Scott Nicholson - The Shock

In the distance, the threads of smoke from the cities blended into a charcoal smudge on the horizon. The air carried only the faintest tinge of the acrid odor, though, as if the mountains scrubbed the prevailing wind clean as it pushed from the northwest. He didn’t know anyone in those cities, but he felt a loss, nonetheless. Marina might have gone to college there, or he and Rosa might have found some better type of work.

Tightening the focus on the binoculars, he swept his view to the parkway that threaded through the trees below. The same abandoned vehicles dotted the road, some of them plowing into the grassy shoulders as their drivers had died instantly. One wooden guardrail was uprooted and splintered where a truck had barreled through and gone off the edge. A camper lay on its side, coolers, mattresses and a rotted corpse spilled from its rear.

He was about to climb down when he saw movement on the road.

Probably a deer. With nothing to scare them, they can reclaim the land .

He sighted through the binoculars and saw a woman running up the slope of the road. She wasn’t moving very fast, and her cheeks were streaked with filth, hair tangled. She looked exhausted, like a horse that had been ridden across a desert. She carried a cloth bundle clasped to her chest.

She doesn’t move like one of them .

“Franklin?” he called.

Franklin came out of the house, where he’d been fidgeting with the radio. After lunch, Franklin said he “needed some bad news,” so he went to his desk while Rosa cleaned the dishes from the meal. Franklin squinted against the sun as he looked up at Jorge. “What’s up, besides you?”

“Someone on the road,” Jorge said. “A woman.”

“Hell fire,” Franklin said, scurrying to the tree and scaling the makeshift wooden handholds that were nailed to the tree. He moved with a swift grace that belied his age, scurrying up like an old mountain goat. He took the binoculars from Jorge and Jorge pointed out the direction.

“Huh,” Franklin said. “Looks like she’s alone.”

“She isn’t a… what do you call it?”

“Nah, she’s not a Zaphead. Just a scared woman.” He gave the binoculars back to Jorge and turned to climb back down.

“Shouldn’t we go get her?”

Franklin looked around the compound. “I set up Wheelerville for a dozen people to survive whatever came our way, short of nuclear holocaust. And you punched three of the tickets when you wandered through the woods with a sick girl. I’m expecting more company, and I don’t think we’ve got room to spare.”

“You can’t just leave her out there.”

Franklin squinted. “What are you? Some kind of Communist? That what they teach you south of the border?”

“She’s young and alone—”

“She’s survived this long, so she’s not made out of cardboard. I ain’t in the business of saving the world.”

Jorge tried to make sense of the contradiction. Franklin had helped his family, yet now was denying someone else in need. Jorge gazed through the binoculars, tracking the woman’s progress. Her jeans were worn at the knees, her brown hooded sweatshirt matted and grimy. She twisted her head, wild blonde hair whipping out as she glanced over her shoulder.

Something’s after her?

Jorge swiveled the binoculars down the road, where the pavement disappeared amid the shadow of massive trees. Three of them burst from the woods, and Jorge had no doubt of their intentions.

“Them!” Jorge said, pointing. “Those Z things. Chasing her.”

Franklin snatched the binoculars away and peered through them for a moment. “Damn. She might be carrying a baby.”

Then he lowered them and started scrambling down the tree. Halfway down, he looked up at Jorge and said, “You wanted to play hero, here’s your chance.”

By the time Jorge reached the ground, Franklin had already grabbed a rifle and backpack, tossing Jorge a belt that held his machete. Rosa called to them from the door of the house. “What is happening?”

“Lock the gate behind us,” Franklin ordered, with a calmness that contradicted his haste. “There’s a gun on the wall if you need it. We ought to be back in twenty minutes.”

“Jorge?” Rosa said, eyes wide.

“Lock the gate,” he said. “Keep Marina inside.”

Jorge followed Franklin out of the compound, ignoring Rosa’s calls. Soon, they were winding down a forest path that Jorge never would have noticed, much less been willing to navigate. Franklin trotted with a sure-footed gait, and Jorge had difficulty keeping up, even though he was three decades younger. He measured time not in minutes, but in the huge granite slabs that jutted from the ground, the rotted stumps and silvery creeks they hurdled, and the streaks of golden sunlight that broke through the branches to dapple the ground.

Jorge had become disoriented, losing any sense of the locations of both the compound and the road. He focused on Franklin’s back, the odors of mud, rotten leaves, and pine sap assailing him with each gasp of air. Then the trail widened and became a stretch of scrubby meadow, a couple of abandoned cars visible beyond a low stone fence.

“Keep low,” Franklin said, motioning down with one hand while steadying his rifle with the other.

“How much farther?” Jorge said, sliding his machete from its sheath.

Franklin crouched and lifted the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel. “About a million miles.”

Then Jorge parted the scrub with his blade and saw the RV. The woman was about thirty feet from it, her pace slower than before, mouth parted as she sucked for air. Her bundle was tucked against her chest, one arm squeezing it even as she reached out for the door on the side of the RV.

Behind her, the Zapheads were gaining ground, maybe fifty feet to close the distance. She made it to the door and tugged on the handle, but it didn’t yield. Jorge realized he and his family might have been in the same position if they’d pursued his plan to camp in it.

The three Zapheads Jorge had seen from the lookout in the compound had been joined by two others. They could have been parishioners of one of the little churches that dotted the mountains, or customers of a barbecue restaurant, or the office staff at Marina’s school. Their clothes were filthy, and three of them were female. The one closest to the RV was a teenaged boy in a sleeveless T-shirt, knees pumping as he moved in for the kill.

The rifle roared and the teenager’s chest blossomed with red spray. He pitched forward and tumbled twice on the pavement and laid still, legs tangled beneath his body, one arm poking upward at an awkward angle.

The other Zapheads froze, looking in the direction of the sudden noise. Jorge wasn’t sure they were visible, but the woman hadn’t hesitated. She hammered on the door of the RV, shrieking in a broken voice. “Let me in! Let me in!”

As the kneeling Franklin leveled the rifle for another shot, the brush parted beside them. A dark face stared out, eyes wide, mouth gaping to reveal yellowing teeth.

“¿ Hola ?” Jorge said, startled, thinking it was one of Franklin’s friends. Then he remembered that Franklin had no friends.

The woman pushed through the scrub pines and high weeds, moving fast. Franklin, getting ready to fire again, must not have noticed her. She was barely three steps from him. Jorge lifted his machete, hesitating.

What if it’s not one of them?

She spat a rasping hiss, lifting her right arm. Her hand clutched a jagged, mossy stone. Jorge shouted a warning.

Franklin turned, knocking the rifle barrel against her. She was heavy and solid, the metal thwacking off her flank. She swatted the gun away with ease and she lifted the rock again. Its weight caused her arm to tremble.