Scott Nicholson - The Echo

“So how did she get you guys out here to the house?” Campbell asked. Through the window, he could see Zapheads out in the meadow. They had somehow surrounded a chicken and flapped their arms like children in imitation of its frantic wings.

“She said there were lots of supplies here. Guns and canned food and a survival shelter in the basement. That got Arnoff hooked. Just like with you, she brought us here just as it was getting dark. They were on us before we knew it.”

It felt weird to be here among them and talk about their deadly behavior while they sat as meekly as sheep. But everything since the solar storms had been weird. None of the fictional scenarios of Doomsday or any of his video games had prepared him for the reality of an extinct civilization.

Not just an extinct civilization, but a profane imitation of society rising to take its place.

“They took Arnoff’s tongue just to see how it worked,” the professor said, with a resigned equanimity. “All that yelling he did, I guess it drew their attention. They took turns playing with Donnie’s fingers, bending them and snapping them like they didn’t understand what they were for. And Pamela…”

“I don’t understand. If they are learning, where did they learn to tie ropes? Who taught them that?” Campbell bit into his carrot with an audible crunch. One of the Zapheads turned to look at him, and he quietly ground it between his molars.

The professor nodded at the Zapheads and then at the painted posture of Christ they imitated. “I believe they learned from pictures. When they… surrounded me…I had run into the other bedroom, and there were magazines and photographs all over the floor. It must have been a teenager’s rooms, because it had a lot of books. And some…uh…”

The professor lowered his voice. “Bondage porn.”

Campbell’s stomach curdled around its fresh contents. “Pamela?”

The professor removed his glasses and wiped the lenses. “I suppose.”

Campbell was glad he hadn’t gotten a good look at what had happened to her. Outside, the chicken had gotten away and now the Zapheads drifted aimlessly in the meadow.

“How did you figure out what they wanted from you?” Campbell asked.

“Same way you found out last night. When I yelled at them, they yelled some of my words right back to me. And I realized if I didn’t fight and struggle like the others had, they calmed down.”

“It’s creepy as hell when they’re standing all around you like that. I almost liked them better when they were trying to kill me. At least that , I could understand. But this…” Campbell waved at the Zapheads. Two of them in the middle waved back.

“In a strange way, I’ve come to accept it,” the professor said. “Even embrace it. I’ve always been a teacher and that’s all I really know how to do. Now here I am after the end of the world, still teaching.”

“But where does it end? Do we teach these things peace, love, and all that happy hippie horseshit? Look at them out there in the field. Like a bunch of flower children on drugs.”

“So far, all we’ve taught them is violence.”

“Because we’re afraid.”

“No wonder. I’ve seen them tear people apart with their bare hands. And enjoy it.”

The professor looked at the painting of Jesus, whose sad brown eyes seemed to reflect an understanding of the martyrdom that awaited Him. “I’ve never been a religious man, but maybe there’s a reason for all this.”

Campbell stood and stamped his foot. “No!”

Half of the Zapheads broke out of their reverie at the commotion.

“Easy, Campbell,” the professor said. “Don’t rile them up.”

“How long have you been their bitch? A week? Teaching them to eat, pray, love, and wipe after they crap, like they’re a bunch of senile patients in an old folk’s home? Excuse me if I don’t want to sign on for that.”

Campbell paced, eyeing the ten feet to the door and wondering if he could reach it before the Zapheads reacted. They were all watching him now, eyes glittering with whatever deranged fuel burned inside them. Even if he made it to the hall, he had no idea how many more would be waiting downstairs or around the house.

Campbell gave a bitter laugh. “‘Show no fear,’ Wilma said.”

“And she was right,” the professor said.

“ Right ,” one of the Zapheads said.

“ Right ,” said another, and then another.

“Don’t you see?” the professor said. “This is a chance to start over. To teach them—to program them, if you will—without all the old sins and failures.”

Campbell sat back down on the bed, its springs squeaking. He’d be sleeping here tonight. Would one of the Zapheads crawl in with him, maybe imitate the positions portrayed in the pornography? Or maybe he’d start snoring and they’d tear his throat apart to see where the noise was coming from.

Yeah, sweet dreams forever .

“They’re like children,” the professor said. “They become what you feed them, so act with care. It’s the key to your personal survival as well.”

“Nothing personal, professor, but you look like you’ve aged a hundred years since I last saw you.”

The man gave a tense smile. “I have tenure now.”

“Well, you can stay on the retirement track if you want. Me, I’d rather die.”

“ Die ,” said the granny, followed by several others, until the room thundered with their repetitive “ Die, die, die .”

Campbell tried to shout over them and make them shut up, or at least mock a different word, but the chant continued. Campbell finally did the only thing he could think of, a way to silence them, the only option left besides actually dying.

He pressed his palms together, stuck his hands under his chin, and turned to face the painting above the bed.

Within a minute, the room had grown still and quiet again, all the Zapheads in their bizarre yoga positions with their hands once again clasped in reverence.

What the hell. Prayer works.

“Well,” Franklin said. “If this is how they were wasting my money all those years, I should have cheated more on my taxes.”

Jorge was in no mood to endure the old man’s gallows humor. All he could think about was his wife and daughter out there somewhere, facing danger and uncertainty. And he was helpless.

The soldiers had marched them at least five miles through the woods, leading them to a massive outcropping of rock. Jorge had been sure the soldiers were going to shoot them there and leave them for the buzzards, especially because Franklin was cussing and taunting them every step of the way.

Instead, they were led into a narrow crevice that opened into a wider alley of rock, where a thick steel door was set into the stone and held in place with concrete. Franklin had called it “Hitler’s Hideaway” and Sarge had punched him in the stomach, and Franklin had fallen to the concrete floor and coughed and laughed for a full minute, until Sarge kicked him in the head and knocked him unconscious.

Jorge kept his mouth shut so he was largely left alone, although he took in the surroundings of cold steel walls, rusty iron girders supporting the weight of the earth above, and lockers and shelves stacked with supplies. A string of dim bulbs illuminated the long corridor, barely brighter than the lights on a Christmas tree. The passageway was lined with about twenty tiny rooms, the first holding a desk and some communications equipment that looked like it had been gutted and then smashed in frustration. Another large room with cinderblock walls was occupied by uniformed men playing cards at small tables, smoking cigarettes, or reading magazines. Most of the other rooms held twin sets of bunk beds.