Radiophobia: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 3) Page 5

  Franklin rolled over and reached for his pistol on the nightstand, and then realized the only weapons in the room were a shotgun and an assault rifle leaning against a dresser. Franklin cursed himself for losing his fool head over a woman.

  But did he feel vulnerable because of mutant threats or because he liked K.C.? He’d lost Stephen, and he had no idea where Rachel and DeVontay were, and he didn’t know what was happening back in the bunker. He should probably go back there and check on Marina, but she was probably safe in the presence of the soldiers who’d taken it over.

  On the other hand, he didn’t trust Kokona. The little Zap infant had caused no trouble, and indeed had been a source of great comfort and joy to Rachel and the others. She was even cute aside from those creepily glowing eyes, but they were similar to Rachel’s, and he’d somehow gotten used to hers. But a Zap was a Zap.

  He started to get up and then decided just to roll back into K.C.’s body. They both had a little extra padding—well, Franklin had more than a little—but they fit together like a married couple. K.C. quit snoring, smiled, and murmured when he kissed her cheek.

  “Just like old times,” she said, her eyes closed as she stretched and preened like a cat.

  “Better,” he said. “And I don’t like the word ‘old.’ I’m living in a state of denial.”

  “What, you’re not man enough to face the apocalypse?”

  “I think you just found out how much of a man I am.”

  She kissed him back. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “I spend the night and the best you can offer me is stale old coffee that probably got shipped from Colombia six years ago. So much for gratitude.”

  K.C. gave him a playful swat on the nose. “You seriously underestimate me, mister. I’ve got the good stuff, freeze dried and vacuum sealed. Cases and cases of it.”

  He grinned. “Sold, then. I need something to drive this hangover away.”

  He embraced her once more, enjoying the warmth, and then slid out of bed. He didn’t feel the least bit self-conscious about his naked body, even though it was far from the firm fighting machine she’d known back in the good old days. He padded to the window and looked out.

  “No monsters in the yard,” he said. Princess, the horse that had carried him down the mountain, grazed peacefully on the lawn. But that strange column of swirling light tainted the horizon and reminded him of how far the world had shifted from those good old days.

  “Nobody penetrates K.C. Carr’s walls,” she said. “Unless I let them.”

  Franklin let that pass without comment. Judging from the sun’s position against the gray rags of clouds, it was probably around noon. The day was half gone.

  So what? It’s not like you have a clock to punch somewhere.

  K.C. rose and he gave her an appreciative ogle and whistle. She did a little dance and actually blushed, drawing a warm chuckle from Franklin. His crotchety-old-recluse act melted away in the face of her vibrancy. She slipped into a robe to go downstairs, and he gave her an affectionate pat on the rear as she passed.

  He used the “bathroom,” even though the plumbing didn’t work. K.C. had crafted a composting toilet, with the waste material collecting in a small shed connected to the house. After the organic matter broke down, she applied it to the vegetable garden in the former pool house. Her shower was a black metal barrel that caught rainwater off the pool house roof, and it had a fire grate beside it in case the weather was cold and she needed to heat the water. Even that water was recycled, routed into the pool that now served as a fish pond.

  Franklin had to admit her situation was a lot more refined than his mountain compound. He even felt a touch of pride, since in the old days she considered him something of a mentor. He frowned. He suspected that aspect of the relationship was what had caused it to fade as he deliberately put distance between them.

  With hindsight, he saw what a mess he’d made. He’d endured three failed marriages, so his track record wasn’t so hot. As he cleaned his hands in the washbowl, he put any thoughts of the future out of his mind.

  We’re all going to die. Go enjoy a cup of coffee with a pretty lady and keep your nihilism to yourself.

  He dressed, gathered his rifle, and went downstairs. A steaming cup stood on the table where they’d eaten dinner, but K.C. was nowhere in sight. He called her name but got no answer. He took two sips of the coffee—it was damned good and the quick rush of caffeine washed away some of the whiskey fog—and went to the door that led to the backyard.

  K.C. was on her knees in the garden, bent over and picking something green—probably lettuce for a healthy brunch, although he would’ve killed for bacon and eggs. He stood watching her a moment, sipping the coffee, and felt an uneasy twinge as a shadow passed over.

  He called to her, and she glanced his way. By the time he was out the door, he saw what was casting the shadow. And the shadow grew larger as it descended.

  Franklin knew all about the metal birds that had slaughtered Capt. Antonelli’s troops at the bunker. But this was something different. It had the markings of a hawk but its neck was long and an ugly crenulated comb topped its head. Its wingspan was at least fifteen feet, and the knobby little head was led by a fierce, hooked beak that was a long as a butcher knife.

  Franklin flung his cup aside, already swinging his rifle into position by the time K.C. saw the predator swooping down as fast as an airplane. She saw that she’d never reach the house in time, so she headed for the brick wall and the trees that grew alongside it, evidently thinking the monstrous bird would veer away if it lacked a full path of descent.

  Franklin fired a long burst at the bird. That thing doesn’t seriously think it can pluck her off the ground and carry her away, does it?

  But the answer was probably “Yes.”

  The bird’s wings folded as it went into a dive, sleek and minimizing wind resistance. It hardly seemed possible, but the bird seemed to gain speed. Franklin wasn’t sure he hit it, but it wobbled slightly in midair.

  It honed in on its prey with unnatural determination, like a kamikaze pilot with no regard for survival. The bird emitted a high-pitched shriek in anticipation of contact. K.C. would never reach cover in time.

  Franklin lined up the rifle’s sights, leading the monstrous creature, but he only managed to squeeze off three more rounds before it reached K.C. She didn’t even dive away, but instead dropped into a crouch and came up suddenly just as the bird reached her.

  Franklin dashed toward her, already feeling the panic and guilt of losing yet another person he was committed to protect. He braced for the explosion of blood, but in the blur of contact, the bird angled to one side and plowed beak-first into the ground, tumbling end over end.

  K.C. was lying on the ground, but she was on her feet before Franklin reached her. She propped herself up holding a hoe. The handle was broken and the metal blade was slick and red. A downy feather drifted around her head and she waved it away.

  The bird’s massive talons flexed and curled in the air, but before Franklin could aim his rifle, K.C. brought the hoe down on the bird’s head again and again, even when it stopped moving, growling her rage with each blow.

  Franklin was taken aback as much by her pent-up fury as the bird’s surprise attack. “K.C.?” he asked, almost afraid to draw her attention lest she take a blind swing at him.

  She delivered two more chops before she tossed the gore-coated tool into her rows of lettuce. She brushed damp hair from her forehead, flicked a piece of gray gristle from her robe, and stared down at the mangled bird, panting through flared nostrils.

  “That was…you crushed it, woman,” Franklin said, still trying to assess what he’d witnessed.

  She spat on the bird and turned to him. “You think that’s the first one of these shitterhawks to drop by?”

  Franklin shook his head in disbelief. “Shitterhawks” was his pet term for birds of prey, and he’d also extended it to include politicians, holy rollers, and that special
brand of patriot whose primary aim was not just survival but the elimination of all those who were different. He was impressed that K.C. not only remembered it but integrated it into her own vocabulary.

  Franklin took a closer look at the ravaged bird and the feathers splayed out around it. “I’ve never seen a bird that big.”

  “My guess is a hawk ate some radioactive steroids and screwed a vulture. At least it’s not made of metal and wires.”

  “Now I understand how you’ve been able to make it on your own all these years.”

  She gave him a look. “I don’t want to make it alone anymore.”

  Franklin pretended to scan the sky for more threats. “Looks like rain clouds blowing in from the northwest.”

  K.C. picked up the woven basket of lettuce that had spilled in the struggle. She kicked the broken fowl. “What do you think of greasy mutant meat for dinner?”

  “Tastes like chicken, only with unknown side effects? Think I’ll pass.”

  It wasn’t until after lunch that Franklin began getting restless again. He enjoyed K.C.’s company more than he could ever imagine—and that was part of the problem. But more than that, he was wracked with responsibility for Rachel.

  For most of her life, ever since she reached young adulthood and had some knowledge of the world, he’d nurtured her with his philosophies of self-reliance and preparation. He’d given her a subtle roadmap to his remote compound in the mountains despite the improbable odds of real disaster. And even though troubled times arrived in a way none of them expected, she’d survived and managed to travel two hundred miles to find him.

  After such tenacity—including her encounter with the Zaps that had afflicted her with some mutant characteristics—he wouldn’t give up on his granddaughter that easily. Until he knew her fate, he couldn’t settle down.

  When K.C. asked him what was wrong, he told her. For some reason, she inspired him to honesty, something that few other women ever did. K.C., who’d recovered her composure remarkably fast considering she’d recently survived a mutant monster attack, coolly drained a glass of eighty-year-old wine, belched, and said, “Well, what are we waiting for? Let me get dressed first.”

  Franklin followed her to the bedroom, figuring an extra hour’s delay probably wouldn’t make much difference.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first wave of the Zap attack hit New Pentagon with little warning.

  High President Abigail Murray was on the ground level of Luray Caverns, in the area of densest population, visiting a family that bore the first-ever child of their post-apocalyptic community. The child’s mother had nearly died after the delivery, with little sanitation and medical expertise available, and Murray suffered deep concerns over whether the child would be “normal.”

  But the mother bounced back, and the child, elegantly and somewhat defiantly named Hope, was now three years old and running around on two pudgy little bowed legs, diaper down around her knees, giggling as if blissfully unaware of the daycares and Disneyworlds and Spongebobs she’d miss. Hope and her mother Takeesha—the father had been lost on a scouting run before their move to the caverns—lived in a series of joined tents along with two other single moms, one of which was sitting in the corner and nursing an infant in the gloom.

  “Hope’s growing up so fast,” Murray said to Takeesha, who was still a little frail due to their compromised diet.

  “She tried to make potty today,” Takeesha said. “I don’t like taking her out, though, ever since…”

  News of the ill-fated raid on Washington, D.C., had spread throughout the caverns, and already rumors had spread of the mysterious power source developed by the Zaps. In one version, the strange colored lights moved around and burned buildings to the ground like a giant Martian heat ray. In another, the Zaps walked through the beams and became bulletproof, as if they transformed into some sort of impervious robots.

  But the rumors were probably not as bad as the truth. While Murray sat here and played patty cake, the Zaps expanded their technology and power and territory. Even though they appeared to be concentrating around their energy sources in cities, the human survivors had no conventional means of thwarting them if they decided to attack. But Murray couldn’t let anyone know that.

  “Our soldiers are strong and well-trained,” Murray replied, keeping her voice light and managing a smile at Hope. “We’re safe here. Besides, she can use the privy off the main tunnel. We could all go every day for the next century and we wouldn’t fill up that hole.”

  Takeesha gave a sad shake of her head, her face shadowed by the red glow of the kerosene lantern. “I know. But I don’t want my baby raised in the dark like some kind of mole critter.”

  Francine, the nursing mother, said, “I want to live in a house. When can we do that?”

  “The caverns are easier to protect,” Murray said. “We have the military base here and all our equipment. We’ve done the best we could under the circumstances. And I’m still proud to be an American.”

  That last bit was almost embarrassing, since the rumor mill had also spread the word about the Earth Zero Initiative. The bottom line was that America didn’t really exist, no matter how many flags they flew and how many times they sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” If the human race was going to survive, it would do so without borders, politics, and racism. Murray didn’t hold out much hope for that prospect, knowing what she did of human nature. But she could fake it for the giggling child that ran toward her shrieking “Murraycan, Murraycan!”

  The child crawled into Murray’s lap, wet diaper and all. Murray had never had children, knowing they would interfere with her career ambitions. She’d never even had a serious boyfriend, although she’d been married her entire life to a man who had ambitions of his own, mostly to remain a closeted gay for as long as possible. The arrangement suited everyone, Murray achieved her ultimate goal—although not in any way she could have imagined in her darkest nightmares—and nobody lived happily ever after.

  “Yes, ‘American,’” Murray patiently repeated to the child.

  “You Murray,” the toddler said. Murray went by her last name among the civilians, feeling it created a casual relationship that minimized perceptions of a hierarchy, and she didn’t care much whether the military commanders called her by her title. But Gen. Alexander insisted on it in official settings, believing formality and respect were critical to maintaining a firm chain of command that would prevent chaos and anarchy.

  She could almost hear his scratchy, deep voice: “You’re High President of New Pentagon, and you have to act like it whether you want to or not. That’s the job.”

  “And I’m an American,” Murray said.

  “Murraycan!” the child said insistently.

  “You’re an American, too.”

  The child’s face clouded and she looked at her mother. “No, me is Hope.”

  “That’s right,” Takeesha said. “You’re the hope of the world.”

  “Hope of the rural!” the child exclaimed, untroubled by her poor enunciation.

  Murray embraced the little girl, fully aware of her responsibilities here. Even with a vast portion of the army on active missions, the community held more than four hundred people. Most lived inside the caverns, but some, like Helen Schlagal, had set up their own dwellings in the forest near the military camp.

  Murray had no illusions of control, but she frowned on the sort of independence that challenged her ability to provide security. That was why Francine would probably never have a house again. But who was Murray to piss on the American dream?

  Murray sat a few minutes longer than she wanted. If she’d been elected president in Before, when people’s biggest gripes were taxes and rising health-care costs, she would’ve rarely interacted with her constituency. She should’ve welcomed this throwback style of tribal leadership, but all her training was in political deal-making and diplomacy, not in serving as counselor and priestess.

  “Better times are ahead,” Murray sai
d, finally rising to excuse herself. “I promise.”

  That’s when the first shot rang out, muffled by the twists and turns of the cavern so that it was almost unidentifiable. But Murray knew instantly what it was, because adrenalin kicked in like a sixth sense for detecting danger.

  She patted Hope on the top of the head, said good-bye, and exited the tent without hurrying. But once she was in the main alley, both sides lined with tents placed in niches and small plateaus at differing elevations, she heard the shouts from beyond the cavern’s mouth.

  Despite the strings of tiny electric lights that ran over the alley, many of the tents glowed with the dim yellow-orange of oil lamps or candles. The occupants hadn’t yet realized the danger they were in, although a few men were already rushing toward the jagged oval that marked the exit to daylight. They were armed, but they moved quietly, as if understanding panic would only put their family, friends, and fellow survivors at even greater risk.

  Please, God, let it be a wild beast. I’ll even take a pack of Cujo coyotes. Just don’t let it be THEM.

  But when a few more shots popped in the distance spaced widely apart, she realized the threat wasn’t confined to a single location. She ran as fast as her tired, old legs would carry her, mind racing with awful possibilities.

  When she reached daylight, she was blinded by the sudden wash of sun. Someone bumped into her and rushed past. Although the fighting wasn’t as heavy as she’d feared, it was widespread, shots echoing from various pockets of the forest and from sentry posts on the hills above.

  As her eyes adjusted, she became aware of the frenetic activity around her. The legless guard at the mouth of the cave shouted to her, and she asked what was happening.

  “Don’t know nothing, Madame President,” he drawled, peering over the wedge of rocks that provide concealment and protection.

  “Don’t let anything past you,” Murray commanded. “Lots of folks inside are counting on you.”