Scott Nicholson - The Echo

Rachel slipped, and a rush of corrupt stench wafted over her, and she realized she’d stepped on one of the corpses. The lost momentum allowed one of the dogs—the beagle, she suspected, because it hit her low—to dig its teeth into her right calf.

She kicked, hearing her jeans rip, a current of electric acid pain screaming through her veins.

The dog tumbled away but then the retriever caught her, snapping at the hem of her blouse and yanking so hard that the top two buttons popped free.

Trying to drag me down, to go for my throat.

She kicked out with her good leg, nearly losing her balance as the agony of the bite wound roared in on a massive red wave. The rubber tip of her sneaker drove into the retriever’s ribs but it didn’t let go. Its four paws dug at the ground as it pulled backwards, snarling and growling wetly in its throat.

The beagle leaped at her injured leg and she couldn’t dance away. The attack was rushed, though, and instead of finding purchase, the sharp teeth raked across her kneecap, tearing fabric and flesh with equal ease.

As it scurried past, the Zaphead dog’s eyes radiated ever more brightly, as if the scent of blood and weakness had amplified its terrible appetite.

Stephen screamed from inside the car, but the sound was mercifully muffled. She was afraid he’d open the door and then she’d have the double duty of protecting him while saving her own neck.

Then the retriever jerked backward and Rachel fell on her hands and knees, roiling in the desecrated offal of the dogs’ earlier meals.

And God threw her a bone.

Literally.

Her hand scraped across a smooth, dense object and she clutched its roundness. It was a human femur, licked mostly clean, a big knot of gristle on one end where the ball joint was still attached.

Like a mad Samson slaying Philistines with the jawbone of an ass, she swept the bone like a mace and struck the retriever right between its odd, glittering eyes. The animal’s skull crunched and it dropped like a rock, ripping a large swatch of her blouse as it collapsed.

The beagle brayed, as if realizing it had underestimated its prey. The shepherd wriggled forward, dragging its shattered hindquarters, but it no longer posed any real threat. It whimpered through its nose, blowing bubbles of bloody mucus, but she had no sympathy.

She waved the femur at the beagle. “Wanna play fetch?”

The beagle’s sagging jowls crinkled and its incisors showed over the black folds of its lips. The orange-and-gold specks in its eyes grew darker, as if its smoldering bloodlust had cooled.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said, limping toward the Subaru, bracing for the beagle to lunge again. Instead, it trotted over and sniffed at the shepherd, then licked its face with a long, slobbering tongue.

When she reached the Subaru, Stephen’s eyes were wide with shock. He opened the door for her and the stink hit her with renewed power.

“You’re right,” she said. “Smells bad in here.”

“You… you…”

“Move over,” she said, and he scrambled into the passenger’s seat, pushing the mutilated body parts into the floor. Death was omnipresent in After, but usually they’d managed to keep it out of sight.

He pointed, and she thought he was showing her where she’d been bitten. As her adrenalin rush faded, the pain dug in teeth of its own, and one leg of jeans was wet with blood.

“Yeah, guess I better take care of that,” she said. She started to unbutton what remained of her cotton blouse, planning to rip it into strips for a tourniquet and bandages.

“They tore your pretty blouse,” Stephen said.

“Yeah, but now it’s my turn to tear it.”

“Here,” he said, peeling his own T-shirt over his head. Whether he was being helpful or whether he was embarrassed to see her in a bra, she couldn’t tell. Darkness was falling, and she’d eventually have to take off her jeans and tend the wound, but as the endorphins drained from her body, she felt washed away beneath a great, pressing wall of water.

“Thanks,” Stephen whispered, reaching for her hand.

She gripped it in return. “You’re welcome. Just promise me you won’t ask for a pet anytime soon.”

“Not even a goldfish,” he said.

The beagle was still licking the dying shepherd when she fell into a restless sleep.

Jorge reached the compound with the sun already slipping below the western horizon and throwing violet shadows across the sky.

He’d nearly gotten lost, taking a wrong turn on a footpath, and he’d also veered well out of his way to avoid any armed soldiers who might be patrolling. The gunfire was sporadic and off in the distance, and he silently cursed Franklin for stirring up a hornet’s nest. The two of them could have easily slipped into the forest and returned without a confrontation.

Now, the soldiers would likely be scouring the forest looking for them—assuming they didn’t kill Franklin and believe him to be a lone wolf.

Once, he’d seen movement in the trees, but he couldn’t tell whether it was a wild animal or a Zaphead. He’d ducked behind a tree and remained still for fifteen minutes, then continued on his way. By the time he found the well-disguised trail leading to the front gate of Wheelerville, he was scratched up, thirsty, and exhausted.

“Rosa!” he called, when he was within site of the gate.

There was no answer. He wasn’t alarmed by her absence, because even the most tireless person wouldn’t be able to stand vigil on a raised platform for a full day. She also had a caretaking role. Marina was too young for the responsibility, and Cathy had her hands full with her baby.

Instead of directly approaching the gate, Jorge moved through the trees the way Franklin had taught him, so as to not wear a direct path that others might discover. When he came to the fence, with its concealing vines and bushes, he parted the leaves until he could see inside the compound. No one was in sight, and the place was silent except for the low bleating of a goat.

“Rosa!” he called again. She couldn’t hear him if she was inside the cabin. He didn’t want to risk raising his voice, so he decided to try the gate.

After easing back into the woods and approaching again, he found the gate locked. Despite his weariness, he smiled with satisfaction.

Rosa followed our instructions. At least one of us has some sense.

Jorge reached inside the hollow of a split log and found the plastic connector that deactivated Franklin’s solar-powered alarm system. If he had to scale the fence, at least he’d lower the likelihood of being shot by his wife.

He put his back against a slim maple tree and extended his legs against the chain-link fence, scooting his way up until he reached one of the lower branches, then began an easy climb. When he’d pointed out to Franklin the weakness in his defenses, the old man had responded, “Zapheads are too dumb to climb and the government would just burn us out anyway.”

When Jorge was at the top of the fence, on eye level with the lookout platform, he surveyed the compound. Still no sign of his family. The goats milled in their pen and the chickens had settled in their roosts, but otherwise Wheelerville was eerily calm.

The cabin door was closed, so Jorge didn’t bother calling again. He stepped across onto the strand of vine-enwrapped barbed wire that topped the fence and then swung over, snagging his trouser leg and nearly tumbling to the ground in the process.

He soon descended the fence and made his way to the cabin. He called his wife’s and daughter’s names so they wouldn’t be startled, but he still got no response. He even knocked on the cabin door. No answer. He tried the handle but the cabin door was also locked, and Jorge’s gut sank like it was full of mud.