Scott Nicholson - Milepost 291

“I don’t feel so lucky,” Jorge said.

Franklin collected Shay’s jacket, which was all that remained of her besides a few bloodspots, and tore it into strips. He wrapped a couple of strips around Jorge’s abdomen and cinched them into a bandage. The bleeding had already stopped, and if infection didn’t set in, the wound would probably cause more pain and inconvenience than health risk.

Below them, muted gunfire echoed up from the valley. Without binoculars, Franklin couldn’t tell where the battle was raging. All he could see was the river winding through the heart of the valley and occasional stretches of asphalt that ran parallel to it.

“Doesn’t sound like Sarge’s men,” Franklin said. “I don’t think they’d dip that far away from the ridges. And most of it doesn’t sound like semiautomatic fire. More like shotguns and small-caliber pistols.”

“Why didn’t you let me shoot them?” Jorge said, not listening.

“Because they would have killed you.”

“Maybe I should go after them.”

“What for? They’re all dead. If you get yourself killed on a wild goose chase, what do I tell your family?”

“My family’s dead, just like Robertson and Shay.”

“You have to keep hoping, hombre . Maybe we survived for a reason.”

“We survived because we’re cowards who wouldn’t fight back.”

Franklin rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, wondering if he was hemorrhaging blood around his brain. Pressure might be building right now that could leave him blind or trigger a stroke or some type of seizure. That would be ironic—his central nervous system had proven immune to the mutating radiation of the solar flares but had succumbed to a little knock on the noggin.

“We can’t sit here and wait for dark,” Franklin said. “Sarge probably has patrols out after us, and the Zaps are liable to return. And I don’t particularly care to be caught in the middle. The way I see it, we can either find a house to hole up in, head on back to Milepost 291, or go down into the valley and see what’s going on. Personally, I’m getting a little tired of these war games. I’m ready to get back home.”

“Easy for you, since you have a home,” Jorge said. “This country is not even my home, not really. As much as I tried to fit in, teach my family to speak English first, I still don’t feel like I belong.”

“None of us belong anymore. May as well be here as anywhere.”

Franklin crawled well away from the ledge and leaned against a slender tree trunk, using it to help steady his legs as he stood. Aside from the painful rush of blood to his head and a moment of nausea, he felt well enough to walk.

“So, what’s your choice?” Franklin asked.

“Same as before. I’m not going anywhere until I find my family.”

Franklin nodded. “Milepost 291 will be there when you find them. Come on up, even if it’s winter or even spring. You’re always welcome.”

He limped into the forest, heading west, planning to backtrack toward Grandfather Mountain and find an abandoned house for the night, then continue his journey tomorrow.

“You’re forgetting something, hombre ,” Jorge said.

Franklin turned with effort, fighting a wave of dizziness. “What?”

Jorge pointed to the several weapons lying on the ground. “Your gun.”

“No, I’m not doing that anymore. The Zapheads will kill anyone with a weapon, and I wouldn’t have any chance against a bunch of trained soldiers. From now on, I’m just counting on my wits, as sad as that sounds.”

Their eyes met, and Franklin realized he’d soon be alone for the first time since he’d met Jorge, Rosa, and Marina on a trail and invited them to stay at Wheelerville. Despite his long years spent in contented solitude, the thought of going solo now filled him with an indefinable fear. His vision of life after the apocalypse had never consisted of nights spent alone roasting wild game over a fire, or scrounging in the woods for nuts and berries like a naturalist.

No, the very reason he’d built his ridge top compound was because he expected company. Consciously, “company” had always meant Rachel, as well as any other family members who finally realized Franklin was right after all rather than a schizophrenic hermit. But he’d also prepared to cohabit with total strangers, and together find new ways of living that didn’t embrace the old structure that led to corruption, power struggles, and greed.

Wheelerville at Milepost 291 had been designed as more of a libertarian utopia than anything else. After all, Franklin hadn’t hoarded high-grade explosives or chemical weapons—partly because he didn’t want to draw any more government interest than necessary, but mostly because he wanted to live and let live, not kill or be killed. No, he’d focused on sustainable supplies of food, water, and heat, with just enough security measures to make would-be marauders think twice. Nobody could kill you for your resources if they didn’t even know you existed.

But he also hadn’t anticipated Zapheads. A mutated race of violent, mindless humans had never appeared on his list of end-of-the-world scenarios. He’d even toyed with the idea of zombie outbreaks, since certain branches of the government had wasted taxpayer money foolishly developing protocols for such events. But never in his wildest dreams would they ever be more than material to fill comic books.

“So you’re going to walk fifteen miles through Zapheads and murderous army soldiers and just hope you manage to avoid them?’ Jorge said.

“That’s the plan.”

Franklin continued into the forest, the afternoon sun burning through the dwindling canopy. Jorge called to him a final time. “And if I find Rosa and Marina and they want to come, what about Cathy and her baby?”

Franklin shuddered at the memory of the repulsive little creature with its intense, glittering eyes and the way it watched everything with a quiet cunning. He should have killed it while he had the chance, but something about its gaze—almost like it knew what Franklin was contemplating—had stayed his hand.

But he’d made a mistake. He never should have allowed the baby into his compound. He suspected it was the reason Jorge had lost his family, and then Sarge’s Army had captured him and Jorge while they were searching. And since then, the outcome had been more deaths, with each step leading him farther and farther from the idyllic life he’d spent years building.

Maybe he shouldn’t have allowed anyone into the compound. He’d likely be there now, tending his garden and goats, gathering firewood for winter, drawing on the solar panels to scan shortwave radio frequencies for other survivors.

Now it was time to fix his mistake. Even if it meant being alone.

“I said you’re invited,” Franklin said. “Nobody else but family. Human family.”

He limped into the woods toward home, his head throbbing with each heavy step.

After the group had gathered in the slaughterhouse’s loading area again, DeVontay and Stephen had yanked the bay door down into place. There was no way to fasten it from the inside now that the lock was broken, and DeVontay could only hope none of Rooster’s men tried to get inside. He didn’t think Zapheads had mastered the complexities of locks and doors, but tense minutes passed as gunfire boomed around the compound.

Now the shots fell only sporadically, along with the shouts and cries of men. DeVontay had no sense of passing time in the almost complete darkness, but he figured it had been four or five hours since their escape attempt. Aside from occasional whispered commands and Kiki’s and Carole’s comforting murmurs, the loading bay was filled with an eerie hum, as if the decomposing bodies under the tarp were radiating the last of their fading energy. The smell was corrupt and fecund, but no more so than the underlying scent of blood and decay that had permeated the slaughterhouse from its former commercial life.