Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

And she also discovered a new phobia of her own: Zapheads across the forest repeating “Snake! Snake! Snaaaake!”

Jorge wasn’t sure what time it was, and therefore couldn’t tell how many days he’d been imprisoned in the cell with Franklin Wheeler.

The military bunker’s strands of weak lights burned constantly, supporting Franklin’s belief that they were wired to solar panels. Once they’d heard a gas-powered generator humming, and the bunker had reeked of exhaust, a reprieve from the stench of the metal bucket they were forced to use as a latrine. While Franklin sprawled on the bottom bunk, Jorge paced, worrying over his wife and daughter.

“Better get some rest,” Franklin mumbled without opening his eyes. “They’re going to have to let us out of here sooner or later.”

“I need to find my family.”

“Rosa is a strong woman. She’ll be all right.”

Jorge couldn’t tell if the elderly man was just trying to comfort him. Rosa had worked hard at Franklin’s survivalist compound, digging in the garden and tending the goats. Even little Marina had helped. But after Jorge had rescued a young mother, Cathy, and her Zaphead baby, Franklin had become paranoid and aloof, seeing the infant as a threat. Jorge wondered if Franklin was right—that the Zapheads somehow sensed the baby’s presence and attacked the compound.

The problem with that theory was there had been no sign of a struggle. Jorge and Franklin had been away on a scouting mission and had returned to find the compound empty. They were attempting to track the others when the sadistic Sarge and his troops surrounded and captured the two of them, and they’d been confined in this cramped, dim cell ever since. Two weeks of stale air, military meals from cans and pouches, and taunting soldiers who issued veiled threats.

“If they’re out there, these Glory Boys will probably find them,” Franklin said. He sat up and removed one of his filthy socks to rub the sole of his foot.

“That’s what I am afraid of. These men are animals.”

“Worse than Zapheads? Hell, maybe we’ve all changed for the worse. My feet smell like rotten bacon.”

Jorge heard a scuffing noise in the corridor outside the cell. He pressed his face against the steel grate and saw a soldier in green camouflage gear. The man was carrying a tray.

“Must be dinner time,” Franklin said.

The unshaven soldier stopped at a door across the corridor, where a captured Zaphead was confined. “Hey, Sparky, rise and shine,” the soldier shouted at the Zaphead, and then dumped the tray’s contents through the grate. “You better eat before the rats get it.”

“I request to see your commanding officer,” Jorge said to the soldier.

The soldier turned, his uniform unkempt and eyes bloodshot. “You ain’t in no position to make demands. This ain’t Mexico.”

Franklin flung his sock to the concrete floor and padded to the door. “Listen here, Private Shitheel, this is still a free country. Maybe you’ve heard of a thing called the Fourth Amendment, if you weren’t too busy in grade school smearing boogers under desk and eating paste.”

The soldier banged the tin tray against the grate, causing Jorge to flinch, but Franklin held his ground.

“I’ll string you up by your leathery old balls,” the soldier said.

“Come on in,” Franklin said, pushing up the sleeves of his filthy long john shirt. “Make my apocalypse.”

The soldier glowered a moment and then retreated back down the corridor as Franklin snickered.

“That’s not helpful,” Jorge said.

“Sure as heck helped me feel better.”

“We need to figure a way out of here. Maybe if we negotiate.”

“You heard the president. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Your president is probably a Zaphead now.”

“Son of a bitch was never too bright in the first place. Might be an upgrade.”

“You can stay and wage your ideological battles, but I have a family out there.”

Franklin frowned and nodded. “Yeah, the end times are easier when you go it alone. And my Rachel is on her way to the milepost. She’ll never find me in here.”

Jorge wasn’t sure the man’s granddaughter was foolish enough to head for the isolated mountains, assuming she’d even survived the solar storms. The Wheelerville compound was like a holy land, a mythic destination that demanded a great degree of faith. If Rachel Wheeler was alive, would she risk traveling through a land of violent mutants?

The soldier came back down the corridor, accompanied by two comrades with rifles. “Step back,” he bellowed, and slid a key in the door lock.

After pushing the door open, he waved Jorge and Franklin out of the cell. “Sarge wants to see you.”

“Let me put my boots back on,” Franklin said.

One of the soldiers motioned with his rifle barrel. “You won’t be needing them.”

Jorge was eager to exit the cell and work the soreness off his limbs, but Franklin dawdled, annoying the impatient soldiers. “Get your ass out here, old man,” one said.

“I march to my own drummer, and my drummer says I don’t go barefoot,” he said. He took his time putting on his boots, smiling a little.

The soldiers marched them down the corridor, and Jorge checked out the bunks and storage rooms that lined each side. The bunker appeared sparsely populated. He saw only one other soldier, wearing a khaki T-shirt and boxer shorts while sorting through cans on a shelf. They reached a steel door at the end of the corridor and the two armed soldiers stood guard while the unshaven soldier waved Jorge and Franklin through.

Franklin’s eyes flicked to one of the guns and Jorge thought the old man might go for it, but the soldier put his finger on the trigger and smiled. Franklin shuffled into the room, where Sarge sat behind a metal desk smoking a cigar. His face was craggy and deeply angled, as if a stone mason had shaped it with a trowel and left in the middle of the job for a coffee break. Eyes like tarnished nickels stared out at his captives, opaque and hiding any thoughts that might lay behind them.

“That cigar’s real smart in a bunker,” Franklin said. “Bet you’re failing to meet the government standard for indoor air quality in the workplace.”

“I’m the government now,” Sarge said. “Sure, there might be other bunkers like this one. Maybe even our beloved president is playing a hand of poker and drinking beer in one as we speak. I’ve heard rumors there are serious bunkers out in Colorado where they have entire armored divisions and even planes in shielded bunkers, where the electromagnetic pulse wouldn’t have affected them. Maybe even the Russians and Chinese are already rolling this way. But as far as I’m concerned, what you see is the only country left in the world.”

“Lucky for you the bunker was shielded,” Franklin said. “But I doubt you had enough brains to fry anyway.”

The unshaven soldier balled his fists and stepped aggressively toward Franklin, but Sarge waved him off. “Still playing Last American Patriot? Good, because Uncle Sam has a job for you.” He glared at Jorge. “I doubt you’re American, but we’ll throw you in as a bonus.”

Jorge kept his face impassive, although the anger boiled in his gut. He’d have to stay calm if he wanted to escape and find Rosa and Marina. These men could play their machismo games until the sun burned them all to ash. This wasn’t his war.

Sarge walked around the desk, crushing out his cigar on its scarred metal surface. “You wanna fight for freedom, Wheeler?”

“That’s the difference between us,” Franklin said. “You fight for it, but I just live it.”

“‘Live free or die,’ huh? Well, we’ll see how the Zapheads feel about that.”