Scott Nicholson - The Echo

Campbell tried to pull his hand away, but she squeezed harder. “Lighten up,” she said. “If I was hunting for a husband, I wouldn’t go after one as skittish as you. Name’s Wilma.”

He let her lead him through the woods. She flicked on a pen light and flashed the narrow beam steadily ahead of her feet, guiding him with a confidence that suggested she knew the woods well.

“Hi, Wilma. I’m Campbell.”

They walked in silence for some minutes, Campbell’s eyes adjusting to the gloom. The green-tinged sky occasionally appeared through breaks in the canopy. “You live alone?” he asked.

“Do now. Where you from?”

“Near Chapel Hill. Me and a friend bicycled out this way, and then he…”

She squeezed his hand again, and he welcomed the sympathetic contact. “Happens to all of us sooner or later,” she said. “Personally, I’m shooting for the ‘later.’”

Campbell glanced around, watching for lights or movement in the shadows. He wondered if the woman was armed, and then decided she must be. Otherwise, she’d have to be crazy to wander around knowing Zapheads and a crazed militia was afoot.

The terrain was relatively flat but now it gave way to a slow incline. The ground was rockier here, and they came upon a wide ditch that featured a trickle of water.

“Cane Creek,” she said. “Good water if you filter it.”

Campbell realized he was both thirsty and hungry. Encountering the troops had disrupted his routine and he hadn’t eaten since midday. “Do you have any food?”

“I know how to make do. There’s a convenience store off the exit ramp two miles up the road, and a little town another three miles after that. I go to the grocery store about once a week. A lot of the food’s gone over but you can always get canned stuff.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a fresh steak.”

“You should drop in at the army camp, then. They barbecue a steer once in a while. Rustling the local livestock.”

“There’s a camp? How many soldiers are there?”

“Six or seven. I try to keep clear of them, but I see them out once in a while, and I hear them shooting.”

“So there are more Zapheads than soldiers.”

“More Zapheads than anything. Is it the same in Chapel Hill and everywhere you’ve been?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Except now the Zapheads are gathering into groups or tribes.”

“You noticed that, too, huh? While us humans all try to go solo.”

Soon the trail widened and gave way to a clearing on a hill. A camper trailer was parked under a large oak tree whose limbs clutched at the iridescent green ribbons in the sky. The home was propped up on cinder blocks, a propane tank sitting on the tongue. The camper’s windows were too small for anyone to crawl through.

“Home sweet home,” Wilma said, fishing a key from somewhere within her bulky clothing. The door had a padlock on it.

Wonder what she needs to lock out?

Campbell glanced into the shadows of the forest, feeling vulnerable in the open. He marveled at how quickly he’d become used to a sky backlit with an unnatural aurora, the lingering effects of the charged particles from the solar storm. “Haven’t you been attacked yet?”

“I don’t have anything anybody wants.”

“Not even the Zapheads?”

“I just lay low and let it all fly over me.”

A tiny yap came from inside the camper. “Hush in there, Peanut,” Wilma said through the door before opening it. She put her hand through to let the dog sniff at it. “It’s me and a new friend.”

Campbell wasn’t sure he was ready for a friend. Maybe he should have returned to the highway, where at least he’d developed some sort of routine. But here was a woman with a pet. It was almost disturbingly normal, although in his old life he’d have considered such a woman poor white trash or an eccentric old witch.

At least she has a dog instead of a bunch of cats.

She ushered Campbell inside and he found himself standing in the cramped quarters as she lit a candle. The camper’s interior was stacked with dried goods, snack foods, and cases of bottled drinks. The little dog that sniffed his trouser leg was a rat terrier with mangy gray fur.

“Peanut, this is Campbell,” Wilma said, pushing back her wild tangle of red hair. He got his first good look at her face. Her freckled cheeks bore large red scars of recent vintage, and a dime-sized crusty scab clung to her lower lip.

He swallowed hard as her stare challenged him to comment. Even her green eyes were sickly, red-rimmed and gummy with mucus. He’d guessed she was middle-aged but now he couldn’t be sure. She might have been twenty with a hundred years of damage and hard living pressed into the clay of her flesh.

He forced his gaze away and knelt to pet the dog. It, too, seemed to be a carrier of afflictions, with one ear torn nearly in half and a viscous goo coating its dark nose. Campbell was bending to pet it when it lifted his head and bared yellow teeth, growling from deep in its throat.

“Hey, Peanut, that ain’t the way we treat company,” she said, giving the dog a light kick in the ribs. “Get on to bed.”

The dog slunk away into a sideways milk crate that featured wadded-up sheets for bedding. The camper held a small table and a bed on a low loft that extended over the trailer’s tongue. A small kitchenette had a two-eye gas stove, but the sink was piled with filthy dishes and empty tin cans. Flies buzzed around the mess. A salted hunk of ham dangled from the ceiling by a piece of twine, huge clefts cut in the marbled meat. Clothes were strewn on every surface.

Wilma shucked her overcoat and tossed it on the table, knocking a candy-bar wrapper to the cluttered floor.

“What do you think?” she said, waving her arm to indicate her home.

Campbell was still taking in the tiny living space, which he estimated to be ten feet by fifteen feet, with hardly a square foot clear of refuse. The stench of stale food, mold, damp fur, and old sweat nearly made him vomit. He suddenly longed for the fresh air outside, even with all the accompanying dangers.

“It’s…cozy,” he managed. He looked around for a place to sit, but decided he’d rather stand for now.

Wilma reached over and flipped a lock on the door latch, then slid a hasp into place and snapped a padlock. “In case they break the window and try to reach the handle,” she said.

Campbell was uneasy about the being locked in, especially given the candle and the amount of clutter. He imagined the place would torch like a wad of gasoline-soaked newspaper. But he calmed himself. If Zapheads attacked, he should be able to fend them off with his pistol, even in close quarters.

He wasn’t sure about the soldiers, though. He doubted the thin metal walls would deflect bullets. He just had to trust that the woman was correct—the soldiers had no interest in her.

But Campbell found trust difficult. He hadn’t been so good at it in the old days, and in the aftermath of the apocalypse, he’d not had a whole of opportunities to practice the trait.

“Make yourself comfy,” she said, waving at the bed, which apparently doubled for both sitting and sleeping. Campbell sat on the edge of the bare mattress, suspicious of the musty patchwork quilts piled atop it.

Wilma opened a cabinet, revealing a storehouse of liquor. The bottles were arranged with a neatness that contrasted vividly with the chaos of the living area, as if this was one area where the woman found comfort and control. Many of the bottles were full, and he wondered how many trips she’d made to the nearby town to collect such a stash.

She reached in and plucked out some Scotch with a yellow label. “Nothing but the best for guests, right, Peanut?”