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

by Scott Nicholson

“Sure, Grandpa, I know what you mean. The word just sounds so…I don’t know.”

  “Politically incorrect? Fuck, yeah. They don’t have rights, they don’t have feelings, and they don’t get a special name so they can feel good about themselves. They’re standing between us and the life we want to rebuild.”

  Rachel had to be very careful here. “So what’s the goal? Do you just want to hide out in this compound until it’s all over?”

  “We’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here. If it gets here. But I’m wondering one thing. How did you make it a hundred fifty miles on foot without a weapon?”

  “I’ve killed. I had to, early on. Then I got smarter and started evading them.”

  Franklin crammed the cornbread in his mouth and small yellow crumbs flew out as he spoke. “What about the people you were traveling with? Did you have any showdowns with the Zaps?”

  “The cities and highways were bad. I’d guess maybe only one in a thousand survived the storms. A lot of bodies are out there rotting.” With those odds, she should have felt lucky to be alive, but she wasn’t sure how alive she was anymore.

  “Sounds about right,” Franklin said. “From what I can tell, the Zapheads outnumber us a hundred to one. I suspect that’s a worldwide rate. My ham radio was shielded so I made contact with a few people on the waves, but now every bandwidth is dark. I don’t know if those folks died, their batteries lost power, or the Big Zap did something to the atmosphere. That probably means no government, no army, and no cavalry to ride in and put the pieces back together.”

  “I thought you didn’t want the pieces to fit back together. That’s the point of this compound, isn’t it?”

  “‘Wheelerville.’ That’s the name of the place. Pretty lame, if it’s just me, but we’re likely to have others at some point.”

  Rachel tensed. “Others?”

  “That man I was telling you about, the one who escaped with me. We got caught in a battle between some soldiers and Zaps, and he probably saved my life. He went to look for his family. And if he finds them, he might bring them back, assuming there’s nothing better out there.”

  “So much for your loner image, Grandpa.” She pushed her bowl away and pulled her coat more tightly around her. The air was chilly and the sky foreboding, the clouds like clumps of wet ash.

  “Well, we might need numbers to make it. Sarge—that’s Sgt. Shipley, according to the name stitched on his pocket—runs a military goon squad of maybe thirty-five men or so intent on taking over the world. And since I’m right on their border, I’m probably one of the first to go.”

  “We’ll have numbers. The group I was with is headed this way. And one of the guys said some survivors in Stonewall knew about your compound.”

  “Might be why all the birds are gone.”

  “Birds?”

  “You spend enough time up here, you get used to the soundtrack. And when a note goes sour, it really stands out. Something spooked the animals.”

  “Might be the people I was with.”

  “Yeah, and may be something else. Best to scout it out. But if it is your people, how come you’re here and they’re not?”

  “The…Zapheads attacked us. We got scattered. I figured the best thing would be for all of us to meet up here later. We had a better chance of slipping through if we separated.”

  She described the members of her group, pointing out that Hilyard had been part of the same military unit that Franklin was worried about.

  Franklin stood and collected his rifle. “We’d better go out and rescue them. Assuming they didn’t all get killed.”

  That wasn’t part of the plan. Rachel had arrived early so she could spare her grandfather, not lead him into hell. She was still human enough to know she loved him, and therefore wanted him to survive. If he was part of the human group, and things went bad, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  But now that she was here, away from the influence of the New People, she could barely remember why she had split. Stephen needed her, and both DeVontay and Campbell had saved her life. Even Lt. Hilyard had risked himself to help them all. They were good people. Old People, but with heart and a strong will to live.

  “I need to rest first,” she said.

  “Oh, okay, that was stupid of me.” He helped her to her feet and motioned toward the structure that was half tree house, half rustic cabin. “Got a couple of beds inside, pick your poison.”

  He reached for her satchel, and she put a protective hand over it. “I can carry it. I made it this far, didn’t I?”

  She smiled, and the old fool fell for it. He stared into her eyes with adoration, or maybe he was studying them for something. “My, but you’re all grown up now,” he said. “You look different on the Internet. What’s it been, five years?”

  “You haven’t changed much. The beard’s a little longer and has a little bit more gray, but other than that you don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

  He had a good laugh at that. “Okay, you go settle in and get warm, and I’ll take a peek outside and see if anything’s happening.”

  She entered the dark cabin, which was as cluttered as the compound. A little propane grill and a metal basin served as a kitchen, and a mattress took up much of the floor. A head-high loft held another bed, and several sleeping bags and foam pads were rolled up and tucked away beside it. A radio and a dusty computer sat on a desk, a single electrical cord running through a hole in the wall. One end of the single room was dominated by a wood stove, with split firewood stacked on the stone hearth. The room was askew, the angles out of true. For all his ingenuity, her grandfather wasn’t much of a carpenter.

  She wasn’t really tired, but she sat on the bed anyway, just in case he came inside. She opened her satchel and took out the metal butane lighter. There were some books, maps, and papers piled on the desk, and no doubt its drawers held plenty of combustible material. If she needed to give a signal, she could always set the cabin on fire.

  Rachel doubted it would come to that, though. She flicked the lighter into bright life and stared into the flame for a moment. Then she closed the lighter with a snap and looked around.

  There. That’s better.

  The radiance of her eyes illuminated the room.

  Much, much better.

  She might grow to like it here. It wasn’t home, but it would do for a while. After all the killing, running, and destruction, she welcomed a chance for reflection. She could already feel the influence of the New People fading, like an echo off the walls of a well after a pebble is dropped into the water.

  She had a choice now. She could be herself again. A survivor, working with others to build a worthwhile life.

  What the New People—the Zapheads—offered was a different life, maybe even a better one. But it wasn’t natural, was it? It wasn’t her life.

  She rose to her knees and looked into the blank computer screen. In its smeared surface, she could see the fire darting in her eye sockets.

  Freak. Look at you.

  She put her hands over her eyes and warm tears wet her palms. Real tears, not like the crocodile tears she’d squeezed out to get sympathy from DeVontay and the others. Used as a tool to serve the better way.

  But was the New Way truly the better way?

  If only Rachel could explain it to them, maybe they could help her. But they wouldn’t understand. DeVontay, Grandpa, Campbell, and certainly not Stephen.

  She needed time. If the New People stayed away, she wouldn’t have to kill. She could think for herself. She could feel. She could remember.

  When the sparks faded from her eyes, she tucked her satchel under the grimy pillow and went outside, where dusk crept from the edges of the world. The sun was hidden behind a boiling mass of thunderheads to the west, and the entire sky was bruised and angry-looking.

  She touched her jeans over the spot where the dog had bitten her and inflicted a dangerous case of gangrene. The Zapheads had healed her, but they had also harmed her. A surge of ang
er rushed through her, but it also carried pleasure. Because those were human emotions.

  And she wanted to be human more than anything.

  She ran her finger along where a scar should have been. What have you done to me?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Something’s wrong.

  Franklin couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Rachel was not the same person he’d known years ago. But with all that had happened in the meantime, how could she not have changed? Even ordinary life events, like graduating from college, becoming a school counselor, renting an apartment, and dealing with the dating scene would have made her a stranger. She was an adult now, not the child he’d tried to guide and inspire over the years.

  And she had been forged in a new kind of fire, as well—a post-apocalyptic chaos that no amount of coaching could have prepared them for.

  Perhaps she had suffered more trauma on her journey than she cared to share. Franklin understood that. It was a Wheeler trait: Never let them know you hurt.

  The wind had picked up, and brown leaves skirled from the trees. The flurry helped camouflage Franklin but also made it more difficult to detect motion. He was a quarter of a mile below the compound, making a circuit of the perimeter. If he encountered anyone, he wanted Rachel to be safe. The animal trails here were familiar to him but not so overused that they were obvious to anyone but a trained tracker.

  The temperature had dropped so much that he was already planning a fire for his return. He was scouting around for deadfall he could haul back to camp when the pattern of the foliage changed.

  Damn. Almost walked right out into the firing line. It’s hell getting old.

  He eased behind a stunted stand of balsam and rhododendron, evergreens that were as thick in November as in May. He studied the fluttering movement that was barely visible through the scraggly branches, unsure of its source. It looked like cloth, maybe military fatigues. He eased his rifle barrel into position against his shoulder and sighted through the scope at the target a hundred yards away.

  Definitely military, but why is it moving like that? He’s shimmying and shaking like a redneck hoeing down at a square dance.

  He tilted the scope lower, and the crosshairs were centered on an opened backpack, the contents scattered as if a black bear had been pawing through it. He focused again on the glimpse of uniform. It seemed to be billowing. Maybe this had been someone’s camp and—

  The cold circle of steel in the back of his neck broke his thoughts.

  “Don’t move, old man, or your brains will be buzzard food.”

  Franklin sighed. Who was he trying to kid? He was out of his league in the apocalypse, no matter how much he’d prided himself on prepping. The new world was always one step ahead of him.

  The guy behind him sounded young and irritable, which was not a stable combination. Franklin said, “Does shitting my pants count as moving?”

  The guy gave a raspy bark of a laugh. “Wheeler. I knew you were still alive, no matter what they said.”

  “Do I know you?” Franklin asked, without turning around.

  “Not really. You probably saw me in the bunker, but I’m just another crewcut. Nothing you’d remember.”

  “You’re one of Sarge’s boys, huh? So how come I’m not already dead? Or do you just like talking?”

  The gun barrel bit deeper into his flesh. “Couple of reasons. One, a gunshot would let everybody know where we are, Zap and human alike. And two, I figure you have some information that just barely makes you worth more dead than alive.”

  Great. Captured again. He’s going to march me back to the bunker and I’ll be right back where I was a month ago, only with Sarge a little bit more psycho. I think I’d just as soon go ahead and die here.

  “I’m not going back there,” Franklin said. “You guys are probably eating each other’s livers with pinto beans and pot liquor by now.”

  “Who said anything about going back there? Especially when you have a nice little set-up of your own.”

  “No way. Go ahead and shoot. I don’t give a damn.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Because I heard your sweet little granddaughter was on the way here. And she won’t be that hard to find. Because you wouldn’t stray too far from home if you’re waiting for her.”

  Does everybody left in the whole goddamned world know about my compound? Guess I should have gone dark a decade sooner. “You heard wrong. It’s just me and a few goats.”

  “I don’t need to hear about your love life, Wheeler. I need shelter and protection.”

  “So, what, have you gone rogue from the Rat Patrol?”

  “Put down your weapon and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Franklin mulled his options and decided he didn’t have any. If this soldier was part of a squad, his comrades would be raising hell looking for him. And if any of Rachel’s friends came along, a misunderstanding could lead to gunplay. And both of those scenarios would probably draw Zapheads from all over the mountain.

  He leaned his rifle against the gnarled tangle of rhododendron and rolled slowly into a sitting position. The soldier was right—Franklin didn’t recognize him. He wore a green parka with the hood up, the synthetic fur framing his face. His blue eyes were hollow and bloodshot, and thick brown stubble populated his upper lip and chin. An M-16 was slung over one shoulder, and the barrel of his 9mm pistol was as gaping as a subway tunnel to hell.

  “How did you get away from Hayes and his unit?” the soldier asked.

  “Killed them deader than Elvis. But it’s okay, because they needed killing.”

  “You’ve got a lot of lead in your pecker for such an old fart. But you’re right. Hayes was as loony toons as Sgt. Shipley.” The soldier worked his free hand inside the chest of his parka and came out with a cigarette. He perched it on his cracked lips, repeated the motion to withdraw a Bic, and lit his smoke.

  “So, here we are,” Franklin said. “Two strangers, a million miles from nowhere. Shooting the shit while the world dies.”

  “Get up. You’re taking me to your compound.”

  Franklin rose and wiped the mud from his pants. “Do I get to carry my gun? We might need it if we run into trouble.”

  The soldier scooped up Franklin’s rifle and slung it alongside his own. “This ain’t a buddy-cop movie. Head on back down to my camp site.”

  Franklin walked ahead of the man toward the backpack. He soon saw that the dangling cloth was a uniform shirt strung between two branches. A scarecrow to fool the shitbirds like me.

  “A couple of other privates went AWOL with me, but they wanted to try for a big city,” the soldier said. “Figured they’d find some sane survivors. Mostly I think they wanted to get as far away from Shipley as possible.”

  “Sounds like a wise move. Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “Not sure. Maybe I got intrigued by the Wheeler myth.”

  Franklin waited while the man collected his goods and crammed the shirt in the pack. He tossed the pack to Franklin, who let it bounce off his chest and tumble to the ground.

  “I’m not your pack mule,” Franklin said.

  The soldier took a deep, final draw off his cigarette and flicked the butt to the ground as he exhaled a tumbling pillar of smoke. “Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but we’re going to have to come to a meeting of the minds. I’ve got the guns, so that means I have the upper hand for now. It’s nothing personal. I even kind of admire you in a way. But the longer we stand here and play out a little power struggle, the more likely both of us end up dead.”

  Franklin nodded. “Fair enough. But if it looks like you’re taking me back to the bunker, the struggle is for real.”

  The soldier nodded back. “Fair enough. My name’s Kreutzman. From Idaho.”

  “For real? I didn’t know people actually came from Idaho.”

  “A lot fewer of them now.”

  “A lot more Zapheads, though.”

  Kreutzman stuck his 9mm in a hip holster and collected his bac
kpack. Franklin relaxed a little. Who am I trying to kid? I’m not ready to die quite yet. The end of the world is just getting interesting.

  “Okay, let’s see this legendary compound of yours,” the soldier said.

  “How can I be sure you’re not a plant? I show you the compound, you kill me and boot-scoot back to your unit and sound the alarm. Then Sarge’s boys come wipe out whoever else is there and torch the place.”

  Kreutzman considered a moment, and then shucked Franklin’s rifle from his shoulder and returned it. “If you don’t like what goes down, you’ll have a fighting chance.”

  Franklin figured he wouldn’t get a much better commitment of trust than the ability to shoot the guy in the back. But he was reluctant to let more people into his circle, which was already larger than he’d ever imagined. As he’d told Rachel, there was strength in numbers, though. And if worse came to worst, better to have somebody trained in the art of combat.

  “Worse comes to worst,” hell. I thought I had imagined the worst, but the Big Zap went beyond anything I could ever dream up. Even if I was asleep, I wouldn’t believe it.

  But this was the hand they’d been dealt. The Zaps had all the aces up their sleeves and God held the jokers, and he was playing with house money anyway. None of them deserved to be spared the effects of the solar storms, but here they were, making the best of it. Maybe it wasn’t great, but no creature ever asked to be born, they just got squirted out slimy and squealing into the world and told to deal with it or get out of the way for the next one.

  “This way,” Franklin said, heading uphill through the woods. The sky had taken on a wintry gray above the skeletal talons of bare branches. Each day since the end, Franklin had carefully marked the days on a calendar and he was pretty sure today was the seventh of November. But if he had awakened from a coma and found himself in the mountain’s chilly, damp environs, he would have sworn it was nearly Christmas.

  I don’t know if Santa’s making his rounds or not this year, but one thing’s for sure: there won’t be a whole lot of Thanksgiving.

  He was struck by an absurd image of a manger scene featuring Zapheads gathered around a glittery-eyed little savior, and he drove it from his mind by thinking of Rachel. Which reminded him. “How did you hear about my granddaughter?”