The
bottom had deepened as the channel narrowed, and the Zapheads were soon up to
their necks. They made no move to swim or paddle, and so were pushed off their
feet by the current. The first one went under and didn’t come back up.
More
and more heads disappeared beneath the silvery-green water, and more Zapheads
pressed their way into the water, like lemmings going over a cliff. When the
young girl’s expressionless face vanished in the froth, a cold horror settled
inside DeVontay’s sweating body. They were drowning.
He
soon quit watching, instead focusing on the rocks and eddies ahead, choosing
which gaps and rapids seemed to offer the safest passage.
He
wondered if the river was large enough to hold all the Zapheads in the world,
and if anyone—or any God—would mourn their extinction if such a lucky event
came to pass.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Franklin
Wheeler had been preparing for Doomsday for much of his adult life, but never
in his wildest fantasies would he have planned for this scenario.
No,
in his dream of a post-collapse world, he would be sitting in his little cabin
on the ridge, the woodstove crackling, a kettle of water atop it for his
dandelion-root tea. He’d never really planned to live alone, but the others in
his fantasy had always been slightly amorphous and faceless—however, he’d
always hoped Rachel would be the one family member who would appreciate his
foresight and preparation. Instead, he’d ended up with an unlikely group of
strangers, a reluctant leader instead of a libertarian loner.
Ah,
hell with it, libertarians can’t really exist, because we all depend on one
another. We’re all interconnected, one big hippie flower-power hallucination,
or maybe God’s twisted little jigsaw puzzle.
“How’s
it going back there?” he called to Robertson and Shay. Robertson’s bandaged
head made him look like a mummy, but his eyes were alert and he kept up with
the rest of the group.
“We’re
good,” Shay answered for them. She’d taken Hayes’s field jacket as a trophy,
although it was far too large for her and she had to roll up the sleeves. Her
father had given her Hayes’ sidearm and holster. The belt had been too large
for her slim waist, so she wore it over one shoulder like a
bandolier
. Franklin hoped her father had taught her about guns, because if they encountered one of
Sarge’s patrols or a pack of pissed-off Zapheads, there wouldn’t be much time
for target practice.
Franklin
and Jorge carried the AR-15s of the two dead soldiers, but neither was all that
comfortable with the semiautomatic weapons. Franklin figured what they lacked
in accuracy, they made up for in sheer firepower. Robertson stubbornly carried
the shotgun, claiming it was a better choice for close fighting. Considering
what it had done to Bandana Boy’s head, Franklin couldn’t disagree.
They’d
taken the packs from the two soldiers, filling them with the provisions
Robertson had collected. Jorge had wanted to check the surrounding houses, but
Robertson said they were already cleaned out. As they walked along the gravel
road away from the last shots they’d heard, Franklin checked the angle of the
afternoon sun to gauge their direction.
“What’s
the plan?” Jorge asked Franklin.
“We’ll
make a big sweep to the east and circle around to the parkway, then back to my
compound. With luck, we’ll avoid Sarge’s troops.”
Jorge’s
eyes were dark and serious. “I can’t go back until I find my family.”
“I
know. I’m hoping we’ll see some sign of them.”
“How
many more of us are left?” Robertson asked. “You guys are the first people
we’ve seen in weeks, and if the Army has only a few dozen troops near the
parkway, then I’m guessing the Zapheads outnumber us a hundred to one.”
“Yeah,
but they haven’t figured out how to use guns yet,” Franklin said. “If we all
got on the same team, we’d wipe them out in no time.”
“And
then we’d turn on each other,” Jorge said. “You think your military will grow
tired of killing once they get a taste for it?”
Another
shot sounded in the distance, and the reverberation off the wooded slopes made
its origin difficult to place. Franklin hoped they weren’t walking right into
the middle of a Zaphead hunt. If they encountered an army patrol, they’d have
to explain what happened to their two companions. And Sarge had specifically
ordered them not to collect “prisoners,” so Robertson might be killed on the
spot. And young Shay’s fate might end up the same as the one Bandana Boy and
Hayes had planned for her.
“That’s
Grandfather Mountain,” Franklin said, pointing to the dark, angular profile to
the west. “Sarge’s bunker is somewhere maybe half a mile from the base of it,
and my compound is another mile north. We could make it before nightfall.”
“And
then what?” Jorge said. “They know where the compound is. Once they discover
what happened to their friends, they would come for us.”
“We’d
be ready for them.”
“Three
against fifty?” Robertson said.
“Four,”
Shay said, hooking her thumbs into the belt and pushing so that the sidearm
flopped in its holster.
“Normally,
I believe in ‘Live and let live,’ but I don’t think we have that option
anymore,” Franklin said, ignoring the girl’s belligerent pose.
“I
can’t simply hide on a hill while my family is in danger,” Jorge said.
Your
family’s probably dead, amigo.
But Franklin understood Jorge’s clinging to hope. He himself still believed Rachel was out
there somewhere, despite all evidence suggesting otherwise. “Your family is
just as likely to find their way back to the compound as you are to find them
wandering around in the woods somewhere. I just hope to God they aren’t hanging
around that woman and her Zap baby.”
“Zap
baby?” Robertson said.
“This
woman we rescued. We didn’t know it, but she had a baby that had been...” He
glanced at Shay before he decided on the word. “…affected.”
“Do
you think that had something to do with why they left your camp? Sounds to me
like that’s the safest place this side of the Mississippi, if you don’t count
the military bunker.”
“The
bunker’s not safe,” Franklin said. “It might protect you from the evil all
around you, but not the enemy within. But you’ve seen the way the Zaps are
starting to congregate. In the beginning, they were random, solitary, and
vicious. Now you hardly ever see one by itself.”
“Franklin believes either the Zapheads were drawn to the compound because of the baby, or the
mother for some reason thought she had to take the child to the Zapheads,”
Jorge said.
Franklin
glanced around the woods, swiveling the barrel of his
AR-15 back and forth. He didn’t like being out in the open, but the road allowed
them to make better time. Sarge’s soldiers had lost whatever discipline they
might have built during their service and were likely to choose the easiest
route over stealth and concealment.
The
Zapheads, however, were another matter.
The
afternoon sun was sliding toward evening, and the birds fell silent as they
passed. At times Franklin lost sight of Grandfather Mountain’s peak, but he
kept his sense of direction enough to guide them east. The gravel road turned
to asphalt, with driveways and houses becoming more frequent. If anyone saw
them from behind curtained windows, no one called to them, and Franklin was in no mood for a door-to-door search. He’d seen enough corpses for one day.
The
group reached a bend where the road took a sharp slant downward, affording a
view of the valley below. While much of the vista was wooded, the pavement
followed an undulating river, with open pastures lining both sides. Farmhouses
were nestled here and there among the high weeds, the sun glinting off the tin
roofs of barns and outbuildings.
“Look,”
Jorge said, pointing.
“Smoke,”
Shay said. “From that chimney.”
Franklin
shaded his eyes and scanned the valley. He’d refused
to be fitted for glasses and hadn’t been to a doctor since they’d tried to put
him on blood-pressure medicine a decade ago. Now he couldn’t help but feel weak
and ancient.
I
can’t see and I can’t fight worth a damn, but at least I can offer experience.
But maybe even experience is worthless when you’re dealing with something
that’s never happened before.
“Somebody’s
got a fire going,” Robertson said. “And I’d bet a jar of jelly beans it’s not a
Zaphead.”
Jorge
broke into a run and Franklin called after him. “Might be some of Sarge’s
boys.”
“And
it might be Marina and Rosa,” he said, not slowing.
After
Jorge was out of sight, Franklin said, “He’s going in the wrong direction.”
“What
if it’s more survivors?’ Shay said. “We have to help them.”
“Maybe
they don’t need help. Maybe they’re just fine on their own.”
Shay
shot him an accusing glare. “Just like
we
were, right?”
“Look,
we can’t save the whole damned world. I’ve got a plan to get through the
winter, and the compound can sustain half a dozen at most.”
“I
wouldn’t worry too much about overpopulation,” Robertson said. “Seems to me
your compound loses more people than it gains.”
“Shit,”
Franklin said. He’d constructed the compound with the idea that he’d have
companions, but he’d also been prepared to live alone if necessary. Now the
idea of huddling in his little cabin while the snows piled up, with Zapheads
walking through the land he once loved, make his guts twist.
He’d
taught Rachel that a human being had to stand up for what was right and had to
fight for the things worth fighting for, and he’d been all too ready to hide
away and avoid the biggest war the human race had ever known—the battle for
survival of the species.
Robertson
didn’t wait for Franklin’s response. “Come on, honey,” he said to Shay,
adjusting his bandage and lowering the shotgun so that it rested across the
crook of his elbow. He followed after Jorge.
I’m
probably going to live to regret this. On the bright side, I’m probably not
going to live all that much longer anyway.
He
checked the clip on his AR-15 and fell in behind them, taking one last look
around to make sure they had no unexpected company.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“Not
even a scar,” the professor whispered, staring down at Rachel’s bare leg.
Campbell
pressed a gentle hand against her forehead. “Her
fever’s breaking, too.”
The
Zapheads, still almost reverently gathered around her, applied their palms to
her body in imitation of Campbell’s action, touching her legs, abdomen, cheeks,
and breasts. She stirred a little from her torpid state, her bare skin
shrinking with goose pimples from the cool air.
Campbell
tugged the hem of the sheet from her upper thighs and
spread it over her legs so she was completely covered except for her head. “We
should get her more blankets. It’ll be dark soon, and nights are getting
chilly. You might want to get some clothes on yourself.”
“You
watch her,” the professor said. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of the quilts.”
“Not
the one with the blood on it,” Campbell said.
“We
wrapped Pamela in that one, remember?”
A
number of the Zapheads followed the professor, mumbling and muttering,
seemingly unaware they had just performed a miracle. Campbell wasn’t religious,
but he was well aware of the prophecy of Jesus’ return. What if Jesus came back
to Earth not as a single man, but as a whole tribe?
No,
there has to be a reasonable explanation.
Although,
he had to admit, that one was as reasonable as any other, under the
circumstances.
The
Zapheads around him had remained calm since Rachel’s arrival. Campbell had
noticed—and mentioned to the professor—that the Zapheads in general had become
less aggressive over time. He didn’t know whether it was because they were used
to the two humans in their midst or some change was still occurring in their
neural systems. But he and the professor were still alive, kept almost as pets,
and the Zapheads had healed Rachel.
Not
wanting the Zapheads to handle Rachel anymore, he forced himself to step away
from the sofa. The Zapheads followed suit. Taking a page from the professor’s
playbook, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together in
prayer. When he opened his eyes ten seconds later, all the Zapheads had
returned to kneeling on the floor.
The
Catholic Church would have killed for this kind of power. But maybe they did.
Once
the Zapheads settled back into their routine, with even their breathing hushed
and steady, Campbell took the time to look over Rachel more carefully. He told
himself it was because he wanted to verify she had no other wounds, but most of
it was desperate desire for a human connection.
She
was even more attractive than he remembered. In Taylorsville, he’d mostly seen
her in the dark or by the flickering light of huge, destructive bonfires. She’d
obviously spent little time on personal hygiene—the sheer act of survival was a
higher priority to survivors—but she had a natural tan complexion, thick
lashes, curving lips, and a shapely form. Despite her greasy hair and
dirt-scuffed face, she appeared almost radiant instead of green-tinged and near
death. The recovery had taken less than an hour.
When
the professor returned, another sheet draped around his shoulders and a bundled
blanket in his arms, the praying Zapheads emerged from their quiescent state.
The ones that had followed the professor mingled with them and they moved
around aimlessly, some leaving the living room and others bumping into walls.
As
they spread the blanket over Rachel, Campbell mumbled, “So, any theories?”
The
professor shook his head. “Unless you believe in voodoo, I’m guessing it’s
something taking place at a quantum level. In the same way an intense magnetic
pull can wipe out the data on a hard drive, maybe the Zapheads store up some
kind of electrical energy they can distribute in a controlled way.”
“Like
human batteries?”
“Something
like that. There used to be a departmental secretary at UNC-Greensboro who
could heal carpal tunnel and muscle sprains. She joked that she was a witch,
but she was always secretive about it, afraid people really might think she was
peculiar and ostracize her. She would rub her hands together and then wave one
hand over the affected area as if she were tugging out invisible stitches.”
“Like
reiki, maybe? I’ve seen them wave their hands over people like they’re moving
energy around. Sort of like acupuncture without the needles.”
“This
woman never touched the flesh of her patient, but the injury would begin
healing almost immediately. She even cured my carpal tunnel that way. I
wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t happened to me.”
“But
a muscle sprain is one thing. This was a life-threatening wound. And it healed
in minutes.”
The
professor frowned. “I’m just a teacher, not a philosopher.”
“Not
all that long ago, you wanted to play surgeon,” Campbell said.
“We’ll
just have to see how she does. We don’t know if her blood is poisoned from
infection.”
“They
wanted her to live. That’s what’s scary. We’ve been fighting them, killing
them, hiding from them when they’ll let us. But when they had a chance to let
one of us die, they invoked some sort of inner power to save her.”
“You’re
overlooking something very important,” the professor said, glancing around at
the Zapheads who milled aimlessly through the house.
“What,
that they didn’t dig their fingers in her rotten bits and eat it like chili?”
“They
acted together. Without speaking, or making any kind of signal that I could
see.”
“They
were copying you. The way you were rubbing your hand on her.”
“I
think it was more than that.”
Campbell
studied the strange, glittery-eyed mutants around
him—his housemates, his new tribe, his jailers. Despite all the days he’d been
forced to endure their presence, they seemed even more grotesque now than when
they were wantonly destroying all things in their path.
Even
creepier, he was losing his perception of what life had been like Before. He
was losing all sense of normalcy and the great psychological security blanket
of civilization, and this was becoming his
reality
.
“Don’t
tell me these starry-eyed fucks are telepathic,” Campbell said.
“I
am not sure that’s the right word for it,” the professor said. “You see how
they copy our phonetics and tone. Clearly they don’t have a grasp of language,
at least not human language. If they could truly read minds, they’d have
already absorbed the sum of our knowledge and memories.”
“Damn,
don’t tell me they know about that
Penthouse
magazine I accidentally
left in my mom’s sewing room. Or the Zapheads I killed in Taylorsville.”
The
professor’s face took on that vacant, rapt look again, as if falling back into
his messiah complex—the spiritual leader of the strangely changed, the Christ
of After.
“Or
perhaps what we think we know is useless to them,” he said.
Stuff
it in a psycho fortune cookie.
Rachel
stirred, and Campbell knelt by her side. As for what he did next, he couldn’t
be sure whether he was trying to comfort her or comfort himself.
But
he wanted something solid in a wobbly, watery, illusory world.
He
took her hand and held it, watching the blanket rise and fall with her
breathing until the sound of her exhalation became a wind of hope, drowning out
the mad mumbling of the Zaphead hordes.