After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) Page 4

  Then he spotted a line of figures moving along the street to the rear of the stadium. They didn’t walk with the stilted gait of the Zapheads, and one of them was child-sized. They were shaded in the late-afternoon sunlight, so he couldn’t make out any colors or distinguishing details, but he knew they were people.

  Real people, not New People.

  “Where you going?” Danny called after him.

  “To live free or die. Good luck”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The tumbling tower of smoke in the distance served as a beacon for Franklin Wheeler.

  Newton was burning, and if the little town housed nothing but Zapheads, this would be a fine day in paradise. Unfortunately, he suspected some of his missing people were stuck in that particular patch of hell. He sighed, checked the magazine of his AR-15, and headed through the woods toward it.

  Only a few days ago, he was feeling pretty good about things, considering solar flares had wiped away the government, Wall Street, the Federal Reserve and its leeching bunch of bankers, and the assholes in the mainstream media that polluted the brains of all those idiots too dumb to turn off their televisions. Sure, the geomagnetic storms had knocked out the power and most of the world’s electronics, but that wasn’t too surprising. The dumbasses in Congress had sat on a report warning about the dangers of electromagnetic pulses for over a decade, and even though the biggest fear was a warhead detonated in the atmosphere, the sun was a massive ticking time bomb that held ten million nuclear warheads.

  It was never a question of when. It was always if, and Franklin had been prepared.

  His remote compound in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina was fully equipped for this day. A garden, goats, a fresh water supply, solar panels, a storage system of batteries that was shielded against EMP, and a small cabin with a woodstove. He even had a shielded ham radio that was probably one of the only remaining forms of long-distance communication in the world, but the few people he’d made contact with in the early days of After had since gone dark.

  Seems the whole damned world is dark now. Even when the sun’s out.

  Because none of the scientific models had predicted Zapheads.

  In typical wasteful fashion, the government developed scenarios based on an imaginary zombie outbreak. But those responses were built on the expectation that zombies would eat human flesh and that the military would have its complete arsenal on hand. And nobody took them seriously, anyway. That was all comic-book bullshit.

  Besides, zombies were presumed to carry the remnants of humanity inside them. Zapheads were like humans with all the soul and feeling burned out of them, their intelligence jumbled as if all the wiring inside their skulls had melted together into one big mess of madness. They started as violent killers, rampaging through the cities and killing off what few survivors remained, but now they were something even worse—evolving and adapting creatures that applied cold logic to the planet’s hierarchy.

  Solitude had been part of the plan all along, but then Jorge Jiminez and his family wandered up through the woods, and the little compound had gotten crowded. Things took a turn for the worse when they rescued a young mother and then discovered her little baby had turned into one of the Zapheads. Jorge and Franklin had been captured by that wacko fascist Sgt. Shipley, but they had managed to escape. Jorge set off in search of his missing family while Franklin returned to the compound.

  He was prepared to spend the winter alone when, nearly four months after the end of the world, along came his granddaughter Rachel. He’d built the compound with her in mind, and she was one of the only people in the world who knew its location. But he realized something was off when he’d seen that weird glimmer of fire in her eyes. Somehow she’d gone half Zap, and when Shipley’s men attacked the compound, she abandoned Franklin to join the Zapheads. Worse, the little boy Stephen and Rachel’s other companions went missing in the battle, and Franklin was right back where he started.

  Alone.

  And now far from his remote home.

  “Alone isn’t so bad,” he said aloud.

  Even the sound of his own voice made him lonely. The worst part of this whole damned escapade was discovering he wasn’t nearly as tough and self-reliant as he imagined himself to be.

  Newton was still five miles away, but already the houses had grown more numerous. He didn’t think any survivors were holed up in them, given the number of Zapheads in the area. Still, he stuck to the dirt roads instead of the highways because he didn’t trust other survivors any more than he trusted the mutants or the military.

  “No going back,” he said in cadence with his steps, almost as a marching chant.

  He’d let the goats loose to forage in the forest, just as he’d done with the Jiminez horses. The chickens were on their own as well but probably wouldn’t last the week, considering the number of predators in the wild. He could always return for his solar-power supply and radio, but he had a feeling that his years of survivalist planning put him in no better position than the average lawyer, corporate executive, or Hollywood actor.

  “No going back,” he repeated, as if to convince himself.

  Lots of houses available. The real estate market is wide open. People are practically dying to find new owners. Har-dee-fucking-har-har.

  The muffled gunfire dissipated as he descended into the valley. Shipley had likely ordered a probing assault, not a full-on attack of the town. But Franklin couldn’t rule out the possibility of a civilian militia. And Rachel’s buddy Lt. Hilyard was on a mission to gather some of the soldiers who had joined Shipley’s mutiny against him. The officer had brass balls for sure, and probably wrapped them in red, white, and blue.

  “No going back!” he shouted, just to disrupt the oppressive quiet or piss off God or maybe just to remind himself that he existed.

  “No going back where, compadre?”

  Franklin didn’t recognize the voice, but he certainly recognized the metallic click of a round being chambered. He froze, mentally calculating the distance and probable location of the speaker.

  I’m locked and loaded. A quick spin while spraying off a few bursts and I’ve got a chance.

  Not much of one, but a chance.

  “Don’t even think about it, Wheeler.”

  Franklin kept thinking about it. “Let me guess. You’re one of Shipley’s goons.”

  “If I was, you’d be about a hundred-and-sixty pounds of ugly hamburger right about now. So drop it before you do something stupid.”

  Franklin shook his head. “Sorry. I was born stupid and got worse with age.”

  “We’re on the same side here.” This second voice was female, young and nearly pleasant aside from the strain in the words.

  So playing hero and going out in a blaze glory was off the menu. He’d need one-eyed-Jack blind luck to take down one of them, but against two guns, the house held all the aces. And no telling how many jokers up the sleeve.

  He turned his head slightly to the side, his peripheral vision worthless because of the thick forest, suburban jungle, and crumbling homesteads. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  The first man laughed. “From what I hear, you’re the most paranoid man in the world. And that was back when the world had seven billion people.”

  “We don’t want to shoot you.” The woman sounded as weary as Franklin felt.

  Okay. If worse comes to worse, at least I get to rest for a minute.

  He eased his rifle to the road, careful not to scratch the finish. Then he held up his arms in the universal sign of surrender and slowly turned to face his ambushers.

  The man was a couple of inches over six feet, bearded like most male survivors, and his face was creased and darkened by the sun. His eyes were of a piercing black that reminded Franklin of a hawk, and he had the nose to match.

  The woman was petite and thin-faced, dressed in a hooded fleece jacket two sizes too big. They didn’t match, not like a couple that had spent much time together. They’d probably been
thrown into the same spin cycle as everyone else, companions of circumstance figuring out After one minute at a time.

  But they were alike in one respect—both held single-action rifles pointed right at him.

  “You seem to know me, but we haven’t been properly introduced,” Franklin said. “I know it’s a little silly to stand on manners in times like these, but just call me old-fashioned.”

  “I’d call you ‘asshole’ if I want,” the man said.

  “Brock,” the woman scolded.

  Brock. Somebody with a dumbass name like that is bound to turn into a psycho pit bull, because you’re expected to be an alpha male with testosterone choking off the oxygen to your pea-sized brain.

  “So manners are off the table,” Franklin said. “What do you want with me? You could have sat back there in the trees and just watched me walk by without so much as a doo-dah-doo-dah-day.”

  “You’re a legend,” Brock said, barely masking his sneer. “Figured you could help us with a little project we have underway.”

  “Sorry. I got business in Newton, and every second I’m standing here getting insulted, the people I’m responsible for might be getting closer to Zap bait.”

  “Do you think anybody’s alive in there?” the woman asked. Her eyes were big and blue, like a fairy’s out of a Disney film, but with dark, purple wedges under them.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. I suspect somebody else has the same idea. Which explains the shooting we heard.”

  “If any humans were there, they’re probably pot roast by now,” Brock said, nodding toward the horizon. “Look at all that smoke.”

  “We know the Zapheads aren’t eating us. Personally, I’ve faced more danger from shit-heels with guns than I have the Zappers.” Franklin narrowed his eyes so Brock would pick up on the hint. “Thanks for the invitation, but since you’ve heard about me, then you know I’m the stereotypical grizzled loner.”

  “Please,” the waifish woman said, and her eyes seemed to get even bigger and dewier. Her vulnerability suggested she’d be easy prey for a big bad wolf like Brock.

  Not that it was any of Franklin’s business. Let them breed a new generation of alpha-male psychos, for all he cared.

  He glanced at the sun angling toward the mountains in the west. Only a couple of hours before dark.

  Franklin sighed. “So, what’s this project?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rosa almost screamed when the hand clamped her shoulder, but the other hand pressed over her mouth to silence her.

  “Shhh,” Jorge hissed in her ear.

  “Daddy!” Marina said, flashing a dirty-cheeked grin despite the worry in her face.

  “Are you okay, tomatilla?” he asked her, and she nodded. Then he released Rosa and she kissed him.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid you’d call out and give away our location.”

  “I was afraid I’d lost you,” Rosa said.

  Jorge looked down at the infant in her arms. “That’s not your baby.”

  “Bryan was taken,” she answered, wondering if Rachel Wheeler and little Bryan were still alive. “But I have this one now.”

  The baby giggled with mirth, evidently happy in her arms.

  Rosa was part of a group of five that had split off during the stadium attack. With the school building on fire, Rosa and the other survivors headed for the downtown area and away from the shooting. Father Casey guided them down a side street, Rosa worrying all the while about her husband being trapped in the burning school. Jorge caught up to them just as they entered the fenced patio of a sidewalk café.

  “Jorge, you Mexican son of a bitch!” Wanda said in greeting. The plump, gray-haired woman who’d been captured along with him was part of the group, and as boisterous as ever. Unlike the others, whose expressions were grave, she seemed delighted at the chance to stretch her legs and get some relatively fresh air. Rosa didn’t like her arrogant nature.

  “That revolution we spoke of, it happened without us,” Jorge said.

  “Remember the gold-durned Alamo, right?”

  “Mr. Jiminez,” Father Casey said, extending a hand in greeting. Like Rosa, he carried a Zaphead infant wrapped in a blanket to ward off the cold. Cathy was also part of the group, clinging desperately to her son Joey.

  “Which way are you heading?” Jorge asked the priest, who had foregone a collar in these dark times but still wore a silver crucifix around his neck as a symbol of his office. “Do you have a plan?”

  “I don’t like being out in the open, but if we hide in any of these buildings or houses, we risk getting cut off. The fires are spreading, and they’re placed so that Newton might become the front door to hell.”

  “It’s an effective strategy,” Jorge said. “The Army sent an advance patrol to test the enemy’s strength.”

  “They’re not the enemy,” Rosa said. “They’ve treated us well. We wouldn’t be alive if they hadn’t taken us in.”

  “Taken us as slaves,” Jorge said.

  Rosa refused to engage in this argument again. She understood his pride. He was a man, after all. But she was willing to do whatever it took to protect Marina.

  And her baby.

  Father Casey interrupted them, pointing to the far end of the street. “The Zapheads are heading out of town. They must be going after the soldiers.”

  “We’re not Zapheads,” said the baby in Rosa’s arms. “We’re New People.”

  “Some of us are newer than others,” said the baby that Father Casey held.

  “We have to be quiet,” Rosa said to her baby. He was a boy, and she decided to call him Bryan. One Bryan was surely as good as another. “Those soldiers might still be around, and they want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t scare him, Mommy,” Marina said.

  Jorge’s face curdled in disgust. He turned away to study the buildings lining both sides of the street.

  Rosa didn’t understand why these men wanted to leave Newton. In the weeks since she and Marina arrived, they had eaten well, been given clean clothes and blankets, and engaged in good hygiene. Although the mutants didn’t understand the need for heat to withstand the winter chill, the school was insulated well enough that they were in no danger of frostbite. As far as she was concerned, this situation was far superior to fighting for survival in the bleak wilderness.

  Plus they were building something positive here. All of them, learning and growing together.

  And she had a baby.

  Jorge pushed open the café’s door, dislodging a piece of glass that dropped to the patio and shattered. The sudden noise was somehow more disturbing than the gunfire, screams, and distant crackling of flames.

  “Looks safe enough,” Jorge said after taking a peek inside. “We may as well stay warm while we figure out our next move.”

  Rosa and Marina joined him, with the others following. The interior was dark and musty, some of the tables and chairs tipped over. A full-length mirror ran behind a bar, where liquor bottles lined a shelf. The lettering on the mirror bore the establishment’s name of “O’Donnel’s.” Plates of moldering food sat in placements at some of the booths, but no bodies were in sight. The Zapheads had already cleaned out the place and the customers who had died here were now piled up in the stadium, awaiting whatever purpose the Zapheads had in store for them.

  “Maybe we can find some food,” the priest said. “We need to keep up our strength no matter what.”

  “I’ll check the kitchen,” Wanda said. Cathy said, “I’ll help,” and then held out her Zaphead baby to Marina. “Can you hold Joey for me, please?”

  “No,” Jorge said.

  The baby waved his little fingers, reaching for Marina.

  “It’s okay,” Rosa said. “It’s just for a minute. And she’s good with them.”

  Marina took the baby, who giggled and kicked with glee. Jorge walked over to the plate-glass window and studied the street.

  “We can’t stay here all night,” Father Case
y said.

  “Let’s go back to the school,” Rosa said. “Maybe they’ve put out the fire.”

  “I set that fire,” Jorge said. “I hope all of them die.”

  Anger surged through Rosa. “How could you?”

  “One match. That’s how.”

  “What about the babies?” Marina asked, squeezing Joey tightly and kissing him on the forehead, a tender act that touched Rosa’s heart with pride and joy.

  “Most of the babies were outside with us,” Father Casey said. “To welcome that woman who came to town.”

  “Rachel Wheeler,” his baby said. “She was the first of your kind to join us. But she’s not finished yet.”

  “That’s Franklin’s granddaughter,” Jorge said.

  “Yes,” Rosa said. “She’s one of the New People now.”

  “But we’re not joining you,” Jorge said to the baby. “We’d rather die.”

  The baby smiled. “You will die if you don’t join us.”

  “I’m not even sure death will save us,” the priest said to Jorge. “You’ve seen their healing powers. And they’re collecting the dead for a reason. I suspect they’re planning the biggest resurrection event of all time. Lazarus multiplied like loaves and fishes.”

  “Does that disturb you?” his baby asked. “Given your beliefs?”

  “I gave up trying to understand God four months ago. I still believe in Him, I just don’t understand His Ways.”

  The priest held informal masses for the survivors at the high school, but the Catholics among them had to be careful not to draw the attention of the mutants. The general feeling seemed to be that since the Book of Revelation had gotten the apocalypse so wrong that the rest of the Bible was useless, too.

  Rosa wasn’t sure what she believed anymore, but like the priest, she wasn’t entirely ready to throw off her faith. After all, what could she possibly replace it with?

  “We need more time to learn,” Joey said. “Your bodies are complicated organisms. But we aren’t giving up hope.”

  “What do you know of hope, you little monster?” Jorge said.