Franklin ran a hoe handle through a metal spool of barbed wire as Jorge slipped on a pair of thick leather gloves. He climbed a short ladder and pulled a strand of the wire across the top of the wooden gate as Franklin clipped the wire with cutters. He wound it among the planks in big, loose loops so that anyone who tried to climb the gate would become entangled in the barbs.
Franklin had placed a series of spotlights in the trees on the perimeter of the compound. He’d told Jorge they wouldn’t burn long off the battery system due to their high wattage, but the light was an additional security measure if they needed it.
“You were prepared for defense, not just survival?” Jorge asked as they gathered the tools.
“A lot more going on up here than just me,” Franklin said as they headed for the faint reddish glow from inside the cabin.
Jorge found himself looking forward to sitting around the cozy, candlelit interior with more people to care for. He’d agreed to take the first watch tonight, even though Franklin had declared his alarm systems up to the task. “What do you mean?”
“The parkway. That’s one hell of a road. Government pitched it as a scenic route for the tourists, but it was built to hold up to heavy truck traffic. Real heavy traffic.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not the only one who thought this was a good place to hole up. Some in the Preparedness Network believed there’s a secret military bunker up here. Makes sense. You’ve got a road built to withstand aerial bombing in an area with no real industrial value.”
“Is that why you brought me and my family to your compound, and why you’re willing to bring others?”
Franklin stopped just outside the cabin. From inside came the low murmur of women talking.
“A real survivalist knows it’s not just about surviving,” Franklin said, squinting up at the aurora that was almost bright enough to read a book by, if not for the muting effects of the haze. “It’s about living. Just having food, supplies, and ammunition won’t do you any good in the long run, because what kind of life is that? You hide in a bunker for twenty years, all alone?”
Jorge hadn’t considered survival as anything beyond the next breath. Each day since the solar storms had been a challenge, but he had to admit that he felt more vibrant and his senses –all his senses—were keener and more vivid than they had been since childhood. Perhaps the prospect of losing the world had imbued it with a deeper mystery and richness.
“It’s about community,” Franklin continued. “Getting along and building something better from the ruins.”
“You said others would be coming.”
“I hope so, son.”
Jorge didn’t know how to respond to the term of familiarity. Thus, he ignored it. “We better see how the woman and her baby are.”
Franklin set the tools beside the cabin door, although he kept his rifle slung over his shoulder. They entered to cheerful warmth, with a small fire crackling in the woodstove and several candles ringing the room. Jorge smiled at Marina. She seemed to have grown up in the past week, fully healthy, and now was on the verge of womanhood herself. But Marina didn’t smile back. Her face was grave, lines creasing her forehead and the sides of her mouth.
She and Rosa were flanking the woman, who was nursing her baby.
The woman looked up. “Thank you,” she said, beaming with a mother’s wistful glow. “Thank you for saving us. For saving him.”
She pulled the child away from her breast and turned it toward them. Franklin sucked in a hard chuff of air. Jorge’s chest grew icy and numb.
The child was perfectly formed, its little hands balled into fists, a tuft of wispy hair on the large skull. It was a beautiful little boy.
Except the eyes.
They sparkled with a strange, unnatural glitter, reflecting the candlelight like broken mirrors.
Jorge had seen those eyes before. On the men who had tried to kill him, and on the parkway down by the RV.
The child was a Zaphead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Stephen coughed again, sending a trickle of unease through Rachel. What if the boy got sick? Really sick?
DeVontay had dragged a couple of extra mattresses into a top-floor bedroom that had belonged to one of the dead boys. Then he’d gone outside to look for a shovel, saying he wanted to give the family a proper burial in exchange for their hospitality. Stephen didn’t fall for it, and Rachel wondered if DeVontay would simply stack the bodies in one of the barn stalls like so much cordwood.
Stephen was bundled under blankets in the dead boy’s bed, staring at the ceiling. Rachel had found an oil lamp, and its soft, bobbing glow send spooky shadows along the ceiling.
“Will the boy’s ghost come back?” Stephen asked. “Will he be mad that I played with his train set?”
Rachel brushed Stephen’s uneven bangs from his forehead, casually testing his temperature. “Of course not. He’s up in heaven, playing with brand-new toys.”
“Is his family there?”
“I’m sure they are, honey.”
“Does he have a doggie?”
“It wouldn’t be heaven without a dog, would it?” Rachel glanced at the window and the darkness that settled over the forest. DeVontay had left the pistol with her and promised tomorrow they would take some target practice with the rifle.
They’d silently agreed they would stay at the farmhouse for the time being. Rachel was excited about the prospects of the garden and the meals she could prepare, and DeVontay said the place could be easily defended if necessary. “Good lines of sight,” he’d said, as if that didn’t mean having plenty of time to shoot anyone who tried to approach.
“I miss Mommy,” Stephen said, staring at the shadows that flickered and danced on the white ceiling. “I hope she’s in heaven, too.”
“It wouldn’t be heaven without a mommy, either,” Rachel said. She smiled. Stephen coughed again, and something in his chest rattled.
Just the barn dust.
“Tomorrow, we’ll gather some apples,” she said. “And maybe play in the creek. I saw a little boat in the closet. Think that will be fun?”
Stephen nodded and coughed again.
Rachel thought of the three bodies hanging in the barn. She wondered if the farmer had hung his pigs there, skinned and salted for curing.
How long had After preyed on the farmer’s mind? How many times did he tell his children everything would be okay? How hard had it been to shoot his wife after she’d changed?
Stephen coughed again, twice.
What courage it must have taken. The farmer must have truly believed a better life, a better world, awaited them. Faith into action, love into purpose.
She rummaged in her backpack and found it. “How are you feeling now, Stephen?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Sleepy. And tired.”
She was tired, too.
She would tell him to think of his mother, waiting for him. Or would that scare him? What if he pictured his mother the way she’d been in the hotel, lying on the bed with the flies roiling around her mouth? What if that stench carried with him to the next After?
She recalled the pharmacist’s instructions. First, the antiemetic to prevent him from throwing up. And then, the Nembutal.
A glass of clean, filtered water from the creek sat on the desk beside the bed. Given his small size, three pills would probably be enough.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Dear Lord, is this merciful?