Afterburn: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 1) by Scott Nicholson

didn’t trouble him, either. Rachel and DeVontay had been in love ever since Doomsday threw them together, and that was fine, too. DeVontay’s devotion was apparent, and he’d risked his life several times to save her. As long as nobody was trying to hatch little Zaps, he was okay with anything.
    But he was pretty sure Stephen and Marina weren’t fooling around while DeVontay and Rachel were away. Kokona never slept, and her senses were acute. Franklin wasn’t around her often enough to know how closely the infant minded everyone else’s business, but Franklin always suspected some kind of alien computer was constantly running and calculating behind those sparking eyes.
    Stephen told Franklin the details of his radio chat with Capt. Antonelli and how he’d told the officer he was alone and waiting for them in a van on the parkway. “I’m not sure he believed it, though,” Stephen said.
    “They’re going to be looking for this soon. Depending on how good their maps are, they will probably find it pretty fast.
    “What about those gunshots and explosions last night?” Stephen said. “Was that them?”
    “Most likely. Unless some other group is wandering around out there. Heading for the hills used to be a survival strategy, but I guess only lazy folks are left, because we haven’t seen anybody in at least a year.”
    “I can assure you they weren’t Zaps,” Kokona said.
    That provided no comfort to Franklin, because he didn’t trust her one bit. “Either way, we’re safe here. We can hold off half of an army if it comes to that.”
    “What about Rachel and DeVontay?” Marina asked.
    “They can take care of themselves,” Franklin said. “The worst thing we could do is go out there and hunt for them.”
    “They should be back this afternoon,” Stephen said. “Assuming nothing goes wrong.”
    “What could possibly go wrong?” Franklin said.
    Kokona spoke in her eerily childish voice. “Heightened sunspot activity, predatory species, human bandits, paranoid military, the usual risks of radiation and pollution, abrupt weather changes—”
    “Cool it, Little Miss Sunshine,” Franklin said. “That was a rhetorical question. Do you know what ‘rhetorical’ means?”
    “Which definition from which dictionary should I refer to?” Kokona said.
    Marina cut in with a stream of Spanish that Franklin hoped was a scolding, and the infant replied right back, unfazed. They chattered for another twenty seconds in rapid Spanish while Franklin and Stephen looked at one another.
    Finally, with a shake of his head, Franklin left the entryway for the depths of the bunker. He didn’t really feel much ownership of the place, but he was the ranking grown-up and that had to account for something. He was familiar with the layout from his time here, both as an involuntary guest of the original military unit and as a part-time patriarch of Rachel’s strange little tribe.
    A string of tiny bulbs not much larger than Christmas-tree lights were strung above the hallway. The first tiny rooms were little more than cells used for bunks and storage, and the second room on the right had been decorated like a nursery, with cartoon animals bounding across its walls.
    Even though Kokona never slept, she was apparently put down every night so the grown-ups could enjoy some privacy. Marina bunked across the hall from DeVontay and Rachel, and her room was fairly spartan, with none of the usual teen-girl frivolities like make-up and hair accessories and posters of shirtless teenybopper pop idols.
    Farther on lay the telecom room, a munitions and equipment closet, and the cramped kitchen, which featured running water from an outdoor spring that was piped inside and flowed constantly. Some of that water was diverted into a small bathroom and shower beside the kitchen, although the bunker’s occupants often relieved themselves outside when possible.
    The last space, which had once been the commander’s headquarters, was now