“They’re probably using this as a water source,” Franklin said. “Assuming Zapheads even drink water. We have no idea what their needs are.”
“The baby drinks,” Jorge noted.
Franklin didn’t want to be reminded of that blasphemous act. “One thing’s for sure, they’re moving in packs. These tracks are pretty fresh.”
“Should we follow the creek down?”
Franklin looked back at the animal path that meandered up the slope between the trees. He was tired. If they walked the creek until it reached the Elk River, they wouldn’t get back home before later afternoon.
“Think the women will be all right?” Franklin asked.
“Rosa is getting good with the rifle, and Marina is a sharp lookout. They will be fine.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Franklin sighed. “Okay, but keep your eyes open. I still think the Zapheads are after the baby.”
He and Jorge had had this discussion several times. Jorge didn’t believe the Zapheads were intelligent enough to track them all the way from the road to the top of the mountain, even if they’d understood what was going on. Franklin, though, never trusted conventional wisdom.
In big systems of chaos, the simplest answer was usually the right one. In his younger days, he’d concluded that the answer was the Illuminati, and then he’d come to believe that a small group of people—no matter how all-powerful and corrupt—would never be able to organize the behavior of billions of other people. Later he’d gone with the “foreign banker” theory, popular with the economic Doomsday crowd. That was a notch below the Illuminati in paranoia level and made a little more sense because greed was much more motivational than a desire to shape the future.
The wealthy elite had purchased most of the world’s governments long ago, leaving only the petulant tyrants in places like Iran and North Korea to resist them. And that was the source of Franklin’s fear of the military: even now, in a post-apocalyptic world, their imprinted marching orders would be to defend the elite.
Which made people like Franklin a threat, because he’d never kneel before the swine whose snouts had been buried so deeply in the trough.
“We’ll walk for an hour, and if we find nothing, we’ll head back,” Jorge said as a form of compromise.
Franklin didn’t like how the Mexican now seemed to be the one giving orders. This wasn’t a democracy. Franklin had built Wheelerville, and as far as he was concerned, he called the shots. He didn’t give a damn whether it was public land or not.
But he also didn’t want to be standing in the mud all day. Rosa was a talented cook, and she was probably fixing a stew or baking a pot pie of some kind. He’d put on several pounds since the Jiminez family had moved in with him. It wouldn’t hurt him to walk off a little of the extra fat, even though winter would soon be coming.
“All right, then,” Franklin said. “But watch your step. If you break a leg, I’m leaving you here for the coyotes.”
“Your hide’s too tough for them to chew through. You have nothing to worry about.”
Franklin had to chuckle at that one. Jorge and his family were hard workers, and he’d grown fond of them. Even the woman, Cathy, was a help in her way. If not for that little Zapper brat, the Wheelerville enclave would be just fine.
“How many of them you think are out there?” he asked Jorge, who was a good twenty feet ahead of him on the walk. Franklin resisted using his rifle as a crutch or cane. The footing was treacherous and they both had to concentrate on each step, or the wet leaves might skid out from under them and send them tumbling down the steep, rocky slope.
“I don’t know. If we’ve seen maybe a dozen out here in the middle of nowhere, there could be thousands in the cities.”
Franklin had been specifically wondering how many Zaphead babies there were, but the simplest answer was usually the right one. If there were thousands of Zapheads, then that meant hundreds of babies. He wondered how many of their mothers would let the little monsters gum their breasts. No doubt many of the mothers had died along with the mass of humanity.
But what if a Zaphead mom had a Zaphead baby? What if those things are out there breeding even now?
Franklin gritted his teeth. He just didn’t know enough about them. And he couldn’t plug into the preparation network to get answers, not with the satellites, electricity, and Internet down and the shortwave reception spotty at best.
They had walked maybe twenty minutes, covering another half a mile, when Jorge pointed to a worn path that wound away through the trees. The creek had widened into a slow, deep pool that would attract thirsty animals. The ground was level here, too, a natural shelf of rock covered with a thick skin of dark dirt.
“Footprints are heading that way,” he said.
“But they’re also still following the creek. Looks like the traffic splits off here.”
Franklin knelt to study the prints more closely. In addition to the tracks of deer, raccoons, and a larger animal that was probably a bear, the prints heading along the trail featured tread patterns.
“These were made by boots,” Franklin said. “Those following the creek are regular tennis shoes or work shoes, plus the bare feet. Even a hippie wouldn’t be stupid enough to climb up here with bare feet, so those belong to Zapheads.”
“And the boots?”
Franklin eyed the cinnamon-skinned man. “Uncle Sam’s finest.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Soldiers.”
“Why would soldiers be up here?”
“Same reason we are. So they can stay alive.”
The government was clever enough to put an installation along the Blue Ridge Parkway because no one would suspect it. At least, no one normal. In Franklin’s former circles, guessing the locations of secret bunkers was practically a drinking game.
“Then they can help us,” Jorge said.
“Who says we need help? Besides, these guys aren’t like the ones in picture shows. They would be trained for a situation like this. And I don’t think that training means helping civilians compete with them for available resources.”
“You mean they are a danger?”
“Troops are always a danger. Sort of like bullets. You don’t have them unless you’re pretty sure you’re going to use them.”
“We should go back now,” Jorge said. “The women might be getting worried.”
“No, sirree,” Franklin said. “I want to get a fix on them, learn their strength and habits.”
“We can come back another day.”
Franklin gloried in the gorgeous, colorful foliage in the trees. “All we have is today,” he said. “First rule of survival. Prepare for the best and prepare for the worst.”
“Excuse me, Franklin, but that sounds like two rules.”
“Don’t they have any yin-yang in Mexico? Tao and such as that?”
“I’m Catholic.”
“Then you’re already screwed. I never met a single Catholic that wasn’t expecting to burn away in hell forever.”
“I wasn’t expecting hell to come to Earth while I was still alive.”
Franklin grinned. “Good point. Okay, this time I deal the cards. We go down this trail another ten minutes, and if we don’t see anything, we call it a day.”
Jorge considered a moment, and then nodded. “All we have is today.”
Franklin gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “You’re learning.”
“I just hope I live long enough to become as wise as you. Another century should do it.”
“Move it, smartass.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Campbell awakened to the odor of fried ham.
Before he opened his eyes, he thought he was back at the summer house on Lake James, where the Grimes family went for Dad’s annual Fourth of July vacation. Mom, who was generally not a morning person, made it her duty to rise before daybreak and cook a big country breakfast, featuring enough cholesterol to choke a T. Rex. Bacon, sausage, salted ham, grits swim
ming in yellow margarine, scrambled eggs, dirty gravy, and toast dripping with butter, all washed down with orange juice and coffee.
Those breakfasts were one of the few times the family actually sat together and talked. Dad was a workaholic but, like Mom, he donned a new persona for that vacation week, relaxing and showing interest in the people he loved. Even his sister Caroline wasn’t totally an annoying brat at the lake. Campbell always thought they were acting like a television family during those times, that the whole thing was a sham.
But when he opened his eyes and realized where he was, and when he was, his heart longed for even thirty seconds of that long-ago mirage.
“You hungry?” Wilma asked, her voice as rough as if she’d already smoked a pack of cigarettes to celebrate the dawn.
After a steady diet of Beanie Weenies and Cheez-its, Campbell’s belly growled at the thought of a home-cooked meal. Even if the “home” was a filthy and cramped camper trailer in the deep woods.
Something rough and wet scraped across Campbell’s cheek and he turned to meet the wrinkled face of Peanut, who’d climbed into the bed.
That explains the stink. Well, part of it.
Campbell sat up, nearly bumping his head on the camper’s roof. Wilma had taken off his socks and boots while he slept. The sun was fully up outside, streaming through the gaps in the treetops to illuminate the tiny windows and reveal the extent of the clutter. Wilma hovered over the gas stove in the kitchenette, where a blackened iron skillet popped and spat.
“I haven’t slept in a bed in a week,” Campbell said. “I’m usually up and moving by now.”
“You been on the road since the sun sickness started?”
“I slept in a couple of houses, but there were too many ghosts.” Campbell reached for his boots and found that Peanut had gnawed the leather. “Even in the ones that didn’t have dead bodies in them, I felt like an intruder.”
Wilma turned from the stove and studied him, her spatula angled at her hip like a weapon. “Well, you can stay here as long as you like.”
“Thanks, but I better keep moving.”
“Scared of all the Zappers around here?”
“I’m scared of everything.” He recounted the brutal attacks in Taylorsville and how the soldiers there had been killing at random. He grew solemn after telling how his friend Pete was gunned down in the street as they were leaving town. “I like to think he was accidentally shot by friendly fire, but that doesn’t make him any less dead.”
Wilma slid some ham onto a ceramic plate that Campbell was glad he couldn’t see. “It’s dog eat dog out there, right, Peanut?” She flipped a piece of shiny gristle to the floor, where the mutt rooted it out from the folds of a filthy towel with lip-smacking glee.
Campbell navigated the stacked boxes of food and supplies until he reached the counter. He plucked a slice of ham from the plate and crammed it into his mouth, relishing its salty warmth. Wilma watched his face as he chewed.
Up close and in daylight, her wrinkles were even deeper, although her eyes were green and clear and intense. Her hair framed her face in wild, oily tangles, as if she’d given up grooming in the wake of the apocalypse. Campbell had a suspicion that her lifestyle had been much the same even before the sun had let loose with a vicious tsunami of charged particles.
“So what’s your plan?” she said, taking one of the pieces herself and chewing it in the side of her mouth that still had most of its teeth.
“Heading to the mountains,” he said. “Somebody told me there’s a compound there, at Milepost 291.”
He immediately regretted telling the truth. What if she wanted to come with him? He couldn’t imagine making any time at all with her dragging along, a mangy mutt trailing at their heels.
Maybe survival’s not a zero-sum game. Isn’t this woman a survivor? Maybe not the most shining representative of the human race, but she’s making it. And, you have to admit, she knows the territory.
“That don’t sound like much of a plan,” she said, still chewing, the scab on her lip greasy with pork fat. “Sounds to me like more of a hope.”
“Hope is something I can’t wrap my head around right now,’ Campbell said. “Mostly, I just need something to do.”
“Like I said, you’re welcome to stay here.” Her eyes narrowed. “As long as you want.”
“I…” Campbell didn’t want to disrespect her generosity and hospitality. After all, who knew what other tools and tricks she had to offer?
For all he knew, she was better situated than the people in the mythical Milepost 291 compound—assuming there were any people waiting at all. But he knew for certain that Rachel and her traveling companions were headed that way, and he had thought about her often in the days since Taylorsville.
He knew the obsession was silly, about on par with the crush he’d had on the married woman in the house next door at Lake James—a woman he’d spied secretly sunbathing topless but to whom he’d rarely ever spoken.
“Well, maybe I’ll rest here for a day and think about it.” He took a second slice of ham and fished a peach half from an open tin can. “I appreciate the offer.”
Wilma nodded, not entirely pleased, but she wasn’t giving up, either. “I can show you the Zapheads.”
Campbell didn’t comprehend her. “I saw them…last night.”
“Where they live.” She gave a distant smile.
“Live?” Campbell still couldn’t put it together. Because he couldn’t think of those mutant creatures as “alive.” But they had to sleep someplace, assuming they slept. And they probably ate. And they cared for their dead…
The ham in Campbell’s mouth now tasted like cardboard. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more. Zapheads were violent and deadly things. They were the enemy.
But he couldn’t not know.
“Show me,” he said.
“After breakfast.”
“Now.”
Campbell went to his backpack. It was open, the contents rifled. He thrust his hand in and groped around, then dumped the contents on the floor. “Where is it?”
“No guns,” she said. “I haven’t had a gun, and they haven’t bothered me.”
He flung the empty backpack across the camper’s interior. Peanut started yapping in distress. “I want my gun.”
The closet above the liquor cabinet had a lock on it. Campbell kicked at the cheap plywood, causing it to splinter. Wilma ran at him, but he shoved her away. He was in a panic, feeling helpless without his weapon.
His boot finally shoved through the wood and the door fell from its hinges. Inside the closet were more cardboard boxes. He pushed them over, digging through their contents. Nothing but soup, dried milk, bags of rice, round pasteboard cartons of oatmeal.
“Calm down, or they’ll hear you,” Wilma pleaded from her knees.
After searching the lowest box, Campbell sat on it, drained and embarrassed. Peanut yapped until Wilma tossed him a piece of ham. The dog snatched it up and proceeded to its milk crate, where it savored the meat with a great slobbering of lips.
“Sorry about the mess,” Campbell said.
Wilma laughed, a horrible, broken noise that could have passed for a death rattle. “You think you’re the first? I’ve had men. None of them lasted long. Because they all thought Zapheads were something to be killed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword.”
“Those soldiers—they shot that Zaphead and lived to tell about it.”
“For now. Don’t think their day ain’t coming.”
“I’m not leaving until I get my gun.”
“Let me show you, Campbell. Then you decide whether you need a gun. And whether you want to leave.”
Campbell’s anger threatened to return. He felt claustrophobic, and the grease in the air caused his stomach to roil. He needed fresh air. But when he reached the door, he discovered the padlock was keeping him imprisoned.
“You—” he shouted at Wilma, who sag
ged in the corner of the camper like a beaten boxer riding the ropes until the end of the round.
“I couldn’t let you leave. Not like the others.”
Others?
He could probably kick in the hollow metal door, but the noise might arouse the Zapheads. His anger melted to acidic pity. “Tell me all you know about them. And I’ll decide which one of us is craziest.”
“I…I’ll show you.” She moved toward him. Peanut growled.
“First,” Campbell said, “give me my gun.”
“After we get back,” she said. “Trust me. It’s the best way.”
He wasn’t sure he could trust anyone anymore. “I can’t go out there unarmed. I’ve seen what they can do.”
“They’re like dogs. They smell fear.”
As if to punctuate the woman’s words, Peanut barked.
Campbell was torn between curiosity and frustration. Even after the night’s sound sleep, he felt wired and raw, exhausted to the bone but with a brain running at a hundred and twenty miles per hour. He knew something was off, but he couldn’t connect the dots. He desperately needed to learn more about the Zapheads, as if there was some deep and useful knowledge that would help him survive.
And perhaps a knowledge he could share with fellow survivors.
The price of that knowledge was trusting Wilma, who was as unpredictable and wild as the people whose behavior had been forever altered by the sun’s radiation.
“Okay,” Campbell said, looking at the growling mutt. “But the dog stays here.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jorge was a little ahead of Franklin on the trail, so he was the first to come upon the body.
The dead man was in his mid-twenties, wearing khaki pants and a green T-shirt. His combat boots were clotted with dried mud. He was freshly shaven, eyes closed and sunken, a camouflage cap laying upside down beside his crewcut head. He was sprawled on his back, lying in the ferns as if he were napping.
Jorge gave an urgent wave of summons as soon as Franklin rounded the bend. Franklin raised his weapon, looked around, and then jogged over to Jorge and knelt beside the corpse.
After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) Page 7
