Milepost 291

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You’ve got a fever,” Campbell whispered in Rachel’s ear.

Despite the anxiety of the circumstances, collecting her from amid the circle of curious Zapheads, he was struck by the clean scent of her hair and skin. Her odor emanating from her leg, though…

Campbell was afraid to lay her on the table, especially with the Zaps huddled around, watching intently. He didn’t trust the bedroom, either, not considering the atrocities they’d committed on Pamela, so he carried her to the living room.

“Where are we?” Rachel said.

“Where are we?” a doddering, toothless old Zaphead said. Immediately other Zapheads took up the phrase, cacophonous at first but rapidly falling into a uniform, deafening chorus.

“Shhh,” Campbell whispered as he carried her through the hallway to the living room. “Don’t say anything.”

Soon the echo died away to murmurs, and the Zapheads crowded around as he laid her on the couch. Their cries must have summoned the professor, because his boots drummed down the stairs, followed by whatever group of Zaps he’d been attempting to teach.

“You…you’re living with them?” Rachel whispered.

“I wouldn’t call it a life, but it still beats the alternative.”

The professor entered the living room, and Campbell was startled at the change in him. He’d draped a filthy sheet around his shoulders like some mad Roman emperor and he appeared to be naked beneath. The Zapheads that followed him into the room were nude, including the young Goth Zap he’d been eyeing, and Campbell turned his head away in disgust and shock. He couldn’t even admire them on a physical level, like a farmer might appreciate a prize heifer, because they were so alien and threatening.

Holy Christ, I wonder what the professor is teaching them up there.

Rachel looked wildly around, her breath coming in panicked gasps, no doubt having a hard time processing an entire houseful of Zapheads. “Let me out!” she shouted, trying to sit up.

The Zapheads immediately repeated the phrase, with various inflections and cadences, until once again they built into a massive chorus that seemed to shake the walls. The professor flung open his makeshift robe, raised his arms in the air, and then brought his hands under his chin, palms together. The Zapheads followed suit, and the professor waited until every head was bowed and every eye closed.

Campbell clamped a hand over Rachel’s mouth and restrained her, and soon she grew exhausted and lay back down, muttering “Sweet Jesus” over and over. The professor eased through the ring of nearly-catatonic Zapheads surrounding the couch, kneeling beside Campbell.

“I like your new fashion move,” Campbell murmured.

“Clothes are an ego attachment of the old ways,” the professor said.

Campbell wasn’t ready for a philosophical debate. If the professor saw himself as some sort of New Age cult leader of the damned, well, at least it gave him a purpose. That was more than Campbell had going. Except now he had a chance to help someone. A real person, not these parroting, sociopathic mockeries of human beings.

“How long has your leg been like this?” Campbell asked Rachel as he removed the bandage from her leg. His nose crinkled at the odor of rancid flesh.

“Two weeks.”

“Infection’s bad. You’ve got a fever, too.”

“Got some antibiotics in my backpack—”

“Which is out in the field,” Campbell said.

“Too late for medicine,” the professor said, keeping his voice low so that it was disguised by the background murmuring of the Zapheads. “Gangrene has set in.”

“Gangrene?” Rachel said. “No, I’ll be fine. Just need to walk it off.”

“You’re not walking anywhere,” the professor said. “You’re home now.”

Rachel raised her voice. “What the hell—” and the murmurs rose and fell, now discordant as unease rippled among the four dozen or so Zapheads crammed into the living room. Campbell put his finger to his lips and she finished in a whisper. “I’m not home. I’m headed for Milepost 291. And I have to find Stephen.”

“That little boy that was with you in Taylorsville?” Campbell wondered if she was delirious. The infection was likely poisoning her whole system. The boy could be dead and she might be in denial.

“He’s in the woods all alone,” she whispered.

“You won’t be any good to him if you die,” the professor said, examining her leaky wound. The flesh around the gash was gray, while bubbling pustules cratered up from the raw opening.

“We need to remove her pants,” the professor said.

Campbell glanced around at the looming faces and their strange, glittering eyes, lips working as they mumbled. “No way are we getting a knife out in this crowd. They see you cutting her pants away and who knows how they’ll interpret it?”

“If they wanted to kill me, they would have killed me in the woods,” Rachel said. “I told you, my leg’s fine.”

With a lurch of effort, she propelled herself upward, attempting to stand. The sudden motion triggered silence among the Zapheads. Before anyone could react, her leg gave way and she collapsed back onto the couch. The Zapheads flailed and swayed in imitation of her movement, each of them falling to the floor. The scene would have been comic if it hadn’t been so unnatural and bizarre.

The professor slid his makeshift robe from his shoulders and draped the sheet over Rachel. “We’ll fix you,” he whispered.

Naked, the professor turned to the Zapheads and crouched low, and then stood, motioning them up with his hands. They stood in unison, focusing on him instead of Rachel. The Zap woman Campbell thought might be the professor’s love interest moved to his side and pressed her nude flesh against his.

Campbell put a hand on Rachel’s forehead, and then stroked her hair to comfort her. Then he untied her boots and removed them. The professor and Campbell rolled up the sheet so her wound was exposed while most of her body remained covered.

“What do you think?” Campbell whispered, so low that even Rachel couldn’t hear.

The professor’s gray eyes were solemn but glinted with a mad inner knowledge. “We’ll have to amputate.”

“Shit,” Campbell said. “No way.”

“What are you two talking about?” Rachel said, woozily. Exhaustion must have finally hit her like a midnight tide rolling in.

“She’ll either lose her leg or her life,” the professor said.

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I’m a scientist. I know necrotic flesh when I see it, and I know what blood poisoning can do if it reaches the heart.”

Campbell nodded at the Zapheads. “What about them? You think they’ll just watch like it’s the Packers and Bears teeing off on Monday night football? The first cut and they might go wild. There won’t be enough of her left to fill a chili bowl.”

“Hey,” Rachel called out, apparently unaware of the professor’s diagnosis. “Just get me fixed so I can find Stephen.”

“Hey,” repeated four dozen Zaphead voices. “Hey hey hey.”

Campbell smelled the wound once more, then headed for the kitchen to get a knife.