The Echo

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Tracks,” Franklin said.

He pointed off the forest trail where a thin stream trickled between moss-covered gray boulders. The black mud was pocked with footprints, a few of them holding water.

Jorge knelt and studied them. “Some are wearing boots or shoes and others are barefoot.”

“Give that man an Eagle Scout badge.” Franklin snapped a twig from a birch tree and chewed on the tip until it was frayed. Then he began brushing his teeth with it, savoring the minty flavor.

They were on the western side of the compound, half a mile below the ridge. Franklin had scouted the entire mountain several times during the construction of Wheelerville, mostly to ensure no fellow squatters or preppers were setting up camps nearby. Since the highway access was limited, it was a long hike into the depths of the national forest. Hippies sometimes spent weeks in the wilderness, especially in summer and autumn, but the steep, rocky terrain inhibited most of them. Those who had toughed it out never ventured up to the peak.

Franklin had decided on the reconnaissance mission because he wanted to know how many Zapheads were around. At least that’s what he told Jorge. In truth, he was still searching for the rumored secret military installation.

He was pretty sure they would be able to hold off a few Zapheads. But defending the compound against trained and armed soldiers would be far more challenging.

“They’re probably using this as a water source,” Franklin said. “Assuming Zapheads even drink water. We have no idea what their needs are.”

“The baby drinks,” Jorge noted.

Franklin didn’t want to be reminded of that blasphemous act. “One thing’s for sure, they’re moving in packs. These tracks are pretty fresh.”

“Should we follow the creek down?”

Franklin looked back at the animal path that meandered up the slope between the trees. He was tired. If they walked the creek until it reached the Elk River, they wouldn’t get back home before later afternoon.

“Think the women will be all right?” Franklin asked.

“Rosa is getting good with the rifle, and Marina is a sharp lookout. They will be fine.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Franklin sighed. “Okay, but keep your eyes open. I still think the Zapheads are after the baby.”

He and Jorge had had this discussion several times. Jorge didn’t believe the Zapheads were intelligent enough to track them all the way from the road to the top of the mountain, even if they’d understood what was going on. Franklin, though, never trusted conventional wisdom.

In big systems of chaos, the simplest answer was usually the right one. In his younger days, he’d concluded that the answer was the Illuminati, and then he’d come to believe that a small group of people—no matter how all-powerful and corrupt—would never be able to organize the behavior of billions of other people. Later he’d gone with the “foreign banker” theory, popular with the economic Doomsday crowd. That was a notch below the Illuminati in paranoia level and made a little more sense because greed was much more motivational than a desire to shape the future.

The wealthy elite had purchased most of the world’s governments long ago, leaving only the petulant tyrants in places like Iran and North Korea to resist them. And that was the source of Franklin’s fear of the military: even now, in a post-apocalyptic world, their imprinted marching orders would be to defend the elite.

Which made people like Franklin a threat, because he’d never kneel before the swine whose snouts had been buried so deeply in the trough.

“We’ll walk for an hour, and if we find nothing, we’ll head back,” Jorge said as a form of compromise.

Franklin didn’t like how the Mexican now seemed to be the one giving orders. This wasn’t a democracy. Franklin had built Wheelerville, and as far as he was concerned, he called the shots. He didn’t give a damn whether it was public land or not.

But he also didn’t want to be standing in the mud all day. Rosa was a talented cook, and she was probably fixing a stew or baking a pot pie of some kind. He’d put on several pounds since the Jiminez family had moved in with him. It wouldn’t hurt him to walk off a little of the extra fat, even though winter would soon be coming.

“All right, then,” Franklin said. “But watch your step. If you break a leg, I’m leaving you here for the coyotes.”

“Your hide’s too tough for them to chew through. You have nothing to worry about.”

Franklin had to chuckle at that one. Jorge and his family were hard workers, and he’d grown fond of them. Even the woman, Cathy, was a help in her way. If not for that little Zapper brat, the Wheelerville enclave would be just fine.

“How many of them you think are out there?” he asked Jorge, who was a good twenty feet ahead of him on the walk. Franklin resisted using his rifle as a crutch or cane. The footing was treacherous and they both had to concentrate on each step, or the wet leaves might skid out from under them and send them tumbling down the steep, rocky slope.

“I don’t know. If we’ve seen maybe a dozen out here in the middle of nowhere, there could be thousands in the cities.”

Franklin had been specifically wondering how many Zaphead babies there were, but the simplest answer was usually the right one. If there were thousands of Zapheads, then that meant hundreds of babies. He wondered how many of their mothers would let the little monsters gum their breasts. No doubt many of the mothers had died along with the mass of humanity.

But what if a Zaphead mom had a Zaphead baby? What if those things are out there breeding even now?

Franklin gritted his teeth. He just didn’t know enough about them. And he couldn’t plug into the preparation network to get answers, not with the satellites, electricity, and Internet down and the shortwave reception spotty at best.

They had walked maybe twenty minutes, covering another half a mile, when Jorge pointed to a worn path that wound away through the trees. The creek had widened into a slow, deep pool that would attract thirsty animals. The ground was level here, too, a natural shelf of rock covered with a thick skin of dark dirt.

“Footprints are heading that way,” he said.

“But they’re also still following the creek. Looks like the traffic splits off here.”

Franklin knelt to study the prints more closely. In addition to the tracks of deer, raccoons, and a larger animal that was probably a bear, the prints heading along the trail featured tread patterns.

“These were made by boots,” Franklin said. “Those following the creek are regular tennis shoes or work shoes, plus the bare feet. Even a hippie wouldn’t be stupid enough to climb up here with bare feet, so those belong to Zapheads.”

“And the boots?”

Franklin eyed the cinnamon-skinned man. “Uncle Sam’s finest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Soldiers.”

“Why would soldiers be up here?”

“Same reason we are. So they can stay alive.”

The government was clever enough to put an installation along the Blue Ridge Parkway because no one would suspect it. At least, no one normal. In Franklin’s former circles, guessing the locations of secret bunkers was practically a drinking game.

“Then they can help us,” Jorge said.

“Who says we need help? Besides, these guys aren’t like the ones in picture shows. They would be trained for a situation like this. And I don’t think that training means helping civilians compete with them for available resources.”

“You mean they are a danger?”

“Troops are always a danger. Sort of like bullets. You don’t have them unless you’re pretty sure you’re going to use them.”

“We should go back now,” Jorge said. “The women might be getting worried.”

“No, sirree,” Franklin said. “I want to get a fix on them, learn their strength and habits.”

“We can come back another day.”

Franklin gloried in the gorgeous, colorful foliage in the trees. “All we have is today,” he said. “First rule of survival. Prepare for the best and prepare for the worst.”

“Excuse me, Franklin, but that sounds like two rules.”

“Don’t they have any yin-yang in Mexico? Tao and such as that?”

“I’m Catholic.”

“Then you’re already screwed. I never met a single Catholic that wasn’t expecting to burn away in hell forever.”

“I wasn’t expecting hell to come to Earth while I was still alive.”

Franklin grinned. “Good point. Okay, this time I deal the cards. We go down this trail another ten minutes, and if we don’t see anything, we call it a day.”

Jorge considered a moment, and then nodded. “All we have is today.”

Franklin gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “You’re learning.”

“I just hope I live long enough to become as wise as you. Another century should do it.”

“Move it, smartass.”