The Echo

CHAPTER THREE

They’re behind me.

Campbell wasn’t sure whether his stalkers were Zapheads, rogue soldiers, or that brand of crazed survivors celebrating the utter breakdown of law and order in the wake of collapse.

Since his best friend Pete had been shot to death, Campbell had avoided contact with any other people. That wasn’t much of a challenge—the dead seemed to outnumber the living at least a thousand to one.

And he wasn’t sure whether Zapheads counted as dead or as alive, since they seemed to be something in between.

Campbell was crouched in the shadow of a Nissan Pathfinder, one of those plastic-and-steel behemoths that would have alien archeologists of the future wondering about their use as burial chambers. Judging from the stench oozing from the interior, Campbell was guessing a family of four. Not that he wanted to check.

Instead, he leaned down and looked under the vehicle to scan the road behind him. He’d been walking the shoulder of the highway, both to avoid the clutter of stalled traffic and to take it easy on his knees. He’d compromised on being out in the open by figuring he’d be able to cover ground in a hurry if the need arose.

And the need might be arising.

He fished in his backpack for a Glock pistol he’d taken from the corpse of a cop back in Taylorsville. He didn’t wear a holster because it could be taken as a sign of aggression. Campbell didn’t want to end up like Pete, killed by an unseen sniper. But Pete hadn’t been displaying any weapon besides a beer bottle.

These days, they might kill you just because you’re upright and breathing. Just because you stumbled a little and resembled a Zaphead. Or maybe just because they can.

Campbell had heard occasional whoops in the distance, and shouted phrases that couldn’t have come from Zapheads. As far as he could tell, Zapheads only uttered those strange chuckling and hissing noises. And while those human shouts gave him some comfort that he wasn’t truly alone, he was afraid to meet other survivors.

Anytime he saw movement, he laid low or steered well clear, not bothering to check if the activity had been caused by fellow survivors, Zapheads, stray dogs, or wild animals. For the same reason, he hadn’t dared take target practice with the Glock. Aside from his and Pete’s brief training with Arnoff’s band of scavengers, he had little experience with weapons.

So if someone was trailing him, he’d either have to run or shoot. But a deeper part of him, a tiny voice he’d been conversing with inside his head, assured him that he was just being paranoid. The core problem, though, was that the inner voice sounded a lot like Pete and couldn’t be trusted.

Campbell saw nothing behind him on the road, but his stalkers could easily hide behind the numerous vehicles that trailed up and over the ridge. Zapheads had no interest in concealment, though. They simply came for you.

But nothing came. After maybe half a minute, he sagged against the tire. Maybe he’d fantasized the pursuit just to break the boredom. A deep melancholy had descended upon him the last couple of days, and the nights spent in abandoned vehicles had resulted in restlessness and little sleep. He was exhausted, but it was more than that—Pete had been his last real tie to the normal world, back when Xbox, Friday nights at Clyde’s, and the Carolina Panthers’ losing streak had been his constants.

Campbell slid the gun into his lap, looking at it. One bullet in the roof of his mouth, just like in the movies.

He even tried to raise the gun, tentatively parting his lips and imagining the metallic taste. But he was too much of a coward.

He glanced up and just happened to gaze into the Pathfinder’s side mirror—

Movement.

In the forest that bordered the highway.

Heart lurching, Campbell rolled to the front of the vehicle, skinning his elbow on the asphalt.

Three men emerged from the trees, two of them in military garb, although they were slovenly and exhibited little training in their movements. They flanked a man in a filthy T-shirt whose hand were bound together in front of him. A ragged cloth was wrapped around the man’s head in a makeshift blindfold, blonde curls spilling out of the cracks.

“Don’t feel like walking no more,” said the soldier on the left. He dug in his pocket and came out with a cigarette.

The other soldier, who seemed to be doing most of the work of escorting their captive, said, “Sarge doesn’t care what you feel like.” But he stopped and let his comrade light the cigarette. The captive slumped, his head down as if resigned to whatever fate the soldiers had planned.

Campbell sized them up. The smoking soldier was in his mid-20s, lean, with a hawkish face and cruel eyes. A rifle was slung across his back. The soldier held the cigarette out to the prisoner, and then remembered the prisoner was blindfolded.

“Wanna smoke?” he sneered.

The captive twitched his head.

“Too bad.” The soldier took a deep puff of his cigarette, turning the tip bright orange, and then jabbed the cherry against the man’s forehead. The man dodged away, grimacing and hissing in pain, although the heat did little more than scorch his hair. The soldier’s laugh was like that of a horse with a busted larynx.

The other soldier, middle-aged and with a crewcut showing some gray, said, “Quit messing around. We need to get one of these back alive.”

One of these? Campbell wondered. Just how many people have they found, and what is happening to them?

“He’s just a Zaphead,” the scrawny soldier said. “He’s too dumb to feel pain.”

That didn’t make sense. The captive didn’t act like a Zaphead. And even if he were one of those whose behavior had been altered by the solar storm, why hadn’t the soldiers simply shot him?

“I’m going to make you feel some pain if you don’t stay in line,” Crewcut said. He sported a semiautomatic assault weapon that looked like it could turn butter into Swiss cheese.

The scrawny soldier delivered one half-hearted stroke of the cigarette, nearly singeing the captive’s cheek, before stepping away to relish his tobacco and stare into the west, where the sun had only just begun its descent into afternoon.

The captive opened his mouth for the first time and made thick, chuckling noises. Crewcut gave him a shove forward. “Don’t want to hear it.”

Campbell pressed back into the shadows as the two of them approached the highway. He considered his options. Crewcut appeared to be the most competent, so he should be the first one taken out. Then, while Campbell still had the element of surprise, he’d go for the smoker.

He looked at the pistol in his lap. Crewcut was a good forty yards away. Even if Campbell got lucky, he’d probably just wing his target and then have two soldiers gunning for him.

And even if he did pull off a miracle and fell them both, what then?

“Wait up,” the scrawny soldier shouted, tossing aside his cigarette and breaking into a sullen jog.

“I swear, Zimmerman, you’re as slow as my granny.”

“Your granny’s a Zaphead.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I banged your sister after she was dead. What ya think about that?”

The smoker howled in strained laughter. “So what? You got my sloppy seconds.”

“You’re a sicko,” Crewcut said. “I like that in a foxhole buddy.”

The smoker, having caught up to the other two, jabbed the blindfolded man in the back. The captive didn’t grunt, although Campbell could hear the air whooshing from his lungs.

Campbell couldn’t shoot now even if he wanted, because they were seventy yards away. But Campbell realized he didn’t want to hurt anyone. There had been enough suffering. He wasn’t sure he could even kill a Zaphead in self-defense.

And the Pete-voice inside his head said Yeah, and you got so damn much to defend, don’t you? A box of Rice-a-roni, the San Francisco treat. A blister pack of Bics. A roadside First Aid kit. Three cans of Starkist tuna. A pack of stale Cheez-it crackers. Half a roll of toilet paper. Oh, yeah, that shit’s worth FIGHTIN’ for.

Campbell resisted answering the Pete-voice. That would be crossing the line into craziness, and Campbell wasn’t crazy.

That’s what they all say, the Pete-voice said.

When Campbell was twelve, his dad had taken him to New York—the Carolina foothills giving way to West Virginia coal country, the working-class heart of Pennsylvania, and then into the unbroken urban sprawl of the Northeast. And at every gas station or fast food restaurant, his dad would warn before they got out of the car: “Careful, they’re crazy here.”

In his dad’s world, everywhere else was crazy except Lake James, North Carolina, where the fish were always biting and the women never were. His dad was named Norman, a normal name for a salt-of-the-earth guy, one whose friends called him “Norm.”

“When people call me Norman, I know they’re after money,” his dad always said.

To his shame, Campbell had barely thought of his family in the aftermath of the solar storms. Lake James had only been a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Chapel Hill, but in a world without cars, it might as well have been the far side of the moon.

When Campbell had left home to attend UNC, his father had packed up the Suburban and ferried his stuff to his dorm room, leaving him with one tidbit of advice: “Careful, they’re crazy here.”

And now time and circumstance—and an epic hissy fit of the sun—had proven his dad right. He wondered if Norm was still alive, sitting on his bass boat and knocking back Bud Lights while the world raged on around him.

Somehow, he couldn’t picture it. The idea of his father’s and mother’s deaths didn’t make him sad. Instead, it carved a hollow in his chest.

Campbell didn’t want to be alone with the Pete-voice anymore. He didn’t care how crazy the people of everywhere else were.

He raised his head over the hood of the Pathfinder. The three figures were walking along the shoulder of the road, just as Campbell had done. The skinny soldier lit another cigarette, bluish-gray smoke swirling around his head. Their blindfolded captive stumbled along between them, with Crewcut giving him a bruising nudge of encouragement once in a while.

Campbell looked behind him to make sure they weren’t being followed. As noisy as they’d been, any Zaphead for miles around could have heard them. But the soldiers didn’t seem restrained in the least. Perhaps they’d already dealt with their share of Zapheads and had faith in their weapons.

Campbell shoved the Glock into a zippered pouch of his backpack and hurried after the threesome, carefully dodging from car to car, working the highway while ducking low. He had to work twice as hard to cover the same amount of ground as the soldiers, but he kept them within sight.

That’s good hustle, the Pete-voice said.

“Shut up.”

Campbell was horrified to realize he’d answered out loud.