Scott Nicholson - The Shock

Campbell was reluctantly forced to agree. “I’d say the first job—after finding Pete, of course—is to locate others like us and form a bigger group.”

“That might not be so wise,” the professor said. “Look at the pecking-order problems we have just with a group this small. Put a dozen well-armed, desperate Alpha males in the same place at the same time, and I think they’d make Zapheads look like refined pacifists.”

“I don’t know exactly what you said,” Pamela said. “But if you’re saying it’s not too smart to put a bunch of Arnoffs and Donnies together, I’d say you’re onto something.”

The two men stood atop the tankers like statues. Arnoff was ramrod-straight, shoulders back, still holding his rifle barrel steady on his target. Donnie was hunched, but he’d also raised his weapon, pointing it in the same direction as Arnoff.

“If they shoot, every Zaphead within a mile’s radius will come see what’s going on,” the professor said. “They seem to react to stimuli like sudden loud noises and movement.”

“They can’t be that dumb,” Campbell said.

“You don’t know Donnie,” Pamela said. “He might do it just for the fun of it.”

A muffled ka-pow sounded to the west. Arnoff instantly shifted his rifle in that direction.

“A gunshot,” Campbell said. “Other survivors.”

Campbell started up the road toward the tanker, but the professor grabbed his arm. “Remember what I said. Bigger isn’t necessarily better. If there was any lesson learned in the Technological Age, it was that.”

Campbell shook free and walked away, imagining what the other group was like. Had Pete joined them? Did they have adequate food supplies or transportation better than bicycles or horses? Did they have any young women among them so the race could procreate?

Thinking of sex at a time like this. Sheesh.

Another distant gunshot sounded, and Arnoff scrambled the length of the tanker and descended the ladder. The professor and Pamela gathered their bags and went to meet him, but Campbell climbed astride his bicycle, determined to solve the mystery.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arnoff said.

“I’m your scout, remember? Just doing my job.”

“You might want to stick with the winners. Sounds like things are getting hairy out there.”

“Hairier than a gorilla’s cooter,” Donnie said from atop the tanker.

“Just how would you know about that?” Pamela said.

“’Cause I been sleeping with you, ain’t I?”

Campbell was tired of the prattle. “My friend’s out there somewhere, and I’m going to find him.”

“Your first responsibility is to the tribe,” Arnoff said.

Campbell glared at the professor. “What do you have to say about that?”

The professor shook his head. “Survival of the fittest.”

Another gunshot sounded, causing Donnie to whoop and jump from the tanker to the cab of the truck for better surveillance. If Donnie was the pinnacle of human fitness, then Campbell wasn’t sure whether he wanted to stick around. Evolution had just taken a stinking piss and washed away every grain of hope.

“I guess some of us have a different idea of what it means to be human.” Campbell pedaled in the direction of the gunshots.

Rachel worked the shadows and shrubs, keeping low as she searched for Stephen. She was reluctant to leave the house where DeVontay was held captive, but she didn’t see how a frontal assault would do much good, since she was without a weapon and vastly outnumbered. Instead, she decided to check on the shed where she’d left Stephen. She found the door open and Stephen’s can of Raid lying on the floor.

The Captain’s goons had left her backpack, and she slung it over her shoulder. The garden tools taunted her as if to say, “ So, violence isn’t the answer, huh? Then what’s the question? ”

Faith into action.

Even if there’s hell to pay.

Rachel picked up the pruning shear. The bolt connecting the two handles had broken, so she gave the single handle a test swing. She liked the balance of it, as well as the short metal hook at the end. It wasn’t too heavy to carry, and she liked its prospects better than those of the double-headed ax and the flimsier hand scythe.

A gunshot sounded somewhere down the street, a couple of hundred yards away. Maybe the goons were hunting Zapheads for sport, although they might be shooting stray dogs, car windows, or even other survivors. Rachel had a feeling that The Captain had imposed a quasi-military protocol in an attempt to control his creepy little platoon.

Slinking back to the street where she had a better line of sight, Rachel crouched behind a Volvo and considered her options. If Stephen was on the loose, he probably hadn’t traveled far.

Assuming he’s still alive .

Rachel was about to take her chances and sprint across the street when she heard shouting and cursing. She peered over the Volvo’s hood and saw two people in camouflage coveralls dragging a young, dark-haired man who struggled in their grip.

“Goddamnit, I’m one of the good guys,” the man said. He was in his early twenties, hair slick with sweat, wearing a grimy T-shirt.

The goon on the left, a gaunt-faced woman whose mouth was twisted into a bitchy snarl, put a spidery hand on the hilt of a knife at her belt and said, “Shut up, or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

The man sagged so that the goon on the right had to grab his arm with both hands and hold him upright. The pair was half-dragging him toward the ranch house where The Captain apparently had set up headquarters and where DeVontay was still confined. Through the Japanese maples on the front lawn, Rachel could see the shattered window and the legs of Miss Daisy’s corpse dangling from the glass-strewn windowsill.

“You got any beer?” the captive man said. The gaunt woman jabbed him the ribs with her knuckles, eliciting a hiss of pain.

The man jerked his elbows out, causing the goon on his right to lose his grip. The man seized the opening and started to break free, but the woman slid her leg forward with practiced grace, tripping him and sending him skidding across the asphalt.

She chuckled as she bent to pull the man from the road. “We’re trained in the art of pain.”

The other soldier drove the bottom of his boot against the fallen man’s thigh, causing Rachel to flinch. They were beating him like two television wrestlers who’d caught their quarry in a corner with the referee’s back turned. Rachel gripped the handle of the pruning shear, knotted with anger but helpless. After all, the soldiers had semi-automatic weapons slung across their backs.

The two goons were so intent on inflicting punishment that they didn’t notice movement along the side of the street. A withered vegetable garden stood at the corner of a lot, fenced with two rows of sagging white clothesline strung between wooden posts. The tasseled corn rattled and swayed, and a hunched figure emerged from between the rows. At first Rachel thought it was another soldier, given the swiftness of the movement, but the figure wore a soiled windbreaker and jogging pants, not camouflage gear.

Zaphead .

But she barely had time to consider whether to shout a warning when another Zaphead came out of the garden, a middle-aged woman in a business suit, pantyhose pocked with holes and trendy haircut now in tangles. Rachel unconsciously dubbed her “Bridget Jones,” except this particular career gal was carrying a sharp, heavy stick instead of a diary. The corn rattled behind her, with yet another Zaphead following, a squat, Asian-looking man with no shirt.

What struck Rachel most forcefully was the way they seemed to move in concert, stealthy and intent. In the city, the Zapheads were brainless and shambling, almost like the zombies depicted in film and books but without the taste for flesh. But these were like cunning predators, lurking in the shadows and then sneaking up to deliver their brand of destruction.