After (Book 3): Milepost 291 (6 page)

CHAPTER
EIGHT

“You’ve
got a fever,” Campbell whispered in Rachel’s ear.

Despite
the anxiety of the circumstances, collecting her from amid the circle of
curious Zapheads, he was struck by the clean scent of her hair and skin. Her
odor emanating from her leg, though…

Campbell
was afraid to lay her on the table, especially with
the Zaps huddled around, watching intently. He didn’t trust the bedroom,
either, not considering the atrocities they’d committed on Pamela, so he
carried her to the living room.

“Where
are we?” Rachel said.

“Where
are we?” a doddering, toothless old Zaphead said. Immediately other Zapheads
took up the phrase, cacophonous at first but rapidly falling into a uniform,
deafening chorus.

“Shhh,”
Campbell whispered as he carried her through the hallway to the living room.
“Don’t say anything.”

Soon
the echo died away to murmurs, and the Zapheads crowded around as he laid her
on the couch. Their cries must have summoned the professor, because his boots
drummed down the stairs, followed by whatever group of Zaps he’d been
attempting to teach.

“You…you’re
living with them?” Rachel whispered.

“I
wouldn’t call it a life, but it still beats the alternative.”

The
professor entered the living room, and Campbell was startled at the change in
him. He’d draped a filthy sheet around his shoulders like some mad Roman emperor
and he appeared to be naked beneath. The Zapheads that followed him into the
room were nude, including the young Goth Zap he’d been eyeing, and Campbell turned his head away in disgust and shock. He couldn’t even admire them on a
physical level, like a farmer might appreciate a prize heifer, because they
were so alien and threatening.

Holy
Christ, I wonder what the professor is teaching them up there.

Rachel
looked wildly around, her breath coming in panicked gasps, no doubt having a
hard time processing an entire houseful of Zapheads. “Let me out!” she shouted,
trying to sit up.

The
Zapheads immediately repeated the phrase, with various inflections and
cadences, until once again they built into a massive chorus that seemed to
shake the walls. The professor flung open his makeshift robe, raised his arms
in the air, and then brought his hands under his chin, palms together. The
Zapheads followed suit, and the professor waited until every head was bowed and
every eye closed.

Campbell
clamped a hand over Rachel’s mouth and restrained
her, and soon she grew exhausted and lay back down, muttering “Sweet Jesus”
over and over. The professor eased through the ring of nearly-catatonic
Zapheads surrounding the couch, kneeling beside Campbell.

“I
like your new fashion move,” Campbell murmured.

“Clothes
are an ego attachment of the old ways,” the professor said.

Campbell
wasn’t ready for a philosophical debate. If the
professor saw himself as some sort of New Age cult leader of the damned, well, at
least it gave him a purpose. That was more than Campbell had going. Except now
he had a chance to help someone. A
real
person, not these parroting,
sociopathic mockeries of human beings.

“How
long has your leg been like this?” Campbell asked Rachel as he removed the
bandage from her leg. His nose crinkled at the odor of rancid flesh.

“Two
weeks.”

“Infection’s
bad. You’ve got a fever, too.”

“Got
some antibiotics in my backpack—”

“Which
is out in the field,” Campbell said.

“Too
late for medicine,” the professor said, keeping his voice low so that it was
disguised by the background murmuring of the Zapheads. “Gangrene has set in.”

“Gangrene?”
Rachel said. “No, I’ll be fine. Just need to walk it off.”

“You’re
not walking anywhere,” the professor said. “You’re home now.”

Rachel
raised her voice. “What the hell—” and the murmurs rose and fell, now
discordant as unease rippled among the four dozen or so Zapheads crammed into
the living room. Campbell put his finger to his lips and she finished in a
whisper. “I’m not home. I’m headed for Milepost 291. And I have to find
Stephen.”

“That
little boy that was with you in Taylorsville?” Campbell wondered if she was
delirious. The infection was likely poisoning her whole system. The boy could
be dead and she might be in denial.

“He’s
in the woods all alone,” she whispered.

“You
won’t be any good to him if you die,” the professor said, examining her leaky
wound. The flesh around the gash was gray, while bubbling pustules cratered up
from the raw opening.

“We
need to remove her pants,” the professor said.

Campbell
glanced around at the looming faces and their
strange, glittering eyes, lips working as they mumbled. “No way are we getting
a knife out in this crowd. They see you cutting her pants away and who knows
how they’ll interpret it?”

“If
they wanted to kill me, they would have killed me in the woods,” Rachel said.
“I told you, my leg’s fine.”

With
a lurch of effort, she propelled herself upward, attempting to stand. The
sudden motion triggered silence among the Zapheads. Before anyone could react,
her leg gave way and she collapsed back onto the couch. The Zapheads flailed
and swayed in imitation of her movement, each of them falling to the floor. The
scene would have been comic if it hadn’t been so unnatural and bizarre.

The
professor slid his makeshift robe from his shoulders and draped the sheet over
Rachel. “We’ll fix you,” he whispered.

Naked,
the professor turned to the Zapheads and crouched low, and then stood,
motioning them up with his hands. They stood in unison, focusing on him instead
of Rachel. The Zap woman Campbell thought might be the professor’s love
interest moved to his side and pressed her nude flesh against his.

Campbell
put a hand on Rachel’s forehead, and then stroked her
hair to comfort her. Then he untied her boots and removed them. The professor
and Campbell rolled up the sheet so her wound was exposed while most of her
body remained covered.

“What
do you think?” Campbell whispered, so low that even Rachel couldn’t hear.

The
professor’s gray eyes were solemn but glinted with a mad inner knowledge.
“We’ll have to amputate.”

“Shit,”
Campbell said. “No way.”

“What
are you two talking about?” Rachel said, woozily. Exhaustion must have finally
hit her like a midnight tide rolling in.

“She’ll
either lose her leg or her life,” the professor said.

“You’re
not a doctor.”

“No,
but I’m a scientist. I know necrotic flesh when I see it, and I know what blood
poisoning can do if it reaches the heart.”

Campbell
nodded at the Zapheads. “What about them? You think
they’ll just watch like it’s the Packers and Bears teeing off on Monday night
football? The first cut and they might go wild. There won’t be enough of her
left to fill a chili bowl.”

“Hey,”
Rachel called out, apparently unaware of the professor’s diagnosis. “Just get
me fixed so I can find Stephen.”

“Hey,”
repeated four dozen Zaphead voices. “Hey hey hey.”

Campbell
smelled the wound once more, then headed for the
kitchen to get a knife.

CHAPTER
NINE

“Looks
like we’re soldiers now,” Jorge said, standing sentry by the front door.

“Oh,
hell no,” Franklin said, checking the magazine of the semiautomatic he’d taken
from Hayes. “
They’re
solders. We’re freedom fighters.”

Robertson
had regained consciousness but was in no shape to fight off the rest of the
squad. But Franklin wasn’t even sure the other soldiers had heard the gunfire;
otherwise, they would have come barging in minutes ago. Still, he wasn’t going
to leave the young lady and her dad until he was sure they were safe.

At
least as safe as anyone could be in After.

“Does
it bother you?” Jorge asked, scanning the yard and the surrounding houses.

“Does
what bother me?”

“Killing.”

“You
know I treat my goats and chickens like royalty. But those things…” Franklin spat in disgust. “They’re lower than animals. Lower than Zaps, even.”

“I
am ashamed,” Jorge said. “Not for killing them, but because I no longer feel
any regret. Or anything.”

“You
ought to feel like a goddamned hero,” Franklin said. “You probably saved that
girl’s life. If not her life, at least whatever chance she had at a future.”

“If
that would have been Marina, I would hope someone would do the same.”

“You’re
worried sick about your family, aren’t you?”

“Some
things are in God’s hands.”

“Well,
it was God’s hands that just got yours bloody, so I’d put plenty of salt on
that wafer before I swallowed it.” Franklin checked the living-room window, and
then looked in the kitchen. “They’re stocked with food and supplies.”

“Do
we take them with us?”

“They’re
better off staying put. They’ve got a system that works, and Zapheads haven’t
bothered them. They’re making it.”

A
muted thunderclap erupted in the distance, followed by a staccato burst of
noise.

“The
rest of the patrol,” Jorge said.

“Sounds
like they’re a good ways down the mountain. I’ll bet they didn’t even hear our
little party.”

“Then
what are they shooting at?”

“Probably
each other. Most survival preppers believe you have to sacrifice your morality,
because helping others makes you weak. When you cross that attitude with
whatever line of bullshit Sarge has been feeding them, you get a bunch of
psychos with assault rifles playing Wild West.”

“It’s
not the world I want to raise my family in,” Jorge said.

“I
guess you can ask God why His hands screwed that one up,” Franklin said,
slinging his weapon over his shoulder and going back through the house to check
on Robertson and his daughter.

Robertson
was conscious and alert, his head swathed in a folded pillowcase. He rested on
the bed, propped against the headboard. His daughter wiped his face with a wet
towel. Franklin and Jorge had piled the two bodies in the closet and shut the
door. Franklin figured that was all the memorial crypt the assholes deserved,
but the stench of decomposition would make the house unlivable in a day or two.

“How
you feeling?” Franklin asked the injured man.

“Like
I drank two quarts of bourbon, only without the giggles,” he said.

“I
want to thank you,” the girl said, not meeting Franklin’s eyes. He figured she
was still ashamed about what had almost happened to her, even though she had
done nothing wrong. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong
time when the wrong thing came along.

Guess
that can be said for all of us.

“You
two have done okay for yourselves so far,” Franklin said. “Goes to show that
most of us are better off without people, because a big slice of the population
will always be maniacs. Only now they don’t have to answer for their sins.”

Robertson
put his arm around his daughter. He likewise probably felt shame for not
protecting her well enough. “Strength in numbers, though. If you hadn’t been
here—”

“Then
they
wouldn’t have been here. We’re all just making this up as we go
along.”

“I
was a fool,” the man continued. “I thought hiding was the best plan, laying low
and hoarding, instead of looking for other survivors.”

“Well,
no telling how many preppers are holed up in their private bunkers, ready to
drink their own piss for the next twenty years. I don’t call that a ‘life’ for
a free man.” The teen finally met his eyes and he gave a crooked smile. “Free
woman, either.”

“But
now we have more than just Zaps to worry about. We didn’t know if there was an
army left, but we thought they’d be the good guys.”

“There
ain’t any good guys anymore. Just the dead and the ones that
wished
they
were, plus a few who finally got their chance to call the shots. And I don’t
even know where you put the Zappers in that equation.”

Robertson
waved off his daughter’s nursing, although he winced in pain with the motion.
“What should we do?”

“There’s
a whole squad of these goons holed up in a bunker on the parkway.” Franklin nodded at the closet. “When these two don’t come back, they’ll send out another
patrol.”

“Maybe
we should all stick together.”

The
girl’s eyes brightened with hope, as if loneliness was even more unbearable
than the fear and uncertainty, but she sobered at Franklin’s stony expression.

“Jorge’s
going to be looking for his family,” Franklin said. “And I need to get back to
my compound. I’m expecting company, and the place isn’t built for a tribe.
Nothing personal.”

Robertson
shrugged. “Yeah. I guess when you come down to it, we’re all on our own.”

Franklin
headed for the door, but the teen raced from the
bedside and blocked his way. She stared him down with defiant blue eyes.
“Shay,” she said. “My name is Shay.”

“Good
to meet you, Shay.”

“You
can’t just leave him. That would make you no better than that rapist scum.”

“Shay!”
Robertson said, with a mixture of pride and annoyance. “These men saved our
lives. They don’t owe us anything.”

“Don’t
do it for us,” Shay said, still locked on Franklin’s face so he couldn’t glance
away. “Do it so
they
don’t win.”

Franklin
sighed. “How long will it take you to pack?”