Scott Nicholson - The Shock

The charcoal grill smelled of old grease and soot, with ashes piled around its rusted legs. But the can of starter fluid was nearly full, and she sprayed it against the wooden siding, the heavy petroleum scent pushing the scorched aroma from her nostrils. After soaking the wood, she leaned her weapon against the house and fumbled the lighter from her pocket.

In the distance, she heard more pops and crackles of the approaching conflagration, and again, she wondered why The Captain hadn’t moved his unit from the area. And, she wondered if DeVontay was still inside.

He will be .

Because you NEED him to be.

And she wondered how much of her need was fueled by guilt over Chelsea. She wasn’t sure of her motivations, but it was easier to believe she was noble and righteous. But Pete’s words came back to her: “ Sacrifice is for losers .”

She wasn’t losing. Not this time.

Rachel sparked the lighter to life and flapped open one of the comic books, fanning the pages. She touched the fire to one corner and a finger of flame crawled up the edge of the paper, the ink giving off lurid colors. She pushed the torch over to the moistened boards and the fire took an enthusiastic drink of the fuel and leaped across the siding.

Rachel was so transfixed by the mesmerizing flame and the way it seemed to hover just over the fuel that she briefly forgot her surroundings. Suddenly, she heard a shout from the street and instantly ducked behind the old charcoal grill, hoping its bulk would conceal her.

Is that Stephen and the guys? What would they be doing in the street?

Then came the pak pak pak of semiautomatic gunfire. A bullet skinned off the wooden siding ten feet above her head. But she didn’t think she was the target.

She lifted her head just enough to see the silhouette of a human figure running down the street. The hail of bullets peppered the trees as the figure vanished between two cars parked in a driveway. She wasn’t sure whether it had been a Zaphead or someone running from the shooters, but cracked laughter came from the unseen end of the street.

“Goddamn, did you see that sonofabitch runnin’ like it had ants crawling up its zap-hole?” yelled a man with a rural accent.

“Save your ammo, Donnie,” said another voice, lower, calmer, and more authoritative.

It didn’t sound like The Captain, although the arrogant tone of command was similar. By now, the flames had licked along the end of the house, spreading beyond the petroleum-soaked blotch. A thin ribbon of smoke wended into the sky to merge with the gauze of haze overhead.

Rachel crawled around the corner of the house, slapping her pruning shears ahead of her. The screen door hung open, sagging a little on its hinges. Even though she might be visible from the street, she wondered whether she should sneak in the broken window. Depending upon how many of The Captain’s goons were on duty, she doubted she could fight her way to the back room where she’d been held captive with DeVontay.

She decided it might be better to wait until the fire penetrated the house and forced them to flee. They’d likely not waste the time freeing DeVontay.

Assuming he’s even alive .

Well, she could either dwell on the reality of her situation or fall back on her faith. Her faith was always there, wrapping her in its saccharine web, protecting her and restraining her. Jesus, in His darkest hour on the cross, asked why God had forsaken Him, and God didn’t answer. She didn’t expect an answer now, either.

She had nearly decided the house was indeed unoccupied and was about to sneak to the back door when a muffled explosion roared from the open window. Someone was firing a gun from inside the house.

Shouts—human shouts—in the street were followed by return gunfire.

Oh my Lord, they’re shooting at each other. The last living humans are trying to kill each other.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, killing was what humans did.

The fire licked up the side of the wall, reaching the eaves and the roof shingles. Black smoke boiled into the sky as wood cracked and popped from the heat. The back door burst open and Captain America ran out, his face sweating and shiny in the reddish glow of the fire-lit night. Two soldiers followed on his heels, all three running for the rear of the property. Rachel was relieved to see they were heading away from where Stephen, Pete, and Campbell were hiding. Another soldier, this one the woman who had fought off the Zaphead in the street, hobbled out of the house and ran after them in the dark.

“Bruenig,” she called. “Johnson. Navarro. Wait up.”

She’d barely reached the back hedge when her shoulder erupted in a spout of dark fluid. The gunshot sounded a split-second later, still reverberated between the houses as she sprawled on the scruffy lawn, moaning and leaking.

“Damn,” Campbell called from the concealment of the rhododendron. Then, louder, he shouted, “Arnoff! Hold your fire!”

Rachel realized the group firing on the soldiers must have been Campbell’s and Pete’s traveling companions. She kept low and scrambled toward the back door. Before, there had been more soldiers, but perhaps The Captain had sent them on reconnaissance, or maybe they’d been killed by Zapheads.

Or maybe they were stacked inside the house, executed by their crazy commander, victims of bunker fever.

She didn’t have time to waste. “I’m going in,” she called over to Campbell, and then she burst through the back door, her pruning shears held at the ready. The interior of the house was murky, the smoke hanging thin and stale, and the faintest light oozing through the windows.

“DeVontay!” she called, keeping low and heading for the hallway, banging her shin against a piece of furniture in the dark. Around her, the shell of the house whispered and hissed with the spreading flames. She didn’t have much time.

The hallway was almost completely black, but Rachel recalled the straight shot to the back bedroom where she and DeVontay had been held captive. She slammed her shoulder against the closed door, and then twisted the knob, wishing she’d thought to bring a flashlight.

She sensed movement in the room, so perhaps they hadn’t bound DeVontay to the bed again. That was good, because she needed every second. Fire crawled over the roof, consuming the asphalt shingles with a greasy roar of pure joy.

Rachel shouted his name again, competing with the hunger of the fire. The flames had reached the windows and backlit the house, sending shimmering bands of deep red behind her. A shape hung before her, a black, man-shaped shadow against the glow.

“DeVontay, come on,” she screamed, rushing forward and reaching for him.

The hand snatched her wrist and yanked her forward, the stench of fetid breath cutting through the acrid smoke.

“Rachel?” DeVontay called from somewhere outside.

“They’re blowing the hell out of everything that moves,” Pete said.

Campbell covered Stephen’s ears against the popcorn staccato of gunfire and the growling blaze. The darkness had given way to a half-light.

“I knew Donnie was going to crack sooner or later,” he said. “I was hoping to be miles away when it happened.”

“She’s been in there too long,” Pete said. “The whole damned house is about to fall in.”

Stephen gave a squeal of dismay at the news. Campbell wished he could elbow Pete in the gut to shut him up, but Pete was retreating deeper into the shrubbery, as if the vegetation could ward off stray bullets. Campbell saw a man on the roof of a nearby house, aiming a rifle into the street. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed it was one of the camouflaged soldiers.