Read Online Afterburn: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 1) by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Nicholson
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impressions of the landscape as he ran: An old school bus sunk to its hubcaps in a garden plot. Rotted rags flapping gently on a clothesline. A mangy, scrawny dog slinking beneath a front porch. Charred timbers ringing a stone chimney.
Lars narrowed the location of the screams to one of the cottages on the hill, although the sound was now more like a despairing wail. Lars was encouraged. In the twenty seconds since he’d sprung into action, the woman had not yet died. That probably meant the danger wasn’t from something big and ravenous.
He considered shouting in reassurance, but that would be foolish. More foolish than what he was already doing.
By the time Lars identified the occupied cottage, the sounds had faded. The house was built on a cinder-block foundation that raised the first floor several feet off the ground. A warped set of stairs led up the porch, but Lars veered around the side of the structure to peer into the windows. He had to hook an axe-blade onto the windowsill and drag himself up to see inside.
The living room was devoid of life, as dim and gray as Doomsday. He figured she was already dead, and that he should just move on before her killer picked up his scent, but prowling through more abandoned houses wasn’t all that enticing.
Better to glimpse a warm corpse and its reminder of what they all had once been than to accept that they were all inside one big charnel house whose ceiling was the sky.
The back of the cottage featured a little pump house that covered the well. Lars hopped onto it, glancing around to make sure no creatures lurked at the edge of the surrounding woods.
There were three windows across the span of the rear wall. The highest and smallest in the middle was glazed, undoubtedly that of a bathroom. The one to its left sported thick, drawn curtains, but the opposite window was open and covered by an aluminum screen.
From it leaked a soft whimpering.
She’s still alive.
He couldn’t see into the room, but he didn’t detect any movement in its shadows. Forcing himself not to rush madly into danger, Lars dropped to the ground and moved in for a closer listen. The whimpering articulated into soft, broken phrases:
“…please don’t…”
“No…”
“HelpmeGodhelpme…”
That last utterance, the invocation of a higher power, was what finally caused Lars to snap. Although he’d long given up what little religion he once professed, and his recent excursion into the church had aroused no divine feelings of any kind, the woman’s simple, desperate plea cast the entire ludicrous morality play into the spotlight.
What kind of merciful, all-loving, all-knowing God would allow all this to happen, and then be so psychotically cruel as to let one of the victims cling to faith?
With a bellow of rage, he launched himself at the window, punching through the screen and grabbing the sill with his free hand. He scaled the rough-hewn siding and angled his ax against the inside of the window, hauling his upper torso into the dank room.
The woman screamed again, regaining whatever wind had gone out of her sails. He must have looked like a demented, wild-eyed savage to her. He didn’t care, because that was what he was.
Lars wriggled forward and tumbled to the floor, nicking his forearm with the axe blade. He kicked the shredded window screen from his boot as he rolled to his feet, banging against a wooden dresser as he did so. A mirror atop the dresser slid off and shattered, but as it fell, Lars was afforded a disorienting glimpse of a silver man on the far side of the room.
The woman was huddled in a corner, her knees folded up and her arms crossed, although she was peering between them. Lars could see her wide, frightened eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“It’s not okay,” she replied in a cracked voice, looking past him.
Lars turned and saw it.
It was a Zap, although not like any mutant he’d ever seen.
It looked human, aside from those characteristic glittering
Lars narrowed the location of the screams to one of the cottages on the hill, although the sound was now more like a despairing wail. Lars was encouraged. In the twenty seconds since he’d sprung into action, the woman had not yet died. That probably meant the danger wasn’t from something big and ravenous.
He considered shouting in reassurance, but that would be foolish. More foolish than what he was already doing.
By the time Lars identified the occupied cottage, the sounds had faded. The house was built on a cinder-block foundation that raised the first floor several feet off the ground. A warped set of stairs led up the porch, but Lars veered around the side of the structure to peer into the windows. He had to hook an axe-blade onto the windowsill and drag himself up to see inside.
The living room was devoid of life, as dim and gray as Doomsday. He figured she was already dead, and that he should just move on before her killer picked up his scent, but prowling through more abandoned houses wasn’t all that enticing.
Better to glimpse a warm corpse and its reminder of what they all had once been than to accept that they were all inside one big charnel house whose ceiling was the sky.
The back of the cottage featured a little pump house that covered the well. Lars hopped onto it, glancing around to make sure no creatures lurked at the edge of the surrounding woods.
There were three windows across the span of the rear wall. The highest and smallest in the middle was glazed, undoubtedly that of a bathroom. The one to its left sported thick, drawn curtains, but the opposite window was open and covered by an aluminum screen.
From it leaked a soft whimpering.
She’s still alive.
He couldn’t see into the room, but he didn’t detect any movement in its shadows. Forcing himself not to rush madly into danger, Lars dropped to the ground and moved in for a closer listen. The whimpering articulated into soft, broken phrases:
“…please don’t…”
“No…”
“HelpmeGodhelpme…”
That last utterance, the invocation of a higher power, was what finally caused Lars to snap. Although he’d long given up what little religion he once professed, and his recent excursion into the church had aroused no divine feelings of any kind, the woman’s simple, desperate plea cast the entire ludicrous morality play into the spotlight.
What kind of merciful, all-loving, all-knowing God would allow all this to happen, and then be so psychotically cruel as to let one of the victims cling to faith?
With a bellow of rage, he launched himself at the window, punching through the screen and grabbing the sill with his free hand. He scaled the rough-hewn siding and angled his ax against the inside of the window, hauling his upper torso into the dank room.
The woman screamed again, regaining whatever wind had gone out of her sails. He must have looked like a demented, wild-eyed savage to her. He didn’t care, because that was what he was.
Lars wriggled forward and tumbled to the floor, nicking his forearm with the axe blade. He kicked the shredded window screen from his boot as he rolled to his feet, banging against a wooden dresser as he did so. A mirror atop the dresser slid off and shattered, but as it fell, Lars was afforded a disorienting glimpse of a silver man on the far side of the room.
The woman was huddled in a corner, her knees folded up and her arms crossed, although she was peering between them. Lars could see her wide, frightened eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“It’s not okay,” she replied in a cracked voice, looking past him.
Lars turned and saw it.
It was a Zap, although not like any mutant he’d ever seen.
It looked human, aside from those characteristic glittering
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