Scott Nicholson: Milepost 291

He stooped and grabbed the rock and flung it wildly back up at the soldiers, who laughed. Then the Zapheads bent and grabbed rocks and made awkward tosses. The one Franklin had punched stood and wobbled toward Franklin, his fists clenched.

“Come on, shitterhawk,” Franklin said, his eyes bright and wild.

The macho aggression of the soldiers lent the air an electrical charge. The Zapheads seemed to feed off the energy, growing more frenetic in their flailing. The pit wasn’t large enough to allow evasion, and they struck Jorge as he tried to dodge. Now he was scared—they were out of control, mindless, dangerous, their eyes glittering like bomb bursts.

The older Zaphead wrestled a wedge of stone from the wall of the pit and raised it over his head. Franklin charged and lowered his shoulder into the Zaphead’s gut. The Zaphead grunted as air exploded from his lungs. The impact carried both of them into the scantily clad female, who danced away and slammed into Jorge. Her bare skin repulsed him, and the heat of her body was a perversion of eroticism. He looked into her eyes for any sign of understanding, but the only thing there were the mad yellow sparks, made even more brilliant by the Maglight shining down from above.

“Give it to her, Taco!” one of the soldiers yelled. Sarge’s boisterous laugh rained down on him, antagonizing Jorge even more. As Franklin wrestled with the Zaphead he’d knocked the ground, the woman and the second Zaphead closed in on Jorge. The claustrophobia sent a jolt of panic coursing through him, and he lunged forward to escape.

The woman raked at his face, her dirty nails drawing blood. He clenched his fist to punch her but old-world chivalry gave him pause. Then the other Zaphead slammed his spine just below his shoulder blades and his lower body went numb. As he dropped to his knees, fear rolled over him like dark water on a shipwrecked man.

“Jesus, Jorge, get off your ass and fight back,” Franklin yelled, knocking the woman aside and grabbing the Zaphead by his shirt. He yanked down on the man’s torso, lifting his leg at the same time so that his knee drove into the Zaphead’s face. Blood spurted from the victim’s nose and mouth, and he spat a tooth onto the ground.

The soldiers cheered at the site of blood. Jorge looked over at the first Zaphead Franklin had attacked, who was now rolling slowly to his feet. Franklin took two giant steps and kicked the Zaphead in the belly.

“Surely you can handle the woman,” Franklin said. “If you ever want to see your family again, it starts here.”

Rosa had shot a Zaphead to protect Jorge. A kind and gentle woman, she’d been horrified at her actions, but she’d also done what was necessary to protect her family. Could Jorge do any less?

Jorge let his fear morph into rage and he lashed out with his fists. The soldiers bellowed and cheered, more stones rained down, and the Maglight cut dizzying arcs around the dark pit. Jorge had seen videos of rave dances, and this tableau had the same kinetic mania, only with a soundtrack of demented rooting rather than throbbing techno music. His fist smacked against soft skin, and he wasn’t sure who he was striking, but he punched again into yielding flesh. The woman whimpered and the yellow sparks in her eyes danced madly. She crouched like a tigress, her fingers curled like claws, lips peeled back in a sneer.

Jorge was struck from behind and his legs gave away. The damp dirt jammed into his mouth and nose, its ancient decay clotting his senses. He shook the descending gray veil from his head and kicked backward, connecting with the Zaphead, but the woman was on him, her naked body wrapping obscenely around him as she bit at his neck. He tried to buck her off like a bronco tossing a rodeo cowgirl, but she clung tight.

He rolled instead, so that she was beneath him, and then drove an elbow into her stomach and crawled free. At the edge of the pit’s shadows, Franklin grappled with the bloody Zaphead.

“Okay, we’re done here,” Sarge shouted, and that must have been a command, because the words were followed by the crack of several rifles.

A stray bullet pinged around the stones of the pit as the three Zapheads fell. Jorge wiped cold sweat from his face as he looked down at the woman. Her eyes were open but they no longer glittered, just reflected the muted light like a dying planet slipping away from its star.

Franklin rubbed his raw knuckles and squinted up into the lights and the crowd of soldiers ringing the rim of the pit. “Who’s next, assholes?”

A rope dropped down the side of the pit. “Guess you passed the audition,” Sarge said.

Rachel limped through the forest, straining her ears for any sounds of leaves scuffing from Stephen’s footfalls.

The boy must have a snake phobia, or perhaps his post-traumatic stress had merely been sleeping beneath the surface and waiting for a chance to erupt. But with dusk settling in, the dark forest offered even more horrors than a venomous snake could.

She was afraid to call out in case any Zapheads were nearby. Rachel wondered if the Zapheads could smell her—the infection in her leg, her sweat, the watermelon-scented shampoo she’d used by a creek in a futile attempt at normalcy. At least the Zapheads had quit yelling. Although the noise allowed her to track their locations and movements, she preferred the silence, even if the calm was only an illusion.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead.

She crouched low and leaned against a tree, peering into the darkness. She heard a soft female voice: “Do you see it?”

That doesn’t sound like a Zaphead.

Rachel waited, guessing the speaker was maybe fifty feet away. Another female said, “Over there.”

The gunshot was like a thunderclap in the night calm of the forest and a whine overhead clipped through branches and leaves. Rachel instinctively ducked lower. In the brightness of the muzzle flash she’d made out a small collection of silhouettes among the tree trunks. Two adults and a child. One of the adults, the one not pointing the rifle, carried a bulky bundle.

“Did you hit it?” said the first voice.

Zapheads didn’t use guns, as far as she knew. And they didn’t speak in sentences.

“Who’s there?” said one of the women.

Definitely not a Zap.

“Rachel,” she answered. “Don’t shoot. I’m…normal.”

Which also didn’t sound like something a Zaphead would say, so she was probably safe. Still, she kept the tree between her and the rifle.

“What are you doing out here in the dark?” asked the woman.

“Looking for a boy. Have you seen him?”

“You know what’s out here, don’t you?”

“Zapheads.” Rachel walked toward the group. She sensed more than saw one of the women pull the child protectively close. She thought for a moment it might be Stephen, but this child was shorter, and Stephen would have called out. “They heard the shot. They’ll be coming.”

As she drew closer, Rachel saw a soft radiance emanating from the bundle of blankets held by the woman. Rachel dug two of the glow sticks from her backpack and broke them, casting a circle of sickly green light that was barely bright enough to reveal the group. One of the women was probably early thirties, hugging a girl slightly older than Stephen. Judging by their similar straight black hair and nut-brown skin, Rachel judged them to be mother and daughter. It was this woman who held the rifle, its barrel now pointed at the sky but held with an easy confidence, as if the woman could bring it to bear in a heartbeat.

The other woman hugged her bundle to her chest. She was Rachel’s age, maybe two years younger. She was blonde and dirty-faced, a long red scratch across one cheek. She looked scared and tired and brittle, as if a sudden wind might cause her to collapse in a heap of bones.