Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

Franklin glanced around the woods, swiveling the barrel of his AR-15 back and forth. He didn’t like being out in the open, but the road allowed them to make better time. Sarge’s soldiers had lost whatever discipline they might have built during their service and were likely to choose the easiest route over stealth and concealment.

The Zapheads, however, were another matter.

The afternoon sun was sliding toward evening, and the birds fell silent as they passed. At times Franklin lost sight of Grandfather Mountain’s peak, but he kept his sense of direction enough to guide them east. The gravel road turned to asphalt, with driveways and houses becoming more frequent. If anyone saw them from behind curtained windows, no one called to them, and Franklin was in no mood for a door-to-door search. He’d seen enough corpses for one day.

The group reached a bend where the road took a sharp slant downward, affording a view of the valley below. While much of the vista was wooded, the pavement followed an undulating river, with open pastures lining both sides. Farmhouses were nestled here and there among the high weeds, the sun glinting off the tin roofs of barns and outbuildings.

“Look,” Jorge said, pointing.

“Smoke,” Shay said. “From that chimney.”

Franklin shaded his eyes and scanned the valley. He’d refused to be fitted for glasses and hadn’t been to a doctor since they’d tried to put him on blood-pressure medicine a decade ago. Now he couldn’t help but feel weak and ancient.

I can’t see and I can’t fight worth a damn, but at least I can offer experience. But maybe even experience is worthless when you’re dealing with something that’s never happened before.

“Somebody’s got a fire going,” Robertson said. “And I’d bet a jar of jelly beans it’s not a Zaphead.”

Jorge broke into a run and Franklin called after him. “Might be some of Sarge’s boys.”

“And it might be Marina and Rosa,” he said, not slowing.

After Jorge was out of sight, Franklin said, “He’s going in the wrong direction.”

“What if it’s more survivors?’ Shay said. “We have to help them.”

“Maybe they don’t need help. Maybe they’re just fine on their own.”

Shay shot him an accusing glare. “Just like we were, right?”

“Look, we can’t save the whole damned world. I’ve got a plan to get through the winter, and the compound can sustain half a dozen at most.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about overpopulation,” Robertson said. “Seems to me your compound loses more people than it gains.”

“Shit,” Franklin said. He’d constructed the compound with the idea that he’d have companions, but he’d also been prepared to live alone if necessary. Now the idea of huddling in his little cabin while the snows piled up, with Zapheads walking through the land he once loved, make his guts twist.

He’d taught Rachel that a human being had to stand up for what was right and had to fight for the things worth fighting for, and he’d been all too ready to hide away and avoid the biggest war the human race had ever known—the battle for survival of the species.

Robertson didn’t wait for Franklin’s response. “Come on, honey,” he said to Shay, adjusting his bandage and lowering the shotgun so that it rested across the crook of his elbow. He followed after Jorge.

I’m probably going to live to regret this. On the bright side, I’m probably not going to live all that much longer anyway.

He checked the clip on his AR-15 and fell in behind them, taking one last look around to make sure they had no unexpected company.

“Not even a scar,” the professor whispered, staring down at Rachel’s bare leg.

Campbell pressed a gentle hand against her forehead. “Her fever’s breaking, too.”

The Zapheads, still almost reverently gathered around her, applied their palms to her body in imitation of Campbell’s action, touching her legs, abdomen, cheeks, and breasts. She stirred a little from her torpid state, her bare skin shrinking with goose pimples from the cool air.

Campbell tugged the hem of the sheet from her upper thighs and spread it over her legs so she was completely covered except for her head. “We should get her more blankets. It’ll be dark soon, and nights are getting chilly. You might want to get some clothes on yourself.”

“You watch her,” the professor said. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of the quilts.”

“Not the one with the blood on it,” Campbell said.

“We wrapped Pamela in that one, remember?”

A number of the Zapheads followed the professor, mumbling and muttering, seemingly unaware they had just performed a miracle. Campbell wasn’t religious, but he was well aware of the prophecy of Jesus’ return. What if Jesus came back to Earth not as a single man, but as a whole tribe?

No, there has to be a reasonable explanation.

Although, he had to admit, that one was as reasonable as any other, under the circumstances.

The Zapheads around him had remained calm since Rachel’s arrival. Campbell had noticed—and mentioned to the professor—that the Zapheads in general had become less aggressive over time. He didn’t know whether it was because they were used to the two humans in their midst or some change was still occurring in their neural systems. But he and the professor were still alive, kept almost as pets, and the Zapheads had healed Rachel.

Not wanting the Zapheads to handle Rachel anymore, he forced himself to step away from the sofa. The Zapheads followed suit. Taking a page from the professor’s playbook, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together in prayer. When he opened his eyes ten seconds later, all the Zapheads had returned to kneeling on the floor.

The Catholic Church would have killed for this kind of power. But maybe they did.

Once the Zapheads settled back into their routine, with even their breathing hushed and steady, Campbell took the time to look over Rachel more carefully. He told himself it was because he wanted to verify she had no other wounds, but most of it was desperate desire for a human connection.

She was even more attractive than he remembered. In Taylorsville, he’d mostly seen her in the dark or by the flickering light of huge, destructive bonfires. She’d obviously spent little time on personal hygiene—the sheer act of survival was a higher priority to survivors—but she had a natural tan complexion, thick lashes, curving lips, and a shapely form. Despite her greasy hair and dirt-scuffed face, she appeared almost radiant instead of green-tinged and near death. The recovery had taken less than an hour.

When the professor returned, another sheet draped around his shoulders and a bundled blanket in his arms, the praying Zapheads emerged from their quiescent state. The ones that had followed the professor mingled with them and they moved around aimlessly, some leaving the living room and others bumping into walls.

As they spread the blanket over Rachel, Campbell mumbled, “So, any theories?”

The professor shook his head. “Unless you believe in voodoo, I’m guessing it’s something taking place at a quantum level. In the same way an intense magnetic pull can wipe out the data on a hard drive, maybe the Zapheads store up some kind of electrical energy they can distribute in a controlled way.”

“Like human batteries?”

“Something like that. There used to be a departmental secretary at UNC-Greensboro who could heal carpal tunnel and muscle sprains. She joked that she was a witch, but she was always secretive about it, afraid people really might think she was peculiar and ostracize her. She would rub her hands together and then wave one hand over the affected area as if she were tugging out invisible stitches.”