rifle as he judged the speed of the nearest mutants. At most, he had twenty seconds.
He tapped again, and then called, “Let me in! Rosa! Marina!”
He peered through a gap in the curtains. They must have extinguished the candles, because the main room was dark aside from a dull, silvery reflection off the bar mirror.
Maybe you should have continued up the street and led them away. Even if you hole up here and manage to fortify the place, you won’t be able to hold them off for long.
But he couldn’t bear parting from his family yet again.
He pounded harder, frantically yanking the door handle.
He glanced behind him.
Ten seconds.
Jorge was already thinking of places he could hide Rosa and Marina as he drove the butt of his rifle into the café’s main window. The glass shattered inward and he climbed over the sill, cutting his palm in the process.
“Rosa!”
They had likely hidden in the back if they’d heard the uproar. But where? The storage room? Walk-in cooler? The kitchen? The bathroom?
After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) Page 8
