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

reared back for another blow, he saw that the first had left no mark or bruise, nor had it drawn any reaction of pain, anger, or surprise from the mutant.
    He was so occupied by the struggle that he didn’t hear the woman.
    But he heard the whisper of wind and then the kerrr-dunk as the axe blade found the back of the mutant’s neck. Blood—thicker than a human’s, but just as red—oozed out of the gash.
    Even this elicited no facial response. The Zap continued to grapple with Lars even as the axe lifted for another swing.
    The woman grunted and sobbed with the effort of her next chop, and it cleaved the top of the Zap’s skull. The lambent eyes blinked and their light faded, and for just a moment, Lars could see the human it had once been. Something like regret and remembrance flitted across those two pupils, although Lars might easily have projected those responses out of sympathy.
    The Zap collapsed against Lars and they stood together for a moment like intimate partners sharing a slow dance. Lars stepped back and let the sagging weight slide against him and down to the floor. Lars was treated to a close-up of the mutant’s pink brain, blood seeping from its ruined crenellations as if the heart had no pumping capacity.
    He poked it with his boot, making sure it was down for the count.
    If it has a soul, I hope it’s burning in mutant hell.
    He looked at the blue-eyed woman who had saved his life, or whose life he had saved, or maybe both.
    She rested the axe handle on her shoulder, letting dark blood drip from the blade in plump, welling drops.
    “Maybe we should introduce ourselves,” she said.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
     
    Capt. Antonelli organized a burial detail for PFC Hollister while the unit broke camp and jammed down some cold breakfast from plastic pouches.
    Antonelli didn’t like spending the time and energy digging a hole into the rocky Appalachian soil, but part of the unspoken agreement of military service was that they took care of their own. You couldn’t just leave your soldier out for the buzzards, crows, and coyotes, especially one who died in the line of duty. The others had to witness Antonelli’s compassion and to understand that they were respected and valued, or the whole illusion of obedience crumbled.
    With the sunrise, he was able to scan the valley and surrounding ridges with his binoculars. He saw no signs of the beastadons or any other predator. Intel had listed twenty-seven different deadly species, and although some New Pentagon pencil-neck had given them pseudoscientific names, the foot patrols had come up with their own names in each region.
    From what Antonelli could glean from scraps of orders and rumors, the eastern mountain region faced mostly mammalian threats, while those along waterways might encounter slithering things with tentacles and scales. HQ had not yet re-established a navy, so God only knew what swam beneath the waves. The few small towns populated and defended by humans were plagued by vicious smaller predators—rats, lizards, and even deformed pigeons—that weren’t necessarily deadly but could take a chunk out of you in the blink of an eye.
    Someone came up behind him, but he continued glassing the valley, looking for smoke. When he didn’t turn, PFC Colleen Kelly came up beside him holding a tin cup of black slop that passed for coffee.
    “Did you get any sleep, Private?” he asked.
    “More than I wanted, if you know what I mean.”
    “We can’t do anything with your best friend Judy snoring away beside you,” Antonelli said, still not looking at her. But he could smell her—sweat, wood smoke, and regulation soap.
    “She’s not my friend and you’re a son of a bitch for putting her in my tent.”
    That Irish temper. I love it.
    He tried not to grin. “That’s no way to speak to your commanding officer.”
    “That’s no way to speak to your whore.” She was only half joking. She was sensitive about the nature of their relationship and how