He angled his head across the street, to what looked like apartments above a wig shop. “Hole up and lock down for the night, then figure it out. Like I been doing for a week.”
“That’s not a plan, that’s making crap up as you go along.”
He grinned for the first time, and it warmed his entire face. Even the glass eye took on a sparkle. “So far, so good.”
“Okay,” she said. “I have some food, a flashlight, and stuff like that.”
“You got it together,” he said. “I been faking that part, too.”
She held out her hand, the fingers still tingling from the blood returning to her extremities. “Rachel Wheeler,” she said, realizing the use of her last name was awkward under the circumstances, as if they were business associates.
He took her hand, gentle this time. “DeVontay. DeVontay Jones.”
Then he grew solemn again, edging to the corner and peering out of the alley. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, and a little gangly. In the sunlight, she saw that he wore leather pants and a leather jacket, both of which bulged uncomfortably as if he wore several layers of clothing.
As if he’s afraid of being bitten. But I’ve never seen the Zapheads bite anyone.
“See anything?” she whispered.
“Naw,” he said. She couldn’t place his accent, but it wasn’t Southern. And it wasn’t quite inner city. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, so maybe he’d moved to Charlotte for work.
She didn’t seem to have much in common with him.
Except whatever kept us from being killed or affected.
Yeah.
Except for that.
The only thing left that mattered.
He motioned with his free hand. “All clear. Hurry.”
And then they were on the street, exposed to the dying sun and the creeping night and whatever chuckled in the far distance.
CHAPTER FOUR
“It’s a fire,” Pete said.
Campbell didn’t believe it. He’d insisted it was electric lights, maybe even automobiles moving beyond the dark trees, the wind causing them to flicker. Then the wind shifted, although there wasn’t much of it, and a faint trail of acrid wood smoke drifted past.
“What should we do?”
“Go in.”
Pete was drunk. Shortly after the close encounter with the Zaphead in the plumbing van, they’d come across a Budweiser truck. Pete had filled his backpack with 12-ounce cans and even made some makeshift saddlebags with a tool satchel he’d taken from the van. He’d stopped his bike every two miles or so to bust open one of the warm beers and down it. Their pace had slowed considerably as the evening wore on, and Campbell had nearly pedaled headfirst into a jackknifed tractor trailer because he thought he’d seen someone move inside one of the stalled cars.
But Pete wouldn’t let him check out the movement, coming back with, “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?”
And Campbell had buried his hope that maybe there were others like them, normal people, survivors who weren’t driven by a homicidal impulse. Now, with a campfire a hundred yards away in the dusk, they were faced with a choice, and Pete’s judgment was about three times over the legal limit.
“What if it’s a bunch of Zapheads?” Campbell asked.
Pete pulled the tab on a fresh brew, and it fwooshed and sprayed into the dusk. “Then we shoot the hell out of them.”
“You say that like you’d enjoy it.”
“Fuckers trying to wipe us out, man. This is about the survival of the species.”
“I think they’re the same species we are. They’re human.”
Pete wiped foam from his mouth with his sleeve. “Humans don’t jump on you and rip out a chunk of skin with their teeth. Unless they’re Mike Tyson or Jeffrey Dahmer.”
The fire was in the forest beside the highway, set down a gentle slope. They’d passed a bridge about three hundred yards back, and a silvery creek slid beneath it, laughing and gurgling as if all was merry with the world. Survivors—human survivors—would likely follow evolutionary instinct and camp by the water.
“Maybe we ought to keep going.”
“What if it’s like that last camp?” Pete was starting to slur and his sibilants were mushy.
“I didn’t trust them.”
“You’re just mad because you didn’t tap ol’ Gypsy Rose.”
“They were talking prophecies and wacko stuff.”
“Well, maybe they were onto something.”
Campbell wished they’d snagged some binoculars. Full dark was setting in, and they’d have to make a decision on where to sleep. They usually locked themselves in an empty car for the night, but Campbell always felt trapped and claustrophobic, and Pete’s drunken snores pushed away any chance of rest. One night they’d slept out in an open field, taking turns keeping watch. Campbell had jerked awake sometime long before dawn and found Pete had dozed off, leaving them ridiculously vulnerable.
So, maybe the idea of sticking with a group was worth a little risk.
“Okay,” Campbell said. “Let’s check it out.”
Pete leaned his bike against the guardrail and drew his pistol from his jacket pocket. “Lock and load, my man.”
Campbell drew his revolver. It didn’t have a safety switch, but he’d test-fired it twice on the day he’d found it in the sporting-goods shop. He hadn’t shot a gun since he was 12 and his grandfather had taken him squirrel hunting. The double action required a serious pull of the trigger, which meant the gun would be hard to fire accidentally, but also that he’d have to be serious if he wanted to shoot somebody.
Some THING, I mean. These Zapheads aren’t “somebodies.”
He flashed back to the face of the creature that had attacked him and shuddered at the brief illusion that it had been his mother.
“Got your flashlight?” Campbell said.
“I only got two hands.” Meaning that Pete wouldn’t put down his beer.
Campbell fished in his wire basket until he found his flashlight, but he didn’t switch it on. The purple dusk revealed large, bruised clouds overhead, so the moon would be of little use. He looked up the highway toward the last hilltop they’d crested. Something moved there, a distant stick figure that soon blended with the shadows of stranded vehicles.
Pete chugged his warm beer, then belched. “What you waiting for?”
Campbell swung over the rail and started down the slope toward the campfire. The revolver was heavy in his hand, and he let his arm dangle so the barrel pointed at the ground. He used the flashlight for ballast as he descended. The slope leveled out at a ditch, and briars tore his khakis as he stumbled through the granite riprap.
Above him, Pete stumbled and fell, cursing once before remembering they were supposed to be in stealth mode.
“You okay?” Campbell whispered.
“That better be the good guys or I’m going to be pissed,” he whispered back.
Campbell switched on his flashlight, hooded it with his forearm, and illuminated a path for Pete, who kicked, stumbled, and staggered down the hill. Pete’s body odor overwhelmed the beery stench.
Sweet. We’re all turning into animals.
After crossing the ditch, they entered a thicket of scrub pine, thorns, and ragged rye. The elusive flickers of fire showed here and there through gaps in the trees, and as full dark settled in, the orange light took on the quality of a jewel forged from a mysterious source.
Campbell’s hand sweated around the revolver’s grip, even though the air had turned cool and moist because of the nearby creek. He didn’t know where to point the gun, and he took each step gingerly, in fear of snapping twigs. Pete, however, had no such hesitation. The alcohol delivered a stupid brand of courage, and the semi-automatic topped it off with a bow. Pete soon took the lead, muttering under his breath.