Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

Robertson kicked again with his other foot, and the blow knocked the Zaphead away. Two others, who had been lifting the other fallen soldier, turned their attention to Robertson. The Zapheads holding Shay’s corpse began to yank as if they were fighting over a rag doll. Robertson lashed out at one of them with a fist, landing a blow to the face. The woman’s cheek split and blood poured out.

At least their blood’s still red. As close to human as they get.

“Robertson,” Franklin said, repeating the name when the man didn’t answer. He raised his voice, which drew looks from a couple of the Zapheads. “Don’t fight back.”

But Robertson’s grief had melded into anger, and he used one arm to push at the Zapheads while the other encircled Shay’s body.

Franklin crawled toward Robertson, hoping to calm him down. One of the Zapheads stepped toward him—a middle-aged woman who looked like she might have been a lawyer in a former life, although her pants suit was frayed and her blouse missing its buttons—and he froze, waiting for her response. She stopped, too, watching him with sparking eyes.

Jorge finally moved, easing toward the rifle despite Franklin’s command. Maybe he had enough ammunition to take down the small group of them, but Franklin believed other Zaps were approaching through the woods, because he could hear their repetitive chatter. Gunfire would only bring more of them, and they’d never shoot their way past the entire Zaphead Nation that seemed to be boiling up from their holes and hiding places.

The Zapheads holding the first soldier dropped their burden onto the muddy forest floor and started for Robertson as well. Now half a dozen grabbed at him and Shay, with Robertson kicking and punching as best he could while still clinging to his blood-soaked daughter.

“Get away, get away,” he moaned, nearly blubbering. “Leave her alone.”

Franklin knew the grief of losing a child, although his losses had been emotional rather than physical, casualties of Franklin’s libertarian obsessions rather than gunplay. But he’d had time to assimilate the tide of pain, and Robertson’s had descended upon him in one shocking avalanche. Robertson kissed the top of her head even as he cursed at the former humans that clutched and tugged at her.

“Robertson, let her go,” Franklin said.

He looked at Franklin with red-rimmed, watery eyes. “She’s all I have.”

“She’s gone. Getting killed yourself won’t bring her back.”

“Don’t give a shit. They’re not taking her.”

Jorge sprang at the rifle and wrapped a hand around the stock, but before he could raise it, a Zaphead jumped on the gun and covered it with her body. A muffled roar erupted as the Zaphead shook, a spurt of blood gushing from the top of its skull.

The other Zapheads didn’t seem to realize one of their number had been killed, but they fell silent in the wake of the sudden noise. Incongruently, a crow cawed from somewhere in the treetops, and that inspired several of the Zapheads to caw in return.

As Jorge struggled to retrieve the weapon from beneath the fallen Zaphead, Robertson continued his fight. He was now on his feet, holding his daughter as if they were in a ballet. She sagged from the waist, lolling forward so that her blood-stained torso was pointed toward Franklin. Then she flopped forward so that her hair was over her face, nearly falling free of her father’s frantic grip.

The Zapheads moved in on all sides, finally succeeding in dragging her away. Robertson screamed and jumped on the back of the closest Zaphead, causing them both to fall flailing into the mud. The Zaphead was bigger and beefier than Robertson, and Franklin joined the fray with the intention of getting Robertson the hell out of there.

“She’s dead,” Franklin said, pulling on the back of his shirt. “You’re not. Come on.”

Robertson swung wildly and struck Franklin on the side of the head, awakening his slumbering concussion into a red, roaring dragon that caused his ears to ring. By the time Franklin returned to his senses, Robertson was locked in fierce combat with three Zapheads while two others bore Shay away from the rock ledge.

Jorge now grappled with two Zapheads, still trying to free the semiautomatic rifle. One of his unnatural adversaries, a young teen male clad in only a navy blue knit sweater and grungy boxer shorts, clawed at Jorge’s wounded side as if digging for entrails. Franklin decided they weren’t getting out of here alive after all.

Might as well go down fighting. I’d just as soon die from these sons of bitches as get shot by Sarge’s gang.

But he noticed a difference in the two separate struggles—where Robertson punched and kicked, Jorge wrestled and shoved.

And the Zapheads were returning those two physical responses in kind. The Zapheads around Robertson drove their fists at his head, but he managed to duck the awkward blows. It was like the Zapheads had never thrown a punch before and were learning on the spot. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in determination and quantity, and soon their fists were bouncing off Robertson’s neck and shoulders.

They also drove their shoes—or filthy bare feet if they wore no shoes—into Robertson’s legs. He couldn’t defend himself from all the angles of attack and soon fell under the fury of the mob.

But was it really fury? The Zapheads delivered their blows with an almost detached attitude, as if they were putting in time at a minimum-wage job. The earlier Zap attacks had been characterized by rampaging, chaotic violence, with frenetic movements and an almost mewling sound of pleasure rising from their throats.

Franklin decided Robertson was a goner and staggered over to help Jorge. “Stop fighting,” Franklin shouted. “Let your body go limp.”

Jorge scuffled a few seconds longer, but fell still when Franklin yelled his name. The Zapheads broke into a chorus of “Hor-hay, hor-hay” but they halted their attack. It only took them seconds to turn their attention to Robertson.

Franklin put his hands over his ears as Robertson’s grunts turned into yelps and then screams, and the mass of Zapheads atop him roiled like a sack of rats.

“I’m not a Zaphead,” Rachel said, checking the mirror again. “I don’t feel any different.”

Well, not MUCH different. My eyes have some weird flecks, and I’m a little light-headed, but I just fought off a serious infection and underwent a miracle cure at the hands of some bizarre mutants. There’s no medical textbook for this. Nobody knows how I’m supposed to feel.

“You’re acting almost the same as before, not that I know you all that well,” Campbell said, sitting on the bed so she wouldn’t suffer claustrophobia in the bathroom. “But something’s…off.”

“Maybe the part where these Zapheads healed me with their touch like a tribe of charismatic evangelicals? Sorry, I don’t believe Jesus came back to Earth in the form of a zillion dirty walking apes whose sins were cleansed by the sun.”

“The professor thought something mystical was occurring, which is why he saw himself as some sort of spiritual leader for them.”

“One thing history teaches us is that we always nail our spiritual leaders to the cross, either with actual nails or bullets.”

“Human history, maybe. We don’t have a Zaphead history yet.”

Rachel walked out of the bathroom into the brightness of the bedroom. “So they’ve gone from bloodthirsty murderers to missionary witch doctors in mere weeks?”

Campbell squinted at her like a husband who’d just been told of a fashion makeover but couldn’t quite tell where the money had gone. “I mean, maybe they didn’t infect you. Maybe there’s some sort of second wave of solar flares to zap the rest of us. It’s not like we have TV talking heads to warn us this time around.”