Scott Nicholson - The Shock

Or maybe he was changing from what he had been before, a victim of the sun’s subtle workings.

Maybe YOU’RE the one who is changing.

No. She was pretty sure she was still a good Christian. That little display of violence against the Zaphead had been justified. Hadn’t God of the Old Testament been a vindictive warmonger before Jesus brought peace into the world? If you turned the other cheek in this sad new world, you were liable to get it bitten off.

“I guess we can’t wait for more white knights to ride over the hill,” Rachel finally said. “If this is what the Army becomes when the puppet strings break, maybe my grandfather was right.”

“Right about what?” Campbell asked.

“One of his sayings is, ‘When the walls fall down, all we have left is the enemy within.’”

Pete shook his head. “That’s some heavy shit. I hope he’s not out there walking around with a hatchet.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s one of the ones who survived, assuming he didn’t transform,” Rachel said. “He was planning for this.”

“Planning for this?” Campbell said. “Even the scientists were caught with their pants down. They pretty much figured we had a good five billion years before the sun became a red gas giant and gobbled us up.”

Pete bent over, stuck out his rear, and let out a loud, flapping fart. “There’s a gas giant for you,” he said.

Stephen snickered, and even though Rachel didn’t approve of the sophomoric humor, she was relieved that the boy seemed to be recovering from the latest trauma.

“Okay,” Campbell said. “Sun’s going down. We’re better off doing this right when it gets dark.”

“Follow me,” Rachel said, taking Stephen’s hand. She checked through the front window to make sure all was clear, although she intended to use the back door.

Oh, sweet Lord. Are you serious?

“Guys,” she said. “I think you need to see this.”

They crowded around behind her, Pete’s fishy breath fouling the air. Outside, the sunset was dusky and smoky, a hint of autumn in the surrounding maples and oaks. Faint ribbons of aurora borealis wended across the atmosphere like giant lime-green specters. Night shadows crept along the yards and across the windows of the houses, giving them a sinister aspect that suggested terrible secrets inside. But it was the activity in the street that drew their attention.

Two people were tending to one of the fallen Zapheads. Rachel couldn’t be sure, but she believed the corpse was the one she had struck with her pruning shear.

“Soldiers,” Pete said. “What the hell do they want with a dead Zaphead? I can’t see them wasting time giving one a proper burial.”

“It’s not soldiers,” Rachel said. Even in the poor light, she could see that one of the figures was wearing a light-colored T-shirt, not camouflage, and what looked like khaki cargo shorts and sandals. The other wore what looked like a bathrobe, the belt dangling, and the mop of hair above it could have belonged to either gender. The two stooped down and lifted the corpse to a sitting position.

“Oh, hell, they’re not going to eat him, are they? Don’t tell me these glittery-eyed bastards are turning into zombies?”

“Shhh.” Rachel cast him a hard look and nodded at Stephen, whose eyes widened as his grip on the doll tightened.

“He’s just kidding,” Campbell said to the boy. “He’s read too many comic books.”

“I like comic books,” Stephen said. “Spiderman is my favorite.”

“Cool,” Pete said, trying to cover his goof. “I had some issues in my backpack, but I lost it when the soldiers jumped me.”

“You’re in luck,” Campbell said, motioning toward his own backpack on the couch. “I figured you’d want them if I ever caught up with you. I rescued them for you.”

Pete caught on that they were trying to distract Stephen from what might be a gruesome discovery. He patted Stephen on the shoulder and said, “First appearance of the Green Goblin, little man. And in near-mint condition.”

“Not so near-mint anymore,” Campbell said. “But you can read it with the flashlight. Just keep the beam hooded so nobody can see it from the street.”

“Sweet!” Stephen said, just like any normal boy would, not one who had endured the wholesale destruction of his race and seen the world change into a hostile wasteland. Rachel’s heart clenched just a tiny bit, but she wouldn’t allow any tears of sympathy. She’d cried herself out after Chelsea’s death, and any future breakdowns would have to tap an entirely new and undiscovered reservoir.

Rachel and Campbell put their noses to the window, shoulders touching, their breath fogging the glass. The two figures attending the Zaphead now lifted it and held it sagging limply between them, much like a couple of sailors might drag home a drunken mate.

“You think they’re going to bury it?” Rachel asked.

“It would be the first time that I’ve seen. But I have to admit, I’ve spent more time running and hiding from them than watching them.”

“They’re moving like humans. Good balance and posture, their motions focused on something besides destroying.”

“Yeah. But if they’re survivors, what do they want with a dead Zaphead?”

Rachel could think of a few possibilities, including Pete’s imaginative leap of cannibalism, but that didn’t make sense, because there was still plenty of food around. Scientific experimentation was unlikely, given the utter breakdown of all academic systems, and she couldn’t come up with any use for a dead body otherwise. “Maybe they’re cleaning the streets.”

“You mean to make it look like there are no Zapheads around? Gunning for some type of community award or something?”

“No, to lure more Zapheads. Maybe they’ve got some vigilante thing going on.”

Pete carelessly swept the flashlight beam across the room as he turned a page, reading aloud to Stephen. Rachel scolded him, afraid the light would attract the people outside like curious, single-minded moths.

Instead, the pair on the street kept dragging the corpse, heading east toward the fire that Campbell had started. The spreading conflagration threw a reddish cast to the sunset, the smoke roiling against the purple-streaked sky like a tableau in the tempest of hell. The person in the bathrobe lost her grip on the corpse, and the robe parted to reveal mottled flesh.

“I think they’re Zapheads,” Rachel said.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Campbell said. “Zapheads are violent, mindless killing machines.”

“Maybe we simplified them so we could pretend we understand them.” Rachel didn’t like that answer, but was it any worse than the reality of the last few weeks?

The man in the T-shirt turned and looked directly at Rachel, or at least she felt that way. Even from thirty yards, the hooded aspect of his eyes told her it was a Zaphead. He was of average height, wearing a crew cut and topsiders, and he could have been a guy washing his driveway with a garden hose, a beer in his hand while waiting for the afternoon’s football games to kick off.

Rachel ducked a little, pulling Campbell down while calling out, “Keep low, guys, they’re looking this way.”

They crouched in the gloaming for a long minute, with the only sound the distant crackle of the bonfire. Rachel expected a knock on the door, or maybe for a body to fling itself against the window. She wished she hadn’t left her pruning shears in the kitchen.

She grew tired of the tension and parted the corner of the curtain just enough to see the two Zapheads carry their fallen comrade on down the street. Rachel was surprised to think such a thing, but they had escorted their dead companion with a tenderness that was in direct contrast to all the violence she’d witnessed from them.