After (Book 3): Milepost 291 (13 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

“You
sure you’re okay?” Campbell asked for maybe the tenth time.

Rachel
was almost annoyed. They’d logged maybe three miles before dawn arrived, and
even though she was holding him back at first, she soon regained her stamina
and was practically dragging him through the woods. She’d not felt so much
energy since the first panicky days of After, and her night vision was
remarkable, like she’d drunk some radioactive carrot juice.

They
had taken a path loosely parallel to Highway 321, through thin groves of ash,
poplar, and hickory where the branches were high and the forest floor thick
with falling leaves. Rachel figured they were maybe fifteen miles from the Blue Ridge Parkway. With some hard, steep walking, they could reach it by sunset. But she
wasn’t leaving the foothills until she found Stephen.

Now,
with the sun fully up, they were stopped for a breather by a creek. Campbell kept looking around for Zapheads, sweating despite the cool morning and the shade
of the autumn trees.

“They’re
not coming,” she said.

He squinted
suspiciously at her. “How can you be so sure?”

“I
would have heard them.” She cupped her hands in the creek and scooped some
water toward her mouth.

“I
wouldn’t drink that,” Campbell said, rubbing his bare feet. “Might be some
nasty microbes. We’re only a few months past the Pollution Age.”

Rachel
drank anyway. The water was swift and cold enough to hurt her teeth. It seemed
as pure as anything left in the world, scrubbing over sand and rocks while
cascading down from the high peaks. The taste had layers—tart, sweet, mineral.

“How’s
your leg?” Campbell asked, for only the third time.

She
unconsciously rubbed her calf where the dog had bitten her. She could barely
remember the wound, and she wondered if the fever had inflicted a form of traumatic
amnesia such as that reported by car crash victims. “Fine. Were you guys
seriously going to chop it off?”

“The
professor…he went a little soft in the head.”

“And
you were just going to go along with it?”

“If
you could have seen the rotten meat…Christ, if you could have
smelled
it.”

She
nodded at his foot. The nail of the pinky toe had torn free, and a cut on the
big toe oozed blood. “Maybe I should cut that off for you. Probably a sharp
rock around here somewhere.”

He
folded his foot under him so it was hidden from view. “I’m fine. But we ought
to check one of these houses.”

“I
don’t have time for shopping. I need to find Stephen.”

“What
if he’s holed up somewhere? You’ll never find him if you just wander around the
woods. Besides, what if he’s…”

“No.
Don’t even think it. He should be able to make it a few days on his own. He
grew up pretty fast.”

“And
if the Zappers got him?”

This
guy is a clod-head. It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long. Or maybe he’s just
lucky the Zapheads took him in.

She
stood, peering through the tree trunks. “I see a car over there. Probably a
house with it.”

Her
own feet were scraped and sore, but she refused to complain. She hopped from
one moss-covered stone to the next to cross the creek. She lost her balance and
nearly fell into the water.

Weird.
That was just a baby step.

“Hey,
wait up,” Campbell said behind her.

She
broke into a run, the morning air sitting in her lungs like water. Branches
tore at her clothes and skin, but a sudden exhilaration dulled her to the pain.
She lost herself in the moment, the dizzy dappling of the sun through the
golden and scarlet leaves, the high breeze rattling the branches and singing
across the stony slopes, and the cool, fecund soil beneath her bare feet.

She
broke into a clearing where the grass was ankle deep, and it took her a moment
to realize it was a lawn. Or used to be. Now it was just a stretch of scrubby
meadow leading to a small white house with black shutters, one that would have
been more fitting in the suburbs than here in the remote mountains. A Ford
pick-up was parked in the driveway, with a green Volvo sedan right beside it.

Campbell
caught up with her while she was scanning the windows
for any movement. “Looks dead,” she said.

“To
coin a phrase.”

She
started across the driveway, and Campbell followed, making little “ouch” noises
under his breath. It was only then Rachel realized the gravel was piercing the
soles of her feet.

Feet
must be numb from all this walking.

“Should
we call out?” Campbell said. “In case someone’s sitting behind the door with a
shotgun?”

“Why
would they shoot us? We have no weapon and nothing to steal.”

“Could
be Zapheads in there.”

“No,
I told you, none of them are around. They’re either back at the farmhouse or gathered
in other packs. When’s the last time you’ve seen one wandering around solo?”

“I
haven’t had much time to look, remember? I was kind of a prisoner.”

“Or
a guest. They never hurt you, did they?”

“Jesus,
Rachel. You heard the professor’s screams.”

“I
don’t remember.”

“Taylorsville, then. Where they almost killed you?”

His
voice annoyed her, as well as his reasoning. “I don’t care about them. I just
want to find Stephen and get to Milepost 291.”

She
looked through the Volvo window to make sure it was unoccupied and then opened
the driver’s-side door.

“Electronic
ignition is fried,” Campbell said. “Battery’s dead, too.”

She
ignored him and flipped open the glove box, digging around until she found a
map. As she unfolded it, Campbell warily looked around. With her finger, she
traced a line from the highway to the foothills where she’d gotten separated
from Stephen. “There,” she said.

“Where?”

“That
little community. Stonewall. He probably would have headed that way, because he
knew we were going north.”

“He’s
just a kid. How would he know directions?”

She
gave him a look as she folded the map. “DeVontay taught him how to use a
compass and the position of the sun. What about you?”

He
shrugged. “I dropped out of Boy Scouts. I’ve just been following the highway.”

“You
were heading north, too?”

“After
my buddy Pete got killed, I gave up on trying to reach my parents. Seems stupid
anyway, when they’re either dead or zapped. I’d just as soon not know.”

“So
you thought you’d just show up at Milepost 291 and be part of my grandfather’s
tribe?”

“You
think I have a
plan
? The professor kept talking me out of making a run
for it, but mostly I was afraid. Not afraid that the Zapheads would kill me,
but that I’d be out there all alone.”

She
shoved the map in her back pocket and headed for the house. “We’re all alone
now, even when we’re with somebody.”

Rachel
debated knocking but instead just tried the handle. The door was unlocked and
she stepped inside, bracing for the smell of weeks-old cadavers. Instead, the
air was a homey kind of musty, redolent of dried flowers, soap, and clean
linens. The living room held a padded sofa, a television, rows of books lining
the walls, and an out-of-place oil painting of a seaport bay. White lace
doilies were draped neatly over the sofa’s arms. The scene was so calm and
domestic—so normal—that Rachel was struck by a wave of nostalgia for her
childhood.

“You
okay?” Campbell asked again.

She
turned, enraged. “Damn it. All my friends are dead, I’ve lost DeVontay and Stephen,
and I don’t even know if my grandfather is a Zaphead. I may as well be hunting
for the Wizard of Oz or the Great Pumpkin. And now your fake concern is
becoming a pain in the ass.”

Campbell
didn’t flinch from her hostility. “I have my reasons
for asking, Rachel.”

“Yeah,
sure. Just don’t expect me to solve your loneliness for you.”

“It’s
not that.”

“I
don’t have time for games. Come on, let’s see if there’s anything here we can
use.”

She
was surprised at her hostility. She prided herself on controlling her
emotions—as a counselor, she’d cultivated an even temperament. She glanced
guiltily at him but he didn’t seem much affected by her criticism.

They
found a well-stocked kitchen, although they didn’t bother opening the fridge.
The cupboards held canned vegetables, dried grains, spaghetti noodles, and
three vacuum-sealed quarts of milk, and the pantry yielded some raisins and
dried apricots as well as bottles of apple juice. It was more food than they
could carry and plenty enough to get them to Milepost 291.

In
the hall closet, they found a backpack in which Rachel piled the food after Campbell slung the straps over his shoulders. They rifled through coats, shoes, golf
clubs, and plastic bins full of knit caps and gloves. Apparently a family had
lived here, because toys were scattered among the recreational gear and
clothes.

“We’ll
need this winter gear before long,” Campbell said, pulling a set of skis from
the collection.

Rachel
waved the ski pole like a fencing sword. “This might be more useful.”

Campbell
tried on a worn leather jacket that was a little
loose in the shoulders but otherwise comfortable. He added a black fedora taken
from the top shelf and pushed his glasses up his nose. “How do you like the new
me?”

“You
look like a Starbucks
barista
, which should really boost your career
prospects in After.” Rachel appropriated a sporty cotton jacket and found a
pair of blue sneakers that looked only a size too large for her feet. “I’ll be
checking the bedroom for socks. And don’t even think about those cowboy boots.
You couldn’t outrun a turtle in those.”

“Yeah,
they’d really show those coffee stains, too.”

That
drew a smile from Rachel. She didn’t want to be so critical of him, but he
seemed so crude and ungainly, so unrefined. So flawed.

What
do you expect? He’s been crapping in the woods for two months. Just like you.

The
door to the master bedroom was open, the queen-sized bed neatly made. Rachel
checked a dresser drawer and found jewelry, several hundred dollars in folded
cash, and an iPhone, all of which she ignored. The drawer below it held socks
and she selected a thick wool pair. She sat on the bed to put them over her
battered feet.

Campbell
appeared in the doorway. “Find any guns?”

“Nothing.
Must have been liberals.”

“Or
else they took their guns with them.”

Rachel
flopped back on the bed. “God, after sleeping on the ground for weeks, this
feels so nice.”

Campbell
stepped into the room. She looked up sharply. “Don’t
get any ideas.”

“I
want to show you something.” He went into the master bathroom and yanked apart
the curtains, letting light fill the space.

She
followed. “Checking the medicine cabinet for drugs?”

“Look
in the mirror.”

She
did. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt and small red scratches stretched
across her forehead. Her hair was in wild, dark tangles. She grimaced at her
teeth. They were a little yellowish. “Yeah, I could do with a makeover.”

“Your
eyes,” he said.

She
looked at them. They looked okay to her, maybe a little bloodshot. “What?”

“Those
shimmering little flecks. Like a Zaphead.”

No.
It’s just the light playing tricks.

“When
they healed you, something happened. You changed.”

“Shut
up.”

“That’s
why I keep asking if you’re okay.”

She
turned to flee the room but he caught her and held her, forcing her back toward
the mirror. She kicked him and caught him in the ribs with a solid elbow, but
he swiveled so she faced her reflection.

My
eyes. Dear God, what happened to my eyes?

She
started crying, and then wondered if Zapheads could cry. And then wondered if
Zapheads could be aware of being a Zaphead. Campbell held her while she shook
with sobs.

“You’ll
be okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

Better
than okay,
she told herself.
A
million times better.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

The
slaughterhouse doors squealed open sometime after sunrise, although DeVontay
had no idea of the time.

He’d
slept poorly on a bundle of feed sacks stuffed with straw, the whimpers and
cries of the children waking him repeatedly. Kiki must have spent most of the
night tending and comforting them. Several times DeVontay decided he should get
up and help her, but in the end he surrendered to exhaustion instead of guilt.

But
when the sunlight poured through and men shouted in rough voices, he awoke with
a start to find Stephen curled against his side. He sat up, blinking, and their
words came through the haze of sleep.

“Boy,
get up. Boss wants to see you.”

“I’m
not a boy,” DeVontay said, staring up into the twin barrels of a sawed-off
shotgun. It was held by one of the men who had escorted him to the compound,
Orange Cap.

The
man kicked his feet. “Move.”

DeVontay
stood and peered into the dusty depths of the shed. A few children came
staggering and squinting to the edge of the light. He didn’t see Kiki.

Orange
Cap waved the shotgun to motion him outside. Stephen scrambled up beside him
and took his hand, but Orange Cap tugged him from DeVontay’s grip.

“It’s
okay,” DeVontay said, smiling at the boy. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“What
if they hurt you?”

“If
the Zapheads couldn’t do it, I don’t think these guys can finish the job. Same
goes for you. You’re tough, and don’t you forget it, Little Man.”

Stephen
didn’t smile but his face relaxed in relief. “Okay,” he whispered.

“Aw,
ain’t that touching?” said the man with the shotgun. The other guard, who’d
waited by the door, was also armed, wielding a wicked-looking assault rifle.

As
DeVontay entered the blinding sunshine, Orange Cap said, “So how was
Angelique?”

“I
guess she was okay, considering I don’t know who that is.”

“The
young one. Unless you went for the old bitch. I had that, it’s like chewing
rawhide.”

“Maybe
he went for Island Girl,” said the other guard, spitting a thick brown stream
of tobacco juice. “Gotta love them brown coconuts.”

“Shit,”
said Orange Cap. “Ain’t nobody hit that yet. I got a feeling it hits back.”

DeVontay
finally realized they were talking about sex, and he wondered if the
slaughterhouse was run like some kind of brothel crossed with an orphanage.

The
community seemed larger and busier than he’d noticed the day before, and the
activity carried an undercurrent of anxiety and tension. A teenager groomed
three horses that were tethered to a car bumper. A handful of men checked
weapons piled in the back of a pickup truck. From somewhere came the smell of
frying bacon and DeVontay wondered whether it was vacuum-sealed meat from a
store or if the group had slaughtered a pig.

A
man walked out of a shed, a police belt around his waist and a sidearm on his
hip. He had wild dark hair, a faded rose tattoo on his neck, and a creased
expression, like a rock-n-roller gone to seed. In his right hand, he gripped a
carved walking stick. He tossed a cigarette to the ground and said to DeVontay,
“So who were you with?”

DeVontay
didn’t understand the question. “You must be Rooster.”

“Talk
to me or I’ll pluck out that glass eye and shove it where you can see your own
intestines.”

“You
mean who was I with last night?” he answered.

“No,
I meant your posse. Your tribe.”

“I’m
traveling alone.”

“Nobody
makes it on their own anymore. You would have been dead in the first week, dumb
as you look.”

That
drew a laugh from DeVontay’s escorts. DeVontay said, “I can take care of
myself.”

“Well,
I hope so, because we don’t carry any deadweight around here. If you can’t
contribute, then you only have two options. Exile or Zaphead bait.”

“I’ll
be happy to go.” He jerked his head toward the
slaughterhouse
. “Let the
boy come with me.”

Rooster
squinted and twisted his jaw. “I thought you traveled alone.”

“I
do…but he’s no good to you. One more mouth to feed.”

“You
must be DeVontay. He kept talking about you. Said you were going to show up
soon and kick our asses. Then he said you were headed on to Milepost 291. You
sure are a hero to him.”

Orange
Cap shoved DeVontay. “No wonder you didn’t nail the women. You’re a pervert.”

DeVontay
clenched his fists but realized a confrontation wouldn’t end well. He didn’t
think the men would shoot him. However, a beating would lower his chances of
escape.

“He
was also talking about a ‘Rachel,’” Rooster said. “That your sweetheart?”

“Man,
he’s such a pervert that he does them two at a time,” said the other guard,
which drew a snicker from Orange Cap.

“I
met them on the road, but we got separated,” he said. “I haven’t seen her in
two weeks.”

“What
about Franklin Wheeler? You ever heard of him?”

“I
heard of him, but that’s about it.”

Rooster
nodded. “That glass eye is fucking with me, but your good eye says you’re
telling the truth. I like to keep up with the people in my territory.”

“I
didn’t know this was yours,” DeVontay said. “Did you get elected or something?”

“I
worked here,” Rooster said, waving the walking stick in an arc to indicate the
compound. “Lots of cattle, holding pens, storage sheds, feed silos. We had to
put up chain-link fences because the hippies would come in with video cameras
and post on the Internet about how we were inhumane to the cattle. Same fucking
hippies that probably stopped at McDonald’s on their way home. Too bad their
cameras didn’t work when the Big Zap went down, or they would have seen
plenty
of inhumane treatment.

“I
was one of the lucky ones. Only a few of the other workers were around that
day. They all died except one, and I took him down pretty fast with a
sledgehammer. After I figured out what was what, I saw this was the perfect
place to ride it out. When I made some forays into Stonewall, I found other
survivors, and they joined up. We’ve got thirty-one able-bodied men now.”

“And
only three women?”

Rooster
shrugged. “‘Survival of the fittest’ is a bitch.”

“But
you’re keeping kids prisoner, too.”

“I
like to think of it as ‘protective custody.’ If we’re going to rebuild this
world, we’re eventually going to need a new generation.”

“That’s
why we need breeders,” Orange Cap said.

“Why
don’t you do it yourself?” DeVontay challenged. “Can’t get it up?”

That
drew another hard shove from Orange Cap, but Rooster waved him off. “A warrior
needs to save his strength and keep his mind focused. We’ve got plenty of enemies
that require our energy.”

“Guess
that means I’m not a warrior?”

“That
depends. Is your loyalty with us or with the U.S. government?”

DeVontay
looked around at the compound, where a man was ladling out some type of
porridge onto ceramic plates set along the back of a flatbed truck. “I don’t
see any government.”

“You’re
not looking hard enough. They’re all over the place. One bunch of them, we
already erased. A group that came up from the south.” Rooster pointed to a
flapping tunic that was ripped and rippled with rusty blotches, fluttering
gently from the exhaust pipe of a tractor. DeVontay noted the captain’s bars on
the shoulders and wondered if it was the same officer who had captured him in Taylorsville.

Getting
captured is turning into a real bad habit of mine.

“But
there’s another platoon holed up near the Blue Ridge Parkway, camped on those
slopes,” Rooster said. “They’re well-armed and they’ve been dipping down here
into the valley more and more. Three days ago, they killed a couple of our men.”

“Maybe
they mistook you for Zapheads,” DeVontay offered.

“Doesn’t
matter. They’re a threat and they need to be cleaned out. Just like Wheeler. I
heard rumors he set up a compound on the ridge. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s
squirreled away enough explosives to blow us all to hell and gone.”

“I’d
say the Zapheads are a bigger threat. They’re moving in packs now.”

“Sure,
but they’re slow, not as aggressive as they were.” Rooster lit another
cigarette. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here. We haven’t lost anybody to
Zappers in nearly a month.”

“And
that was only Sam Duggers,” Orange Cap said. “No big loss.”

“Lots
of Zapheads in Stonewall,” DeVontay said. “They nearly got me.”

“We
didn’t see any,” Orange Cap said. “None of our scouts have, either.”

“None
around,” Rooster said. “The army is our biggest threat. But one of our men saw
an old man who fits Wheeler’s description. Crotchety old asshole with a beard
like a possum. He was with three other people. He’s invading our turf, too.”

Shouts
came from the main gate, and a man on horseback thundered into the compound.
The horse galloped up to Rooster and the man swung out of the saddle before the
animal had come to a compete stop. The rider was dusty and haggard, a rifle
slung over his shoulder that nearly slid off as he regained his balance.

“Zaps,”
the man gasped. “Lots of them. Heading this way.”