by Mark Tufo
She continued the slog, eyeing the shifting surface of the meadow for disturbances. The wild pig hadn’t made a sound during its charge, which worried Rachel. Living in a world where they were just a minor part of the food chain was bad enough, but if their predators adapted into cunning stalkers, their odds of survival shrank by the day.
We’re afraid to eat them, but they don’t seem to have the same concerns.
They reached the barn without incident, and Rachel and Lars explored it while the others waited outside the heavy wooden door. The interior was nearly pitch black, but Rachel’s natural flashlights allowed for a thorough search. The bottom floor was mostly matted straw and dried manure, with chicken feathers clinging to cobwebs in the floor joists. The pens were abandoned, and the windows held no glass but were all covered with thick-gauged chicken wire that would keep out winged intruders.
After Lars gave the all-clear, they entered, secured the door and barred it with a fallen locust beam, and then ascended a narrow set of stairs to the loft. Bales of hay were stacked in precise rows along the length of the barn, gray with age, dust and chaff stirring under their feet as they walked. The windows up here were screened as well, and DeVontay kept watch while the others pulled apart bales and created a large scratchy but soft nest.
“We’re safe now, honey,” Tara said.
“Baaaay…beeee,” the girl said.
“No!” the woman barked, so sharply that it sent icy needles up Rachel’s spine. “No words.”
The girl fell back to her faint squeaking sounds from which her nickname had derived, and soon they trailed off to low whimpers and then silence. Lars settled in near them and drowsed with his axe in his lap, and soon Tara, too, succumbed to exhaustion.
Rachel joined DeVontay at his sentry post. “What are we going to do about her?”
“I keep hoping some jowly-assed monster squirrel is going to snatch her up and bury her for winter.”
“Do we really want to take these people back to Eagle One? How will they mesh with the rest of the group?”
“Well, we can’t stay in the bunker forever. We’re traveling farther and farther to find food, and that’s getting more dangerous every time.”
“Any place we go is likely to be closer to the Zap cities,” Rachel said.
DeVontay’s glass eye gleamed exotically with the reflected aurora, making him look like a wizard.
Or a half-Zap.
“Why are we so worried about that?” DeVontay said. “They left us alone for the most part. We’ve killed some now, so that might stir them up, but maybe they don’t even care. We’re not really a threat to them. They probably look at us like insects—irritating little gnats to swat if we get too close, but otherwise paying no nevermind.”
“I wish I could help,” Rachel said. “I mean, it’s nice that the mutant stuff is fading, but some of those abilities came in handy. Now I only sense them as a distant little buzz.”
“A hive of insects,” DeVontay said. “Nice comparison. We got the birds and the bees here, singing happy little nature songs.”
Rachel looked out at the distant black mountains and the bands of shades that played across the slopes and valleys. She pictured Stephen and Marina sleeping in their rooms—hopefully far apart—while Kokona laid in her crib, eyes open and contemplating, learning while the world turned to face the treacherous sun again.
“We still don’t know why the Zaps came to Stonewall after all these years,” Rachel said. “Or why one of them captured the girl.”
“I hate to say it,” DeVontay said. “But I know you’re thinking it already: what if they were trying to save Squeak from her mother? From what Lars said about running into that first one, the Zap only attacked him when he moved in the direction the girl was hiding. He didn’t even know she was there, but the Zap apparently did.”
“I don’t know, honey. That sounds an awful lot like projection.”
“That some kind of psychobabble counselor speak?”
“We’re projecting human behaviors onto Zaps, when they appear to have entirely different social codes. They don’t even seem to have emotions as we know them, so why would they engage in a compassionate act?”
“Some compassion, huh? That silver space cadet was all ready to sic his little birds on us.”
“But it didn’t. It let us live.”
“Well, we can play it two ways. We can get back to the bunker and make it through the winter, and then find a new home. Or we can put together a scouting expedition and see what the Zaps are up to these days.”
“We can’t leave the kids behind.”
“We take them with us,” DeVontay said. “We’ll need Kokona to communicate with them, especially if you lost your mutant mojo.”
Rachel peered out to the mist, which seemed to drift apart and then sew itself together. It seemed like a living creature, another new beast on the face of the Earth demanding elbow room and a place at the table.
The mist broke into smaller, individually designed silhouettes that took on solidity under the watery green light.
It wasn’t mist.
The Zaps stepped from the forest, wading silently through the grass and scrub toward the barn. They came in long, unbroken phalanxes, all with those one-piece uniforms and rounded haircuts, eyes burning like radioactive fog lamps in the night.
“No,” DeVontay said. “God, no. Please tell me I fell asleep and I’m having the worst dream of my life.”
Rachel sprinted to the opposite wall and looked out the window there. Just as many, just as ominously persistent in their approach.
“Dozens of them,” Rachel said.
“Hundreds.” DeVontay racked the charging handle on his rifle. “And I’ve got maybe half a magazine left.”
Lars called out groggily. “What the hell’s the ruckus?”
“Nothing,” DeVontay said. “Just a little company showing up without an invite.”
Lars rolled to his feet, shucking loose straw from his clothes and hair, and went to the nearest window. He pressed his forehead against the wire. “Mutants, monsters, murderers, oh my.”
Rachel hadn’t received the slightest warning of their approach, but now a tiny tingle of energy flitted through the base of her skull. The signal hummed in her brain and her eyes radiated so intensely they nearly illuminated the entire loft.
The telekinetic force built until Rachel thought her head would explode, and she realized how human she’d become in the last few years of bunker life. They were powerful enough to block and withhold her mutant abilities. They’d grown stronger while she weakened.
Her most critical survival skill, and she’d let it erode. She’d closed that door, but now it was getting hammered wide and the enemy was storming the threshold.
“We’re here.”
“Do you hear something?” Lars said.
“What’s that in their hands?” DeVontay asked.
Rachel couldn’t tell, even in the glow of their eyes that combined into a ground-level aurora. The objects were shiny, small, and rectangular, barely the size of cell phones.
Tara was awake now, clutching Squeak in her arms. She scrambled back into the loose hay as if she could hide there until the apocalypse was over.
“They…they’re talking to me,” Rachel said.
Lars shook his axe at her and looked at DeVontay as if for agreement. “See? I told you Zaps are bad news, even if she doesn’t have that stupid silver suit. She led them here.”
“You don’t know nothing, Wild Man,” DeVontay said, his rifle ready to employ in any direction. “Chill out.”
“You know why we’re here.”
The voice was a single voice, but also a multitude, as if ten thousand voices had been compressed into a single series of sounds. She tried to “talk” back but she was useless against their pulsing and intrusive waves.
Then their combined voice took air, loud enough to vibrate the warped wooden walls of the barn and rattle the tin roof:
* * *
Rock-a-bye baby,
In the treetop…
* * *
“Just like that Zap we killed!” Lars exclaimed.
The simple tune and melodic poetry would have been soothing coming from a mother’s lips, but that grotesque chorus made the lullaby a mockery of all human history, memory, and ambition.
* * *
When the wind blows,
The cradle will rock…
* * *
The barn seemed to tremble under their feet, wood groaning and nails popping.
* * *
When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall…
* * *
“They’re tearing it down!” DeVontay yelled.
Lars ran for the stairs, but Rachel’s instinct was to help Tara and Squeak, even though her head roared with a white-hot pain that threatened to erase all thoughts.
* * *
Down will come baby,
Cradle and all.
* * *
As the first support beams splintered and crashed down around her, Rachel dove to cover the mother and her child, hoping the hay would cushion the collapse. Metal screeched and screamed as it tore loose from the rafters and crumpled like foil. The last she saw of DeVontay was his lone good eye widening in panic and desperation as he ran toward her, shattered boards flying around him in the chaos of destruction.
And then down came a darkness that swallowed the world.
Chapter 211
Stephen was dreaming of baseball, standing in left field with those short itchy pants and the sun in his eyes, alone with the odors of cut grass and leather and bubble gum, people in the stands yelling, cheering, booing, the chubby coach in the windbreaker standing beside the dugout clapping his hands in encouragement.
Then came the dink of the aluminum bat striking the ball and it rising in the air and coming down, growing larger and larger as he moved under it, and it was too big for his glove, then too big for the field, and then too big for the sky, a fat white globe that kept expanding until—
Boomp boomp boomp.
Stephen sat up, not sure where he was, wrapped in such absolute darkness that he thought he’d gone blind.
“They’re here,” came Kokona’s small, mirthful voice, and then she must have opened her eyes because Stephen could see he’d fallen asleep in Marina’s room. Marina rose up sleepily in the opposite bunk, Kokona bundled in a blanket by her side.
“Open up!” the captain bellowed from outside the door.
Disoriented, Stephen reached for his rifle, thinking the bunker must be under attack from some new threat. He’d taken off his shirt and the ventilated air was cool on his skin, and he felt a little embarrassed that Marina saw him half-naked.
“What do they want?” Marina asked, frightened, hugging Kokona protectively.
“Must be big, if they’re raising that much hell.”
“It’s a small thing,” Kokona said. “They want me.”
The banging continued, echoing in the small room and driving nails of pain into Stephen’s skull. He strode to the door and yelled, “Jeez, take it easy. We hear you, man.”
“Open the door,” the captain said, calmer now.
“Maybe I will, after you tell me what you want.”
“It’s official military business.”
Stephen hadn’t officially enlisted yet, and he and Franklin hadn’t even told the captain of their intentions to join up. So “military business” didn’t mean a damn thing to him at the moment. “We invited you here to save your ass. That doesn’t mean you own the place.”
“This isn’t about you, Stephen. Open the door. Now.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Stephen glanced back at Marina, who had retreated to the corner of her bed, both arms around Kokona as if a strong wind might tear her from Marina’s grasp and whisk her away. Her pretty face was lined with panic, muscles taut.
Kokona, though, just grinned like a little brown cherub, eyes full of delight and fire. “Let him in,” Kokona said. “This will be fun.”
Stephen shook his head. The captain hammered the door again.
“It’s okay, Stephen,” Kokona said. “I can handle him. I can handle all of them.”
Stephen looked at Marina, who gave a reluctant nod of agreement. “It’s not like we have anywhere to run,” she said.
Stephen unlocked the door and stepped aside, and Capt. Antonelli stormed in with two other soldiers, all heavily armed. He went directly to Kokona.
“Under New Pentagon Directive 17 and the authority of the Earth Zero Initiative, I am taking you into custody as a prisoner of war,” the captain said to the baby, who giggled as if the officer was a bulb-nosed, mop-haired clown at a birthday party.
“No way.” Stephen reached for the captain. “She’s part of the family. That was the deal—”
One of the soldiers shoved Stephen against the wall and ripped his rifle away. Stephen lunged forward, his fists balled, and the other soldier drove the butt of his M16 into Stephen’s stomach. The blow pushed all the air from his lungs and he hung there for a horrifying moment, wobbling, wondering if he’d ever breathe again and whether he’d puke in front of Marina, and then he was on all fours on the cool concrete floor, slobber dripping from his mouth.
Marina called his name, which made him feel a little better, but not much. He tried to stand, but his muscles were watery mud.
“No!” Kokona said. “Don’t hurt him. I surrender.”
The captain frowned as if unsure what to do next.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t raise my arms like I’m supposed to,” Kokona said. “I’m just a baby.”
Antonelli ripped the blankets away and a silver blur flew up toward his face.
The missing bird…
In that split-second, Stephen realized the bird must have reassembled itself. And either it had found Kokona, or Marina had retrieved it for the mutant baby.
It darted straight for the captain’s face, a high keening whine filling the room. The captain ducked to the side but the projectile grazed his cheek, dribbling blood in its wake.
One of the soldiers sprayed a burst of gunfire, deafening them all, bullets ricocheting off the hard walls.
“Hold fire!” the captain roared, flipping the blanket to use it as a net. The wool swept over the bird but it punched through the fabric and turned, its cold eyes reflecting the fiery gleam of Kokona’s eyes.
The soldiers had forgotten Stephen in the confusion. He scooped his rifle from the floor, barrel first, and gave a weak swing as the bird flitted by.
Strike one.
The captain tossed the blanket at the bird but missed, and one of the soldiers futilely jabbed at the hellish fowl with a knife.
Stephen stepped forward and swung again, drawing on muscle memory from Little League. He had more muscle now but not much memory, and the swing was off by inches.
Strike two.
Kokona’s gleeful laugh only added to the chaos, and Marina called Stephen’s name again.
He ignored her. The game was on the line.
The bird skimmed the helmet of one of the soldiers, knocking it to the floor. The other soldier retreated for the safety of the hall. That gave Stephen enough elbow room to rock his weight onto his back foot and concentrate—chubby coach clapping encouragement in his mind—and then shift smoothly forward with the eye on the ball and—
Smack.
The pieces scattered across the room, tinkling off the masonry walls and the steel frames of the bunk. A small fragment struck Marina, causing her to yelp.
When the calamity died down, the captain regained his composure and said to Kokona, “Any more tricks?”
She smiled and batted her plump fingers together. Her eyes glittered red and orange. “I’m at your mercy, Captain.”
The captain ordered Marina and Stephen out of the room. “Conduct a thorough search,” the captain said to the remaining soldier. “Then seal off this room and stand gu
ard.”
The soldier, a young man barely old enough to shave and so white-faced from the action that Stephen thought he might pass out, swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“No one in or out. Nobody talks to her without my permission.”
Kokona looked up from the bed, her sleeper rumpled, her tiny toes curled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, Captain, my basic existence hasn’t changed a bit. I’m still just a mutant baby stuck in a bunker.”
The captain scowled as if he wished he could think up some kind of harsh punishment to dispense. Solitary confinement? Restrict rations? Take away potty privileges?
Stephen almost laughed with Kokona, but his gut throbbed and he didn’t know how to handle this new situation.
If only Rachel and DeVontay were here…
As the captain closed the door and looked through the little window at his captive, Stephen realized Franklin was their only hope.
And that wasn’t much hope at all.
Chapter 212
“Radio Field Command and report the capture,” Capt. Antonelli said to Lt. Randall in the telecom room.
Randall shook his head, his eyes bloodshot. “What are we supposed to do now?” Randall said.
“Whatever the brass tells us to do,” Antonelli said. “This is war, not a tea party.”
“But if the baby was behind the bird attack—”
“I’ll worry about the ‘ifs,’ you just do your duty.”
“Yes, sir.”
Antonelli realized the lieutenant was as exhausted as he was and he regretted snapping at his XO. “After you deliver the message, put Johnson at the main entrance. No one in or out, I don’t care if it’s High President Murray in a red bikini. And then gather the scraps of that bird from the prisoner’s room and destroy them.”
“How do I do that?”
“The mess area. There’s a propane stove. Fry them back to hell.”