After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5)

by Scott Nicholson

  “There isn’t any school for this,” DeVontay said, drawing another glare from Brock. If getting taunted by a geezer was bad, a challenge from a black man was apparently downright insulting. But DeVontay didn’t let up. “The mutants don’t play by the rules. They change the rules every minute. Instead of taking orders from the loudest one in their tribe, they operate through the minds of a small group of babies. We’ve seen them in action. We’ve heard them talk.”

  “I can do better than that,” Rachel said. “I know how they think, because I’m one of them.”

  “Don’t give us that ‘halfling’ horseshit,” Brock said. “You’ve got Zapper eyes, but you don’t act like them at all. And if you’re one of them, what the hell are you doing here instead of there?”

  Rachel’s words clearly made the militia members uneasy, because they could all see her eyes sparking even in the morning sunlight. Franklin could only imagine the sorts of rumors that passed around the camp, but based on what he knew of human nature, she was either a demon straight out of hell or else a person of difference, a new kind of thing that bore close watching.

  An outsider.

  But we’re all outsiders now. By virtue of the fact that we were the one in ten thousand who didn’t mutate or drop dead on that hot August day.

  “You can go in like this,” Rachel said, grabbing DeVontay’s rifle and strutting around in a mockery of a military parade for a few steps before returning the weapon. “But the ones you’re fighting don’t even understand death, and they certainly don’t fear it. If you want to reach the babies—the Central Committee, if you want to find a historic parallel—then you have to stop thinking of the New People as your enemies.”

  Franklin was surprised at this version of Rachel. He wasn’t sure if her brashness was a result of her maturing beyond the child he’d known or if the mysterious electrical changes in her added new dimensions to her personality.

  But he also didn’t like her philosophy of appeasement. That had never worked out, from Neville Chamberlain crawling from Munich after licking Hitler’s boots to George W the First fumbling the job in the Middle East. Just because you patted a mad dog on the head didn’t mean it wouldn’t bite you in the ass.

  “New People?” Brock said, aware that he was on the spot and that his leadership was in question. “So they’re people now?”

  One of the middle-aged men in the line laughed uncomfortably and then snorted as if he’d only been clearing his throat. Sierra edged closer to Brock to overtly display that she sided with him.

  Franklin didn’t necessarily agree with Rachel’s viewpoint, but goddamn it, family was family. “She knows more about them than you ever will, son. A good general needs a flexible mind to go with a strong will. You’re happy to risk the lives of all these people”—he waved slowly at the slapdash soldiers so they would each have time to contemplate their own mortality—“rather than admit you don’t have a clue what we’re up against.”

  “Sure, I do, Legend,” Brock countered with a sneer. “All of us have seen what the mutants can do. Anthony, why don’t you tell us what happened to your daughter?”

  A bald man in a track suit and trench coat opened his mouth to speak, and then stared at the ground as if reliving some horrible memory.

  What an asshole move. Why am I getting involved here anyway? Let them head off to their deaths. Freedom includes the right to royally fuck up, too.

  “The New People don’t hate you,” Rachel said. “They just don’t understand you. In the early days, the immediate aftermath, they were reacting out of instinct. They were basically like us, but with all the wiring crossed in their brains. All the layers of evolution and civilization were swept away in one big burp of the sun, and they were stripped down to sheer impulse.”

  “And that impulse was to kill and destroy,” Sierra said. “Sure, they’ve changed. We’ve all seen that. But are they really any different on the inside?”

  “Doesn’t even matter,” Brock said. “Who cares what they are now? Time for some fucking payback.”

  “What about the Central Committee?” Rachel said. “They didn’t hurt anybody, because they can’t even walk.”

  “You and your boyfriend said they were the brains of the bunch,” Brock said. “That means they’re responsible for all the killing. And not just killing. They’ve been taking captives, too. A few of them got out, but some are in there lying dead in the streets. That is, if the Zaps haven’t scraped them up for their funeral party at the football field.”

  The group which minutes before could have at least passed for a parody of a militia now looked more like a ragtag mob. Franklin suspected a few of them were wondering what they were doing in Newton, North Carolina, when they could be squirreled away in a mountain cabin eating canned food by the fireplace.

  Hell, I kinda wonder that myself.

  Maybe we should have left during the night. Don’t know why I talked her out of it.

  Then he glanced at DeVontay and realized his influence meant far less to Rachel than this new man in her life. And DeVontay either trusted her instincts or else he was so head over heels that he’d let her have her way no matter what.

  If it’s that last one, I need to have a talk with that boy. You can’t be happy without mutual respect in a relationship, and I’ve got three divorces to prove it.

  He’d not thought of all the people in his life and what might have happened to them, outside of the immediate circle of Rachel and her mother. He hoped two of his ex-wives had died instantly in the solar storms, because they didn’t have the constitution it took to survive in After. The third, though—he’d bet money that bitch had turned into a Zaphead. It wouldn’t have been much of a leap.

  But here was Rachel, tainted by the same strange energy. Was the human half strong enough to keep down the monster inside?

  “We might have to fight the New People,” Rachel said. “But understand that fighting only makes them more bloodthirsty, because they’re learning from us as they evolve.”

  “We’re learning, too,” Brock said. “And we’re a little bloodthirsty ourselves.”

  A couple of members of his little band shouted their agreement.

  “Like I said, payback.” Brock leveled his rifle at Rachel. “May as well get started.”

  Franklin’s own weapon was leaning against a tree ten feet away, and he cursed himself for letting down his guard. He suspected some of the survivors would be wary of her, but aside from her eyes, she seemed as normal as any of them, given the circumstances.

  DeVontay was about to swing his own rifle to bear but Sierra and half a dozen others shouldered their weapons and sighted down at Rachel, DeVontay, and Franklin.

  “Payback!” Brock shouted.

  “Payback,” half the group shouted, and then they echoed it like a chant, louder with every repetition. “Pay-BACK, pay-BACK, pay-BACK.”

  The first shot caused Franklin to flinch before he realized it had come from across the park, at the edge of the unkempt field.

  “Hold it right there,” the male voice boomed. “And be damned glad we’re not Zappers, because you gave away your position half an hour ago. That’s what happens when you let amateurs run the war.”

  Lt. Hilyard!

  Franklin had never in his life been so glad to see a government employee.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Hilyard wasn’t alone, either.

  Seven soldiers were with him, freighted with equipment and bulging backpacks. He must have had some luck luring the men away from Shipley’s bunker. Three civilians were part of his group, too, and they carried themselves as if benefiting from Hilyard’s guidance.

  Hilyard recognized Franklin, Rachel, and DeVontay, and he waved as his unit approached. Franklin almost saluted, and then caught himself. Such an acknowledgement of authority would destroy his reputation.

  Hilyard’s men—and the two civilians who were female—carried their weapons at port arms, unthreatening but at the same time easily bro
ught into firing position if necessary. Brock’s band lowered their weapons, and Brock himself swiveled his barrel back and forth like the undisciplined dumbass that he was.

  “Better put that down, cowboy, or you’re going to be singing soprano,” Hilyard said.

  Brock must have noticed the rank insignia on the lieutenant’s field tunic, but he didn’t flinch. However, he returned his rifle to his shoulder. “Sure thing.”

  Franklin waded across the patch of weeds until he was face to face with the lieutenant. “Looks like you got yourself a little army again.”

  “Conditions in the bunker have deteriorated, and Shipley’s gone full Section Eight. That’s official military lingo for ‘crazy as a shithouse rat.’ But I guess you already knew that.”

  “Lieutenant,” DeVontay said, shaking the officer’s hand. “Glad to have somebody around here to restore order.”

  Hilyard eyed the assembled militia with some skepticism. They sported a mix of hunting rifles, shotguns, and semi-automatics, and some carried only pistols. “How many do you have?” he asked Brock.

  Brock threw his shoulders back and made of show of formality, as if he were Hilyard’s equal meeting at a command post. “Thirty-seven, unless the four scouts I sent to town didn’t make it back.”

  Hilyard shook his head in disbelief. “You sent scouts in? And they obeyed you?”

  “H-how else are we going to know what’s going on?”

  Franklin smiled inwardly at Brock getting knocked off his high horse, but open gloating wouldn’t help matters. At some point, they might have to work together. And they were still fellow members of the same vanishing race.

  Rachel gave the lieutenant a hug, embarrassing him a little. He looked at her eyes a few seconds longer than was polite but said nothing. Hilyard made a circling motion in the air with one hand and pointed toward the cluster of houses where Brock had established camp. Hilyard must have conducted some scouting of his own.

  “We’ll take a breather here and figure things out,” Hilyard said.

  Brock’s group fell in line behind Hilyard’s unit, causing Brock to yell after them. “Hey, I didn’t dismiss you yet.”

  Sierra, at the end of the line, turned to him and said, “Shut the hell up, Brock.”

  Brock stood looking uncertainly at Hilyard, Franklin, Rachel, and DeVontay.

  Probably wondering if he should join us.

  When none of them did anything to encourage Brock, he hurried after the group. Franklin could have sworn he was pouting, like a kindergartener whose toy truck had been stolen in the sandbox.

  “What’s his story?” Hilyard asked.

  “Wrong place at the wrong time,” Franklin said. “Best I can tell, several small groups of survivors met up and Brock kind of claimed the crown because nobody else wanted it.”

  “And he was going to make a full assault on Newton? Please tell me he at least had a plan.”

  “Sure he did,” Rachel said. “Kick ass and take names because America’s awesome.”

  “Well, after monitoring Shipley’s little probe yesterday, I think it’s going to take a lot more than a few dozen English majors and accountants to achieve the objective,” Hilyard said, pulling sunglasses from his breast pocket and snapping them into place across his nose.

  “How long have you been watching us?” Franklin said.

  “I had scouts of my own, but I wasn’t foolish enough to send them in. We took up posts on high ground and used our binoculars. You can gather plenty of information while staying out of range of the enemy.” Hilyard shook his head and sighed. “Best we could tell, Shipley lost four men yesterday through his stupidity. Sure, they went along with his mutiny and pissed on their enlistment pledge and duty to their country, but they were basically decent men who went wrong.”

  Franklin related his adventures since the big battle on the mountain, and DeVontay and Rachel shared what they’d learned the night before.

  “I wondered what the hell was going on,” Hilyard said. “One of my men reported that the Zapper babies were carried around by humans, and they appeared to be interacting. I thought the private was Section Eight material himself, but then another man corroborated it. That’s about the damnedest thing I ever heard.”

  “So you can see why sheer firepower won’t be enough,” Rachel said. “It would be pointless slaughter. If we can communicate with the Central Committee, maybe we can free any captives they still have and come to some sort of détente.”

  “‘Détente’ is just another word for a temporary truce that crumbles under distrust. It doesn’t resolve anything.”

  “Just buying a little time may be the best we can hope for,” Rachel said.

  “I’ll think about it,” Hilyard said. “I can’t tell these civilians what to do, but if any of them want to follow me, they’re welcome. Not sure this Brock clown will like it, but last I seen, nobody’s held any elections for king of the world.”

  “What else is going on out there?” Franklin said. “See any other groups of civilians? Survivors holed up in the woods? Any sign at all of rebuilding?”

  “We saw some signs of recent camps. Trash and fire pits and things. But nothing of any scale. My guess is the people that are good at hiding are going to stay good at hiding. They probably think it’s best to just leave the Zapheads alone and focus on making it through the winter.”

  “That’s what I keep saying,” Rachel said. “But nobody listens.”

  “No offense, Rachel, but you’re not exactly an impartial observer,” the lieutenant said. “You make reasonable points and you’re coherent, but can any of us really be sure how much influence they have over you? Can you even know yourself?”

  DeVontay stepped protectively in front of her, drawing a grin from Franklin. DeVontay was apparently willing to take on a well-armed, battle-trained soldier to protect the woman he loved.

  Hilyard understood the gesture and let it slide without a confrontation. “Let’s get a bite to eat and then we can catch up on everything else.” Hilyard took three steps and then looked around, his eyebrows raised. “Hey, where’s Stephen?”

  “We lost him,” Franklin admitted. “Poor guy headed out the same night you did. Snuck out of my cabin right behind my back. I feel terrible.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Rachel said. “It’s my fault if it’s anybody’s fault. I should have had a talk with him and explained what I had to do.”

  “Enough with all the guilt trips,” DeVontay said. “Let’s not give up hope. The Little Man’s one pretty tough little dude. If anybody four-foot-ten can make it on his own, it’s him.”

  As they made their way to the base camp, Franklin explained Brock’s original plan to wait for the Zapheads to collect the bodies his group had piled in the traffic jam.

  Hilyard was impressed with that one. “Use their own instincts against them. Maybe Brock isn’t as dumb as he looks. Which is good, because he looks dumb as a turtle egg. And that hat. Christ.”

  “Sierra’s the real power behind the throne if you ask me,” DeVontay said. “She goes along with him, but you can see in her eyes that she’s already plotting her next move. With or without him. And she gathered her own group together, so she already has some power if she wants it.”

  “You know what they say about women and power,” Rachel said.

  “What’s that?” Franklin and DeVontay said in near unison.

  “Remember Lady Macbeth?”

  Franklin said, “I haven’t read any Shakespeare in decades, but best I can remember that didn’t turn out so well for anybody.”

  “Exactly.” Rachel gave a smile that both pleased and reassured Franklin.

  There’s still plenty of human in her. And, God help us all, one day ‘human’ will be all that’s left.

  When they got back to camp, Hilyard approached Brock as a peace offering, allowing the man to salvage some of his ego. DeVontay and Rachel went into one of the houses to “rest,” and Franklin let them go without comment. />
  Franklin knelt by the fire and stirred the pot he’d left simmering. The concoction had congealed into a thick gray porridge, bits of bone poking up through the surface. When Hilyard joined him, Franklin said, “Want to try my world-famous bunny gumbo? Odds are pretty good that it’s not mutant meat.”

  Hilyard sat on one of the lawn chairs arranged around the fire pit and rummaged through his backpack. “No, thanks. That makes even an MRE sound scrumptious.”

  As they both ate, Hilyard said, “There’s something I didn’t want to say in front of Rachel.”

  Franklin ran down a mental list of horrible things: Stephen is dead, Zaphead armies are approaching from every compass point, radiation from failed nuclear power plants will kill us all in two weeks, the president and Congress have emerged from their bunker and announced a tax increase.

  “She’s been through a lot,” he said. “I don’t know what to make of it all, but she’s still my granddaughter. Pretty much all I got left.”

  “That’s more than most. But I have a unit now, and that gives me a purpose. And I suspect that purpose is an extraction mission.”

  “Extraction?”

  “If these babies are evolving and learning this rapidly, and they’re the ones calling the shots, then the entire tribe is going to evolve, too.”

  “So what?” Franklin said. “You can’t possibly believe they have the power to raise the dead like Rachel says, do you? The shift in magnetic patterns has thrown the entire planet askew, but at least there’s some kind of science behind it. I’ll be damned if I could explain it, but I’m sure some theoretical physicists with a nice computer and a lab could figure it all out eventually. But resurrection falls under the realm of religion. Or magic, if you want to roll in that direction.”

  “They’re going to adapt much faster than we do,” Hilyard said. “They’re already organizing into large tribes, with a leadership structure—the Central Committee, as Rachel calls it—that apparently has some level of telepathy. And if this talent or power increases as more babies gather in one place, what happens when these tribes start uniting? They’re building a civilization and we’ve barely learned to take a dump without flush toilets.”