After: The Shock (14 page)

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Rachel
wasn’t sure whether she’d blacked out or had been knocked unconscious.

The
first vestiges of grayness brought no pain, only confusion. She remembered
entering the house to look for DeVontay—

Stephen.
How long have I been here? Wherever I am.

She
rubbed her eyes and then realized it wasn’t her vision that was blurred. The
room’s windows had been covered with sheets, blocking out most of the light.
She was sitting on a hard wooden chair. Dim shapes stood around her at various
intervals.

“Are
you one of us?” a man said.

Rachel
turned in his direction, unsure if the man was addressing her. He stood near
the window, so she could barely make out his silhouette. He was tall and
broad-shouldered, appearing to glance out the window and back again.

“Who
is ‘us’?” Rachel said. She tried to stand and realized she was bound to the
chair. That made no sense, because she didn’t feel any ropes. She wriggled her
hands. They were so numb she could barely tell where they ended.

I
must have been sitting here for a while. Real charmers, these guys.

“If
you are one of us, you know what we are,” the man said.

She
nicknamed him The Captain, even though she was pretty sure he wasn’t a Zaphead.
She peered at the shapes of men. Four that she could see, maybe more standing
behind her. At least two of them appeared to have rifles.

None
of them looked like DeVontay.

“We
heard a shot,” she said. “We thought someone might need help.”

“We?”

“Me
and DeVontay.”

“The
dark one,” the man said.

Dark
one? Well, I guess it could be worse. Could be calling him the N-word.

She
raised her voice. “Are you here, DeVontay?”

A
muffled moan came from somewhere inside the house. The Captain moved from his
post by the window and crossed the room. The additional light gave definition
to the edges and shapes. Rachel could make out a desktop computer, the dull
rectangle of the window reflected in miniature on its blank screen. Loose
papers were piled around it, and unkempt shelves were stuffed with books, board
games, and ceramic cats. An exercise bike stood in the corner, a windbreaker
dangling from one handlebar.

Rachel
turned her head, working blood flow back into her fingers. She couldn’t see
them, but she sensed several more people standing behind her. The air in the
room was stale, body odor mingling with dust. Someone smelled of tobacco, and
the cloying corruption of rot lay under it all, the new base aroma of the
planet.

A
hand gripped her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but not gentle, either.
“You know what this is, correct?” The Captain said.

She
shook her head. “We were only trying to help. We saw the Zapheads coming for
the house—”

“Zapheads?”

“Yeah.
The crazy people. The ones who changed after the solar storms.”

“We’ve
all changed.”

She
couldn’t argue with that, and she had a feeling The Captain wasn’t in a mood for
arguments anyway. “Yeah, but they’re the ones trying to bash our brains in.”

“You
may have noticed that we—that is, if you are one of us—are no different.
Morally, you could make a case that ours is a greater sin, because we’re aware
of our violent actions.”

Whoa.
This guy’s been out in the sun a little too long.

“You’re
aware you’re giving a morality lecture to a woman you’ve tied to a chair,
right?”

“Shall
I gag her?” one of the shadowy figures to her left said. “Like we did with the
other?”

So
DeVontay’s alive.

“No,”
The Captain said. “We need to find out if she is willing.”

Willing?
These guys can’t be rapists, or they would have done their business while I was
unconscious. And it’s not like I can resist all that much right now.

“Like
I said, we heard a shot and saw some Zapheads headed for the house,” she said,
doing her best to sound calm even though she wanted to scream. “We figured
somebody was in trouble and came to help.”

“And
these…Zapheads, as you call them…what do you think makes them attack?”

“I
don’t know. Different theories, you know. The sun boiled their brains. The
radiation mutated them. The electromagnetic pulse scrambled their wiring.”

“Have
you considered that maybe they are enlightened?”

“No.
I haven’t considered that at all. Been kinda busy staying alive.”

“Do
you believe in an all-powerful God?”

“What
is this, the Spanish Inquisition? What next, the rack?” She struggled against
her bonds. Feeling crept back into her limbs, in tingling pinpricks of fire.
She rocked back and forth, testing the sturdiness of the chair. It was a cheap
dining-room model, the legs loose and the slats digging into the backs of her
thighs.

“We
have to know if you are one of us.”

She
whipped her head around, taking in the perimeter of the room, at least as much
as she could see. Three of The Captain’s chums had changed position, one taking
up a post by the window. Rachel couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman until
the person spoke.

“Movement
on the street,” the woman said. Her tone wasn’t quite military, but it was all
business.

These
guys have either spent some serious time together, or had something going on
before the sun went nuts. Before After.

“Is
it one of the enlightened?” The Captain asked.

“Appears
to be.” The woman tracked the barrel of a gun across the veiled window.

“Stay
quiet, everyone,” The Captain said. “We don’t want to hurt it.”

“Let
me get this straight,” Rachel said. “You jump me and tie me up but you let
those things wander loose?”

“Live
and let live,” The Captain said. “They’re children of the sun.”

“The
Sixties are over,” Rachel said. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re all that’s
left. And we should be helping each other. We’re on Team Human. Right?”

“We
are here to serve,” The Captain said.

The
woman at the window raised a hand. “There’s somebody else outside.”

“Enlightened?”
The Captain said.

“Hard
to tell. Looks like a boy, maybe ten.”

Rachel’s
heart froze in her chest.
Stephen!

“Time
for the test,” The Captain said. “We shall see if she is worthy.”

The
doorknob gave a brassy squeak behind her and the shadowy forms moved toward it.
The female sentinel reached up, one skinny arm silhouetted against the daylight
beyond the sheet. Then the makeshift curtain came down with a rip and sunlight
poured into the room. Rachel squinted against the sudden yellow brightness, and
by the time she’d recovered her sight, the room was empty. Footsteps echoed
down the hall and The Captain said, “She’s all yours.”

Rachel
scooted in little hops until she was turned and facing the door. Her first
impression was correct. The room was a home office or den, bookshelves lined
with paperbacks, loose sheaves of papers stuffed among them with the haphazard
care of someone who loved information more than artifacts. A globe on a swivel
and a heavy oak lamp stood on a small bureau near the door, with statuettes and
photographs behind the glass of the cabinets. The floor was tiled with
pressboard, but the hallway beyond the door was carpeted. She twisted against
the ropes, chafing her wrists as she cast about the room looking for a sharp
edge that could sever the ropes.

Maybe
there’s a letter opener or scissors in the desk.

Rachel
tried not to think about Stephen wandering around the yard, lost and looking
for her, or the circling Zapheads that might kill him. She couldn’t bear
another death. Billions had died and she had been helpless, God had abandoned
her in her time of greatest need, like He had Jesus when the flesh of his palms
shredded beneath the steel spikes and his lungs sagged in suffocation.

Or
when the cool water had pulled her little sister, Chelsea, into its deep blue
heart.

I
don’t like this theme. God is never there when you need Him most
.

She
gripped the edges of the seat and lifted as she pressed down with her toes. The
chair slid forward a good three inches, and she repeated the movement twice,
three times, gaining more distance with each bounce. She was so intent on her
goal, the metal desk with the computer atop it, that she didn’t notice the
person in the doorway until a lamp crashed to the floor.

Rachel
twisted her neck around. Budget Bieber came toward her, eyes brightly vacant
beneath the brown bangs but somehow fixed on her, just the same. He carried
himself in an insouciant slouch, stooping to the floor to retrieve the lamp. He
appeared to test its weight with one short swing of the wooden base, as if
first learning of its potential as weapon. Satisfied, he yanked at the flimsy
lampshade until it tore free.

Rachel
pitched forward, away from him, forgetting her feet were tied. When she felt
herself falling, she twisted so that the chair toppled to the right. Her elbow
banged against the floor, but the flimsy chair broke apart. She tried to roll,
but the back of the chair clung to her, dangling from the ropes that bound her
wrists.

Budget
Bieber hovered over her, the lamp raised. His mouth parted wide as if about to
embark on the first note of a churlish pop song, but only a strange deep
chuckle emerged. He brought the lamp down toward her head, the bare gray bulb
leading the way.

Rachel
barely had time to scoot to the left before the bulb smashed into the floor,
sending shards of glass into her face. The Bieber Zaphead raised the lamp
again, the jagged broken bulb now resembling a row of teeth. This time, Budget
Bieber rammed it toward her, as if to pin her against the floor.

She
took advantage of his lunge to sweep one leg against his shin. Off balance, he
clattered to the floor, again issuing his peculiar low chuckle as the lamp
bounced out of his hands. Rachel’s elbow throbbed as she struggled to her
knees, shaking violently to rid herself of the remnants of the chair. One ankle
slipped free and she was able to stand.

Still
splayed on the floor, the Bieber Zaphead made a grab for her leg. She danced
out of reach and then jumped forward again, driving the heel of her sneaker
onto his wrist. He moaned in the monotone of unheralded pop stardom, although
it didn’t seem a reaction of pain. His inner rage was driving him now, the way
it apparently compelled all Zapheads to crush, pummel, and slash any living
creature that wasn’t like them.

Rachel
backed against the desk and yanked open the top drawer. Keeping one eye on the
Bieber Zaphead crawling toward her, she rifled among the papers, business cards,
and zip drives, looking for something sharp and shiny. She heard a whimper of
frustration and realized it had crawled from her own throat, making her angry
at herself. Only the faithless gave in to despair.

On
the desk was a clay jar stuffed with pencils, pens, and postage stamps. A thick
plastic handle protruded from the collection, and she snatched it, sensing the
Zaphead’s approach. The object was a flat-head screwdriver, its tip gleaming
silver.

She
raised the screwdriver like a knife, ready to plunge it into the Zaphead’s
vacuous face. But before she could skewer the bangs-covered forehead, she
looked into those eyes and saw a glimpse of the human he had once been.

Somebody’s
son, somebody’s brother. Maybe somebody’s favorite singer.

His
eyes were brown, glittering with a manic golden flecks. She hesitated, holding
the screwdriver a foot above his face.

Then
he went for her and she fell back onto the desk, knocking the computer to the
floor.

Should
have killed him while I had the chance. But maybe I’ve killed enough.

She
kicked the broken bits of chair and loose rope from her feet and fled toward
the door, Budget Bieber in pursuit. Before she could escape, The Captain
stepped from the hall, blocking the doorway, and clapped his palms together.
“Halt,” he shouted.

Rachel
thought he was speaking to her, but no way in hell was she going to stop
running until Budget Bieber was shrinking in the rearview mirror of her life.
When The Captain repeated his command, she realized he was addressing the
Zaphead, and by then she was at the door.

She
shoved past The Captain and reached the relative safety of the hall, turning to
see how close the Zaphead was to catching her. The Captain stepped into the
room, raising one arm and pointing a revolver. “Stop now!”

The
Zaphead paused only long enough to take his eyes from Rachel and fix them on
The Captain. Rachel backed down the hall, even though the Zaphead had already
forgotten her. A new target was closer. The Zaphead hunched for an assault,
just out of arm’s reach of The Captain.