After: The Shock

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

   

  Jorge helped Franklin barricade the compound after their return. The sun was sinking, sending long fingers of shadows across the leaves and grass. The surrounding mountains were striated in bands of black and reddish brown, the thick haze wreathing the horizon. The first flickers of aurora borealis were visible in the far northern sky, lime green and magenta tufts hanging like a shaman’s psychedelic vision.

  “Think they will come for us?” Jorge asked Franklin.

  “Hard to figure. They weren’t acting right.”

  “They weren’t attacking. But they were attracted to the woman.”

  “Maybe they wanted her baby.”

  Jorge thought of Marina and what he would do if Zapheads took her. The near-hysterical woman was inside, being comforted by Rosa. Her baby was safe, and Jorge vowed to help Franklin defend the compound to the death. This was their homeland now.

  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.