Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

Franklin grabbed the binoculars and took a look for himself. “If I had to guess, I’d say somebody is sending us another message.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Campbell asked for maybe the tenth time.

Rachel was almost annoyed. They’d logged maybe three miles before dawn arrived, and even though she was holding him back at first, she soon regained her stamina and was practically dragging him through the woods. She’d not felt so much energy since the first panicky days of After, and her night vision was remarkable, like she’d drunk some radioactive carrot juice.

They had taken a path loosely parallel to Highway 321, through thin groves of ash, poplar, and hickory where the branches were high and the forest floor thick with falling leaves. Rachel figured they were maybe fifteen miles from the Blue Ridge Parkway. With some hard, steep walking, they could reach it by sunset. But she wasn’t leaving the foothills until she found Stephen.

Now, with the sun fully up, they were stopped for a breather by a creek. Campbell kept looking around for Zapheads, sweating despite the cool morning and the shade of the autumn trees.

“They’re not coming,” she said.

He squinted suspiciously at her. “How can you be so sure?”

“I would have heard them.” She cupped her hands in the creek and scooped some water toward her mouth.

“I wouldn’t drink that,” Campbell said, rubbing his bare feet. “Might be some nasty microbes. We’re only a few months past the Pollution Age.”

Rachel drank anyway. The water was swift and cold enough to hurt her teeth. It seemed as pure as anything left in the world, scrubbing over sand and rocks while cascading down from the high peaks. The taste had layers—tart, sweet, mineral.

“How’s your leg?” Campbell asked, for only the third time.

She unconsciously rubbed her calf where the dog had bitten her. She could barely remember the wound, and she wondered if the fever had inflicted a form of traumatic amnesia such as that reported by car crash victims. “Fine. Were you guys seriously going to chop it off?”

“The professor…he went a little soft in the head.”

“And you were just going to go along with it?”

“If you could have seen the rotten meat…Christ, if you could have smelled it.”

She nodded at his foot. The nail of the pinky toe had torn free, and a cut on the big toe oozed blood. “Maybe I should cut that off for you. Probably a sharp rock around here somewhere.”

He folded his foot under him so it was hidden from view. “I’m fine. But we ought to check one of these houses.”

“I don’t have time for shopping. I need to find Stephen.”

“What if he’s holed up somewhere? You’ll never find him if you just wander around the woods. Besides, what if he’s…”

“No. Don’t even think it. He should be able to make it a few days on his own. He grew up pretty fast.”

“And if the Zappers got him?”

This guy is a clod-head. It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long. Or maybe he’s just lucky the Zapheads took him in.

She stood, peering through the tree trunks. “I see a car over there. Probably a house with it.”

Her own feet were scraped and sore, but she refused to complain. She hopped from one moss-covered stone to the next to cross the creek. She lost her balance and nearly fell into the water.

Weird. That was just a baby step.

“Hey, wait up,” Campbell said behind her.

She broke into a run, the morning air sitting in her lungs like water. Branches tore at her clothes and skin, but a sudden exhilaration dulled her to the pain. She lost herself in the moment, the dizzy dappling of the sun through the golden and scarlet leaves, the high breeze rattling the branches and singing across the stony slopes, and the cool, fecund soil beneath her bare feet.

She broke into a clearing where the grass was ankle deep, and it took her a moment to realize it was a lawn. Or used to be. Now it was just a stretch of scrubby meadow leading to a small white house with black shutters, one that would have been more fitting in the suburbs than here in the remote mountains. A Ford pick-up was parked in the driveway, with a green Volvo sedan right beside it.

Campbell caught up with her while she was scanning the windows for any movement. “Looks dead,” she said.

“To coin a phrase.”

She started across the driveway, and Campbell followed, making little “ouch” noises under his breath. It was only then Rachel realized the gravel was piercing the soles of her feet.

Feet must be numb from all this walking.

“Should we call out?” Campbell said. “In case someone’s sitting behind the door with a shotgun?”

“Why would they shoot us? We have no weapon and nothing to steal.”

“Could be Zapheads in there.”

“No, I told you, none of them are around. They’re either back at the farmhouse or gathered in other packs. When’s the last time you’ve seen one wandering around solo?”

“I haven’t had much time to look, remember? I was kind of a prisoner.”

“Or a guest. They never hurt you, did they?”

“Jesus, Rachel. You heard the professor’s screams.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Taylorsville, then. Where they almost killed you?”

His voice annoyed her, as well as his reasoning. “I don’t care about them. I just want to find Stephen and get to Milepost 291.”

She looked through the Volvo window to make sure it was unoccupied and then opened the driver’s-side door.

“Electronic ignition is fried,” Campbell said. “Battery’s dead, too.”

She ignored him and flipped open the glove box, digging around until she found a map. As she unfolded it, Campbell warily looked around. With her finger, she traced a line from the highway to the foothills where she’d gotten separated from Stephen. “There,” she said.

“Where?”

“That little community. Stonewall. He probably would have headed that way, because he knew we were going north.”

“He’s just a kid. How would he know directions?”

She gave him a look as she folded the map. “DeVontay taught him how to use a compass and the position of the sun. What about you?”

He shrugged. “I dropped out of Boy Scouts. I’ve just been following the highway.”

“You were heading north, too?”

“After my buddy Pete got killed, I gave up on trying to reach my parents. Seems stupid anyway, when they’re either dead or zapped. I’d just as soon not know.”

“So you thought you’d just show up at Milepost 291 and be part of my grandfather’s tribe?”

“You think I have a plan ? The professor kept talking me out of making a run for it, but mostly I was afraid. Not afraid that the Zapheads would kill me, but that I’d be out there all alone.”

She shoved the map in her back pocket and headed for the house. “We’re all alone now, even when we’re with somebody.”

Rachel debated knocking but instead just tried the handle. The door was unlocked and she stepped inside, bracing for the smell of weeks-old cadavers. Instead, the air was a homey kind of musty, redolent of dried flowers, soap, and clean linens. The living room held a padded sofa, a television, rows of books lining the walls, and an out-of-place oil painting of a seaport bay. White lace doilies were draped neatly over the sofa’s arms. The scene was so calm and domestic—so normal—that Rachel was struck by a wave of nostalgia for her childhood.

“You okay?” Campbell asked again.

She turned, enraged. “Damn it. All my friends are dead, I’ve lost DeVontay and Stephen, and I don’t even know if my grandfather is a Zaphead. I may as well be hunting for the Wizard of Oz or the Great Pumpkin. And now your fake concern is becoming a pain in the ass.”