After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) (14 page)

Once, he’d seen movement in the trees, but he couldn’t tell whether it was a wild animal or a Zaphead. He’d ducked behind a tree and remained still for fifteen minutes, then continued on his way. By the time he found the well-disguised trail leading to the front gate of Wheelerville, he was scratched up, thirsty, and exhausted.

“Rosa!” he called, when he was within site of the gate.

There was no answer. He wasn’t alarmed by her absence, because even the most tireless person wouldn’t be able to stand vigil on a raised platform for a full day. She also had a caretaking role. Marina was too young for the responsibility, and Cathy had her hands full with her baby.

Instead of directly approaching the gate, Jorge moved through the trees the way Franklin had taught him, so as to not wear a direct path that others might discover. When he came to the fence, with its concealing vines and bushes, he parted the leaves until he could see inside the compound. No one was in sight, and the place was silent except for the low bleating of a goat.

“Rosa!” he called again. She couldn’t hear him if she was inside the cabin. He didn’t want to risk raising his voice, so he decided to try the gate.

After easing back into the woods and approaching again, he found the gate locked. Despite his weariness, he smiled with satisfaction.

Rosa followed our instructions. At least one of us has some sense.

Jorge reached inside the hollow of a split log and found the plastic connector that deactivated Franklin’s solar-powered alarm system. If he had to scale the fence, at least he’d lower the likelihood of being shot by his wife.

He put his back against a slim maple tree and extended his legs against the chain-link fence, scooting his way up until he reached one of the lower branches, then began an easy climb. When he’d pointed out to Franklin the weakness in his defenses, the old man had responded, “Zapheads are too dumb to climb and the government would just burn us out anyway.”

When Jorge was at the top of the fence, on eye level with the lookout platform, he surveyed the compound. Still no sign of his family. The goats milled in their pen and the chickens had settled in their roosts, but otherwise Wheelerville was eerily calm.

The cabin door was closed, so Jorge didn’t bother calling again. He stepped across onto the strand of vine-enwrapped barbed wire that topped the fence and then swung over, snagging his trouser leg and nearly tumbling to the ground in the process.

He soon descended the fence and made his way to the cabin. He called his wife’s and daughter’s names so they wouldn’t be startled, but he still got no response. He even knocked on the cabin door. No answer. He tried the handle but the cabin door was also locked, and Jorge’s gut sank like it was full of mud.

Panicked, he tugged at the handle and hammered at the door, imagining their corpses ripped apart, organs littering the floor and blood spattering the crude pine planks of the walls. The door didn’t budge. The only windows were high, inset slabs of glass that didn’t offer enough room for entry. The cabin had been designed for defense as much as habitation.

Jorge rushed to the little woodshed and grabbed an ax. He bashed the blade into the door handle, then hacked at the wooden frame until the door swung open with a creak. Ax in hand, he rushed into the dark cabin. The beds were empty.

Rosa’s pack and Marina’s satchel hung on pegs by the door, along with Marina’s jacket. Her coloring book was open on the table, crayons spilled across the pages. The food supply appeared to be intact, and Cathy’s baby blanket lay across her makeshift bed on the floor. He couldn’t imagine the woman leaving it behind.

But how did they get through two locked doors? And why would they leave?

It was possible to lock the cabin door from the outside, but only Franklin had a key. The gate, however, could only be locked from the inside, because it featured a steel restraining bar that slipped into a sleeve to reinforce the gate’s strength.

His dead boss, Mr. Wilcox, had once returned from a fishing trip to the North Carolina coast and told the farmhands about the “Lostest Colony,” an English settlement that had vanished without a trace several hundred years ago. Mr. Wilcox believed the settlers had been hauled off and chopped up by savages, but Jorge had been fascinated by the idea that a whole community of people could just disappear into thin air.

Mr. Wilcox said the only clue left behind was a word carved into a tree, but he couldn’t remember the word and he was pretty sure it wasn’t an English word, anyway. “Probably one of them redskins done it,” he’d concluded, content with the version that confirmed his own xenophobic, hostile view of the world.

Perhaps Rosa had left a similar clue here. He lit an oil lantern and searched the cabin, finding nothing unusual. Rosa’s few personal items were still in her pack, and a pot of vegetable soup sat on the still-warm woodstove. His heart sank when he discovered the rifle leaning in the corner. Wherever she was, she was unarmed.

But maybe not helpless. She’d already proven herself, fending off Zapheads back at the Wilcox farm. But this time she had her daughter, another woman, and an infant to protect.

Jorge explored the compound, although it offered few hiding places. He checked the small building that housed the batteries for the solar power system, followed by the dug-out hollow that served as a root cellar, which barely had enough room for one person, much less four. He even looked in the goat shed. The goats bleated with hunger, but he didn’t take the time to toss them some hay. Dusk was settling by the time he returned to the cabin.

“Marina,” he whispered, touching the crayons. Her favor color, pink, was worn halfway down, a waxy fray of wrapper extending from one end. She’d been working on one of the Disney princesses, although he didn’t know if it was Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. His heart ached with absence and helplessness.

Then Jorge noticed the corner of the page had been torn away. Marina was meticulous with her art, almost obsessive, and he’d admired her ability to focus on such detail while the world fell apart around her. She would never damage her page that way. He immediately began looking around for the scrap of paper, hoping it contained a secret message, while at the same time wondering what sort of situation would merit such a message.

He found it tucked beside Franklin’s short-wave radio. The two words were scrawled in blue crayon, the last letter interrupted as if Marina didn’t have time to finish:

“He’s mad.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Come on, you starry-eyed sons of bitches.

Franklin Wheeler had maintained his post in the rhododendron thicket, waiting for one of the Zaps to poke a head out from behind and tree and get blown back to the Stone Age. He’d collected the rifle that coward Jorge had dropped. He was disappointed but not too surprised. The Mexican was an illegal alien, after all, and he didn’t have any sense of patriotism.

Franklin’s last shot had been nearly an hour ago, and he was pretty sure he’d rid the world of one more Zaphead. The target had fallen, although it had rolled out of sight, so he couldn’t confirm a kill. But he notched it up anyway just to make himself feel better.

The soldiers who had been scouting the opposite ridge had also stopped firing. Maybe they’d finally figured out Franklin wasn’t one of their happy little comrades.

You’re not taking my mountain without a fight. None of you.

But as darkness fell, he knew he’d be at a disadvantage even with his commanding view of the trail. The Zappers could sneak up on him, and if the soldiers were well trained and not the usual government screw-ups, he’d have a hard time fending them off if they attacked in an organized unit.

He was happy to die for the cause, but he didn’t want to die for no reason. He still harbored hope that one day Rachel would walk out of the woods, and all his planning and perseverance would be worth it.

I’d die for me, but I’ll live for you, Rachel
.
Wherever you are.

Franklin worked his way out of the thicket, carrying his rifle with Jorge’s slung across his back. Instead of climbing the hill at an angle the way Jorge had done, Franklin cut a straight line to the ridge, weaving between the dark, stoic hickories, maples, and oaks. The crickets were already out, and they sang a song as old as time, a time before man walked the woods and a time before the mockery of man.

Franklin wasn’t worried about getting lost in the dark, because that godforsaken aurora would soon be lighting up the sky like a hippie’s Halloween party. But he might stumble upon a Zap in the dark, and he wouldn’t be able to get off a decent shot before the thing hissed and warned the others.

As he walked, a twinge working through his aching legs, he considered how he’d handle Jorge’s betrayal. He could give the man a second chance—after all, Jorge had worked hard around the compound, cutting firewood, tending the garden, and mending fences. The new world needed good men like him. It wasn’t like Franklin had any willing breeding partners, and it had been so many years since he’d been summoned for that particular duty that he wasn’t sure he was equipped for the job.

But Franklin would have to lay down the law, and in front of his family, too. They all had to learn this wasn’t some half-assed tea party. The future of the human race was at stake. And if Wheelerville was the last outpost of freedom, then its occupants had to draw on the valuable principles of common sense, backbone, and the ability to rely on one another to do the right thing.

All the qualities the human civilization of the early 21st century had abandoned for greed, apathy, and instant gratification.

Wasn’t no surprise the End Times came when they did. If anything, we were well overdue.

Still, who the hell would have imagined a Zap invasion? I always figured God had a hell of a sense of humor, but—

The blow hit him high and hard, like a gunnysack of wet stones dropping from the sky.

Franklin folded under the weight as his rifle flew from his arms and skittered across the leaves. His left shoulder absorbed much of the impact, numbing his arm. His face was jammed into the moist loam, and the ancient rot of the mountain flooded his nostrils. He struggled to free himself, but he was too weak and the burden too heavy. The rifle slung across his back pressed against him in a bright bar of pain.

“Easy, oldtimer, don’t make me play dirty,” the man atop him said.

Franklin elbowed backward with his good arm, hoping to connect with the man’s ribs. The effort brought only a chuckle in response. Franklin sagged in surrender, his mind racing for a way to defend himself.

“Who are you?” he wheezed, fighting to catch his breath. “You’re not…a Zapper…or you’d already be beating me to death.”

“Just a guy who wants to make it through another day, just like you. Which means you’re going to stop kicking and squirming, right?”

The cold, thin edge of a blade pressed against Franklin’s neck. He gave one last defiant wriggle and the blade bit, not deep but enough to subdue him.

“That’s better,” the man said.

“You’re one of the soldiers. McCrone. The one they were chasing.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look. And that’s a good thing, because you look dumb as a turkey buzzard.”

“No need to cut me,” Franklin said. “We might be on the same side.”

“I’m not on nobody’s side. Sarge didn’t like that too much, though.” The soldier shifted the knife from Franklin’s neck. “Now be a good buzzard and keep quiet.”

The soldier rolled off of him, grabbing the rifle strap and working the weapon free from around Franklin’s neck. Franklin sat up with a groan and rubbed his throbbing shoulder.

The soldier crouched, checking the rifle’s chamber to make sure it held a bullet. “Thirty-thirty. You a deer hunter?”

“Nah. A Zap hunter.”

McCrone laughed again, whistling through his bad teeth. “You’re that guy, aren’t you? The prepper wacko who built the compound.”

Franklin kept his face as stiff as a block of ice. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aw, come on. You babble your prep bullshit on a shortwave radio? Sure, the solar radiation knocked out our high-tech satellite gear, but you’re not the only one who knows how to build a Faraday cage. The only reason Sarge didn’t send out a strike force was because you just plain weren’t that big of a threat to the new government.”

“You talk like you drank the red, white, and blue Kool-Aid down there in the bunker. But when you think about it, your new government is a bunch of cockroaches, squirming around underground. I live like a free man out under the sun.”

McCrone laughed again, his body shaking with pleasure. “Damn, old man, you’re full of piss and vinegar, aren’t you?”

“If you had the balls to come on face to face instead of playing flying monkey, you’d find out.”

The night had deepened, and shadows filled the creases of McCrone’s pinched face. He no longer sounded amused. “I saw you gun down those Zapheads. But you’re not the only killer around here. It’s all the same to me if I leave you laying here with a leaky windpipe or if you lead me back to your little freedom paradise.”

“What if I’m not scared of dying?”

“We’re already dead. That’s what this is all about, don’t you think?” McCrone stood and checked the forest around him, rifle at the ready. “I mean, you
are
Franklin Wheeler, right?”

“Damn government just can’t keep its nose out of a free man’s business,” Franklin said, standing and eyeing his rifle, which was half buried in leaves. McCrone must not have seen him carrying it and assumed the rifle across his back was his only weapon.

“We had a full
dossier
on you. You don’t go stocking a secret military installation until you know the neighbors. Satellite photos, email, your criminal records. How are the goats doing?”

“Spy cams,” Franklin said. “You fellows must be desperate if you’re wasting time on the likes of me. What happened, you figured Red China was too tough now, so you go picking on your own people?”