CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Franklin, Jorge, Robertson, and Shay had walked half a mile away from the scene of the slaughter, and as the sun sank below the towering ridge, they decided to find a house for the night.
They chose a small cottage set back from the road, figuring Sarge’s soldiers were unlikely to check it out. The cottage had no vehicles out front and the landscaped yard, now overgrown and unkempt, was wide enough to allow them to see anyone approaching from the forest on either side. They were relieved to find the place empty. Franklin didn’t think any of them could stomach more corpses that day.
With the last of the fading light, Robertson and Franklin searched the house while Jorge and Shay put together a simple meal of tinned food from the kitchen. Franklin figured the cottage was a seasonal vacation home because the air was stale and smelled like mothballs. Despite the chilly night, he opened some of the windows, allowing fresh air to flow through.
Now, as they sat around the kitchen table in the glow of a fat holiday candle eating tuna fish and spinach, Franklin was the first to bring it up. “No way to tell if they were Zaps or not.”
“They were dirty,” Robertson said.
“All of us are dirty. I haven’t seen many survivors jumping in a mud puddle with a bar of soap.”
Shay self-consciously pushed a greasy strand of hair behind one ear. “Those two kids…who could do that to anybody, even a Zaphead?”
“The eyes,” Franklin said. “That old man’s eyes were open. But they didn’t have any sparks.”
“What’s that?” Robertson said.
“I forgot; you haven’t seen any Zappers up close. Their eyes have these glowing little specks in them. Not all the time, but they seem to get brighter when they get excited.”
Jorge pushed away his plate, which was still heaped with cold food. “If they’re dead, they would have no spark, right?”
“Okay, let’s say they were Zaps,” Franklin said. “That leaves a couple of possibilities. They were killed by Sarge’s soldiers, or maybe by some other crazy-assed group we don’t know about yet.”
“Or by other Zapheads,” Shay said. “They’re raging killers, right?”
“That would be just dandy. All we’d have to do is sit back and wait for them to wipe each other out. But that doesn’t explain the message written in blood. That’s the mark of a seriously deranged mind. An intelligent mind, but one without a conscience.”
“The fire in the fireplace,” Jorge said. “It couldn’t have been more than a few hours old. Would a Zaphead build a fire, or write, or leave the bodies arranged that way?”
“Those two soldiers who split off from the patrol. Maybe they didn’t head back to the bunker. Maybe they went rogue. Maybe they wanted to leave us a message.”
“Us?” said Robertson. “Do you think we’re the only people around here who aren’t in that army troop you told us about?”
“You know this area better than we do,” Franklin said.
“Yeah. I was a postal carrier. I didn’t do this route much, but I dropped mail at that house more than once. I don’t remember any kids there, though.”
“That may not have been a real family,” Jorge said. “The killers might have accumulated the people from different places.”
“That makes them even sicker,” Franklin said. He looked at the girl. “Sorry you have to hear all this.”
“Sorry the world ended,” she said without emotion. She’d found a can of Sprite somewhere and clutched it with both hands, like a sacred talisman delivered through a time machine. Franklin marveled that the four of them would never have had any reason to cross paths, much less sit down for a meal together. And now they depended upon one another.
“Who else would know about Milepost 291?” Jorge asked.
“Just our bunker buddies.” A wad of tuna fish got caught in his throat. “And Rachel, my granddaughter.”
Does this have something to do with her?
“She could have told someone,” Jorge said. “Maybe lots of people. If they thought your compound was safe, who knows how many people were heading there?”
“At least that would mean she’s alive,” Franklin said. He hadn’t fully believed it—much like Jorge’s desperate desire to find his family, Franklin had held on to Rachel’s arrival as a reason to hope.
“If bloodthirsty maniacs are on the loose, I’ve got first watch,” Robertson said, scooting his chair back and retrieving his shotgun as he stood. “Besides, this gourmet cooking is a little rich for my delicate constitution. I need to squat down for some quality time out in the woods.”
“Don’t step in nothing,” Franklin called as Robertson went out the back door.
“Gross,” Shay said. “Too much information.”
“No, this canned spinach is gross.” Franklin collected their plates and carried them to the sink. He started to scrape the scraps into the trash, and then realized how ridiculous that was. The cottage’s owners wouldn’t be up for vacation anytime soon. They were probably maggot meat by now.
He stacked the dishes and wiped his hands on a towel draped from a cabinet handle. “I’ll go close up and check the locks. You two figure out where we’re all sleeping.”
Franklin glanced out of each window as he shut it. The forest was sweet with autumn’s decay, the air moist with the promise of coming dew. The darkness was almost total, punctuated only by a high scattering of stars. Crickets and other insects chirruped in the loam.
Whoever would have thought Doomsday could be so peaceful?
But the pastoral view of the black ridges and the ceiling of speckled sky overhead was nothing but a veil. In its milieu were savage killers, Sarge and his ruthless troops, and mutants who seemed to be adapting to the new ground rules much faster than Franklin and his fellow human survivors.
“If you’re out there, Rachel, may God watch over you,” he whispered.
Rachel was religious, but when Franklin looked at the sky, he never sensed a greater power looking down. In a way, the apocalypse almost made it easier for him to believe. The Biblical prophecies had sure gotten things wrong, but Franklin could appreciate an omnipotent being who cared so little for His creations that He’d torch their asses with a wave of solar flares.
And then laugh at the remaining few fools who tried to pick up the pieces.
If God had truly made Man in his image, could they have expected any other outcome?
The cottage had only one bedroom, with a set of twin beds in it. Shay set a candle on the nightstand between the two beds, took off her shoes, and slid under the covers. “I’ll take next watch,” she said. “Tell my dad to wake me when it’s my turn.”
“Okay, hon,” Franklin said, although he was sure she’d be asleep in minutes. Teens needed their sleep, and he doubted he’d be able to nod off anyway, so he didn’t mind standing sentinel for half the night. It would give him time to think.
“You go ahead, Jorge,” Franklin said. “We’re all going to need our rest. Long walk tomorrow.”
Jorge tested the other mattress. “Better than those cots in the bunker.”
“You got that right, my man.”
Franklin bent to blow out the candle but Shay suddenly turned her face to him and said, “No. Please.”
The little flame likely wasn’t visible from outside, even if anyone were looking. She looked so frail, despite her tough talk and quick recovery from almost being raped. But what did he know about her thoughts and feelings? He had more than five decades on her. Most of his rough edges had been worn smooth, like a stone tumbled down an endless turbulent river. She was still sharp and raw, and most of her life—whether that ended up being a day or many years—would have a backdrop of death.
On impulse, he stooped down and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a tough girl,” he said. “You remind me of Rachel.”