DeVontay handed him a couple of Slim Jims. “Had some friends over for a cookout.”
Cool!” he said, starting to rip open the cellophane.
“Not yet,” DeVontay said. “We’ll eat once we’re safe.”
The fire wasn’t visible from the back of the slaughterhouse, but its glimmering caused shadows to dance along the fence line. The petroleum stench filled the air as smoke drifted around the building. Some of the kids coughed, and DeVontay wondered what would happen if the group encountered a pack of Zapheads on their way out. Would they be able to remain calm as DeVontay had done? Or would they panic and throw the Zapheads into a murderous frenzy?
When Kiki and Carole came outside with the last of the children, Kiki said to him, “Try the fence again?”
“It’s dark now. We should be able to sneak out.” DeVontay glanced from one round-faced child to the next. Even in the bad light, he could see how wide-eyed and vulnerable they all were. He grew more determined than ever to get them all out of there alive.
“You first, Little Man,” DeVontay said to Stephen, pointing up the slope to the gap in the fence.
“What about that other kid who went through and got grabbed by the Zappers?”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
He could tell by his large, brimming eyes and quivering lower lip that Stephen was frightened, but the boy wasn’t going to show it. He just nodded. Kiki cradled the youngest toddler, and DeVontay bent forward to peer at it. The tiny face gazed up at him with curiosity.
“Everybody ready?” he said.
“Yes, we are,” Kiki said firmly, taking a child by the hand. Carole did the same.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s all follow Stephen. Keep quiet, keep together, and no looking back.”
DeVontay fell in behind Stephen, the bundle of goodies swaying back and forth on his shoulders. Kiki encouraged the children forward, shushing James when he made a remark about kicking some Zaphead butt. As they emerged from the concealment of the slaughterhouse, DeVontay resisted the urge to look at the conflagration. His shadow in the firelight stretched ten feet long and gangly ahead of him.
In only a couple of minutes, they reached the fence, and only then did DeVontay look back. The group of Zapheads were larger, some of them still entering via the main gate. They were in various states of undress, the light of the flames coruscating across their bodies in waves. They might have been acolytes of some bizarre cult, gathering to worship the primitive transformation of matter to energy, with no knowledge of its science, serving mute witness to its awesome destructive power.
“Go on,” DeVontay said, rolling back the cut section of fence so the children could slip through the gap. “Careful and don’t scrape yourself on the jagged wire.”
Stephen again led the way, with Kiki the last to go through. DeVontay shoved his bundle though the gap before following. The dark, cold forest awaited them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
As darkness fell, Franklin wanted to find a house in which he could hole up for the night, but he realized he was near the boundary of the national park where homes were scarce.
That was a welcome sign, even though he might have to catch some shut-eye on the ground. He was hungry, but exhaustion was a bigger problem at the moment. He’d refreshed himself from the cold, clear springs that oozed from between granite boulders, water driven by incredible pressure from the depths of the ancient earth. As he’d ascended in elevation, the trees had grown thinner and barer, already succumbing to winter.
Once, he’d heard two men talking in the distance, and he’d pressed himself into a mossy cleft behind a rotted stump until the voices faded, then waited an extra half an hour just to be sure. They were most likely members of Sarge’s platoon—although it was possible other survivors had headed for high ground in the wake of the solar storms and subsequent collapse. He wasn’t willing to take that chance.
Just before sunset, gunfire had erupted somewhere in the mountains around him. He couldn’t pinpoint the location due to the echoes across the valley, but it was miles away from him and lasted less than a minute. He followed a muddy animal path, keeping Grandfather Mountain’s dark profile to his left as he climbed. Soon the path widened, and by the time the sun’s light had all but diminished, he realized he was on one of the Blue Ridge Parkway’s hiking trails.
Night travel was safe enough, since the stars and moon offered just enough light to distinguish the deeper blackness of the forest from the open trail. He kept alert for any noise or sudden flash of light, although many creatures seemed to move through the treetops and scurry across the hidden carpet of fallen leaves. After perhaps an hour, he carefully felt his way a few feet into the forest and lay down in what felt like a grove of ferns. Removing his jacket, he rolled it into a pillow and rested. Even though he shivered, he was grateful that the October air was too cold for mosquitoes.
He must have dozed for some time, although he had no way of judging how long. The night had shifted into a deeper, more mysterious mode, a time that still belonged to nature and was hostile to man. The insects hissed louder and bolder, the night predators clawed bark and rattled branches, and the creeks gurgled with a liquid menace. Franklin slipped into his jacket and found his way back to the trail, some of the weariness banished despite the damp ache in his bones.
He came upon some deer, a buck and two white-tailed does, and the animals didn’t bolt at his scent. The buck’s antlers had five or six points, a testament to age and strength, and it stared at Franklin as if daring him to come closer. Its eyes may have been tainted with solar sickness, or it might have just been reflecting the moon. Either way, Franklin waited until the small herd moved on before he continued.
Once, he came to a bend in the trail that opened into a vast expanse of mountain and sky, the quarter moon wedged above the craggy face of Grandfather Mountain. Mist hung like the smoke of primeval fires, veiling the canopy and wrapping shrouds around the rocky, gray peaks. It was a world that seemed to have completely forgotten the existence of human beings—indeed, a world that had never even known of their presence. Even as a longtime outdoor enthusiast, Franklin was humbled by the vast magic and beauty that made him feel simultaneously insignificant yet unequivocally distinct.
He wasn’t a religious man, although he’d pursued various spiritual paths in his youth before cynicism had driven him to become a survivalist. Now, imagining he might be the only living soul in the universe, he wondered if God approved of him, and whether he deserved any special dispensation. He’d never considered whether building a survivalist compound was a selfish act—he’d always told himself he was protecting the future of his family. But like the ascetic whose life of meditation hidden away in a Himalayan cave did little to make the world a better place, maybe Franklin’s idealism amounted to little more than intellectual masturbation, a monument in service to his ego.
It disturbed him to consider his years of work to be so meaningless, yet he couldn’t deny the essential truth. If his heart seized and he fell dead that moment, the compound might sit idle until some future doomsday reduced it to volcanic slag or the march of decades wore it down to black dirt. But he diverted himself from self-pity. He’d long considered that the trait of fools.
“I’m doing it for Rachel,” he said to the silent sky. “She’s still alive.”
Satisfied that he’d reached some sort of accord with whatever higher power might be listening, he continued up the trail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Rachel heard her name as if across a vast gulf.
But it wasn’t until Campbell shook her awake that she realized she’d been asleep.