Scott Nicholson - The Echo

It was in one of these beds that Franklin’s limp form had been deposited. Jorge had been ordered into the room, and the door was locked and bolted from the outside. The door featured a narrow grill through which he could see several feet down the hall in each direction. A little slot near the bottom served as a food access, and a metal pail on the floor was apparently intended as a toilet.

Jorge wasn’t sure how long he’d been brooding when Franklin groaned from the cramped, uncomfortable bed. The room only held one weak light that did little more than illuminate the center of the room. Jorge guessed it was powered by a solar-panel system similar to Franklin’s, although occasionally he heard a deep thrum that might have been a gasoline-powered generator. He supposed it was possible the military had shielded some equipment and gear from the sun’s effects, just as Franklin’s Faraday cage had protected his radio and batteries.

Franklin staggered to the door and yanked at the little window grill as if trying to tear it loose, although the opening was far too small for him to crawl through even if he’d been successful.

“Hey, I want to call my lawyer!” Franklin shouted down the hall. His words bounced off the concrete surfaces.

“You should save your energy,” Jorge said.

“Aw, come on, Jorge,” Franklin said. “You can’t take this shit too seriously.”

The man’s eyes fairly glistened with good humor. Jorge couldn’t understand it. But the man had no family to worry about. Maybe he was relieved to have his conflicts resolved and to be given an opportunity to serve as a martyr for his cause. After all, this tyrannical treatment confirmed everything Franklin had ever believed and preached.

“I remember something you said to me once, while we were digging potatoes.”

“Potatoes,” Franklin said. “The eyes have it.”

Jorge was worried that the man had truly gone over the edge. And here they were, confined in an eight-by-ten room where clocks no longer held sway.

“About ‘The End is Near’ sign,” Jorge said.

“What about it?”

“Take a guy walking around with a sign that says ‘The End is Near.’ Even if he turns out to be right, he’s still an asshole.”

Franklin started guffawing as if he’d never heard the saying before. He slapped his knees, then bent over and wheezed himself into a coughing fit. Finally he sat down on the little bed, still chuckling.

A commotion erupted down the corridor, shouts and blows and curses. Franklin and Jorge crowded at the window to get a look. At first they saw only a group of soldiers, clumped together and waving their arms. Then Sarge emerged from the pack, pulling a rope that was tied to a man’s hands. The man was shaggy, his gray suit hanging in shreds, most of the buttons missing from his shirt. His bearded face was covered in bruises, and blood seeped from one of his nostrils.

“Whoo-hoo,” one of the soldiers whooped. “Finally got you one, Sarge!”

“Bastards are harder to catch than a butterfly in a hurricane,” Sarge said. One of the soldiers opened the door to the room across the hall from Jorge and Franklin. Just before the man was shoved brutally into the room, he turned to face Jorge.

Glittering eyes.

“Get in there, you freak,” the sergeant screamed, releasing the rope and driving a boot into the Zaphead’s spine. The mutant whipped forward and skidded across the rough floor.

Another soldier held up a gleaming knife. “Let me see what makes him tick, Sarge.”

“Time enough for that later, dumbass. First we have to watch him and see what they’re up to.”

“Looks like a commie Russian spy to me,” Franklin said. “Or a commie U.S. spy.”

Sarge charged up to the grill, jabbing a menacing finger. Jorge backed away but Franklin stood his ground.

“You better watch your mouth, or I’ll toss you in there with that thing,” Sarge said. “We could use a little entertainment around here.” He leered in at Jorge. “Maybe we will find us a spicy little mamacita to play with.”

Jorge leaped at the door, bones clanging against the riveted steel panels. Sarge walked across the hall and slammed the door on the Zaphead.

Soon after, the lights went out, but Jorge’s mood could not have gotten any darker.

The Zapheads gathered around the conflagration, drawing as close to the flames as the heat allowed.

Intense ripples of light danced across their faces, and Rachel wondered if this was a new form of sun worship, if something deep inside their beings enticed them to the act of combustion. They exhibited no reaction to pain, although smoke rose from some of their clothes as if the fabric was on the verge of igniting.

“Won’t they catch on fire?” Stephen asked. “Like the Human Torch in the Fantastic Four?”

“I hope so,” Rachel said. The sprint up the hill had opened the bite wound on her calf, and the bandage was soggy and stained with a pink excrescence of blood and pus.

“But the Human Torch doesn’t burn up. He shoots fire out of his arms.”

“That wouldn’t be so good, then.”

From their position on the hill, shielded by low brush and weeds, they could see the entire valley. Flames swarmed the gas station complex, engulfing several cars whose shoppers had probably died there during the solar storms. The thick black smoke drifted toward the west, away from them, but the smell of burning rubber and plastic was pungent.

“DeVontay will see the smoke,” Stephen said.

“Sure,” Rachel said.

“And he’ll come see what caused it.”

“Yes,” she said, although it was more likely DeVontay would avoid the area, knowing the fire would attract Zapheads.

Assuming he’s still alive.

“We’ll be able to see him if he comes down the highway,” she said.

“Following the X-Men bread crumbs!”

She ruffled his hair, noting that it was greasy. “We’re going to have to find you some shampoo soon.”

“I’m not taking no bath.”

“That’s ‘any’ bath.”

“You don’t correct DeVontay when he doesn’t talk right.”

“DeVontay’s a grown man. You’re still a child.”

“A child who helped save your life.”

“Score,” she said. “You’ve got a point.”

Rachel looked around, wondering how long it would take for the fire to spread to the other stores and then the hill. The way the wind was blowing, it might reach the trees and then grow into a wildfire.

“We need to keep moving,” Rachel said.

Stephen shot her a dubious look. “Can you even walk?”

“Of course.”

“Your backpack’s down there.”

“Yes.”

“And we don’t got no…I mean, we don’t have a map.” Stephen hugged his own backpack as if she might claim it, along with his comic book collection.

“That’s okay. We’ll stop at houses along the way and find what we need. And we don’t need a map because we’re almost there.” She pointed to the undulating ridges that rose in the northwest. “The Blue Ridge Parkway runs across those mountains. If we just keep walking, we’re bound to hit it sooner or later. Then we can find Milepost 291 and rest a bit.”

She didn’t believe it would be that simple. Nothing in After had been easy. But all that remained was to do the next right thing, to trust in the vision that her grandfather Franklin Wheeler had imparted.

She could almost hear him now: “Freedom doesn’t come without sacrifice, Rachel.”

She stood, smiling at Stephen to hide her grimace. Her leg felt as if someone had ripped open the flesh with a circular saw, packed it full of battery acid, tied it shut with barbed wire, and then poured salted lemon juice on it before applying the tip of a blow torch to seal the wound.