After: Dying Light (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 6)

by Nicholson, Scott

  Riff Raff twitched and fired wildly with one hand, his M-16 spitting three-shot bursts against brick and metal, nearly shearing his own head off in the process.

  But perhaps a mortal self-inflicted wound would have been a better fate, because two more Zapheads pounced on him, knocking his rifle away and tearing at him. Riff Raff’s scream was like a sword cleaving the sky, but it abruptly transformed to a choking gurgle as a Zaphead rent his throat. Franklin was almost grateful for the poor visibility, although it didn’t spare him the sight of blood spouting from the soldier in a pulsing arc.

  Franklin called to DeVontay to get his attention. The chain link fence was maybe fifty yards away, and if they could reach the gap near the maintenance shed, their firepower would buy them some time. He slammed another magazine into place, checked behind him to make sure no Zaphead was close enough to hug, and rolled from the sedan. The drop jarred his knees—I’m getting way too old for this shit—but he kept his balance, waving for DeVontay to follow him. DeVontay squeezed off one last shot and then slid down the minivan’s rear, bouncing off the bumper and tumbling awkwardly to the ground. He tried to stand and his left leg gave way, even as he jabbed the muzzle of his rifle into the asphalt to use the gun as a crutch.

  Franklin glanced just once at the fence—he could easily make it now, especially since the Zapheads would go for the easy meat—and muttered “Shit” under his breath. Should have stayed on my mountaintop.

  But DeVontay was family now, in a way. Maybe the only way that mattered. The human family was shrinking by the minute, and unless people figured out a way to bring themselves back from the dead before the Zapheads could, the battle for the top of the food chain was already lost.

  His AR-15 magazine held twenty rounds, and there were at least thirty Zapheads coming their way. But he’d already given up his chance for a safe retreat. He dashed toward DeVontay, who was dragging himself up using the minivan’s bumper. A Zaphead female with wild hair and bony limbs leapt at him, her eyes flickering with whatever strange energy burned inside her. DeVontay dodged just in time, and she slammed heavily into the vehicle’s quarter panel. DeVontay, from a sitting position, swung his rifle by the muzzle so that the stock cracked into the back of her knees, and she flopped down beside him.

  As DeVontay crawled backward like a three-legged crab, Franklin leveled his weapon and sighted down the barrel. But he didn’t trust his aim at this distance. The Zaphead rolled after DeVontay, hands and knees scraping the asphalt so hard that she came up bloody.

  A sound issued from her—something between the shriek of an animal and a disconnected set of syllables—as she lunged for her prey. DeVontay managed to get a knee up and wedge it into her chest, but she hooked her hands into claws and raked for his face. Franklin was still twenty yards away, sizing her up, wondering if he’d reach DeVontay in time.

  But before he could plan his attack, the back of her head erupted in a spatter that extinguished the lights of her eyes. Then came the echo of the gunshot, and Jorge stepped out of the shadows, smoke curling from the muzzle of his weapon.

  Franklin flipped a half-salute at him but Jorge was already seeking his next target. By the time Franklin reached DeVontay, the young man had wriggled from beneath his mutant attacker and was busy wiping her brains, skull, and miasma from his face.

  Franklin knelt beside DeVontay as Jorge sprayed bullets around the parking lot. “The kind of gal that wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, huh?”

  “You just have to push the right buttons,” DeVontay said, wincing as Franklin tried to help him stand. “Argh. Leg…not doing so hot.”

  “Broken?”

  “Don’t think so. Just hurts like hell.”

  Franklin ducked under DeVontay’s armpit and came up bearing the most of the man’s weight.

  “I’ll just slow you down,” DeVontay said. “Better leave me.”

  “No way. I want you around when Rachel comes back, just to see the look on her face.”

  “You’re a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?”

  “No worse than you. I just have the advantage of crotchety geezerhood.”

  They wobbled forward a few steps, adjusting their balance, and DeVontay flung aside his rifle so he could hang onto Franklin’s jacket. Their progress was slow, and without Jorge’s covering fire, they wouldn’t have made it. But within a couple of minutes, they reached the woods past the fence line. Jorge sprinted after them, pausing every eight or ten steps to turn and fire.

  Franklin saw no sign of Volker, and he was about to tell DeVontay his theory of her betrayal when he saw the goggles in the grass. One lens was cracked, and a dark streak of what could only be blood painted the nosepiece. By the time Jorge caught up, Franklin had collected them, wiped them dry, and slung them around his neck.

  Now there was no escaping from the darkness, unless he shut his eyes.

  And that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Interesting,” Kokona said.

  Her eyes reflected in the window, joining with the light from the group of Zapheads behind Stephen to imbue the charred classroom with a dull glow. Stephen nearly screamed when he’d seen DeVontay get attacked, but Kokona had warned him to remain silent.

  “Interesting,” said one of the Zapheads behind him, in a raspy whisper. The room stank of their strange body odor. It reminded Stephen of visiting a welding shop with his uncle, that aroma of sweat and hot metal mixed with a swampy rot.

  Stephen watched as Franklin and DeVontay limped to safety, along with the man who helped rescue DeVontay. As joyous as Stephen was to discover DeVontay was still alive, the distance between them might as well be a million miles. Several packs of Zapheads milled around the grounds just outside the building, but they seemed more confused than menacing. Stephen suspected that was Kokona’s doing—as if she’d orchestrated the entire attack with her mind.

  “You can put me down now.” Kokona’s small voice carried weight, as if she knew Stephen would obey.

  Of course, Your Highness. You made me bring you here. You always get what you want.

  And Stephen hated himself for his part in the ambush. He’d held Kokona on his lap as the two men entered the building, and two others—whom he hadn’t identified as DeVontay and Franklin until later—circled the school. He’d watched with a sick mix of fascination and horror as Zapheads crept up to the shed where the soldier stood guard. They had climbed the walls like thick-legged spiders and taken her before she could shout or fire a shot. Stephen turned away, but not before the mutants had yanked away pieces of her like wings from a fly.

  Stephen settled Kokona on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, adjusting the blanket around her so she wouldn’t catch a chill. She stared up from that rounded face, exotic eyes strobing ribbons of light across his face. The comic books had it all wrong. The evil overlord wasn’t a knobby and gnarled monster from across the galaxy. It was a cute little Asian baby that commanded a willing, fearless, and determined army.

  “As I suspected,” Kokona said. “Your people came for war.”

  “No. Rachel left a safe place in the mountains because you and the other babies summoned her.” Stephen forced himself not to get angry because he was so scared he might start screaming. And he had a feeling the room full of Zapheads wouldn’t like that. “She turned her back on our world to help you. To help us live in peace.”

  “Rachel Wheeler is a liar.”

  “Well, you should know, since you’re the one who made her what she is.”

  Kokona’s eyes dimmed to a smolder. “We weren’t ready for her. That wasn’t meant to happen. But once we saw that we could learn from her, we saw value in letting her live.”

  “So you could read her mind all along?” Stephen balled his fists, but he jammed his hands into his pockets to hide the display of aggression. The nearest Zapheads shifted restlessly, a wet clicking sound in their throats.

  “Not exactly. We had a connection. An understan
ding.”

  “And now it’s gone.”

  “Along with the other babies. They could be far away by now.”

  His mouth went dry. “Or dead,” he whispered.

  “If she betrayed us, she’ll be dead sooner or later.”

  Stephen was no longer sure he could trust anything she said. For all he knew, she could be lying herself. Kokona might know where Rachel was and just didn’t want Stephen to find her.

  She clearly exerted some kind of power over him; otherwise, why couldn’t he jab his thumbs into those glittering eyes and then squeeze her tiny, cocoa-colored throat until she died so hard even a million superfreak mutants couldn’t bring her back?

  “It’s been long enough,” Kokona said. “We can go outside without being shot.”

  Stephen took that as a command to lift the baby and carry her from the room. The Zapheads followed, twelve or fifteen of them, fat and thin, most of them adults but all of them bigger than Stephen. More had collected at the school, seeping from the dark in all directions. The gunfire had barely diminished their numbers. He guessed there were maybe a hundred mutants, silently walking the halls or standing in dark corners like sleeping statues.

  The facility was much bigger than his old elementary school. When the two men had crept into the school, he’d heard them breaking glass and crunching their shoes on the crispy floor even from several halls away. The hiding Zapheads could have jumped them at any time, but like the ones lying out on the school grounds pretending to be dead, they just waited for Kokona’s silent command. As dark and creepy as it was inside the ghostly shell of the building, Stephen still dreaded going outside where all the bodies and stink were.

  As Stephen carried Kokona down one hallway after another, Zapheads came out of classrooms and offices to fall in with the crowd following behind. They made little sound besides a slight shuffle of feet and whisper of soiled clothes, although the smaller ones made occasional clicking noises. Soon they came to an exit and Stephen held his breath to brace for the carnage outside.

  Kokona must have felt him stiffen. “Don’t worry. The danger’s gone.”

  Meaning his friends. Humans were the danger.

  He backed the smoke-stained door open to protect Kokona, and they came out under the stars. Bodies were heaped among the vehicles just as before, only now there were puddles of fluid around them like black oil.

  Kokona ordered him to kneel by the nearest body. It was a woman, middle-aged and sprawled on her back. Her eyes were open but devoid of any spark of light or life. Her makeup was smeared and face dirty, and her white hair was a wiry snarl. In her old life, she could have been a teacher or administrator at this very school. A moist hole appeared high in her shoulder, and the top button had been sheared off her blouse. Blood coated her belly.

  Kokona reached out her delicate hand and placed it on the woman’s face. Stephen felt it more than heard it—a humming like a transformer on a power line. His very bones vibrated on a subtle level, and his toes tingled. Kokona’s voice echoed inside his skull, but the bits of sound didn’t quite form words, but instead reeled like a carnival ride. Her mouth was closed, though, focused on whatever she was doing with her hand.

  She’s inside my head.

  He wondered if this was what Rachel experienced when she’d been altered by the mutants. A wave of dizziness struck him and he sat on the cold asphalt, his arms going limp. Kokona kicked and wriggled out of her blanket to maintain contact with the woman’s flesh. An aroma like baked ham filled the air, sweet and salty and greasy all at the same time.

  Kokona pulled her hand away and the tension left Stephen’s body. She giggled and crawled back into Stephen’s lap. The little finger on the dead woman’s left hand twitched, and then all the fingers curled like a spider drawing back from a flame. Her eyes opened, and a miniature lightning bolt raced across one iris. Then came another and another, and soon both eyes roiled with flickering waves of red, orange, and yellow.

  She writhed for a couple of seconds and twisted to one side, rolling to her hands and knees. She stood, unsteady for a moment, face blank, and then she merged with the crowd of mutants.

  “Over there,” Kokona said, pointing to the next body about fifteen feet away.

  Although his legs felt like Jell-O, Stephen found himself standing, the baby in his arms. Before he was aware of moving, he was already bending over the next dead Zaphead, a young man with a beard and mustache with the top half of his head blown away. Bits of bone and gray matter gleamed beneath Kokona’s radiating gaze.

  “I don’t think there’s enough left of this one,” Kokona said.

  Stephen was glad. Bad enough for Zapheads to come back from the dead without them leaking chunks from their shattered bodies. He wanted to vomit, but he hadn’t eaten in hours. And he couldn’t run, because Kokona owned him.

  He tried to distance himself from the scene, turn it into make-believe so he wouldn’t go crazy. Maybe a comic book, Slave of the Starry-Eyed Baby or Return of the Never Dead. He wanted to laugh but his lungs held no air. Like Rachel, all he’d wanted to do was help, but he’d ended up losing himself in the process.

  He obeyed as she ordered him to the next corpse. This one had a row of bullet wounds stitched up its leg, along its crotch and torso, and around the rib cage—eight or nine wounds in all. It was a teenager, not a whole lot bigger than Stephen, and he was struck by a disturbing thought.

  That could be me. I could have been turned into a Zaphead during the solar storms and become part of this tribe. I could have been killed for the second time and then brought back to life yet again.

  But whatever sympathy he might have felt dissolved under Kokona’s command and he lowered her to the boy so she could touch his face. The bizarre ritual was repeated, and the electricity and confusion swirled through Stephen. He wondered if he was losing part of himself with each resurrection, as if he were the battery Kokona was drawing from in order to jolt another Zaphead back to life.

  How long would he last until he was used up?

  And this compulsion to serve Kokona—was it really that different from what he’d felt for Rachel and DeVontay, or even his own mother? Was this what love felt like, to give yourself until you were all gone?

  He’d always imagined love was scary. It always looked like that in the movies and comic books.

  And now he knew. It wasn’t even death that was terrible to consider, or even the return from death. It was this endless giving, this lack of will, this loss of self.

  When the mutant boy’s eyes flicked open and filled with sparks, Kokona laughed and flung her hands together with delight. “Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man, make me a cake as fast as you cannnnnnnn,” she squealed in her creepy little voice.

  This was love.

  He wanted to cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Holy hell,” Franklin whispered, peering through the night-vision goggles he held to his face.

  “What is it?” DeVontay said, wrapping a torn curtain around his knee for support.

  “I’m not sure, but we didn’t do a very good job of killing.”

  They’d taken a position at the window of the second floor of a nearby house, deciding to watch the school for a while before returning to Hilyard and the others. Franklin was also curious whether Hilyard would send support after hearing the firefight. If his suspicions were correct, the lieutenant had already written them off as collateral damage.

  But he’d deal with that later. Whether they reported back or decided to strike out on their own, they needed to know what they were up against. So when the mutants returned to their dead tribemates rather than chase the humans who’d unleashed the fatal bullets, Franklin assumed they’d collect the bodies as they usually did.

  Instead, more Zapheads emerged from the school and they gathered around one of the fallen, and Franklin couldn’t be sure what was happening. It was almost like a memorial service. Except something wasn’t right.

  “Give me those,” De
Vontay said, ripping the goggles from Franklin’s grasp. He mashed them against his face for a moment, trying to focus. “Can’t see shit with only one eye.”

  Jorge, who had taken Corporal Volker’s rifle, peered through the scope. “There’s a boy down there.”

  “No surprise,” Franklin said. “Zapheads come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “Take another look.”

  Franklin took back the goggles and fitted them over the bridge of his nose. He squinted hard, wishing he wasn’t so old that his vision was failing along with everything else. “It’s a boy, all right. Holding something. A lump that might be a backpack or a sack of food or something.”

  “What is unusual about the boy?” Jorge said. His voice had remained remarkably calm since he’d murdered his wife, which disturbed Franklin even more than a sobbing fit would have.

  “Nothing. Just another Zaphead.”

  “Look closer, my gringo friend. His eyes.”

  “What is it?” DeVontay said.

  “Damn.” Franklin drew in a sharp breath. “They’re not glowing. That’s not a Zapper.”

  DeVontay jerked with a start, banging his forehead against the glass as he tried to get a better view. “He’s one of us?”

  “Take a look,” Jorge said, passing Volker’s night-vision-equipped rifle to DeVontay. “Maybe this will work better.”

  Franklin couldn’t make sense of what the boy was doing, bending over the dead Zaphead. With that big group of mutants gathered behind him, why didn’t he run? What was wrong with him?

  “That’s a baby he’s holding,” DeVontay said.

  “The ninth,” Franklin muttered under his breath.