Scott Nicholson - The Echo

If crotchety old Mrs. Federov from Greenwood Academy could see me now, she’d reconsider denying me a recommendation for my resume. Revenge is sweet, bitch.

And so is human flesh, if you’re a Zaphead dog.

“What about my comic books and stuff?” Stephen asked, recovering a little.

“We’ll come back and get them in a little bit, after the nice doggies go home.” She took another step forward, and the retriever and the beagle took four more steps. Now they were closer to Stephen than she was, and she didn’t dare charge them.

She tried to recall what she knew of animal behavior. Smell was a dog’s most powerful sense, and they related to the world on a spectrum people could only scarcely understand. Steaks on the grill were the equivalent of a majestic symphony to them. A Slim Jim was like a painting by Monet, and bacon was like the erotic caress of a velvet glove on the nape of the neck.

But fear also had a smell, a brittle, metallic tang that promised pain or death. Or maybe just easy prey.

“Okay, Stephen,” she said, now taking steady, slow steps forward as the hissing intensified. “When I count to three, run to the station wagon like I told you.”

All three dogs lifted their heads in anticipation of her approach, and their yellow teeth gleamed in the dying light of dusk.

“Run!” she yelled, charging toward the dogs with her arms wide. She’d once seen a show on the Discovery Challenge about animals that made themselves appear larger in order to scare off predators. In that case, she wanted to look like a giant she-banshee from hell.

She let her own hiss rise in her throat, a release of her mounting fear, and Stephen’s mouth opened in surprise. Then he obeyed and broke out of his trance, pumping his little legs as he scooted around the truck.

Just as she suspected, her little freak show stole the dogs’ attention and they didn’t even glance at the retreating boy. Rachel was impressed by the noise she was making, and she unleashed all the rage, frustration, and hopelessness that had been hiding in a black well inside her soul.

Her anguished howl poured over the highway and reverberated off of steel and glass, becoming the lost voice of the forgotten human race and drowning out the hissing of the mutant dogs.

For a moment, she even forgot to be afraid.

Then the shepherd lunged at her.

And then she remembered.

Campbell didn’t believe what he was seeing.

Wilma had led him deep into the forest and they’d suddenly emerged on the edge of a beautiful meadow that exploded with vibrant orange jewelweed, yellow asters, and daisies. A barbed-wire fence marked off the boundaries of the pastoral scene, and a red barn stood at the bottom of the slope. A set of twin brown ruts wound up the opposite hill, leading to a two-story white farmhouse with black shutters on the windows and high columns on the porch. An old Ford truck was parked under a tin shed, along with a tractor and various implements like a disc harrow, plow, and hay baler.

It was like a postcard from a bygone era, nostalgia for a way of life that had never existed.

“If this wasn’t the end of the world, I would think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said.

Wilma leaned against a locust post, catching her breath. “Cows all died or they would have eat the grass down.”

“How far are we from the highway?”

“Three miles or so. That dirt road goes past about six more farms just like it. This one is the end of the road.”

Campbell wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. The woman hadn’t shown much concern for the Zapheads as they’d navigated the forest. Campbell had been on high alert for the both of them, but he hadn’t seen so much as a stray blue jay.

“That looks like a solid house. Why don’t you live here instead of—”

“Instead of that trashy little camper trailer?” She spat onto a stalk of pokeweed, and the drop of clotted saliva clung to a cluster of indigo berries.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know your kind. Uppity fellows that go to college and read the New York Times and think they know what’s good for everybody else. If the dookie hadn’t have hit the fan, you’da been a lawyer and got yourself elected to the town council, then made up zones and rules for everybody else to live by. When all you really want is for people to be just like you.”

“I—I’m sorry about all that. It’s just…nobody knows how we’re supposed to live anymore.”

“And that pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

“All of this makes me realize how fragile we are,” he said, knowing philosophical debates were as useless as ever. “The people we love, the structures we believe in, the investments we make for the future.”

“A little smarts is all we need.” She tore one of the leafy stalks from the pokeweed plant. “Did you know you can eat these? Fine source of vitamins. But the berries will kill you stone dead. People used to know that, but they forgot it when they started relying on ‘structures’ instead of themselves.”

She handed him the leaf and he sniffed it suspiciously. She laughed. “It’s bitter as hell in autumn. You want to eat it in the spring when it’s young and tender. Same as dandelions and ramps. Cleans you out after a long winter.”

Campbell wondered if they would be able to return to the camper trailer before dark. He didn’t like being unarmed with night falling, and he wondered if trusting Wilma had been a mistake. Perhaps his initial impression had been correct and she was mentally ill.

“Shouldn’t we be heading back?” he asked.

“I thought you wanted to see them.”

“Where?”

Wilma nodded toward the house.

“They’re inside?”

“Around back.”

“So we walk around the edge of the fence and watch them from the woods?”

“No. We walk right up to them.”

His suspicions were right. She was crazy. “We don’t have any weapons.”

She put a foot on the lower strand of barbed wire and yanked up the middle strand, then slid between the gap with all the grace of a bloated goat. From the other side of the fence, she said, “Suit yourself,” and began walking across the meadow.

He looked back into the woods, where the rising shadows seemed even more ominous. Then he climbed over the fence and hurried after her.

When he caught up, she said, “Whatever you do, stay calm and don’t show any fear.”

“How can I do that? Zapheads are scary as shit.”

“It’s the only way. That’s why weapons don’t do any good. They outnumber us now, in case you ain’t noticed.”

Campbell reflected on his experience of the past few weeks. He’d clung to the illusion that humans were still on the top of the food chain, that it was only a matter of time until they organized and restored those structures again. But what if they were done? What if they were the Neanderthals giving way to Homo Sapiens, or dinosaurs yielding to mammals? He didn’t like that line of thought, but since the solar storms, he’d encountered far more Zapheads than survivors.

“We’re smarter than they are,” Campbell said with defiant anger.

“Keep thinking like that and you’re dead meat.”

They waded through the meadow toward the house. The weeds were knee high and Campbell tried not to think of snakes and rodents squirming along the ground. As they drew closer to the house, Wilma signaled him to walk more slowly and be quiet.

Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.

The repetitive mantra did little to actually quell his fear. But he had to admit, he was also curious. If the Zapheads indeed congregated on this farm, he’d have his first chance to observe their behavior without actually running from them or battling them.