Aftermath by D.J. Molles

Author:D.J. Molles
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2014-01-07T05:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

MILO

DOC SAT IN THE rear of the Humvee, crammed against the sloped backend. All around him were boxes of ammunition, MREs, and jugs of water. There were stacks of canned goods as well, “contributions” from groups of survivors that Milo and his band had come across. Your life for a can of fruit cocktail. The only thing they didn’t have much of inside the Humvee was gas, and Doc could only assume it was because Milo didn’t want to breathe the fumes. Doc had seen all the red gas cans, stacked up in the bed of one of the other pickup trucks.

But the smell in the Humvee had its own overwhelming flavor. It was obvious to Doc that none of the men in the truck had cleaned themselves within the last month, and that rotten-onion rank of body odor and sweat had nearly caused Doc to retch. The rain soaking through the rags of clothing they wore had made them all smell like wet dogs.

He looked around for something that he might use as a weapon, but there was nothing. And then, with dawning self-loathing, he realized he wouldn’t fight them, even if he did have a weapon. Because Milo still had all the power over him. He was still that evil demigod. He still had Nicole.

The driver was a large man with short gray hair and a long goatee. He had a face that would be described as a “mug” and meaty hands that would be described as “mitts.” He wore a pair of Oakley sunglasses, like the times were still normal, like he was still out riding his Harley around. Beside him, in the front passenger seat, was some strange kid, a taut-skinned bundle of bones that apparently was not fond of wearing a shirt, perhaps to proudly display the webwork of scars (self-inflicted, Doc thought) that adorned his chest. He had wide, insane eyes that generally stared off into nothing, but occasionally he made eye contact with Doc and caused him to feel off-balance and uncomfortable.

Behind the driver was a dark-skinned man with the beginnings of filthy-looking dreadlocks forming from his unkempt Afro. He was twisted in his seat, head cocked to one side, regarding Doc blankly and covering him with a pistol-grip shotgun.

And then in the back passenger seat was Milo himself, looking as intensely focused as Doc had ever seen him. His eyes glittered euphorically and he turned in his seat, still holding the handheld CB radio that he’d ripped from a Johnston County medic truck. It gave him an open line of communication to Deputy Shumate and his little band of survivors, currently holed up in the Johnston Memorial Hospital.

“They’ve got him,” Milo announced, his voice tense with excitement. “Shumate’s got him.”

The big man in the driver’s seat was more reserved. “I wouldn’t get excited until we have him in hand. Shumate’s an idiot, and this fucker’s been slippery.”

Milo’s face fell into a thoughtful repose. “Mmm…”

He turned and faced Doc, his dark, hollow gaze like that of a shark.

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