After: The Shock (20 page)

“You
mean to make it look like there are no Zapheads around? Gunning for some type
of community award or something?”

“No,
to lure more Zapheads. Maybe they’ve got some vigilante thing going on.”

Pete
carelessly swept the flashlight beam across the room as he turned a page,
reading aloud to Stephen. Rachel scolded him, afraid the light would attract
the people outside like curious, single-minded moths.

Instead,
the pair on the street kept dragging the corpse, heading east toward the fire
that Campbell had started. The spreading conflagration threw a reddish cast to
the sunset, the smoke roiling against the purple-streaked sky like a tableau in
the tempest of hell. The person in the bathrobe lost her grip on the corpse,
and the robe parted to reveal mottled flesh.

“I
think they’re Zapheads,” Rachel said.

“Doesn’t
make sense,” Campbell said. “Zapheads are violent, mindless killing machines.”

“Maybe
we simplified them so we could pretend we understand them.” Rachel didn’t like
that answer, but was it any worse than the reality of the last few weeks?

The
man in the T-shirt turned and looked directly at Rachel, or at least she felt
that way. Even from thirty yards, the hooded aspect of his eyes told her it was
a Zaphead. He was of average height, wearing a crew cut and topsiders, and he
could have been a guy washing his driveway with a garden hose, a beer in his
hand while waiting for the afternoon’s football games to kick off.

Rachel
ducked a little, pulling Campbell down while calling out, “Keep low, guys,
they’re looking this way.”

They
crouched in the gloaming for a long minute, with the only sound the distant
crackle of the bonfire. Rachel expected a knock on the door, or maybe for a
body to fling itself against the window. She wished she hadn’t left her pruning
shears in the kitchen.

She
grew tired of the tension and parted the corner of the curtain just enough to
see the two Zapheads carry their fallen comrade on down the street. Rachel was
surprised to think such a thing, but they had escorted their dead companion
with a tenderness that was in direct contrast to all the violence she’d
witnessed from them.

“I
should follow them,” Campbell said. “See what’s going on.”

“No,”
Rachel said. “How can that help us? Right now, we need to save DeVontay and get
out of here before your fire scorches us alive.”

“We
can all be superheroes!” Stephen said, apparently becoming so engrossed in the
comic book that he’d blurred the line between fantasy and reality. Rachel
almost envied him.

“Sure,
kid,” Pete said. “A super-duper ray gun will do the trick.”

As
if to punctuate Pete’s words, a brittle
crack
resounded from outside,
drawing Rachel’s attention. At first she thought it was the popping of wood
from the heat of the fire, but the Zaphead in the white T-shirt was sprawled in
the street on top of the corpse he’d been helping to carry. A dark stain spread
across the back of his shirt.

Gunfire.

Another
short rang out. The last Zaphead ducked and peered into the smoky murkiness,
then fled out of the street into a side yard.

“Bet
it’s The Captain and his goon squad,” Rachel said.

“Or
maybe Arnoff’s group,” Campbell said.

Pete
joined them at the window. “Sweet. Let’s team up.”

“At
this point,” Campbell said, “I can’t tell the Zappers from the humans. And I’m
not about to get shot to find out.”

“He’s
right,” Rachel said to Pete. “But you guys do what you want. I’m going to get
DeVontay.” She called to Stephen in the darkness of the living room. “Get your
stuff, honey, and meet me at the back door.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

At
first glance, the ranch house appeared to be abandoned.

Rachel
parted the waxy leaves of the rhododendron that bordered one edge of the yard. The
windows were dark, although the glimmer of the distant bonfire reflected in the
windows. Campbell’s act of arson had spread, rimming the twilight sky in the
east with an angry red-orange. Flames leaped and flickered above the treetops,
casting striations of light across the land. The air stank of smoke, and
breathing was difficult, but Rachel couldn’t help thinking of all the cremated
corpses whose fine ash now floated into her lungs.

“Dang,
Campbell,” Pete said, crouched behind her on the property adjoining the ranch
house’s yard. “That’s some bonfire you built. You’re doing your part to wipe
the slate clean, huh?”

“Maybe
these guys have already left,” he said.

“No,”
Rachel said. “I don’t think they’re all that interested in survival. They’re
more interested in the war.”

“The
war against who?” Campbell said. “I think we’ve all pretty much lost this one.”

“You
don’t understand soldiers. Better to go out in a blaze of glory than get your
butt kicked.”

Stephen
squeezed her hand, the little guy curled into a ball beneath the foliage of the
shrubbery. “Don’t go in there.”

“I
can’t leave without DeVontay. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, these guys
will take you to your dad. Right?”

“Uh…sure,”
Pete said. “We’re headed that way anyway.”

“Okay,
then.” Rachel said. “I’ll start the fire on the end near the garage. That will
give everybody a chance to escape before it gets out of hand.”

“Got
any accelerant?” Campbell asked.

“I
saw a charcoal grill in the back yard before it got dark. There was a can of
starter fluid beside it.”

“Another
weenie roast,” Stephen said.

Rachel
chuckled, although the sound of reassurance was more like choking on a chicken
bone. “Need some paper, though.”

After
a moment, one in which something large popped and exploded inside the distant conflagration
with the
whoosh
of an airliner at liftoff, Pete said, “Damn it. Well, so
much for the investment potential.” He unzipped his bag and shoved a stack of
comics in her hand. “Bye, Spidey. It’s been real.”

“It’s
for a good cause,” Campbell said.

“Sacrifice
is for suckers,” Pete said, “but this better get me some serious brownie points
in heaven.”

“I’ll
put in a good word,” Rachel said, hoping she didn’t sound too sanctimonious.
She’d been praying fervently in the past hour but had kept it to herself.

Well,
yourself and God
.
Because you’re not in this thing alone
.

She
checked to make sure her lighter was still in her pocket, then tensed to push
her way through the rhododendron. “I’m going with you,” Campbell said.

“We’re
more likely to be spotted that way,” she said. “Besides, you need to look after
Stephen.”

She
felt a strong hand gripping her forearm. She turned and saw wildfire rippling
in Campbell’s eyeglasses, and behind that, his gleaming, earnest eyes. “If you
go in there, I have to go with you,” he said.

Anger
burned inside her, as hot as any fire. “This isn’t the time for some stupid
post-apocalypse man-code. In case you haven’t noticed, the codes are pretty
much erased. So don’t pull your macho bullshit, because I’ve made it this far
without you.”

Stephen
drew in a shuddering gasp, and Rachel immediately regretted her outburst. She
stroked Stephen’s hair and whispered. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll get DeVontay and
be right back. I promise.”

Pete
let out a snort of disbelief but Campbell stayed silent. Rachel clutched the
small stack of comic books in one hand, her pruning shear held in the other.
The ludicrous nature of her position struck her. If she’d seen somebody
outfitted like this in a viral YouTube video, she’d have dubbed the viral star
a demented supergeek, doomed to a life of cat memes and celibacy.

Just
call me Joan of Arc. Hopefully, without the “burned at the stake” part.

A
shiver of stray light, perhaps made by a flashlight beam, tracked across the
inside of the ranch house. At the same time, a gust of wind pushed the distant
fire into a swollen mass of heat, illuminating twisted columns of smoke that
boiled up into the heavens.

Rachel
thought she heard someone’s voice through the shattered picture window. The
corpse had been removed from the sill, although a dark heap lay in the shadows
of the flowerbed near the edge of the porch.

“Okay,
wish me luck,” Rachel said, bracing to sprint along the perimeter of the lawn.
Given the darkness, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be spotted, but she didn’t
trust Captain America’s little A-Team. They might just be a little
trigger-happy now that one of their number had been killed by the Zapheads.

“You
don’t need luck,” Pete said. “You need a shot of booze.”

“Good
luck,” Campbell said, giving her arm a squeeze of encouragement. “If anything
happens, we’ll create a distraction so you can escape.”

“Mancode?”
she asked.

“Nah,”
he replied. “Just good, old-fashioned outsmarting-the-bad-guys strategy.”

“Wait,”
Stephen said. “I thought those…Z things, the Zapheads…were the bad guys.”

“And
your
job is to take care of Miss Molly,” Rachel said to him. “Okay, I’ll
meet you back here with DeVontay, if everything goes according to plan.”

“Nothing
ever goes according to plan,” Campbell said. “Or this wouldn’t be After.”

“Yeah,”
she muttered under her breath, and then she launched herself from the shrubs
and ran, crouching and keeping an eye on the house, her broken pruning shears
held before her like a jousting lance.

The
strange glow on the horizon swelled into a perpetual sunset, and Rachel was
afraid she was too exposed to make it to the end of the house without being
seen. However, she quickly cut across the yard and soon dropped to her knees at
the end of the house from which she’d escaped. Above her was the black
rectangle of the access from which she’d made her escape—the lack of windows on
this side of the house gave her confidence.

The
charcoal grill smelled of old grease and soot, with ashes piled around its
rusted legs. But the can of starter fluid was nearly full, and she sprayed it
against the wooden siding, the heavy petroleum scent pushing the scorched aroma
from her nostrils. After soaking the wood, she leaned her weapon against the house
and fumbled the lighter from her pocket.

In
the distance, she heard more pops and crackles of the approaching
conflagration, and again, she wondered why The Captain hadn’t moved his unit
from the area. And, she wondered if DeVontay was still inside.

He
will be
.

Because
you NEED him to be.

And
she wondered how much of her need was fueled by guilt over Chelsea. She wasn’t
sure of her motivations, but it was easier to believe she was noble and
righteous. But Pete’s words came back to her: “
Sacrifice is for losers
.”

She
wasn’t losing. Not this time.

Rachel
sparked the lighter to life and flapped open one of the comic books, fanning
the pages. She touched the fire to one corner and a finger of flame crawled up
the edge of the paper, the ink giving off lurid colors. She pushed the torch
over to the moistened boards and the fire took an enthusiastic drink of the
fuel and leaped across the siding.

Rachel
was so transfixed by the mesmerizing flame and the way it seemed to hover just
over the fuel that she briefly forgot her surroundings. Suddenly, she heard a
shout from the street and instantly ducked behind the old charcoal grill,
hoping its bulk would conceal her.

Is
that Stephen and the guys? What would they be doing in the street?

Then
came the
pak pak pak
of semiautomatic gunfire. A bullet skinned off the
wooden siding ten feet above her head. But she didn’t think she was the target.

She
lifted her head just enough to see the silhouette of a human figure running
down the street. The hail of bullets peppered the trees as the figure vanished
between two cars parked in a driveway. She wasn’t sure whether it had been a
Zaphead or someone running from the shooters, but cracked laughter came from
the unseen end of the street.

“Goddamn,
did you see that sonofabitch runnin’ like it had ants crawling up its
zap-hole?” yelled a man with a rural accent.

“Save
your ammo, Donnie,” said another voice, lower, calmer, and more authoritative.

It
didn’t sound like The Captain, although the arrogant tone of command was similar.
By now, the flames had licked along the end of the house, spreading beyond the
petroleum-soaked blotch. A thin ribbon of smoke wended into the sky to merge
with the gauze of haze overhead.

Rachel
crawled around the corner of the house, slapping her pruning shears ahead of
her. The screen door hung open, sagging a little on its hinges. Even though she
might be visible from the street, she wondered whether she should sneak in the
broken window. Depending upon how many of The Captain’s goons were on duty, she
doubted she could fight her way to the back room where she’d been held captive
with DeVontay.

She
decided it might be better to wait until the fire penetrated the house and
forced them to flee. They’d likely not waste the time freeing DeVontay.

Assuming
he’s even alive
.

Well,
she could either dwell on the reality of her situation or fall back on her
faith. Her faith was always there, wrapping her in its saccharine web,
protecting her and restraining her. Jesus, in His darkest hour on the cross,
asked why God had forsaken Him, and God didn’t answer. She didn’t expect an
answer now, either.

She
had nearly decided the house was indeed unoccupied and was about to sneak to
the back door when a muffled explosion roared from the open window. Someone was
firing a gun from inside the house.

Shouts—human
shouts—in the street were followed by return gunfire.

Oh
my Lord, they’re shooting at each other. The last living humans are trying to
kill each other.

Perhaps
she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, killing was what humans did.

The
fire licked up the side of the wall, reaching the eaves and the roof shingles.
Black smoke boiled into the sky as wood cracked and popped from the heat. The
back door burst open and Captain America ran out, his face sweating and shiny
in the reddish glow of the fire-lit night. Two soldiers followed on his heels,
all three running for the rear of the property. Rachel was relieved to see they
were heading away from where Stephen, Pete, and Campbell were hiding. Another
soldier, this one the woman who had fought off the Zaphead in the street,
hobbled out of the house and ran after them in the dark.

“Bruenig,”
she called. “Johnson. Navarro. Wait up.”

She’d
barely reached the back hedge when her shoulder erupted in a spout of dark fluid.
The gunshot sounded a split-second later, still reverberated between the houses
as she sprawled on the scruffy lawn, moaning and leaking.

“Damn,”
Campbell called from the concealment of the rhododendron. Then, louder, he
shouted, “Arnoff! Hold your fire!”

Rachel
realized the group firing on the soldiers must have been Campbell’s and Pete’s
traveling companions. She kept low and scrambled toward the back door. Before,
there had been more soldiers, but perhaps The Captain had sent them on
reconnaissance, or maybe they’d been killed by Zapheads.

Or
maybe they were stacked inside the house, executed by their crazy commander,
victims of bunker fever.

She
didn’t have time to waste. “I’m going in,” she called over to Campbell, and
then she burst through the back door, her pruning shears held at the ready. The
interior of the house was murky, the smoke hanging thin and stale, and the
faintest light oozing through the windows.

“DeVontay!”
she called, keeping low and heading for the hallway, banging her shin against a
piece of furniture in the dark. Around her, the shell of the house whispered
and hissed with the spreading flames. She didn’t have much time.

The
hallway was almost completely black, but Rachel recalled the straight shot to
the back bedroom where she and DeVontay had been held captive. She slammed her
shoulder against the closed door, and then twisted the knob, wishing she’d
thought to bring a flashlight.

She
sensed movement in the room, so perhaps they hadn’t bound DeVontay to the bed
again. That was good, because she needed every second. Fire crawled over the
roof, consuming the asphalt shingles with a greasy roar of pure joy.

Rachel
shouted his name again, competing with the hunger of the fire. The flames had
reached the windows and backlit the house, sending shimmering bands of deep red
behind her. A shape hung before her, a black, man-shaped shadow against the
glow.