After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) by Scott Nicholson
Book: After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) by Scott Nicholson
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Authors: Scott Nicholson
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bottle, which had a good four inches of amber liquid in it.
“McCutcheon is a fine, uppity Scottish name but I’m glad the whiskey is Irish.” Wanda twisted the cap and toasted the Zapheads squeezed against the door and windows. “Cheers, folks.”
As she took a deep swig, Jorge made his way down the dark hall to the rear exit. He took one last look at the woman, not sure if he should be grateful for her sacrifice or angry that she was wasting herself on a meaningless confrontation. Even if she killed a dozen, it wouldn’t change the outcome here. The Zapheads would still outnumber them a hundred to one.
The back alley was barren, a red-orange river of light running down the center of it. Jorge stuck to the shadows and crept along the wall, keeping an eye out for movement not only along the intersecting streets but the doors and windows of the buildings across the way.
He let the .30-.30 lead him a block down, all the while bracing in anticipation of a shotgun blast followed by all hell breaking loose. The town was strangely quiet despite the destruction, like the aftermath of a storm.
Jorge took a side alley nearly clogged with vehicles and trash dumpsters, working his way through until he reached the street. Wanda must have held out to give him enough time to get well away from the crowd of mutants. While most of the street was clear except for the pack trying to reach Wanda, three mutants stood between him and the café two hundred feet away.
He slipped across the sidewalk, ducking behind the cars parked along the street. A dead body lay in the shadows in front of him. Jorge couldn’t tell whether it was human or Zap, and he didn’t really care. Everyone had their opportunity to escape. And death was probably preferable to whatever the mutants had planned for them all.
You know the plan. Like that baby said: Turn everyone into New People.
Whether dead or alive.
So maybe death wasn’t an escape after all.
Jorge’s rifle scraped against the side of a vehicle, and he froze. Raising his head to peek through the passenger’s-side window, he saw the three Zapheads moving in his direction. One of them took a couple of tentative steps.
Jorge didn’t want to shoot it out yet, but he might not have a choice. He ducked down and listened for their approach. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and held his breath.
At first he thought the nearest Zaphead was panting or shuffling his feet, and then he realized it was whispering. “ Come now come here, come now come here .”
Then the words faded. They were moving away from him.
And toward the café.
Kuh-booooooom.
The shotgun blast triggered a shivering rain of falling glass, and Wanda’s drunken laugh followed the concussive echo that rang off the glass and brick storefronts. The three Zapheads didn’t head for the noise, and Jorge understood what that meant.
The babies are calling them.
The café would likely be secure enough to withhold such a small group of them. But what if Rosa let them in? Or Father Casey?
No time to look for a back entrance. Jorge sprinted across the street, waiting for the Zapheads to notice him. The shotgun boomed again, tearing a path of destruction through the crowd, although some of the mutants pushed their way into the shattered office windows. Wanda would likely be swarmed in seconds.
One of the Zapheads reached for Jorge as he passed. Impossibly, this one still wore a baseball cap that must have been clamped tightly to his head. He was four inches taller than Jorge and much heavier, and his right arm swung like a rotten log.
Jorge dodged the blow and drove his rifle butt under the man’s arm pit, then swung the barrel and clubbed the mutant’s skull. Although the cap flew off and a dark, wet furrow opened in the man’s scalp, he grabbed at Jorge again.
Wanda’s shotgun blasted two more times as Jorge danced away from his attacker.
And right into the thin, crablike arms of another.
This one squeezed him,
“McCutcheon is a fine, uppity Scottish name but I’m glad the whiskey is Irish.” Wanda twisted the cap and toasted the Zapheads squeezed against the door and windows. “Cheers, folks.”
As she took a deep swig, Jorge made his way down the dark hall to the rear exit. He took one last look at the woman, not sure if he should be grateful for her sacrifice or angry that she was wasting herself on a meaningless confrontation. Even if she killed a dozen, it wouldn’t change the outcome here. The Zapheads would still outnumber them a hundred to one.
The back alley was barren, a red-orange river of light running down the center of it. Jorge stuck to the shadows and crept along the wall, keeping an eye out for movement not only along the intersecting streets but the doors and windows of the buildings across the way.
He let the .30-.30 lead him a block down, all the while bracing in anticipation of a shotgun blast followed by all hell breaking loose. The town was strangely quiet despite the destruction, like the aftermath of a storm.
Jorge took a side alley nearly clogged with vehicles and trash dumpsters, working his way through until he reached the street. Wanda must have held out to give him enough time to get well away from the crowd of mutants. While most of the street was clear except for the pack trying to reach Wanda, three mutants stood between him and the café two hundred feet away.
He slipped across the sidewalk, ducking behind the cars parked along the street. A dead body lay in the shadows in front of him. Jorge couldn’t tell whether it was human or Zap, and he didn’t really care. Everyone had their opportunity to escape. And death was probably preferable to whatever the mutants had planned for them all.
You know the plan. Like that baby said: Turn everyone into New People.
Whether dead or alive.
So maybe death wasn’t an escape after all.
Jorge’s rifle scraped against the side of a vehicle, and he froze. Raising his head to peek through the passenger’s-side window, he saw the three Zapheads moving in his direction. One of them took a couple of tentative steps.
Jorge didn’t want to shoot it out yet, but he might not have a choice. He ducked down and listened for their approach. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and held his breath.
At first he thought the nearest Zaphead was panting or shuffling his feet, and then he realized it was whispering. “ Come now come here, come now come here .”
Then the words faded. They were moving away from him.
And toward the café.
Kuh-booooooom.
The shotgun blast triggered a shivering rain of falling glass, and Wanda’s drunken laugh followed the concussive echo that rang off the glass and brick storefronts. The three Zapheads didn’t head for the noise, and Jorge understood what that meant.
The babies are calling them.
The café would likely be secure enough to withhold such a small group of them. But what if Rosa let them in? Or Father Casey?
No time to look for a back entrance. Jorge sprinted across the street, waiting for the Zapheads to notice him. The shotgun boomed again, tearing a path of destruction through the crowd, although some of the mutants pushed their way into the shattered office windows. Wanda would likely be swarmed in seconds.
One of the Zapheads reached for Jorge as he passed. Impossibly, this one still wore a baseball cap that must have been clamped tightly to his head. He was four inches taller than Jorge and much heavier, and his right arm swung like a rotten log.
Jorge dodged the blow and drove his rifle butt under the man’s arm pit, then swung the barrel and clubbed the mutant’s skull. Although the cap flew off and a dark, wet furrow opened in the man’s scalp, he grabbed at Jorge again.
Wanda’s shotgun blasted two more times as Jorge danced away from his attacker.
And right into the thin, crablike arms of another.
This one squeezed him,
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