CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Franklin
, Jorge, Robertson, and Shay had walked half a mile
away from the scene of the slaughter, and as the sun sank below the towering
ridge, they decided to find a house for the night.
They
chose a small cottage set back from the road, figuring Sarge’s soldiers were
unlikely to check it out. The cottage had no vehicles out front and the
landscaped yard, now overgrown and unkempt, was wide enough to allow them to
see anyone approaching from the forest on either side. They were relieved to
find the place empty. Franklin didn’t think any of them could stomach more
corpses that day.
With
the last of the fading light, Robertson and Franklin searched the house while
Jorge and Shay put together a simple meal of tinned food from the kitchen. Franklin figured the cottage was a seasonal vacation home because the air was stale and
smelled like mothballs. Despite the chilly night, he opened some of the
windows, allowing fresh air to flow through.
Now,
as they sat around the kitchen table in the glow of a fat holiday candle eating
tuna fish and spinach, Franklin was the first to bring it up. “No way to tell
if they were Zaps or not.”
“They
were dirty,” Robertson said.
“All
of us are dirty. I haven’t seen many survivors jumping in a mud puddle with a
bar of soap.”
Shay
self-consciously pushed a greasy strand of hair behind one ear. “Those two
kids…who could do that to anybody, even a Zaphead?”
“The
eyes,” Franklin said. “That old man’s eyes were open. But they didn’t have any
sparks.”
“What’s
that?” Robertson said.
“I
forgot; you haven’t seen any Zappers up close. Their eyes have these glowing
little specks in them. Not all the time, but they seem to get brighter when
they get excited.”
Jorge
pushed away his plate, which was still heaped with cold food. “If they’re dead,
they would have no spark, right?”
“Okay,
let’s say they were Zaps,” Franklin said. “That leaves a couple of
possibilities. They were killed by Sarge’s soldiers, or maybe by some other
crazy-assed group we don’t know about yet.”
“Or
by other Zapheads,” Shay said. “They’re raging killers, right?”
“That
would be just dandy. All we’d have to do is sit back and wait for them to wipe
each other out. But that doesn’t explain the message written in blood. That’s
the mark of a seriously deranged mind. An intelligent mind, but one without a
conscience.”
“The
fire in the fireplace,” Jorge said. “It couldn’t have been more than a few
hours old. Would a Zaphead build a fire, or write, or leave the bodies arranged
that way?”
“Those
two soldiers who split off from the patrol. Maybe they didn’t head back to the
bunker. Maybe they went rogue. Maybe they wanted to leave us a message.”
“Us?”
said Robertson. “Do you think we’re the only people around here who aren’t in
that army troop you told us about?”
“You
know this area better than we do,” Franklin said.
“Yeah.
I was a postal carrier. I didn’t do this route much, but I dropped mail at that
house more than once. I don’t remember any kids there, though.”
“That
may not have been a real family,” Jorge said. “The killers might have
accumulated the people from different places.”
“That
makes them even sicker,” Franklin said. He looked at the girl. “Sorry you have
to hear all this.”
“Sorry
the world ended,” she said without emotion. She’d found a can of Sprite
somewhere and clutched it with both hands, like a sacred talisman delivered
through a time machine. Franklin marveled that the four of them would never
have had any reason to cross paths, much less sit down for a meal together. And
now they depended upon one another.
“Who
else would know about Milepost 291?” Jorge asked.
“Just
our bunker buddies.” A wad of tuna fish got caught in his throat. “And Rachel,
my granddaughter.”
Does
this have something to do with her?
“She
could have told someone,” Jorge said. “Maybe lots of people. If they thought
your compound was safe, who knows how many people were heading there?”
“At
least that would mean she’s alive,” Franklin said. He hadn’t fully believed
it—much like Jorge’s desperate desire to find his family, Franklin had held on
to Rachel’s arrival as a reason to hope.
“If
bloodthirsty maniacs are on the loose, I’ve got first watch,” Robertson said,
scooting his chair back and retrieving his shotgun as he stood. “Besides, this
gourmet cooking is a little rich for my delicate constitution. I need to squat
down for some quality time out in the woods.”
“Don’t
step in nothing,” Franklin called as Robertson went out the back door.
“Gross,”
Shay said. “Too much information.”
“No,
this canned spinach is gross.” Franklin collected their plates and carried them
to the sink. He started to scrape the scraps into the trash, and then realized
how ridiculous that was. The cottage’s owners wouldn’t be up for vacation
anytime soon. They were probably maggot meat by now.
He
stacked the dishes and wiped his hands on a towel draped from a cabinet handle.
“I’ll go close up and check the locks. You two figure out where we’re all
sleeping.”
Franklin
glanced out of each window as he shut it. The forest
was sweet with autumn’s decay, the air moist with the promise of coming dew.
The darkness was almost total, punctuated only by a high scattering of stars.
Crickets and other insects chirruped in the loam.
Whoever
would have thought Doomsday could be so peaceful?
But
the pastoral view of the black ridges and the ceiling of speckled sky overhead
was nothing but a veil. In its milieu were savage killers, Sarge and his
ruthless troops, and mutants who seemed to be adapting to the new ground rules
much faster than Franklin and his fellow human survivors.
“If
you’re out there, Rachel, may God watch over you,” he whispered.
Rachel
was religious, but when Franklin looked at the sky, he never sensed a greater
power looking down. In a way, the apocalypse almost made it easier for him to
believe. The Biblical prophecies had sure gotten things wrong, but Franklin could appreciate an omnipotent being who cared so little for His creations that
He’d torch their asses with a wave of solar flares.
And
then laugh at the remaining few fools who tried to pick up the pieces.
If
God had truly made Man in his image, could they have expected any other
outcome?
The
cottage had only one bedroom, with a set of twin beds in it. Shay set a candle
on the nightstand between the two beds, took off her shoes, and slid under the
covers. “I’ll take next watch,” she said. “Tell my dad to wake me when it’s my
turn.”
“Okay,
hon,” Franklin said, although he was sure she’d be asleep in minutes. Teens
needed their sleep, and he doubted he’d be able to nod off anyway, so he didn’t
mind standing sentinel for half the night. It would give him time to think.
“You
go ahead, Jorge,” Franklin said. “We’re all going to need our rest. Long walk
tomorrow.”
Jorge
tested the other mattress. “Better than those cots in the bunker.”
“You
got that right, my man.”
Franklin
bent to blow out the candle but Shay suddenly turned
her face to him and said, “No. Please.”
The
little flame likely wasn’t visible from outside, even if anyone were looking. She
looked so frail, despite her tough talk and quick recovery from almost being
raped. But what did he know about her thoughts and feelings? He had more than
five decades on her. Most of his rough edges had been worn smooth, like a stone
tumbled down an endless turbulent river. She was still sharp and raw, and most
of her life—whether that ended up being a day or many years—would have a
backdrop of death.
On
impulse, he stooped down and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a tough girl,”
he said. “You remind me of Rachel.”
“You
remind me of the janitor at our school.”
Franklin
chuckled. “I hope he kept the toilets looking
spiffy.”
“I
wonder what happened to him.”
“He’s
probably out there with a mop, waiting for school to start back. And if not, I’ll
gladly take the job.”
Shay
giggled and closed her eyes. She looked younger than ever.
“G’night,”
he said to both of them.
He
went out into the night air and found Robertson walking slowly around the edge
of the yard. Robertson spotted him and waved. Franklin approached, listening
for any signs of butchering killers who might want to make an artistic red
tableau out of them.
“All
tucked in,” Franklin said. “She’s a good girl.”
“I
wish her mom was here,” Robertson said.
“I
hate to ask, but what happened to her?”
In
the dark, Franklin couldn’t make out Robertson’s face, but he thought the man
was weeping. “She dropped right away, even before the Zaps started turning. You
remember the news reports, saying some people might be more susceptible to the
electromagnetic radiation. Well, she was one of them.”
“Sorry
to hear that.”
“Don’t
be. At least she didn’t become a Zaphead. And she’s better off now than any of
us.”
“I
reckon you’re right there.”
“Who
do you really think killed those people in the brick house?”
“Somebody
who knows me, that’s for sure. And I have a feeling the next message is going
to be in bigger letters.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
“She’s
finally asleep,” Campbell whispered to the professor. “Or at least out of it.”
“The
infection took its toll, even though the fever broke.” The professor was
wearing another sheet, still naked despite the October chill. “She’ll probably
be weak for a few days while she recovers.”
“I’m
still not sure I believe it, even though I saw it with my own eyes.”
“They’re
operating on some quantum level,” the professor said. “We can’t even hope to
understand.”
“But
we have to come up with an explanation. Or else we’ll have to call it a
miracle.”
“In
science, the simplest answer is often the correct one. And ‘miracle’ is just a
good a word for it as any.”
The
Zapheads still paced ceaselessly in the dark house. The only light in the
living room was a candle burning low on the mantle, although the darkness was
punctuated by the eerie constellations cast by the eyes of passing Zapheads.
Campbell and the professor both sat on the floor beside the sofa. Campbell was shivering despite his extra blanket. The professor had to be freezing. “What
about her eyes?”
“Maybe
whatever transference of energy they performed somehow changed her,” the
professor said. “If the electromagnetic pulse of the solar storms made them
what they are, they might have disrupted or altered the electrical impulses of
her brain. Maybe even her whole body at an atomic level.”
“The
laying on of hands,” Campbell said. “I thought that was the domain of
snake-handling charismatic preachers.”
“These
are God’s creatures,” the professor said. “Performing God’s work.”
Campbell
didn’t like the rapt wistfulness in the professor’s
voice. Playing messiah to a bunch of mutants was one thing, but elevating
them
to messiahs was a whole extra level of weird.
And
Campbell couldn’t bear it if things got any weirder.
“I’m
getting out of here,” Campbell said, not sure if he could trust the professor.
His allegiance might lie with the Zapheads now. “As soon as Rachel’s better,
we’re heading for Milepost 291.”
The
Zapheads quit their pacing, and Campbell wondered if they had somehow heard and
comprehended, even though he was talking quietly.
“They
sense a threat,” the professor said. “They’re quite intuitive. That’s why they
react to our actions.”
“Like
when they were ripping your friends to shreds? Arnoff and Pamela and Donnie
might disagree with your analysis.”
“They
weren’t my friends. We were just traveling together.”
“We’re
all just traveling together. On one great big Starship Earth—”
The
professor put his hand on Campbell’s shoulder. The outburst had caused the
Zapheads to encircle them. Although they were not yet agitated, the tension in
the air was electric, almost humming. Rachel moaned and stirred in her sleep.
“They
won’t let you leave,” whispered the professor.
“I
am not asking permission.”
“What
if
I
won’t let you leave?”
“Just
because you’ve been stuck here longer than me doesn’t make you the expert. I
don’t think anyone knows anything about what’s happening.”
“You
won’t leave.”
Campbell
stood in the dark, and the Zapheads circled him.
“And
you can’t take Rachel,” the professor said. “She is one of them now.”
Campbell
could just make out her pale face. Her eyelids were
twitching. Was she dreaming of Before? Or were new images and concepts forming
due to the influence of the Zapheads’ healing?
The
professor is a lost cause. But Rachel…if we can get away, maybe she won’t
become one of them.
But
Campbell was forced to admit to himself that he wouldn’t make it Milepost 291
without her. Even though she’d said she didn’t know the exact location of her
grandfather’s compound, she knew the general area far better than he did. And
he didn’t want to be alone for even a minute.
He’d
have to wait for Rachel to fully recover. Making a reckless break now might
throw the Zapheads into a frenzy, and the professor would thwart them however
he could.
“Okay,”
Campbell said, sitting back down. “You’re right.”
“I
still think we can teach them,” the professor said. “We can build a better
world, without all the mistakes of the past.”
“But
who is going to judge the mistakes?”
“Evil
men throughout history always seem to emerge when the conditions are ripe. But
so do good men.”
Campbell
nodded toward the dark silhouettes that milled
restlessly around the living room. “What about these things? Do we call them
‘men’ now? And what about the women? They don’t have sex, so they won’t be
breeding. They barely eat, yet they seem to maintain their vigor. If this is
the top of the evolutionary food chain, I guess we’re going to end up sausage
one way or another.”
“Keep
your voice down.”
“Natives
are getting restless, huh? I thought you could control them with one wave of
your hand. Or a word of prayer.”
The
Zapheads were muttering now, not repeating full words but rather fragments of
syllables and sounds. Their feet thundered on the floor above, as if the ones
upstairs could sense the agitation of their brethren below. Campbell no longer
wanted to wait for a chance to escape. He was ready to get out of this sci-fi
lunatic asylum.
“You
are upsetting them,” the professor said. “Maybe they’re all connected somehow.
Not telepathically, but empathically. That could explain their universal rage
in the wake of the solar storms, when their human brains were wiped clean and a
raw, primitive neural network was all that remained.”
“Whatever,”
Campbell said, tugging Rachel’s hand. She blinked and the tiny luminous
specks still swam in her eyes. “Wake up, Rachel, we’re getting out of here.”
“Whu…where
are we?” she said.
At
least she can speak in complete sentences. She hasn’t been completely zapped.
He
wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d repeated his words. He might have
left her there and fled into the night.
“Can
you stand?” he whispered to her. She nodded, still groggy.
“Stop
this,” the professor said. “You can’t take her from them now.”
“They
don’t own her. They don’t own me, either. You can stay if you want, but we’re
out of here, one way or another.”
Kneeling,
Campbell helped Rachel sit up. The professor loomed over them, calling out, “Campbell, don’t be like this. Think of the family.”
The
man’s tone reminded Campbell of the infamous cult leader Jim Jones, who’d
seduced hundreds of his People’s Temple members into drinking poisoned
Kool-Aid. Campbell had watched a documentary on the tragedy, and Jones used the
same imploring, nearly whining voice to hurry along the mass suicide.
“Think
of what we can do if we stay and teach them,” the professor said.
“Can
you stand?” Campbell whispered to Rachel. He was going to get her out of there
even if he had to drag her.
She
didn’t answer but instead gripped his shoulder and swung her legs off the sofa.
The room seemed to fill with Zapheads. Their breath was like a rising wind, and
broken bits of guttural sound rose from the depths of their throats. Campbell glanced around and saw at least two dozen, their strange lambent eyes pointed in
his direction.
“Where
are we going?” she asked, still drowsy but putting weight on her legs.
Campbell
wrapped his arms around her waist and helped her
stand. “Milepost 291.”
“Don’t
betray us, brother,” the professor said.
“Why
don’t you just stay cool? We’ll be out of here, and you can stay and play with
your little cult until the end of time?”
Campbell
flung one of her arms around his neck so she could
support herself. “Don’t look at them,” Campbell said. “Just walk with me.”
He
wasn’t sure the Zapheads would just let them leave. Their violent impulses had
subsided, but they’d been acting with bizarrely possessive intentions. Rachel
had literally been herded to the farmhouse, and the Zaps followed Campbell’s every move.
The
first phalanx of Zapheads was only three feet in front of them, standing
shoulder to shoulder. Their surreal eyes glinted like small pockets of alien
hell.
Campbell
ducked a little and pushed his way through them,
supporting the groggy Rachel. He expected the Zapheads to block his way, or
maybe even attack him. But he wasn’t afraid, not now, and he wondered if the
professor was right about their empathy—maybe they reacted to rage or anger,
but this new emotion of determination and defiance might be new to them. They
hadn’t had any opportunities to learn a defense against it.
The
first line of Zapheads grudgingly parted, and now he and Rachel were completely
encircled by them. They pressed close, but they were more restless than
frenzied. Rachel was likely not alert enough to register their presence, which Campbell took as a good sign. That meant she wouldn’t show fear.
“No,”
the professor shouted.
The
Zapheads immediately started repeating the word, which rippled like a mad
mantra up the stairs and across the whole house, even outside. In the
cacophony, Campbell scooted toward the hall, where more Zapheads paced back and
forth.
“Campbell,” the professor said.
Campbell
looked back over Rachel’s shoulder and saw a
reflection of the candle off silver.
The knife.
The
professor waved the blade in the air, threatening him. “Put her down, or I’ll
cut you.”
The
phalanx of Zapheads closed ranks, creating a wall of living flesh between
Campbell and the professor.
As
the Zapheads endlessly echoed “
No no no no no
,” the professor shoved at them
to reach Campbell and Rachel. Campbell turned and walked backwards, with Rachel
leaning her weight on his shoulder. She was moving her legs now, regaining her
balance, but they wouldn’t be able to outrun the professor.
“You’re
upsetting them,” Campbell said, trying to use the professor’s own logic against
him. But the professor was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, face contorted with
rage, focused only on preserving his unnatural cult.
As
he fought his way toward Campbell, the knife swept down and sliced into the
biceps of a female Zaphead. The mutant didn’t utter a sound, but the repetitive
voices all died away at once, throwing the house into an eerie silence broken
only by the slight groaning of wood as the wind blew against the siding.
Then
the injured Zaphead grabbed the professor’s arm, pulling him forward and
causing him to lose his balance. Another grabbed at the knife, cutting his hand
in several places before finally wrestling the weapon away from the professor.
The smell of blood was rich in the air, along with that electrical burning
odor, and more Zapheads pushed into the living room.
Campbell
took advantage of the opening to lead Rachel down the
hallway toward the kitchen. The professor’s scream was high and brittle, and
with one last look, Campbell saw one of the Zapheads drive the knife into the
professor’s back as others tore away his sheet and pawed at his naked body.
Thank
God Rachel can’t understand what’s happening.
They
passed a couple of Zapheads in the hall who staggered toward the living room as
if animated by the violence. The back door was open in the kitchen, and Campbell made for it. He didn’t care about food or supplies. They could worry about that
once they fled the farm.
And
if they didn’t make it off the farm, food was the least of their worries.
The
professor screamed again, and this time it actually rose into a shrill cackle
of disturbed glee.
“Kill
your messiah,” he wailed. “So it is written, and so—
arggggh…GODDMAN IT
…so
it shall be.”
“So
shall it be,” rang out a high female voice, almost blissful. The phrase was
taken up by others, a deep bass here, an alto, and then rising into a
repetitive chant.
Dude
got exactly what he wanted. Finally found his true calling. Well, rest in
pieces, you nutty piece of shit.
Outside,
the grass was moist with dew and soon they were both soaked to the knees. Dark
shapes moved past them in the night, all headed toward the farmhouse, ignoring
the two staggering humans. Once, Rachel fell against him, nearly knocking them
both to the ground, but he caught her and held her upright.
Their
faces were close enough that he could look deep into the flickering furnaces of
her eyes. He wondered what was happening behind them, and what Rachel would
become by the time they reached Milepost 291.