She reached in and plucked out some Scotch with a yellow label. “Nothing but the best for guests, right, Peanut?”
The dog’s tail gave a couple of feeble thumps. Campbell wondered how many “guests” had made their way into the camper over the years.
Without ceremony, the woman twisted off the cap and took two deep swallows. She gasped in obvious pleasure, revealing two black gaps in her teeth, and held the bottle out for Campbell. Although the numbing promise of the alcohol was alluring, he couldn’t help thinking of the scab on her lip, which was now damp with drink.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“A teetotaler, huh? Well, no use racking up brownie points in heaven. God’s done given up on this kooky little experiment called ‘the human race.’ Right, Peanut?”
This time, the dog ignored her.
“You weren’t carrying a gun,” Campbell said.
“What for? If they wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.” She blew out the candle, and then Campbell heard a plastic bottle fall as she headed toward him. She put her hand on his knee as she climbed onto the bed with the bottle.
He braced for her touch, afraid she would demand intimacy, maybe even sex.
“You better get some sleep,” she said. “Peanut will bark if anybody comes. You’re safe here as anywhere.”
Campbell didn’t find any comfort in that, but he was exhausted. He lay down, fully clothed, his backpack still slung over his shoulder, listening to her sip from the bottle in the dark.
He pictured the silent, somber procession of Zapheads carrying their corpse into the forest, an endless line of them, and soon he couldn’t tell memory from dream.
CHAPTER NINE
Bzzzzzz.
Rachel woke with the sun in her eyes. Disoriented, she wiped the sweat from her face. The sky was clear and brilliant blue overhead, and the air was moist with June humidity. She sat up and saw the grainy stretch of beach opening up to the expanse of blue-green water. A speedboat droned in the distance, the source of the hum that had awakened her.
The Lake Norman vacation. A break from tenth grade and geometry and the persistent attention of David Anderson, first-chair clarinetist and algebra honors student. School a glorious eight weeks in the future, so far on the horizon as to not even be imaginable yet. Her parents back at the club, Dad probably sipping a beer after a round of golf, Mom in a lounge chair reading a James Patterson paperback. Not a care in the world.
Chelsea?
Chelsea was right there on the beach when Rachel had closed her eyes—just for a second, I only wanted to block out the bright blinding sun for a second—and now she was gone.
Rachel lifted her head and squinted up and down the beach. They were in an isolated, shady spot, the nearest pier fifty yards away. The boats there were docked and tethered, and a couple of people sat on the edge of the pier, feet dangling in the water.
Chelsea couldn’t have gone far in those few seconds Rachel had closed her eyes—and she was now willing to admit it had been seconds, plural. Still, Chelsea wouldn’t have gone into the water without her big sister. Because Rachel would give her an Indian sunburn on her forearm or twist one of her pigtails until she squealed like a real pig.
But Chelsea wasn’t on the beach. Had she gone up the trail and through the landscaped trees to the club?
I’ll get that twerp for leaving me down here to get sunburned.
But their tube of sunscreen, towels, and half-full Sprites were sitting beside Rachel, along with Chelsea’s iPod and ear buds. She was into Taylor Swift and Katy Perry at the moment, girl power music. Chelsea never went anywhere without her ear buds. The only time she took them out was when she was in the shower or…
And the horror dawned on her just as the last dregs of drowsiness fell away. She didn’t even recall jumping to her feet. She could very well have levitated all the way to the water’s edge.
Then Rachel was knee-deep in the lake, beating the surface, screaming Chelsea’s name as the silver droplets showered around her with a laughing rhythm. She dove into the water, the contrasting coolness heightening her senses. Chelsea was wearing a green bikini that was just starting to fill out a little with swells of pudginess. She should be easy to spot.
The terrain sloped gently into the water, meaning Chelsea would have had to go out at least thirty feet to be in over her head. There were no sudden drop-offs, no real currents, no undertow. No reason to go under and not come up.
Rachel held her breath until her lungs burned and her eyes stung. She forced herself to the surface and dove again, into deeper water.
Still no Chelsea.
This time when she broke water, she waved her arms and shouted “Help! Help!” The couple on the pier saw her and started running.
Come on, Chelsea, don’t be lost.
I only closed my eyes for a second.
I didn’t mean to…
She sat up, fighting for breath, wondering why the water was so cold.
“Hey,” DeVontay said. “You okay?”
He was crouched by the opening of the damaged cockpit, a map open across his knees and tilted toward the campfire. The flames had burned low, casting a reddish hue against the plane’s interior and glinting dully against the dead instrument panels.
Rachel held up her palms. Still empty, even after all these years of reaching.
“You were calling her name,” DeVontay said. He’d taken first watch, and Rachel suspected he’d let her keep sleeping even after it was time for her turn as sentry.
She didn’t want to cry in front of him. She had to be strong. Even though she couldn’t claim to be a woman of faith any longer, she was still a woman. She couldn’t afford to live in an After where the rules were made by men.
“We’ve all had losses,” she said, glancing at Stephen’s sleeping form. “You haven’t even talked about your family.”
“I got my reasons,” DeVontay said. He checked outside for movement. Satisfied, he folded the map and moved a little closer to the fire. “We’re making good time. We’re maybe fifty miles from the parkway.”
“The weather’s getting cooler as we get higher in elevation. We’ll be out of these foothills soon and into the real mountains.”
“You think there’s anything up there waiting for us?”
“My grandfather doesn’t play games. If he’s still alive, he’s waiting for me. And if he’s not, his compound will still be the best place to regroup and figure out the next step.”
“What is the next step? Once it looks like we’re going to make it.”
“What comes after? My grandfather believes it’s about more than just hiding in a bunker and growing old. He’d say, ‘Ray-Ray, I only know two things for sure. One is, Doomsday will come sooner or later. The other is, we’ll all have to learn to live together after it’s over.’ He’s the most optimistic cynic I’ve ever known.”
DeVontay took a sip of water from a plastic bottle. “How come you got so much trust in him?”
“A mix of inspiration and desperation. He was the only one who didn’t make me feel guilty after my sister drowned. He even wondered if it had something to do with him—like she was targeted because he’d once been a prominent survivalist.”
“Sounds a little paranoid to me.”
“Schizophrenia runs in the family,” she said. “He has a sister who didn’t get electricity because she didn’t want the power company to know her address.”
“How do people like that make in the world?”