At least that followed some sort of logic—a collapse of a society.
But here was a new and strange society that was actually rising. A mutant race apparently evolving to replace the old one.
Covering his ears didn’t help. The house thundered with the almost-jubilant vocalizing of the Zapheads. “Let her in! Let her in! Let her in!”
Wilma cackled with laughter, apparently at the back door now, because Campbell could hear her clearly. “I’m coming in, then!”
Campbell rose to protect her, feeling somehow responsible for her even though she’d lured him to this house of horrors. But the professor put a hand on his shoulder and restrained him.
“She’s insane,” Campbell said. “They’ll tear her to pieces like they did your friends.”
“It’s not your war, Campbell. Acceptance.”
Campbell broke free and started through the crowd of Zapheads. The stench of the house, the death it harbored, and the unwashed mutants made him dizzy and claustrophobic. He no longer cared if they killed him. He’d been surviving day by day based on some hope of a distant, better future, but now he saw that such an ideal was impossible.
His world was over.
There was a commotion in one of the hidden rooms, probably the kitchen. The hissing rose like steam whistling from a cracked radiator. Campbell pulled out his penlight, head throbbing, legs sore, and his throat parched with thirst and anxiety.
The Zapheads had all turned away, congregating around Wilma, who laughed and screamed. “Give him back to me!”
They closed on her, and she was crushed by the sheer numbers. Campbell didn’t want to touch any of the repulsive creatures, but they were turned away from him, blocking the exit. He worked his way down the hall as far as he could go, shining his penlight over the heads of the crowd.
The beam settled on Wilma’s pocked, deranged face. The struggle with the Zapheads appeared to have aroused her to a state of bliss.
“Stay out of it, Campbell,” the professor warned from somewhere behind him. The stairs thundered as the Zapheads descended.
“Don’t be afraid,” Campbell said to Wilma, nearly shouting over the hissing. She stopped struggling for a moment and looked toward the light, although she likely couldn’t see his face.
“Breeder!” she said. “I wanted you for a breeder! This world needs breeders!”
“Needs breeders!” one of the Zapheads shrieked.
The phrase rippled through the house and amplified. “Needs breeders, needs breeders, needs breeders.”
One of the Zapheads grabbed Campbell by the front of his shirt and gave a mighty tug, yanking him off-balance. The beam of his penlight darted wildly across the ceiling before slicing across the face of the Zaphead who held him. It was the auburn-haired woman.
“Needs breeders!” she screeched in delight.
“I’ll kill you, bitch,” Wilma shouted, slapping at the Zapheads around her.
The Zapheads fed her words right back to her, along with the blows she was reining. “I’ll kill you, bitch! I’ll kill you bitch!”
The house shook with shouts and blows and Wilma’s grunts.
Then Campbell’s penlight was knocked from his hand and crushed underfoot as the crowd converged and rushed forward into the violent center of the kitchen. Campbell slunk away from them until his back was against the wall, and then he slid down into a fetal position and covered his head.
That didn’t drown out Wilma’s screams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You’d have been better off getting some sleep,” Franklin said.
He sat at the table, connecting the shortwave radio to the battery system. An oil lantern glowed beside him, its light low. Jorge paced the cabin, unable to sit, much less sleep.
“I’m going, whether you come or not,” Jorge said. The old man had napped for several hours, during which time Jorge had searched the immediate perimeter of the compound. He’d also monitored the forest from the platform, afraid the military would discover Rosa and Marina before he did. Rosa was strong and resilient, but Jorge could imagine a hundred horrible possibilities—usually leading to an image of them being carried along a remote trail by silent Zapheads.
“Told you I’d come with you,” Franklin said. “But it never hurts to gather up a little information.”
Franklin scanned the frequencies as the speaker alternated between a high hum and sharp static. At one point a few broken words of Spanish spilled forth, but by the time Franklin zeroed in, the transmission was lost. “Damned charged particles in the atmosphere are messing with reception,” Franklin said. “The sun must be acting up again.”
Jorge froze in his pacing. “What does that mean?”
“‘Solar cycles’ means just that—cycles. The sun doesn’t just turn on and off like a tap. It’s always pushing out energy, but sometimes it erupts from deep inside and spews out big shitballs of radiation. The government knew those solar storms were trouble—they just didn’t want to panic the people.”
“How could they not warn us of the danger?”
“Well, the clues were there, and news reports told about the solar flares, but they mostly warned about the communication problems. But preppers who knew enough to read between the lines figured this was way bigger than anyone was letting on. I could just see that jug-eared moron in the White House saying, ‘We can’t have a public panic.’ I hope that son of bitch is rotting away in the Oval Office this very minute.”
“I don’t care about your president. I care about my family.”
“The wealthy elite and their government lapdogs kept the truth from us, so we wouldn’t have time to prepare. They didn’t cause the solar storms, but they sure didn’t boost our odds of survival. And now their foot soldiers are out there wiping out any remaining man that wants to be free. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the world’s bankers are holed up in their private luxury bunkers right now, or drifting out there in the ocean on their private yachts, with no power and no navigation systems.”
Jorge shook with rage and anxiety. “Hijo de puta! I hope they all drown in their own blood. But none of that matters now.”
“It’s the only thing that matters.” Franklin turned the dial, scanning the bandwidth one more time before shutting off the radio and disconnecting the power supply. “Zaps ain’t the biggest enemy out there. As long as these leeches are alive, none of us are safe.”
Jorge looked out the cabin door, where the green luminescence of the night’s aurora mixed with the first pale light of dawn. “Wait a moment,” Jorge said, as if finally comprehending Franklin’s words. “You said there were more sun storms?”
“Could be. We’ve probably been hit with waves of it over the past few weeks, but not enough to notice. That doesn’t mean there’s not another big one on the way, maybe even worse than the first batch. That’s the thing about Doomsday—if you read the literature, it’s usually not one thing that goes to hell. It’s lots of interconnected events and one fat trigger on a smoking gun.”
Jorge gathered Marina’s pack and began hurriedly stuffing it with food, a compass, cursing himself for his stupidity. In recent days, he’d become comfortable with the idea that the worst was over, that God’s trials had yielded their final judgment and now the rebirth began. But maybe God was just beginning to punish the sinners. “What can we do to protect ourselves from the radiation?”