Scott Nicholson - The Echo

“Easy, oldtimer, don’t make me play dirty,” the man atop him said.

Franklin elbowed backward with his good arm, hoping to connect with the man’s ribs. The effort brought only a chuckle in response. Franklin sagged in surrender, his mind racing for a way to defend himself.

“Who are you?” he wheezed, fighting to catch his breath. “You’re not…a Zapper…or you’d already be beating me to death.”

“Just a guy who wants to make it through another day, just like you. Which means you’re going to stop kicking and squirming, right?”

The cold, thin edge of a blade pressed against Franklin’s neck. He gave one last defiant wriggle and the blade bit, not deep but enough to subdue him.

“That’s better,” the man said.

“You’re one of the soldiers. McCrone. The one they were chasing.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look. And that’s a good thing, because you look dumb as a turkey buzzard.”

“No need to cut me,” Franklin said. “We might be on the same side.”

“I’m not on nobody’s side. Sarge didn’t like that too much, though.” The soldier shifted the knife from Franklin’s neck. “Now be a good buzzard and keep quiet.”

The soldier rolled off of him, grabbing the rifle strap and working the weapon free from around Franklin’s neck. Franklin sat up with a groan and rubbed his throbbing shoulder.

The soldier crouched, checking the rifle’s chamber to make sure it held a bullet. “Thirty-thirty. You a deer hunter?”

“Nah. A Zap hunter.”

McCrone laughed again, whistling through his bad teeth. “You’re that guy, aren’t you? The prepper wacko who built the compound.”

Franklin kept his face as stiff as a block of ice. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aw, come on. You babble your prep bullshit on a shortwave radio? Sure, the solar radiation knocked out our high-tech satellite gear, but you’re not the only one who knows how to build a Faraday cage. The only reason Sarge didn’t send out a strike force was because you just plain weren’t that big of a threat to the new government.”

“You talk like you drank the red, white, and blue Kool-Aid down there in the bunker. But when you think about it, your new government is a bunch of cockroaches, squirming around underground. I live like a free man out under the sun.”

McCrone laughed again, his body shaking with pleasure. “Damn, old man, you’re full of piss and vinegar, aren’t you?”

“If you had the balls to come on face to face instead of playing flying monkey, you’d find out.”

The night had deepened, and shadows filled the creases of McCrone’s pinched face. He no longer sounded amused. “I saw you gun down those Zapheads. But you’re not the only killer around here. It’s all the same to me if I leave you laying here with a leaky windpipe or if you lead me back to your little freedom paradise.”

“What if I’m not scared of dying?”

“We’re already dead. That’s what this is all about, don’t you think?” McCrone stood and checked the forest around him, rifle at the ready. “I mean, you are Franklin Wheeler, right?”

“Damn government just can’t keep its nose out of a free man’s business,” Franklin said, standing and eyeing his rifle, which was half buried in leaves. McCrone must not have seen him carrying it and assumed the rifle across his back was his only weapon.

“We had a full dossier on you. You don’t go stocking a secret military installation until you know the neighbors. Satellite photos, email, your criminal records. How are the goats doing?”

“Spy cams,” Franklin said. “You fellows must be desperate if you’re wasting time on the likes of me. What happened, you figured Red China was too tough now, so you go picking on your own people?”

“Hey, old man, don’t get crabby. I was just looking for a job , not an adventure. Now let’s get moving. The platoon has some infrared gear and we’re sitting ducks.”

“I thought I was a turkey buzzard.” Franklin eased one step closer to the gun, pretending to massage a sore knee.

“Whatever. Just go.”

“One thing first.”

“This isn’t a democracy, Wheeler. It’s whatever I say.”

“I need to know what happened to your pal. The one on the trail. Carson, wasn’t it?”

McCrone glanced up through the autumn canopy. Beyond it, the first stars winked amid the winding bands of aurora. Soon day would slide into that long quasi-night and Franklin would have no chance to grab his rifle.

But maybe this wasn’t a time to fight. Maybe he’d be better off biding his time and letting the punk get overconfident.

“We were going AWOL together. Carson knew a place off the mountain, a farmhouse where he’d been sweet on some girl. Her daddy didn’t want her messing around with a man in uniform, so he ran him off. But they had livestock, a garden, a ton of canned food and all that. We figured we’d hole up for the winter and then figure it out.”

“But Sarge had other plans.”

“Somebody ratted us out. We made a run for it anyway, but we got separated. All I can figure is he got clubbed by a Zaphead or he fell and busted his skull.”

“Zaps didn’t kill him. That’s not their style.” Franklin took another step toward the rifle. Four more to go. McCrone was busy surveying the woods below them to notice.

Or so Franklin thought.

“You ever watch that movie ‘Braveheart,’ with Mel Gibson?” McCrone asked.

Franklin’s fists clenched. He didn’t want to talk about movies. Mel Gibson was probably stinking up some fancy L.A. penthouse right now. “Sure. Everybody did.”

“Well, if you make a play for your rifle, you won’t even have time to scream ‘Freedom’ before I spill your guts.”

Franklin sagged in defeat. McCrone came over and slapped him on the sore shoulder. “Aw, nothing personal. I just need you to get me out of here, now that Carson’s dead.”

“Okay. But you have to tell me about the bunker before you leave.”

McCrone squinted, the shadows and aurora combining to cast eerie green striations across his face. “You’re not in any position to negotiate. But I wouldn’t mind if you slowed Sarge down a little after I’m gone. A little delaying action would be pretty sweet.”

“Sign me up.”

McCrone walked past him and scooped up Franklin’s rifle. “You always carry two guns when you’re hunting Zapheads?”

“Hell, no. I usually carry three. You caught me on a day off.”

McCrone snorted in laughter, apparently in a good mood again and feeling cocky. “Well, let’s get back to your little survival shack. I could use a hot meal.”

Franklin led the way along the ridge. He knew the route well, and he was pretty sure he could ditch McCrone if the soldier happened to slip or fall behind enough for Franklin to slip away between the trees.

But that would put him defenseless in the dark, with the woods probably teeming with Zapheads and soldiers with night-vision goggles.

That’s the damn problem with being a libertarian. EVERYBODY’S the enemy.

Franklin wondered how McCrone would react when he met the little tribe back in Wheelerville, especially that snot-nosed tiny creature with the glittering eyes.

Even paradise had its shitterhawks.

Campbell didn’t know what was more horrifying—the Zapheads closing in from all around, or the sinister gleam in Wilma’s eyes. The sinking sun splashed a volcanic orange on her irises, a ménage of madness and pleasure.

She clutched at his arm, almost purring. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

As the Zapheads emerged from the forest and negotiated the fence with their flailing, awkward movements, Campbell thought they were the most hideous things he’d ever seen. Their clothes—what still remained, anyway—hung in rags and tatters, and their hair was wild and unkempt, most of the men with scruffy facial hair. They even moved differently than they had weeks ago, almost like sleepwalkers, as if they’d forgotten how to tear a man limb from limb while his heart was still beating.