After (Book 3): Milepost 291 by Scott Nicholson Read Free Book Online Page B

dropped to her knees in the damp grass and slung
her backpack from her shoulder. With the gun, at least she’d buy a little more
time. Or end her time on this planet if the madness became too unbearable.
    She
dug into the backpack’s main compartment, sure she’d laid the gun on top, along
with the medicine for her wound. But it wasn’t there. Whimpering, she turned
the backpack upside down and shook it. She clawed through its contents, hearing
the moist swish switch of approaching legs.
    No
gun. But where would it—
    Stephen.
    She
wasn’t sure why he would have taken it, but she was glad he had a means of
protection. She and DeVontay had let him fire both the pistol and rifle, to
introduce him to the weapons with the intention of training him as they
progressed in their journey. But right now she craved its ability to kill from
afar.
    The
only other weapon was a pocketknife. She dug her thumbnail into the groove of
the blade to flip it open, aware of the Zapheads looming all around her. She
crawled with the blade open, the knife in one fist, mud soaking into her
clothes, bits of grass seed and chaff in her teeth, hoping that if she stayed
low they wouldn’t see her.
    Without
warning a hand grabbed her shoulder and she swept the knife up in an arc.
    “Rachel,”
the man said, stepping back.
    She
held the knife before her, ready to jab, confused. Had this Zaphead heard her
name, too?
    Then
she recognized him.
    The
guy from Taylorsville.
    And
his eyes didn’t spark.

 
     
     
     
    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