The far end of the street was blocked by several multi-car collisions. There were gaps between the clusters of vehicles, but Rosa couldn’t be sure if Zapheads lurked there in ambush. She no longer trusted any of her earlier impressions of the mutants—they were far more cunning, adaptable, and powerful than she had assumed. So she decided to do the unexpected.
She exploded out of her crouch and dashed straight for the Zapheads, shouting and waving her arms. They froze in place for a moment, their cries falling away. Rosa didn’t even know what words she yelled—they were a mixture of English and Spanish, none of the phrases connected—but some of them came back to her. The Zapheads waved their arms as well, but hopped up and down in place as she rushed toward them.
When she was twenty yards from them, close enough to see the evanescent glinting of their eyes, she veered hard to the opposite sidewalk, where a line of cars occupied parallel parking spaces. She passed the Zapheads and continued to the end of the block, past the wrecked police car and tow truck in the town’s main intersection. The golden arches of McDonald’s rose like a secular temple before her, and she vowed to keep them in sight if possible.
The buildings thinned, and she had her choice of narrow alleys, the picket-fenced lawns of whitewashed Victorian houses, and patches of tamed forest. She slowed and dared a last glance behind her. The two Zapheads shouted from the broken window of the thrift shop, and Rosa prayed that Marina would be brave enough to stay quiet. And hopefully not sneeze because of the dust.
Rosa punched the air with a defiant fist and yelled, “Pudrete en el infierno!”
She didn’t know whether God sent Zapheads to hell, or if they would rot once they got there, but the insult pushed a fresh surge of adrenaline through her bloodstream. The Zapheads on the street moved toward her, although with the same unhurried pace that suggested they had forever.
A figure lurched from behind a van and said, “Infierno! Infierno!”
The Zaphead was maybe fourteen, a waifish female with blonde hair clipped back in looping, greasy strands. She was half a foot shorter than Rosa, and probably weighed thirty pounds less, but her face bore a craggy intensity that frightened Rosa even more than the adult Zapheads chasing her. She wore a black T-shirt featuring a skull and the words “Grateful Dead,” and Rosa couldn’t understand how any parent would allow a child to wear such a dark message. Not that her parents had to worry about their child’s place in society any longer.
The girl blocked her route, and Rosa couldn’t retreat toward the advancing mutants. Rosa lowered her shoulder and lunged straight for the Zaphead, avoiding the girl’s radiant gaze. The girl snarled just before impact, and her teeth slammed together with an audible clack as Rosa plowed into her. The girl collapsed, and Rosa managed to stay on her feet. But as Rosa recovered her balance, the Zaphead wrapped her wiry fingers around Rosa’s ankle. Rosa kicked and tried to dance away, but only succeeded in dragging the girl several feet along the abrasive surface of the asphalt.
Her other hand clamped on the legs of Rosa’s pants, dragging herself halfway up while tilting Rosa toward the ground. Their faces were barely a foot apart, and the girl’s rancid breath rose like a graveyard wind. For all the Zapheads’ apparent hardiness, this one smelled like she was decomposing inside.
“Pudrete en el infierno,” the girl grunted, and Rosa could have sworn those thin lips peeled back in a grin.
Rosa balled the fingers of her right hand into a fist and raised it high. But she hesitated. This had been some mother’s daughter, a girl who had probably worried about homework and boys and the proper brand of cell phone. All-American fears. She hadn’t asked for her mutation, just as Rosa hadn’t asked to be left alive in a world where hell walked.
Rosa looked into the girl’s eyes, hoping to see any sign of humanity. The eyes were alive, certainly, even aside from the winking and glittering of tiny golden lights. But any emotions in them were alien. The girl could perfectly mimic Rosa’s words and accent, but none of the hatred and fear.
“Infierno, infierno,” the other Zapheads called, now breaking into a brisk walk. The two Zapheads in the window were gone, and Rosa hoped her ploy had succeeded. But she couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
She drove her fist into the girl’s face, splitting the pale skin along her cheek. Blood oozed out and a red splotch spread around the point of injury. But the girl’s eyes registered no pain or surprise, just that cold, analytic gaze made all the more terrible by the flickering of tiny sparks.
And still the Zaphead clung to her legs. Rosa punched again, her knuckles throbbing, and the girl fell away. The pack of Zapheads was nearly on her now. She kicked free of the girl’s grip and fled down the street.
Coming toward her was another Zaphead, an older man dragging the body of the second soldier, their trail marked by an uneven ribbon of blood.
Rosa screamed despite herself, a sound instantly echoed at ear-piercing levels. She changed course and dashed toward the McDonald’s restaurant, thinking she could hole up in the walk-in freezer. She wasn’t sure she would be able to lock it from inside, but with the Zapheads closing in, she couldn’t gamble on escaping into a different building. At least this way she wouldn’t be too far from Marina.
But as she opened the door, she knew the restaurant wouldn’t be safe. Sitting at the tables, propped up with moldering servings of food before them, were the corpses of maybe a hundred people, more than could have possibly been eating there when the solar storms hit. Rosa would have vomited if she had eaten anything that day, and the smell was enough to make her woozy.
Again she made a plea to God, for mercy on the souls of these desecrated people, but she couldn’t help thinking of the human mannequin in the thrift store and how it had been arranged like a doll.
Imitation life.
The Zapheads were learning how to be human, even if they couldn’t understand what it meant to be alive. They were “new people.” They killed because death was ordinary. They died because life was senseless.
This was the world that Marina would inherit.
For the first time, Rosa hoped Marina would die quickly, quietly, and in a place where no Zaphead would ever discover her corpse.
She covered her nose with one hand and staggered around the stainless steel counter, where several hamburgers and congealed fingers of French fries sat on plastic trays, left by customers whose appetites were erased in a searing eruption of the sun.
Rosa now had a new plan.
Instead of leading the Zapheads away from the thrift store, Rosa would kill as many of them as she could.
Or fight her way back to Marina and close her daughter’s eyes to this horrible world forever.
Either way, Rosa would need a knife.
CHAPTER TEN
Rosa ended up skipping the knife.
The manager’s office was open, a man slumped facedown over the desk. The back of his skull was blown open, bits of hair and dried flesh pocking the papers that were pinned to a bulletin board behind him. The wound was old, with greenish rot around the edges. A circle of dried blood the color of rust spread out from his face, the tip of his necktie curled and stiff beside one ear. But Rosa was nearly immune to the tragedy of a man driven to suicide by the actions of the sun.
She was more interested in the revolver still gripped in the shrunken talon of his right hand.
Rosa twisted the fingers off the barrel, the index finger making an audible pop as she peeled it away. The stench of decay was somewhat mitigated by the rotting food in the kitchen. The cloying aroma of old grease even helped mask some of the more offensive smells. Several young employees were scattered along the tiles in various stages of decomposition, one of them with her head submerged in the congealed oil of a deep fryer.
On the Wilcox farm where Jorge served as a migrant laborer, guns were part of the culture. Predators like coyotes and bobcats were a constant threat to the livestock, and hunters sought wild turkey, deer, and rabbits in the wild. Jorge had given
Rosa basic instruction in gun safety, and she suspected Jorge wanted her to be able to defend herself against the other laborers, who were known for alcoholism and brutality. They had never owned a gun, but she was comfortable enough with them to check the chamber. Five bullets remained. The man must have had a low opinion of his marksmanship, or perhaps his nerve.
The gun was single action, so she cocked the hammer and carried it back through the seating area of the restaurant. The silence of the corpses at the tables was so maddening she fought an urge to let fly with the bullets. If not for Marina, she might have followed the manager’s example, although she would have sought a more pleasant location to meet the end. As she exited to the parking lot, she wondered if firing the gun would inspire the Zapheads to use the rifles they had collected.
And the math didn’t work out. There were at least eight Zapheads in Siler Creek, not counting Joey.
She’d have to blast her way back to the thrift store and Marina. But as she turned the corner, her plans changed yet again.
Because the Zapheads were gathered in the intersection, waiting for her.
The little boy in underwear was in front, with several others clustered around him. Behind them was Cathy, holding Joey, who clapped his hands in delight as if a birthday party was starting.
The Zaphead with the reattached hand stood beside Cathy, as well as the teenager Rosa had punched in the face. Two of them held rifles, although they carried them like walking sticks, their stocks dragging the ground. Then one of them stepped forward, and Rosa’s heart did a flip and landed on a jagged stack of ribs.
Marina.
Her daughter was among them, penned in and frightened.
Rosa raised the revolver, her hand shaking. But she didn’t know which one to shoot. And she couldn’t trust her aim at this distance, not when she felt like she was riding a tilt-a-whirl at some crazy carnival.
“No kill,” Joey said.
“Marina?” Rosa called.
Her daughter looked unharmed, although she was unnaturally pale, as if she were slipping into shock. Rosa could only imagine the terror the girl must have felt when the Zapheads discovered her and Rosa was nowhere around. She thought about aiming the weapon at her daughter and firing and cocking until the chamber was empty, but murdering out of love had been a stupid plan all along.
Because she would never be able to harm her precious daughter.
Once again she was trapped in the middle.
The Zapheads shuffled forward a few steps, as if waiting for Rosa’s reaction. “No kill,” Joey repeated.
Rosa glanced behind her, wondering how many other mutants were slinking through the ruins of the town. “What do you want?”
Cathy gently rocked her strange baby and said, “We’re all supposed to go together.”
“But they’re not us,” Rosa said.
The Zapheads erupted in a cacophonic echo. “Not us, not us, not us.”
“New people!” Joey squealed.
“Just let me and my daughter go, and we won’t hurt you.” Rosa couldn’t believe she was negotiating with an infant, and her threat sounded silly even to her own ears. She couldn’t hurt the Zapheads. Even if she shot their heads off, they’d just plop them back in place, apply a little kissy boo boo, and be good as new.
Newer people.
“No,” Joey shrieked. “You come. Go now go.”
He waved his hand down the road. The other Zapheads fell into a chant: “Go now go, go now go.”
Marina began mouthing the words, too, slack-faced and blank-eyed.
Rosa dropped the revolver and headed for the group. She wasn’t sure what would happen—the Grateful Dead teenager might want revenge, the Zapheads could swarm her and rip her limbs from her torso, or Joey might urge them to beat her to death with their rifles.
They haven’t hurt Cathy or Marina yet. If the Zapheads wanted to kill all humans, they’d be dead, too.
Rosa was unwilling to contemplate the reasons the Zapheads wanted them alive. Maybe Joey felt some loyalty to her. Or they felt threatened by the soldiers and not the others. Or maybe they needed more bait.
Whatever the reason, Rosa didn’t want her daughter joining their chants. Rosa wasn’t like Cathy—she wouldn’t raise a Zaphead child.
“Marina,” Rosa called again, approaching warily. She expected Marina to break into a run toward her, but the girl stood in place, swaying back and forth in a catatonic state. By the time Rosa strode between the first rank of Zapheads, she’d forgotten about her own possible death. All she wanted was for Marina to move, to speak, to blink.
As she hugged Marina, her daughter yielded to the embrace and whispered a soft “Momma.” At least she was still partly here.
Rosa looked over her shoulder at the Zapheads surrounding them. They watched with interest, as if not understanding the meaning of an embrace. The Grateful Dead girl with the bleeding face lifted her arms a little as if wanting a hug, but ended up staring down at her palms.
“Go now go,” Joey said, flailing one little hand into a wave.
He was motioning to the far end of town, away from the McDonald’s restaurant. Cathy gave her infant an affectionate stroke on the cheek, and asked, “Go this way, sugar bunches?”
“Sugar bunches!” the Zaphead in the bloody military cap said. The Grateful Dead girl added, “Go now go!”
The Zaphead with the reattached hand led the way, and the rest of them followed. Cathy trailed a little behind them, and then turned to Rosa and Marina. “Well? You guys coming or not?”
Rosa wasn’t sure if they had a choice. Joey bore an odd look of pleasure, his eyes sparking with fiery delight. That mockery of human expression was almost more terrible than his petulant anger at the “old people” who had tried to kill his mutant brethren. She recalled a Bible verse of the wolf living with the lamb and the calf lying down with the lion. And a child shall lead them.
Her priest had explained the context of the verse as God’s promise of eventual peace and harmony, not a literal future where children guided adults. But her priest couldn’t have foreseen a day like this. Such a prophecy would have seemed profane heresy.
Nevertheless, she followed, hugging Marina so close that they both staggered awkwardly. The first Zapheads had stopped in the street ahead, and Rosa wondered if they had changed their mind about killing them. Then she saw the bodies. The Zapheads lifted the two dead soldiers and the body of their elderly comrade, half dragging and half hauling them away.
The town of Siler Creek had never hosted such a bizarre parade. No fire trucks or flags, no cheerleaders waving pompoms, no smiling politicians. Just a collection of the living and dead walking through a ghost town where blank windows served as the audience.
The sun was sinking over the tops of the far buildings and the ridges beyond, throwing long shadows that made the scene even more sinister. The clouds had thickened, tinted pink and purple by dusk, and the air carried dampness redolent of autumnal decay. Combined with the faint rot of corpses clinging to the interior of her nasal passages, Rosa was pretty sure this was what the end of the world smelled like.
“What are they going to do with the dead people, Momma?” Marina whispered.
Rosa was relieved she had shown a sign of awareness, even if the question was so grisly. Considering the body hung on the mannequin rack in the thrift store and the dead people propped up in McDonald’s, she had a good idea, but all she could say was “I don’t know.”
“Will they hurt us?”
“No, honey. Joey will protect us.”
Cathy turned and smiled at them as if they were embarking on the Yellowbrick Road, headed for a great adventure and off to see the Wizard. Rosa had seen that movie while she was still learning English, so she missed a lot of the nuances that Marina grasped right away. But she understood the journey was more important than the destination, because the journey was where the Tin Woodsman got his heart, the Cowardly Lion got his courage, and the Scarecrow got his brains. She also kne
w there was magic in the words “There’s no place like home,” although Camalú might as well be a fantasy movie set for all the reality it held for her now. Magic had given way to hopelessness.
As they trudged out of town, two of the Zapheads slowed and circled behind them, as if to ensure Rosa and Marina wouldn’t lag or flee. They walked in silence as night fell, following a two-lane highway punctuated with occasional abandoned vehicles and multi-car pile-ups. Enough of the moon filtered through the cloud cover to illuminate the pavement like a ribbon of oil, but it was the light cast by the eyes of the Zapheads that guided them forward. They passed road signs, but Rosa was never close enough to a Zaphead for its radiance to reveal the reflective letters.
The Zapheads never stopped to rest, and as the three humans in their midst grew weary and slowed, they adjusted their pace. The ones carrying the dead bodies never changed their grips or traded off their burdens, seemingly tireless. If anything, they grew stronger the farther they walked.
Or the closer we’re getting to the rest of them, Rosa thought. Because they somehow feed off one another’s energy.
Aside from comforting Marina, she had little to distract her, and she passed the time dwelling on two subjects: whether Jorge was still alive and how the Zapheads functioned. She would need to understand their behavior before she could hope to save Marina. An opportunity might arise for them to escape, and perhaps night was the best time to try, but Rosa remained reluctant to risk Marina’s life yet. Until she was confident she could outsmart and outmaneuver the mutants, they would stay close and learn.
This was just like when she’d arrived in the United States with her husband—entering an alien, hostile world. Only this world could kill with one cry from an infant’s tiny lips.
“I can’t go any more, Momma,” Marina said. “I’m hungry.”
“It’s not much farther,” Rosa said. The encouragement was automatic and meaningless. For all she knew, the Zapheads would march them until they reached the sea, and then drive them beyond the shore into deep water.
After: Whiteout (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 4) Page 8