Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

“Does that mean he’s pro-slavery?”

“You’re still here, ain’t you?”

“So are you.”

The man toasted that remark with a hoist of the bottle, and the liquor glinted golden in the sunlight. “Well, if they get in, I don’t want to be trapped in here. That gate’s the only way or in or out.”

DeVontay had assumed the same thing, but he hadn’t scouted the entire perimeter yet. From his vantage point on the hill, he could see the center of the compound, the storage shed where the men bunked, and the black-stained diesel fuel tank on cinder blocks by the school bus. Hardison was nowhere to be seen, and DeVontay could only locate a few of the sentries, including the two on top of the water tower. “No retreat, huh?”

“Yeah,” the man said, taking last drink of whiskey and hurling the bottle into the weeds. “Like I said, Rooster’s a Confederate. Got that defeatist attitude.”

“And you’re going to sit here and die?”

“Hell, no.” He pointed his rifle barrel down the hill to a large metal bin by the loading dock. “They keep the tools in there. Why don’t you slip down and snag us a set of heavy-duty wire cutters just in case?”

DeVontay wondered if this was a test. As far as he could tell, all the compound’s occupants were sold on Rooster’s vision. “You’d leave?”

“I’m not from here,” the man said. “My family’s half a country away, in Missouri, if they’re still alive. All I got is what’s in my pockets and the chamber of this rifle. Nothing here for me to fight for.”

DeVontay figured he’d better pass the test before he declared his own intentions. “Our chances are better if we stick together.”

“You’ve been out there. You know the Zapheads outnumber us a hundred to one. Even with all our guns, they can soak up bullets until Doomsday and still keep coming.”

As if to punctuate those words, another volley erupted. It sounded closer than before. One of the men on the water tower shouted and settled into a firing position.

“Okay,” DeVontay said. “Cover my ass.”

“Only ‘til we’re out of here. Then you’re on your own.”

DeVontay studied the man’s smudged, weary face a moment and nodded. “Cool.”

He scrambled back down the hill the way he’d come. Rooster had done a masterful job of inspiring his little community of worker bees. The fence was solidly constructed and his armed forces seemed to follow his orders. But he’d skimped on the living conditions and basic needs like food and waste management. A secluded area near the loading dock buzzed with flies and a heap of dark-brown matter was strewn with rotted toilet paper.

A man ran by forty yards away, headed for the main gate. DeVontay hunched into what he hoped looked like a battle posture and continued to the metal bin. The bin’s lid was held in place with a lock, but it was a small one. DeVontay looked around, saw no one looking, and rammed the butt of his shotgun against the hasp. The stock split but the lock didn’t break. He swung again and the hasp loosened, and DeVontay was able to wedge the shotgun barrel in the gap and pry it loose.

He’d probably damaged the shotgun but he didn’t intend on firing it anyway. Inside the bin were rows of tools on narrow trays. He found the wire cutters, a thick pair with rubber handles, as well as a meatier version designed to sever bolts. He stuffed the wire cutters in his back pocket, laid his shotgun on the ground, and ran to the back of the slaughterhouse.

Gunfire had erupted on the opposite side of the compound, along the section of fence he had yet to see. Now shots clapped and spat in staccato bursts, and men yelled on the other side of the slaughterhouse. DeVontay brought the bolt cutter to bear on the lock holding down the rear door. It took three tries before he worked the heavy blades though the steel, but he was able to kick the lock away and slide up the door with a rumbling creak.

The rush of fetid air almost took his breath away. A single boot protruded from a lumpy pile that was covered with a vinyl tarp, and DeVontay realized the mound was decomposing bodies. He tugged the front collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose and stumbled into the dark depths of the building, calling Stephen’s name. When his eyes adjusted, he found the main corridor that led from the loading area.

“DeVontay!” Stephen’s voice came too him from the slaughterhouse’s interior.

“Can you see me?”

“Yes, we’re here,” said Kiki, her voice quavering.

“Zapheads are coming. Let’s get out of here.”

DeVontay heard shuffling in the dark and then Stephen stepped into the gray light of the loading area. DeVontay gave him a quick hug and led him to the loading dock. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Stephen froze and looked up with imploring eyes. “What about the other kids?”

“Every man for himself.”

“But they’re not men. They’re kids .”

DeVontay remembered how Rachel and the others had saved him when he’d been captured in Taylorsville. If they gave up on one another, and After was now ruled by “Survival of the Fittest,” then what was the point? To survive for another day of selfishness?

But Stephen was his first responsibility. And the more people he tried to help, the higher the odds that Stephen wouldn’t make it.

Kiki stepped from the darkness, a child at each side. They all blinked as if they hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

DeVontay glanced up at the man by the fence. The man’s rifle was aimed right at DeVontay.

The Zapheads swarmed over them before they had a chance to fight back.

Franklin closed his eyes, expecting to be ripped limb from limb, the pain in his head so intense that he almost welcomed death. His heart leapt into a syncopated gallop and he clawed at the surface of the rock, wondering if he should roll over the edge back into the ravine.

The Zapheads still repeated Robertson’s cry of “Why?” although they no longer drew it out, instead vocalizing different lengths as if they were playing multiple instruments in some mad orchestra.

But as the horde moved around them, he realized they weren’t attacking. He finally opened his eyes to find them gathered around the bodies of the two fallen soldiers, as well as Robertson and his dead daughter. Jorge sat stunned and unmoving, apparently unwilling to go for the weapon that lay on the ground ten feet away from him.

They’re ignoring us.

Three Zapheads scooped up one of the soldiers as if he were a sack of grain, struggling to hoist him onto their shoulders. Another Zaphead, a male with a long, stringy beard and creased face, moved in to help. They were all dirty and their clothes soiled and tattered, but they moved with more precision and coordination than the ones Franklin had previously encountered.

Robertson tightened his grip on his daughter as the Zapheads pulled at her. “Get away, you mutant fuckers,” he said, kicking at one of them. Robertson’s boot struck a skinny Zaphead in the shin and it stopped repeating “Why why why.”

Shouldn’t have done that, partner.

The Zaphead’s eyes swelled with radiance, glittering so bright that Franklin could see the change even in full sunlight. The Zaphead grabbed Robertson’s foot and twisted, causing Robertson to grunt in anguish. That immediately set the Zapheads off on a grunting spree, until they sounded like a colony of gorillas. Franklin’s gaze met Jorge’s, who then looked at the gun.

“No,” Franklin said, trying not to draw the attention of the Zapheads. But he had a bad feeling about attacking the Zapheads at close range, especially after seeing the response to Robertson’s kick. The Zaphead who held the boot now twisted it vigorously, nearly dragging Robertson fully to the ground.