After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) Read online

  “Told you I’d come with you,” Franklin said. “But it never hurts to gather up a little information.”

  Franklin scanned the frequencies as the speaker alternated between a high hum and sharp static. At one point a few broken words of Spanish spilled forth, but by the time Franklin zeroed in, the transmission was lost. “Damned charged particles in the atmosphere are messing with reception,” Franklin said. “The sun must be acting up again.”

  Jorge froze in his pacing. “What does that mean?”

  “‘Solar cycles’ means just that—cycles. The sun doesn’t just turn on and off like a tap. It’s always pushing out energy, but sometimes it erupts from deep inside and spews out big shitballs of radiation. The government knew those solar storms were trouble—they just didn’t want to panic the people.”

  “How could they not warn us of the danger?”

  “Well, the clues were there, and news reports told about the solar flares, but they mostly warned about the communication problems. But preppers who knew enough to read between the lines figured this was way bigger than anyone was letting on. I could just see that jug-eared moron in the White House saying, ‘We can’t have a public panic.’ I hope that son of bitch is rotting away in the Oval Office this very minute.”

  “I don’t care about your president. I care about my family.”

  “The wealthy elite and their government lapdogs kept the truth from us, so we wouldn’t have time to prepare. They didn’t cause the solar storms, but they sure didn’t boost our odds of survival. And now their foot soldiers are out there wiping out any remaining man that wants to be free. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the world’s bankers are holed up in their private luxury bunkers right now, or drifting out there in the ocean on their private yachts, with no power and no navigation systems.”

  Jorge shook with rage and anxiety. “Hijo de puta! I hope they all drown in their own blood. But none of that matters now.”

  “It’s the only thing that matters.” Franklin turned the dial, scanning the bandwidth one more time before shutting off the radio and disconnecting the power supply. “Zaps ain’t the biggest enemy out there. As long as these leeches are alive, none of us are safe.”

  Jorge looked out the cabin door, where the green luminescence of the night’s aurora mixed with the first pale light of dawn. “Wait a moment,” Jorge said, as if finally comprehending Franklin’s words. “You said there were more sun storms?”

  “Could be. We’ve probably been hit with waves of it over the past few weeks, but not enough to notice. That doesn’t mean there’s not another big one on the way, maybe even worse than the first batch. That’s the thing about Doomsday—if you read the literature, it’s usually not one thing that goes to hell. It’s lots of interconnected events and one fat trigger on a smoking gun.”

  Jorge gathered Marina’s pack and began hurriedly stuffing it with food, a compass, cursing himself for his stupidity. In recent days, he’d become comfortable with the idea that the worst was over, that God’s trials had yielded their final judgment and now the rebirth began. But maybe God was just beginning to punish the sinners. “What can we do to protect ourselves from the radiation?”

  More importantly, how can I protect Rosa and Marina?

  “Well, probably sitting in a Faraday cage is a good move. I suspect that’s why so many of these soldiers are still running around when most everybody else got blasted to death or turned into Zaps.”

  “But we don’t know when the sun storms will hit. We can’t live in cages.”

  Franklin grinned with crooked teeth and tugged his beard. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “Your government and your soldiers can battle over foolish ideals,” Jorge said. “If I die, I will die protecting my family.”

  Franklin retrieved the bloody ax from its place leaning by the woodstove. “I hope we stay on the same side, Jorge. Because I’ve seen what happens when people get in your way. There’s a slumbering dragon in there. We need free men like you.”

  When people get in the way.

  Jorge thought of the Hello Kitty girl in the forest, and his hallucination that she’d spoken. Jorge hadn’t mentioned it to Franklin, lest the man think he was losing his mind. He needed Franklin to help him. Even though Franklin was driven by a personal mission, he had proven himself a survivor and he knew the territory.

  Perhaps in a situation that had never before existed in the history of the world, experience didn’t matter. But until Jorge found his family, he would use every tool and weapon and resource he could find.

  Franklin unlocked a strongbox and handed Jorge a pistol. “Glock holds seventeen rounds. If we get surrounded by Zaps, make sure you save the last bullet for yourself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A shark had her leg.

  She turned in the murky water, still looking for Chelsea, but the pain was intense. She kicked, trying to shed the shark. Chelsea had already been under for, what, minutes? Or years? Blooms of red colored the water around her, and the surface above sparkled with a thousand blue diamonds. She struggled for breath, fought to get free, fought the pull of the inevitable tide of gravity that pulled her to the center of the earth and into the ultimate darkness.

  “Rachel?” Her shoulder shook, and she thought the shark had discovered a fresh morsel, but then she recognized Stephen’s voice.

  What’s HE doing here? He didn’t come to the lake with us.

  She opened her eyes to bright sunlight. Her leg still throbbed, but it was unencumbered.

  “Whew,” Stephen said. “I was worried. You wouldn’t wake up.”

  Rachel sat up. She was still in the driver’s seat of the Subaru, but the seat was both reclined and moved away from the steering wheel. One leg of her jeans was split up the knee, a bandage covering the dog bite on her calf. She didn’t remember wrapping it. The passenger door was ajar, letting in a fresh autumn breeze. The stench was present but no longer overpowering.

  “It’s morning,” she said. Her throat was cracked and dry. As if reading her thoughts, Stephen held out a bottle of water. He was in the passenger seat, a comic book in his lap.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the water. “So you got our backpacks.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing else to do.”

  “And you…cleaned out the car.”

  “Well, that was easier than trying to move you. I’m just a kid.”

  No, Stephen, you’re much more than just a kid.

  She sipped, and then drank deeply and gratefully. The water was warm and tainted with plastic, but it was the best she’d ever tasted. Far better than the poisonous water of Lake Norman. Which, as far as she knew, didn’t contain sharks, but plenty of far deadlier creatures.

  Like memories.

  Like guilt.

  Between the Subaru and the truck lay the dead German shepherd and golden retriever. “Where’s the other dog?” she asked.

  “He took some of the meat and went into the woods.”

  “You should have stayed in the car. He might be out there watching.”

  Stephen shrugged. “It didn’t mean to hurt us. It’s just a dog. Just like the Zapheads are just people, right?”

  “We don’t really know what they are.”

  “Well, they used to be people, didn’t they? So they can’t be all bad. Somewhere inside them, they have some of the love and stuff, right?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “What about the ones that Jesus saved? They’re not bad, are they?”

  Rachel fidgeted with her bandage. Ointment squeezed out from around the cloth, as well as some nasty yellow-red fluid. “You’ll have to ask Jesus.”

  Luckily for her, Stephen changed the subject, as boys will. “Can I have a dog? I mean, after this is over?”

  It’s never going to be over, sweetie.

  But she couldn’t tell him that, so she fell back on that timeless adult bailout. “We’ll see.”

  “Will DeVontay catch up today?”


  “Maybe. But he wants us to keep moving. I like the look of that Exxon station up there.”

  Stephen grinned. “Maybe it has some Slim Jims!”

  “Bet so.” She flexed her leg, wondering if she’d be able to walk. But she suspected if she sat there much longer, it would stiffen up and hurt even worse. The gas station would likely provide some antibiotic ointment and hydrogen peroxide, as well as some aspirin.

  “Okay, let’s pack up.” She was eager to be out of the stinking vehicle, but by the time they were ready and she opened the door, she was already sweating with exertion, even though the autumn morning was pleasant. She hoped she wasn’t getting a fever from infection.

  Stephen was waiting for her outside the car. She gritted her teeth and put weight on her injured leg. The pain came in a fresh rush, but she buried it so Stephen wouldn’t see it and worry. When she stood, she held onto the roof of the car so she wouldn’t sway.

  “How are you feeling?” Stephen asked.

  “I can make it.”

  “You told me not to lie.”

  “Okay, then. I feel terrible. But I’ll feel even worse if we sit here and the Zapheads get us. Besides, it’s only a mile or so. I can make it that far, don’t you think?”

  Stephen pursed his lips, looking far too wise and mature for a boy his age. “We’ll see.”

  She took a couple of hobbling steps and he ducked under her right arm to take some of her weight. At first she resisted, not wanting to seem weak and dependent, but soon she leaned into him and they fell into a rhythm, keeping on the shoulder of the highway so they wouldn’t have to weave between the occasional vehicles.

  By the time they crested the hill, sweat was rolling down Rachel’s face. They stopped once for water, resting a moment in the shade of a jackknifed tractor trailer. Below was the exit ramp, with a Cracker Barrel, McDonald’s, and an Autobell car wash beside the gas station. Houses were visible along the side road, scattered across the wooded slopes. Farther ahead, the great swells of the Blue Ridge Mountains rose toward the dawn-tinted sky.

  “Looks like people might be here,” Rachel said.

  Stephen fanned himself with one of his comic books. “You mean Zapheads?”

  “Yeah, them too.”

  “Well, you know what they say. We’re not getting any younger.”

  “How about McDonald’s? My treat.”

  “All those burgers are yucky by now. Besides, it’s probably full of dead people.”

  “All right, then. We’ll stick with junk food in plastic bags.”

  “Can I have a Sprite?”

  Rachel considered it. “Well, I guess you deserve a treat for taking care of me.”

  “Time for a bread crumb.” Stephen ripped a page from his comic, walked over to the nearest vehicle, a rusty Toyota pick-up, and slid the paper under the windshield wiper. He shoved what was left of his comic into his backpack and zipped it, then returned and helped her to her feet.

  Her leg throbbed worse than before, and the skin felt wet under the bandages. She wasn’t looking forward to the long hike down the incline. Looking at the truck, she got an idea. “Was there anybody in the truck?”

  “I didn’t really look, but I didn’t see anybody.”

  “Come on,” she said. “I know an easy way to get down there.”

  The Toyota still had the keys in the ignition, not that they were any use. Like most survivors, in the days after the solar storms she’d tried to crank plenty of cars, only to find them all dead. The pick-up’s bed contained baskets of rotten peaches, and yellow jackets buzzed around the fruit.

  “It’s a straight drive,” she said. “On old models like this, you usually don’t have power steering or brakes. All we have to do is get it rolling, and we can coast down the hill.”

  “At least it’s pointed in the right direction.” Stephen didn’t sound convinced. “Can you steer around all those cars?”

  “Easy. Look how spread out they are.”

  “Okay, then. Let me move my bread crumb.” He plucked the ripped comic page from the Toyota’s windshield and ran it over to an SUV.

  Rachel had already checked the handbrake—the truck’s driver might have abandoned the car when it lost power, heading down to the exit on foot and intending to return. Except the driver would have taken the keys under those circumstances. He’d probably mutated into a Zaphead and gone on an interstate killing spree.

  “Okay, load up,” she said, tossing her backpack in the cab.

  Stephen opened the passenger door and put his backpack on the floor. He climbed in the seat and looked over at her. “Well?” he said with impatience.

  “These trucks don’t roll themselves. We have to push.”

  “Oh.” He jumped out, ran to the back of the truck, and leaned against the tailgate. The shock absorbers squeaked as he pushed.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I have to take it out of gear.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Okay,” she said, after moving the gear shift to neutral. “Once it starts rolling, run and get in before it gains momentum. One, two, three!”

  The truck was heavier than she’d imagined, and a fresh wetness leaked down her shin from the bite wound. She reached in to put one hand on the wheel as she leaned her shoulder into the door jamb. The truck’s tires barely budged, and she dug in her heels and pushed harder, ignoring the pain flaring in her leg. The truck gained momentum and now gravity was working for them.

  She glanced back to see Stephen standing there as the truck pulled away. “Hurry! Get in.”

  “Uh…Rachel?”

  “What?”

  He pointed down the road. Fifty yards in front of them, five figures formed an uneven line across the double lanes of the highway. The truck was picking up speed, Rachel limping alongside of it, hanging on to the driver’s-side door. “Come on, Stephen! Your comics are in here.”

  That broke the spell, and Stephen raced to catch up to the truck. He yanked open his door and tumbled inside, one shoe still dragging on the asphalt. Rachel launched herself behind the steering wheel and the truck hurtled forward. She was surprised by its speed, and she worked the wheel to veer between two cars, narrowly missing the front fender of a little Nissan sedan.

  The figures didn’t dodge or even really respond to the approaching truck. But Rachel already suspected they were Zapheads, and she silently berated herself for getting complacent and not paying attention to their surroundings.

  “Who are they?” Stephen said.

  “Guess,” she said. She tapped the brakes just to test them, and the tires grabbed at the road. She didn’t want to lose any momentum, though, so she let the truck accelerate as she cut around stalled van. The Zapheads were now thirty yards ahead, and they appeared to finally realize a hunk of rolling steel was headed their way—two men, two women, and a boy about Stephen’s age, dressed in ragged clothes.

  “They’re not getting out of the way,” Stephen said, leaning forward and gripping the cracked vinyl dashboard.

  Rachel instinctively pushed down on the horn, forgetting that the vehicle’s power system was fried. “Put on your seatbelt and lock the door,” she said, and Stephen complied without protest.

  Instead of fleeing, the Zapheads actually headed up the road toward them.

  Rachel considered driving onto the inside shoulder in an attempt to avoid them, but the grass median sloped inward to a central drainage ditch. If she lost control, the truck might roll over. And now she saw more Zapheads across the median, in the outbound lanes. The motion of the truck must have aroused them from whatever it was that Zapheads did during the day when they weren’t murdering survivors.

  She had no time to pick an angle, but she couldn’t bear striking the boy. Even if he was a mutant, his condition wasn’t his fault. He was innocent.

  “You’re going to hit them,” Stephen said.

  She could almost hear God’s laughter in the whining of the tires. The speedometer didn’t work, but Rachel estimate
d they were going about thirty-five miles an hour. The Zapheads’ mouths opened as they ran toward the truck, but their voices were inaudible inside the cab.

  “Hang on,” Rachel said, whipping the wheel at the last second. The right fender clipped one of the women and she tumbled onto the engine hood with a metallic dink. One of the unkempt men stared directly at Rachel, almost daring her with his golden-spotted eyes, and then the bumper and grille chewed him up and he went under the wheels. The truck bounced as it rolled over him like a fleshy speed bump.

  Rachel glanced sideways at the boy’s face, just inches from the glass as she passed. The side mirror nearly slapped him across the cheek but he barely seemed to notice. When the truck rolled by, the remaining Zapheads, including the boy, took off after it. Rachel twisted the rearview mirror to confirm her hunch that the Zapheads in the opposite lanes were after them, too.

  She didn’t have a gun, and with her injured leg she wouldn’t be able to run from them. The gap was widening but soon the truck would hit level ground and the next upward incline.

  Stephen had turned in his seat, standing on his knees and looking through the back window. “They’re coming.”

  “I know,” she said. “Got any ideas?”

  “There was this really cool movie where Jackie Chan drove a car through the front of a department store.”

  “Jackie Chan was a stunt man,” she said. “I’m not.”

  “Well, he might be a Zaphead now. And you’re not.”

  “Good point.”

  She avoided the brake and let the truck max out its momentum as she took the exit. The gas station was on the left, across the intersection. She guided the truck in a straight line so it hopped up on a concrete divider, plowed through a stop sign, and rolled into the gas station’s parking lot.

  “They’re coming after us,” Stephen said.

  Rachel glanced in the side mirror. Dozens of Zapheads poured from the woods, staggering like refugees from a war zone. Their clothes hung around them in loose, dirty tatters. Some of them were naked, their skin as pale as grubworms in the morning light.

  Some of the younger ones broke into a jog. One dark-skinned male carried a length of pipe, held aloft like a Persian general leading a charge against the Spartans. Shirtless, his muscles gleamed with sweat as his bare feet slapped the pavement. Others mimicked his enthusiasm and began jogging after the truck, some of them carrying hand weapons or tools.