This is the End 3: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (8 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  “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 pakpak 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.

  She had nearly decided the house was indeed unoccupied and was about to sneak to the back door when a muffled explosion roared from the open window. Someone was firing a gun from inside the house.

  Shouts—human shouts—in the
street were followed by return gunfire.

  Oh my Lord, they’re shooting at each other. The last living humans are trying to kill each other.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, killing was what humans did.

  The fire licked up the side of the wall, reaching the eaves and the roof shingles. Black smoke boiled into the sky as wood cracked and popped from the heat. The back door burst open and Captain America ran out, his face sweating and shiny in the reddish glow of the fire-lit night. Two soldiers followed on his heels, all three running for the rear of the property. Rachel was relieved to see they were heading away from where Stephen, Pete, and Campbell were hiding. Another soldier, this one the woman who had fought off the Zaphead in the street, hobbled out of the house and ran after them in the dark.

  “Bruenig,” she called. “Johnson. Navarro. Wait up.”

  She’d barely reached the back hedge when her shoulder erupted in a spout of dark fluid. The gunshot sounded a split-second later, still reverberated between the houses as she sprawled on the scruffy lawn, moaning and leaking.

  “Damn,” Campbell called from the concealment of the rhododendron. Then, louder, he shouted, “Arnoff! Hold your fire!”

  Rachel realized the group firing on the soldiers must have been Campbell’s and Pete’s traveling companions. She kept low and scrambled toward the back door. Before, there had been more soldiers, but perhaps The Captain had sent them on reconnaissance, or maybe they’d been killed by Zapheads.

  Or maybe they were stacked inside the house, executed by their crazy commander, victims of bunker fever.

  She didn’t have time to waste. “I’m going in,” she called over to Campbell, and then she burst through the back door, her pruning shears held at the ready. The interior of the house was murky, the smoke hanging thin and stale, and the faintest light oozing through the windows.

  “DeVontay!” she called, keeping low and heading for the hallway, banging her shin against a piece of furniture in the dark. Around her, the shell of the house whispered and hissed with the spreading flames. She didn’t have much time.

  The hallway was almost completely black, but Rachel recalled the straight shot to the back bedroom where she and DeVontay had been held captive. She slammed her shoulder against the closed door, and then twisted the knob, wishing she’d thought to bring a flashlight.

  She sensed movement in the room, so perhaps they hadn’t bound DeVontay to the bed again. That was good, because she needed every second. Fire crawled over the roof, consuming the asphalt shingles with a greasy roar of pure joy.

  Rachel shouted his name again, competing with the hunger of the fire. The flames had reached the windows and backlit the house, sending shimmering bands of deep red behind her. A shape hung before her, a black, man-shaped shadow against the glow.

  “DeVontay, come on,” she screamed, rushing forward and reaching for him.

  The hand snatched her wrist and yanked her forward, the stench of fetid breath cutting through the acrid smoke.

  “Rachel?” DeVontay called from somewhere outside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “They’re blowing the hell out of everything that moves,” Pete said.

  Campbell covered Stephen’s ears against the popcorn staccato of gunfire and the growling blaze. The darkness had given way to a half-light.

  “I knew Donnie was going to crack sooner or later,” he said. “I was hoping to be miles away when it happened.”

  “She’s been in there too long,” Pete said. “The whole damned house is about to fall in.”

  Stephen gave a squeal of dismay at the news. Campbell wished he could elbow Pete in the gut to shut him up, but Pete was retreating deeper into the shrubbery, as if the vegetation could ward off stray bullets. Campbell saw a man on the roof of a nearby house, aiming a rifle into the street. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed it was one of the camouflaged soldiers.

  “Yee-haw,” Donnie whooped in his unmistakable Southern drawl.

  The soldier fired a couple of rounds in the direction of Donnie’s voice, triggering a volley in response. The soldier froze, outlined against the hellish horizon for a moment, then he flung out his arms and dropped his rifle. He collapsed and rolled down the slanted roof, disappearing from sight.

  “So much for being on the same team,” Pete said. “We better get out of here.”

  “We told Rachel we’d wait.”

  “Raaaay-chel,” Stephen wailed.

  “Shh,” Campbell said. “We’ll get her.” He turned to the darkness behind him. “Pete?”

  But Pete was gone, vanished in the shadows between the houses. Campbell cursed under his breath. He didn’t dare leave Stephen alone, not after all the trauma he’d endured. But he couldn’t just sit there while people died, either—there weren’t all that many left to spare.

  “Come on, Stevie Boy,” he said, grabbing the child’s arm and dragging him forward.

  They burst from the rhododendron hedge, exposed in the flickering light of the burning house. It spat and sputtered like a volcano, sucking oxygen from the wooden shell to feed the wild orange-red fury on the roof. No one could last long in such an inferno.

  Campbell pulled Stephen along behind him as he ran toward the house. He saw a man run into the open back door just as Stephen called, “DeVontay!”

  “Is that your friend?” Campbell asked.

  Stephen nodded, tucking his doll under his chin and squeezing hard. Campbell figured DeVontay had a better chance of reaching Rachel than he did. But he was spared any dilemma or guilt when a familiar face stepped into the glow of the fire.

  “Well, well, well,” Arnoff said. “Guess your scouting mission went all to hell.”

  Arnoff’s hunting jacket was blotched with something wet and dark. His rifle pointed up, the butt riding the inside of one elbow, and his eyes were bright with a strange fever.

  “I found Pete,” Campbell said.

  “Us against them,” Arnoff said, staring at the boy. “Are you one of us, or one of them?”

  Campbell nudged the boy behind him, using himself as a shield against Arnoff’s apparent madness. “I found some other survivors, too.”

  “Some survivors shoot back.”

  “They…they’re military. They’re doing a Zaphead clean-up.”

  “Well, they’re doing a crappy job of it,” Arnoff said. “We must have seen four dozen Zappers back there at the big fire. They were drawn like moths. Me and Donnie took a bunch down, but some of them snuck off into dark.”

  “Where’s Pamela and the professor?”

  Arnoff hooked a casual thumb behind him. “Back there somewhere. They’ll be along shortly.”

  Behind Arnoff, Campbell saw DeVontay drag Rachel from the house, smoke boiling out after them as a portion of the roof folded in like sodden cardboard. But they weren’t alone. Something clung to Rachel, limbs entwined around her as DeVontay flailed at it.

  “Ruh-ray-ray!” Stephen stuttered.

  Arnoff turned in the direction of the boy’s gaze, watching the struggle fifty feet away. Without a word, he raised his weapon and peered down the barrel. Campbell leaped toward him, bellowing in rage, but the gun ripped out a percussive clap of noise and yellow light flashed from the tip of the barrel.

  The three figures rolled off the porch into the landscaping. Campbell dashed across the lawn, forgetting Stephen in his panic. Someone rose up from beside the steps, shadow melding with the low trees and flowers. Arnoff fired again and the figure was flung backward by the force of the bullet.

  “Hold your fire, goddamn it,” Campbell yelled, expecting a bullet in the back for his trouble.

  Arnoff chuckled loudly, the sound a perfect harmony to the madly swelling fire. Another form crawled from the landscaping, and Campbell recognized Rachel’s long, dark hair. His heart gave a leap of relief, and he was sickened by his own longing and selfish need.

  “You okay?” he asked, kneeling in the dewy weeds and pulling her toward him.

&n
bsp; She looked at him with bloodshot, bleary eyes, coughing and wheezing. “Stephen?” she managed to gasp.

  “Right over there,” Campbell said, pointing to where the boy stood near Arnoff.

  DeVontay stood up beside the porch, wiping his torn sleeve against his face. His dark skin glistened with sweat. “Careful who you shooting at,” he said to Arnoff.

  “Don’t worry none. I know a Zaphead when I see one.”

  “We all look alike in the dark.”

  “No comment,” Arnoff said, scanning the nearby rooftops. Stephen ran across the scraggly lawn as Campbell helped Rachel to her feet, and the boy dropped his doll in the enthusiasm of giving her a hug. DeVontay joined them and put a protective arm over Rachel’s shoulder, sending a flare of jealousy burning across Campbell’s chest.

  “You came back for me,” DeVontay said to her.

  “Told you I would,” she said. “Are you a doubting Thomas?”

  “I’m a doubting DeVontay,” he said. “I’ve been let down before.”

  Campbell glanced down at the Zaphead, which had a dark red dot in the center of its forehead where the bullet had struck. In repose, the rounded face looked like that of a math teacher’s or a financial advisor’s, fortyish, pale, a plump fold of fat under the chin. The corpse reminded Campbell of Uncle Frederick from D.C., a lobbyist who told political jokes that were neither funny nor insightful and who always seemed to end up with the last piece of fried chicken at family reunions. This Zaphead might once have been somebody’s uncle.

  Campbell turned to Arnoff. “Are you sure this guy was a Zaphead?”

  Arnoff shrugged. “Odds were better than fifty-fifty.”

  Rachel and DeVontay gave Campbell a dubious look, but he answered, “We’ve made it this far, so stick with the winners.”

  They moved away from the house as the flames engulfed the core, waves of dry heat wafting across Campbell’s skin. The fire had tried to spread across the lawn, but the dew had stifled it, so it contented itself with the wood, plastics, and fabrics already in its possession.

  Campbell looked around the edge of the fire’s light. “Pete?”