After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) Page 7

  And these new people—Zapheads—came for her.

  And here she was.

  Why am I here?

  As if picking up on her unease, or maybe just feeling the signal fade to static, the mutant baby said, “Rachel Wheeler, you don’t belong to them.”

  “But it’s DeVontay,” she said. “The man I—”

  Love?

  What does that even mean?

  What did anything mean?

  DeVontay took one more step into the cramped space, where wires and cables hung from the wall on steel pegs and wooden benches were piled with gutted televisions, radios, and musical gear like some kind of robot graveyard. Boxes of videocassettes lined one wall, and a widescreen television with a shattered screen reflected the glittering eyes in the room like so many stars off the surface of a turbulent dark pond.

  “We need you,” Bryan pleaded, tugging Rachel’s tattered shirt with his plump little fingers.

  “I need you more,” DeVontay said. He was now only ten feet away, and the Zapheads moved behind him, cutting him off from the stairs.

  “You live in two worlds, Rachel Wheeler,” Bryan continued, talking fast in his high-pitched, squeaky voice. “But we can become one. You can help us bridge the New People and the Old People.”

  Rachel looked at the baby, wondering how it could speak. Then she saw her reflection in the big television. And her eyes.

  What happened to me?

  DeVontay must have seen the recognition on her face. Ignoring the surrounding Zapheads—two of whom were larger than him—he came to her and knelt at her side.

  The baby in her arms kicked and squealed. “He’s one of them. Make him go away. They’re killing us.”

  “He’s not killing you,” Rachel said.

  “Why do you think we’re hiding?” Bryan wailed. “They’re shooting and exploding and burning and destroying. We can’t turn them into New People if they’re bloody.”

  His cries agitated the other mutants, who closed in around them. Their faces were expressionless, but the brightness of their eyes increased in intensity. For the first time since arriving in Newton, Rachel feared them.

  She rested Bryan on her shoulder and dug her free hand in her pocket. She brought out the round object and held it up to study it.

  “My glass eye,” DeVontay said. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the woods,” she said. “I didn’t even know what it was, but I kept it.”

  “Remember when I took it out to amuse Stephen?”

  She smiled. “That was gross, but cute.”

  “Am I still gross?”

  “Why is blood all over your shirt?”

  “He killed one of us,” Bryan said. “Willow.”

  “No,” DeVontay said. “I was trying to protect her. Somebody else shot her.”

  “Baby killer!” Bryan shrieked, and the other Zapheads mimicked him, their shrill cries rattling off the concrete walls and shaking sheet metal and glass.

  One of the Zapheads bumped into DeVontay and DeVontay shoved back. The Zaphead, a teenager with a swarthy complexion and curly hair, tumbled into the videocassettes, knocking a tower of them to the floor. The sudden motion aroused the other mutants into attack.

  “No!” Rachel called, but it was too late. Whatever connection she’d had with the mutants was now lost in the white noise of rage.

  “Baby killer!” Bryan screamed in her ear, and she laid the infant on a workbench among coils of wire and tools.

  The Zapheads grabbed at DeVontay, who swung the rifle and knocked away their clutching hands. “Killer,” one said.

  DeVontay stepped back and lifted the rifle. “Only when I have to be.”

  The burst of shots was like thunder in the small basement. Two of the Zapheads collapsed at once, and the third fingered a gap in her sternum where a bullet had pierced her flesh. The thick cordite caused Rachel to cough and her ears rang with the percussion. Bryan squealed all the more frantically.

  The Zaphead DeVontay had knocked to the floor rose and lunged at him, but he swung the rifle butt into the teen’s face. The crack of bone made Rachel shudder.

  But the teen didn’t drop. Instead, he grabbed at the rifle with both hands, peeling it away from DeVontay with a surge of inhuman strength.

  Rachel didn’t even think. She swept a hand onto the work bench, came away with a screwdriver, and plunged the tip deep into the teen’s neck.

  The teen took two steps, the lights in his eyes dulling as he gripped the tool’s handle. Rachel thought he was going to pluck it out and use it as a weapon himself, but he staggered forward and fell onto the bench beside Bryan. He hung there for a moment, scattering a pile of vacuum tubes before sliding to the concrete floor.

  The last remaining Zaphead pulled her hand from her wound and studied the slick substance on her fingers. The light in the room had diminished considerably.

  Too many eyes are closed forever.

  A glance at her reflection showed her own glimmering had faded as well, although still present. I’m one of them.

  “Let’s go,” DeVontay yelled, holding out his hand.

  She took it. The familiar shape and warmth was comforting.

  As they navigated the dim stairway, Bryan called after them. “Don’t leave me! WHEE-ler! WHEE-ler!”

  As they reached street level in the back of the repair shop, DeVontay forced open the door that led to a dark alley. The distant fires cast undulating waves of deep red and yellow against the belly of the clouds. Aside from the wind and the brittle collapsing of a distant building, Newton was quiet.

  The war’s not over, but it sounds like a cease fire.

  She still didn’t know which side she was on. All she knew was that she was with DeVontay, and that felt right.

  She gave him his glass eye. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Willow guided me to you.”

  “But she’s dead.”

  “Like that makes much of a difference anymore? Let’s get out of here, find a safe place for the night, and figure out what the hell’s going on.”

  As they headed away from town, Bryan’s little lungs blared a final blast of rage. “Baby killer!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I don’t like to pry in personal business,” Wanda said, “but if you ask me, your wife’s a little touched in the head.”

  Jorge looked over the town from the third-floor fire escape. “She’s not psychotic. She’s a mother by nature. She wants to be helpful.”

  From up here, the town looked much smaller than it did from the mountains. The wall of flames along the outskirts of town now licked at the surrounding forest. The skeletal outlines of houses stood in silhouette, and an advertising sign along the main thoroughfare heading south was bright as a torch. The school building and courthouse were little more than smoldering piles of rubble, and several downtown blocks consisted of nothing but blackened stacks of brick.

  The Zapheads still wandered the streets, but they seemed to have more purpose now. When one met another, each of them stood silently for a moment, as if communicating. But the only sound was the crumbling of scorched masonry and weakened steel, the crash of broken glass, and the hissing spit of flames.

  “Funny, only a few months ago, this would be a mess of flashing red lights and sirens, with news helicopters flying around and everybody wondering if the terrorists had hit us,” Wanda said. Although still a little drunk, the air had cleared her head enough that Jorge could make out her words despite the slurring.

  “We’re all terrorists now,” he said.

  “The cavalry sure didn’t stick around long, did it? I haven’t heard any shots in at least an hour. Must’ve turned tail and headed for the high country.”

  “That was a feint. Knowing Sgt. Shipley, he’d have no problem sacrificing a few men in order to test the enemy’s strength. If the fires caught and burned down the whole town, he’d take the victory, but I suspect this was the first blow in a larger plan.”

  W
anda leaned over the railing and straightened one arm, eyeing down her upraised thumb towards a dazed mutant. “If I only had my shotgun.”

  “Perhaps we should search these apartments. Maybe we can find something.”

  “Or the streets. Fallen heroes don’t need their rifles anymore, do they?”

  “I’m not so sure they’re heroes,” Jorge said.

  Wanda turned to him, her breath sweet and strong from the liquor. “Don’t you be talking like that. I thought you said you were an American.”

  “There isn’t an America anymore.”

  She chuffed. “Guess you don’t have to worry about your green card, huh?”

  “If we manage to survive, we’ll build our own government. I doubt it will be as good as your country’s was, but we’ll have to make it work in the world that is, not the world we wish it could be.”

  “So far it looks like every man and woman for themselves. I’m fine with that, as long as they live and let live. The trouble is, like these Zaps here have shown, the minute you think you rule the world, you start making up rules for everybody else.”

  The dim glow emanating from the café window was visible halfway up the block. Jorge didn’t think the Zapheads would notice, considering the chaos, and Marina and Rosa should be as safe there as anywhere for the night. Unless those babies somehow summoned their Zaphead clan.

  “Let’s try some of these windows,” Jorge said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  He headed along the fire escape, which expanded into a metal catwalk that ran the length of several buildings. He considered mounting a ladder to survey Newton from the roof, and then decided it would change nothing. He peered into the first window they came to, and found the room dark as expected.

  “How we going to see anything in there?” Wanda asked. “Should have brought some matches and a candle.”

  “At least we know there are no Zapheads inside, right? We’d be able to see their eyes.”

  The window was shut tight, an air conditioning unit blocking much of it. Jorge was debating whether to smash the glass when Wanda called out. “Might be easier over here.”

  She stood at the next window, where the lower sash slid up easily. She poked her head in the opening and said, “No death stink. Not sure that’s a positive sign or not.”

  As she rolled her girth into the room with a beguiling grace, Jorge conducted a quick surveillance of the street. Four Zapheads walked together in single file, but they were already past the café.

  Wonder where they are going. Regrouping? Preparing to gather their dead? Or getting ready to launch a counterattack of their own?

  No matter what plans the Zapheads had before, they undoubtedly saw their own existence threatened. Despite what the mutant babies claimed, Jorge couldn’t imagine a world where mutants and humans toiled side by side for a better future. And even if the mutants pursued their mission to convert the remaining humans into New People, few would willingly embrace the opportunity.

  Rosa would.

  He didn’t like that thought, so he busied himself crawling over the sill and into the dark apartment, where Wanda was already banging around in her search for weapons and supplies. Jorge found that his eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, aided by the distant conflagration. While some corners and cabinets remained awash in solid black, most of the apartment was visible.

  “This is America, the odds got to be fifty-fifty that whoever lived here owned a gun,” Wanda said.

  “This is the South,” Jorge said. “I’d say the odds are better.”

  Among the laborers at the Wilcox farm where the Jiminez family lived when the solar storms hit, all of them owned at least one firearm—except Jorge, whose wife was concerned about Marina accidentally finding it. When he hunted with the others, he was always humiliated when he borrowed a rifle. He was the worst shot of them all, too. Since then, Jorge had killed more living creatures than he’d ever dreamed possible. Assuming mutants counted as “living.”

  He searched the living room while Wanda navigated the bedroom. Nothing in the coffee tables, bureau, TV cabinet, or under the couch cushions.

  “That priest,” Wanda said. She was loud, either because of the drink or because she sensed no danger. “What do you make of him?”

  “He seems like a man strong in his faith.”

  “A man strong in his faith is more likely to make decisions based on morals instead of what’s best for everybody else. I don’t trust him.”

  “He became something of a leader while we were trapped in the gym. Except for the pendejos, most people respected him.”

  “But what did he do when all hell broke loose? He snatched up one of them Zapper brats and hauled it away with him. Just like your wife and that other woman, Cathy. Even with their own necks in danger, they still served their masters.”

  “We should be grateful,” he said. “Because now we have some power. The Zapheads can’t enslave us or threaten us because we have three bargaining chips.”

  Wanda returned to the living room empty-handed. “Nothing in there but some deodorant and magazines.”

  “Let’s think. There must be a better way to win this war.”

  “Here’s an idea. If you were the head of a military bunch, why wouldn’t you gather some new recruits? This sergeant of yours wouldn’t be dumb enough to attack on his own when there might be dozens of survivors out there just itching for a chance to kick some Zapper ass.”

  “You don’t know Sgt. Shipley. He sees the other survivors as a threat more than a resource. In his mind, he is the government. I have no doubt that if he managed to defeat the mutants, he’d immediately put his energy into wiping out the rest of us.”

  “He’s supposed to honor and serve his country,” Wanda said.

  “My friend Franklin, the one with the compound I told you about? He said once the dust settled, it would be one village and a thousand village idiots, whether we wanted it or not.”

  “This Franklin sounds like my kind of guy.”

  “Maybe you can meet him soon.”

  “Great. Just don’t go playing matchmaker. I already buried three husbands and my shovel’s worn down to the nub. So is my patience for old men and their constant bitching.”

  They decided to give up on an apartment-by-apartment search and try some of the businesses. Jorge reasoned that most store owners in an urban area, even a small town such as Newton, would have a firearm handy in case of attempted robbery. Conducting a door-by-door search on the street was risky, but they stuck to the back alleys.

  More than a few emergency exits were left open in the immediate panic of After, so prowling was relatively easy. They were aided by the dim light of the distant fires, which offered some scant illumination. After searching a tobacco shop, a mobile phone store, and a clothing boutique without success, they had some luck in the offices of a legal firm.

  “Handley Moss & McCutcheon,” Wanda said, reading the lettering on the front window. “Don’t lawyers ever have names like Smith and Jones?”

  “They could have used a Martinez or Rodriguez,” Jorge said. “Add a little color to the courtroom.”

  The reception area offered nothing of interest, but the largest office—which Wanda said was probably McCutcheon’s because he had the “high-falutinest name”—featured three mounted deer heads, a shiny shellacked trophy fish, and a number of magazines on hunting and the outdoors. A glass case in one corner contained several rifles and shotguns, all of them locked together by a metal chain and featuring trigger guards.

  While Wanda looked around for something to break the glass, Jorge searched the drawers of a broad oaken desk. Wanda was about to smash the case with a potted plant when Jorge pulled out a key ring. “I suppose Mr. McCutcheon left in a hurry.”

  “Huh,” Wanda said, looking down at the planter in her hand. With a drunken grin, she said, “Well, I’ve gone to this much trouble already, so—”

  Kleeeeesh.

  The planter and glass shattered at the same time.
Wanda stepped back and chuckled. “That’s for the court-appointed lawyer who couldn’t even plead me out of a public drunk charge.”

  Jorge shook his head and shuffled through the keys, trying the smaller ones until he unlocked the hasp on the chain and removed three of the trigger guards. The locked drawer in the lower half of the cabinet held enough ammo to kill a hundred deer.

  Wanda selected a pump shotgun. “Twenty-gauge,” she said. “Nice.”

  She fed five rounds into the magazine and then clacked a round into the chamber. Jorge took a lever-action .30-.30 for himself, filling the magazine and pocketing two extra boxes of cartridges. He would have preferred a semi-automatic, but apparently McCutcheon was a sophisticated man of sport rather than a rapid-fire cowboy.

  “Think we should take some guns back for the others?” Jorge asked.

  “Won’t do no good. Father Casey won’t carry one, and Cathy seems a little too twitchy to trust. Unless you think your wife or daughter can shoot.”

  “Rosa’s already killed a Zaphead.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. Of course you’d pick yourself a woman who could handle herself in any situation. Even carrying around a Zapper baby. I just meant whether she was mentally fit enough to defend herself.”

  “At least she can handle her drink,” Jorge said, as coldly as he could manage given his anger.

  But Wanda shook off the words with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “You Mexicans just take everything so personal, don’t you? Well, get used to it. Pissing folks off is the American way.”

  “Survival is personal,” Jorge said. “Not everyone will make it. But Rosa and Marina will be among them.”

  Wanda gave him a one-eyed squint. “Well, hell, Jorge. Guess I did hit the Crown Royal a little too hard. But it’s so nice to just forget for a little bit, know what I mean?”