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

  And then the dead Zaphead—the woman near the school entrance he’d shot himself, nailing her twice—opened her eyes and moved, then slowly stood.

  “She was dead,” Franklin said. “All the way.”

  “I told you so,” Jorge said. “This is what they want to do.”

  Franklin hadn’t really believed in all the miracle bullshit. Sure, he’d witnessed the strange powers of the mutants and heard stories of their healing. They’d certainly changed Rachel—saving her life while simultaneously condemning her to a mockery of humanity—and Jorge had described the Zapheads’ plan to revive all the dead humans they’d collected in Newton.

  And now, even though he was witnessing it, he couldn’t accept it. God’s big prank on the human race had come full circle. Eternal life wasn’t a reward for a soul redeemed of sin. It was a parlor trick for monsters.

  “We need that baby,” DeVontay said.

  Franklin laughed. “And just how do we do that? Must be a hundred Zappers down there now.”

  “A hundred-and-one,” DeVontay said. “It just brought another one back to life.”

  “We should tell Lt. Hilyard and the others,” Jorge said. “We are only three. We have no chance.”

  “Wait a sec,” DeVontay said, squinting through the scope. “That boy’s wearing a baseball cap.”

  Franklin adjusted his goggles. “That can’t be Stephen.”

  “His note said he was looking for Rachel. And if they turned him into a carrier, he won’t be able to run. I carried one of them. I know. You get to where you love them.”

  “My wife was willing to sacrifice everything for her mutant baby,” Jorge said. “Even our daughter. They are evil.”

  Franklin hoped Jorge wouldn’t suggest killing the boy, even assuming one of them was a good enough marksman to take him out. And he wasn’t eager to debate the nature of good and evil with a man who’d killed his wife in a fit of self-righteousness. But as Stephen helped the baby resurrect two more Zapheads, he knew the odds of human victory had shifted from one-in-a-million to zero.

  Survival of the fittest, and we don’t have any evolutionary trait that can match that one. If anything, we’re getting worse as we go.

  “We don’t have time to get reinforcements,” Franklin said. “We never considered that if the ninth baby could bring Rachel back to life, it could bring them all back to life. If that baby makes it downtown where all the dead Zapheads are, it’s over. We need to end this here.”

  DeVontay stood so suddenly he dropped the rifle. “No. We need that baby alive. To save Rachel.”

  Franklin turned from the window. “Look, I love her, too, but she wouldn’t risk all these innocent people.”

  “Damn it, nobody’s innocent anymore, Franklin. And how do you know what she would want? You loved her as a reflection of yourself, somebody to carry on your ideals. You’re just as bad as all the politicians and oligarchs and royalty you claim to despise. Your little fiefdom, your rules.”

  The goggles allowed him to see the twisted grimace on DeVontay’s face. “That’s wrong, son. I threw in with the crowd here. Joined the human race. I always did seem to side with the losers.”

  “Rachel didn’t take sides. She saw the possibilities of a world where the mutants and us could live together and build a new world. And you want to take that chance away.”

  “I didn’t make that decision.” Franklin jabbed a thumb beyond the window toward the parking lot, where yet another broken Zaphead lifted from a puddle of blood and rejoined its tribe. “They did.”

  DeVontay closed his eyes, although the lid of the prosthetic one didn’t fully shut, giving him a sly, sinister aspect. He exhaled heavily. “We take the baby. And get Stephen back. Other than that, you can kill as many as you want.”

  As if it matters. Unless we kill them all, including the baby.

  “Okay,” Franklin said. “It’s worth a shot. And if the baby won’t help us, it’s dead. I don’t suppose it has the power to bring itself back from the dead.”

  “The other eight didn’t.”

  “What do you think, Jorge?” Franklin scanned the room behind DeVontay, realizing the Mexican hadn’t spoken in a while. “Jorge?”

  DeVontay pointed out the window, where a man’s silhouette slipped down the street, the thin stick of his rifle barrel pointed at the sky. He was headed toward the school.

  “Damn,” Franklin said, grabbing his backpack and shrugging his arms through the straps. “So much for making plans.”

  DeVontay collected the rifle with the scope, grunting in pain as he stood.

  “You going to make it, or do I have to carry you?” Franklin asked.

  “I’ll get along fine. Anything besides having to smell your old-man body odor.”

  Franklin led the way as they headed out of the room and down the stairs, DeVontay limping but otherwise gamely keeping up. Franklin had adjusted to the weird green view afforded by the goggles, but he still bumped his knee on a coffee table as they crossed the living room. Outside, the air had grown even chillier, and the only sound was a few insects in the trees.

  “Hilyard still hasn’t sent anybody to check out the gunshots,” Franklin said.

  “Or maybe he has, and they saw they’re outnumbered.”

  “Well, we can’t wait now. Let’s do this.”

  They both fell silent as they retraced their route back to the school. Jorge was nowhere to be seen, and Franklin was worried his friend would become a one-man vigilante squad intent on taking down as many mutants as he could. He secretly hoped Jorge would kill the baby. Now he was afraid of what Rachel would become if she returned, especially given DeVontay’s attitude. What if Rachel became fully mutant, gained her own powers, and decided it was time to rid the world of the vermin?

  Once they covered the two blocks to the border of the school property, they angled near the football stadium to maintain the element of surprise rather than coming through the gap in the parking lot fence. Franklin expected to hear a burst of semiautomatic fire at any moment, along with Jorge’s wild ranting. The rot of corpses was far worse here, and even with the goggles limiting detail, he could make out the mass of bodies heaped in the stadium stands. A four-legged shadow slipped from the open mausoleum, dragging something from its jaws—a wild dog or other predator scrounging a late-night snack.

  They kept to the shadows as they approached the parking lot from the rear, shielded by the school buses. The Zapheads moved as a unit, the crowd shuffling forward as Stephen and the baby repeated the same ritual over and over—bending down, touching a prone form, and two eyes sparking with renewal.

  Even from this distance, the fear was plain on Stephen’s face. But in the glow of dozens of Zaphead eyes, something else was visible, too—an intense concentration, as if in wonder of the miracles he was helping to perform. The wispy-haired infant he held seemed delighted, patting her little hands together and giggling. A few of the Zapheads imitated her chuckles, making the tableau even more sinister.

  “I don’t see Jorge,” DeVontay said, as they pressed behind a big Chevy Suburban with tinted windows and flat tires. The weird susurrations of the mutants allowed them to talk in hoarse whispers without being overhead.

  “I hope he doesn’t go rogue before we figure out how to play this.”

  “If he kills that baby, I’m killing him.”

  Franklin didn’t doubt it. The baby had become the center of the universe, After’s new messiah. “Even if we could shoot worth a damn, we don’t have enough rounds to take all these Zappers down. So I guess it’s going to come down to using our brains.”

  “That’s not very comforting.” DeVontay glanced around at the brittle, burned-out shell of the building and the row of school buses. “Maybe we’re thinking about this wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve been acting like the baby is the key. But it looks like Stephen is part of the deal, too. The other babies were helpless without a human carrier, because the Zaphead
s don’t seem capable of caring for them. Why else would he be there?”

  Franklin peered through the tinted windows. The boy and the Asian baby were busy bringing another Zaphead corpse back to life, meticulously working their way to the far end of the parking lot. “Yeah, they look like best buddies. Joined at the hip.”

  “So, what if we cut the connection?”

  It took Franklin a moment to understand. Or maybe he didn’t want to hear it, because the idea had been stirring in the back of his mind as well. “You want me to shoot the boy?”

  The sudden pop high overhead jolted both of them, and their faces gleamed with a silvery brilliance as night vanished.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Another pop, and bright phosphorescent streamers corkscrewed down from several hundred feet overhead.

  DeVontay had never seen these in real life. But movies had given him plenty of instruction, some of it even useful. “Flares,” he said.

  “Hilyard?” Franklin said. “He had some flares for that grenade launcher.”

  “Maybe,” DeVontay said. “But why?”

  The burning phosphorus fluttered down, illuminating the parking lot, revealing the silent army that glanced up as if at an arriving god. The flares outshone their eyes, and the harsh light cast them in stark contrast to the surrounding darkness. Ribbons of light swam in car windows, casting watery reflections across the asphalt. There was a moment of complete silence and stillness, like a black-and-white photograph, that gave a false illusion of peace.

  Then hot metal raked across the parking lot, dinking off sheet metal and shattering glass.

  Red tracers zipped hot stitches.

  The roar came a split-second later, a staccato metallic belching as gunpowder exploded in a fusillade. The shots hailed from all sides, but DeVontay guessed only half a dozen sharpshooters were at work.

  Someone shouted and another responded, voices from beyond the border of night.

  “That’s not Hilyard,” Franklin said, as they both hugged the cover provided by the Suburban. “That’s Shipley. I’d know that sadistic bellow anywhere.”

  Zapheads jerked and twisted, their limbs flung out by the impact of slugs. They folded, spouting red, and sprawled on the ground one after another. Stephen pitched forward with the mutant baby in his arms, and for one terrible moment, DeVontay thought the boy had been shot. But he flopped onto the body of a Zaphead, using his elbows to soften the blow to the baby, and burrowed down alongside a corpse.

  “They laid an ambush,” Franklin said.

  “Where were they when we were in trouble? They had to be around. Maybe even watching.”

  “Must’ve wanted to get them all out in the open before they attacked. If we’re not bait for one army, we’re bait for another.”

  Franklin poked his head up to the passenger-side window and peered through. The window exploded and showered both of them with tiny rectangles of glass. DeVontay fished a shard out of his cheek and wiped a wet, slick streak across his face.

  “We have to get Stephen out of there,” DeVontay said.

  “I thought you wanted him dead. Make up your mind.”

  “We need both of them. Him and the baby.”

  Another half dozen Zapheads fell as they spoke, and some turned toward the origin of the gunfire, where muzzle flashes erupted here and there from the surrounding trees and streets.

  “Go there go now,” shrieked a clear, high voice. “Take them.”

  “Take them,” the remaining Zapheads shouted. The display of unity was even more chilling than their bright eyes, as was the lack of fear or even excitement in their voices.

  They scattered and advanced into the teeth of the bullets, moving fast but with deliberate steps—men, women, and adolescents, charging through the smoke that drifted across the parking lot. More dropped, but they seemed heedless of the death that drilled the air around them. Maybe on some level they knew the death wasn’t a permanent condition for them.

  The gunfire eased to a few sporadic bursts as Shipley’s men apparently retreated. The first line of Zapheads melded into the darkness, only the strange reddish-yellow glow of their eyes marking their presence. The last flare sputtered and fizzed out and the parking lot fell dark again, bullets banging against the flanks of the school buses.

  “We need to roll now,” DeVontay said, sensing an opportunity.

  “You crazy? Shipley’s men won’t hold back just because we’re human.”

  DeVontay let his weapon clatter to the ground. “I need you with me on this, Franklin.”

  Franklin tugged on his unruly gray beard. “Ah, hell with it. I’ll take the boy. You take the baby.”

  “You sure he won’t be too heavy for you?”

  “I’m only sixty-five. Even though I feel a hundred and ten. Assuming my old-man stink doesn’t kill him.”

  DeVontay grinned to hide his fear over what they were about to do. “Well, if your heart gives out, I’ll make sure our little friend brings you back.”

  “Not funny.” Franklin slung his AR-15 over his shoulder. “Okay, where do we meet up?”

  “Head back downtown. Remember that tractor trailer rolled up in the yard of that house? Maybe five blocks down?”

  “I can find it.” Franklin tapped his night-vision goggles. “I’ve got these, but how are you going to see?”

  “I’ll have the baby. It comes complete with a built-in flashlight.”

  The firing was now down to a shot or two every fifteen seconds, and their eyes had adjusted back to the weak light. DeVontay tapped the side of the Suburban as either a good-luck charm or a signal to launch Operation Probably Wind Up Dead, then sprinted around the vehicle and limped toward Stephen and the baby. Franklin veered behind him, both of them running low and silent.

  DeVontay couldn’t see their targets, since quite a few dark heaps pocked the pavement, but he moved on memory, judging the direction and distance. A few twin sets of glowing eyes pierced the surrounding gloom, but if the Zapheads were looking his way, they gave no sign. A bullet skipped off the asphalt in front of him, sending up sparks and a spray of fine gravel.

  Should have let Franklin lead the way, since he has the goggles.

  But he was eager to get this over with, one way or another. Rachel’s body lay in whatever weird state a half-mutant would enter instead of death, and he had no idea how many minutes she had left—if any—before her condition became permanent.

  He was determined to grab that baby.

  And save Stephen.

  And then save the rest of the world.

  No problem.

  He nearly tripped and a tight band of pain seared his ankle. He thought he’d been shot, but when he looked down, he saw a hand clamped around his leg. A Zaphead on the ground, oozing blood from three big holes, clung to him with grim commitment despite its wounds. It was a black woman, he saw, someone who’d been his age when the solar storms struck, an age she would stay as long—or as many times—as she existed.

  DeVontay tried to kick free, but she held tight. He grunted with effort as he drove a boot down onto her chest, sending little spurts of blood out of her wounds. Now he wished he had his rifle, but he figured it would be useless and only slow him down. He let his weight go and drove both knees into her abdomen, but she still maintained her grip.

  “Let me go, damn it,” he said in a rough whisper, grabbing her curly hair with both hands. He lifted her head and banged it against the asphalt—once, twice, and again—each blow like the thump of a melon rolling off a cart. Fluid seeped beneath her crumbling skull.

  And still she held on.

  A volley of gunfire broke out, but it was away from the parking lot. Somewhere, someone screamed—a very human scream that was simultaneously comforting and unnerving.

  DeVontay twisted the Zaphead from side to side, and then sat back so he could drive a kick against the offending hand. Bone broke under his blows, and he worked at the fingers with his own, bending them backwards one by one until they snapped. Whe
n only two remained, he was finally able to wriggle free and struggle to his feet. He’d wasted precious seconds he couldn’t spare, and now he was disoriented.

  He used the outline of the school building and the row of school buses to navigate himself back on track, and he dashed down a line of cars, keeping low to use them for concealment. He emerged from the end of the row, open in the strange haze of starlight, and saw them.

  Stephen was huddled against a corpse, his arms protectively embracing the baby.

  “Stephen!” DeVontay called.

  The bill of the baseball cap lifted and the lower part of Stephen’s face revealed itself. “DeVontay?”

  “Hell, yeah, Little Man. It’s me.”

  DeVontay expected the boy to push away the baby and run toward him, but instead he only hugged her tighter. He closed the thirty feet between them but was chilled when the baby’s intense, laser-like eyes turned on him.

  He glanced around to make sure no other Zapheads were in attacking range. Where the hell is Franklin?

  “Come on, time to go,” DeVontay said.

  “He’s my carrier,” the baby said, in a distinct and brittle voice.

  DeVontay could see both their faces in the glow of her eyes. Stephen’s was smudged with dirt and charcoal, pale, with dark wedges beneath his eyes, while the baby was round-faced, plump, and cherubic. Practically angelic.

  How could something so innocent-looking unleash so much terror?

  As if DeVontay had to ask. Somewhere inside the mutants was a human core, and they adapted by mimicking the humans they interacted with and observed. What else could they learn but hate and fear?

  “Come on, Little Man,” DeVontay said, reaching a hand for Stephen. “Rachel is waiting.”

  A bullet shredded the air over his head and he ducked low, close enough to study the baby’s expression. It was a girl, Asian and beautiful, half swaddled in a blanket. He looked at Stephen’s face and saw they wore the same unreadable expression.

  “We have to get away from the gunfire.” DeVontay forced himself to remain calm.

  “He stays with me.” The baby spoke with an imperiousness that belied its size.