Read After: Red Scare (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 5) for Free Online Page B

male survivors, and his face was creased and darkened by the sun. His eyes were of a piercing black that reminded Franklin of a hawk, and he had the nose to match.
    The woman was petite and thin-faced, dressed in a hooded fleece jacket two sizes too big. They didn’t match, not like a couple that had spent much time together. They’d probably been thrown into the same spin cycle as everyone else, companions of circumstance figuring out After one minute at a time.
    But they were alike in one respect—both held single-action rifles pointed right at him.
    “You seem to know me, but we haven’t been properly introduced,” Franklin said. “I know it’s a little silly to stand on manners in times like these, but just call me old-fashioned.”
    “I’d call you ‘asshole’ if I want,” the man said.
    “Brock,” the woman scolded.
    Brock. Somebody with a dumbass name like that is bound to turn into a psycho pit bull, because you’re expected to be an alpha male with testosterone choking off the oxygen to your pea-sized brain.
    “So manners are off the table,” Franklin said. “What do you want with me? You could have sat back there in the trees and just watched me walk by without so much as a doo-dah-doo-dah-day.”
    “You’re a legend,” Brock said, barely masking his sneer. “Figured you could help us with a little project we have underway.”
    “Sorry. I got business in Newton, and every second I’m standing here getting insulted, the people I’m responsible for might be getting closer to Zap bait.”
    “Do you think anybody’s alive in there?” the woman asked. Her eyes were big and blue, like a fairy’s out of a Disney film, but with dark, purple wedges under them.
    “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. I suspect somebody else has the same idea. Which explains the shooting we heard.”
    “If any humans were there, they’re probably pot roast by now,” Brock said, nodding toward the horizon. “Look at all that smoke.”
    “We know the Zapheads aren’t eating us. Personally, I’ve faced more danger from shit-heels with guns than I have the Zappers.” Franklin narrowed his eyes so Brock would pick up on the hint. “Thanks for the invitation, but since you’ve heard about me, then you know I’m the stereotypical grizzled loner.”
    “Please,” the waifish woman said, and her eyes seemed to get even bigger and dewier. Her vulnerability suggested she’d be easy prey for a big bad wolf like Brock.
    Not that it was any of Franklin’s business. Let them breed a new generation of alpha-male psychos, for all he cared.
    He glanced at the sun angling toward the mountains in the west. Only a couple of hours before dark.
    Franklin sighed. “So, what’s this project?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Rosa almost screamed when the hand clamped her shoulder, but the other hand pressed over her mouth to silence her.
    “Shhh,” Jorge hissed in her ear.
    “Daddy!” Marina said, flashing a dirty-cheeked grin despite the worry in her face.
    “Are you okay, tomatilla ?” he asked her, and she nodded. Then he released Rosa and she kissed him.
    “Sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid you’d call out and give away our location.”
    “I was afraid I’d lost you,” Rosa said.
    Jorge looked down at the infant in her arms. “That’s not your baby.”
    “Bryan was taken,” she answered, wondering if Rachel Wheeler and little Bryan were still alive. “But I have this one now.”
    The baby giggled with mirth, evidently happy in her arms.
    Rosa was part of a group of five that had split off during the stadium attack. With the school building on fire, Rosa and the other survivors headed for the downtown area and away from the shooting. Father Casey guided them down a side street, Rosa worrying all the while about her husband being trapped in the burning school. Jorge caught up to them just as they entered the fenced patio of a sidewalk café.
    “Jorge, you Mexican son of a bitch!” Wanda said in