“It’s the only way. That’s why weapons don’t do any good. They outnumber us now, in case you ain’t noticed.”
Campbell reflected on his experience of the past few weeks. He’d clung to the illusion that humans were still on the top of the food chain, that it was only a matter of time until they organized and restored those structures again. But what if they were done? What if they were the Neanderthals giving way to Homo Sapiens, or dinosaurs yielding to mammals? He didn’t like that line of thought, but since the solar storms, he’d encountered far more Zapheads than survivors.
“We’re smarter than they are,” Campbell said with defiant anger.
“Keep thinking like that and you’re dead meat.”
They waded through the meadow toward the house. The weeds were knee high and Campbell tried not to think of snakes and rodents squirming along the ground. As they drew closer to the house, Wilma signaled him to walk more slowly and be quiet.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.
The repetitive mantra did little to actually quell his fear. But he had to admit, he was also curious. If the Zapheads indeed congregated on this farm, he’d have his first chance to observe their behavior without actually running from them or battling them.
As they passed the barn, Campbell noticed the high wooden doors were swung wide. The inky darkness inside could harbor bloodthirsty Zapheads. He half expected a group of them to rush from the barn and rip him limb from limb. But soon they were past it and heading up the slope toward the house, where they once again crossed the fence into the yard.
Campbell decided if the Zapheads attacked, he would flee down the dirt road. But he wouldn’t be able to abandon Wilma, even though she was likely more capable than he was to fend off the vicious killers.
Sounds like you’re planning to be afraid.
Campbell couldn’t help wondering if they were watching from the windows. But he kept pace with Wilma, who strode with a determined gait as if she’d made this sojourn more than once. Soon they stood before the porch steps.
“Do we go in?” Campbell asked.
Wilma grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We don’t have to go. We’re already in.”
It was only then that Campbell looked back across the meadow. Against the steepening shadows of the surrounding forest, a hundred tiny sparks glinted. Three of them approached from the driveway, and other silhouettes lurked among the farm implements.
The realization punched him in the gut. They were surrounded by Zapheads.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The shepherd hit Rachel high, knocking her flat on her back.
She was dimly aware of the other two dogs closing in, but her world narrowed to the stinking, slavering mouth snapping at her.
She thrust her forearm into the dog’s neck and pushed, yellow fangs clacking inches short of her face, the steaming pink tongue lolling against the black maw of the throat.
Up close, the glittering eyes were hellfire. It was easy to think of the dog as a demonic creature shot from the land of myth, but its moist, putrid breath was all too real against her skin.
She rolled, something in her backpack digging into the base of her spine. She debated the pistol, knew there was no time, and kept rolling as the dog’s paws skidded painfully across her breasts. She made it to her knees and, as the shepherd fell away, the beagle lunged for her midsection.
During the roll, her pack slid from one shoulder and she shrugged it the rest of the way down her arm. Rachel punched at the only soft point she could find, the dog’s quivering, slimy nose. The blow landed flush and the dog yipped, backing away and howling in surprise.
The dogs circled her, keeping out of reach, apparently finding her more challenging than their usual prey.
How many people have they slaughtered? Or is this their first taste of warm blood?
She shrugged free of the backpack and held it by one strap. Slinging it before her, its fifteen pounds of weight was like a sledgehammer. She’d quickly grow weary, but for the moment, the threat kept the dogs at bay.
The retriever made a play for her ankles and she whipped the pack against its ribs. It yelped and hobbled away.
“That’s right, Cujo, I’ll kick your ass back to Maine.” The bravado felt hollow, and the shepherd’s attack had driven the wind from her lungs, but at least she was standing.
Four legs good, two legs better.
Stephen had made it safely around the truck, so Rachel began backing away from them, using the truck as a wall so they couldn’t surround her. She swung at the beagle when it snarled at her, and when it retreated, she was able to gain a position by the truck’s front tire. She thought about climbing the driver’s-side runner and trying the cab door, but if it was locked, the backs of her legs and buttocks would be exposed to attack, and she doubted she’d get a second chance.
The dogs barked, hissed, and howled in a sickening mix, like coyotes strung in an electric fence. As the dogs paced back and forth, searching for an opening, Rachel found the backpack’s zipper and worked it down, never letting her gaze stray from the dogs. Their glittering eyes were both mesmerizing and repulsive.
If fear encouraged them to attack, maybe arrogance would drive them away. So she shouted at them, channeling gangster movies and tough-guy clichés, figuring the dogs wouldn’t give a damn if she mangled a few lines.
“Are you looking at me? Wanna piece of this? You can’t handle the truth.” The rant was silly but it gave her courage, and she scarcely paid attention to the stream of inanities she spewed. “I’ll tear your leg off and beat you into a pile of Alpo. You want some doggie style?”
Her words, or perhaps her animated delivery, caused the dogs to retreat even further. She dug frantically through the backpack, feeling for the cool steel of the pistol. Her heart sank when her fingers came away empty.
Damn. Must have left at the last stop.
As if sensing her panic, the dogs closed in again, hiss-barking as they came.
“Rachel!” Stephen called from the other side of the truck.
“I told you to get in the car and close the door.”
“I can’t. There’s dead people in here.”
“Just…just pretend they’re sleeping.” Right. Resting in pieces, that’s all. Perfectly ordinary day in After.
“Are you coming?”
The retriever growled, baring its teeth. The shepherd circled around toward the front of the truck as if responding to Stephen’s voice.
“In a minute,” Rachel said, gripping the backpack’s strap again, grateful for the cans of food that gave heft to the makeshift weapon. “But I need to make sure you’re safe first.”
“They smell bad,” the boy yelled. “Real bad.”
“I know, honey. But you can do this for me. Close the door and I’ll be right there.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.” Just like I promised Chelsea I’d always be there for her. Until water got in the way.
Thinking of Chelsea renewed her determination. Despite occasional suicidal thoughts, she really didn’t want to die, especially not by the fangs and paws of filthy beasts, going down like an animal. Rachel had no way of knowing whether Chelsea would have survived the solar storms, or if she would have mutated into a Zaphead. But as long as Rachel was alive, she’d live for both of them.
As long as she was a human, she’d fight like a human—the only animal intelligent enough to be aware of its own mortality, and the only animal capable of measuring its own will to survive.