After: Whiteout (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 4)

by Scott Nicholson

  They went another mile without incident, passing a few vehicles along the way, including two that had rolled off the road and upended below the bank. No one bothered to check them out. DeVontay was happy with the snacks and bottled water from the ranger station, and Wheelerville—if it existed—probably had a food supply rich enough to get them all through the winter. As Campbell had just rediscovered, anything not absolutely essential to survival was dead weight.

  Shortly after passing the concrete pylon marking Milepost 290, they came upon an RV in the middle of the road.

  “Easy,” Hilyard said, motioning them to duck down among the weeds. “Looks like it’s been occupied recently.”

  “Should we go into the woods and circle around it, just in case somebody’s in there?” DeVontay asked.

  “Looks like it’s full of bullet holes,” Stephen said.

  “Maybe somebody got chased inside,” Campbell said. “Could be your soldier boys got into a shootout.”

  “If Wheeler’s compound is near here, this counts as the neighborhood,” Hilyard said. “Better to know if we’re in the bad part of town. You guys wait here and watch my back.”

  As Hilyard slunk along the ditch line, Campbell asked DeVontay, “How long do we let this jarhead run the show?”

  “He’s kept us alive so far, and he knows the territory better than we do.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you think he’d roll with his Army buddies the first chance he got? No matter how nice he’s being to Stephen? That military brainwashing runs deep. He’d sell us down the river in a heartbeat if it served the national interest.”

  “We’re not a nation anymore.”

  “I like him,” Stephen said, shooting Campbell an accusatory glare. “He’s brave and he doesn’t whine and complain all the time.”

  Hilyard dashed across the road to the RV, hunching low. DeVontay gave a cursory scan of the surrounding forest, but his attention was drawn back to the lieutenant. Hilyard pressed his body against the side of the RV, rifle at the ready. He slid along the length of the vehicle until he reached the door. He yanked it open and shoved the barrel of his rifle inside.

  Nothing. DeVontay wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. The parkway was so bleak and lifeless that he might have even welcomed a Zaphead attack.

  Hilyard entered the RV and after a moment, he returned and waved them forward. By the time they got there, Hilyard had completed a sweep of the motorized home.

  “Look at this,” Hilyard said. “Baby clothes and diapers. Hell of a world to bring a little one into.”

  “Here’s some dried blood,” Campbell said. “And holes in the roof. Looks like they held a war here.”

  “No bodies, though,” DeVontay said.

  “Maybe the Zapheads hauled them all away. I can’t imagine any survivors taking the time to perform a decent burial,” Campbell said.

  “DeVontay would,” Stephen said.

  That wasn’t exactly true. DeVontay had buried a few people along the way, but he’d passed up numerous other chances. The whole enterprise seemed like a waste of energy, and the notion of resting in eternal peace was laughable given the chaos that reigned on solid ground.

  “Looks like nobody’s been here in a while,” Hilyard said, prowling through the cabinets in the tiny kitchenette. “Food’s been raided, if they had any in the first place.”

  “I say we get out of this sardine can,” Campbell said.

  “Hey, you’re the one that wanted to hunker down in the ranger station,” Hilyard said. “This place is just as easy to secure.”

  Campbell stuck a finger in the ripped paneling where a slug had torn through the metal exterior and penetrated the RV. “Against Zaps, maybe, but not bullets.”

  Stephen picked up a blue plastic rattle from a cot. He shook it, and the noise was far more depressing than joyful. He tossed it to the floor.

  After they returned to the road, Hilyard scanned the asphalt around the vehicle. He bent and held up a little brass sleeve. “This isn’t military. Must have been survivors.”

  “Well, they didn’t survive for long,” Campbell said, nervously eyeing the forest.

  “Maybe it was Franklin Wheeler and whoever is with him,” DeVontay said.

  “Only one way to find out.” Hilyard started down the parkway, this time walking the double yellow lines that ran down the middle of the road. “We’re almost to Milepost 291.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The secret to good sauerkraut was to squeeze out enough brine to submerge all the leaves.

  Franklin Wheeler had made the fermented cabbage a staple of his food supply after learning how simple it was to make and how long it kept. Over the years, he’d hauled in several ten-pound sacks of salt as part of his preparations. Doctors claimed all that pickled food was bad for the blood pressure, but not many of them were exactly around at the moment to bitch at him.

  Wouldn’t be surprised if some German is mashing up a batch right now in a Bavarian cave. Unless the Zapheads have already taken Europe.

  He sealed up a couple of Mason jars and tucked them away on a shelf in the root cellar. He wasn’t sure how many years the sauerkraut would keep, but so far, the longer he kept the food in the cellar, the better it tasted. He couldn’t say the same for the pickled beets, since he had no vinegar. They’d turned into a bitter red wine that might have offered some medicinal benefit but was just as likely to poison him. If he wanted to get drunk, he’d piece together a still and turn out some clear moonshine that would burn a blue flame both inside and out.

  But times like these called for a clear head. Not that he’d ever been accused of having such. No, he was the wacko libertarian, the armchair terrorist, the Dr. Doom of the survivalist crowd. He was fringe long before Y2K, and about the only positive to come out of being an early adopter was he’d quickly figured out that the militia movements and the hardcore Constitutionalists were just another power structure. No, a man was better off going his own way, not defining himself by the value systems—or a lack of values—contrived by others.

  A side benefit of solitude was that he slipped off the government’s radar. Posting Internet manifestos was a fool’s errand, anyway. Why, if you taught everyone in the world to be self-reliant and survive whatever catastrophe was going to deliver the hammer blow, then you’d been in exactly the same situation when it was all over. A world with way too many people, most of them without enough sense to piss a hole in snow.

  Still, the solar storms had done more than just clean out the gene pool. They spawned an entirely new life form. Zapheads were human in shape and size and color, but their operating systems had been wiped clean and rebooted. Even the government couldn’t have concocted such an obscene clusterfuck. So this one was on God or the universe, whichever way you wanted to assign the blame.

  Franklin stacked some apples and pears in a wooden bin next to the potatoes. The spring that oozed ice-cold water up from the rocks ensured that the root cellar maintained its refrigeration year round, and the cellar was dug deep enough into the bank that even the deepest freeze wouldn’t damage the crops. But Franklin had a suspicion the weather was clusterfucked, too, because already the November temperature seemed to be running about ten degrees cooler than usual.

  He latched the door on the cellar and checked his array of solar cells. A couple of the batteries had already drained low and seemed to be weaker on the recharge. He would have to augment the system with more power systems and storage, assuming he could find any parts down in the dead cities. With very little of the world’s electronics shielded by Faraday cages when the storms swept the planet, he’d likely have to put that project deep on the back burner.

  He gathered his rifle and considered climbing the lookout platform. The weapon was an option of last resort. He and Jorge had discovered the Zapheads responded to violence with violence of their own, and they had strength, numbers, and determination on their side. And if he fired even a single shot, Sarge’s bunker boys might be able to locate
him. He’d been alone in the compound for weeks since parting with Jorge, and he was starting to feel invisible. But complacency wasn’t in the survivalist playbook.

  So when he heard the whisper of leaves and the crack of a branch beyond the camouflaged walls of his compound, his first thought was “Wildlife.” He ran a no-kill operation, drawing milk from the goats and eggs from the chickens, but he’d need extra protein in winter, which meant deer meat. He wished he’d mastered the crossbow, but the complex contraptions seemed like more trouble than they were worth. That was the type of weapon that skinny-legged men in tights should use, not a wild-bearded mountain man. True, nobody was around to stereotype him, but self-image was important.

  Even though he wasn’t ready to hunt, it wouldn’t hurt to monitor the deer population and behavior. No complacency allowed. And if any of Sarge’s soldiers were out there, well, they’d likely walk right past his compound. They knew he was somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of their bunker, but exploring several hundred miles of rough, raw Blue Ridge wilderness was a little different than looking for a battleship from an airplane.

  Franklin came to a crevice in the fence where he could nudge aside some dead branches and peer through the chain links. A shadow moved between the trees maybe fifty yards away.

  Despite his earlier resolve, his instinct was to raise the rifle and sight down the barrel.

  If it’s got sparkly eyes, shoot it.

  The figure shifted and came briefly into view. It was human, all right, or at least human-shaped.

  He managed only a glimpse of clothing, but it wasn’t military camouflage or khaki. He focused through the rifle’s telescopic sight. The late-afternoon sun threw long, slanting shadows from the nearly bare trees, and the forest was etched with black lines. He couldn’t be sure whether the person was moving closer to the compound.

  What if it’s Jorge?

  Franklin didn’t believe the man would return without his family. The two of them had escaped from Sarge’s unit and teamed up with two other survivors. During a Zaphead attack that killed several soldiers and their new companions, Franklin had discovered that Zapheads wouldn’t attack unless provoked. The behavioral change suggested humans had a chance to survive despite the much greater numbers of Zapheads.

  Still, even survivors brought risk. He’d already seen how Sarge’s unit had turned violent and barbaric. Franklin was never a big believer in law and order, preferring personal responsibility as the guiding principle, but if the government’s trained soldiers couldn’t even hold the chain of command, what hope was there that civilians could work together without killing each other?

  Keep walking. Whether you’re a Zap or a human, I don’t need the drama.

  His scope tracked across a brown eye. Was that a mutant spark, or a speck of sunlight?

  The figure stepped into a clearing, a column of golden light pouring down. Franklin didn’t want to believe it. She was supposed to be dead.

  Rachel?

  He almost called out to his granddaughter, a surge of joy rushing through him, the first he’d experienced since the cataclysm. But what if she wasn’t alone? What if she had been followed?

  He ran across the compound to the concealed gate, hoping the goats didn’t see him and bleat for grain. He removed the chain and slipped quietly into the forest.

  Franklin didn’t approach Rachel directly. Instead he eased down the slope and away from the compound. The forest was crisscrossed with animal paths of varying widths, many of them narrow threads of mud. Franklin had spread a thick layer of leaves around the camp’s entrance to conceal any footprints, so he wasn’t worried about any intruders marching right up through the front door.

  He estimated the pace of her progress and circled around so she was between him and the compound. Satisfied that no one was following—either Zaphead or human—he approached her from behind, hoping she wasn’t armed.

  If she’s gotten this far and lived this long, she’s probably developed some survival skills. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of them.

  But Franklin couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride. Of all the Wheelers, she had the most similar temperament and constitution to him, although her youthful optimism had yet to be tempered by the years and the many fools that would plague her. She was the only one he could trust with the compound’s location, and after nearly four months, here she was. She’d even correctly translated the series of stones he’d stacked near the Milepost 291 sign, pointing the direction of his home.

  Now it would be her home, too.

  As he crept up on her, alert to any movement around them, he couldn’t help noticing she had changed. She wore a bulky tan coat to ward off the cold, but she moved with stilted awkwardness. Her brown hair hung across her shoulders in uneven, oily strands. Her hands were empty, although she carried a canvas satchel that dangled from one shoulder by a leather strap. Now that he could see her face, she looked much older than her twenty-five years.

  So much older that he was no longer sure this was Rachel.

  She didn’t appear to be wandering, though. She moved with purpose, her head up and alert. She was looking for something.

  And then her hand went to her face and slid up her cheek. She tugged at her right earlobe. It was an unconscious gesture, and one of Rachel’s habits since infancy. Even while nursing, she would grip her ear with her tiny fingers.

  He stepped from behind the tree. “Rachel!”

  She turned and glared at him. Like an animal. Her eyes flashed golden and red like the heart of a volcano.

  The hell?

  But the illusion passed and it was just his beloved granddaughter, haggard, cheeks streaked with dirt, and dark wedges under her eyes, but beautiful nonetheless.

  She held out her arms to him.

  Franklin grinned, an unfamiliar expression. He took three big strides toward her and stopped. “Rachel?”

  She remained motionless, her face blank. No recognition in her eyes.

  At least they weren’t sparking.

  But she didn’t look right.

  If only she would speak.

  Or smile.

  Or blink.

  Then he realized she wasn’t looking at his face. She was looking at the rifle in his arms.

  He rested it against a tree and lifted his hands as if to say, “Just playing it safe.”

  And then she smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds, the dawn of a whole new day, a radiance that warmed instead of burned or destroyed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Her grandfather’s compound wasn’t quite like she’d pictured it.

  For one thing, it was far more ramshackle and cluttered. Rachel expected a tidy, efficient cluster of small buildings, with stone walls and modern luxuries. Instead, the place looked cobbled together out of scrap lumber and baling wire, and the garden and animal pens were closer to mud holes than carefully arrayed landscape. The only obvious nod to the Twenty-First Century was the solar panel attached to the slanting tin roof of an outbuilding. Chickens roosted on the little wooden pen that housed several goats, their manure streaking the boards with white and gray. The discord of the setting made her uneasy, despite Franklin’s attentiveness and affection.

  They sat beneath a tree at an upended wooden cable spool that served as a table. She wasn’t hungry, but she ate some of the pumpkin soup anyway. At least it was warm, and Franklin was eager to care for her. She’d told him about her escape from Charlotte in the immediate aftermath of the storms, the encounter with the troops in Taylorsville, and DeVontay’s serving as a decoy so she and Stephen could escape. She skipped the part about the farmhouse and the change she’d undergone.

  “Have you heard from the rest of the family?” Franklin asked.

  “Nothing. I suspect they’re all dead.” Rachel should have felt some remorse for her mother’s loss, but everybody had lost people close to them. And she didn’t know how to feel about those in her life who might be alive, dead, or changed. They
were like actors from an old movie seen late at night—floating memories whose faces she could barely picture.

  “Yeah, I guess we’ve had plenty of time to get used to the idea.” Franklin dug a piece of cornbread out of a cast iron skillet and offered it to her, but she shook her head.

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me about this place.”

  “I knew you’d make it,” he said, spooning his own soup with a steady motion as he slurped and talked. “If anybody could beat the odds, it’s you. Besides, I didn’t want to end up one of those lonely old bunker coots who drinks his own urine for twenty years.”

  She smiled. She was relieved the others of her kind hadn’t followed. She’d finally figured out that their proximity not only agitated her but also caused her eyes to glint and spark. That was why she’d lost it back in the camp with the group. She hadn’t wanted to kill her companions. She had needed to kill them.

  But since she was alone, she could control her behavior. And the longer she was away from the others—New People, that’s what they call themselves—the more human she felt. She could almost forget what she was.

  Almost.

  “Who are these people you’re traveling with?” Franklin asked. “Charlotte’s a long way from here.”

  “I’ve been with people at different times. Some of them are organized, but there are also bands of psychos who take what they want.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know about those.” Franklin put his soup bowl to his mouth and slurped at it. Juice ran down the salt-and-pepper wires of his beard. “Me and this other man got captured by soldiers who want to establish a new government with their sergeant as King, President, Czar, and High Priest. We barely got away. The way I see it, they’re a bigger threat to me than the Zapheads are.”

  Rachel winced at the word that now seemed so crude and childish. “Zapheads?”

  “Yeah. The muties. The ones who turned during the storms. Isn’t that what they called them in the big cities? It was all over the news.”