Free After: The Echo (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 2) by Scott Nicholson Page B

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