Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

Unable to endure the Zaphead beside her, Rachel veered down the slope of the pasture even though that path brought her nearer to the farmhouse and the Zaps below. One of them must have seen her, because a small, dark figure headed up the hill toward her. As if all the Zapheads below were of one mind, they turned in her direction and closed in. Rachel spun to try another direction, but no avenues remained—the Zapheads behind her had crossed the fence and approached in a line, fanning out to enclose her again.

Frustrated, on the verge of tears, Rachel dropped to her knees in the damp grass and slung her backpack from her shoulder. With the gun, at least she’d buy a little more time. Or end her time on this planet if the madness became too unbearable.

She dug into the backpack’s main compartment, sure she’d laid the gun on top, along with the medicine for her wound. But it wasn’t there. Whimpering, she turned the backpack upside down and shook it. She clawed through its contents, hearing the moist swish switch of approaching legs.

No gun. But where would it—

Stephen.

She wasn’t sure why he would have taken it, but she was glad he had a means of protection. She and DeVontay had let him fire both the pistol and rifle, to introduce him to the weapons with the intention of training him as they progressed in their journey. But right now she craved its ability to kill from afar.

The only other weapon was a pocketknife. She dug her thumbnail into the groove of the blade to flip it open, aware of the Zapheads looming all around her. She crawled with the blade open, the knife in one fist, mud soaking into her clothes, bits of grass seed and chaff in her teeth, hoping that if she stayed low they wouldn’t see her.

Without warning a hand grabbed her shoulder and she swept the knife up in an arc.

“Rachel,” the man said, stepping back.

She held the knife before her, ready to jab, confused. Had this Zaphead heard her name, too?

Then she recognized him.

The guy from Taylorsville.

And his eyes didn’t spark.

The man in the bedroom was maybe forty, and despite the mess he’d left in the bedroom and bathroom, he’d obviously taken some care of himself. His salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. Although his clothes were ill-fitting, they were free of wrinkles and tears. He was well-armed with a 12-gauge shotgun and two semi-automatic pistols. Franklin figured the guy had made the best of a bad situation.

A situation which had just gotten worse.

“Who are you?” Hayes asked him, his semiautomatic fixed on the man, whose own shotgun was pointed toward the ceiling. Bandana Boy also aimed at the man, although from a much closer distance. Franklin could tell Bandana Boy was just waiting for the man to twitch or cough.

“Nobody,” the man said in a low, flat voice.

“You’re under the jurisdiction of Milepost 291 and Sgt. Harold Schrader. We don’t allow nobodies on our territory.”

“Just trying to survive. I’m not hurting anybody.”

Franklin admired the man’s attitude: fearless, calm, and cautious. Hayes and Bandana Boy, on the other hand, acted more like doped-up members of a street gang than people trained by the U.S. military.

“We decide who does the hurting,” Bandana Boy said.

“Where do you get your supplies?” Hayes said.

The man rolled his eyes to the left, indicating some direction south. “Country store three miles down that way. A little community called Stonewall.”

“You expect us to believe you walk three miles for food? Why don’t you just stay near the store?”

“Safer here.”

Franklin wondered where Jorge had gone. The Mexican had managed to slip away with none of the others noticing. May as well make a run for it. You have a better chance on your own.

“Have you seen any Zaps around?” Hayes asked.

The man nodded, the butt of the shotgun locked against his hip.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Along the road, in the woods. None around here, though. That’s why I stay here.”

“You know what, Hayes?” Bandana Boy said, voice rising in excitement. “I think there’s somebody else here. I don’t think he could have carried all that food by himself, not that far. And there were tampons in the bathroom.”

The stranger’s fingers visibly whitened as they gripped the shotgun harder. Franklin took a couple of steps back, anticipating a showdown. “Go easy,” Franklin said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“And which side is that, Wheeler?” Hayes said.

“Survival. The human side. You and Sarge can fight turf wars all you want, but we don’t know how many Zapheads are out there. Could be millions, for all we know.”

“Probably not millions,” the man said. “Not judging from the population density I’ve observed.”

The man glanced to the left again, and now Franklin realized he was looking at the closet door. Was someone in there? Should he warn Hayes? He eased a couple of steps toward the exit in case a shootout erupted.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hayes said. “We’ll kick their asses eventually, even if we have to go hand to hand.”

“Anybody with you?” Bandana Boy asked the man.

The man flinched just a little, and Franklin noticed the hesitation. “Just me.”

“Want to put down that shotgun real slow?”

“Put yours down first. This is my house.”

Franklin had to admit the man had balls, although he suspected Bandana Boy was about to deliver a rapid-fire castration.

“Hey,” Franklin said. “Sarge said no prisoners, but he didn’t say anything about recruits, did he? This fellow”—he glanced at the man—“What’s your name?”

“Robertson.”

“Robertson looks like he knows how to handle a weapon, and he sure knows how to improvise. If we’re fighting the Zaps, shouldn’t we better keep every fighter we can get?”

“Shut up,” Hayes said to Franklin. “I’m in command of this patrol.”

Sounds like somebody’s feeling his oats. A man on a power trip. I bet Sarge is sleeping with one eye open.

“Okay, no problem.” Robertson eased the shotgun onto the bed beside him. “If I wanted trouble, I would have shot you when you came through the door.”

A soft thump issued from the closet. Bandana Boy spun and unleashed a hail of semiautomatic fire, the report pummeling Franklin’s ears. Splinters and drywall dust exploded from the waist-high row of pockmarks as the room filled with the stench of gunpowder.

Robertson roared in rage and dug at his hip for a sidearm, but Hayes jutted his gun barrel into Robertson’s gut to stop him. Bandana Boy, almost dancing with sadistic joy, yanked the closet door open to count coup.

“Get him?” Hayes said, keeping his eyes and his weapon fixed on Robertson, who groaned in rage.

“ Her .”

Franklin pushed past Hayes, who cussed under his breath. Robertson rose from the bed and took a step toward the closet, but Hayes drove the tip of his rifle into his gut hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Then Franklin saw her and understood why Robertson had been so well armed. She was probably fourteen, maybe fifteen, huddled in blankets so that only her face was showing. Her blue eyes were wide and frightened, and blonde wisps of hair curved around her cheeks. If she hadn’t been bundled up on the floor, Bandana Boy’s bullets would have ripped her to shreds.

“Get back,” Franklin said to Bandana Boy, stepping in front of him and kneeling to the girl. He didn’t see any blood, but she could have been struck by shrapnel. “Are you okay, honey?”

She stared past him at Robertson, whom Franklin assumed was her dad. Her mouth opened but no words came out.