Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

“You mean who was I with last night?” he answered.

“No, I meant your posse. Your tribe.”

“I’m traveling alone.”

“Nobody makes it on their own anymore. You would have been dead in the first week, dumb as you look.”

That drew a laugh from DeVontay’s escorts. DeVontay said, “I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I hope so, because we don’t carry any deadweight around here. If you can’t contribute, then you only have two options. Exile or Zaphead bait.”

“I’ll be happy to go.” He jerked his head toward the slaughterhouse . “Let the boy come with me.”

Rooster squinted and twisted his jaw. “I thought you traveled alone.”

“I do…but he’s no good to you. One more mouth to feed.”

“You must be DeVontay. He kept talking about you. Said you were going to show up soon and kick our asses. Then he said you were headed on to Milepost 291. You sure are a hero to him.”

Orange Cap shoved DeVontay. “No wonder you didn’t nail the women. You’re a pervert.”

DeVontay clenched his fists but realized a confrontation wouldn’t end well. He didn’t think the men would shoot him. However, a beating would lower his chances of escape.

“He was also talking about a ‘Rachel,’” Rooster said. “That your sweetheart?”

“Man, he’s such a pervert that he does them two at a time,” said the other guard, which drew a snicker from Orange Cap.

“I met them on the road, but we got separated,” he said. “I haven’t seen her in two weeks.”

“What about Franklin Wheeler? You ever heard of him?”

“I heard of him, but that’s about it.”

Rooster nodded. “That glass eye is fucking with me, but your good eye says you’re telling the truth. I like to keep up with the people in my territory.”

“I didn’t know this was yours,” DeVontay said. “Did you get elected or something?”

“I worked here,” Rooster said, waving the walking stick in an arc to indicate the compound. “Lots of cattle, holding pens, storage sheds, feed silos. We had to put up chain-link fences because the hippies would come in with video cameras and post on the Internet about how we were inhumane to the cattle. Same fucking hippies that probably stopped at McDonald’s on their way home. Too bad their cameras didn’t work when the Big Zap went down, or they would have seen plenty of inhumane treatment.

“I was one of the lucky ones. Only a few of the other workers were around that day. They all died except one, and I took him down pretty fast with a sledgehammer. After I figured out what was what, I saw this was the perfect place to ride it out. When I made some forays into Stonewall, I found other survivors, and they joined up. We’ve got thirty-one able-bodied men now.”

“And only three women?”

Rooster shrugged. “‘Survival of the fittest’ is a bitch.”

“But you’re keeping kids prisoner, too.”

“I like to think of it as ‘protective custody.’ If we’re going to rebuild this world, we’re eventually going to need a new generation.”

“That’s why we need breeders,” Orange Cap said.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” DeVontay challenged. “Can’t get it up?”

That drew another hard shove from Orange Cap, but Rooster waved him off. “A warrior needs to save his strength and keep his mind focused. We’ve got plenty of enemies that require our energy.”

“Guess that means I’m not a warrior?”

“That depends. Is your loyalty with us or with the U.S. government?”

DeVontay looked around at the compound, where a man was ladling out some type of porridge onto ceramic plates set along the back of a flatbed truck. “I don’t see any government.”

“You’re not looking hard enough. They’re all over the place. One bunch of them, we already erased. A group that came up from the south.” Rooster pointed to a flapping tunic that was ripped and rippled with rusty blotches, fluttering gently from the exhaust pipe of a tractor. DeVontay noted the captain’s bars on the shoulders and wondered if it was the same officer who had captured him in Taylorsville.

Getting captured is turning into a real bad habit of mine.

“But there’s another platoon holed up near the Blue Ridge Parkway, camped on those slopes,” Rooster said. “They’re well-armed and they’ve been dipping down here into the valley more and more. Three days ago, they killed a couple of our men.”

“Maybe they mistook you for Zapheads,” DeVontay offered.

“Doesn’t matter. They’re a threat and they need to be cleaned out. Just like Wheeler. I heard rumors he set up a compound on the ridge. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s squirreled away enough explosives to blow us all to hell and gone.”

“I’d say the Zapheads are a bigger threat. They’re moving in packs now.”

“Sure, but they’re slow, not as aggressive as they were.” Rooster lit another cigarette. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here. We haven’t lost anybody to Zappers in nearly a month.”

“And that was only Sam Duggers,” Orange Cap said. “No big loss.”

“Lots of Zapheads in Stonewall,” DeVontay said. “They nearly got me.”

“We didn’t see any,” Orange Cap said. “None of our scouts have, either.”

“None around,” Rooster said. “The army is our biggest threat. But one of our men saw an old man who fits Wheeler’s description. Crotchety old asshole with a beard like a possum. He was with three other people. He’s invading our turf, too.”

Shouts came from the main gate, and a man on horseback thundered into the compound. The horse galloped up to Rooster and the man swung out of the saddle before the animal had come to a compete stop. The rider was dusty and haggard, a rifle slung over his shoulder that nearly slid off as he regained his balance.

“Zaps,” the man gasped. “Lots of them. Heading this way.”

“Not looking good,” Franklin said, peering over the edge of the boulder on which he was laying.

He passed the binoculars to Jorge. They’d moved into the forest to avoid the open road, hoping to identify the source of the car fire. Black oily smoke still threaded into the sky, but it had thinned and the breeze carried the stink to the east. Franklin had seen three men in fatigues—Sarge’s soldiers, probably—cross the road beyond them, but he was more concerned about the silent figures trickling through the forest.

“What are Zaps doing here?” Robertson asked.

“Must have smelled the fire or heard the gunshots,” Franklin said. “They’re drawn to activity. I wouldn’t be surprised if the soldiers lured them here.”

“I can’t believe there’s so many of them,” Robertson said. “We hardly ever saw any before the troops rolled through. Two months of nothing, and now they’re everywhere.”

“Maybe there are more of them than anyone knew,” Jorge said.

“Or nobody’s left in the cities for them to kill,” Franklin said.

“Thanks, Mr. Optimistic,” Shay said, sitting on a rock with an oversize jacket draped around her shoulders.

“They’re not wandering around aimlessly,” Franklin said. “It’s like they’re searching for something.”

From the rocky overhang, Franklin counted at least a dozen Zapheads in the woods below them. They were unkempt, some of them half-naked, with tangled, greasy hair. They walked with a slight jerking motion between the trees, but they didn’t stagger. They were all headed in the same direction, toward the road and the burning cars, like penitents on a pilgrimage bound for some sacred shrine.

“So what do we do?” Robertson asked.

“Lay those guns on the ground, for one thing,” came a voice above them.