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

by Scott Nicholson

  “We ran into a couple of soldiers from a different unit. They were stationed at Ft. Bragg, and ended up in a shitstorm of Zaps in Taylorsville. Half the town burned down around them, and only a handful of them got out. They met some civilian survivors there, and one of them was apparently your granddaughter. Some guy dimed out the directions to your compound, but it was the same vague bullshit we already had. But now the legend’s built up so everybody thinks you’ve got a fifty-room marble castle with an indoor swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and bowling alley where naked island girls bring you drinks with little paper umbrellas in them.”

  Franklin chuckled. “Yeah, keep on looking for that one. What else did they say about her?”

  “One of the soldiers said she was hot, but considering the competition these days, that don’t mean much. And, nothing personal, if she shares your genetic code, I’m betting against it.”

  “I built the place for her. Sure, I got off on the image of the grizzled old hermit delivering manifestos from a hidden cave, but I didn’t see much point in just pissing my days away. It had to matter.” He waved vaguely at the entire world and the vault of heaven that stretched beyond comprehension. “This has to matter.”

  “I wouldn’t waste much time on philosophy,” Kreutzman said. “There’s dead, and there’s Zap, and there’s whatever we are. And I’ve got a feeling the first two are going to be around a lot longer than us.”

  “Zap activity’s been way down the last few weeks,” Franklin said. Despite his meandering route up the slopes, the compound was only three hundred yards away now. He’d have to decide how to handle Kreutzman soon. “If Sarge wasn’t sending out patrols to stir them up, we might even be able to get through the winter in peace. Buy some time to figure out the next move, and who knows? Maybe the Zaps will freeze off in the cold.”

  “Sarge has already figured out the next move. All-out war. Genocide. As he says,”—Kreutzman shifted into a parody of Sgt. Shipley’s gruff bluster—“‘You’re either with us or against us.’”

  “That’s real comforting. Bad enough that the human race is on its last legs without us killing ourselves off. I swear, sometimes I think the human race is determined to be its own extinction event.”

  Kreutzman lowered his voice and said, “Might not be up to us.”

  Franklin turned in the direction Kreutzman was staring, along a western ridge where high pines shaded the forest floor. Shapes moved in the near darkness, lesser shadows that stood out among the scabbed bark and mossy boulders.

  Kreutzman glanced at Franklin and his eyes widened at the rifle pointed at his chest.

  “You’re either with us or against us,” Franklin said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The first shot came from a copse of high white pines somewhere to their left.

  Campbell was bringing up the rear, staring at the tips of his boots as they churned up mud on the animal path. He was tired and almost drowsing on his feet. The explosion of the gunshot was so jarring after the long silence of the forest that at first Campbell thought the thunderstorms had returned.

  But when the bark erupted six inches in front of his face, sending a thin sliver of wood into his cheek, he knew he’d gotten way luckier than he deserved. He dropped to the ground even as Hilyard issued the command. Campbell rolled onto his side, trying to maneuver his rifle off his shoulder, but the strap was tangled around his elbow. He braced for impact as he wriggled toward a pile of deadfall where three rotten trees collected moss.

  “Are you hit?” Hilyard asked.

  Campbell wiped at his face and his hand came away bloody, but the flesh was in one piece. “I’m good,” he said, appalled that the words had almost squeaked out of his mouth. For all his bluster of the last few days, he was still chickenshit at the core. Hilyard was right—he’d gotten complacent from days of downtime and the notion that Zaps had migrated from the mountains.

  “Stay down,” DeVontay called to Stephen, who was huddled into a ball near a rock cleft barely big enough to shield a house cat. DeVontay was out in the open, but he found a shallow gulley and got busy squirming into it as if trying to tunnel his way to China.

  Hilyard took cover behind the trunk of a thick maple, looking around to make sure they weren’t surrounded. “Shooter at ten o’clock,” Hilyard said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Campbell yelled back.

  Hilyard gave an exasperated expression, as if to sigh “Civilians,” and pointed toward the pines.

  “Could have just said ‘Up in the pines.’” Campbell knew he was talking too fast and loud, but he couldn’t help it. He finally wrestled his rifle free, but he was afraid to stick his head up and aim. Not that he knew what he was aiming at.

  “Think there’s only one of them?” DeVontay called.

  “No way to tell,” Hilyard said. “I don’t think he’s from my unit, or we’d probably all be dead by now.”

  “So, what do we do?” Campbell asked. “Just wait here until dark and try to sneak away?”

  He didn’t like that prospect, because sunset was at least two hours away, and maybe the theory of the Zapheads was wrong and they were crawling all over the place.

  “Keep your eyes open and make sure none of them sneak up on us from below,” Hilyard said. “DeVontay, squeeze off a round to serve as cover for me so I can work my way uphill.”

  “I can’t shoot for shit.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just make a boom. Whoever it is will duck.”

  DeVontay fired a shot and Hilyard dashed to the next tree. Great, Campbell thought. At this rate, five years and ten thousand bullets from now, problem solved.

  But he shifted his gaze away from Hilyard’s slow advance, monitoring the forest behind them. The tree trunks were silver and black, the shadows thick between them. The laurel and fern offered plenty of hiding places for a sniper. Maybe Hilyard had walked them right into a trap. So much for military genius.

  But what if it was Hilyard’s old outfit? Why would they want to kill him and the other two when Hilyard was their real target?

  Campbell lodged the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. If he took out Hilyard for them, they’d probably let the rest live. Hell, they might even give him a reward, buddy up and invite them back to their bunker. Sure, Hilyard had said they were all psychos now, but that’s just what Hilyard would say, wasn’t it?

  Maybe Hilyard was the real problem. That made sense. He could have gone all brass tacks on the unit, following orders given before the Big Zap. Orders that didn’t mean shit in After. Men like Hilyard couldn’t throw off two decades of indoctrination that easily, even in a catastrophe. If anything, they’d get more conservative and by the book, because that was how they were trained to deal with emergencies.

  And the unit would have rightfully mutinied and tossed him out on his ass. And maybe Hilyard drafted him and DeVontay as new recruits to help him take back the bunker. All that talk about Wheelerville was just a chance to regroup, pull in some more warm bodies, and have a base to launch a counterattack. And that battle was sure to end in lots of bloodshed on both sides, at a time when the human race already had the odds stacked against it.

  When you think about it that way, I’m doing all of us a favor. One bullet in the back, and I can be a hero.

  He even went as far as putting his finger on the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. Killing a man was hard enough when it was a stranger a great distance away. Even killing Zapheads wasn’t a walk in the park.

  Ah, hell with it. Maybe somebody else will shoot him.

  Then he saw movement below, in a clearing where blackberry briars and poison oak vines tangled together in a reddish-brown snarl. He scooted lower so the top of his head was concealed, peering through a gap between two logs. “DeVontay,” Campbell called in a whisper. “Behind you.”

  DeVontay rolled over, pushing his backpack in front of his face as if the nylon sack and its contents would stop a bullet. His rifle barrel slid out and quiver
ed.

  “See him?” Campbell said. “Down there in the briar patch.”

  “Can’t see nothing. Only got one eye, remember?”

  “Don’t talk too much.” Hilyard was now fifty feet up the slope, crawling on his hands and knees. “Makes it easier for them to pinpoint your location.”

  Great. At least they can’t call in air support and Napalm our asses.

  “So, are you going to shoot or not?” Campbell said.

  “I don’t know who that is. Might be Rachel, for all I know.”

  Stephen sat up. “Don’t shoot Rachel!” he wailed.

  A man’s head appeared above the vines and briars. In the slanted shadows of evening, Campbell couldn’t be sure of the man’s dress, but he had a crewcut. That was evidence enough for him. He squeezed off a shot.

  The man ducked back into the scrub. Campbell put a finger in his ear and tried to rub away the ringing. Missed by a mile.

  “So there’s at least two of them,” DeVontay said. “We’ve still got them outnumbered.”

  “We were outnumbered when there was only one of them,” Campbell said. “Must be Army or he would have yelled at us to stop shooting.”

  “Maybe we should make a run for it,” DeVontay said. “I don’t think we can outgun them.”

  “Run where? And what about Stephen?”

  “I can run faster than you,” the boy said.

  Another shot rang out, this one from the side, and skipped off a rock above Stephen’s head with a keening whine. DeVontay fired wildly back in that direction, more out of anger than having a reasonable target. Campbell unleashed a couple of shots himself, wondering how many were left in his magazine. He had one extra magazine in his backpack, but that would mean he’d have to stand, shuck his backpack, and dig around in it while keeping one eye on these invisible but well-armed attackers.

  Hilyard was now out of sight, too, probably up in the hardwoods near the stand of pines. Campbell studied the terrain, wondering where he might get a better view of the surroundings. Assuming he could actually make his legs work. The chill had seeped into his bones, and his knees felt like jelly.

  “I got an idea,” DeVontay said.

  “I hope it involves bulletproof vests.” Campbell had never been all that witty, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from rambling nonsense.

  “One of us is going to have to flush him out. Since I can’t hit the side of a barn, I’ll head down the trail as fast as I can, and when the guy pops up to shoot me, you take him out.”

  “That doesn’t sound like an idea. That sounds like suicide.”

  “We can’t stay pinned down here forever.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Campbell said. “But maybe if we sit tight, Hilyard will bail us out.”

  “By himself? We at least have to try.”

  “What about Stephen?”

  “Just keep your head down, Little Man,” DeVontay said to the boy. “We’ll have some crackers when this is all over.”

  “How about another Reese’s Cup?” the boy asked.

  “Deal, but only if we get to split it.” Like Campbell, DeVontay was forcing himself to joke. The strain in his voice was evident.

  “I just had another thought,” Campbell said. “If any Zapheads are around, all this shooting is bound to draw them out.”

  “Do me a favor and quit thinking.”

  Campbell settled in and pointed his rifle at the briar patch. This couldn’t be any harder than shooting zombies in the Left 4 Dead video game, but those animated avatars didn’t shoot back, and he could always pull the plug on them or hit the reset button. His hands shook, but he was sure DeVontay’s must be shaking even more.

  “Ready when you are,” Campbell said.

  “Okay, on three. Thousand-one, thousand-two, thousand—”

  A volley of bullets strafed the trees directly above them, but DeVontay shouted “Three,” and jumped out of his hole. He carried his rifle across his chest, which slowed him down but seemed to help his balance as he slipped and skidded down the trail.

  Sure enough, the guy in the briar patch fell for it, rising up and sighting down the barrel of a nasty-looking weapon. Campbell could see now that he wore a camouflage uniform and dark gloves, his broad face chapped red by the cold and wind. Campbell took a breath and lined up the sight, then squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst belched from the muzzle, and he repeated it. The weeds flapped and swayed as bullets tore through them, and a line of red dots appeared on the man’s upper torso. He threw his arms in the air, his weapon flying from his hands, and then he pitched forward into a thicket of briars. His body hung there, suspended and oozing blood.

  Got the bastard.

  Still, it was luck. The soldier must have thought so little of them as an adversary that he exposed himself. His comrades probably wouldn’t be so stupid.

  DeVontay was just a dark shape flitting between trees when a shot came from yet another direction. DeVontay cried out and tumbled to the forest floor.

  “DeVontay!” Stephen yelled, hurling himself from his hiding place in the rocks and dashing pell-mell through the woods.

  “Get down, kid,” Campbell yelled, swiveling his rifle back and forth to track any movement around them.

  The boy ignored him. Campbell cursed under his breath. The kid never had a chance. Maybe it’s better this way. One little jolt of pain, and then he’s free of all this. Better than being captured by Zapheads.

  More shots rang out, and Campbell lost track of their origin. They seemed to be coming from several places at once. And then Campbell saw a soldier slip out from behind a tree and follow Stephen.

  Shit. Watching the kid get shot is not so easy, either.

  Campbell shoved his backpack out of the way, squeezed between the deadfall that served as his cover, and ran after them. He lost his footing and banged hard against an oak, nearly losing his weapon. He recovered his balance, looked around, and decided he couldn’t get a good shot at the soldier, who had veered uphill instead of pursuing in a straight line.

  Now Campbell could see what their stalker was doing—he was maneuvering himself to the top of a slope so he could fire down on both DeVontay and the boy. DeVontay was sitting up, so at least he was alive for the moment, but he’d lost his weapon.

  “I told you to stay,” DeVontay said as Stephen ran to him, dropping to his knees.

  “You got hurt.”

  “It’s nothing. Just took the wind out of me.”

  Campbell wanted to warn them about the sniper getting into position, but that would compromise his element of surprise. His best chance—the best chance for all of them—was to get off a clean shot.

  Don’t think too much. Just pretend it’s a zombie on a computer screen.

  But before he could zero in on his target, another soldier came down the trail toward him, yelling. Campbell gasped and panicked, spraying several bursts at him. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit the man or if the soldier had jumped out of the firing line. He was almost out of ammo, and his backpack with the extra magazine was forty yards away.

  DeVontay’s gun.

  Campbell ran toward them, waving at them to stay down and pointing up at the ridge where the soldier had taken position. Campbell swiveled and fired off two more shots before the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  He’s going to shoot the kid.

  Campbell jumped, intending to knock Stephen to the ground where he’d be a smaller target, but before he reached the boy, a searing pain erupted in his back like someone had jammed a red-hot poker up his spine and twisted it in circles. His legs instantly went numb. He tried to take another step but flopped forward on his face.

  A flurry of shots erupted all around him, but the sounds came to him as if underwater. He tried to breathe but his lungs felt like bricks. He closed his eyes, but the darkness behind them frightened him, so he rolled over and stared up at the bare treetops, which looked like thin, black fingers reaching down to drag him away.

  He must have lost
consciousness. He wasn’t sure how many seconds passed—it might have been minutes—but when he blinked awake, a bearded man, Hilyard, and another soldier stood above him. DeVontay knelt on one side, holding his hand, but Campbell couldn’t feel it. Stephen knelt on the other side, tears streaming down his face.

  “You saved his life,” DeVontay said. His jacket was ripped at one shoulder, a raw gap of torn meat visible through the fabric.

  Campbell wanted to explain everything, all the calculations he’d made that were designed to save his own skin, but words just seemed like too much trouble.

  He stared up at the old bearded man. “You must be Wheeler,” he managed to wheeze.

  “Yeah, son. Don’t talk. Just lay back and try to breathe.”

  But Campbell couldn’t help it. He had to laugh, although it turned into a gurgling cough. This was the great Franklin Wheeler? The wizard of a utopian Oz who had the apocalypse all figured out? This was the salvation of the human race they had traveled nearly two hundred miles to see?

  Why, he looks more like some skeezy-assed wino in the Dumpster behind the homeless shelter.

  Then Campbell looked at Hilyard’s face, and he knew. His journey wasn’t going to end at some survival compound on an idyllic golden mountaintop.

  His eyes widened as he mouthed a few nonsense syllables. DeVontay leaned down to put his ear near Campbell’s lips.

  Campbell whispered, “Tell Rachel I…hell, you know.”

  DeVontay nodded. “I know.”

  The sky went such a solid shade of gray that it was like a curtain had been draped over it. Campbell’s last thought before he slipped away was: What I wouldn’t give for a Zaphead to come along right about now and fix me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What do you think?” Wanda Eisenstein said. “Still glad you don’t have a gun?”

  Jorge looked over the parapet. They were on top of a plumbing supply store, which was in a fenced lot at the edge of town. Stacks of pipes, old ceramic toilets, and rusted metal motors were scattered around the property, and the rest of the neighborhood featured the same industrial clutter. Rows of rundown houses lined a narrow, unlined street leading to the faded brick buildings of downtown. A tall, domed building dominated a hill above town, shredded United States and North Carolina flags undulating from a steel pole atop it. It was a postcard of the declining American South. But the architecture was of less interest than the crowd occupying the street.