Milepost 291

CHAPTER SEVEN

The man in the bedroom was maybe forty, and despite the mess he’d left in the bedroom and bathroom, he’d obviously taken some care of himself. His salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. Although his clothes were ill-fitting, they were free of wrinkles and tears. He was well-armed with a 12-gauge shotgun and two semi-automatic pistols. Franklin figured the guy had made the best of a bad situation.

A situation which had just gotten worse.

“Who are you?” Hayes asked him, his semiautomatic fixed on the man, whose own shotgun was pointed toward the ceiling. Bandana Boy also aimed at the man, although from a much closer distance. Franklin could tell Bandana Boy was just waiting for the man to twitch or cough.

“Nobody,” the man said in a low, flat voice.

“You’re under the jurisdiction of Milepost 291 and Sgt. Harold Schrader. We don’t allow nobodies on our territory.”

“Just trying to survive. I’m not hurting anybody.”

Franklin admired the man’s attitude: fearless, calm, and cautious. Hayes and Bandana Boy, on the other hand, acted more like doped-up members of a street gang than people trained by the U.S. military.

“We decide who does the hurting,” Bandana Boy said.

“Where do you get your supplies?” Hayes said.

The man rolled his eyes to the left, indicating some direction south. “Country store three miles down that way. A little community called Stonewall.”

“You expect us to believe you walk three miles for food? Why don’t you just stay near the store?”

“Safer here.”

Franklin wondered where Jorge had gone. The Mexican had managed to slip away with none of the others noticing. May as well make a run for it. You have a better chance on your own.

“Have you seen any Zaps around?” Hayes asked.

The man nodded, the butt of the shotgun locked against his hip.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Along the road, in the woods. None around here, though. That’s why I stay here.”

“You know what, Hayes?” Bandana Boy said, voice rising in excitement. “I think there’s somebody else here. I don’t think he could have carried all that food by himself, not that far. And there were tampons in the bathroom.”

The stranger’s fingers visibly whitened as they gripped the shotgun harder. Franklin took a couple of steps back, anticipating a showdown. “Go easy,” Franklin said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“And which side is that, Wheeler?” Hayes said.

“Survival. The human side. You and Sarge can fight turf wars all you want, but we don’t know how many Zapheads are out there. Could be millions, for all we know.”

“Probably not millions,” the man said. “Not judging from the population density I’ve observed.”

The man glanced to the left again, and now Franklin realized he was looking at the closet door. Was someone in there? Should he warn Hayes? He eased a couple of steps toward the exit in case a shootout erupted.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hayes said. “We’ll kick their asses eventually, even if we have to go hand to hand.”

“Anybody with you?” Bandana Boy asked the man.

The man flinched just a little, and Franklin noticed the hesitation. “Just me.”

“Want to put down that shotgun real slow?”

“Put yours down first. This is my house.”

Franklin had to admit the man had balls, although he suspected Bandana Boy was about to deliver a rapid-fire castration.

“Hey,” Franklin said. “Sarge said no prisoners, but he didn’t say anything about recruits, did he? This fellow”—he glanced at the man—“What’s your name?”

“Robertson.”

“Robertson looks like he knows how to handle a weapon, and he sure knows how to improvise. If we’re fighting the Zaps, shouldn’t we better keep every fighter we can get?”

“Shut up,” Hayes said to Franklin. “I’m in command of this patrol.”

Sounds like somebody’s feeling his oats. A man on a power trip. I bet Sarge is sleeping with one eye open.

“Okay, no problem.” Robertson eased the shotgun onto the bed beside him. “If I wanted trouble, I would have shot you when you came through the door.”

A soft thump issued from the closet. Bandana Boy spun and unleashed a hail of semiautomatic fire, the report pummeling Franklin’s ears. Splinters and drywall dust exploded from the waist-high row of pockmarks as the room filled with the stench of gunpowder.

Robertson roared in rage and dug at his hip for a sidearm, but Hayes jutted his gun barrel into Robertson’s gut to stop him. Bandana Boy, almost dancing with sadistic joy, yanked the closet door open to count coup.

“Get him?” Hayes said, keeping his eyes and his weapon fixed on Robertson, who groaned in rage.

“Her.”

Franklin pushed past Hayes, who cussed under his breath. Robertson rose from the bed and took a step toward the closet, but Hayes drove the tip of his rifle into his gut hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Then Franklin saw her and understood why Robertson had been so well armed. She was probably fourteen, maybe fifteen, huddled in blankets so that only her face was showing. Her blue eyes were wide and frightened, and blonde wisps of hair curved around her cheeks. If she hadn’t been bundled up on the floor, Bandana Boy’s bullets would have ripped her to shreds.

“Get back,” Franklin said to Bandana Boy, stepping in front of him and kneeling to the girl. He didn’t see any blood, but she could have been struck by shrapnel. “Are you okay, honey?”

She stared past him at Robertson, whom Franklin assumed was her dad. Her mouth opened but no words came out.

She’s probably in shock.

“What’s your name?” Franklin asked. A hot ring of metal pressed into his neck, scorching his flesh, and he slapped away the gun muzzle that had inflicted the pain.

“She’s mine,” Bandana Boy said. “Finder’s keepers.”

Robertson let out a roar of anguish and leapt for Bandana Boy, but Hayes swung the butt of his rifle into the back of the charging man’s skull. The crack was so loud that it surely caused a concussion, and the man flopped heavily to the floor.

“Daddy!” the girl wailed, and crawled out of the blankets toward him.

“Get out,” Bandana Boy said to Franklin, pressing the gun against his neck a second time. Franklin balled his fists, stood, and eyed the shotgun on the bed, but Hayes shook his head to deter him.

“Been way too long for Jimbo,” Hayes said. “I wouldn’t mess with a man who’s been deprived.”

“She’s just a child,” Franklin said.

“Not for much longer.” Bandana Boy grabbed her by the back of her jacket and yanked her to her feet. She kicked and screamed, and he snickered wetly in response.

“Get out of here,” Hayes said to Franklin. “If you behave, maybe you can have a turn later. If you got anything that still works, that is.”

Both men erupted into animalistic laughter, and Bandana Boy shoved Robertson’s shotgun to the floor and flung the girl onto the bed. He leaned his own rile against the headboard, climbed atop the girl, and straddled her, loosening his belt buckle. Robertson’s head oozed a dark thread of blood, and his splayed fingers twitched.

Lord, I don’t ask for much, but please let him be dead so he doesn’t have to hear what’s coming next.

“Better hurry,” Hayes said to Bandana Boy. “The others probably heard the shots and they’ll be coming around before long.” To Franklin, he said, “Now get out of here, you old goat, unless you want to watch a real man in action.”

Franklin turned as if to leave the room and saw Jorge in the hall, just outside the door. From the angle, neither Hayes nor Bandana Boy could see him. Jorge gave a slow nod, his dark face nearly rippling with barely suppressed rage. Franklin could imagine these pigs treating Jorge’s daughter Marina in the same manner. And so, apparently, could Jorge, judging by the tight grip he held on the fire poker.

Franklin walked back to the closet, eliciting a sharp command from Hayes. “Stop it, you bastard.”

“Thought I saw something,” Franklin said, rubbing at the burn on his neck. The girl whimpered and slapped at Bandana Boy, who only laughed at her struggles as he tried to undress.

Jorge burst into the room, swinging the poker in a two-handed grip as if it were a baseball bat. The metal bar thwacked Hayes across the back of the skull, cracking bone and jolting the semiautomatic from his hands. Franklin dove for the shotgun, joints shrieking in agony, and he came up with it just as Bandana Boy realized the party was over.

“Don’t do it,” Franklin said, but the man glanced at him and then Jorge, a sinister smirk crossing his face.

“You ain’t got the balls,” Bandana Boy said, going for his rifle. Franklin pulled the trigger and painted the walls with the top of his head. The girl screamed beneath him as the corpse wobbled for a moment and collapsed, the soggy bandana dropping to the floor with nothing left to hold it in place.