After: Dying Light (5 page)

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 phosphorous 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 Surburban. “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. When 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.

“You’re coming, too.”

DeVontay reached for the baby and Stephen rolled away, the bundle clutched to his chest. “No! Leave Kokona alone!”

His cries were loud enough to draw the attention of both Zapheads and Shipley’s unit, but the cars must have shielded their view. DeVontay pulled at Stephen, trying to extract the mutant from his arms, but Stephen leaped to his feet with startling energy. As the boy turned to run, he slammed into Franklin.

“Rachel’s looking for you,” Franklin said.

That seemed to get through to him. He blinked, as if finally recognizing DeVontay and Franklin. “She’s…she’s here?”

“We can take you to her,” DeVontay said. “But we have to do it
now
.”

As if to punctuate his urgency, a swarm of bullets strafed the parking lot, penetrating flesh and metal. A cry sounded in the dark, followed by Shipley ordering his men to fall back.

The boy was ashen-faced, looking down at the baby in his arms. “Kokona?” he whispered.

“Don’t go,” she said, her eyes ramping up the intensity, like a rocket ship powering for liftoff.

DeVontay seized the baby and yanked her from Stephen’s arms, ignoring the boy’s pleas. He sprinted toward the row of buses, intending to reach the dark street beyond, his legs aching. Over the roaring in his ears and the crack of gunfire, he heard Franklin and Stephen yelling.

But he didn’t dare look back.

CHAPTER TEN

Jorge Jiminez was in a dark place.

Mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Since the solar storms in August that had disrupted his life as an immigrant laborer on a Tennessee farm, he’d accepted that his relatives in Mexico were likely dead. At the very least, he’d never seen them again. Many of the fellow survivors he’d encountered were now gone as well.

But the most searing scar came when he killed his wife Rosa. He could almost blame the Zapheads and the controlling power of the babies she’d tended, but he’d witnessed her slow surrender to them as if she found their promises better than the ones Jorge had pledged.

Her final act of betrayal—offering Marina to the Zapheads—was too much for any man to bear. All the vows he’d made to both his wife and God dissolved in a red tide of fury that led him to aim the grenade launcher at her as she fled with the last mutant child. But that wasn’t the end. Another Zaphead infant remained, and the remaining survivors were determined to find it.

Well, he’d had enough.

Dios ha muerto.

God is dead.

And so evil wins.

Entering the ruins of the school and discovering the army of Zapheads had accomplished nothing but the death of his friend Riff Raff. How many more would die? Wasn’t it time they left the world to the Zapheads and retreated to the most remote corners of the Earth? Of course he would prefer his native Baja California, but Franklin’s mountain compound served the purpose just as well. If they had stayed, Marina would have a mother and he’d have a wife, and the world could turn as it wished.

Jorge wasn’t proud of abandoning Franklin and DeVontay, but this was no longer his war. He would return to the stronghold Hilyard established in downtown Newton, get Marina, and head west. They almost certainly wouldn’t reach the Southwestern desert, but at least they could follow the setting sun each day, carrying the knowledge that each step took them further from the horrible memories of this day.

He was halfway to the encampment when the gunfire broke out anew, a number of guns that suggested an organized military assault. He didn’t turn back. If anything, he fled even faster, although he was unsure of his direction.

This section of town featured industrial shops, automotive garages, and building supply stores. The scant starlight reflected off the glass, and he moved from vehicle to vehicle, keeping to the street. He didn’t know what was lurking inside the buildings or houses. For all he knew, the Zaphead hordes could be stirring in a strange slumber, waiting for the moment to attack. Although Hilyard and the militia, as well as Shipley’s soldiers, had massacred rows and rows of Zapheads, the mutants seemed to be congregating on Newton as if summoned from hundreds of miles away.

Another reason to leave this place.

The Zapheads were just as likely to rule Mexico, as well as the rest of the world, but he’d rather die at home. America was no promised land after all—without its politics and law and culture, it was just another stretch of dirt in which to dig graves.

Something clattered in the street ahead, as if the wind had knocked over a garbage can and pushed it across the sidewalk. But the air was still and cool. Shadows moved, several of them, stealthy and quick.

Jorge leaned against the side of a sedan and peered over its hood, his M-16 against his chest.

No glowing eyes. Not Zapheads.

He relaxed just a little. The silhouettes were likely members of the militia, sent out by Hilyard to investigate the shooting. It could also be one of the other scout squads. Either way, Jorge would let them pass.

At least, that was his intention. But he’d learned the hard way that the universe couldn’t care less what he did or didn’t want.

The click of the revolver hammer behind his head was as loud as metallic thunder.

“Drop it, Pedro,” the voice said.

Jorge started to turn toward the familiar voice but the cold muzzle stopped him, indenting a circle in his cheek. “Sergeant. I can explain—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shipley said. “Whether you lie or tell the truth, I won’t believe you, so may as well save your breath. My guess is you don’t have a whole lot of it left.”

Jorge shifted his eyes enough to see the man. He was in full battle gear, complete with body armor, night-vision goggles, and helmet. Shipley’s facial hair had grown out, but the rocky terrain of his face was evident around the goggles.

Jorge took his time setting the rifle on the hood of the sedan. So he would die here, never seeing Marina again. The darkness inside him took on the aspect of the surrounding December. It was season of endings. What man could push against it?

“Do you know anything about that little shitstorm back there at the school?” the sergeant said.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You said as much yourself.”

“Yes, but I asked you anyway.” The sergeant drew out a cigarillo with a plastic tip, jabbed it into the crevice of his mouth, and flicked a lighter to life, twin flames reflected in his lenses. He kept the revolver steady as he inhaled, and then let a stream of sweet blue smoke roll into the sky.

“We were looking for Zapheads.”

“Well, you sure as hell found them. Ever since I sent that advance mission, I figured they’d return to the school like chickens come home to roost. The creatures don’t have much for brains.”

“We wanted to make sure the baby was dead.”

“The baby?”

Shipley seemed genuinely confused by the answer. Maybe he didn’t know of the infant’s intelligence or its leadership role. Jorge suddenly saw a possible way out of this, a bargaining chip. “Yes. We killed all the other babies except one, an Asian baby.”

“There’s still one left? Where is it?”

Since Shipley was unlikely to believe him anyway, a lie was as good as the truth. “We captured her downtown after the battle. Lt. Hilyard set up a fortified area, and he plans to hold out there until he can use the baby to control the Zapheads. Or else wait for the Zapheads to come for her, and then wipe them out.”

“That sounds like bullshit to me.” Shipley puffed hard on the cigarillo, heating its tip to a red cherry. He pulled it from his mouth and waved it beneath Jorge’s nose, the smoke stinging his eyes and making him tear up. The intense heat sent an electric rope of pain through his skull.

“I swear,” Jorge said, exaggerating his fear a little. But only a little. Enduring Shipley’s captivity with Franklin, Jorge had remained reserved and acquiescent while Franklin bristled with defiance. Shipley likely marked him as a coward, which would lead the sergeant to believe Jorge would fold under the suggestion of torture.

Shipley gave a piercing whistle. As he returned the cigarillo to his mouth, several men emerged from the shadows, outfitted in the same manner as the sergeant. Ready for war.

“Look what I found, Broyhill,” Shipley said to the tallest one.

“If it ain’t the beaner. Where’s your buddy Franklin?” Broyhill said in a tone as if he’d chewed gravel for dinner.

“I haven’t seen him since he abandoned me and your men up in the mountains.”

“We lost four good men on that patrol,” Shipley said. “What happened to them?”

“We were attacked by Zapheads and got scattered. I don’t know what happened to the others. Franklin ran away, and I got cut off. I was barely able to get away alive.” That was almost the truth, except that he and Franklin had killed two of the soldiers.

“Why didn’t you return to the bunker?” Shipley asked, his voice calm as he smoked. “Those were your orders.”

“I was lost in the forest. When I saw the town, I thought I could find enough food to survive.”

“Do you know what happens to people who disobey orders in wartime?” Broyhill said, as if he were eager to administer the death sentence.

“Hold on a second,” Shipley said. “He’s going to tell me more about Hilyard’s plans, and then you can have your fun.”

Broyhill snorted and stepped back. “Hell, the night is young.”

A few gunshots burst in the distance, and Shipley cocked an ear to listen. “McCutcheon’s squad must have found some more Zaps. Too bad we couldn’t erase them all when we had them surrounded at the school.”

“Well, it’s not so easy when they get up as fast as you can knock them down,” Broyhill said. “Them bastards can sure eat some bullets.”

Shipley moved the tip of his shrinking cigarillo near Jorge’s left eye. “You wouldn’t happen to know what the Zaps were doing there, do you?”

“Gathering like they always do.” Jorge forced himself not to blink, fixing his gaze on Shipley’s goggles. He could picture the cruel, psychotic eyes hiding behind them. “Becoming a tribe.”

“Bringing themselves back to life. We saw that shit. We couldn’t see how they were doing it, but first they were dead and then they weren’t. Then they were attacking us.”

He couldn’t let Shipley know that the ninth baby was at the school. His life depended on planting the belief that the Zaphead’s little leader was in Hilyard’s custody. And that Jorge could give them access to it.

“They’ll be after the last baby,” Jorge said. “It has the power to summon them with its mind.”

Broyhill and the other men laughed, but Shipley tossed his smoke to the ground and leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. “That’s so crazy I almost believe it. Because you don’t have the brains to dream up something like that.”

His heart was pounding so hard he was almost certain Shipley could hear it, but he forced himself to remain calm. For Marina’s sake.

“I can prove it,” Jorge said. “I can get you the baby. And Hilyard, if you want him.”