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

  “That’s her,” Riff Raff said. “The woman from the football stadium.”

  She was far enough away that Jorge couldn’t compare her features to that of Franklin’s, but already he could see that her eyes held the strange sparking of a mutant’s. Beside her walked a muscular black man, and although one of his eyes looked odd, there was nothing to mark him as a Zaphead. Neither of them was armed.

  “The Zaps are just letting them walk right up the street like it’s a fucking parade,” Riff Raff whispered, ducking lower and shrinking back into the shadows, cradling his rifle like a talisman that would ward off they nightmare they were in. “The last parade on Earth.”

  Jorge ducked, too, but he kept his head raised enough to watch them walk past. Rachel’s expression was inscrutable, but her companion tried hard to hide his fear, sweating despite the cold air that showed their billowing breaths. They held hands, keeping a steady pace even though the group behind them grew louder and pressed closer.

  Marina scrabbled forward another few feet, climbing down the concrete stairs at the jail’s entrance. The Zapheads either didn’t notice her or didn’t care about her. They were intent on their chants of “Whee-LER, Whee-LER.”

  “If Sarge is going to raise hell, this is the time for it,” Riff Raff whispered. “Got a bunch of them in one place.”

  “Not while Marina’s out there.”

  “Hate to tell you this, but Shipley doesn’t give a shit about collateral damage.”

  “I know. I was there yesterday and saw the bodies.”

  Jorge squeezed the stock of his hunting rifle, wondering how he could bridge the eighty yards between him and his daughter, with dozens of mutants in the way. He was so focused on Marina, silently commanding her to keep crawling forward and out of harm’s way, that he didn’t notice when the group of Zapheads stopped following Rachel and the black man.

  And turned toward the barricade where Jorge and Riff Raff were hiding.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “You sure you want to do this?” DeVontay asked.

  It was a stupid question. They were almost to the babies, he knew—she’d told him exactly where they were, and the closer they got, the more accurately she could describe their surroundings. He’d freaked out when the Zapheads came out from the houses and buildings and gathered behind them, especially because most of them had changed clothes and no longer carried that shabby, chaotic look.

  They walked like they were still learning how to use their bodies, but their movements were more fluid than before. Aside from their weird eyes and unkempt hair, they could have passed for regular human beings in need of a shower. Although most were barefoot, some had donned shoes, though few of them wore a matching pair. As with everything the Zapheads did except kill, their dress was a screwed-up imitation of what they’d seen humans do.

  “I think it’s too late to turn back even if we wanted,” Rachel said. “It’s not much farther.”

  “How does it feel to have them chanting your name like that? You’re like the first Zaphead rock star.”

  “They don’t even really know why they’re doing it. All of it is coming from the babies.”

  DeVontay shook his head. “Let’s just hope these babies don’t pitch a tantrum.”

  The streets were abandoned ahead of them aside from the usual cars and trucks, and DeVontay figured all the Zaps were either in the chanting crowd a couple of blocks away or were waiting for Rachel to pass before joining those who followed her. Whatever the reason, Rachel and DeVontay were effectively cut off from escape.

  No way to go but forward.

  DeVontay scanned the surrounding buildings, wondering how many Zapheads hid behind doors and windows and would come pouring out into the streets. Rachel estimated the town held nearly two thousand mutants, and if so, hundreds more were out of sight.

  They passed a little park that featured a statue of a cavalry soldier on a horse, trash blowing about the weed-choked concrete walk. The smoke in the air had diminished but was still detectable. The sun was sinking, leaving maybe an hour before it touched the horizon, and DeVontay hoped they were done with this mission before dark.

  Whatever our mission is.

  The Zapheads behind them stopped, and DeVontay wondered if he and Rachel should stop, too. But Rachel squeezed his hand and kept walking.

  “Rachel Wheeler,” a voice called to their left.

  That was no chant.

  The Zapheads behind them swarmed in the direction of the voice, and a single shot rang out.

  “No!” Rachel cried, and at first, DeVontay thought she’d been shot.

  Instead, a thin old male Zaphead collapsed in the street.

  The shot had originated from the alcove of a pharmacy, where two men were barricaded behind a makeshift barricade made of trash cans and a bike rack. One was dressed in military camouflage, and the other wore a bloody cloth bandage on one side of his head. Both held rifles leveled at the approaching Zapheads.

  “No more shooting,” Rachel yelled.

  The chants had died away in the wake of the gunshot, and DeVontay didn’t like the eerie silence that replaced them. The air was almost electric with tension, as if a storm were rolling in despite the clear sky. The Zapheads waited, frozen in place, although their bodies swayed back and forth with pent-up energy.

  Rachel walked over to the dead man and knelt beside him. DeVontay didn’t know what to do, so he jammed his hands in his pockets and tried to whistle. His throat was too dry.

  Rachel placed her hand on the man’s chest and moved her lips as if whispering something. She moved her hand over the wound several times, waving back and forth as if drawing steam out of a kettle.

  Several of the nearest Zapheads knelt and joined her in the bizarre ritual. The other Zapheads waited where they were, the only movement a little girl in a green jacket who appeared to have an injured leg.

  After a moment, Rachel stood, and then the fallen man stirred his arms and legs. He sat up awkwardly, and the bloody splotch on the back of his shirt showed where the round had chewed through his back. But aside from the torn fabric, there was no exit wound.

  The man rolled to his feet, helped by a Zaphead on either side. The two armed men didn’t lower their weapons, and DeVontay wondered which of them had called Rachel’s name. When Rachel rejoined him, DeVontay asked, “Did you just do what I think you did?”

  “Don’t give me any credit. I was just a conduit. The energy came from elsewhere.”

  Oh, hell. Why did I have to fall for a mutant messiah?

  She tilted her head and gazed back into his good eye. “What?”

  “If you can bring the dead back to life…”

  “It’s only because the babies are near, although I can’t hear them like I could before. Like I told you, it’s not my power. It’s a gift for all.”

  DeVontay wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he pointed to the girl in the green jacket. “That little girl looks like she’s hurt. Maybe you can make it all better?”

  “She’s not a mutant.”

  “Don’t you dare touch her,” said the Hispanic man who’d shot the Zaphead. His rifle was now aimed at Rachel. “I’ll kill you both before I let you turn her into a Zaphead.”

  “Take her down, Mex,” Riff Raff said. “She’s one of them.”

  Rachel lifted her head as if sniffing the air for danger.

  Or listening.

  DeVontay didn’t like this. The soldier was twitchy, confused, and scared. Not a good combination for a man with a semiautomatic weapon.

  But the Hispanic man was the more immediate threat. Even though the Zapheads stood their ground, as if awaiting Rachel’s instructions, the man had to know he was cut off and vastly outnumbered. But he bore the cold, angry look of a man with nothing to lose.

  “You called my name,” Rachel said to him.

  “You’re Rachel Wheeler,” the man said, not lowering his rifle.

  “Yes. Do you know Franklin?”

  �
��What is this shit?” Riff Raff said. “A class reunion? Blow her away and let’s get out of here.”

  “Franklin is my friend,” Jorge said. “He’s looking for you.”

  “He found me, but things have changed,” Rachel said.

  “No shit,” Riff Raff said, his hands visibly shaking as he clutched his rifle to his chest.

  “Are you Jorge?” DeVontay asked, recalling the name Franklin had given while telling the story of their escape from Shipley’s bunker.

  Jorge nodded but his muscles were as taut as a coiled cat’s.

  “Listen, Jorge,” Rachel said in the soothing voice that DeVontay was sure she’d refined as a school counselor. “It’s going to be okay. But not if violence erupts here.”

  Whispers of “Kill her” arose among the Zapheads, which DeVontay took as a bad sign. Here was the woman he loved, caught both literally and figuratively between the humans and the mutants.

  And both sides looked to be in a murderous mood.

  “I’m going to meet with the Central Committee—the babies,” Rachel continued. “We can resolve this without bloodshed.”

  “Daddy!” Marina called from the jailhouse steps, rolling into a sitting position. “Help me.”

  Jorge leaped over the barricade and ran toward her, and the Zapheads stirred uneasily. Both Riff Raff and Rachel called after him to stop, but DeVontay understood the man’s actions. He’d done the same thing for Stephen, and here he was doing it for Rachel: risking his neck to protect the people he cared about.

  Zapheads surrounded the girl, evidently upset by her cries. The whispers of “Kill her” rose again into a chant, and now was taken up by the Zapheads behind Rachel and DeVontay, who closed in, eyes flaming with some unfathomable emotion.

  DeVontay grabbed Rachel’s hand and tugged her toward the area where the crowd was sparsest, a narrow window between the inhuman walls of the threatening crowd.

  That’s when hell broke loose in the form of automatic weapons.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Which way?” Broyhill asked.

  “Fewer to the rear.” Sgt. Shipley stepped over Stephen as if he’d forgotten all about him. And apparently the baby as well. The boy looked at Kokona, who was on her side facing him, one plump arm wriggling free of her swaddling.

  Her tiny lips moved, and he could have sworn they were forming words.

  In the same rhythm as the Zaphead chants.

  Come here come now.

  Broyhill jogged after Shipley, and he was the first to open fire. The burst echoed against the brick walls and fire escapes and Dumpsters, deafeningly loud, and Shipley joined in with a few bursts.

  Zapheads from the far end of the alley swarmed in, all sizes and shapes and colors, some younger than Stephen. He’d never been this close to so many at once.

  Still aching, wondering if Shipley’s kick had broken something inside him, he crawled toward Kokona.

  Shipley and Broyhill shouted curses as they blasted their way back to the street, and distant gunfire erupted as if their actions had started a war.

  The swarm of Zapheads was still twenty feet away when Stephen reached Kokona. He expected at any moment the two soldiers would turn and deliver some fire to cover their retreat, and they could care less whether Stephen took a bullet or not.

  He scooped up the baby, ribs throbbing with agony, and pulled her into his chest, then launched himself from his knees into the doorway.

  He landed on the dead woman, cushioning the impact, and he wriggled deeper into the entryway as if she could shield him.

  Stephen hugged the baby under his chin, closing his eyes and whispering “Shh shh shh” over and over, foolish but it was something to do, a place to focus rather than dreading the certain death at the hand of provoked Zapheads.

  But the horde pushed right past them, pursuing the receding gunfire.

  And their chant grew muddy, sounds overlapping in a cacophonic wash of sound.

  He thought he heard a variety of syllables, words, and phrases rising form their throats, in multiple languages, none of them making much sense.

  In addition to the ever-popular “Come here come now,” there was “cure her,” “bambino,” and “won’t be dead for long.” As well as some names: “Amelia,” “Bryan,” and—

  Wheeler?

  It was like listening to a hundred conversations at a party where the music was too loud, but by the time the crowd exited the other end of the alley and continued their pursuit around the block, the chant had again unified into one overriding monotonal phrase: “Kill her kill her kill her.”

  “Kill her?” Stephen whispered.

  He hoped they didn’t mean Rachel.

  But she was here in Newton. They wouldn’t say her name if they hadn’t heard it somewhere.

  “Kill her,” Kokona said.

  Stephen pushed aside the dirty blanket wrapped around the child and looked into her face with disbelief.

  She gave him a gummy grin of sheer delight. Then, very distinctly, although her voice was slightly accented and thin, said, “Kill her.”

  Although astounded that she could talk, he assumed she was just mimicking the rest of her tribe. Just like a parrot.

  Without thinking, he said, “Kill who?”

  “Amelia.”

  “Who is Amelia?”

  And it wasn’t until he bent closer to hear and Kokona answered that he realized she was actually talking: “One of us. One of the babies.”

  He almost dropped her, but his muscles were too tense from terror to make the motion.

  “I thought you knew,” she said. “You’re not as dumb as those others.”

  He shook his head. “I…I’m not sure I know anything.”

  “You kept me from dying.”

  “Because you’re a baby.”

  “But I’m a New Person. All humans hate us.”

  The gunfire rattling throughout the town delivered a different message, but Stephen said, “We don’t hate you. We’re just scared.”

  The baby’s eyes flitted to the left to peer at the old woman. “She’s dead, but she won’t be dead for long.”

  “She cared for you and tried to save you, too. Not all humans want to kill you.”

  “She didn’t have a choice,” Kokona said. “She was my carrier.”

  “Where was she carrying you to?”

  “The others.”

  “Which others?”

  “The other babies.”

  “Where are they now?” Stephen asked.

  “I don’t know. I could hear them before, but now all I hear is ‘Kill her kill her kill her.’”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  They were silent for a moment in the abandoned alley, as explosions and bullets and the occasional scream thundered above the concrete canyons of Newton. Stephen could only image the battle taking place—like something out of a comic book when the bad guys from another dimension brought an army of alien beasts to fight the team of superheroes.

  Not that the superheroes were the good guys anymore, even in make-believe.

  These days, everybody was bad.

  Except DeVontay and Rachel.

  “Wheeler,” Stephen said.

  “Whee-LER!” the baby squeaked, with a cute little wave of the arm.

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “She’s the teacher. Rachel Wheeler.”

  “Where is she?” Stephen asked.

  “I can’t hear anymore. It’s all noise.”

  Stephen reached behind him and tried the handle of the fireproof steel door that was likely the rear entrance of a store. It was locked.

  “We better find a good hiding place,” Stephen said. “It’s not safe in the open.”

  He didn’t mention that the Zapheads might be as much of a danger as the soldiers. Maybe the other babies would be able to “hear” Kokona and eventually send Zapheads to take her away,

  No. They let this poor old woman carry her. It looks like she tried to carry Kokona even
on a shattered ankle. The pain must have been unbearable, yet she kept on as long as she could.

  Stephen wondered if Kokona understood the woman’s sacrifice, or whether the humans that supposedly hated all Zapheads were even worthy of sentiment.

  As Stephen struggled to his feet, his insides still aching, he balanced Kokona against one hip as he pulled the bloody shawl over the old woman’s face.

  Kokona watched him without comment or emotion, her eyes brilliant in the darkened alley. Then she smiled up at him.

  And all he could see was the universe in each of her eyes, swirling ancient clouds of hot gases and dust that ran so deep he couldn’t see the bottom.

  “Will you be my carrier?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  As he limped down the alley and away from the loudest of the chaos and carnage, Kokona mumbled something over and over. He could barely hear, or even think, but it sounded like “Kill her kill her kill her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Damn,” Lt. Hilyard said, scanning the town with his binoculars. “Who’s that shooting? I told everybody to hold their fire until I gave the order.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Brock said. “I’m just standing here. Probably Sierra. She gets a wild hair, there’s no reasoning with her. Chicks, know what I mean?”

  “Fucking amateurs,” Franklin said, wishing his eyes weren’t as old as the rest of him, because he couldn’t tell what was going on down below. “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Looks like they’re heading for the jail. Can’t see her for all the Zaps.”

  The volley of semiautomatic bursts was followed by several muffled explosions. “Must be Shipley,” Franklin said. “That’s military.”

  “And we don’t have any grenades or rockets,” Hilyard said. “He must be going balls to the wall.”

  They’d taken up a position in the courthouse ruins as a command post, with Hilyard’s soldiers leading various small groups of Brock’s militia to surround the town on three sides. Hilyard’s strategy was to push the enemy back toward the river if trapping them in town failed. Only three bridges offered easy escape via the south, and two of those were almost completely gridlocked with vehicles. Hilyard’s orders were to hold fire until Rachel had met with the Central Committee and then spring an ambush while the Zapheads were assembled in the center of Newton.