After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) (10 page)

Franklin nodded at the gray boulders surrounding the trail. “Or he could have fallen and cracked his skull. Either way, he ain’t been dead long.”

Franklin lifted the man’s arm and let it flop to the ground. “Critters would have been eating the meat if it was out here more than a couple of days. He’s black around the eyes, which shows he’s not too recent. Flies ain’t even found him yet.”

Jorge was disturbed by the casual nature of Death. It could come upon even a healthy man, or it could sweep across the sky and kill without discrimination. And again he felt a chill of gratitude roll through him. Even though these times were terrible, he was alive—and so was his family, by the mercy of God.

Franklin fished the chain from around the man’s neck and pulled the dog tags from inside the man’s T-shirt. He read the embossed name aloud. “Carson. Simon L.”

“Do you think Zapheads did this?” Jorge asked.

“Hard to say. That bruise is the only injury I see. Don’t hardly seem like the Zapheads’ style. They’re more likely to rip your arms off and beat you to death with the bloody stumps.”

“Where’s his gun?”

Franklin rose and made a quick search of the nearby woods while Jorge followed the man’s likely track to his final resting place. After a couple of minutes, they returned to the dead man empty handed.

“He could have been on a solo recon mission,” Franklin said.

“If the Zapheads took his weapon…”

“Yeah. That wouldn’t be good if they’ve learned how to shoot. They were dangerous enough already.”

“Why was he out here alone?” Jorge asked. “And why haven’t the soldiers retrieved the body? Isn’t that part of their code of honor?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions, Jorge,” Franklin said. “I got one answer: Just keep your voice down and your eyes open.”

“Maybe we should go back now.” Jorge was uneasy over this new mystery. Rosa could handle most situations, like she had back at the Wilcox farm when she killed a Zaphead that had attacked him, but no one could prepare for a danger they couldn’t understand.

Franklin peered into the woods, his gray eyebrows arching up into his creased forehead. “I got a better idea. Let’s hide up in that rhododendron thicket and watch for a little bit.”

“I have a family to protect.”

“And maybe you can protect them better by heading off danger at the pass.”

The old man was hardheaded. But Jorge had to admit the man’s judgment may have saved his family’s life. “Okay. Half an hour, no more.”

Franklin looked down at the corpse. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

“I wasn’t volunteering to bury him.”

“Is that how they do things down in Mexico?”

Jorge didn’t want to think of the friends and relatives he’d left behind and might never see again—assuming any of them were still alive. “Mexico may not even exist any more.”

“Good point.” Franklin led the way up a stretch of stubbled slope, among locusts with bright yellow leaves and jagged protrusions of granite streaked with white crystal. Jorge saw a hawk flying overhead and wondered if it was their chicken-killer. It was likely an illusion, but the hawk’s eyes had glistened as if reflecting the sun.

The forest seemed at peace, accepting of the new way of things. Even though the sun sickness had killed many animals along with humans, balance was quickly restored.

Nature kept on with the business of keeping on.

Jorge followed Franklin into a tangle of branches and soon they were hidden by the dark, waxy leaves of the rhododendron. The shadows grew, marking the sun’s descent into afternoon. Gnats flew around Jorge’s ears, annoying him and making him restless, but he kept as motionless as he could. Franklin’s head dipped, his rifle across his lap, and Jorge wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

But Franklin snapped alert and put a finger to his lips. Jorge wiped futilely at the gnats. Franklin pointed to the trail. A man came out of the woods on the other side and knelt over the corpse.

This man was of a similar age and dressed in the same fashion, except he wore an unbuttoned camouflage shirt over his T-shirt. He was unarmed and his clothes were grimy with the dark mud of the forest. At first Jorge wondered if he was a Zaphead, because of the skulking, uncoordinated movement of his limbs. Then he realized the man was exhausted and perhaps suffering some form of psychological trauma.

Franklin carefully raised his rifle and aimed down the sights at his target thirty yards away.

If you shoot, not only will the Zapheads know where we are, but the soldiers, too.

The soldier fell over his fallen comrade and pulled at his T-shirt. “Come on, Carson,” the soldier cajoled. “No time to be sleeping.”

The soldier looked around, his gaunt cheeks damp with tears. “Get up, you asshole, they’re coming!”

He drew back his right boot and kicked Carson in the ribs. The
thunk
and crack caused Jorge to wince. Franklin held his rifle steady, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

Phu-ziiiiiing.

A shot rang out.

Jorge thought for a moment that Franklin had fired—but the report echoed through the valley. The soldier dropped to all fours and scrambled toward an outcropping of rocks and vanished beneath the mossy trunk of a fallen tree.

“That wasn’t a Zap,” Franklin whispered.

Unless they’ve learned how to use guns.

Someone shouted a name in a brusque voice. “McCrone!”

A few seconds later, three uniformed soldiers in full battle gear dashed up the trail. The point man knelt over Carson’s corpse before flicking a wave in each direction to send a soldier to each side of the trail. As they fanned out looking for McCrone, Jorge put a hand on Franklin’s shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jorge half-whispered, half-moaned.

Franklin shook his head. The look on his face was almost one of pleasure. Perhaps he’d been isolated too long and now here was adventure. Maybe he’d been relishing this opportunity to strike at the government he despised.

Except the government is able to strike back
.

Jorge saw no advantage in confronting trained and well-armed soldiers. They appeared to be carrying assault weapons, and their utility belts featured holstered sidearms and grenades. These were killing machines, intent on completing their mission—which appeared to be the capture of their comrade. The soldier closest to Jorge, an onyx-skinned man with a mustache and cold brown eyes, looked down at the scuffed leaves and tracks Jorge and Franklin had left in their wake.

The soldier started up the slope, swiveling his semiautomatic weapon left to right. Jorge was sure Franklin was going to shoot him, but then the soldier on the other side of the trail yelled, “Over here!”

The dark-skinned soldier galloped back down the slope, slipping once and nearly tumbling. The squad’s leader, who bore three stripes on his shirt sleeve, abandoned Carson’s corpse and headed up the slope. The third soldier must have discovered McCrone’s tracks, because he leaped over the fallen tree and ran into the woods shouting McCrone’s name.

Another shot rang out, and soon all three soldiers were out of sight. Jorge tracked their position through the woods by their shouts, the scuffling of leaves, and the snapping of branches.

“Maybe McCrone went AWOL,” Franklin whispered, finally lowering his rifle.

Jorge exhaled to let the tension out of his gut. “But why would they kill him? Why not just let him go?”

“Maybe he knows something.”

“Would you have shot that black man?”

Franklin grinned. “You’re either with us or against us.”

Jorge was relieved the chase was headed away from Wheelerville. Even though the compound was at least two miles away, the soldiers might easily discover it by accident. But maybe they’d already spotted it because of the wood smoke. Even though Franklin insisted on burning nothing but dry hardwood, on a clear day the smoke knitted gray-white gauze in the sky.

“We should go around the ridge and avoid the trail,” Franklin said. “Even though it will take longer.”

“You’re the ancient one,” Jorge said. “I’m in good shape.”

“Survival is a marathon, not a sprint, my friend. We’ll see who lasts.”

“Let’s get on with it, then. I want to be back before dark.”

They heard one more shot, hundreds of yards away. Franklin nodded. But just as Jorge was about to thread his way through the tangles, Franklin grabbed him by the rifle strap. A hissing filled Jorge’s ear, and he thought the gnats were back. But even as he brushed at the side of his head, he knew this sound had a different origin.

They came out of the woods as solemn and steady as disciples on a pilgrimage. Jorge knew they were Zapheads right away due to their unkempt hair and filthy clothing. They seemed to
seep
instead of walk, silent except for their high-pitched vocalizations.

Jorge wondered if they had responded to the gunshots and came in search of a human to kill. But they moved with little urgency—certainly not as frenzied and bloodthirsty as the soldiers.

“Creepy as hell,” Franklin whispered. Jorge grimaced, unsure how well the mutants could hear, or to which frequencies they might respond. From a lifetime of handling farm animals, Jorge had seen nature’s range of perceptions in action. And this was a disruption of nature, a disturbing aberration, a new kind of animal with unknown properties.

There were about a dozen Zapheads, five of them women. Two were adolescents, clothed in T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops, their spiked and greasy hair making them seem like siblings.

A middle-aged man in a stained white tanktop had tattoos covering his arms, the knees of his blue jeans worn through. Several of the Zapheads were barefoot, as if they’d been napping when the solar storms struck and had risen from dreams to find themselves trapped in a nightmare. One old man was naked, his withered appendage bobbing amid a tuft of gray hair as he worked his scrawny legs.

“We could shoot ‘em, but the soldiers might come back,” Franklin whispered.

“Maybe they won’t see us,” Jorge said. The hissing pierced his ears like needles, their tips trying to meet in the midpoint of his skull.

“Just be ready for anything.”

You don’t have to tell me twice, gringo.

The Zapheads converged toward the corpse lying beside the trail, and for one horrible moment, Jorge wondered if they were going to gather around and eat it—like fresh meat on the hoof.

That’s one kind of “anything” I’m not ready for.

And he knew he would snap and start shooting wildly if such a blasphemy occurred. No matter how much he warned himself that Rosa and Marina would be at risk if they engaged in gunfire, Jorge couldn’t witness such a horror.

But the Zapheads didn’t appear in any hurry to do anything—whatever hunger pulsed through their strange veins, they didn’t crave meat.

Instead, they bent over the corpse and lifted it tenderly from the ground. The hissing suddenly ceased, and the ensuing silence was as shocking as a slap. Jorge’s heartbeat roared in his ears.

The Zapheads rolled the corpse onto their shoulders, falling into single file. They might have been lumberjacks hauling a log. As they started down the trail with their burden, one of the soldier’s arms lolled out. The naked old man reached up and flopped it back across the dead man’s abdomen.

At first, the procession was uncoordinated, the shorter Zapheads straining on tiptoes. One of the women let the legs sag so the Zaphead behind her could take the weight, nearly toppling the whole group. But after twenty or so steps, they were moving in unison, a well-oiled machine.

In a moment, the bizarre spectacle would be around the bend and lost in the trees, and Jorge would be able to breathe again.

“Bunch of shitterhawks,” Franklin muttered.

Then he raised his rifle and fired, the sudden explosion like a sonic slap across the valley. The old naked Zaphead collapsed, a gush of red spurting from his rib cage and mixing with the mud.

The Zapheads staggered and lost their grip on the corpse and it tumbled off their shoulders to the ground.

The Zapheads turned as one and stared up at the hiding place in the rhododendrons. Jorge tried to shrink back among the dark leaves and shadows.

Then the hissing began.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“You old fool,” Jorge said. “Now the soldiers will come.”

“Let ‘em,’ Franklin said. His eyes gleamed with liquid malevolence, storms brewing behind them.

Below, the Zapheads massed, their hisses combining into a near screech. They didn’t approach, not at first, and Jorge wondered why they were hesitating. They showed no fear or anger, and their implacability was more terrifying than if they had swarmed up the slope toward them. The two adolescents were the creepiest—if not for their glittering eyes and ragged clothing, they could have been on a school outing, perhaps a nature hike with a picnic.

“You shooting, or you running?” Franklin asked Jorge.

“This isn’t my fight,” Jorge managed to say, although he could barely force air through his windpipe. He hadn’t given a second thought to risking his life to help rescue Cathy and her baby—although he hadn’t known at the time that the infant was a Zaphead. But this confrontation was unnecessary. All they’d had to do was wait it out and the Zapheads would soon be gone.

He wasn’t going to fight to save a dead man. Not while his family was at risk.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Jorge said.

“The plan is to survive.”

“We survive by staying out of sight.”

“I didn’t hear you saying that back when you were rescuing a damned Zap baby.”

“I…I didn’t know.”

“I’ve got enough bullets for all of them,” Franklin said, leveling his rifle again.

“Do you have enough for whatever army is out there?” Jorge scanned the surrounding forest, wondering if the three soldiers were even now returning to the trail. Or if other soldiers were out on patrol. He’d seen a lot of boot prints.

The Zapheads remained silent, still facing up the slope. Sweat ringed Jorge’s scalp line. The sweet aroma of sap and autumn decay filled his nostrils, the tension heightening his senses. A bird overhead emitted a piercing cry, and Jorge feared it would set off the Zapheads again. But they waited with an inhuman patience.