The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers

by Michael R. Hicks

  “Right about what?” Campbell asked.

  “One of his sayings is, ‘When the walls fall down, all we have left is the enemy within.’”

  Pete shook his head. “That’s some heavy shit. I hope he’s not out there walking around with a hatchet.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s one of the ones who survived, assuming he didn’t transform,” Rachel said. “He was planning for this.”

  “Planning for this?” Campbell said. “Even the scientists were caught with their pants down. They pretty much figured we had a good five billion years before the sun became a red gas giant and gobbled us up.”

  Pete bent over, stuck out his rear, and let out a loud, flapping fart. “There’s a gas giant for you,” he said.

  Stephen snickered, and even though Rachel didn’t approve of the sophomoric humor, she was relieved that the boy seemed to be recovering from the latest trauma.

  “Okay,” Campbell said. “Sun’s going down. We’re better off doing this right when it gets dark.”

  “Follow me,” Rachel said, taking Stephen’s hand. She checked through the front window to make sure all was clear, although she intended to use the back door.

  Oh, sweet Lord. Are you serious?

  “Guys,” she said. “I think you need to see this.”

  They crowded around behind her, Pete’s fishy breath fouling the air. Outside, the sunset was dusky and smoky, a hint of autumn in the surrounding maples and oaks. Faint ribbons of aurora borealis wended across the atmosphere like giant lime-green specters. Night shadows crept along the yards and across the windows of the houses, giving them a sinister aspect that suggested terrible secrets inside. But it was the activity in the street that drew their attention.

  Two people were tending to one of the fallen Zapheads. Rachel couldn’t be sure, but she believed the corpse was the one she had struck with her pruning shear.

  “Soldiers,” Pete said. “What the hell do they want with a dead Zaphead? I can’t see them wasting time giving one a proper burial.”

  “It’s not soldiers,” Rachel said. Even in the poor light, she could see that one of the figures was wearing a light-colored T-shirt, not camouflage, and what looked like khaki cargo shorts and sandals. The other wore what looked like a bathrobe, the belt dangling, and the mop of hair above it could have belonged to either gender. The two stooped down and lifted the corpse to a sitting position.

  “Oh, hell, they’re not going to eat him, are they? Don’t tell me these glittery-eyed bastards are turning into zombies?”

  “Shhh.” Rachel cast him a hard look and nodded at Stephen, whose eyes widened as his grip on the doll tightened.

  “He’s just kidding,” Campbell said to the boy. “He’s read too many comic books.”

  “I like comic books,” Stephen said. “Spiderman is my favorite.”

  “Cool,” Pete said, trying to cover his goof. “I had some issues in my backpack, but I lost it when the soldiers jumped me.”

  “You’re in luck,” Campbell said, motioning toward his own backpack on the couch. “I figured you’d want them if I ever caught up with you. I rescued them for you.”

  Pete caught on that they were trying to distract Stephen from what might be a gruesome discovery. He patted Stephen on the shoulder and said, “First appearance of the Green Goblin, little man. And in near-mint condition.”

  “Not so near-mint anymore,” Campbell said. “But you can read it with the flashlight. Just keep the beam hooded so nobody can see it from the street.”

  “Sweet!” Stephen said, just like any normal boy would, not one who had endured the wholesale destruction of his race and seen the world change into a hostile wasteland. Rachel’s heart clenched just a tiny bit, but she wouldn’t allow any tears of sympathy. She’d cried herself out after Chelsea’s death, and any future breakdowns would have to tap an entirely new and undiscovered reservoir.

  Rachel and Campbell put their noses to the window, shoulders touching, their breath fogging the glass. The two figures attending the Zaphead now lifted it and held it sagging limply between them, much like a couple of sailors might drag home a drunken mate.

  “You think they’re going to bury it?” Rachel asked.

  “It would be the first time that I’ve seen. But I have to admit, I’ve spent more time running and hiding from them than watching them.”

  “They’re moving like humans. Good balance and posture, their motions focused on something besides destroying.”

  “Yeah. But if they’re survivors, what do they want with a dead Zaphead?”

  Rachel could think of a few possibilities, including Pete’s imaginative leap of cannibalism, but that didn’t make sense, because there was still plenty of food around. Scientific experimentation was unlikely, given the utter breakdown of all academic systems, and she couldn’t come up with any use for a dead body otherwise. “Maybe they’re cleaning the streets.”

  “You mean to make it look like there are no Zapheads around? Gunning for some type of community award or something?”

  “No, to lure more Zapheads. Maybe they’ve got some vigilante thing going on.”

  Pete carelessly swept the flashlight beam across the room as he turned a page, reading aloud to Stephen. Rachel scolded him, afraid the light would attract the people outside like curious, single-minded moths.

  Instead, the pair on the street kept dragging the corpse, heading east toward the fire that Campbell had started. The spreading conflagration threw a reddish cast to the sunset, the smoke roiling against the purple-streaked sky like a tableau in the tempest of hell. The person in the bathrobe lost her grip on the corpse, and the robe parted to reveal mottled flesh.

  “I think they’re Zapheads,” Rachel said.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Campbell said. “Zapheads are violent, mindless killing machines.”

  “Maybe we simplified them so we could pretend we understand them.” Rachel didn’t like that answer, but was it any worse than the reality of the last few weeks?

  The man in the T-shirt turned and looked directly at Rachel, or at least she felt that way. Even from thirty yards, the hooded aspect of his eyes told her it was a Zaphead. He was of average height, wearing a crew cut and topsiders, and he could have been a guy washing his driveway with a garden hose, a beer in his hand while waiting for the afternoon’s football games to kick off.

  Rachel ducked a little, pulling Campbell down while calling out, “Keep low, guys, they’re looking this way.”

  They crouched in the gloaming for a long minute, with the only sound the distant crackle of the bonfire. Rachel expected a knock on the door, or maybe for a body to fling itself against the window. She wished she hadn’t left her pruning shears in the kitchen.

  She grew tired of the tension and parted the corner of the curtain just enough to see the two Zapheads carry their fallen comrade on down the street. Rachel was surprised to think such a thing, but they had escorted their dead companion with a tenderness that was in direct contrast to all the violence she’d witnessed from them.

  “I should follow them,” Campbell said. “See what’s going on.”

  “No,” Rachel said. “How can that help us? Right now, we need to save DeVontay and get out of here before your fire scorches us alive.”

  “We can all be superheroes!” Stephen said, apparently becoming so engrossed in the comic book that he’d blurred the line between fantasy and reality. Rachel almost envied him.

  “Sure, kid,” Pete said. “A super-duper ray gun will do the trick.”

  As if to punctuate Pete’s words, a brittle crack resounded from outside, drawing Rachel’s attention. At first she thought it was the popping of wood from the heat of the fire, but the Zaphead in the white T-shirt was sprawled in the street on top of the corpse he’d been helping to carry. A dark stain spread across the back of his shirt.

  Gunfire.

  Another short rang out. The last Zaphead ducked and peered into the smoky murkiness, then fled out of the street in
to a side yard.

  “Bet it’s The Captain and his goon squad,” Rachel said.

  “Or maybe Arnoff’s group,” Campbell said.

  Pete joined them at the window. “Sweet. Let’s team up.”

  “At this point,” Campbell said, “I can’t tell the Zappers from the humans. And I’m not about to get shot to find out.”

  “He’s right,” Rachel said to Pete. “But you guys do what you want. I’m going to get DeVontay.” She called to Stephen in the darkness of the living room. “Get your stuff, honey, and meet me at the back door.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  At first glance, the ranch house appeared to be abandoned.

  Rachel parted the waxy leaves of the rhododendron that bordered one edge of the yard. The windows were dark, although the glimmer of the distant bonfire reflected in the windows. Campbell’s act of arson had spread, rimming the twilight sky in the east with an angry red-orange. Flames leaped and flickered above the treetops, casting striations of light across the land. The air stank of smoke, and breathing was difficult, but Rachel couldn’t help thinking of all the cremated corpses whose fine ash now floated into her lungs.

  “Dang, Campbell,” Pete said, crouched behind her on the property adjoining the ranch house’s yard. “That’s some bonfire you built. You’re doing your part to wipe the slate clean, huh?”

  “Maybe these guys have already left,” he said.

  “No,” Rachel said. “I don’t think they’re all that interested in survival. They’re more interested in the war.”

  “The war against who?” Campbell said. “I think we’ve all pretty much lost this one.”

  “You don’t understand soldiers. Better to go out in a blaze of glory than get your butt kicked.”

  Stephen squeezed her hand, the little guy curled into a ball beneath the foliage of the shrubbery. “Don’t go in there.”

  “I can’t leave without DeVontay. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, these guys will take you to your dad. Right?”

  “Uh…sure,” Pete said. “We’re headed that way anyway.”

  “Okay, then.” Rachel said. “I’ll start the fire on the end near the garage. That will give everybody a chance to escape before it gets out of hand.”

  “Got any accelerant?” Campbell asked.

  “I saw a charcoal grill in the back yard before it got dark. There was a can of starter fluid beside it.”

  “Another weenie roast,” Stephen said.

  Rachel chuckled, although the sound of reassurance was more like choking on a chicken bone. “Need some paper, though.”

  After a moment, one in which something large popped and exploded inside the distant conflagration with the whoosh of an airliner at liftoff, Pete said, “Damn it. Well, so much for the investment potential.” He unzipped his bag and shoved a stack of comics in her hand. “Bye, Spidey. It’s been real.”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Campbell said.

  “Sacrifice is for suckers,” Pete said, “but this better get me some serious brownie points in heaven.”

  “I’ll put in a good word,” Rachel said, hoping she didn’t sound too sanctimonious. She’d been praying fervently in the past hour but had kept it to herself.

  Well, yourself and God. Because you’re not in this thing alone.

  She checked to make sure her lighter was still in her pocket, then tensed to push her way through the rhododendron. “I’m going with you,” Campbell said.

  “We’re more likely to be spotted that way,” she said. “Besides, you need to look after Stephen.”

  She felt a strong hand gripping her forearm. She turned and saw wildfire rippling in Campbell’s eyeglasses, and behind that, his gleaming, earnest eyes. “If you go in there, I have to go with you,” he said.

  Anger burned inside her, as hot as any fire. “This isn’t the time for some stupid post-apocalypse man-code. In case you haven’t noticed, the codes are pretty much erased. So don’t pull your macho bullshit, because I’ve made it this far without you.”

  Stephen drew in a shuddering gasp, and Rachel immediately regretted her outburst. She stroked Stephen’s hair and whispered. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll get DeVontay and be right back. I promise.”

  Pete let out a snort of disbelief but Campbell stayed silent. Rachel clutched the small stack of comic books in one hand, her pruning shear held in the other. The ludicrous nature of her position struck her. If she’d seen somebody outfitted like this in a viral YouTube video, she’d have dubbed the viral star a demented supergeek, doomed to a life of cat memes and celibacy.

  Just call me Joan of Arc. Hopefully, without the “burned at the stake” part.

  A shiver of stray light, perhaps made by a flashlight beam, tracked across the inside of the ranch house. At the same time, a gust of wind pushed the distant fire into a swollen mass of heat, illuminating twisted columns of smoke that boiled up into the heavens.

  Rachel thought she heard someone’s voice through the shattered picture window. The corpse had been removed from the sill, although a dark heap lay in the shadows of the flowerbed near the edge of the porch.

  “Okay, wish me luck,” Rachel said, bracing to sprint along the perimeter of the lawn. Given the darkness, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be spotted, but she didn’t trust Captain America’s little A-Team. They might just be a little trigger-happy now that one of their number had been killed by the Zapheads.

  “You don’t need luck,” Pete said. “You need a shot of booze.”

  “Good luck,” Campbell said, giving her arm a squeeze of encouragement. “If anything happens, we’ll create a distraction so you can escape.”

  “Mancode?” she asked.

  “Nah,” he replied. “Just good, old-fashioned outsmarting-the-bad-guys strategy.”

  “Wait,” Stephen said. “I thought those…Z things, the Zapheads…were the bad guys.”

  “And your job is to take care of Miss Molly,” Rachel said to him. “Okay, I’ll meet you back here with DeVontay, if everything goes according to plan.”

  “Nothing ever goes according to plan,” Campbell said. “Or this wouldn’t be After.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered under her breath, and then she launched herself from the shrubs and ran, crouching and keeping an eye on the house, her broken pruning shears held before her like a jousting lance.

  The strange glow on the horizon swelled into a perpetual sunset, and Rachel was afraid she was too exposed to make it to the end of the house without being seen. However, she quickly cut across the yard and soon dropped to her knees at the end of the house from which she’d escaped. Above her was the black rectangle of the access from which she’d made her escape—the lack of windows on this side of the house gave her confidence.

  The charcoal grill smelled of old grease and soot, with ashes piled around its rusted legs. But the can of starter fluid was nearly full, and she sprayed it against the wooden siding, the heavy petroleum scent pushing the scorched aroma from her nostrils. After soaking the wood, she leaned her weapon against the house and fumbled the lighter from her pocket.

  In the distance, she heard more pops and crackles of the approaching conflagration, and again, she wondered why The Captain hadn’t moved his unit from the area. And, she wondered if DeVontay was still inside.

  He will be.

  Because you NEED him to be.

  And she wondered how much of her need was fueled by guilt over Chelsea. She wasn’t sure of her motivations, but it was easier to believe she was noble and righteous. But Pete’s words came back to her: “Sacrifice is for suckers.”

  She wasn’t losing. Not this time.

  Rachel sparked the lighter to life and flapped open one of the comic books, fanning the pages. She touched the fire to one corner and a finger of flame crawled up the edge of the paper, the ink giving off lurid colors. She pushed the torch over to the moistened boards and the fire took an enthusiastic drink of the fuel and leaped across the siding.

  Rachel was so
transfixed by the mesmerizing flame and the way it seemed to hover just over the fuel that she briefly forgot her surroundings. Suddenly, she heard a shout from the street and instantly ducked behind the old charcoal grill, hoping its bulk would conceal her.

  Is that Stephen and the guys? What would they be doing in the street?

  Then came the pak pak pak of semiautomatic gunfire. A bullet skinned off the wooden siding ten feet above her head. But she didn’t think she was the target.

  She lifted her head just enough to see the silhouette of a human figure running down the street. The hail of bullets peppered the trees as the figure vanished between two cars parked in a driveway. She wasn’t sure whether it had been a Zaphead or someone running from the shooters, but cracked laughter came from the unseen end of the street.

  “Goddamn, did you see that sonofabitch runnin’ like it had ants crawling up its zap-hole?” yelled a man with a rural accent.

  “Save your ammo, Donnie,” said another voice, lower, calmer, and more authoritative.

  It didn’t sound like The Captain, although the arrogant tone of command was similar. By now, the flames had licked along the end of the house, spreading beyond the petroleum-soaked blotch. A thin ribbon of smoke wended into the sky to merge with the gauze of haze overhead.

  Rachel crawled around the corner of the house, slapping her pruning shears ahead of her. The screen door hung open, sagging a little on its hinges. Even though she might be visible from the street, she wondered whether she should sneak in the broken window. Depending upon how many of The Captain’s goons were on duty, she doubted she could fight her way to the back room where she’d been held captive with DeVontay.

  She decided it might be better to wait until the fire penetrated the house and forced them to flee. They’d likely not waste the time freeing DeVontay.

  Assuming he’s even alive.

  Well, she could either dwell on the reality of her situation or fall back on her faith. Her faith was always there, wrapping her in its saccharine web, protecting her and restraining her. Jesus, in His darkest hour on the cross, asked why God had forsaken Him, and God didn’t answer. She didn’t expect an answer now, either.