Milepost 291

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“I’m not a Zaphead,” Rachel said, checking the mirror again. “I don’t feel any different.”

Well, not MUCH different. My eyes have some weird flecks, and I’m a little light-headed, but I just fought off a serious infection and underwent a miracle cure at the hands of some bizarre mutants. There’s no medical textbook for this. Nobody knows how I’m supposed to feel.

“You’re acting almost the same as before, not that I know you all that well,” Campbell said, sitting on the bed so she wouldn’t suffer claustrophobia in the bathroom. “But something’s…off.”

“Maybe the part where these Zapheads healed me with their touch like a tribe of charismatic evangelicals? Sorry, I don’t believe Jesus came back to Earth in the form of a zillion dirty walking apes whose sins were cleansed by the sun.”

“The professor thought something mystical was occurring, which is why he saw himself as some sort of spiritual leader for them.”

“One thing history teaches us is that we always nail our spiritual leaders to the cross, either with actual nails or bullets.”

“Human history, maybe. We don’t have a Zaphead history yet.”

Rachel walked out of the bathroom into the brightness of the bedroom. “So they’ve gone from bloodthirsty murderers to missionary witch doctors in mere weeks?”

Campbell squinted at her like a husband who’d just been told of a fashion makeover but couldn’t quite tell where the money had gone. “I mean, maybe they didn’t infect you. Maybe there’s some sort of second wave of solar flares to zap the rest of us. It’s not like we have TV talking heads to warn us this time around.”

“Like we even listened the last time.” Rachel knew she was just babbling, but she didn’t want to confront the possibilities suggested by her symptoms. And her cruelty to Campbell was certainly a defense mechanism, and not a symptom of some kind of personality change. She hoped. “They warned us about satellite signals and transmission failures, but nobody said we’d be back in the Stone Age and the predators would look just like us only without the grooming.”

Campbell rubbed the bristles on his chin. “Speaking of which, do you think I should shave? I don’t want to get shot by one of these survivalist nutjobs I keep running into.”

“Nah, let it grow,” she said. “Maybe that’s why the Zapheads didn’t kill you back at the farmhouse.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. They kept me almost like a pet, even though they mutilated and killed the group who was there before me. And the professor lived with them even longer than I did.”

“You saw how that ended. Guess he wore out his welcome.”

“But they didn’t attack him until he turned violent. And they let you and me walk right out while they killed him. What do you think of that?”

Rachel’s stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten since the previous day. That—hopefully—explained some of her dizziness. “I think I’m hungry. And that means I’m not a Zaphead because I’m not craving a rare, juicy human filet mignon.”

Campbell hopped off the bed and headed for the hall. “Well, I guess we can be glad they’re not zombies, or we’d be on the wrong side of the law of supply and demand. Come on, let’s break out the can opener.”

In the kitchen, they cracked two tins of tuna fish, a sleeve of stale Saltine crackers, and a bottle of grape juice, pouring it into glass jelly jars. “So it looks like we’re staying here until you get rested,” Campbell said, his words whistling around the dry crumbs.

“Overnight, maybe,” Rachel said. The tuna gave her a surge of energy and she already felt stronger. “But I’m eager to find Stephen and get to Milepost 291.”

“So let’s say your grandfather’s there, maybe some other people. What if they think you’re a Zaphead? Will he let you in?”

“Franklin believes in individualism and personal freedom. There’s not a racist bone in his body. He used to say that was the part of the collapse he was looking toward the most: when people were too busy surviving to mind other people’s business.”

“Yeah, but that was before there was a Zaphead race. His opinions might have changed in light of new information.”

“If we’re lucky enough to get there, you can ask him. From a safe distance.”

Campbell reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m glad this happened,” he said. “Not the solar flares or the Doomsday bullshit, but the fact that we made it.”

She drew her hand away and unconsciously wiped it on her pants. Campbell noticed and laughed. “I don’t think you’re contagious.”

“No, but maybe you are. Besides, all we’ve made it is so far. We’re alive today, and we have a goal, but other than that, I don’t see much hope for the long haul.”

“Hey, we’re doing okay for ourselves. Roof over our heads, full bellies, no credit card debt, and we can get an early jump on Christmas shopping.”

“I wasn’t just talking about my future. I meant for us, the survivors. The human race.”

Campbell shoved away from the table and peered out the window. “Well, we’re probably outnumbered a thousand to one, but this is still our planet. Top of the food chain until proven otherwise.”

“You think we have a divine right to rule the world? A manifest destiny? That God exploded all the matter in the universe just so creatures on a tiny speck at the edge of an obscure galaxy could believe themselves special? All we did with our knowledge and power in Before was stockpile weapons, starve the have-nots, and squabble over fossil fuels. Have you considered maybe God created the Zapheads precisely because He was sick and damned tired of us?”

Campbell nudged the living-room curtains together and asked, “Are you an atheist? You sure talk about God a lot.”

“I was a believer all my life. A devout Christian. And somewhere lately, I’ve lost it. It seemed so powerful before, so personal, that I never would have thought it could turn off like a light switch. And, I hate to say it, but it sucks to be alone again.”

“You’re not alone.”

“In my head I am. In my heart, too. You can be alone standing in a crowd of millions.”

Campbell found a guitar case leaning against the sofa and he opened it, pulling out an acoustic Gibson that gleamed in the penetrating sunlight. He gave it a soft strum and discordant twang filled the room, hurting Rachel’s ears.

As he sat on the sofa and began tuning the strings, Rachel said, “Please don’t tell me you’re going to play ‘Imagine.’”

“How about ‘Give Peace a Chance’?”

“How about ‘no.’”

Campbell coaxed a few chord changes out of the instrument, and the sweet resonance was welcome after all the screams, explosions, shouts, and groans of the past two months. Campbell opened his mouth and sang a few nonsense syllables: “Ooh-la-la, oh yeah.”

He repeated the musical bars and vocal phrases, and Rachel found herself humming along. Campbell had a strong baritone voice with just enough of a rasp to project authenticity and warmth. The aural intensity overwhelmed her, filled her with golden liquid, and she found herself singing along in harmony.

She swayed in pleasure, the rhythm rolling through her body until her fingers and lips tingled. The vibrations rising through her throat were almost sexual in their pleasure, and she surrendered to it.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah—”

“Rachel?”

“—oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah—”

“Rachel!”

She fell silent and blinked, looking around at the room that appeared to have been transformed. The walls shook with the echoes, the ceiling swelled into a dome, and the words “oh yeah” still skated across her tongue.

The guitar was on the couch and Campbell was a foot in front of her face, his eyes dark with concern. “I stopped playing two minutes ago.”