After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) (7 page)

He wasn’t sure about the soldiers, though. He doubted the thin metal walls would deflect bullets. He just had to trust that the woman was correct—the soldiers had no interest in her.

But Campbell found trust difficult. He hadn’t been so good at it in the old days, and in the aftermath of the apocalypse, he’d not had a whole of opportunities to practice the trait.

“Make yourself comfy,” she said, waving at the bed, which apparently doubled for both sitting and sleeping. Campbell sat on the edge of the bare mattress, suspicious of the musty patchwork quilts piled atop it.

Wilma opened a cabinet, revealing a storehouse of liquor. The bottles were arranged with a neatness that contrasted vividly with the chaos of the living area, as if this was one area where the woman found comfort and control. Many of the bottles were full, and he wondered how many trips she’d made to the nearby town to collect such a stash.

She reached in and plucked out some Scotch with a yellow label. “Nothing but the best for guests, right, Peanut?”

The dog’s tail gave a couple of feeble thumps. Campbell wondered how many “guests” had made their way into the camper over the years.

Without ceremony, the woman twisted off the cap and took two deep swallows. She gasped in obvious pleasure, revealing two black gaps in her teeth, and held the bottle out for Campbell. Although the numbing promise of the alcohol was alluring, he couldn’t help thinking of the scab on her lip, which was now damp with drink.

“No, thanks,” he said.

“A teetotaler, huh? Well, no use racking up brownie points in heaven. God’s done given up on this kooky little experiment called ‘the human race.’ Right, Peanut?”

This time, the dog ignored her.

“You weren’t carrying a gun,” Campbell said.

“What for? If they wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.” She blew out the candle, and then Campbell heard a plastic bottle fall as she headed toward him. She put her hand on his knee as she climbed onto the bed with the bottle.

He braced for her touch, afraid she would demand intimacy, maybe even sex.

“You better get some sleep,” she said. “Peanut will bark if anybody comes. You’re safe here as anywhere.”

Campbell didn’t find any comfort in that, but he was exhausted. He lay down, fully clothed, his backpack still slung over his shoulder, listening to her sip from the bottle in the dark.

He pictured the silent, somber procession of Zapheads carrying their corpse into the forest, an endless line of them, and soon he couldn’t tell memory from dream.

CHAPTER NINE

Bzzzzzz
.

Rachel woke with the sun in her eyes. Disoriented, she wiped the sweat from her face. The sky was clear and brilliant blue overhead, and the air was moist with June humidity. She sat up and saw the grainy stretch of beach opening up to the expanse of blue-green water. A speedboat droned in the distance, the source of the hum that had awakened her.

The Lake Norman vacation. A break from tenth grade and geometry and the persistent attention of David Anderson, first-chair clarinetist and algebra honors student. School a glorious eight weeks in the future, so far on the horizon as to not even be imaginable yet. Her parents back at the club, Dad probably sipping a beer after a round of golf, Mom in a lounge chair reading a James Patterson paperback. Not a care in the world.

Chelsea?

Chelsea was right there on the beach when Rachel had closed her eyes—
just for a second, I only wanted to block out the bright blinding sun for a second
—and now she was gone.

Rachel lifted her head and squinted up and down the beach. They were in an isolated, shady spot, the nearest pier fifty yards away. The boats there were docked and tethered, and a couple of people sat on the edge of the pier, feet dangling in the water.

Chelsea couldn’t have gone far in those few seconds Rachel had closed her eyes—and she was now willing to admit it had been
seconds
, plural. Still, Chelsea wouldn’t have gone into the water without her big sister. Because Rachel would give her an Indian sunburn on her forearm or twist one of her pigtails until she squealed like a real pig.

But Chelsea wasn’t on the beach. Had she gone up the trail and through the landscaped trees to the club?

I’ll get that twerp for leaving me down here to get sunburned.

But their tube of sunscreen, towels, and half-full Sprites were sitting beside Rachel, along with Chelsea’s iPod and ear buds. She was into Taylor Swift and Katy Perry at the moment, girl power music. Chelsea never went anywhere without her ear buds. The only time she took them out was when she was in the shower or...

And the horror dawned on her just as the last dregs of drowsiness fell away. She didn’t even recall jumping to her feet. She could very well have levitated all the way to the water’s edge.

Then Rachel was knee-deep in the lake, beating the surface, screaming Chelsea’s name as the silver droplets showered around her with a laughing rhythm. She dove into the water, the contrasting coolness heightening her senses. Chelsea was wearing a green bikini that was just starting to fill out a little with swells of pudginess. She should be easy to spot.

The terrain sloped gently into the water, meaning Chelsea would have had to go out at least thirty feet to be in over her head. There were no sudden drop-offs, no real currents, no undertow. No reason to go under and not come up.

Rachel held her breath until her lungs burned and her eyes stung. She forced herself to the surface and dove again, into deeper water.

Still no Chelsea.

This time when she broke water, she waved her arms and shouted “Help! Help!” The couple on the pier saw her and started running.

Come on, Chelsea, don’t be lost.

I only closed my eyes for a second.

I didn’t mean to…

She sat up, fighting for breath, wondering why the water was so cold.

“Hey,” DeVontay said. “You okay?”

He was crouched by the opening of the damaged cockpit, a map open across his knees and tilted toward the campfire. The flames had burned low, casting a reddish hue against the plane’s interior and glinting dully against the dead instrument panels.

Rachel held up her palms. Still empty, even after all these years of reaching.

“You were calling her name,” DeVontay said. He’d taken first watch, and Rachel suspected he’d let her keep sleeping even after it was time for her turn as sentry.

She didn’t want to cry in front of him. She had to be strong. Even though she couldn’t claim to be a woman of faith any longer, she was still a woman. She couldn’t afford to live in an After where the rules were made by men.

“We’ve all had losses,” she said, glancing at Stephen’s sleeping form. “You haven’t even talked about your family.”

“I got my reasons,” DeVontay said. He checked outside for movement. Satisfied, he folded the map and moved a little closer to the fire. “We’re making good time. We’re maybe fifty miles from the parkway.”

“The weather’s getting cooler as we get higher in elevation. We’ll be out of these foothills soon and into the real mountains.”

“You think there’s anything up there waiting for us?”

“My grandfather doesn’t play games. If he’s still alive, he’s waiting for me. And if he’s not, his compound will still be the best place to regroup and figure out the next step.”

“What
is
the next step? Once it looks like we’re going to make it.”

“What comes after? My grandfather believes it’s about more than just hiding in a bunker and growing old. He’d say, ‘Ray-Ray, I only know two things for sure. One is, Doomsday will come sooner or later. The other is, we’ll all have to learn to live together after it’s over.’ He’s the most optimistic cynic I’ve ever known.”

DeVontay took a sip of water from a plastic bottle. “How come you got so much trust in him?”

“A mix of inspiration and desperation. He was the only one who didn’t make me feel guilty after my sister drowned. He even wondered if it had something to do with him—like she was targeted because he’d once been a prominent survivalist.”

“Sounds a little paranoid to me.”

“Schizophrenia runs in the family,” she said. “He has a sister who didn’t get electricity because she didn’t want the power company to know her address.”

“How do people like that make in the world?”

“She’s out in Texas. For all we know, she might be living happily ever after.”

“Ain’t no happily ever afters.”

They were silent for a moment, Rachel growing drowsy again even though she should take over the watch so DeVontay could get some sleep. “About earlier…”

“Forget it. We got enough problems.”

“What if it’s not a problem?”

“It will be,” he said. “Ain’t no happily ever afters, remember?”

The fire hissed as the wood heated. Rachel was cold, even covered by a comforter she’d found in the luggage. She drew it around her. The hissing grew louder but the embers remained dark red.

“Hear that?” DeVontay said.

“Is it raining?” It had been clear earlier, when they were outside and shared that awkward intimate moment when DeVontay had pointed out constellations. But weather could change fast in autumn. She glanced at the cockpit’s shattered windshield, but no drops appeared on it.

“I thought it was crickets,” DeVontay said. “But this doesn’t sound right.”

“Whatever it is, it’s coming from all around us.”

Stephen stirred in his sleep. Rachel shed her comforter and went to him, hoping he wouldn’t cry out. Her pistol was on top of her backpack, within reach if needed. With DeVontay’s guidance and some target practice, she no longer felt uneasy with it.

DeVontay put his index finger to his lips in a “shushing” gesture. He grabbed his rifle and dropped to the ground, wriggling forward on his elbows until he lay in the jagged opening of their makeshift camp. “Put out the fire,” he commanded in a hoarse whisper.

Rachel poured the remains of a water bottle on the flames, arousing a humid steam. Then she pulled the comforter over it to suffocate the last of the embers. In the sudden darkness, Rachel was temporarily blinded, afraid she’d awaken Stephen if she moved. Then the ambient glow of the aurora settled in to cast a greenish hue as if she were looking through night-vision goggles.

The hissing grew louder around the cockpit. Rachel wanted to ask DeVontay if he saw anything, but she was afraid to make any noise. She felt along the damaged cockpit’s shell until she came to the nose of the plane, then she ascended the sharp incline of wreckage until she could see through the cracked window.

She was right about the sky—it was still shockingly clear, the striated bands of shimmering green aurora like a psychedelic fireworks display against the ceiling of heaven. Beneath it was the black outline of the forest. At first she could see nothing, but then the trunks of the closest trees individuated. Something moved between them.

Dozens of tiny sparks, like fireflies.

But fireflies were a summer insect. The September nights were too cool for them.

That glittering gold was familiar.

Zapheads?

They hadn’t seen any Zapheads in a week, and they’d been able to avoid contact through caution. Rachel had never seen more than a few at any one time.

Several of them had attacked in unison back in Taylorsville, when she and DeVontay had been held captive by soldiers. But she couldn’t comprehend the numbers now surrounding them in the woods, issuing their clicking ululations in the shadows.

“Eyes,” she said, mostly to herself, to grasp the awfulness of the idea, although she’d said it loudly enough for DeVontay to hear over the hissing.

“It’s them,” he said.

The sibilant hissing rose into a unified keening, almost a single soulful wail. The Zapheads were giving voice to the misery of After in a way that no human could articulate. Rachel shuddered, and the dread sank deeply into her bones.

We’ll die here. All this for nothing.

So much for protecting Stephen.

So much for paying my debt.

Thanks a lot, God.

But she couldn’t be angry at the force she’d rejected. If she’d stopped thanking God for survival and hope, then she couldn’t rightly blame Him for the disintegration.

The glittering eyes still hovered in the distance, not coming any nearer. Rachel slid to the ground and crawled across the ruptured cockpit, feeling her way. The smoky steam hung heavy in her lungs, and she forced back a cough. Stephen murmured in his sleep.

She expected DeVontay to begin firing at any moment, the night exploding with lead and powder. Even with the extra boxes of ammo he’d found back at the farmhouse, they would not be able to fend them off, even if every shot found its mark.

Rachel reached her backpack and clutched her pistol. Her grandfather would want her to go down fighting.

She could almost hear his demanding, raspy voice now.
“Stand your ground. Make the bastards pay for messing with a Wheeler.”

The high, hissing wail echoed inside her skull, penetrating to her soul. This was the soundtrack to hell, inspiring her to madness. She fought an urge to burst out laughing, to flee into the forest with her pistol blazing, to meet their violence head on with no mercy asked or given.

But when she reached the cockpit opening, DeVontay blocked her way. “Wait,” he said, wrapping a strong arm around her.

“How can there be so many?”

“Dunno.” DeVontay held her against his body so tightly that she could barely breathe. Her heart felt like a zeppelin filling with warm hydrogen.

She struggled against him, barely hearing him over the noise. Now she wanted to scream instead of laugh, and then she thought she
was
screaming, because a shriek pierced the night like an electric guitar solo over a string orchestra.

The sound was coming from inside the cockpit.

Stephen!

The keening wail in the forest gave way to an ominous silence.