After (Book 3): Milepost 291 (23 page)

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Authors: Scott Nicholson

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BOOK: After (Book 3): Milepost 291

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CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

Franklin
’s knees were aching by the time the first gray hint
of dawn teased the eastern sky. The moist air had soaked his clothes, but he
was determined to push on. The trail had widened, with occasional wooden signs
describing plant species and more landscaping features that suggested formal
park development. When he saw the mossy picnic table, a surge of joy pushed
through the tired chambers of his heart.

The
terrain leveled somewhat, and he soon came to a restored cabin, the kind the
park service had preserved in an attempt to show tourists the hardscrabble life
of European settlers, although in truth their days had been less hectic than
those of salaried corporate commuters of the late, great Twenty-First Century.
The cabin was unlocked and abandoned, and even though the wide gaps in the logs
seemed to draft colder air inside than out and the dirt floor was no softer
than the forest carpet, he rested for a spell, knowing he’d soon arrive at the
roadway.

Franklin
reached the pavement just before dawn, a familiar
stretch that bore abandoned cars with license plates hailing from many
different states. Death had recognized neither boundaries nor luxury class, as
a primer-spotted Ford Fiesta shared the automotive graveyard with a Mercedes,
the occupants of both sharing the same speed of decomposition.

He
took a risk by walking the parkway—he was much more exposed to Sarge’s patrols,
since the road was easily viewed from the surrounding ridges—but now he was
eager to finish his journey.

He
came to Milepost 288 and rested again. For the final three miles, he stayed in
the high weeds along the road, even though the grass was thick with dew. The
sun was well up by the time he reached the concrete marker at Milepost 291 and
looked up the mountain where Wheelerville was hidden among the trees and
boulders.

He
took the logging road that wound to the peak. Even though he’d cut several
footpaths that were hardly noticeable to the casual hiker, he decided to stick
with the relatively easier route he’d used to haul supplies and materials to
his compound. Aside from the occasional beer can, there was no sign that
civilization had ever touched this rocky series of switchbacks and rhododendron
thickets. The air was rich with decaying leaves, muddy springs that smelled of
salamanders, and the heavy sweetness of goldenrod and snakeroot.

If
anyone had passed this way in the two weeks since he and Jorge had been away,
there was no sign of their passage in the loam and black dirt. He moved
quietly, like an animal, alert for both soldiers and Zapheads. He didn’t think
Sarge would have spared the resources necessary to locate the compound, but Franklin would never sleep fully as long as they remained regional neighbors. On the other
hand, any Zapheads would be more likely to encounter the bunker and its noisy
occupants than Franklin’s hideaway.

He
considered leaving some signs for Rachel, such as lining up rocks in formation
or breaking branches in a detectable pattern, but he’d given her enough veiled
clues about the compound’s location over the past couple of years. If she was
out there, she would find it.

If.

The
compound looked much the same as when he’d left it, with the gate open in case
Rosa and Marina returned. Goats milled around the compound, staying close to
home even though Franklin had released them from the pen to forage. The
chickens appeared fewer in number, likely thinned by hawks or foxes, but enough
remained to provide eggs and meat for the winter. Fortunately, the animals had
not broken through the fence to plunder the garden. The cabbages, broccoli,
potatoes, collard greens, butternut squash, and other crops were vital for his
survival.

Their
survival.

Franklin
had a feeling he wasn’t going to be alone when the icy
winds and snow swept over the Appalachian Mountains from the northwest. This
might be the last outpost of the human race, and he was more determined than
ever to stand against the hostile forces of the world, whether man or mutant,
nature or time.

He
checked the cabin, saw it was much the same as he’d left it, and then grabbed
his ax. He’d need plenty more firewood.

It
was going to be a long winter.

THE END

Thank
you for sharing this journey with me, and I hope you’ll take a moment to
write a review at Amazon
. Your reviews
help other readers find the books they like. Save the world from normal books!

Look for the other books in the
series,
After: First Light
,
After: The
Shock
, and
After: The Echo
.

After #4: Whiteout coming soon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Scott Nicholson is the international bestselling
author of more than 20 thrillers, including the
Solom
supernatural
series,
The Home, McFall, Disintegration, Liquid Fear, Speed Dating with the
Dead
, and the
After
post-apocalyptic series. His books have appeared
in the Kindle Top 100 more than a dozen times in five different countries.
Visit his website at
www.AuthorScottNicholson.com
or his
Amazon Author Central
page.