Deadfall

by Robert Liparulo

  Cort disengaged one arm to rub her head just above her ear. “Right here. I got a big bump. It was bleeding. Like Julian’s, but right here.”

  Declan poked at the spot.

  Cort pulled away. “Owwww!”

  “How’d they get the jump on you, baby? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “They surprised me at the door. I thought it was you. She had a gun.”

  “Did they take yours?”

  “They had their own. They . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Declan said what she had realized. “They had the gun you gave them last night. Didn’t they?”

  She nodded demurely.

  “And they took the new one Julian gave you, didn’t they?”

  “Dec, they—”

  “No, no, no. That’s okay. I understand. But if I give you another gun, will you please not hand it to the enemy?”

  She smiled, pleased by his forgiveness. “I’ll shoot them first.”

  “There you go.”

  Bad entered, dragging his leg behind him. His machine gun was slung over one shoulder.

  Cort rolled to Declan’s side, her arm around his back, hooked on his waist.

  He draped an arm over her shoulder and said, “Did you hear the news?”

  “About what?” Bad said.

  “Well, first, that Bad’s lost his funk. Where’s the Bad I know and love?”

  “His funk juice leaked out when that arrow cut him. Looked like blood, but it was funk juice.” He said this with all the solemnity he would have used to say that his mama had died. But then a little smile played on his lips.

  “What do I see? What do I see?” Declan teased.

  Bad grinned. He shook his head. “Dec, I’m gonna shoot you with an arrow one of these days. See how it feels.”

  “I know it hurts. I do. But don’t let pain change who you are, dawg. You gotta be that happy, dancing fool you are. Just do it with pain.”

  Bad continued shaking his glistening bald head. His grin grew wider, all teeth. “You are one crazy dude.”

  Declan pointed at him. “But you know I’m right.You’re hurting like a dog got run over in the street, but you’re not going to let it get you.You’re going to be Bad. Smiling Bad. Dancin’ Bad.You’re gonna find them that tried to lay you low, and you’re gonna get ’em.You’re gonna make them pay for what they did to you. Pay bad, ’cuz that’s who you are. And you’re gonna do it with a smile. Then you’ll dance on their graves.”

  Bad was nodding. Grinning and nodding. “Yeah . . . I can do that.”

  “If your leg tries to bring you down, pop some Percs. Not too many.We need you sharp and quick, right?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Okay. Pru says the guys we thought we got in the Hummer weren’t in the Hummer. They’re out there somewhere, and that ticks me off.We’re gonna go finish the job.”

  Bad’s head bobbed up and down. A lot of his old self had returned. Declan continued. “So go get your G11 and whatever else you need, and let’s get back up into those hills.”

  Bad bopped off toward his room, all but his injured leg having found the rhythm again.

  43

  Man, I ’m good.

  Declan wished he had his fingers on Julian’s strings as he did on Bad’s, but Julian had Page blood in him. Of course he would be less prone to manipulation. Carrara marble was difficult to chisel, but once it was, it made beautiful and lasting works of art. Declan held out hope for his little brother. He would continue to tap that chisel into him. Julian would either emerge as a fine prodigy or, like the blocks of marble that contained weak veins, he would shatter. Declan was acutely interested in discovering which would be Julian’s fate.

  The door behind him opened. Pru entered, appearing to have swum from the B&B. His coat protected the camera.

  “You don’t have a case for that?” Declan asked.

  Pru shrugged. “What for? I’m always using it.Would’ve been nice to get a ride.”

  “Walking’s good for you. Now that you’re here, go fetch Kyrill and unlock the auditorium.”

  Pru pulled the door shut and sloshed toward the corridor.

  Cort leaned her head against his chest and said, “You’re too hard on them sometimes.”

  “Baby, I’m only as hard as I have to be.You know what they say: iron sharpens iron.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I don’t know. I think maybe Ben Franklin.”

  Kyrill entered the vestibule from the back rooms. He was holding a key, his rifle on his back. Declan nodded toward the auditorium. He said, “Open it up.”

  Pruitt entered, sans camera. He sloshed and squished as though he were still trekking through puddles of mud.

  Kyrill unraveled the heavy chain that braced two doors together. He dropped it on the floor and pushed the door open.The stuffy odor of perspiration wafted out.

  Declan extracted himself from Cort. “Wait here,” he said and walked into the auditorium. He leaned back to whisper to Pruitt, who had stepped in behind him, and Kyrill, who was holding the door. “Pru, you get the door. Kyrill, unsling that rifle and make a show of having it ready.”

  They nodded. Declan stepped further in.The gun rattled in Kyrill’s hands behind him. All the faces in the room—those not pressed into a makeshift pillow or the crook of an arm—turned to him like monkeys in a zoo or, as he had thought before, like livestock hoping for a bit of grub or a salt lick or whatever it was that tripped a cow’s trigger.

  A couple dozen people backed away from him. Most, however, looked dazed, sitting on the floor or in the bleachers. It appeared that the men had relinquished their rights to the few cots Declan’s boys had found and tossed in.Wasn’t that sweet? It amazed Declan that almost a quarter of a thousand people would allow themselves to be locked up by a half dozen. Didn’t they realize their sheer numbers made them capable of overpowering their captors? So a handful would take rounds from Kyrill’s rifle—where was their sense of duty, their sense of community? Their understanding that the interest of many outweighed the interest of a few?

  As if Declan really believed that.

  The phenomenon he was witnessing was further proof that the mind was greater than the body. Here, six minds—though really one in him—had subdued two hundred and forty bodies. End of lesson.

  He spread his hands wide. “I need a volunteer. Someone who knows the hills to the north above town for several miles.”

  No one moved.

  “I know, I know.We invited some of your friends out before and they haven’t come back. This is different. I’ll let whoever helps stop by a store or his home to pick up something and bring it back here.” He thought for a moment. “Not a gun, though.” He smiled.The cattle didn’t.

  Somebody cleared his throat. A large man with a heavy, scraggly beard hoisted himself off the floor. At the same time, a hand went up toward the back of the auditorium. A skinny man in his sixties slowly rose to his feet.

  Declan pointed at him. “You know the hills up there?”

  “What’d you do with them ones you took?”

  “They’re okay.We got them doing some work for us.”What was he going to say? We blew them up? Now that might upside the balance of things. “So you a backwoods guy or what?”

  “Been going up there my whole life.”

  Declan looked around the room. He called out, “That true?”

  Heads nodded.

  “Okay . . .”

  He pointed to the younger one. “How about you?”

  “Yep.” His voice was deep and rumbling, a GTO to the old guy’s Fiat.

  Again Declan asked the room, “That true?”

  About the same number of heads nodded.

  Kyrill stepped toward the big guy. He said, “Step forward, buddy.”

  Declan knew Kyrill’s mind: Anyone is better than some old geezer. Declan wasn’t so sure. He raised his hand. “Hold up, Grizzly Adams. Take a seat, man. Go back into hibernation or whatever you were doing.�
� He pointed to the old man. “You. Come on.”

  He turned to face Kyrill and whispered, “I’m sure none of these people are too pleased with us, right? Might try to escape, get one over on us. If you gotta tango, go with the skinny guy.”

  He walked to the doorway.To Pruitt he said, “This might be something you should be filming. Kinda interesting.”

  Pruitt answered, “You want me to get what’s gonna happen in the hills, right? Even with the rain and stuff?”

  “Oh, you bet. I think we’re just getting started.”

  44

  Not far inside the adit, hidden at first by shadows, Hutch and Dillon found two metal doors. Each was in the shape of a quarter circle. Closed, they formed a half circle that perfectly conformed with the entrance tunnel.

  Hutch pushed on one of the closed doors, expecting to find it as firm as a wall. It creaked open. He stepped through. The tunnel continued some distance. It was dark, but not as musty as he thought it should be . . . and warm.The wind and rain blowing into the first thirty feet, before the doors, turned the area—which Hutch now thought of as an alcove or courtyard—frigid. It had effectively shielded them from the downpour, but it had been anything but cozy.

  From a nylon holster on his utility belt, he produced a penlight. He twisted it on and stepped further into the area beyond the doors. Beer and soda cans, snack bags, and cigarette butts littered the concrete floor. People had been using the shelter as a hunting cabin. The penlight’s illumination was murky and seemed to be dimming quickly.He did not remember changing the battery prior to the trip as he normally did.The last time he had used the light, he had restrung his bow in the shadows of heavy woods. It wasn’t something he typically needed for a daytime hunting excursion.

  Of course, he thought. When you really need something is when you can’t find it, it breaks, or you forgot to change the batteries.

  The gray light coming through the door shifted, and he turned to see Dillon standing there. “I’m gonna check it out,” he said. “Do you want to wait here or come with me?”

  Before he had finished the question, Dillon was at his side.

  They moved deeper into the tunnel. The detritus of its visitors diminished and disappeared, as though intruders had never ventured very far from the door.The gloom emphasized the weakness of Hutch’s light. He shook it, which resulted in a brief flaring that dimmed to a level of illumination worse than before. They reached a T in the tunnel. The new passageway was narrower with a lower ceiling than the entrance tunnel, but otherwise it was similar: it was a half circle in shape, with a flat floor of poured concrete.

  For no other reason than he was on the right side of the tunnel, Hutch turned right. The darkness here seemed as black and heavy as a monk’s robe. The penlight pushed little of it away, and seemingly a little less with each step they took.They passed another tunnel on their left, which Hutch thought would take them deeper into the hill, away from the crater. Another two dozen steps brought them to what at first appeared to be the mouth of a much smaller tunnel on the right. Peering in, Hutch saw that it was a room about thirty feet square.

  When he turned from the doorway, Dillon said, “Wait. I saw something.”

  They stepped in, and Dillon pointed. In a near corner was a body. Hutch jumped and moved his arm in front of Dillon. He squinted at the canvas-covered bundle and took a step closer to shed more light on it.

  “Stay back,” he instructed. He moved closer and realized his mistake. Unless it was that of a child or small woman, whatever lay under the canvas was too small to be a body. He reached it and carefully lifted off the covering. Supplies. Sleeping bag, blankets, a large Ziploc bag containing cigarettes, some kind of jerky, and—oh, let it be—a camper’s lantern. Hutch picked up this last item. It was heavy—batterypowered, not propane or gas. He found the on-off switch and flipped it. Bright white light blinded him. He blinked against it and turned to grin at Dillon.

  “Merry Christmas,” he chimed. “I think we can stay here awhile, maybe until rescue people come and find us.” But he didn’t really believe his own words. Their ride out of the wilderness wasn’t due for another eight days. And it wouldn’t take Declan that long to find the mine, not with his resources. And who’s to say Franklin or anyone else coming in the area wouldn’t wind up like David? There were so many hurdles . . .

  “What about food?” Dillon asked.

  There ya go, Hutch thought glumly. “You’re right. That’s a problem. There’s some jerky here. I don’t know if it’s good. I have a few more energy bars, but if we don’t find a stash of eats in here somewhere, we’ll have to go looking outside. I can arrow a small animal or make a snare.We’d have to start a fire, and that might be a problem, but let’s not worry about it until we have to. Hey, look.” He held up a piece of metal that looked something like a tuning fork with an open round end.

  “What is it?”

  “A mouth harp. I know a few hunters who pack either one of these or a harmonica wherever they go. It’s an easy way to make music on lonely nights.”

  “Can you play it?”

  Hutch rolled his eyes. “Not me. The piano a bit, but I hurt my back once lugging it on a hiking trip, so I leave it at home now.”

  Dillon smiled.

  Hutch dropped the mouth harp back on top of the supplies.

  They returned to the entrance doors. Five feet behind the righthand door Hutch found a hole that someone had chiseled into the concrete floor. Near it was a length of timber. It appeared to be a crossbeam or railroad tie. Acting on his suspicions, he set the lantern down and shut the door. A horizontal metal brace ran at chest height across both doors. It was heavy, maybe three inches thick. Just below this brace, near the edge of the door, was a square area that had been rubbed free of rust.

  Okay.

  He picked up the heavy beam, angled one end into the hole, and rested the other against the door. The beam fit perfectly into the rubbed-off area. The other door had been fitted, evidently when the mine was new, with bolts that slid into the floor and ceiling.The door he had used was latchless, probably locked with some device the former tenants had taken when they left.Whoever was using the mine for shelter apparently suffered from security issues.They wanted to enjoy their rest without fear of interruption, so they had created this brace for the door. That it perfectly suited Hutch and Dillon’s needs was just another sign, along with the lantern and blankets, that Someone was watching out for them.

  With the door shut, the ambient temperature started to rise. Still, a brisk breeze slipped in under the doors. Hutch looked around at the

  trash. Everything seemed to encourage their staking out a different place to spend time. Aside from the draft and the trash, Hutch did not want the lantern light to reveal their presence from outside the door. He explained his rationale to Dillon, and they agreed to make camp deeper within the tunnel system.When they returned for the sleeping bag, blankets, and beef jerky, Hutch suggested calling the room theirs. Dillon did not look pleased.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

  Dillon shook his head slowly. “It’s okay, but . . .”

  “We don’t have to stay here. It’s a big place.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s kinda like the storage room where they kept us.”

  “I understand. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  They found several other rooms, all empty, but decided to bed down in the tunnel itself. It seemed less musty than the rooms, and Hutch liked being able to hear if someone attempted to enter through the metal doors. He unrolled the sleeping bag for Dillon and gave him a blanket to use as a pillow. For himself, he spread out another of the rough army blankets to dampen the chilliness of the concrete floor. That left two blankets to cover him when it was time to sleep.

  He sat on his floor blanket, leaning against the wall. Dillon faced him against the other wall. The camper’s lantern burned as brightly, though infinitely less warmly, as a campfire. After twenty-five feet in each directi
on, the darkness of the tunnels reclaimed its domain.

  Dillon peered one way, then the other. “Creepy,” he said.

  “Yeah, but I’d rather be in here than out there.” He leaned beyond the blanket to where his bow stood against the wall and his utility belt lay on the ground. From a pouch he retrieved the last of his butterfly bandages. He walked on his knees to Dillon. The boy’s face appeared clean and dry, but the wound still glistened, not ready to mend.

  “These will help,” Hutch said. He applied the bandages, gently pinching the edges of the cut together.

  Dillon grimaced but said nothing.

  Returning to his blanket, Hutch said, “How’d it happen?”

  “That man . . .”

  “Declan?”

  Dillon nodded. “He . . .”

  “That’s all you need to say, Dillon. Not a nice guy, is he?” Immediately he regretted the words. Calling the man who’d killed a child’s father “not a nice guy” was like saying hell was a tad warm.

  Dillon pulled his lips in and let his eyelids lower almost imperceptibly. The effect was an expression of both sadness and resignation. Hutch didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. The boy settled into the silence he seemed to prefer. Hutch wondered if this was his natural disposition or one forced upon him by the circumstances.

  Finally Hutch asked, “Want a PowerBar?”

  Dillon nodded.

  He held up two PowerBars. “Chocolate or cookies and cream?”

  Dillon shrugged.

  Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Cookies and cream?”

  Dillon held out his hand, and Hutch tossed both energy bars into it.

  “One for later.” Hutch took the last one in the pouch for himself.

  As he tore open the packaging, Dillon said, “Thank you.”

  Hutch bit into the gooey wafer. “You’re welcome.”

  Dillon was staring at him; he was holding the energy bars in his lap.

  Hutch said, “Wanna try the jerky instead?”

  “I meant thank you for everything.”

  Hutch smiled. “You’re welcome for everything. I’m only sorry we couldn’t have met in . . . happier times.”