Afterburn: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 1) by Scott Nicholson Page A
Authors: Scott Nicholson
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Rachel:
Thank you.
CHAPTER SIX
The thunderstorm awakened Franklin Wheeler just as he was reaching a particularly salacious moment in his dream.
There had been no signs of a coming storm, since the worst ones often pushed in from the northwest and were heralded by a drop in temperature and rising winds. As he peeled aside the old patchwork quilt and placed his bare feet on the cabin floor, he tried to recall which woman had been his subconscious romantic interest. Certainly not any of his four ex-wives, because he’d actually been enjoying himself. Probably someone from his college days, when he’d been something of a poet-philosopher and armchair revolutionary.
Those interests led to no career paths at all, but they had impressed some sweet young things whose passion was often misplaced and confused for social justice. But they were as much a part of the past as his militia days, when he’d been convinced that preparing against the U.S. government’s aggression was a citizen’s highest duty. The trouble with being a leader, even though he was mostly an Internet rabble-rouser, was that you eventually got followers.
Those followers included some of the most deranged crackpots to ever invade a message forum, and their threats of violence and mass destruction had drawn the attention of a host of federal agencies. Franklin had quickly unplugged from the patriot scene and, after a few inconvenient tag-team interviews by the FBI, ATF, and Department of Homeland Security, he’d gone so dark he could barely find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight. And those co-ed honeys were nowhere to be found after that, only women who were unfortunate enough to wear his golden ring for a while.
Even though those dalliances of the past only came to him in dreams now, he was relieved to find the equipment still worked. Not that he had much use for it, but considering he was pushing north of sixty, he’d take whatever he could get.
The thunder came again and Franklin shuffled to the cabin’s only window, scratching at the stained armpits of his longjohn underwear. His compound was surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence that was thick with impenetrable vines and poison oak. Even though he couldn’t see much of the surrounding forest, a portion of the sky was visible and it was mostly clear aside from a skein of thin clouds and the ever-present aurora.
Maybe we got zombie weather to go with the man-eating monsters prowling the woods.
The ruckus had riled the goats, and they bleated and kicked the sides of their pen. Grumbling, he slid his feet into his boots, slid his night-vision goggles into place, tugged a ratty oilskin outdoorsman hat onto his balding head, and grabbed the twelve-gauge pump from its rack. At times like this, he wished he didn’t live alone, but his solitude was best for all concerned—especially him.
He exited the dark, cramped cabin to the relative agoraphobia of the compound. Since it was situated on the peak of a ridge, the enclosed half-acre almost seemed like it was built on a cloud, floating above the old world far below. But gravity was just as persistent here as anywhere, and Franklin felt the years as he slogged through the autumn mud to the pen.
The thunder boomed again, punctuated by a faint, distant glow on the horizon.
That’s not thunder. That’s some kind of military-grade ka-blooey shit.
Franklin immediately forgot about the goats and climbed the wooden rungs up into an elevated platform nestled in the branches of a gnarled oak. From there he had a slightly better view of the valley, but with the autumn foliage still stubbornly clinging to the trees, he couldn’t locate the origin of the commotion.
Explosions and detonations weren’t exactly rare. In the aftermath of the solar storms, those who survived the immediate Zap rampages eventually figured out they were in a war for the future of their race. So they banded together and collected what weapons they could,
Thank you.
CHAPTER SIX
The thunderstorm awakened Franklin Wheeler just as he was reaching a particularly salacious moment in his dream.
There had been no signs of a coming storm, since the worst ones often pushed in from the northwest and were heralded by a drop in temperature and rising winds. As he peeled aside the old patchwork quilt and placed his bare feet on the cabin floor, he tried to recall which woman had been his subconscious romantic interest. Certainly not any of his four ex-wives, because he’d actually been enjoying himself. Probably someone from his college days, when he’d been something of a poet-philosopher and armchair revolutionary.
Those interests led to no career paths at all, but they had impressed some sweet young things whose passion was often misplaced and confused for social justice. But they were as much a part of the past as his militia days, when he’d been convinced that preparing against the U.S. government’s aggression was a citizen’s highest duty. The trouble with being a leader, even though he was mostly an Internet rabble-rouser, was that you eventually got followers.
Those followers included some of the most deranged crackpots to ever invade a message forum, and their threats of violence and mass destruction had drawn the attention of a host of federal agencies. Franklin had quickly unplugged from the patriot scene and, after a few inconvenient tag-team interviews by the FBI, ATF, and Department of Homeland Security, he’d gone so dark he could barely find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight. And those co-ed honeys were nowhere to be found after that, only women who were unfortunate enough to wear his golden ring for a while.
Even though those dalliances of the past only came to him in dreams now, he was relieved to find the equipment still worked. Not that he had much use for it, but considering he was pushing north of sixty, he’d take whatever he could get.
The thunder came again and Franklin shuffled to the cabin’s only window, scratching at the stained armpits of his longjohn underwear. His compound was surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence that was thick with impenetrable vines and poison oak. Even though he couldn’t see much of the surrounding forest, a portion of the sky was visible and it was mostly clear aside from a skein of thin clouds and the ever-present aurora.
Maybe we got zombie weather to go with the man-eating monsters prowling the woods.
The ruckus had riled the goats, and they bleated and kicked the sides of their pen. Grumbling, he slid his feet into his boots, slid his night-vision goggles into place, tugged a ratty oilskin outdoorsman hat onto his balding head, and grabbed the twelve-gauge pump from its rack. At times like this, he wished he didn’t live alone, but his solitude was best for all concerned—especially him.
He exited the dark, cramped cabin to the relative agoraphobia of the compound. Since it was situated on the peak of a ridge, the enclosed half-acre almost seemed like it was built on a cloud, floating above the old world far below. But gravity was just as persistent here as anywhere, and Franklin felt the years as he slogged through the autumn mud to the pen.
The thunder boomed again, punctuated by a faint, distant glow on the horizon.
That’s not thunder. That’s some kind of military-grade ka-blooey shit.
Franklin immediately forgot about the goats and climbed the wooden rungs up into an elevated platform nestled in the branches of a gnarled oak. From there he had a slightly better view of the valley, but with the autumn foliage still stubbornly clinging to the trees, he couldn’t locate the origin of the commotion.
Explosions and detonations weren’t exactly rare. In the aftermath of the solar storms, those who survived the immediate Zap rampages eventually figured out they were in a war for the future of their race. So they banded together and collected what weapons they could,
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