After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5)

by Scott Nicholson

  “Yeah, but remember, we’re still way ahead of them. We’ve got guns and all of us can talk and think, not just our babies. Free will beats the hell out of communism every damn time.” His gumbo was starting to give him indigestion, or maybe the acid was caused by the implications of Hilyard’s words.

  “Every time until it doesn’t,” Hilyard said. “Now, we could send in a stealth team, figure out where the babies are, and take them out. But if they have some humans as hostages, then there’s going to be collateral damage. Plus, that only temporarily solves one problem in one place. There are likely larger Zaphead tribes in Charlotte, Greensboro, Raleigh, and Asheville. Not to mention Atlanta, Savannah, and on and on across the continent.”

  “Extraction, then?”

  “Yes. Go in, seize their babies, and then have a face-to-face powwow on our turf and our terms.”

  Franklin recalled the strange intelligence in little Joey’s eyes, and how Cathy had fallen so completely under his spell. He shuddered, thinking how close he’d come to killing the thing. Because, no matter what Rachel said, the Zapheads were monsters.

  “I thought official U.S. policy was to never negotiate with terrorists,” Franklin said.

  “I’m not very interested in cutting a deal. If these babies are so smart, I want to see if they can teach the Zapheads exactly what pain is. And why it hurts to die slow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “How many are out there?” Cathy asked.

  “Seven,” Father Casey said. “Two more left.”

  Rosa didn’t like waiting. They’d occupied several of the jail cells so that there were enough cots for all of them, but the plumbing was backed up and the smell was horrible. Any inmates who died here had already been removed, but the odor of death lingered about the walls.

  “I don’t like this,” Rosa said. “They’ve had Marina in there for at least an hour.”

  Not that she could trust her sense of time. The other carriers, who arrived over the morning with their infants, stayed in cells to the rear of the cell block. The babies wanted to meet in private, probably because they were suspicious of humans now, even the ones who carried and cared for them. They asked Marina to stay, though, which filled Rosa with pride but also spawned a little jealous resentment.

  They’re going to turn her, and she’ll take Rachel Wheeler’s place. And where will that leave me?

  “This is a critical time for them,” Father Casey said. “They’re facing another attack, and if they don’t have some way to defend themselves, the tribe is in trouble.”

  “If only the babies didn’t have to be together,” Cathy said. “I wanted to leave, but Joey said that would be treason.”

  “How could you even think that?” Rosa said. “What better purpose could you serve than to help the New People?”

  “I’m a mother first,” Cathy said. “Just because Joey is special doesn’t mean I’m willing to let him die for his tribe.”

  “You should be honored that he’s part of the council. Many years from now when they tell their people’s history, this meeting will be a legend. They might even consider it a mystical event, a time when their gods delivered a new nation to them.”

  “I doubt they’ll ever need a god,” Father Casey said. “Not like we do. They are strong and we are weak. We pray for miracles and then wait, but they don’t beg for miracles, they perform them. If anything, they are gods themselves.”

  “Then why are you here, Father?” Rosa asked.

  “I heard the call. Maybe God is hanging it up and turning everything over to the New People. What if the apocalypse arrived not with a trumpet blast but with a whisper? What if Babylon has fallen and this is the great rejoicing?”

  “And humans will be cast in the lake of fire to make way for people that have no sense of right or wrong?” Cathy said. “That would be the perfect atonement.”

  “Which sin was the original one? It wasn’t Eve’s disobedience in biting the apple. No, it was the human hunger for knowledge. It was the first time God was ever challenged.”

  “He’s achieved perfection, then,” Cathy said. “Little Joey is without sin.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Father Casey said with a laugh. “Do you not even see your pride at work? We’re fallible. We all come short of perfection. And the New People are perfect. Individually and collectively.”

  Rosa wondered if her desire to join the tribe was driven by jealousy. Yes, she was human. She knew hate and anger and perhaps even a lust for power. But surely all those things would pass away if she could only convince the council of her worth.

  Rachel Wheeler was granted a great gift and apparently rejected it. Why should Bryan, Joey, and the others trust another human with the knowledge they offered?

  Before Rosa could answer, the metal door to the cell block swung open. Rosa expected to see Marina, but instead it was a woman of maybe fifty that Rosa recognized from the school gym as one of the carriers.

  I’ll bet her breasts are far too dry to be worthy of them.

  The woman was weary, soot smudged on her cheeks, eyes bloodshot. She nodded and said, “And now there are eight.”

  Then she collapsed in a heap on the hard floor.

  Father Casey hurried to her side, checking her pulse. He looked up and shook his head.

  Two New People entered the cell block, young adults dressed in police uniforms they must have taken from the locker room. The clothes were ill-fitting, and the mutants wore no sidearms, but clearly they had learned either from photographs or through instruction by the council.

  They bent and collected the dead woman, then hauled her out with her feet dragging, one dirty slipper left behind.

  Rosa fought a surge of pleasure. One less carrier meant that her own value would increase. The mutants needed her now more than ever.

  “They worked her to death,” Father Casey said. “Used her up and tossed her aside.”

  “What a noble way to go,” Rosa said. “She sacrificed herself for the greater good.”

  “She was too old for this job,” Cathy said. “They should have stuck with us birth mothers.”

  “You were lucky,” Rosa said. “Most of the mothers died and will never know what a precious gift they gave the world.”

  They’ll need another carrier now! Marina is capable. She’s been helping me and she is comfortable with them. She knows how to tend them, and she’s only a few years away from producing milk for them.

  But why should each infant need a carrier now? A few of us can provide for all their needs.

  Rosa arose from her cot and went to the cell-block door, looking down the hall beyond. The door to the sheriff’s office was still closed, and the front entrance was unoccupied. She could hear the muffled conversations of the other carriers deeper in the cell block.

  “Where are you going?” Father Casey called. “They’ll be angry.”

  “They don’t understand anger, remember?” Rosa said. “They only know what we teach them.”

  “Come back here,” Cathy said, but Rosa slipped into the hall. Doors on both sides bore the names of various deputies and departments, including a double-bolted door that read “Evidence Room.” She tried the third door on the left, featuring a frosted-glass window that bore the name “Capt. Honeycutt.” It was unlocked.

  Cathy and the priest watched from the cell-block door as if held back by a force field, an invisible line they were afraid to cross.

  Great dreams require brave actions.

  That was something Jorge used to say, back when dreams consisted mostly of toiling tirelessly enough for a wealthy white farmer to remain in the United States. If we just work hard, follow their rules, and blend in, soon we will be Americans, he would say.

  Would he be proud of her for following this new dream?

  He would never understand she was doing all this for Marina. They’d always agreed that every brave action was designed to bring Marina a better future, and wasn’t that about to happen? Not in the way
they had imagined—no one could have imagined this, after all—but a new world with New People where skin color, economic status, and nationality no longer mattered.

  Capt. Honeycutt’s office had an outside window on the back wall, and the afternoon sun flooded the room. A metal desk was covered with papers, a coffee cup, a telephone, and a computer. The shelves along one wall were mostly bare, holding a few cardboard boxes, law books, and training manuals. A framed photograph on one wall showed a stout woman in a police uniform shaking hands with a man in a suit and tie. Rosa recognized the man from a photograph in the sheriff’s office, so she assumed the woman was Honeycutt.

  Another woman who fought for her dream, even though it was no doubt difficult to achieve her position in the rural South.

  But perhaps she didn’t fight hard enough. A rust-colored splotch on the floor trailed away to a long dark smear, clumps of hair dried into the stain. Short blonde hair like that on the woman in the photograph.

  Honeycutt must have been in her office during the initial chaos of the solar storms. Her attacker was probably someone here in the office, a fellow deputy or perhaps a prisoner. She wouldn’t have understood what was happening. Maybe in that split-second, she would have seen the strange, glinting eyes and reacted—

  By drawing her firearm.

  Although the New People had obviously carted the body away, they wouldn’t have bothered with her weapon. Several brass casings were scattered across the floor. Rosa knelt and peered under the desk.

  There.

  She retrieved the dusty pistol. She saw no safety mechanism and figured, even if there was one, Honeycutt would have disengaged it while fighting for her life. She didn’t know how to release the magazine, but if it filled the length of the pistol’s grip, and only four or five shots had been fired, there were likely plenty more.

  Enough.

  She thought about searching the office for more bullets or magazines, or maybe even an extra gun, but she’d already been gone too long. The council might want her, or more New People could enter the building at any moment. She stuffed the pistol in the back waistband of her pants, draping her jacket to cover it.

  When she returned to the hall, she found Father Casey and Cathy still waiting. Cathy waved her back to the cells. “Hurry, someone’s coming.”

  Rosa could hear high-pitched voices coming from the sheriff’s office. It almost sounded like an argument.

  That was odd, since the babies had an intuitive connection with each other, and by extension the other mutants. Rosa hoped the human influence wasn’t leading them into bad traits.

  She walked back to the cells, where Father Casey castigated her. Cathy sat with her arms folded, smoldering in rage as if unable to believe Rosa’s behavior.

  “Great dreams require brave actions, mujer,” Rosa said to her.

  “You little brown bitch, you could have gotten us all in trouble.”

  “Not all of us.”

  Rosa pulled the pistol from its hiding place and fired point-blank at the woman’s gaping mouth. The back of her skull painted the cell wall behind her red, white, and gray.

  The priest took one step toward her. “Rosa, what are—”

  Bam.

  He looked down at the little red hole in his chest, eyes wide in disbelief. He reached for it, and then his hand slid up to caress the silver crucifix hanging from his neck as he fell.

  The pistol wasn’t as loud as she expected, but her ears rang from the concussive echo. The cell smelled of cordite and bodily fluids.

  Shouts came from the other cells, and the four other carriers raced down the corridor murmuring and shouting. Rosa tucked the pistol behind her until they were all close enough to see the bodies, and while they were rigid with shock, she took her time and shot them one by one.

  There. Enough bullets after all.

  The gun was warm but she tucked it in her jacket pocket and knelt over the priest.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jorge was impressed with the grenade launcher, not realizing the military had developed such sophisticated ways to kill with handheld equipment.

  “It’s an M-32,” said the private, who had given his name as Rafferty, although he said his buddies called him Riff Raff. Jorge took that as an invitation and used the nickname, although he’d given his own name instead of letting the private continue to call him “that Mexican.”

  Cardenelli’s body was long gone, but several metal ammo boxes remained. Riff Raff rummaged through the boxes. “Got some high-frag forty-millimeters, medium velocity, along with some incendiaries, a few signal flares, and some smoke canisters.”

  “Let’s get off the street and you can show me how this works,” Jorge said, glancing around to make sure they were alone. The surrounding streets contained nothing but abandoned vehicles and a few yellowed sheets of newspaper that drifted along the pavement. Judging by the location of the courthouse ruins, they’d jogged about ten blocks, cutting back and forth to avoid the few Zapheads that were out.

  “Easy as pie.” Riff Raff was a little more relaxed now, either because he had a buddy again or because they were near the outskirts of Newton. “You kick this lever here, spin this chamber, and it opens up just like a revolver. Load six of these bad boys and lock back into place like so. You got a killing diameter of ten feet and a range of over a thousand feet, but you’re better off sticking with a few hundred feet. The sighting mechanism’s fried, but you can just look through this little window to spitball it. Close is good enough for horseshoes and grenade launchers.”

  “If I need more than six, I made a mess of the job anyway,” Jorge said.

  “What job? I thought we were getting out of here.”

  “My wife won’t leave until her baby is dead.”

  Riff Raff squinted at Jorge in confusion and disgust. “You gotta kill your own baby?”

  “Her Zaphead baby. She’s taking care of it because it’s stolen her soul. I only hope I can draw her away so I can blow it to bits.”

  “That’s some heavy shit, man.” Riff Raff looked up at the mountains in the distance. “I’d just as soon get back to the bunker. It smells bad and Sarge has got a serious case of cabin fever, but it’s safe and we have plenty of supplies. And I’m tired of freezing my ass off down here.”

  “Isn’t he planning another attack?” Jorge studied the weapon, making sure he knew how to operate it without Riff Raff’s instruction.

  “That was the plan, but he didn’t expect to lose anybody. There’s a whole lot more of them than we figured.”

  “What about the survivors in town? The ones captured by the Zapheads? Did your sergeant give any consideration to them?”

  Although Jorge kept his voice level, Riff Raff must have seen the anger in his eyes. “Naw, man, naw, you got that all wrong. We thought there might be a stray civilian or two hiding out in some of the houses, but we didn’t expect anything like this.”

  “You should try scouting next time. More of your men might make it back.”

  “Hey,” Riff Raff said, waving Jorge to stay low. They huddled behind a row of recycling bins as he added, “What in the hell are they doing?”

  Jorge raised his head enough to see a group of Zapheads emerge from a building a hundred yards away. At first he wasn’t even sure they were mutants.

  “Something’s not right,” Riff Raff said, “They changed their clothes.”

  Although their gaits were stilted and uncertain still, they weren’t dressed in the same shabby rags they’d been wearing since the solar storms. The clothes were ill-fitting and gave the impression of scarecrows, and they moved as a coordinated group. “Maybe they got cold.”

  “They don’t feel cold, or pain, or hunger, or anything like that,” Riff Raff said. “You remember the Zaps we captured, and how we tested them out.”

  “I remember how you tortured them. That was more for entertainment than for scientific reasons.”


  “So some of the guys got a little more into it than others. What, you going to report us to the United Nations?” Riff Raff laughed.

  Jorge ignored him. “Something’s changed in them again.”

  “Maybe somebody took charge. One of them smart babies you were telling me about.”

  “I don’t think it would be one of them. Maybe all of them together. Taking their next step into humanity. Or maybe step right over it while they stomp on us and crush us like bugs.”

  “Whatever,” Riff Raff said. “I don’t give a shit if they wear gorilla suits and foam cheesehead hats. I’m out of here.”

  Riff Raff stayed in his crouch, duck-walking down the street while keeping close to the stalled cars. Jorge watched him for a minute, and then turned his attention back to the Zapheads. With the grenade launcher, he could probably flatten that entire group of seven or eight, but he didn’t want to waste the ammo. A thousand grenades wouldn’t be enough to clear Newton of the infestation.

  He planned to continue his search for Rosa and Marina, but he was hungry. He’d not eaten since the evening before, and it was well after noon now. Plus he needed to change his bandage—his ear felt like it was on fire.

  Maybe I can ask little Bryan to fix it for me.

  He grunted a bitter laugh at his own joke and gathered the gear. He soon realized he wouldn’t be able to carry his rifle, the M-32, and the ammo boxes. He’d have to leave something behind.

  He turned and leveled his rifle at the sound of feet slapping hard against the pavement.

  Riff Raff was heading his way at full speed, his helmet in one hand, gun in the other.

  Behind him came a wall of Zapheads, maybe two dozen of them. All dressed in relatively clean clothes but with no sense of fashion or coordination—women in jeans with knee stockings, men in dresses and overcoats, teenagers in business jackets and gym shorts, some of them shod, others wearing caps and hats. A couple of them wore sunglasses that did nothing to diminish the fiery flashing of their eyes.