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

“Maybe
so,” Sarge said, fishing a cigar from his shirt pocket and nodding toward the
pit. “But I bet we kill off
their
kind first. And your kind, too.”

“Get
down there,” said the unshaven soldier, who appeared to be second-in-command.
He jabbed Jorge in the back again.

Franklin
pushed past Jorge to the opening in the barbed wire.
“Can’t smell any worse down there than it does up here with you bunch of
assholes.”

The
Maglight and cheers followed his progress. Jorge thought about running, but
getting shot wouldn’t help Rosa and Marina. Plus he felt a strange loyalty to
Franklin Wheeler. The stubborn old man had gone against his instincts and
helped the Jiminez family. With a last glance around at the wild, sweating
faces, Jorge scrambled over the edge, clinging to the rocks as he descended.

The
Zapheads moved to one side of the pit, pressing their backs against the dirt. Franklin crouched in a defensive posture, but Jorge just waited for their reaction. Their
odor carried a faint metallic tinge over the stink, and it mixed with the swampy
air of the pit. Someone hurled a stone from above and it
thunked
off the
arm of one of the Zaphead men.

The
stricken Zaphead didn’t make a sound but erupted into a flailing fit, and the
other two Zapheads broke into a similar frenzy. Their rage didn’t seem directed
at Jorge and Franklin, but the soldiers hooted gleefully from above anyway.
More stones rained down, a couple of them bouncing off Jorge’s shoulders. The
three Zapheads went berserk, waving their arms. The nearly naked female was
struck on the bare belly by a rock, and her body drew back from the impact but
she didn’t wince or cry out.

“Don’t
move,” Jorge said.

“The
faster we get this over with, the faster we’re out of here.” Franklin balled
his fists and headed for the Zapheads. They didn’t seem to notice him at first,
but one of the men spun and elbowed Franklin in the chest.

“Damn
you!” Franklin grunted, as the soldiers let out a cheer. Shouts of “Smack her
around” and “Kick some Zap ass, grandpa!” emerged from the chatter above them,
as well as what sounded like men placing bets.

Jorge
tried to grab Franklin but the old man shrugged him off and swung at the
closest Zaphead. His fist pounded into the man’s temple, dropping him to his
knees. A stray rock bounced down from above, hitting Franklin on the cheek and
drawing blood.

He
stooped and grabbed the rock and flung it wildly back up at the soldiers, who
laughed. Then the Zapheads bent and grabbed rocks and made awkward tosses. The
one Franklin had punched stood and wobbled toward Franklin, his fists clenched.

“Come
on, shitterhawk,” Franklin said, his eyes bright and wild.

The
macho aggression of the soldiers lent the air an electrical charge. The
Zapheads seemed to feed off the energy, growing more frenetic in their
flailing. The pit wasn’t large enough to allow evasion, and they struck Jorge
as he tried to dodge. Now he was scared—they were out of control, mindless,
dangerous, their eyes glittering like bomb bursts.

The
older Zaphead wrestled a wedge of stone from the wall of the pit and raised it
over his head. Franklin charged and lowered his shoulder into the Zaphead’s
gut. The Zaphead grunted as air exploded from his lungs. The impact carried
both of them into the scantily clad female, who danced away and slammed into
Jorge. Her bare skin repulsed him, and the heat of her body was a perversion of
eroticism. He looked into her eyes for any sign of understanding, but the only
thing there were the mad yellow sparks, made even more brilliant by the
Maglight shining down from above.

“Give
it to her, Taco!” one of the soldiers yelled. Sarge’s boisterous laugh rained
down on him, antagonizing Jorge even more. As Franklin wrestled with the
Zaphead he’d knocked the ground, the woman and the second Zaphead closed in on
Jorge. The claustrophobia sent a jolt of panic coursing through him, and he
lunged forward to escape.

The
woman raked at his face, her dirty nails drawing blood. He clenched his fist to
punch her but old-world chivalry gave him pause. Then the other Zaphead slammed
his spine just below his shoulder blades and his lower body went numb. As he
dropped to his knees, fear rolled over him like dark water on a shipwrecked
man.

“Jesus,
Jorge, get off your ass and fight back,” Franklin yelled, knocking the woman
aside and grabbing the Zaphead by his shirt. He yanked down on the man’s torso,
lifting his leg at the same time so that his knee drove into the Zaphead’s
face. Blood spurted from the victim’s nose and mouth, and he spat a tooth onto
the ground.

The
soldiers cheered at the site of blood. Jorge looked over at the first Zaphead
Franklin had attacked, who was now rolling slowly to his feet. Franklin took two giant steps and kicked the Zaphead in the belly.

“Surely
you can handle the woman,” Franklin said. “If you ever want to see your family
again, it starts here.”

Rosa
had shot a Zaphead to protect Jorge. A kind and
gentle woman, she’d been horrified at her actions, but she’d also done what was
necessary to protect her family. Could Jorge do any less?

Jorge
let his fear morph into rage and he lashed out with his fists. The soldiers
bellowed and cheered, more stones rained down, and the Maglight cut dizzying
arcs around the dark pit. Jorge had seen videos of rave dances, and this
tableau had the same kinetic mania, only with a soundtrack of demented rooting
rather than throbbing techno music. His fist smacked against soft skin, and he
wasn’t sure who he was striking, but he punched again into yielding flesh. The
woman whimpered and the yellow sparks in her eyes danced madly. She crouched
like a tigress, her fingers curled like claws, lips peeled back in a sneer.

Jorge
was struck from behind and his legs gave away. The damp dirt jammed into his
mouth and nose, its ancient decay clotting his senses. He shook the descending
gray veil from his head and kicked backward, connecting with the Zaphead, but
the woman was on him, her naked body wrapping obscenely around him as she bit
at his neck. He tried to buck her off like a bronco tossing a rodeo cowgirl,
but she clung tight.

He
rolled instead, so that she was beneath him, and then drove an elbow into her
stomach and crawled free. At the edge of the pit’s shadows, Franklin grappled
with the bloody Zaphead.

“Okay,
we’re done here,” Sarge shouted, and that must have been a command, because the
words were followed by the crack of several rifles.

A
stray bullet pinged around the stones of the pit as the three Zapheads fell.
Jorge wiped cold sweat from his face as he looked down at the woman. Her eyes
were open but they no longer glittered, just reflected the muted light like a
dying planet slipping away from its star.

Franklin
rubbed his raw knuckles and squinted up into the
lights and the crowd of soldiers ringing the rim of the pit. “Who’s next,
assholes?”

A rope
dropped down the side of the pit. “Guess you passed the audition,” Sarge said.

CHAPTER
THREE

Rachel
limped through the forest, straining her ears for any sounds of leaves scuffing
from Stephen’s footfalls.

The
boy must have a snake phobia, or perhaps his post-traumatic stress had merely
been sleeping beneath the surface and waiting for a chance to erupt. But with
dusk settling in, the dark forest offered even more horrors than a venomous
snake could.

She
was afraid to call out in case any Zapheads were nearby. Rachel wondered if the
Zapheads could smell her—the infection in her leg, her sweat, the
watermelon-scented shampoo she’d used by a creek in a futile attempt at
normalcy. At least the Zapheads had quit yelling. Although the noise allowed
her to track their locations and movements, she preferred the silence, even if
the calm was only an illusion.

A
branch snapped somewhere ahead.

She
crouched low and leaned against a tree, peering into the darkness. She heard a
soft female voice: “Do you see it?”

That
doesn’t sound like a Zaphead.

Rachel
waited, guessing the speaker was maybe fifty feet away. Another female said,
“Over there.”

The
gunshot was like a thunderclap in the night calm of the forest and a whine
overhead clipped through branches and leaves. Rachel instinctively ducked
lower. In the brightness of the muzzle flash she’d made out a small collection
of silhouettes among the tree trunks. Two adults and a child. One of the
adults, the one not pointing the rifle, carried a bulky bundle.

“Did
you hit it?” said the first voice.

Zapheads
didn’t use guns, as far as she knew. And they didn’t speak in sentences.

“Who’s
there?” said one of the women.

Definitely
not a Zap.

“Rachel,”
she answered. “Don’t shoot. I’m…normal.”

Which
also didn’t sound like something a Zaphead would say, so she was probably safe.
Still, she kept the tree between her and the rifle.

“What
are you doing out here in the dark?” asked the woman.

“Looking
for a boy. Have you seen him?”

“You
know what’s out here, don’t you?”

“Zapheads.”
Rachel walked toward the group. She sensed more than saw one of the women pull
the child protectively close. She thought for a moment it might be Stephen, but
this child was shorter, and Stephen would have called out. “They heard the
shot. They’ll be coming.”

As
she drew closer, Rachel saw a soft radiance emanating from the bundle of
blankets held by the woman. Rachel dug two of the glow sticks from her backpack
and broke them, casting a circle of sickly green light that was barely bright
enough to reveal the group. One of the women was probably early thirties,
hugging a girl slightly older than Stephen. Judging by their similar straight
black hair and nut-brown skin, Rachel judged them to be mother and daughter. It
was this woman who held the rifle, its barrel now pointed at the sky but held
with an easy confidence, as if the woman could bring it to bear in a heartbeat.

The
other woman hugged her bundle to her chest. She was Rachel’s age, maybe two
years younger. She was blonde and dirty-faced, a long red scratch across one
cheek. She looked scared and tired and brittle, as if a sudden wind might cause
her to collapse in a heap of bones.

“Do
you have a camp?” Rachel asked the woman holding the rifle, who was obviously
their leader.

“We
came from one,” the woman said. Her tone was neither welcoming nor threatening,
as if she were feeling out Rachel’s potential for danger. “But we had to
leave.”

“We
were about to bed down in a cave, but Stephen—he’s the little boy I’m looking
for—saw a snake and ran. Now he’s lost.”

“They
have him now,” said the blonde woman carrying the bundle.

“I
haven’t seen any lately,” Rachel said, assuming she was referring to Zapheads.

“They
have him,” the woman repeated with cold conviction.

“Well,
then I’ll just have to get him back.”

Rachel
had no idea which way to go. She was also reluctant to leave the group of
females. Besides Stephen, she hadn’t seen a human since they’d split with
DeVontay two weeks ago. She didn’t want to think about him; he’d sacrificed
himself to lure away Zapheads so she and Stephen could escape. He was probably
dead, despite what she’d told Stephen.

Stephen
might be dead, too.

No.
She’d lost her sister and she wasn’t going to lose Stephen. “Where are you guys
from?”

“Up
on the mountain,” said the woman with the rifle. She spoke clipped, clear
English but her accent was Spanish.

“That’s
where I’m headed. As soon as I find Stephen.” Her leg was killing her, but
Rachel didn’t dare sit down. She flicked the light among the surrounding trees,
checking for the reflection of glittering eyes.

“Milepost
291,” said the blonde woman.

“What?”
Rachel couldn’t believe it, even though the location couldn’t have been more
than fifteen or twenty miles away.

“A
compound. We were holed up there, but…” The woman clasped the bundle more
snugly to her chest. “Joey told us to leave.”

The
bundle wriggled and emitted a soft cry.

A
baby?

But
if this woman was telling Rachel the baby was talking to them, then perhaps
they’d been affected by the solar storms. While billions had been killed and
others mutated into becoming Zapheads, the intense electromagnetic field
fluctuations could have caused a wide range of effects on the human brain. It
wasn’t like anybody was studying this stuff in a lab, and she’d had little
opportunity to observe them. She’d been too busy surviving.

“This
compound,” Rachel asked, scanning the forest around them once more. “Was
Franklin Wheeler there?”

“Mr.
Wheeler,” said the woman with the rifle. “Yes. He saved us.”

He
survived!

Rachel’s
heart started pumping faster, and the pain in her leg surged in giant waves.
And she realized that her hope had been only that—she expected him to be dead
and the compound a fantasy land. “Can you show me how to get there?”

“No!”
shouted the woman with the baby. “Joey told us to leave. Bad things are
happening.”

A
regular little Nostradamus there. That’s a pretty safe prediction.

Rachel
addressed the woman with the rifle, who now seemed like the sane one of the
bunch. “Franklin’s my grandfather. I’m trying to find him.”

“He
wasn’t there when we left,” the little girl said. “The baby made us go.”

“Go,”
the baby said.

Rachel
wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. The bundle thrashed and a small arm poked
out, pale fist balled in indignation. “Go,” the baby repeated.

Judging
from the size of the arm, the infant couldn’t have been more than six months
old. No way should it be able to speak. Then the fingers splayed curled. The
baby seemed to be waving them downhill into darkness.

The
haggard young mother stepped outside the yellow perimeter of the glow stick’s
haze. The woman with the rifle nudged her daughter to follow.

“Wait,”
Rachel said. “That’s crazy. Babies can’t talk.”

The
mother turned, and the bundled shifted. In its folds was a scattering of small
bright sparks.

Its
eyes.

“You
don’t understand,” the mother said.

You’re
right about that.

The
Spanish woman said, almost in apology, “We have to follow. You are welcome to
come with us.”

“Not
without Stephen.”

The
woman nodded and glanced at her own daughter as if she understood. Her dark
eyes were solemn but determined, and Rachel saw she would make whatever
sacrifice was necessary in order to survive.

“How
far is the compound?” Rachel asked her.

“I
don’t know. Maybe fifteen or twenty miles. Top of the mountain.”

“The
Zapheads are here,” the mother said. “We have to go.”

“Go,”
the baby blurted. They did.

As
the group shuffled downhill, kicking up the scent of mud and pine, Rachel
almost shouted after them. Instead, she shoved the glow sticks in her pocket
and waited for her eyes to adjust to the faint haze of starlight leaking
through the bare forest canopy. They’d come from her grandfather’s compound,
and he was still alive. She figured her odds were better with Franklin Wheeler
than with a group of delusional women who thought a baby was bossing them
around.

Or
maybe she was growing delirious herself. The infection in her leg might be
poisoning her nervous system, slowing her reaction time and disrupting her
senses. She didn’t like feeling helpless, but walking twenty more miles on her
own was a demoralizing challenge. She listened until the group was lost in
darkness, their footfalls faded, and then she continued up the slope in the
direction Stephen had fled.

“Rachelllll.”

It
was Stephen, somewhere in the darkness above. She almost yelled back but was
afraid Zapheads might hear. Instead, she hobbled faster, stumbling over a damp,
fallen log.

Stephen
didn’t sound panicky, although he must have been terribly frightened. He
repeated her name, almost in a whisper.

Coming,
honey. Just hang on tight.

She
guided herself from trunk to trunk, judging distance by the branches overhead,
which were like black bones etched against the gray sky. The only sound besides
her feet in the muddy leaves was the wind whining through the forest.

“Rachel,”
he said again, and she saw his silhouette among a cluster of large boulders.
She was surprised he’d venture near them after the encounter with the snake.

“It’s
me,” she said.

She
pulled the dimming glow sticks from her pocket and held them in the air.

Only
it wasn’t Stephen.

It
was a young girl, barely teen-aged, and her eyes glittered in the glare of the
flashlight beam.

“Rachel,”
she said, perfectly imitating Stephen.

Shadows
separated themselves from the surrounding trees and walked toward her.

“Rachel,”
they said. “Rachel.”

And
their eyes winked and danced like a thousand radioactive fireflies.