After: The Shock (16 page)

“Good,”
Jorge said. “We must leave soon.”

“Might
not want to be in too big of a hurry,” the man said. “The way I’ve seen them
Zapheads acting, you wouldn’t have much of a chance if you ran into a pack of
them.”

“We
don’t want to trouble you,” Jorge said.

“I
got plenty of food and water, and my solar panels, and the wind turbine. This
is about as close to modern living as you’re going to get, at least this side
of D.C. Plus, I could use a little help around here, to get ready.”

“Ready?”
Rosa said. “Ready for what?”

“Let’s
hope we don’t have to find out. But I’ve learned to plan for the worse, and
then the worser, and then the worst of all. We’re just now barely on the
‘worse.’ The survivors out there will soon be going at each other’s throats
once they realize the resources are dwindling. And if anybody figures out I got
electricity up here, and a radio, and supplies, they’re all going to want in.”

“Why
does your equipment still work?” Jorge asked as the man’s nubby, wrinkled
fingers worked the dials.

“Stored
it all in a Faraday cage out back,” Franklin said, hooking a thumb to indicate
somewhere outside the cabin. “Shielded metal, it protects against
electromagnetic currents.”

“Do
others have this equipment?”

“Some,”
the man said. “The smart ones. But as you probably figured out already, there
ain’t a whole lot of smart ones on this planet.”

The
radio’s whine turned into a crackle, and then a male voice cut in. It was
clipped, British or Australian, and the words faded in and out: “…
anyone
there?...now is the time for…approximately one in three hundred survived…we are
in need of
…
situation grave
…”

The
radio signal sharpened into a keening wail, and the man’s urgent voice emerged
again from the static. “
Situation grave…repeat, situation grave
…”

Then
it faded, like the ghost of the airwaves, emitting one last message before
becoming swallowed by the endless high hiss.

“
Situation
grave
…”

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Two
of The Captain’s goons shoved Rachel into a dark room and slammed the door.

They
weren’t gentle about it, either, and she burned her elbow on the carpeting. She
guessed she was in a bedroom, although there was no gray square that would
suggest a window. She crawled forward cautiously, feeling in front of her with
an outstretched hand.

She
met something spongy and drew back, horrified that it might be a corpse.

“Took
you long enough,” DeVontay said.

She
sat up on her knees, peering in the direction of his voice but unable to see
him. “Hey, you’re the one playing hero. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.
They roughed me up a little, but I think they’re just playing. Got some kind of
skinhead thing going on, from what I can tell.”

“Their
leader, The Captain—”

“Captain?
What the hell? You think this is a Batman movie or something?”

“I
had to nickname him,” she said. “Psychologically, that makes him less of a
threat. A kind of gallows humor.”

“Yeah,
well, gallows humor is all well and good until the noose tightens. Speaking of
which, why don’t you untie me?”

She
scooted forward until she found the thick wooden bedpost and fumbled around the
thick lump of knots against his skin. “These are like the ones they used on me.
Might take me a minute to get them loose.”

“I
ain’t going anywhere. Did they…
hurt
you?” he said in a low voice as she
tugged.

Rachel
guessed from the pause that he meant, “Did they rape you?” but she brushed past
it. “The Captain threw a Zaphead at me as some sort of screwed-up test. The
guy’s a little brain-fried himself, I think.”

“When
I heard that gun go off—”

One
of her fingernails split to the quick as it snagged on a knot. “You’re not
getting rid of me that easily. Not until we get you and Stephen to Mi’sippi.”

“Where’s
he at?”

“I
left him in a hiding place, but The Captain’s goons found him and turned him
loose out there with the Zapheads. I guess these guys think everybody has to
pass some sort of survival game to prove they are worthy.”

“Shit.
Is the boy okay?”

“Put
it this way. I haven’t heard him screaming yet.”

Rachel
didn’t want to think the worst. Faith required hope, and hope required action.
Starting with these godforsaken knots. “I wish I could see,” she said. “Maybe I
could find a tool.”

“The
lighter,” DeVontay said. “In my pocket.”

“They
didn’t search you?”

“Nah.
They don’t give a damn about me. I’m a one-eyed black jack.”

That
made no sense, but she didn’t question him. She felt along his hip until she
found his belt, and then slipped her hand along the fabric of his pants. She
found the hem of the pocket and hesitated.

“Go
on, girl,” he said. “Nothing in there will bite you.”

“It’s
just…”

“I
ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t.”

That
made her smile despite the gravity of the situation. She shoved her hand inside
the opening, pushing past what felt like a rumpled wad of bills, some flexible,
rubbery things she suspected were Slim Jims, and a keychain. Then her fingers
stroked the cool, smooth curve of the Bic lighter and she fought it free,
hooking the keychain as she went.

With
a flick of her thumb, the area immediately around her was illuminated with a
dim orange glow. The flame was reflected in each of DeVontay’s eyes, brighter
in the glass one. His lip bore a small, wet cut, and one cheek was swollen. She
gently touched his wound and he flinched away.

“I
ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t,” she said, imitating his Philly-street accent.

“I’m
okay. Just get me loose and let’s get the hell out of here.”

She
waved the Bic around, revealing that the room was bare, with an unmade bed, a
dusty dresser with the drawers open, and an open closet with a single suit jacket
hanging in it. Clothes littered the floor, as if the room had been ransacked.
Her impression of a windowless room was confirmed.

“Doesn’t
look like much in the way of hardware,” Rachel said. She jangled the keys.
“Guess I’ll have to use these.”

She
held the light aloft with one hand as she dug into the knot with the longest
key. The knot’s author must have been a Boy Scout, because his handiwork
refused to come loose. She began sawing the serrated edge of the key across the
strands, sending a snow of frayed nylon to the floor.

“What
are you doing with keys, anyway?” she asked him. Her fingers chafed to blood
and her wrist ached from working the key, but she kept on.

“Got
doors to open.”

She
extinguished the lighter to let it cool. Its imprint was burned into Rachel’s
retinas, fat sparks dancing in the sudden darkness.

“Got
any ideas on getting out of here?” she asked. The first strand of rope gave way
and she unraveled the rest of the knot as he anxiously flexed his forearms.

“Gun’s
in my backpack, wherever that is,” DeVontay said. “After they jumped me, I went
down for a while. I didn’t get a good layout of the house.”

“That’s
a privacy lock on the door. They can’t lock it from the outside.”

“We
could sneak out, yeah. But what if they’re still playing survival games? Could
be a dozen Zapheads out in the hall.”

“We’d
hear them banging into the walls.”

“Maybe.
And maybe that guy—the whatchamadude, The Captain—is waiting there with his
gun.”

“Well,
it’s the only way out that I can see.” The severed rope untangled beneath her
fingers and DeVontay wriggled his wrists to free himself. He shook his hands to
restore the circulation as he glanced around the room. He grinned as his eyes
settled on the closet.

“You’re
just not looking in the right place.”

He
stood, rubbing his palms together, and she followed him with the Bic. He shoved
aside the lonely jacket and looked up at the ceiling. “Give me some light.”

Rachel
shoved the lighter toward him, thinking he’d lost his mind. Stephen was out
there somewhere, at the mercy of those soulless killers, and all DeVontay
wanted to do was play hide-and-seek?

“Ha,”
he said. “That little square is an access to the attic. I had a job blowing
ceiling insulation one summer. Hottest damn work I ever did.”

“Great.
So, once we get up there, and then what? Wait for the world to end?”

“Funny,
ha ha. I gotta boost you up. No way can you lift me.”

“You
kidding? You’re only, what—two-twenty?”

“Two-oh-five.
I ain’t et that many Slim Jims.”

He
stooped and cupped his hands. Rachel hesitated, released the fuel lever on the
lighter, and put her sneakered foot into his hands. Something thumped against
the door.

“Damn,”
DeVontay said. “Hurry.”

He
propelled her upward and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself,
patting for the ceiling with the other. She found the access and pushed,
feeling it slide away with a
skiff
of abrasion. Rachel reached into the
warmer air of the opening and found the ceiling joists, then dangled for just a
moment, testing her weight.

“Higher,”
she whispered, and DeVontay tightened his arms and lifted her. She put one foot
on the closet rod as she scrambled into the attic. The dust nearly made her
sneeze, and the attic insulation caused her skin to itch almost immediately.
She rolled around, careful to keep her weight on the sturdier ceiling joists,
and flicked the lighter again.

“How
am I going to pull you up here?” she said.

DeVontay
looked up and shook his head. “You ain’t.”

“I
can’t leave you.”

“You
got to. Ain’t you ever seen a horror movie? The goody-goody white chick always
survives.”

“Don’t
be an asshole.”

“And
don’t waste time here when Stephen’s in trouble.”

She
looked at him for a moment, pondering ways to help him up. But he was too
heavy, the closet rod too weak. “The dresser,” she said. “Move it over here and
stand on it.”

“Okay,
but—”

Something
thumped against the door again, louder this time. DeVontay waved her toward
escape. She killed the flame and saw the slatted ventilation windows on each
gabled end of the house. The closest one was only twenty feet away. She crawled
forward, bumping her head once and getting fiberglass insulation in the creases
of her elbows and gaps of her fingers. When she reached the slats, she peered
through them to the neighboring property.

A
Zaphead wobbled up the street, far enough away that he wasn’t a threat. He
didn’t exhibit the excitement and agitation of a Zaphead intent on violence,
which might mean Stephen had safely hidden somewhere.

Or
it could mean he’s already dead.

The
idea angered Rachel, and she flipped onto her butt and raised her legs,
pointing the bottoms of her feet at the thin wooden slats. She kicked outward
and several of the slats shattered. She kicked again and created a wider
opening. Shoving splinters aside, she perched in the opening and surveyed the
surrounding landscape.

No
movement. Even the Zaphead up the street had taken a turn somewhere and was
lost in one of the neighborhood houses. From beneath her came the sound of a
struggle, and DeVontay shouted something.

His
next word was clear through the access hatch: “Go!”

Rachel
climbed out enough to minimize the drop to the ground, which was about twelve
feet. Not too bad by itself, but it wasn’t a good time for a twisted ankle.

“Just
my luck,” she said. “Roses.”

The
rose bushes extended in a border around the side of the house, meaning Rachel
would have to jump outward several feet instead of merely dropping to the
ground. She shoved the lighter in her pocket.

Here
goes nothing.

Rachel
resisted the urge to yell “Geronimo” as she flew through the air. She had the
presence of mind to roll as she landed, taking the brunt of the force on her
left leg before tumbling across the grass. Gathering her balance, bruised but
otherwise uninjured, she glanced around to see if anyone had spotted her. She
wasn’t sure whether to be more afraid of the Zapheads or The Captain and his
minions.

She
sprinted as best she could with her aching legs, quickly reaching the
concealment of the neighbor’s azalea thicket.

Okay,
you’re free. You can give up on DeVontay and Stephen and make a run for it.
Your chances are better alone. They’re just deadweight anyway, right?

She
glanced heavenward, starting to ask for guidance, but realized prayers were
never answered with a simple yes or no.

God
had granted her longer life for a reason. And that reason wasn’t just to keep
on surviving.

She
had a mission.