After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) Page 10

  “I just wanted to pet it,” he whined.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was on the verge of blubbering, and neither of them could afford that right now.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. The dogs are just not used to people.”

  If crotchety old Mrs. Federov from Greenwood Academy could see me now, she’d reconsider denying me a recommendation for my resume. Revenge is sweet, bitch.

  And so is human flesh, if you’re a Zaphead dog.

  “What about my comic books and stuff?” Stephen asked, recovering a little.

  “We’ll come back and get them in a little bit, after the nice doggies go home.” She took another step forward, and the retriever and the beagle took four more steps. Now they were closer to Stephen than she was, and she didn’t dare charge them.

  She tried to recall what she knew of animal behavior. Smell was a dog’s most powerful sense, and they related to the world on a spectrum people could only scarcely understand. Steaks on the grill were the equivalent of a majestic symphony to them. A Slim Jim was like a painting by Monet, and bacon was like the erotic caress of a velvet glove on the nape of the neck.

  But fear also had a smell, a brittle, metallic tang that promised pain or death. Or maybe just easy prey.

  “Okay, Stephen,” she said, now taking steady, slow steps forward as the hissing intensified. “When I count to three, run to the station wagon like I told you.”

  All three dogs lifted their heads in anticipation of her approach, and their yellow teeth gleamed in the dying light of dusk.

  “Run!” she yelled, charging toward the dogs with her arms wide. She’d once seen a show on the Discovery Challenge about animals that made themselves appear larger in order to scare off predators. In that case, she wanted to look like a giant she-banshee from hell.

  She let her own hiss rise in her throat, a release of her mounting fear, and Stephen’s mouth opened in surprise. Then he obeyed and broke out of his trance, pumping his little legs as he scooted around the truck.

  Just as she suspected, her little freak show stole the dogs’ attention and they didn’t even glance at the retreating boy. Rachel was impressed by the noise she was making, and she unleashed all the rage, frustration, and hopelessness that had been hiding in a black well inside her soul.

  Her anguished howl poured over the highway and reverberated off of steel and glass, becoming the lost voice of the forgotten human race and drowning out the hissing of the mutant dogs.

  For a moment, she even forgot to be afraid.

  Then the shepherd lunged at her.

  And then she remembered.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Campbell didn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Wilma had led him deep into the forest and they’d suddenly emerged on the edge of a beautiful meadow that exploded with vibrant orange jewelweed, yellow asters, and daisies. A barbed-wire fence marked off the boundaries of the pastoral scene, and a red barn stood at the bottom of the slope. A set of twin brown ruts wound up the opposite hill, leading to a two-story white farmhouse with black shutters on the windows and high columns on the porch. An old Ford truck was parked under a tin shed, along with a tractor and various implements like a disc harrow, plow, and hay baler.

  It was like a postcard from a bygone era, nostalgia for a way of life that had never existed.

  “If this wasn’t the end of the world, I would think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said.

  Wilma leaned against a locust post, catching her breath. “Cows all died or they would have eat the grass down.”

  “How far are we from the highway?”

  “Three miles or so. That dirt road goes past about six more farms just like it. This one is the end of the road.”

  Campbell wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. The woman hadn’t shown much concern for the Zapheads as they’d navigated the forest. Campbell had been on high alert for the both of them, but he hadn’t seen so much as a stray blue jay.

  “That looks like a solid house. Why don’t you live here instead of—”

  “Instead of that trashy little camper trailer?” She spat onto a stalk of pokeweed, and the drop of clotted saliva clung to a cluster of indigo berries.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know your kind. Uppity fellows that go to college and read the New York Times and think they know what’s good for everybody else. If the dookie hadn’t have hit the fan, you’da been a lawyer and got yourself elected to the town council, then made up zones and rules for everybody else to live by. When all you really want is for people to be just like you.”

  “I—I’m sorry about all that. It’s just…nobody knows how we’re supposed to live anymore.”

  “And that pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

  “All of this makes me realize how fragile we are,” he said, knowing philosophical debates were as useless as ever. “The people we love, the structures we believe in, the investments we make for the future.”

  “A little smarts is all we need.” She tore one of the leafy stalks from the pokeweed plant. “Did you know you can eat these? Fine source of vitamins. But the berries will kill you stone dead. People used to know that, but they forgot it when they started relying on ‘structures’ instead of themselves.”

  She handed him the leaf and he sniffed it suspiciously. She laughed. “It’s bitter as hell in autumn. You want to eat it in the spring when it’s young and tender. Same as dandelions and ramps. Cleans you out after a long winter.”

  Campbell wondered if they would be able to return to the camper trailer before dark. He didn’t like being unarmed with night falling, and he wondered if trusting Wilma had been a mistake. Perhaps his initial impression had been correct and she was mentally ill.

  “Shouldn’t we be heading back?” he asked.

  “I thought you wanted to see them.”

  “Where?”

  Wilma nodded toward the house.

  “They’re inside?”

  “Around back.”

  “So we walk around the edge of the fence and watch them from the woods?”

  “No. We walk right up to them.”

  His suspicions were right. She was crazy. “We don’t have any weapons.”

  She put a foot on the lower strand of barbed wire and yanked up the middle strand, then slid between the gap with all the grace of a bloated goat. From the other side of the fence, she said, “Suit yourself,” and began walking across the meadow.

  He looked back into the woods, where the rising shadows seemed even more ominous. Then he climbed over the fence and hurried after her.

  When he caught up, she said, “Whatever you do, stay calm and don’t show any fear.”

  “How can I do that? Zapheads are scary as shit.”

  “It’s the only way. That’s why weapons don’t do any good. They outnumber us now, in case you ain’t noticed.”

  Campbell reflected on his experience of the past few weeks. He’d clung to the illusion that humans were still on the top of the food chain, that it was only a matter of time until they organized and restored those structures again. But what if they were done? What if they were the Neanderthals giving way to Homo Sapiens, or dinosaurs yielding to mammals? He didn’t like that line of thought, but since the solar storms, he’d encountered far more Zapheads than survivors.

  “We’re smarter than they are,” Campbell said with defiant anger.

  “Keep thinking like that and you’re dead meat.”

  They waded through the meadow toward the house. The weeds were knee high and Campbell tried not to think of snakes and rodents squirming along the ground. As they drew closer to the house, Wilma signaled him to walk more slowly and be quiet.

  Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.

  The repetitive mantra did little to actually quell his fear. But he had to admit, he was also curious. If the Zapheads indeed congregated on this farm, he’d have his first chance to observe
their behavior without actually running from them or battling them.

  As they passed the barn, Campbell noticed the high wooden doors were swung wide. The inky darkness inside could harbor bloodthirsty Zapheads. He half expected a group of them to rush from the barn and rip him limb from limb. But soon they were past it and heading up the slope toward the house, where they once again crossed the fence into the yard.

  Campbell decided if the Zapheads attacked, he would flee down the dirt road. But he wouldn’t be able to abandon Wilma, even though she was likely more capable than he was to fend off the vicious killers.

  Sounds like you’re planning to be afraid.

  Campbell couldn’t help wondering if they were watching from the windows. But he kept pace with Wilma, who strode with a determined gait as if she’d made this sojourn more than once. Soon they stood before the porch steps.

  “Do we go in?” Campbell asked.

  Wilma grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We don’t have to go. We’re already in.”

  It was only then that Campbell looked back across the meadow. Against the steepening shadows of the surrounding forest, a hundred tiny sparks glinted. Three of them approached from the driveway, and other silhouettes lurked among the farm implements.

  The realization punched him in the gut. They were surrounded by Zapheads.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The shepherd hit Rachel high, knocking her flat on her back.

  She was dimly aware of the other two dogs closing in, but her world narrowed to the stinking, slavering mouth snapping at her.

  She thrust her forearm into the dog’s neck and pushed, yellow fangs clacking inches short of her face, the steaming pink tongue lolling against the black maw of the throat.

  Up close, the glittering eyes were hellfire. It was easy to think of the dog as a demonic creature shot from the land of myth, but its moist, putrid breath was all too real against her skin.

  She rolled, something in her backpack digging into the base of her spine. She debated the pistol, knew there was no time, and kept rolling as the dog’s paws skidded painfully across her breasts. She made it to her knees and, as the shepherd fell away, the beagle lunged for her midsection.

  During the roll, her pack slid from one shoulder and she shrugged it the rest of the way down her arm. Rachel punched at the only soft point she could find, the dog’s quivering, slimy nose. The blow landed flush and the dog yipped, backing away and howling in surprise.

  The dogs circled her, keeping out of reach, apparently finding her more challenging than their usual prey.

  How many people have they slaughtered? Or is this their first taste of warm blood?

  She shrugged free of the backpack and held it by one strap. Slinging it before her, its fifteen pounds of weight was like a sledgehammer. She’d quickly grow weary, but for the moment, the threat kept the dogs at bay.

  The retriever made a play for her ankles and she whipped the pack against its ribs. It yelped and hobbled away.

  “That’s right, Cujo, I’ll kick your ass back to Maine.” The bravado felt hollow, and the shepherd’s attack had driven the wind from her lungs, but at least she was standing.

  Four legs good, two legs better.

  Stephen had made it safely around the truck, so Rachel began backing away from them, using the truck as a wall so they couldn’t surround her. She swung at the beagle when it snarled at her, and when it retreated, she was able to gain a position by the truck’s front tire. She thought about climbing the driver’s-side runner and trying the cab door, but if it was locked, the backs of her legs and buttocks would be exposed to attack, and she doubted she’d get a second chance.

  The dogs barked, hissed, and howled in a sickening mix, like coyotes strung in an electric fence. As the dogs paced back and forth, searching for an opening, Rachel found the backpack’s zipper and worked it down, never letting her gaze stray from the dogs. Their glittering eyes were both mesmerizing and repulsive.

  If fear encouraged them to attack, maybe arrogance would drive them away. So she shouted at them, channeling gangster movies and tough-guy clichés, figuring the dogs wouldn’t give a damn if she mangled a few lines.

  “Are you looking at me? Wanna piece of this? You can’t handle the truth.” The rant was silly but it gave her courage, and she scarcely paid attention to the stream of inanities she spewed. “I’ll tear your leg off and beat you into a pile of Alpo. You want some doggie style?”

  Her words, or perhaps her animated delivery, caused the dogs to retreat even further. She dug frantically through the backpack, feeling for the cool steel of the pistol. Her heart sank when her fingers came away empty.

  Damn. Must have left at the last stop.

  As if sensing her panic, the dogs closed in again, hiss-barking as they came.

  “Rachel!” Stephen called from the other side of the truck.

  “I told you to get in the car and close the door.”

  “I can’t. There’s dead people in here.”

  “Just…just pretend they’re sleeping.” Right. Resting in pieces, that’s all. Perfectly ordinary day in After.

  “Are you coming?”

  The retriever growled, baring its teeth. The shepherd circled around toward the front of the truck as if responding to Stephen’s voice.

  “In a minute,” Rachel said, gripping the backpack’s strap again, grateful for the cans of food that gave heft to the makeshift weapon. “But I need to make sure you’re safe first.”

  “They smell bad,” the boy yelled. “Real bad.”

  “I know, honey. But you can do this for me. Close the door and I’ll be right there.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah.” Just like I promised Chelsea I’d always be there for her. Until water got in the way.

  Thinking of Chelsea renewed her determination. Despite occasional suicidal thoughts, she really didn’t want to die, especially not by the fangs and paws of filthy beasts, going down like an animal. Rachel had no way of knowing whether Chelsea would have survived the solar storms, or if she would have mutated into a Zaphead. But as long as Rachel was alive, she’d live for both of them.

  As long as she was a human, she’d fight like a human—the only animal intelligent enough to be aware of its own mortality, and the only animal capable of measuring its own will to survive.

  I am a survivor.

  “Close the door,” she shouted, still monitoring the dogs. “Now.”

  The door slammed closed, clipping off Stephen’s wail of exasperation or perhaps a sob. Now free to act, Rachel turned and ran around the front of the truck, intending to climb the bumper and scale the truck’s hood. It was only when she was calculating the first foothold that she realized the bumper was set into the engine compartment, the shiny chrome extending only a couple of inches.

  With the luxury of seconds, she would have been able to dig her hands into the rungs of the grille and make the climb, but already the paws were pounding into full gallop behind her.

  She didn’t have seconds,

  She made a sudden circle, swinging the backpack and flinging it toward the closest dog—the shepherd. The dog swerved and nearly dodged the blow, but the pack glanced off its rear flank. Something snapped and the dog went down, yowling and hissing but still slithering toward her by digging the ground with its front paws.

  The retriever and beagle didn’t slow at all, and Rachel sprinted toward the Subaru with her heart beating the insides of her ribs like a prizefighter working a punching bag.

  The Subaru was only twenty feet away, and Stephen’s forehead was pressed against the driver’s-side window, his breath fogging the glass. At least he’d obeyed her. Chalk one up for counseling school.

  Rachel slipped, and a rush of corrupt stench wafted over her, and she realized she’d stepped on one of the corpses. The lost momentum allowed one of the dogs—the beagle, she suspected, because it hit her low—to dig its teeth into her right calf.

  She kicked, hearing her jeans ri
p, a current of electric acid pain screaming through her veins.

  The dog tumbled away but then the retriever caught her, snapping at the hem of her blouse and yanking so hard that the top two buttons popped free.

  Trying to drag me down, to go for my throat.

  She kicked out with her good leg, nearly losing her balance as the agony of the bite wound roared in on a massive red wave. The rubber tip of her sneaker drove into the retriever’s ribs but it didn’t let go. Its four paws dug at the ground as it pulled backwards, snarling and growling wetly in its throat.

  The beagle leaped at her injured leg and she couldn’t dance away. The attack was rushed, though, and instead of finding purchase, the sharp teeth raked across her kneecap, tearing fabric and flesh with equal ease.

  As it scurried past, the Zaphead dog’s eyes radiated ever more brightly, as if the scent of blood and weakness had amplified its terrible appetite.

  Stephen screamed from inside the car, but the sound was mercifully muffled. She was afraid he’d open the door and then she’d have the double duty of protecting him while saving her own neck.

  Then the retriever jerked backward and Rachel fell on her hands and knees, roiling in the desecrated offal of the dogs’ earlier meals.

  And God threw her a bone.

  Literally.

  Her hand scraped across a smooth, dense object and she clutched its roundness. It was a human femur, licked mostly clean, a big knot of gristle on one end where the ball joint was still attached.

  Like a mad Samson slaying Philistines with the jawbone of an ass, she swept the bone like a mace and struck the retriever right between its odd, glittering eyes. The animal’s skull crunched and it dropped like a rock, ripping a large swatch of her blouse as it collapsed.

  The beagle brayed, as if realizing it had underestimated its prey. The shepherd wriggled forward, dragging its shattered hindquarters, but it no longer posed any real threat. It whimpered through its nose, blowing bubbles of bloody mucus, but she had no sympathy.