Scott Nicholson: Milepost 291

“So what’s your exit strategy?” Campbell asked as the professor swallowed the last of his beans.

“There’s no exit. I’m making the best of it. I’ve been here nearly three weeks and they haven’t killed me yet.”

Campbell couldn’t believe the man was serious. “You’re doing a good job of making them think you’re Jesus, but that didn’t end so well for him, if you’ll recall.”

“They’re learning, and if we can teach them not to make the same mistakes as the human race, then maybe we really can achieve those crazy ideals of peace, love, and harmony.”

And here I was thinking I’d feathered the cuckoo’s nest. But you’ve definitely been cracking some eggs. This is your brain, this is your brain on Zapheads. Any questions?

“Don’t you think maybe it’s a little arrogant to presume we know what’s best?” Campbell said. “There’s no blueprint for this.”

The professor grinned, bean sauce shiny on his chin. “Then we get to draw our own blueprint.” He nodded at one of the Zapheads, a twentyish woman with the ragged dark bangs of a Goth hairstyle and full lips, a small silver skull dangling by a chain from one ear lobe. “I think she likes me.”

Campbell shoved his plate away. The rotted corpses of the farmhouse’s original occupants said nothing. In some ways, they were the most stable and tangible facts of this new world. All else was postmodern surrealism.

And a new history waiting to be written.

“They’re all yours,” Campbell said, spreading his arms. “All God’s children.”

“God’s children!” said a grimy-faced woman and the Zap Goth in unison.

“God’s children!” shouted another Zaphead, and soon the room—and then the farmhouse—was filled with their shouts.

“You really trust these guys, Sarge?” said the unshaven soldier.

Franklin Wheeler didn’t like the beady-eyed little bastard, but he kept his mouth shut and his face impassive. They’d outfitted him with a camouflage combat uniform, but he’d kept his boots. Jorge looked uncomfortable in his own gear, constantly fidgeting with the top button of his shirt as if not sure whether to undo it. Neither of them would have passed muster in the old days, but Sarge was apparently eager to take what he could get in order to expand his empire.

“I trust them about as far as a bullet can reach,” Sarge said. “But they’re you’re problem now, Hayes.”

Hayes, the unshaven soldier, muttered under his breath.

“What’s that, soldier?”

“Yes, sir,” Hayes responded, none too crisply.

Franklin smirked. The chain of command has got a few weak links.

“Check out Sector 12, where they spotted the enemy yesterday. Report back here at twelve-hundred hours,” Sarge said. “No prisoners, no casualties.”

Franklin and Jorge were part of a reconnaissance patrol led by Hayes. The other three soldiers in the patrol were as sullen as Hayes, smoking cigarettes and eyeing Franklin warily. One, sporting a dark complexion and wearing a soiled red bandana around his neck, cleared his throat and spat, the wet wad landing inches from Franklin’s boot. Franklin gave him a smirking salute.

“I don’t like this,” Jorge whispered.

“I don’t, either, but it’s your best chance of finding your family again.”

“Don’t be acting sneaky,” Bandana Boy said, patting his rifle. “I got no problem at all killing a couple of civilians.”

“Move out,” Hayes bellowed, waving the soldiers out of the camp. By Franklin’s estimation, Sarge had about fifty soldiers under his command, and there might have been others out on patrol. Sarge was right: he might be one of the most powerful men left in the world.

“What are we looking for?” Franklin asked Hayes, falling in behind the patrol leader as they headed into the morning forest.

“Zaps.”

“Yeah, but what are we going to do when we find them?”

Hayes made a pointing motion with his finger, as if it were a pistol. “Bang.”

“Why don’t me and Jorge get guns?”

“Sarge says you have to prove yourselves. Just because you helped kill some Zaps doesn’t mean we can trust you. I hear you’re a big anti-government type.”

“Ain’t a government left to stand against,” Franklin said. “The way I look at, we’re all free men. Death is the ultimate democracy.”

“Sarge has other ideas.”

Franklin sensed resentment in the man and decided to feed it a little. “How many bunkers you think are out there? How many men like Sarge have some troops to boss around?”

“That’s classified information.”

“That means you’re either too dumb to know or nobody trusts you enough to tell you.” Ignoring Hayes’s dismissive grunt, Franklin added, “My guess is maybe thirty or forty at most. Probably a few here in the Blue Ridge, the Unegama Wilderness Area, most of the national parks, and whatever luxury hideaways Congress built for itself. And I’ll bet every one of them has a Sarge, a little Hitler type who’s going to run things his way.”

“Sarge is watching out for us,” Hayes said.

Somebody better be, because you sure as hell ain’t.

Hayes was barely paying attention to their surroundings, even though they were heading downhill where the forest was thinning out. They came to a logging road, and Hayes slowed to allow the other stragglers to catch up. Jorge had walked solemnly, staying alert, obviously looking for any sign that his wife and daughter might have passed this way. Franklin was pretty sure they’d never see them alive again, but he didn’t see any reason to express that opinion to Jorge.

“We’re coming up on the development,” Hayes called back from the point. He slid his semi-automatic rifle strap down his shoulder until he was cradling the weapon across his waist. “One of our scouts reported some funny noises down here yesterday.”

Below the road, the morning sun caught the metal rooftops of half a dozen houses. They were obscenely large, with timber construction made to resemble log cabins, with lots of glass. No smoke came from the chimneys, despite the cold. Franklin figured them for second homes, the kind rich folks from Florida might visit twice between Memorial Day and Labor Day while writing the vacations off on their taxes. He hoped every one of those assholes had been blasted to hell and their bodies were rotting away on their silk sheets.

Hayes waved Bandana Boy over and told the other two soldiers to sneak down and approach from the west. Bandana Boy looked a little too eager for action, but Franklin figured if Zapheads attacked, at least he and Jorge wouldn’t draw much attention. These cowboys would blow away anything that moved, human or not.

The first house had a new SUV parked out front, although tree sap had spotted its silver finish. A riding lawn mower was parked beneath the porch, and a blue vinyl tarp covered a stack of firewood. The curtains were drawn in the windows.

“Okay, Jimbo, you take point,” Hayes said, motioning Bandana Boy up the porch steps. Franklin and Jorge followed while Hayes waited with his weapon ready.

Bandana Boy tried the door handle. Finding it locked, he reared back and drove the bottom of his foot into the glass. The sudden shattering was bright and loud in the morning silence. “That’ll wake ‘em up,” Bandana Boy said.

“And let every goddamned Zaphead within thirty miles know where we are, genius.”

“What, you wanted me to look for a key?”

Hayes waved him inside. “Shut up and get.”

Bandana Boy stepped inside the house, crunching glass underneath his boots. Franklin ducked inside after him, looking around for the kitchen. At the very least, he wanted a butcher knife. While Bandana Boy did a quick check of the downstairs rooms, Jorge collected a fireplace poker and gave it a test swing. Hayes stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. “Anybody home?” he shouted.