CHAPTER
FOUR
Morning
was probably the worst of it.
Dreams
had become a refuge for Campbell Grimes, and the sweetest ones were of all the
mundane things that now seemed so rare and beautiful. They were already distant
artifacts of a lost culture even though it had only been two months since the
solar storms.
Alien
archaeologists of the future might one day make sense of the civilization that
left behind little but a thin layer of poisoned plastic, but it was unlikely
they would learn of Campbell’s drawings, addiction to Diet Coke and videogames,
his casual obsession with Kate Upton, or his collegiate flirtation with
Buddhism. The facts of his life weren’t his body-mass index and date of birth,
but the wildly colorful fantasies and ideals that echoed in the boned curves of
his skull.
Upon
awakening, a shutter was drawn down over the past and the hellish light of
After dragged him into its spotlight. He’d been dreaming again of Catawba Lake where his family had spent their summers. He’d been upstairs in their
waterfront home, looking down on the neighbor’s dock, where a new ski boat was
tethered. But the boat was the least eye-catching of John Hampton’s
treasures—his wife Tamara wore that crown. She lay sprawled on a lounge chair
in her bikini, skin glistening like oiled amber, the wide-brimmed hat and
sunglasses adding just enough concealment that Campbell could objectify her
without feeling too creepy.
He’d
never masturbated during his little peep shows, but they’d given him an
electric thrill all the same. And in his dream, she’d been flipping back a
strand of golden hair that the lake breeze kept pushing across her face. The
sun dappled the water, the ski boat bobbed, the muddy duckweed drifted, and her
elegant arm lifted and nudged, lifted and nudged, fingers splayed, lips pursed,
and she turned her head slightly and the sunglasses were aimed directly at the
window where Campbell sat—
He
awoke with heart pounding, a guilty erection throbbing inside his trousers.
He’d had no relief in After, and he certainly wasn’t going to toss one off
lying here on the carpeted floor of the farmhouse, surrounded by Zapheads. They
were lying all around him, some snoring lightly, others awake and waiting for
him to rise and shine, a phrase they’d learned from the professor.
Unlike
the professor, Campbell had stopped sleeping in the bed because the Zapheads
inevitably rolled into the sagging middle of the mattress during the night,
creating a suffocating pile. He wasn’t even sure they actually slept in the
usual sense—they might just have been imitating sleep as they imitated
everything else.
Another
day in paradise.
Dawn
painted the windows yellow. From downstairs came the clatter of silverware and
cookware. The house had no electricity, since the solar storms erased the power
plants, but the stove ran off propane and there must have been gallons still
stored in the tank. The home’s original owners had died at the dinner table
during the apocalypse, and the Zapheads learned all about place settings from
the grisly tableau.
Campbell
did not look forward to breakfast, because the
corpses were still around the table, and the Zapheads grew violently agitated
whenever Campbell or the professor tried to remove them.
Campbell
rose as silently as he could, but his activity was
instantly imitated by three or four Zapheads, including a young girl in a
sundress whose eyes burned like lava. Campbell had to urinate, and there was no
chance for privacy, so he stepped over the rows of prone Zapheads until he
reached the door.
The
professor rolled over in his sleep, unconsciously flinging an arm over a
wild-haired male who must have been in his sixties. The Zap mirrored the
movement, and they snuggled like an old married couple. Campbell fought down
the bile that threatened to crawl up his throat. The professor had grown too
comfortable here, accepting his fate.
“Good
morning,” said the little blonde girl, and the phrase was immediately repeated
by the other Zaps, even some who were still lying on the floor. There must have
been two dozen in the room, and the air was sour with their stench. The
professor had yet to teach them about hygiene, changes of clothes, and even
basic waste elimination.
“Good
morning,” Campbell said. Just as the Zapheads had become like intelligent
mockingbirds, they also expected Campbell to echo their behavior. He didn’t
want to risk disturbing them, because the rest of the professor’s group had
been killed in fits of rage. Since then, Campbell had remained subdued, because
he was afraid the Zapheads would interpret them incorrectly and erupt in sudden
violence. He had no way of knowing how their scrambled wiring might interpret
any action or sound.
Campbell
walked into the hall, his filthy socks muting his
footsteps. Several Zapheads sat leaning against the wall just as they had been
positioned at sunset. When he passed, they rose silently and followed him,
along with the three Zapheads from the bedroom. The perverse parade continued
down the stairs and out the back door. When Campbell unzipped his fly, all of
the Zapheads imitated him. The females seemed startled to discover they didn’t
have penises, but they urinated anyway, staining their clothes.
Campbell
gazed at the forest at the edge of the pasture, and
beyond it to the swell of mountains in the northwest. He thought of Rachel
Wheeler and the compound at Milepost 291 she’d portrayed as a promised land.
She’d offered few details, but her fervor had been persuasive. Especially when
compared to all the other alternatives.
As
he often did, he considered making a run for it, but Zapheads were already up
and milling about in the knee-high grass surrounding the farmhouse. Only one
cow remained, and the Zapheads were as fascinated by its behavior as they were
with Campbell’s and the professor’s. The animal had grown used to their presence
and chewed contentedly. Campbell wished he was as successful at ignoring them.
Why
couldn’t the Big Zap have given me Mad Cow Disease?
He
returned to the farmhouse, followed by the Zapheads. He held his palm over his
face to suppress the smell of decomposing corpses inside. The Zapheads mimicked
the movement, even though the odor didn’t seem to bother them. Perhaps they had
no awareness of morality, and thus the corrupted rot carried no association
with their own coming deaths.
The
professor was already sitting at the table. “Good morning,” he said, with
surprisingly good cheer considering he sat among four corpses and a room full
of deranged mutants.
“Good
morning,” Campbell said, and the farmhouse was filled with shouts of Zapheads
repeating the words. A broad-faced woman whose gray eyes glittering with
iridescent golden flecks moved in front of him as he approached the table,
screeching “Good morning good morning good morning.” The phrase echoed in a
seemingly endless loop.
“Fuck
you,” Campbell said, and broad-faced woman segued from “Good morning” to “Fuck
you” without taking a breath. As the chant rose around them, the professor
grinned at Campbell and pulled out a chair for him. Campbell sat beside him and
the room grew quiet. The silence spread throughout the house.
Each
plate on the table was swimming with pork-and-beans. The farmhouse’s human
owners, propped up in chairs and decaying in grotesque shades of green and
purple, had apparently stockpiled only one type of canned food. The chickens
couldn’t lay enough eggs to feed the whole congregation of fifty or so Zapheads
that inhabited the farm, and the early frosts had devastated the garden. Soon
they would all need meat.
“I’m
going to kill myself,” Campbell said under his breath, so only the professor
could hear. They’d learned that if they murmured, the Zapheads would also
murmur and therefore not be able to hear the conversation.
The
professor lifted his plate and lapped at the sauce. By unspoken agreement, they
avoided silverware because they didn’t want the Zapheads to all simultaneously
brandish sharp implements.
When
those Zapheads who were close enough to the table also lifted plates and
slurped, the professor said, “Not again. When are they going to learn some
manners?”
“Seriously.
You may like having your own little group of lab monkeys to play with, but I’m
going nuts.”
The
professor wiped the reddish-brown sauce from his lips with the back of his
shirt sleeve. “If we can teach them how to hunt and gather, we’ll make it
through the winter. They’re progressing. I’ve even observed some signs of
initiative in a few of them.”
“Great.
Creative new ways to kill and maim survivors.”
“We
don’t even know how many survivors are left. For all we know, we’re the last
two standing.”
Campbell
pushed his plate away even though he’d only eaten
half his portion. A stringy-haired Zaphead across the table glared at him as if
Campbell had committed a hideous sin. The Zaphead was about his father’s age,
with dark stubble and dirt-filled wrinkles on his cheeks.
Burn
in hell, shitface.
Campbell
thought about shouting the insult at the top of his
lungs, but he might start giggling, and then he would go mad during the Zaphead
laugh track. But wasn’t madness preferable to acceptance of this new normal?
“So
what’s your exit strategy?” Campbell asked as the professor swallowed the last
of his beans.
“There’s
no exit. I’m making the best of it. I’ve been here nearly three weeks and they
haven’t killed me yet.”
Campbell
couldn’t believe the man was serious. “You’re doing a
good job of making them think you’re Jesus, but that didn’t end so well for
him, if you’ll recall.”
“They’re
learning, and if we can teach them not to make the same mistakes as the human
race, then maybe we really can achieve those crazy ideals of peace, love, and
harmony.”
And
here I was thinking I’d feathered the cuckoo’s nest. But you’ve definitely been
cracking some eggs. This is your brain, this is your brain on Zapheads. Any
questions?
“Don’t
you think maybe it’s a little arrogant to presume we know what’s best?” Campbell said. “There’s no blueprint for this.”
The
professor grinned, bean sauce shiny on his chin. “Then we get to draw our own
blueprint.” He nodded at one of the Zapheads, a twentyish woman with the ragged
dark bangs of a Goth hairstyle and full lips, a small silver skull dangling by
a chain from one ear lobe. “I think she likes me.”
Campbell
shoved his plate away. The rotted corpses of the
farmhouse’s original occupants said nothing. In some ways, they were the most
stable and tangible facts of this new world. All else was postmodern
surrealism.
And
a new history waiting to be written.
“They’re
all yours,” Campbell said, spreading his arms. “All God’s children.”
“God’s
children!” said a grimy-faced woman and the Zap Goth in unison.
“God’s
children!” shouted another Zaphead, and soon the room—and then the
farmhouse—was filled with their shouts.
CHAPTER
FIVE
“You
really trust these guys, Sarge?” said the unshaven soldier.
Franklin
Wheeler didn’t like the beady-eyed little bastard, but he kept his mouth shut
and his face impassive. They’d outfitted him with a camouflage combat uniform,
but he’d kept his boots. Jorge looked uncomfortable in his own gear, constantly
fidgeting with the top button of his shirt as if not sure whether to undo it.
Neither of them would have passed muster in the old days, but Sarge was
apparently eager to take what he could get in order to expand his empire.
“I
trust them about as far as a bullet can reach,” Sarge said. “But they’re you’re
problem now, Hayes.”
Hayes,
the unshaven soldier, muttered under his breath.
“What’s
that, soldier?”
“Yes,
sir,” Hayes responded, none too crisply.
Franklin
smirked.
The chain of command has got a few weak
links.
“Check
out Sector 12, where they spotted the enemy yesterday. Report back here at twelve-hundred
hours,” Sarge said. “No prisoners, no casualties.”
Franklin
and Jorge were part of a reconnaissance patrol led by Hayes. The other three
soldiers in the patrol were as sullen as Hayes, smoking cigarettes and eyeing Franklin warily. One, sporting a dark complexion and wearing a soiled red bandana around
his neck, cleared his throat and spat, the wet wad landing inches from Franklin’s boot. Franklin gave him a smirking salute.
“I
don’t like this,” Jorge whispered.
“I
don’t, either, but it’s your best chance of finding your family again.”
“Don’t
be acting sneaky,” Bandana Boy said, patting his rifle. “I got no problem at
all killing a couple of civilians.”
“Move
out,” Hayes bellowed, waving the soldiers out of the camp. By Franklin’s
estimation, Sarge had about fifty soldiers under his command, and there might
have been others out on patrol. Sarge was right: he might be one of the most
powerful men left in the world.
“What
are we looking for?” Franklin asked Hayes, falling in behind the patrol leader
as they headed into the morning forest.
“Zaps.”
“Yeah,
but what are we going to do when we find them?”
Hayes
made a pointing motion with his finger, as if it were a pistol. “Bang.”
“Why
don’t me and Jorge get guns?”
“Sarge
says you have to prove yourselves. Just because you helped kill some Zaps
doesn’t mean we can trust you. I hear you’re a big anti-government type.”
“Ain’t
a government left to stand against,” Franklin said. “The way I look at, we’re
all free men. Death is the ultimate democracy.”
“Sarge
has other ideas.”
Franklin
sensed resentment in the man and decided to feed it a
little. “How many bunkers you think are out there? How many men like Sarge have
some troops to boss around?”
“That’s
classified information.”
“That
means you’re either too dumb to know or nobody trusts you enough to tell you.”
Ignoring Hayes’s dismissive grunt, Franklin added, “My guess is maybe thirty or
forty at most. Probably a few here in the Blue Ridge, the Unegama Wilderness
Area, most of the national parks, and whatever luxury hideaways Congress built
for itself. And I’ll bet every one of them has a Sarge, a little Hitler type
who’s going to run things
his
way.”
“Sarge
is watching out for us,” Hayes said.
Somebody
better be, because you sure as hell ain’t.
Hayes
was barely paying attention to their surroundings, even though they were
heading downhill where the forest was thinning out. They came to a logging
road, and Hayes slowed to allow the other stragglers to catch up. Jorge had
walked solemnly, staying alert, obviously looking for any sign that his wife
and daughter might have passed this way. Franklin was pretty sure they’d never
see them alive again, but he didn’t see any reason to express that opinion to
Jorge.
“We’re
coming up on the development,” Hayes called back from the point. He slid his
semi-automatic rifle strap down his shoulder until he was cradling the weapon
across his waist. “One of our scouts reported some funny noises down here
yesterday.”
Below
the road, the morning sun caught the metal rooftops of half a dozen houses.
They were obscenely large, with timber construction made to resemble log
cabins, with lots of glass. No smoke came from the chimneys, despite the cold. Franklin figured them for second homes, the kind rich folks from Florida might visit twice
between Memorial Day and Labor Day while writing the vacations off on their
taxes. He hoped every one of those assholes had been blasted to hell and their
bodies were rotting away on their silk sheets.
Hayes
waved Bandana Boy over and told the other two soldiers to sneak down and
approach from the west. Bandana Boy looked a little too eager for action, but Franklin figured if Zapheads attacked, at least he and Jorge wouldn’t draw much attention.
These cowboys would blow away anything that moved, human or not.
The
first house had a new SUV parked out front, although tree sap had spotted its silver
finish. A riding lawn mower was parked beneath the porch, and a blue vinyl tarp
covered a stack of firewood. The curtains were drawn in the windows.
“Okay,
Jimbo, you take point,” Hayes said, motioning Bandana Boy up the porch steps.
Franklin and Jorge followed while Hayes waited with his weapon ready.
Bandana
Boy tried the door handle. Finding it locked, he reared back and drove the
bottom of his foot into the glass. The sudden shattering was bright and loud in
the morning silence. “That’ll wake ‘em up,” Bandana Boy said.
“And
let every goddamned Zaphead within thirty miles know where we are, genius.”
“What,
you wanted me to look for a key?”
Hayes
waved him inside. “Shut up and get.”
Bandana
Boy stepped inside the house, crunching glass underneath his boots. Franklin ducked inside after him, looking around for the kitchen. At the very least, he
wanted a butcher knife. While Bandana Boy did a quick check of the downstairs
rooms, Jorge collected a fireplace poker and gave it a test swing. Hayes stood
at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. “Anybody home?” he shouted.
The
house featured a musty odor, as if it had been shut up for months, but rank
fecal rot dominated the air.
Bandana
Boy returned to the hall and motioned to Hayes, who followed him through a door.
Franklin’s curiosity got the best of him and he had to see. What he
discovered was Bandana Boy pointing into the toilet, and the aroma gave away
its contents.
“Somebody’s
been here,” whispered Hayes.
“Or
maybe they were just caught with their pants down when the Big Zap came,” Franklin said. “Maybe a Zapper out there who forgot to wipe.”
“No,”
Hayes said. “Too fresh. If it was that old, you wouldn’t be able to smell it.”
Bandana
Boy pointed to the second floor above and Hayes nodded. “You guys stay close
behind us,” Hayes said to Franklin. “Not that I give a damn, but Sarge has
taken a liking to you.”
“Yeah,
I’m a regular poster child of the apocalypse,” Franklin said.
Hayes
didn’t remark on Jorge’s metal fireplace poker, but Bandana Boy stood erect and
alert, eager to pull the trigger. “Okay,” Hayes said, waving them up the
stairs. “Be ready for anything.”
Upstairs,
Bandana Boy opened the first door on the right. There he found the “anything”
of which Hayes had just spoken. He whistled and uttered a low, “Holy hell.”
Franklin
couldn’t resist closing in behind Hayes for a look.
The room was littered with cellophane food wrappers, tin cans, crushed plastic
bottles, and a stench that made the downstairs bathroom refreshing. A bed
pushed near the window was heaped with blankets. On the dresser beside it was a
makeshift kitchen, with a Sterno burner, a blackened metal coffee pot, and an
Igloo cooler.
Bandana
Boy waded through the trash and looked around. “Got us a squatter.”
“No
Zapper did this, that’s for sure,” Hayes said.
“Must
have heard us coming and hid somewhere.”
Hayes
poked the bundle of blankets with the tip of his rifle. “As much noise as you
were making, no wonder.” He waved Bandana Boy out of the room. “Search it.”
“Why
don’t you leave them be?” Franklin said. “They ain’t a threat to you.”
Hayes
narrowed his eyes. “You heard Sarge. No prisoners.”
Bandana
Boy pushed out the door between Franklin and Jorge, heading down the hall. He
kicked open doors one by one, each time crouching and sweeping the barrel of
his rifle in front of him. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” he called
like a child.
If
this is the best of the best, it’s a wonder the U.S. military didn’t go to shit
a decade ago.
Franklin
turned to go downstairs, but Hayes blocked his way.
“You’re on duty, Wheeler.”
Bandana
Boy slammed open the last door at the end of the hall, pointed his rifle into
the room, and said to Hayes, “Jackpot.”