“Better keep an eye on her. These solar shenanigans might not be over yet. These things tend to come in spurts.”
Jorge hadn’t even considered that the worst wasn’t yet over, that even now they might be exposed to whatever strange radiation had killed most of the people around them and turned others into mindless killers. What would he do if Marina showed a violent streak, if she became like Willard or a lame horse and needed to be put down?
There is no such thing as a mercy killing. Only killing.
Rosa gave Marina some of the water and Jorge was comforted to see his daughter sipping it. The sweat on her forehead had dried, and her complexion had returned somewhat to its usual almond color.
“Were there many of the solar storms?” Jorge said. He had little understanding of science, having attended vocational school to learn welding, a craft that hadn’t led to a job back home.
“Hard to tell without any astronomy gear,” the old man said. “O’ course, all that went out with the first big pulse, when the magnetic fields got all scrambled. But if what they were saying is true, then we might have been hit with storms for a solid week, wave after wave of radiation. Might still be going on now, for all we know. It’s not like you can really see them.”
Jorge thought of all the time he’d spent in the fields over the past few weeks and wondered about the invisible rays and currents that might have washed over him. Worse, in his ignorance, he’d exposed this family to danger. He glanced at his daughter huddled in a coarse blanket.
“You were prepared for this disaster?” Jorge asked.
The man waved a hand, still fiddling with the radio. “This, or something else. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Personally, my money was on nuclear war, considering all the idiots in Washington.”
Jorge had heard of survivalists, who were often painted as well-armed crackpots who barricaded themselves in bunkers and dared federal agents to come and get them. But this man didn’t seem angry or confrontational. No, he almost seemed happy that the world had taken a turn for the worse.
“My name is Jorge, and that’s my wife, Rosa, and daughter, Marina.” Jorge opened his palm in case the man wanted to shake hands, but the man kept his attention on the radio.
“You can call me Franklin.”
“This is national park land,” Jorge said cautiously. “I thought no one could live on it.”
“Means the people own it, right?” Franklin said. “I paid taxes. At least for a while, ‘til I wised up and saw every single dime I mailed to the I.R.S. was going into killing us all one way or another. The government was bound to either starve us to death or drop bombs on our heads.”
A low whine issued from the radio’s speakers, and the man fidgeted with the thick copper wires attached to the slender antenna. He plugged in a handset microphone and keyed it with click. “Do you read?” the man asked.
Jorge thought this was odd. If someone was listening on another radio, that person likely wasn’t reading. The man turned the knob, yielding a scruffy burst of static, much like Mr. Wilcox’s TV. He spoke into the microphone several more times before giving up.
“Too much atmospheric interference,” Franklin said.
“Do you think others are out there?”
The man scrunched his bushy eyebrows. “Others like us, you mean?”
Jorge nodded and glanced at Rosa. This man apparently didn’t care that they were Hispanic, only that they weren’t crazed killers. “Like us.”
“Oh, hard to figure,” the man said. “But you can bet bear against cornmeal that the U.S. government got itself a dozen little hidey holes around D.C.”
“The capital,” Jorge said, to assure the man that he knew his U.S. civics lessons.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastards had months of advance warning and took the time to make sure they were safe and living in luxury. Probably got a new bureaucracy running already, figuring out how to tax the hell out of the survivors.”
“Did you hear that on your radio?”
Franklin didn’t answer, concentrating instead on turning the knobs and listening intently to the whining pitch emanating from the speakers. Rosa came over and took Jorge’s hand, squeezing it as they watched their sleeping daughter.
“Her fever is passing,” Rosa said.
“Good,” Jorge said. “We must leave soon.”
“Might not want to be in too big of a hurry,” the man said. “The way I’ve seen them Zapheads acting, you wouldn’t have much of a chance if you ran into a pack of them.”
“We don’t want to trouble you,” Jorge said.
“I got plenty of food and water, and my solar panels, and the wind turbine. This is about as close to modern living as you’re going to get, at least this side of D.C. Plus, I could use a little help around here, to get ready.”
“Ready?” Rosa said. “Ready for what?”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out. But I’ve learned to plan for the worse, and then the worser, and then the worst of all. We’re just now barely on the ‘worse.’ The survivors out there will soon be going at each other’s throats once they realize the resources are dwindling. And if anybody figures out I got electricity up here, and a radio, and supplies, they’re all going to want in.”
“Why does your equipment still work?” Jorge asked as the man’s nubby, wrinkled fingers worked the dials.
“Stored it all in a Faraday cage out back,” Franklin said, hooking a thumb to indicate somewhere outside the cabin. “Shielded metal, it protects against electromagnetic currents.”
“Do others have this equipment?”
“Some,” the man said. “The smart ones. But as you probably figured out already, there ain’t a whole lot of smart ones on this planet.”
The radio’s whine turned into a crackle, and then a male voice cut in. It was clipped, British or Australian, and the words faded in and out: “…anyone there?...now is the time for…approximately one in three hundred survived…we are in need of…situation grave…”
The radio signal sharpened into a keening wail, and the man’s urgent voice emerged again from the static. “Situation grave…repeat, situation grave…”
Then it faded, like the ghost of the airwaves, emitting one last message before becoming swallowed by the endless high hiss.
“Situation grave…”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two of The Captain’s goons shoved Rachel into a dark room and slammed the door.
They weren’t gentle about it, either, and she burned her elbow on the carpeting. She guessed she was in a bedroom, although there was no gray square that would suggest a window. She crawled forward cautiously, feeling in front of her with an outstretched hand.
She met something spongy and drew back, horrified that it might be a corpse.
“Took you long enough,” DeVontay said.
She sat up on her knees, peering in the direction of his voice but unable to see him. “Hey, you’re the one playing hero. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. They roughed me up a little, but I think they’re just playing. Got some kind of skinhead thing going on, from what I can tell.”
“Their leader, The Captain—”
“Captain? What the hell? You think this is a Batman movie or something?”
“I had to nickname him,” she said. “Psychologically, that makes him less of a threat. A kind of gallows humor.”
“Yeah, well, gallows humor is all well and good until the noose tightens. Speaking of which, why don’t you untie me?”
She scooted forward until she found the thick wooden bedpost and fumbled around the thick lump of knots against his skin. “These are like the ones they used on me. Might take me a minute to get them loose.”
“I ain’t going anywhere. Did they…hurt you?” he said in a low voice as she tugged.
Rachel guessed from the pause that he meant, “Did they rape you?” but she brushed past it. “The Captain threw a Zaphead at me as some sort of screwed-up test. The guy’s a little brain-f
ried himself, I think.”
“When I heard that gun go off—”
One of her fingernails split to the quick as it snagged on a knot. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Not until we get you and Stephen to Mi’sippi.”
“Where’s he at?”
“I left him in a hiding place, but The Captain’s goons found him and turned him loose out there with the Zapheads. I guess these guys think everybody has to pass some sort of survival game to prove they are worthy.”
“Shit. Is the boy okay?”
“Put it this way. I haven’t heard him screaming yet.”
Rachel didn’t want to think the worst. Faith required hope, and hope required action. Starting with these godforsaken knots. “I wish I could see,” she said. “Maybe I could find a tool.”
“The lighter,” DeVontay said. “In my pocket.”
“They didn’t search you?”
“Nah. They don’t give a damn about me. I’m a one-eyed black jack.”
That made no sense, but she didn’t question him. She felt along his hip until she found his belt, and then slipped her hand along the fabric of his pants. She found the hem of the pocket and hesitated.
“Go on, girl,” he said. “Nothing in there will bite you.”
“It’s just…”
“I ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t.”
That made her smile despite the gravity of the situation. She shoved her hand inside the opening, pushing past what felt like a rumpled wad of bills, some flexible, rubbery things she suspected were Slim Jims, and a keychain. Then her fingers stroked the cool, smooth curve of the Bic lighter and she fought it free, hooking the keychain as she went.
With a flick of her thumb, the area immediately around her was illuminated with a dim orange glow. The flame was reflected in each of DeVontay’s eyes, brighter in the glass one. His lip bore a small, wet cut, and one cheek was swollen. She gently touched his wound and he flinched away.
“I ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t,” she said, imitating his Philly-street accent.
“I’m okay. Just get me loose and let’s get the hell out of here.”
She waved the Bic around, revealing that the room was bare, with an unmade bed, a dusty dresser with the drawers open, and an open closet with a single suit jacket hanging in it. Clothes littered the floor, as if the room had been ransacked. Her impression of a windowless room was confirmed.
“Doesn’t look like much in the way of hardware,” Rachel said. She jangled the keys. “Guess I’ll have to use these.”
She held the light aloft with one hand as she dug into the knot with the longest key. The knot’s author must have been a Boy Scout, because his handiwork refused to come loose. She began sawing the serrated edge of the key across the strands, sending a snow of frayed nylon to the floor.
“What are you doing with keys, anyway?” she asked him. Her fingers chafed to blood and her wrist ached from working the key, but she kept on.
“Got doors to open.”
She extinguished the lighter to let it cool. Its imprint was burned into Rachel’s retinas, fat sparks dancing in the sudden darkness.
“Got any ideas on getting out of here?” she asked. The first strand of rope gave way and she unraveled the rest of the knot as he anxiously flexed his forearms.
“Gun’s in my backpack, wherever that is,” DeVontay said. “After they jumped me, I went down for a while. I didn’t get a good layout of the house.”
“That’s a privacy lock on the door. They can’t lock it from the outside.”
“We could sneak out, yeah. But what if they’re still playing survival games? Could be a dozen Zapheads out in the hall.”
“We’d hear them banging into the walls.”
“Maybe. And maybe that guy—the whatchamadude, The Captain—is waiting there with his gun.”
“Well, it’s the only way out that I can see.” The severed rope untangled beneath her fingers and DeVontay wriggled his wrists to free himself. He shook his hands to restore the circulation as he glanced around the room. He grinned as his eyes settled on the closet.
“You’re just not looking in the right place.”
He stood, rubbing his palms together, and she followed him with the Bic. He shoved aside the lonely jacket and looked up at the ceiling. “Give me some light.”
Rachel shoved the lighter toward him, thinking he’d lost his mind. Stephen was out there somewhere, at the mercy of those soulless killers, and all DeVontay wanted to do was play hide-and-seek?
“Ha,” he said. “That little square is an access to the attic. I had a job blowing ceiling insulation one summer. Hottest damn work I ever did.”
“Great. So, once we get up there, and then what? Wait for the world to end?”
“Funny, ha ha. I gotta boost you up. No way can you lift me.”
“You kidding? You’re only, what—two-twenty?”
“Two-oh-five. I ain’t et that many Slim Jims.”
He stooped and cupped his hands. Rachel hesitated, released the fuel lever on the lighter, and put her sneakered foot into his hands. Something thumped against the door.
“Damn,” DeVontay said. “Hurry.”
He propelled her upward and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself, patting for the ceiling with the other. She found the access and pushed, feeling it slide away with a skiff of abrasion. Rachel reached into the warmer air of the opening and found the ceiling joists, then dangled for just a moment, testing her weight.
“Higher,” she whispered, and DeVontay tightened his arms and lifted her. She put one foot on the closet rod as she scrambled into the attic. The dust nearly made her sneeze, and the attic insulation caused her skin to itch almost immediately. She rolled around, careful to keep her weight on the sturdier ceiling joists, and flicked the lighter again.
“How am I going to pull you up here?” she said.
DeVontay looked up and shook his head. “You ain’t.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You got to. Ain’t you ever seen a horror movie? The goody-goody white chick always survives.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“And don’t waste time here when Stephen’s in trouble.”
She looked at him for a moment, pondering ways to help him up. But he was too heavy, the closet rod too weak. “The dresser,” she said. “Move it over here and stand on it.”
“Okay, but—”
Something thumped against the door again, louder this time. DeVontay waved her toward escape. She killed the flame and saw the slatted ventilation windows on each gabled end of the house. The closest one was only twenty feet away. She crawled forward, bumping her head once and getting fiberglass insulation in the creases of her elbows and gaps of her fingers. When she reached the slats, she peered through them to the neighboring property.
A Zaphead wobbled up the street, far enough away that he wasn’t a threat. He didn’t exhibit the excitement and agitation of a Zaphead intent on violence, which might mean Stephen had safely hidden somewhere.
Or it could mean he’s already dead.
The idea angered Rachel, and she flipped onto her butt and raised her legs, pointing the bottoms of her feet at the thin wooden slats. She kicked outward and several of the slats shattered. She kicked again and created a wider opening. Shoving splinters aside, she perched in the opening and surveyed the surrounding landscape.
No movement. Even the Zaphead up the street had taken a turn somewhere and was lost in one of the neighborhood houses. From beneath her came the sound of a struggle, and DeVontay shouted something.
His next word was clear through the access hatch: “Go!”
Rachel climbed out enough to minimize the drop to the ground, which was about twelve feet. Not too bad by itself, but it wasn’t a good time for a twisted ankle.
“Just my luck,” she said. “Roses.”
The rose bushes extended in a border around the side of the house, meaning Rachel would have to j
ump outward several feet instead of merely dropping to the ground. She shoved the lighter in her pocket.
Here goes nothing.
Rachel resisted the urge to yell “Geronimo” as she flew through the air. She had the presence of mind to roll as she landed, taking the brunt of the force on her left leg before tumbling across the grass. Gathering her balance, bruised but otherwise uninjured, she glanced around to see if anyone had spotted her. She wasn’t sure whether to be more afraid of the Zapheads or The Captain and his minions.
She sprinted as best she could with her aching legs, quickly reaching the concealment of the neighbor’s azalea thicket.
Okay, you’re free. You can give up on DeVontay and Stephen and make a run for it. Your chances are better alone. They’re just deadweight anyway, right?
She glanced heavenward, starting to ask for guidance, but realized prayers were never answered with a simple yes or no.
God had granted her longer life for a reason. And that reason wasn’t just to keep on surviving.
She had a mission.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Campbell was still searching the trees on the side of the road when Arnoff’s tribe caught up with him.
Campbell emerged from the woods to see Arnoff poking Pete’s backpack with the tip of his rifle. Pamela, Donnie, and the professor hung back a little, warily checking the vehicles on the highway. “Looks like your buddy chickened out,” Arnoff said.
“Somebody got him,” Campbell said.
“Hell, yeah,” Donnie said. “Zapheads.”
“It wasn’t Zapheads. There’s no blood.”
Arnoff knelt and plucked one of the warm beers from Pete’s backpack. “Well, he didn’t abandon ship, or he’d have never left this.”
“So, what do you think happened?” Pamela asked, fishing a cigarette from a pocket of her floral-print blouse. She was sweating from the heat, and the wind carried a faint whiff of the distant burning cities. Campbell thought about what the professor had said, about the four hundred nuclear reactors that would eventually melt down, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to live long enough to worry about radiation poisoning.
The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers Page 85