After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) Page 15

  “Take ‘em down,” Riff Raff called. “Use the launcher.”

  Jorge looked up the street in the other direction. The other Zapheads must have detected the commotion—or else received a silent alarm. They came, although not in much of a hurry, just like the mutants following Riff raff.

  As if they’ve baited a trap and have all the time in the world.

  Jorge figured there were fewer in front of them than behind them, so he aimed and fired his rifle. He was pleased to see two of them drop, especially considering the distance. Riff Raff squeezed off a few shots of his own, downing some of his pursuers. But it was clear they would be on him before he could kill them all.

  Jorge hoisted the grenade launcher to his shoulder and aimed to the far left of Riff Raff, erring on the side of caution until he could find his comfort zone with the weapon. He pulled the trigger and was surprised how quiet the pffft of firing was, given Riff Raff’s build-up. Two seconds later, the grenade did it business.

  Although the explosion was muffled, a handful of Zapheads fell as shrapnel whizzed through the air. A puff of smoke expanded and curled away in gray tufts.

  The M-32 packed little kick, although it was heavy—maybe fifteen pounds. It would be a difficult weapon to flee with. But he didn’t want to abandon it. He was already addicted to its power and range.

  “We’re surrounded,” Riff Raff said, stating the obvious. Shipley wasn’t much of a disciplinarian, and although Riff Raff received basic training at some point, his warrior skills had eroded under the mad sergeant’s influence.

  “You know what you do when they’ve circled you?” Jorge said, putting aside the launcher in favor of his rifle.

  “What’s that?” Riff Raff said, popping off a burst from his semi-automatic.

  “You cut a hole in the circle.”

  Jorge fired a shot, worked the lever to pump another cartridge into the chamber of the .30-.30, and fired again. On the Wilcox farm in Tennessee, he would occasionally stumble on a flock of wild turkeys in the woods. Since the birds were flightless, a steady hand and eye would often deliver two or three of the birds, but you couldn’t panic as they scattered.

  With Zapheads, the task was even simpler, because they didn’t respond to the assault aside from heading toward the source of their deaths.

  “Knock ‘em down, Mex Man,” Riff Raff said, firing wildly in the opposite direction and hitting maybe one mutant with every ten shots. Riff Raff was already reloading by the time Jorge cleared the street in front of them.

  “There’s the hole,” Jorge said.

  “That’s the wrong direction, though.”

  “Not if you want to win the war.” Jorge waved at the ammo boxes. “I can’t carry all this by myself.”

  Riff Raff looked at the herd of Zapheads coming at them from the suburbs and cutting him off from the rest of his unit. Then he shouldered his rifle, collected a box in each hand, and said, “Haul ass and don’t spare the gas.”

  They jogged down the street, Jorge swinging his rifle back and forth to scan each intersection and the doors of downtown businesses. Some of the windows veiled shadowy movements, but Jorge didn’t bother wasting shots. They posed no immediate threats, plus he had no way of knowing whether any more survivors still hid in the town.

  Perhaps Danny’s in there right now smoking stale cigarettes and cleaning his baseball bat.

  “Where we going, Mex?” Riff Raff asked, panting from exertion.

  “Hospital. That’s where most of the Zapheads are now.”

  “What are they doing, holding a fucking fashion show in the cancer ward?”

  “Moving up in the world,” Jorge said. “Taking the next step as a race.”

  “So their idea of evolution is to wear stupid clothes and hang out where we used to keep sick people?”

  “It’s also where babies are born. Maybe the mutants are keeping the babies there.”

  “Creepy shit, man.”

  “My wife and daughter are with them,” Jorge said. “That’s even creepier.”

  “If we live through this, remind me never to get married.”

  They covered four blocks, ducking into alleys and storefront alcoves to survey the streets ahead of them. The fires had spared this section of town, although some of the windows were shattered and vehicles sat with their doors open as if someone had plundered them.

  Although they evaded detection, Jorge wondered if returning to town was the right move. He should have let Riff Raff take his chances by returning to his unit rather than joining Jorge for what likely amounted to a suicide mission. But Riff Raff was relieved to have company, and his machismo returned now that they had some serious firepower.

  The hospital was visible in the near distance, along with the swarms of Zapheads busy carrying bodies like ants conveying food crumbs to a nest. They took refuge in a building beside the town’s main square, where a little park featured a statue of a Confederate officer on a horse. The monument held numerous brass plaques listing the local residents who had died in past wars.

  “Americans certainly celebrate their warriors,” Jorge noted.

  “We keep America free,” Riff Raff said. “We should be remembered.”

  “Some day they might list the names of survivors who fought and died here,” Jorge noted.

  “That all depends on who writes the history, doesn’t it, Mex? So, what now?”

  “What did you say was the range of this grenade launcher?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Stephen shouldn’t have stopped for Dr. Pepper.

  But his backpack was in the pet store with a freaky mutant python, and he had no intention of retrieving it. So he’d said so long to the high-grade copy of Amazing Fantasy #15, which featured Spiderman’s first appearance, as well as a tattered but rare copy of X-Men #1, a nice run of early Detective Comics, and some baseball cards of Ted Williams, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, and Sandy Koufax. And so much for the vintage Kenner figurines from the original Star Wars. All the time in the world to build a nice geek collection, and money was no object, but what had happened?

  Science fiction happened, that’s what.

  On a practical level, losing the goodies was no problem, but he’d also lost his food supply. And Franklin’s paperback copy of Animal Farm that Stephen had promised to return.

  I’ll have an animal story for him. Two legs bad, four legs good, but NO legs worst of all.

  But here he was breaking into a vending machine because he was thirsty and it seemed like an easier job than breaking into this gas station, whose idiot owner had taken the time to lock the door as if doomsday was a time to worry about shoplifters.

  Stephen looked around the side of the station, which had a garage bay on one end. Several junk cars rusted in heaps there in the weeds, with parts scattered everywhere like the red bones of long-dead beasts. He found a hefty one which he guessed was some sort of axle, and although the weight threw him off balance, he drove the fat end of it into the thick glass that separated him from refreshing carbonated corn syrup.

  The shatter was shockingly loud in the quiet neighborhood, and Stephen figured it was best not to stick around. He plucked out a Dr. Pepper and decided to try a Mountain Dew as well. The stores were more frequent now, so he probably would find a roadside restaurant before long, or he could even take the time to prowl the houses. But now that Newton was close—local businesses were already claiming the name even though he had yet to reach the town limits—he was eager to see what was going on.

  The sugar and caffeine jacked him up, so he skipped along the center of the highway. In his head, he maintained a rhythm by repeating Two legs bad, four legs better, no legs worser; two legs bad, four legs better, no legs worser.

  But he’d hardly gone a hundred feet when two men in military camouflage stepped out from behind a tractor-trailer rig. The camouflage didn’t do much to disguise the soldiers, since the tan-and-brown splotches looked like they were designed for desert terrain. But their big black
assault rifles would have stood out anywhere except a robot shop or the deep belly of a cave.

  “Was that you making all that racket, boy?” said the one who looked the meanest.

  Stephen remembered the strategy he’d planned for just such an encounter. Be wary but polite, all the while planning to run like heck if things got weird. What would they do, shoot him?

  Stephen held up his soda. “I’m a Pepper, you’re a Pepper,” he said, not sure if that was the right jingle. When the pop-culture noise stopped, the constant barrage of messages faded away as if they’d never held any meaning at all in a universe so vast and deep that even the Silver Surfer couldn’t cross it.

  “Don’t you know Zapheads can hear stuff like that from a mile away?” the mean soldier said.

  “Sorry. I was thirsty.” He held up the unopened can of Mountain Dew as a peace offering. “Want one?”

  Dang. Why couldn’t I have said “I’m a prepper, you’re a prepper”? How come the good zingers only come when it’s too late?

  The other soldier, who wore a leather skull cap instead of a helmet, said, “Anybody with you?”

  “No, sir. My mom’s dead and I got lost, but now I’m heading for Newton and—”

  The soldier waved Stephen into silence and walked to the middle of the road as if not believing him. “What do you want to go to Newton for?”

  The Dr. Pepper made his belly ache, or maybe it was his nerves. “I thought there might be people there.”

  “No way you’ve been on your own for nearly five months,” the first soldier said. “You look too healthy.”

  “I’ve been hiding in the houses.” Stephen wondered if maybe he should just shut up and act like a dumb kid. The soldiers would soon get bored if he had nothing to offer besides a can of soda. Besides, there was a full drink machine a short walk up the road, and with several brands for them to choose from.

  “Seen any Zappers?”

  Stephen nearly told them about the python. But they’d either think he was making it up or maybe he was worth keeping around. He’d better look as much like a geeky nerd loser brat as possible. “Not lately. I just hide and stuff.”

  “You heard that shooting this morning?”

  “I heard some, and those explosions yesterday.” He figured flattery might win him some points. “I figured it was the army kicking some Zaphead butt.”

  The soldiers looked at one another. Then the one in the skull cap waved him over. “Come on.”

  The soda gurgled in Stephen’s stomach and he fought to keep it down. “But…but, sir…I’m going to Newton.”

  “You go where we tell you. And right now, we’re telling you this way.”

  This wasn’t playing out the way he’d imagined. Not that anything played by the rules anymore. Rachel had wandered off, DeVontay was lost, and these might be the very same soldiers that were trying to kill them all up at Franklin’s compound before the Zapheads showed up and changed the battle.

  And every delay meant he was that much farther from Rachel, who probably needed him. As many times as she’d saved his life—and most importantly, kept on loving him when he was nothing but deadweight slowing her down—he owed her big time.

  Who cared if she was half mutant? She was still more human than anyone he’d ever met, except maybe DeVontay.

  “What are you waiting for, kid?” the soldier bellowed. “I said this way.”

  If he made a run for it, he was almost sure they’d shoot him in the back. Just for fun.

  He tossed both cans aside and joined them, following the one in the skull cap while the mean one brought up the rear. Two legs bad.

  They walked a few hundred feet up a dirt road, and then veered onto a wide trail that ran between two houses. The terrain grew steeper and more forested, although with the winter trees bare he could still see the smoke rising from Newton. Aside from the soldiers grunting short instructions to one another, nobody spoke.

  Stephen considered bolting a couple of times, figuring the trees would offer some protection if they tried to shoot him. But in the end he was just too chicken. Not just of dying—what if there were mutant wild animals out in the woods?

  “What you got there?” said a voice from the forest, and Stephen realized he’d walked right past a soldier in a foxhole. Maybe their camouflage was more effective here than on the highway.

  “Fresh meat,” the man in the skull cap said, and the other soldier laughed.

  Jeez, they’re not eating PEOPLE, are they? There’s still plenty of food laying around. Cannibalism is like end-stage doomsday stuff.

  Besides, wouldn’t they eat the enemy first?

  Then he saw other soldiers and realized they’d reached a camp of some kind. The terrain was rocky but had leveled out, offering a good view of Newton and the valley below. A hunk of charred meat dangled from a pole over a campfire, and it didn’t look much like human flesh to Stephen. Not that he’d recognize it if he saw it.

  One soldier peered at the town through binoculars, and several others warmed themselves by the fire. Three of them were not in uniform and held no visible weapons, and Stephen figured they were survivors. They were dirty-faced and hollow-eyed, though, which didn’t give Stephen much comfort.

  The soldier with the skull cap nudged Stephen toward a gray canvas tent on the edge of the clearing. Several bloody rags hung from a rope stretched between two trees, and a little American flag was jammed into the tent where the support poles intersected.

  “Brought you a present, Sarge,” the mean soldier said.

  The tent shook and the front flap opened. A man with a crewcut that was shorter than his bristle of beard pushed his way out. His face was like a beat-up block of wood and his eyes jittered, glancing at Stephen, then each soldier, then the town below, then back to Stephen.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” the man said. He wore a frayed dress tunic with a number of insignias and medals attached to the chest. The name “Shipley” was positioned over his right pocket, and his maroon-colored beret featured three stripes.

  It’s him. The one Franklin and Lt. Hilyard talked about.

  Shipley must have noticed the change in Stephen’s face—revulsion or fright—because he grinned, and his teeth were like a wolf’s, yellow and gleaming with long, pointed canines. Stephen hoped this guy never turned Zaphead, or he’d pretty much become a full-blooded werewolf.

  “What’s your name?” Shipley asked.

  Stephen thought about lying, but what did it matter? None of these people knew who he was. At least, he hoped.

  “Hey, isn’t that the kid that was with Hilyard’s bunch up on the mountain?” one of the soldiers at the campfire said. “I know they had some little shitter with them.”

  Shipley studied Stephen’s face, and those intense eyes seemed to burn right through his skull. He’ll be able to tell if I’m lying.

  But he lied anyway. “Who’s Hilyard?”

  “What about Franklin Wheeler? You ever heard of him?”

  Stephen figured half a lie might be better now. “I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know who he is. Some survivors I met on the road mentioned his name.”

  Shipley stuck his hands in Stephen’s jacket pockets but came away with nothing but a few Slim Jim wrappers and a pack of matches. “And just which way were these survivors heading?”

  “East. Talked about heading for the coast and looking for an island.”

  Shipley chuckled. “There’s an original idea. Maybe they make it to the Outer Banks, but what are they going to eat? Fish and seaweed?”

  The man in the skull cap said, “Gutless cowards. It’s time to fight, not run away.”

  “I think it’s him,” said the soldier at the campfire, now coming over for a closer look. “Could’ve sworn I had him in my sights. He was wearing a baseball cap just like this one.”

  “Why are you bragging about what an awful shot you are, Broyhill?” Shipley said. “If you guys had taken care of business, the bunker would be safe. Now
we have to worry about Hilyard and the Zaps.”

  “Don’t blame me because half the unit cut out,” Broyhill said. “Guess maybe they had a craving for fish, too.”

  Shipley moved with a swiftness that shocked Stephen, his eyes flashing madness as he punched the soldier in the jaw. Broyhill dropped to his knees, cussing and blubbering as Shipley shook the pain out of his fingers. As disturbing as the violence was, Stephen was glad the attention had shifted off of him.

  Shipley pointed a finger down at Broyhill’s red and rapidly swelling face. “Keep your shit in line, soldier.”

  Broyhill’s eyes flared with resentment but he held his tongue as he returned to the campfire. The man in the skull cap remained expressionless, either because he was used to such outbursts or he didn’t want to be next.

  “Now, where we were?” Shipley said to Stephen. He cupped the boy’s chin. “You’re cute as a girl. I haven’t had any girls in a while.”

  What’s this psycho talking about?

  Shipley leaned close, his breath like rotten roadkill. “You never told me your name, but I think I’ll call you ‘Cindy Lou Who.’”

  A few distant pops echoed up from the valley that Stephen recognized as gunfire. The soldier with the binoculars said, “Sir, we’ve got enemy on the move.”

  Then came a soft, muffled explosion.

  “That’s a grenade,” the man in the skull cap said. “One of our boys must still be down there.”

  “I thought you said the squad was wiped out,” Shipley said, his icy calm somehow more unnerving than his previous rage.

  “We didn’t recover any bodies, sir,” said the mean soldier, who didn’t look so mean at the moment. “We figured the Zaps carried them off.”

  Shipley shoved Stephen aside as if he’d forgotten all about him. “Well, gentlemen, go get them.”

  To the rest of the camp, he called, “Saddle up, boys, we’re going in!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “That was military grade,” Hilyard said after the explosion boomed half a mile away.