After: Dying Light (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 6) Read online

  “That’s a terrible thing to wish on anyone, but I’m glad you did,” Kokona said. “And those two layers co-existing inside me—the mutant next to the human, the New rubbing against the Old—makes for some interesting possibilities.”

  “Understanding is a two-way street,” Rachel said.

  DeVontay was glad to have the Old Rachel back. Well, she wasn’t quite the same, but somehow the transformation had made her even more beautiful.

  Radiant.

  They could do this. If Rachel and Kokona could meet halfway, then what use was clinging to his human pride?

  There were risks—if Zapheads came near, would their influence cause Rachel and Kokona to lose their humanity and summon their tribe to kill anything Old? Would their human halves eventually succumb to the dominant power of the mutant collective? Would another solar storm sweep its electromagnetic chaos over the planet and erase any vestige of humanity that lingered inside them all?

  But nothing was ever certain. Not in Before, and not in After. You spun the wheel and let the ball drop where it would.

  “Franklin’s not going to like this,” DeVontay said.

  “He’s got a lot bigger heart than he likes to admit,” Rachel said, tenderly cleaning Kokona’s bottom with a moist towel. “What old man can resist his grandkids?”

  “And great-grandkids,” Kokona said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “You sure about this?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “It’s perfect for the winter, and there are plenty of supplies.”

  The bunker’s big metal door was open, but if Franklin hadn’t known its location, it would have been impossible to detect. Vines and underbrush had encroached upon it since he’d been there in the fall, held captive with Jorge by Shipley’s barbaric crew. But Rachel and the others had no memories or associations here, so they would be untroubled by the conflicts and deception that haunted its narrow halls and cells.

  The solar panels were still doing their job, even with an overcast sky, and the soft glow of electric lights deep in the interior suggested the sodium-ion batteries had not begun to erode. The geothermal properties of the underground construction maintained a constant temperature that made the space efficient to heat and cool. The quartermaster’s store was no doubt outfitted with years’ worth of ready-to-eat meals, medicine, toiletries, bedding, and clothes.

  They may screw everything else all to hell, but when it comes to spending money on itself, the government sure knows how to do it up right.

  A few leaves had blown in through the entrance, and they crunched beneath the feet of the new arrivals. Franklin kept his M-16 at the ready, not because he thought any troops remained, but because they might disturb a wildcat, a boar, or a hibernating bear that would be dangerous in close quarters. After checking the first few bunkrooms, Franklin relaxed. The bunker had a slightly musty aroma, but the exhaust system would soon circulate enough air to freshen the place up.

  Stephen pushed by him and ran into the first bunkroom. “I claim top!” he said, clambering up the metal rungs to bellyflop onto the narrow cot with a massive squeaking of springs.

  Marina dashed after him and rolled into the bunk below it, hugging the pillow as she said, “I claim this one.”

  “Now, now,” DeVontay said. “Separate rooms for boys and girls.”

  Rachel gave him a look. “We won’t have to worry about that for a few years yet.”

  “Worry about what?” Stephen said, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk and kicking them back and forth. This was like a summer camp to him, and Franklin was pleased to see the Little Man get to be a boy for a little while.

  “Never you mind,” DeVontay said. “But we’ve got to check out the rest of the place before we settle in. And then you’ll have chores.” He twisted his face into an evil, smirking mask and employed an old hag’s fairy-tale voice. “Lots and lots of chores, my pretties. Hahahahaha.”

  Franklin led them deeper into the bunker. He hadn’t seen the entire place during his confinement, and it wasn’t as elaborate as he’d imagined, with a cramped kitchen featuring vented propane stoves, a small refrigerator, and a stainless-steel sink.

  “This is an amazing achievement,” Kokona said. “I will learn from this technology.”

  “We’ll all figure it out together,” Rachel said.

  “Here’s where they kept me and Jorge penned up,” Franklin said, peering through the slot into the small cell where he’d wasted days of his life being taunted and deprived. He hooked a thumb to the adjacent cells. “And over there’s where they tortured mutants in the name of science.”

  “Barbaric,” Kokona said.

  If only you could’ve seen what they did in their little “party pit” outside. You’d come up with a whole dictionary full of adjectives.

  The quartermaster’s store held a cache of weapons as well as supplies, including three grenade launchers, rocket-propelled grenades, a .50-caliber machine gun, and plenty of ammunition. DeVontay tried on a canvas belt with holster and slipped a Glock into it, practicing a couple of quick-draws that Franklin ridiculed.

  At the end of the hall, they came to Shipley’s headquarters—although Franklin supposed they were actually Hilyard’s. The room was dark but the stench of the sergeant’s cigars still clung to the walls. It was the room across the hall that interested Franklin the most.

  The low buzz and static behind the door told him the dying soldier in Newton hadn’t lied about this, either. Franklin opened the door and the tiny communications closet was awash with blinking red lights, blank gray computer screens, and rows of telecomm gear that was now useless in a world without satellites. While some of the machinery might have some value—a small weather station appeared to still post accurate data—the most useful bit of technology in the room was the most primitive: the little shortwave radio on the desk.

  Its receiver emitted a crackling hiss, and Franklin sat in the chair before it and worked the dial to change bands. After a few seconds of white noise, the voice came in crystal clear, so methodical and monotonal that Franklin at first thought it was a recorded broadcast:

  “Alpha One Niner, this is Bravo Foxtrot Charlie, do you copy, over? Alpha One Nine, this is Bravo Foxtrot Charlie, do you copy, over?”

  “Damn,” DeVontay said. “Somebody’s out there.”

  “Not just ‘somebody,”’ Franklin said. “That’s the good old Red, White, and Blue.”

  He adjusted the dial and noted the bandwidth, then looked down at the sheet of laminated paper featuring a long list of codes. It would take some time to decode any messages, but at least the military base sending the signals saw no need for encryption—there was hardly anyone around to spy on them, and any survivors were more concerned with staying alive than translating doubletalk.

  The broadcaster paused for ten seconds and dutifully repeated the message with the exact same cadence.

  “Are you going to answer him?” Rachel asked.

  “They’ll know we’re here if we do,” Franklin said. “Unless we pretend we’re somewhere else. They won’t have any way to detect who picks up on the signal. It could bounce anywhere in the country, and even across the ocean if the conditions are right.”

  “What’s the problem with them knowing?” DeVontay asked.

  Franklin shook his head. This guy had a lot to learn about how things really worked. He needed to get up to speed. Especially if he was going to marry Franklin’s granddaughter.

  “Okay, right now this is our bunker,” Franklin said. “The minute they learn somebody’s in it, it becomes their bunker again. Sooner or later, they’ll want it in the command structure. There are probably dozens like this one, maybe hundreds, but they won’t bother with the ones that aren’t occupied.”

  “Why don’t you just communicate inside your mind?” Kokona said. “You people do everything the hard way.”

  “We’ve fought a dozen wars for our independence,” Franklin said. “Millions gave their l
ives for it. And the biggest war is to stay free enough to do things the hard way. The moment a government—or a tribe—becomes efficient, you’ve got slavery and genocide and thought crimes and morality police. No, we’re doing just fine being individualistic idiots who bumble along making messes and screwing things up.”

  “Alpha One Nine, this is Bravo Foxtrot Charlie, do you copy, over?”

  “Okay,” Rachel said. “But they might have some information we can use.”

  Franklin gave her a look. Did she mean information this strange family could use to survive, or information the Zapheads could exploit to finish the job of wiping humans off the map?

  “She’s right,” DeVontay said. “We need to know what’s out there…if there’s any point in going on.”

  Going on IS the point.

  Franklin sighed. Yeah, he’d have to hang around longer than he’d intended. They needed a crusty old cynic to show them the ropes or they didn’t stand a chance.

  “All right,” Franklin said. “I’ll make contact. But nobody speak.” He glared at the baby with the angelic face and misshapen, grisly head. “That means you, too, Kokona.”

  “Not even a ‘Goo goo gah gah’?”

  “No, and none of that ‘Kill her kill her kill her’ crap, either.”

  “I think I’m over that.”

  “Good. Here goes.” He clicked the button on the handle of the transmission handset. “Bravo Foxtrot Charlie, this is Rhinestone Cowboy, you got your ears on?”

  He released the button and there was a pause, then the voice came in, the monotone lilting up a little in excitement. “Unknown station, authenticate signal, over?”

  “This here’s uh one Rhinestone Cowboy, you copy?”

  “Roger, Rhinestone Cowboy. Verify, is this Alpha One Niner?”

  “Negatory, Charlie. Just a guy in Mississippi sitting around in his underwear, fiddling with dials while the world ends. What’s happening up your way?”

  “Unknown station, can you give a SITREP, over? Disregard all before break, what is your current situation, over?”

  Franklin winked at the group and said, “Eating some Beanie Weenies and Vienna sausages. Wondering when you boys are going to roll in and save me.”

  “We’re working on it, Rhinestone, just planning our mobilization now. That’s why we need your help, over.”

  “Anything I can do for the U.S. government, just let me know.”

  “Do you know anything about Alpha One Niner?”

  “Never heard of it. Unless it’s some kind of Zaphead lingo. They’re thick as gators down here.”

  “We’re asking civilians to stay off of this bandwidth. It’s for tactical ops only, break.”

  “So you’re in D.C.”

  “That’s classified, have to maintain OPSEC, over.”

  “That’s exactly what D.C. would say. Well, nice talking with you. This is Rhinestone Cowboy, over and out.”

  Franklin pushed the handset away. Ten seconds later, the broadcaster returned to business as usual: “Alpha One Niner, this is Bravo Foxtrot Charlie, do you copy, over?”

  From just outside the room, someone said, “I believe that’s for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Shipley,” Franklin said.

  The soldier stank of liquor and sweat, and his wild, anxious eyes were streaked with red. At first DeVontay thought the man was a Zaphead, but, no, his eyes were just bloodshot and watery and peering out from a dark and deranged asylum deep inside him.

  His hand held a very large pistol, the muzzle big enough that DeVontay could slide his index finger into it. Franklin eyed his M-16, but it was ten feet away, and Shipley knew it, judging from his crooked sneer. DeVontay remembered the pistol holstered on his own hip. He thought about reaching for it, and recalled Franklin’s chuckle at his quick-draw attempt.

  They’d all be dead before he could even get his thumb out of his ass.

  “Well, well, well, it looks like we’re having a little party,” Shipley said, waving the gun to back them all into the cramped room. “Good. Been a little lonely these last couple of days.”

  “Listen, Sergeant. I know Hilyard went rogue on you, and you were right in taking over,” Franklin said, and DeVontay was impressed by how calm he sounded. For his part, DeVontay clenched his hands into fists just so Rachel couldn’t see his fingers shaking.

  “Water under the bridge, Franklin.” Shipley leaned against the wall, obviously so drunk that he needed the support. He pointed his pistol at Franklin, and the barrel wavered only slightly. “You and me, on the other hand, we got some unfinished business. Dereliction of duty, treason, crimes against nature, and failure to file a federal income tax return.”

  He shifted the pistol over to DeVontay. “And you…you were at the school shooting Zappers. That means you were in with Hilyard.” Shipley then leered at Rachel. “And you brought one back as a pet. Pretty sweet. Might have to keep her around a while to have something to play with later.”

  DeVontay glanced at Franklin, and then the M-16. Franklin gave a curt shake of his head to warn him off.

  “But this…” Shipley took a step into the room and grazed the tip of his pistol across Kokona’s open wound, “…this is the real obscenity here.”

  “It’s just a baby,” DeVontay found himself saying, which instantly shifted Shipley’s hostility back onto him.

  “Ah, I get it now,” Shipley said to him. “You’re a Zap lover. Figures. End the world and you still can’t get rid of PC cockroaches. All you minorities stick together, huh?”

  “We should all stick together,” Franklin said. “You can’t defend this place all by yourself.”

  “Well, I used to have an army.” He swiveled unsteadily and jabbed the pistol into Kokona’s brains. “But the Zappers took it away from me.”

  Rachel drew back, pulling Kokona away from the crazed sergeant, but there was nowhere to escape with Shipley blocking the doorway.

  The shortwave radio hissed and broadcast: “Alpha One Niner, this is Bravo Foxtrot Cha—.”

  Kah-PAKK.

  The radio display shattered and the unit flew off the table as the gunshot rattled DeVontay’s eardrums. A metallic odor filled the room as everyone froze in shock at the sudden violence.

  “I was getting tired of hearing that damn guy,” Shipley said. “Now, where were we?”

  “I was just talking you into letting us join your unit,” Franklin said, still sitting at the desk and keeping his voice level, although DeVontay was pretty sure the old man’s jaw was clenched a little more tightly than usual. “We can be pretty helpful. I know a thing or two about doomsday prepping, DeVontay’s good with machines and engineering, and Rachel is a hell of a cook.”

  “I can speak for myself,” Rachel said. “And you know I can barely boil water.”

  “Heh heh,” Shipley said to her. “You’re a feisty one. Never tried a Zap, but, well, like I said, I’ve been lonely lately.”

  DeVontay didn’t like the way the man looked at her, like she was a juicy steak. But there was more to it than that. This sadist wouldn’t just chew her up, but he’d spit her out, too.

  “But first we’ve got to get rid of a little baggage,” Shipley said, reaching out and grabbing Kokona’s frail arm, then yanking her away from Rachel. He held her up like a prizewinning bass he’d just reeled in at a fishing tournament. “With a hole in your skull that big, you should be dead ten times over. What’s the deal here? Is this resurrection shit for real?”

  Kokona shook her head. “Why don’t you ask your army? The one we slaughtered down in Newton?”

  DeVontay saw something change in the man’s eyes, as if little shutters dropped to separate the man from whatever soul he had left. Shipley slung Kokona against a stack of equipment, and the infant wailed at the impact, eyes wide as she tumbled to the concrete floor.

  At that moment, everything seemed to both happen at once and unfold in slow motion:

  Shipley aimed his pistol at Kokona lying near
his feet.

  Franklin’s chair fell over as he stood and bumped into the table.

  Rachel bellowed and jumped at Shipley.

  And DeVontay dove to scoop up the infant.

  The gun banged and DeVontay almost laughed, because the idiot was so drunk he missed from three feet away—

  And then the pain rolled through him in searing reddish-orange ripples of hell.

  And another bang came, and he wondered if the next wave would be even worse, swelling up into a volcanic tide until it crested his nervous system in a tsunami of suffering.

  But no. He was alert, and Kokona’s cute face was only inches from his, her eyes burning as she smiled at him.

  “First you killed me, then you gave your life for me,” she said. “Humans are strange.”

  Then Rachel was bending over him, and he closed his good eye, and the pain wasn’t so bad now, more like the glowing warmth of a campfire. She unbuttoned his jacket and tore open his shirt as Franklin said, “That’s a nasty one.”

  Rachel eased him over onto his back and he saw Stephen standing in the doorway holding a rifle. His face was grim and cold, his eyes half-lidded beneath the bill of his cap. Marina stood behind him, her mouth gaping.

  Shipley lay beside DeVontay, a rapidly expanding pool of blood reaching DeVontay’s other shoulder and making it wet, too.

  “Don’t you leave me,” Rachel said, tears in her eyes as she fussed with his wound, applying pressure with both hands to slow the bleeding. “Don’t you dare. You can’t bring me back from the dead and then just abandon me here.”

  DeVontay tried to speak, but he wasn’t sure any air came out of his lungs. His throat was dry, but he wasn’t thirsty. Just tired. He wouldn’t mind going to sleep, and the concrete seemed to grow softer by the second.

  “Let me heal him,” Kokona said.

  DeVontay jerked alert and summoned as much wind as he could suck down. “No!”

  But Rachel’s hands were already on him. Funny, he didn’t feel all that different.

  Maybe she’s mostly human now. Maybe she’s lost her power.