Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

Campbell didn’t flinch from her hostility. “I have my reasons for asking, Rachel.”

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t expect me to solve your loneliness for you.”

“It’s not that.”

“I don’t have time for games. Come on, let’s see if there’s anything here we can use.”

She was surprised at her hostility. She prided herself on controlling her emotions—as a counselor, she’d cultivated an even temperament. She glanced guiltily at him but he didn’t seem much affected by her criticism.

They found a well-stocked kitchen, although they didn’t bother opening the fridge. The cupboards held canned vegetables, dried grains, spaghetti noodles, and three vacuum-sealed quarts of milk, and the pantry yielded some raisins and dried apricots as well as bottles of apple juice. It was more food than they could carry and plenty enough to get them to Milepost 291.

In the hall closet, they found a backpack in which Rachel piled the food after Campbell slung the straps over his shoulders. They rifled through coats, shoes, golf clubs, and plastic bins full of knit caps and gloves. Apparently a family had lived here, because toys were scattered among the recreational gear and clothes.

“We’ll need this winter gear before long,” Campbell said, pulling a set of skis from the collection.

Rachel waved the ski pole like a fencing sword. “This might be more useful.”

Campbell tried on a worn leather jacket that was a little loose in the shoulders but otherwise comfortable. He added a black fedora taken from the top shelf and pushed his glasses up his nose. “How do you like the new me?”

“You look like a Starbucks barista , which should really boost your career prospects in After.” Rachel appropriated a sporty cotton jacket and found a pair of blue sneakers that looked only a size too large for her feet. “I’ll be checking the bedroom for socks. And don’t even think about those cowboy boots. You couldn’t outrun a turtle in those.”

“Yeah, they’d really show those coffee stains, too.”

That drew a smile from Rachel. She didn’t want to be so critical of him, but he seemed so crude and ungainly, so unrefined. So flawed.

What do you expect? He’s been crapping in the woods for two months. Just like you.

The door to the master bedroom was open, the queen-sized bed neatly made. Rachel checked a dresser drawer and found jewelry, several hundred dollars in folded cash, and an iPhone, all of which she ignored. The drawer below it held socks and she selected a thick wool pair. She sat on the bed to put them over her battered feet.

Campbell appeared in the doorway. “Find any guns?”

“Nothing. Must have been liberals.”

“Or else they took their guns with them.”

Rachel flopped back on the bed. “God, after sleeping on the ground for weeks, this feels so nice.”

Campbell stepped into the room. She looked up sharply. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I want to show you something.” He went into the master bathroom and yanked apart the curtains, letting light fill the space.

She followed. “Checking the medicine cabinet for drugs?”

“Look in the mirror.”

She did. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt and small red scratches stretched across her forehead. Her hair was in wild, dark tangles. She grimaced at her teeth. They were a little yellowish. “Yeah, I could do with a makeover.”

“Your eyes,” he said.

She looked at them. They looked okay to her, maybe a little bloodshot. “What?”

“Those shimmering little flecks. Like a Zaphead.”

No. It’s just the light playing tricks.

“When they healed you, something happened. You changed.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s why I keep asking if you’re okay.”

She turned to flee the room but he caught her and held her, forcing her back toward the mirror. She kicked him and caught him in the ribs with a solid elbow, but he swiveled so she faced her reflection.

My eyes. Dear God, what happened to my eyes?

She started crying, and then wondered if Zapheads could cry. And then wondered if Zapheads could be aware of being a Zaphead. Campbell held her while she shook with sobs.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

Better than okay, she told herself. A million times better.

The slaughterhouse doors squealed open sometime after sunrise, although DeVontay had no idea of the time.

He’d slept poorly on a bundle of feed sacks stuffed with straw, the whimpers and cries of the children waking him repeatedly. Kiki must have spent most of the night tending and comforting them. Several times DeVontay decided he should get up and help her, but in the end he surrendered to exhaustion instead of guilt.

But when the sunlight poured through and men shouted in rough voices, he awoke with a start to find Stephen curled against his side. He sat up, blinking, and their words came through the haze of sleep.

“Boy, get up. Boss wants to see you.”

“I’m not a boy,” DeVontay said, staring up into the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. It was held by one of the men who had escorted him to the compound, Orange Cap.

The man kicked his feet. “Move.”

DeVontay stood and peered into the dusty depths of the shed. A few children came staggering and squinting to the edge of the light. He didn’t see Kiki.

Orange Cap waved the shotgun to motion him outside. Stephen scrambled up beside him and took his hand, but Orange Cap tugged him from DeVontay’s grip.

“It’s okay,” DeVontay said, smiling at the boy. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“What if they hurt you?”

“If the Zapheads couldn’t do it, I don’t think these guys can finish the job. Same goes for you. You’re tough, and don’t you forget it, Little Man.”

Stephen didn’t smile but his face relaxed in relief. “Okay,” he whispered.

“Aw, ain’t that touching?” said the man with the shotgun. The other guard, who’d waited by the door, was also armed, wielding a wicked-looking assault rifle.

As DeVontay entered the blinding sunshine, Orange Cap said, “So how was Angelique?”

“I guess she was okay, considering I don’t know who that is.”

“The young one. Unless you went for the old bitch. I had that, it’s like chewing rawhide.”

“Maybe he went for Island Girl,” said the other guard, spitting a thick brown stream of tobacco juice. “Gotta love them brown coconuts.”

“Shit,” said Orange Cap. “Ain’t nobody hit that yet. I got a feeling it hits back.”

DeVontay finally realized they were talking about sex, and he wondered if the slaughterhouse was run like some kind of brothel crossed with an orphanage.

The community seemed larger and busier than he’d noticed the day before, and the activity carried an undercurrent of anxiety and tension. A teenager groomed three horses that were tethered to a car bumper. A handful of men checked weapons piled in the back of a pickup truck. From somewhere came the smell of frying bacon and DeVontay wondered whether it was vacuum-sealed meat from a store or if the group had slaughtered a pig.

A man walked out of a shed, a police belt around his waist and a sidearm on his hip. He had wild dark hair, a faded rose tattoo on his neck, and a creased expression, like a rock-n-roller gone to seed. In his right hand, he gripped a carved walking stick. He tossed a cigarette to the ground and said to DeVontay, “So who were you with?”

DeVontay didn’t understand the question. “You must be Rooster.”

“Talk to me or I’ll pluck out that glass eye and shove it where you can see your own intestines.”