DeVontay glanced up at the man by the fence. The man’s rifle was aimed right at DeVontay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Zapheads swarmed over them before they had a chance to fight back.
Franklin closed his eyes, expecting to be ripped limb from limb, the pain in his head so intense that he almost welcomed death. His heart leapt into a syncopated gallop and he clawed at the surface of the rock, wondering if he should roll over the edge back into the ravine.
The Zapheads still repeated Robertson’s cry of “Why?” although they no longer drew it out, instead vocalizing different lengths as if they were playing multiple instruments in some mad orchestra.
But as the horde moved around them, he realized they weren’t attacking. He finally opened his eyes to find them gathered around the bodies of the two fallen soldiers, as well as Robertson and his dead daughter. Jorge sat stunned and unmoving, apparently unwilling to go for the weapon that lay on the ground ten feet away from him.
They’re ignoring us.
Three Zapheads scooped up one of the soldiers as if he were a sack of grain, struggling to hoist him onto their shoulders. Another Zaphead, a male with a long, stringy beard and creased face, moved in to help. They were all dirty and their clothes soiled and tattered, but they moved with more precision and coordination than the ones Franklin had previously encountered.
Robertson tightened his grip on his daughter as the Zapheads pulled at her. “Get away, you mutant fuckers,” he said, kicking at one of them. Robertson’s boot struck a skinny Zaphead in the shin and it stopped repeating “Why why why.”
Shouldn’t have done that, partner.
The Zaphead’s eyes swelled with radiance, glittering so bright that Franklin could see the change even in full sunlight. The Zaphead grabbed Robertson’s foot and twisted, causing Robertson to grunt in anguish. That immediately set the Zapheads off on a grunting spree, until they sounded like a colony of gorillas. Franklin’s gaze met Jorge’s, who then looked at the gun.
“No,” Franklin said, trying not to draw the attention of the Zapheads. But he had a bad feeling about attacking the Zapheads at close range, especially after seeing the response to Robertson’s kick. The Zaphead who held the boot now twisted it vigorously, nearly dragging Robertson fully to the ground.
Robertson kicked again with his other foot, and the blow knocked the Zaphead away. Two others, who had been lifting the other fallen soldier, turned their attention to Robertson. The Zapheads holding Shay’s corpse began to yank as if they were fighting over a rag doll. Robertson lashed out at one of them with a fist, landing a blow to the face. The woman’s cheek split and blood poured out.
At least their blood’s still red. As close to human as they get.
“Robertson,” Franklin said, repeating the name when the man didn’t answer. He raised his voice, which drew looks from a couple of the Zapheads. “Don’t fight back.”
But Robertson’s grief had melded into anger, and he used one arm to push at the Zapheads while the other encircled Shay’s body.
Franklin crawled toward Robertson, hoping to calm him down. One of the Zapheads stepped toward him—a middle-aged woman who looked like she might have been a lawyer in a former life, although her pants suit was frayed and her blouse missing its buttons—and he froze, waiting for her response. She stopped, too, watching him with sparking eyes.
Jorge finally moved, easing toward the rifle despite Franklin’s command. Maybe he had enough ammunition to take down the small group of them, but Franklin believed other Zaps were approaching through the woods, because he could hear their repetitive chatter. Gunfire would only bring more of them, and they’d never shoot their way past the entire Zaphead Nation that seemed to be boiling up from their holes and hiding places.
The Zapheads holding the first soldier dropped their burden onto the muddy forest floor and started for Robertson as well. Now half a dozen grabbed at him and Shay, with Robertson kicking and punching as best he could while still clinging to his blood-soaked daughter.
“Get away, get away,” he moaned, nearly blubbering. “Leave her alone.”
Franklin knew the grief of losing a child, although his losses had been emotional rather than physical, casualties of Franklin’s libertarian obsessions rather than gunplay. But he’d had time to assimilate the tide of pain, and Robertson’s had descended upon him in one shocking avalanche. Robertson kissed the top of her head even as he cursed at the former humans that clutched and tugged at her.
“Robertson, let her go,” Franklin said.
He looked at Franklin with red-rimmed, watery eyes. “She’s all I have.”
“She’s gone. Getting killed yourself won’t bring her back.”
“Don’t give a shit. They’re not taking her.”
Jorge sprang at the rifle and wrapped a hand around the stock, but before he could raise it, a Zaphead jumped on the gun and covered it with her body. A muffled roar erupted as the Zaphead shook, a spurt of blood gushing from the top of its skull.
The other Zapheads didn’t seem to realize one of their number had been killed, but they fell silent in the wake of the sudden noise. Incongruently, a crow cawed from somewhere in the treetops, and that inspired several of the Zapheads to caw in return.
As Jorge struggled to retrieve the weapon from beneath the fallen Zaphead, Robertson continued his fight. He was now on his feet, holding his daughter as if they were in a ballet. She sagged from the waist, lolling forward so that her blood-stained torso was pointed toward Franklin. Then she flopped forward so that her hair was over her face, nearly falling free of her father’s frantic grip.
The Zapheads moved in on all sides, finally succeeding in dragging her away. Robertson screamed and jumped on the back of the closest Zaphead, causing them both to fall flailing into the mud. The Zaphead was bigger and beefier than Robertson, and Franklin joined the fray with the intention of getting Robertson the hell out of there.
“She’s dead,” Franklin said, pulling on the back of his shirt. “You’re not. Come on.”
Robertson swung wildly and struck Franklin on the side of the head, awakening his slumbering concussion into a red, roaring dragon that caused his ears to ring. By the time Franklin returned to his senses, Robertson was locked in fierce combat with three Zapheads while two others bore Shay away from the rock ledge.
Jorge now grappled with two Zapheads, still trying to free the semiautomatic rifle. One of his unnatural adversaries, a young teen male clad in only a navy blue knit sweater and grungy boxer shorts, clawed at Jorge’s wounded side as if digging for entrails. Franklin decided they weren’t getting out of here alive after all.
Might as well go down fighting. I’d just as soon die from these sons of bitches as get shot by Sarge’s gang.
But he noticed a difference in the two separate struggles—where Robertson punched and kicked, Jorge wrestled and shoved.
And the Zapheads were returning those two physical responses in kind. The Zapheads around Robertson drove their fists at his head, but he managed to duck the awkward blows. It was like the Zapheads had never thrown a punch before and were learning on the spot. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in determination and quantity, and soon their fists were bouncing off Robertson’s neck and shoulders.
They also drove their shoes—or filthy bare feet if they wore no shoes—into Robertson’s legs. He couldn’t defend himself from all the angles of attack and soon fell under the fury of the mob.
But was it really fury? The Zapheads delivered their blows with an almost detached attitude, as if they were putting in time at a minimum-wage job. The earlier Zap attacks had been characterized by rampaging, chaotic violence, with frenetic movements and an almost mewling sound of pleasure rising from their throats.
Franklin decided Robertson was a goner and staggered over to help Jorge. “Stop fighting,” Franklin shouted. “Let your body go limp.”
Jorge scuffled a few seconds longer, but fell still when Franklin yelled
his name. The Zapheads broke into a chorus of “Hor-hay, hor-hay” but they halted their attack. It only took them seconds to turn their attention to Robertson.
Franklin put his hands over his ears as Robertson’s grunts turned into yelps and then screams, and the mass of Zapheads atop him roiled like a sack of rats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I’m not a Zaphead,” Rachel said, checking the mirror again. “I don’t feel any different.”
Well, not MUCH different. My eyes have some weird flecks, and I’m a little light-headed, but I just fought off a serious infection and underwent a miracle cure at the hands of some bizarre mutants. There’s no medical textbook for this. Nobody knows how I’m supposed to feel.
“You’re acting almost the same as before, not that I know you all that well,” Campbell said, sitting on the bed so she wouldn’t suffer claustrophobia in the bathroom. “But something’s…off.”
“Maybe the part where these Zapheads healed me with their touch like a tribe of charismatic evangelicals? Sorry, I don’t believe Jesus came back to Earth in the form of a zillion dirty walking apes whose sins were cleansed by the sun.”
“The professor thought something mystical was occurring, which is why he saw himself as some sort of spiritual leader for them.”
“One thing history teaches us is that we always nail our spiritual leaders to the cross, either with actual nails or bullets.”
“Human history, maybe. We don’t have a Zaphead history yet.”
Rachel walked out of the bathroom into the brightness of the bedroom. “So they’ve gone from bloodthirsty murderers to missionary witch doctors in mere weeks?”
Campbell squinted at her like a husband who’d just been told of a fashion makeover but couldn’t quite tell where the money had gone. “I mean, maybe they didn’t infect you. Maybe there’s some sort of second wave of solar flares to zap the rest of us. It’s not like we have TV talking heads to warn us this time around.”
“Like we even listened the last time.” Rachel knew she was just babbling, but she didn’t want to confront the possibilities suggested by her symptoms. And her cruelty to Campbell was certainly a defense mechanism, and not a symptom of some kind of personality change. She hoped. “They warned us about satellite signals and transmission failures, but nobody said we’d be back in the Stone Age and the predators would look just like us only without the grooming.”
Campbell rubbed the bristles on his chin. “Speaking of which, do you think I should shave? I don’t want to get shot by one of these survivalist nutjobs I keep running into.”
“Nah, let it grow,” she said. “Maybe that’s why the Zapheads didn’t kill you back at the farmhouse.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. They kept me almost like a pet, even though they mutilated and killed the group who was there before me. And the professor lived with them even longer than I did.”
“You saw how that ended. Guess he wore out his welcome.”
“But they didn’t attack him until he turned violent. And they let you and me walk right out while they killed him. What do you think of that?”
Rachel’s stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten since the previous day. That—hopefully—explained some of her dizziness. “I think I’m hungry. And that means I’m not a Zaphead because I’m not craving a rare, juicy human filet mignon.”
Campbell hopped off the bed and headed for the hall. “Well, I guess we can be glad they’re not zombies, or we’d be on the wrong side of the law of supply and demand. Come on, let’s break out the can opener.”
In the kitchen, they cracked two tins of tuna fish, a sleeve of stale Saltine crackers, and a bottle of grape juice, pouring it into glass jelly jars. “So it looks like we’re staying here until you get rested,” Campbell said, his words whistling around the dry crumbs.
“Overnight, maybe,” Rachel said. The tuna gave her a surge of energy and she already felt stronger. “But I’m eager to find Stephen and get to Milepost 291.”
“So let’s say your grandfather’s there, maybe some other people. What if they think you’re a Zaphead? Will he let you in?”
“Franklin believes in individualism and personal freedom. There’s not a racist bone in his body. He used to say that was the part of the collapse he was looking toward the most: when people were too busy surviving to mind other people’s business.”
“Yeah, but that was before there was a Zaphead race. His opinions might have changed in light of new information.”
“If we’re lucky enough to get there, you can ask him. From a safe distance.”
Campbell reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m glad this happened,” he said. “Not the solar flares or the Doomsday bullshit, but the fact that we made it.”
She drew her hand away and unconsciously wiped it on her pants. Campbell noticed and laughed. “I don’t think you’re contagious.”
“No, but maybe you are. Besides, all we’ve made it is so far. We’re alive today, and we have a goal, but other than that, I don’t see much hope for the long haul.”
“Hey, we’re doing okay for ourselves. Roof over our heads, full bellies, no credit card debt, and we can get an early jump on Christmas shopping.”
“I wasn’t just talking about my future. I meant for us, the survivors. The human race.”
Campbell shoved away from the table and peered out the window. “Well, we’re probably outnumbered a thousand to one, but this is still our planet. Top of the food chain until proven otherwise.”
“You think we have a divine right to rule the world? A manifest destiny? That God exploded all the matter in the universe just so creatures on a tiny speck at the edge of an obscure galaxy could believe themselves special? All we did with our knowledge and power in Before was stockpile weapons, starve the have-nots, and squabble over fossil fuels. Have you considered maybe God created the Zapheads precisely because He was sick and damned tired of us?”
Campbell nudged the living-room curtains together and asked, “Are you an atheist? You sure talk about God a lot.”
“I was a believer all my life. A devout Christian. And somewhere lately, I’ve lost it. It seemed so powerful before, so personal, that I never would have thought it could turn off like a light switch. And, I hate to say it, but it sucks to be alone again.”
“You’re not alone.”
“In my head I am. In my heart, too. You can be alone standing in a crowd of millions.”
Campbell found a guitar case leaning against the sofa and he opened it, pulling out an acoustic Gibson that gleamed in the penetrating sunlight. He gave it a soft strum and discordant twang filled the room, hurting Rachel’s ears.
As he sat on the sofa and began tuning the strings, Rachel said, “Please don’t tell me you’re going to play ‘Imagine.’”
“How about ‘Give Peace a Chance’?”
“How about ‘no.’”
Campbell coaxed a few chord changes out of the instrument, and the sweet resonance was welcome after all the screams, explosions, shouts, and groans of the past two months. Campbell opened his mouth and sang a few nonsense syllables: “Ooh-la-la, oh yeah.”
He repeated the musical bars and vocal phrases, and Rachel found herself humming along. Campbell had a strong baritone voice with just enough of a rasp to project authenticity and warmth. The aural intensity overwhelmed her, filled her with golden liquid, and she found herself singing along in harmony.
She swayed in pleasure, the rhythm rolling through her body until her fingers and lips tingled. The vibrations rising through her throat were almost sexual in their pleasure, and she surrendered to it.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah—”
“Rachel?”
“—oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah—”
“Rachel!”
She fell silent and blinked, looking around at the room that appeared to have been transformed. The walls shook with the echoes, the ceiling swelled into a dome, and the words �
��oh yeah” still skated across her tongue.
The guitar was on the couch and Campbell was a foot in front of her face, his eyes dark with concern. “I stopped playing two minutes ago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“He won’t shoot,” DeVontay said when Kiki asked about the guard by the fence aiming at him. “I’ve got something he needs.”
“He doesn’t look like the patient kind.”
“I’m his ticket out of here.”
“I hope you got a lot of those tickets.”
Kiki and DeVontay gathered the children in the loading area, still inside the slaughterhouse but in enough sunlight that they could all see one another. The gunshots rumbled around them, some far and some near, and the wide-eyed children trembled with each fresh volley.
“It’s like a war movie,” James said, miming a pistol with an extended finger and going “Blam blam blam, you’re dead!” at another kid, who burst into tears. Kiki chided James and Stephen hugged the crying boy until the sobs halted.
The other adults, Angelique and Carole, comforted the other children as best they could. There were ten children in all, ranging in age from a girl slightly older than Stephen to a toddler who was fortunately oblivious to the surrounding chaos, although his young lip quivered as if he might erupt into shrieks at any moment.
“We need to split up,” DeVontay told Kiki. “If we stay together, we’re going to be like one long line of Zaphead bait. If we break into three or four groups, it’s less likely Rooster will see us.”
“Wait a sec,” Angelique said. She’d barely taken time to dress, throwing on a man’s shirt which was too large and only half buttoned, so that her bra and panties showed. Her sallow legs gleamed in the sunlight and DeVontay wondered how long she’d been held captive. “I didn’t sign up for this shit.”
“You’re a grown-up,” Kiki said. “That means sometimes doing things you don’t want to do.”
“Okay, Mom,” Angelique said with sarcasm, even though Kiki was maybe five years older. “Don’t ground me or anything.”
After (Book 3): Milepost 291 Page 15