Scott Nicholson: Milepost 291

He passed between them, close enough that Jorge could smell the oniony stench of his sweat. He motioned to the soldiers and one of them jabbed the barrel of his rifle into Jorge’s back. They all followed Sarge back down the corridor until they came to a double set of metal doors. The unshaven soldier slid back a large deadbolt and swung them open, and bright sunset blinded Jorge.

After the long confinement, the rush of fresh air was almost dizzying. The trees had lost more of their leaves, and autumn’s decay was evident, but there was life in the hills and streams and breeze. Jorge didn’t have time to enjoy it, though, because the soldiers shoved them toward a makeshift camp. More soldiers were gathered around a fenced pen, but as they drew closer Jorge could see that it was actually a pit, with barbed wire ringing its upper rim.

The soldiers cheered and hooted, some of them bare-chested despite the October chill. A few campfires flickered, and blackened chunks of meat dangled from metal poles over them. Metal pots and tin cans sat on firestones, and trash littered the ground. A couple of halogen spotlights hung from trees, extension cords winding back into the bunker, but they were dark.

At the camp’s perimeter, sentries stood alert, watching the darkening forest. The bunker’s doors were set against a rocky hillside, and several soldiers perched on guard atop the ridge. More soldiers were undoubtedly scouting the woods. Altogether there were dozens of people in Sarge’s platoon, all males.

Jorge wondered what had happened to the women. And what might happen to Rosa and Marina.

The soldiers around the pit parted so Franklin and Jorge could be led to the edge. The pit was about fifteen feet deep and appeared to be a natural ravine that was blocked on one end with a massive pile of stones. The bottom of the depression was dark, but Jorge could see several figures milling around in the mud.

“Live free or die,” Sarge said. Someone switched on a handheld Maglight and shined the beam into the pit. Three disheveled, glittering-eyed faces peered up at the light.

Zaps.

Two were male, one about Jorge’s age and the other a decade older, both in good shape aside from their soiled and ragged clothes. The younger one was missing a shoe and his bare foot was bloody, but they’d obviously been eating something to maintain their strength. Jorge swallowed hard and glanced at the cooking meat. The last Zaphead he’d encountered had shown no signs of menace, but perhaps they’d discovered an endless and convenient supply of protein.

The third Zaphead appeared to be the star of the show, as the Maglight tended to fixate on her. She was college-aged, with a dark complexion and wild black hair. She wore only a pair of frilly panties but showed no embarrassment or even awareness of her exposed skin. Her full breasts swayed as she peered up at the raucous spectators and she swiveled like a performer in a strip club as soldiers shouted encouragement and taunts. Although the Zapheads couldn’t be heard, their lips moved as they tried to make sense of the sounds above them.

“The boys are a little riled up,” Sarge said. “Thought we’d give them a little show, and it doesn’t look like the USO is going to chopper in Lady Gaga.”

“Did your ‘boys’ strip down that woman?” Franklin said with evident disgust.

“That ain’t a woman, that’s a Zaphead. She’s a hottie, but they’re all afraid to stick it in there. Might get some kinda zombie rot.”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t volunteering.”

Sarge smirked. “I want to entertain them, not give them any more nightmares than they already got.” He pointed to a gap in the barbed wire. “Go.”

Jorge now understood. Sarge wanted him and Franklin to climb down the rocks to where the Zapheads were. In ancient Roman culture, Christians had been thrown to the lions for the amusement of the crowd, and Sarge had adapted the hobby to fit the times. Jorge had long admired American culture—the vibrant society from before the solar storms, anyway, not anything he’d witnessed since—but he’d always considered the country too aggressive and decadent. Little surprise that the military represented the most extreme flaws of its people, since power begat arrogance.

The soldiers crowded around behind them and one said, “Party time.”

Someone shoved Jorge forward and he had to steady himself so he didn’t tumble into the barbed wire. Franklin was right behind him and he’d have to descend the stack of rocks or be flung to the bottom.

“Think of it as a research project,” Sarge said. “We’ve been killing them but maybe we need to figure out what makes them tick. Had one of our guys cutting on them but as far as we can tell, there’s no physical difference besides their weird eyes. So it’s something going on inside their skulls.”

“Do we not get a weapon?” Jorge asked.

A couple of the soldiers laughed. One held up a pistol and said, “Well, it’s not that we don’t trust you, but what if a Zap takes it away and figures out how to use it?”

“This war has three sides,” Franklin said. “How many bunkers like yours are spread out across this great land? Five? A hundred? I wouldn’t be surprised if President Zaphead was holed up somewhere happy as clam at the chance to play dictator. But I bet you and your kind will end up killing each other off before long.”

“Maybe so,” Sarge said, fishing a cigar from his shirt pocket and nodding toward the pit. “But I bet we kill off their kind first. And your kind, too.”

“Get down there,” said the unshaven soldier, who appeared to be second-in-command. He jabbed Jorge in the back again.

Franklin pushed past Jorge to the opening in the barbed wire. “Can’t smell any worse down there than it does up here with you bunch of assholes.”

The Maglight and cheers followed his progress. Jorge thought about running, but getting shot wouldn’t help Rosa and Marina. Plus he felt a strange loyalty to Franklin Wheeler. The stubborn old man had gone against his instincts and helped the Jiminez family. With a last glance around at the wild, sweating faces, Jorge scrambled over the edge, clinging to the rocks as he descended.

The Zapheads moved to one side of the pit, pressing their backs against the dirt. Franklin crouched in a defensive posture, but Jorge just waited for their reaction. Their odor carried a faint metallic tinge over the stink, and it mixed with the swampy air of the pit. Someone hurled a stone from above and it thunked off the arm of one of the Zaphead men.

The stricken Zaphead didn’t make a sound but erupted into a flailing fit, and the other two Zapheads broke into a similar frenzy. Their rage didn’t seem directed at Jorge and Franklin, but the soldiers hooted gleefully from above anyway. More stones rained down, a couple of them bouncing off Jorge’s shoulders. The three Zapheads went berserk, waving their arms. The nearly naked female was struck on the bare belly by a rock, and her body drew back from the impact but she didn’t wince or cry out.

“Don’t move,” Jorge said.

“The faster we get this over with, the faster we’re out of here.” Franklin balled his fists and headed for the Zapheads. They didn’t seem to notice him at first, but one of the men spun and elbowed Franklin in the chest.

“Damn you!” Franklin grunted, as the soldiers let out a cheer. Shouts of “Smack her around” and “Kick some Zap ass, grandpa!” emerged from the chatter above them, as well as what sounded like men placing bets.

Jorge tried to grab Franklin but the old man shrugged him off and swung at the closest Zaphead. His fist pounded into the man’s temple, dropping him to his knees. A stray rock bounced down from above, hitting Franklin on the cheek and drawing blood.