Milepost 291

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Franklin’s knees were aching by the time the first gray hint of dawn teased the eastern sky. The moist air had soaked his clothes, but he was determined to push on. The trail had widened, with occasional wooden signs describing plant species and more landscaping features that suggested formal park development. When he saw the mossy picnic table, a surge of joy pushed through the tired chambers of his heart.

The terrain leveled somewhat, and he soon came to a restored cabin, the kind the park service had preserved in an attempt to show tourists the hardscrabble life of European settlers, although in truth their days had been less hectic than those of salaried corporate commuters of the late, great Twenty-First Century. The cabin was unlocked and abandoned, and even though the wide gaps in the logs seemed to draft colder air inside than out and the dirt floor was no softer than the forest carpet, he rested for a spell, knowing he’d soon arrive at the roadway.

Franklin reached the pavement just before dawn, a familiar stretch that bore abandoned cars with license plates hailing from many different states. Death had recognized neither boundaries nor luxury class, as a primer-spotted Ford Fiesta shared the automotive graveyard with a Mercedes, the occupants of both sharing the same speed of decomposition.

He took a risk by walking the parkway—he was much more exposed to Sarge’s patrols, since the road was easily viewed from the surrounding ridges—but now he was eager to finish his journey.

He came to Milepost 288 and rested again. For the final three miles, he stayed in the high weeds along the road, even though the grass was thick with dew. The sun was well up by the time he reached the concrete marker at Milepost 291 and looked up the mountain where Wheelerville was hidden among the trees and boulders.

He took the logging road that wound to the peak. Even though he’d cut several footpaths that were hardly noticeable to the casual hiker, he decided to stick with the relatively easier route he’d used to haul supplies and materials to his compound. Aside from the occasional beer can, there was no sign that civilization had ever touched this rocky series of switchbacks and rhododendron thickets. The air was rich with decaying leaves, muddy springs that smelled of salamanders, and the heavy sweetness of goldenrod and snakeroot.

If anyone had passed this way in the two weeks since he and Jorge had been away, there was no sign of their passage in the loam and black dirt. He moved quietly, like an animal, alert for both soldiers and Zapheads. He didn’t think Sarge would have spared the resources necessary to locate the compound, but Franklin would never sleep fully as long as they remained regional neighbors. On the other hand, any Zapheads would be more likely to encounter the bunker and its noisy occupants than Franklin’s hideaway.

He considered leaving some signs for Rachel, such as lining up rocks in formation or breaking branches in a detectable pattern, but he’d given her enough veiled clues about the compound’s location over the past couple of years. If she was out there, she would find it.

If.

The compound looked much the same as when he’d left it, with the gate open in case Rosa and Marina returned. Goats milled around the compound, staying close to home even though Franklin had released them from the pen to forage. The chickens appeared fewer in number, likely thinned by hawks or foxes, but enough remained to provide eggs and meat for the winter. Fortunately, the animals had not broken through the fence to plunder the garden. The cabbages, broccoli, potatoes, collard greens, butternut squash, and other crops were vital for his survival.

Their survival.

Franklin had a feeling he wasn’t going to be alone when the icy winds and snow swept over the Appalachian Mountains from the northwest. This might be the last outpost of the human race, and he was more determined than ever to stand against the hostile forces of the world, whether man or mutant, nature or time.

He checked the cabin, saw it was much the same as he’d left it, and then grabbed his ax. He’d need plenty more firewood.

It was going to be a long winter.

Look for the other books in the series, After: First Light, After: The Shock, and After: The Echo.