by Hakok, R. A.
We start making our way out. I wait at the blast door, standing to one side as they file by, leaning into the straps of their packs against the unfamiliar weight. I’ve loaded each till the seams were straining and the snaps would barely close. We have a long hike ahead of us, but if I’ve counted right we should be carrying enough for a return journey on short rations, should we need to make it.
The last of them leave and for a while I can still hear their footsteps, slowly receding as they shuffle off into the tunnel, and then it goes quiet again. I’m beginning to wonder where Mags has got to when she appears at the end of the corridor, pulling on a wool beanie. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wearing one, but then her hair’s yet to grow back and it’ll be cold out there. The kid’s got one too; he keeps reaching up to touch it, like it bothers him. She must have taken a detour to the stores, to pick them up. I would have fetched them for her, if she’d asked, but then I’ve hardly spoken to her since the vote. This last few days she’s spent all her waking hours over at the plant. Seems like it’s taken almost as long to shut Mount Weather down as it did to get it up and running.
I hit the button to start the close sequence. There’s the shrill whine of electric motors, then the familiar grumble of gears as the blast door commences its final inbound journey. Mags steps past me, out into the tunnel. Her pack’s no less full than the others’, but if the weight troubles her she doesn’t show it. The pockets of her parka bulge suspiciously, too. I told her we’d have to leave her books behind - they were a luxury we couldn’t afford - but I suspect a few of her favorites from the bookshelf have managed to stow themselves away, all the same. The kid hurries through after, like he’s worried we might choose this moment to leave him behind. I stand there for a while after they’ve gone, just staring back into the cavern. Everything seems just like it did when I first arrived. Soon it’ll be like we were never here.
I take a final look then follow them out. The Juvies’ lights are already stretching off into the dark, quivering like fireflies as they make their way towards the portal. The soft glow spilling out from behind the blast door shrinks as the thirty tons of carbon steel slowly rumbles inward. Mags reaches into the side pocket of her parka and retrieves a flashlight. She cranks the handle to get the bulb burning then holds it out to the kid. He looks up at her, like he’s unsure what to do, and I think I catch something passing between them. But then he nods, a quick bob of the head, as though he’s remembered, and takes it from her. Another dynamo whirs as she winds one for herself, then she looks over at me.
‘Ready?’
‘You go on. I have to fetch it.’
‘Alright. Be careful.’
They start out after the others, and for a moment I just watch them. The kid holds his flashlight low, aimless, like he’s already forgotten he has it. Mags points hers ahead, slowly sweeping the tunnel floor. But there’s something measured, mechanical, in the way she does it. It makes me wonder whether she needs it any more than he does.
The pitch of the motor drops, then dies. Behind me the sliver of light from inside winks out as the blast door clangs shut for the last time. I dig the windup from my pocket and crank the handle, then set off in the opposite direction.
From the blast door I count two hundred paces then I point the beam up onto the raised walkway and start scanning the concrete there. A little further along I find what I’m looking for: a shallow pile of rubble, stacked indifferently against the tunnel wall. I clamber over the railing and start lifting rocks from the top until my fingers settle on the olive-drab plastic of a rifle case. Not the most secure hiding place, but then the Juvies wouldn’t have it inside. I can’t say as I blame them.
I keep clearing debris until the entire container’s exposed, then I play the flashlight over it. The plastic’s a little scratched but otherwise it appears intact, and when I run the beam along the seal the rubber seems to have held. I brush the dust from the two heavy-duty catches and check they’re still tight. I don’t plan on popping them; I already know what’s inside: Kane’s stockpile of the virus, stolen from the armory on the day we fled Eden. I’d rather not have to bring it with us, but I don’t reckon we have a choice. Its whereabouts was one of the things Peck was trying to get out of Jake when we interrupted him, so there was the proof, if we’d needed any, that Kane hadn’t just forgotten about it. We can’t risk leaving it behind for him to find.
I clear the last of the rubble then reach for the handle and lift it upright. Sweat prickles the skin between my shoulder blades as I imagine the delicate glass tubes shifting in their trays, clinking against the hard plastic that holds them in place. I’ll need to get used to that. I have a long way to haul it.
I adjust my grip on the handle and set off after the others.
It’s not long till I see the Juvies’ flashlights ahead of me again. Those in front are already starting to wink out, as one by one the beams are lost to the curve of the tunnel. Soon I can hear the boots of the stragglers, scuffing the dusty concrete. And then I’m rounding the bend. Ahead lies the portal.
Outside the first reluctant grays of dawn are spreading slowly through the compound. Mags and the kid stand by the mangled remains of the guillotine gate. Tyler and Eric wait on the other side, next to the elevated walkway, their breath smoking in the cold. Something about that sets spidey off, but as usual there’s no explanation why he’s fussing. The only thing I can figure is the rifles they each carry, slung over their shoulders, but somehow that doesn’t seem like it.
The rest of the Juvies are huddled further back, inside the arch of the tunnel, staring out. No one seems keen to venture farther. I make my way between them. They look up at me as I pass, their faces tight, anxious. I catch Lauren’s eye. She smiles but it’s fleeting, uncertain, like even she might not be sure of the course upon which we’re about to embark. It’s not been two days since we decided, but I suspect if I were to call another vote, right now, we might end up turning around and going back inside.
And maybe that wouldn’t be the worst decision.
Our destination is farther than I’ve ever been, and a long way from certain. What if Fearrington’s not what I’ve assumed? What if we make it there and Marv’s codes don’t work? What if I can’t even get us there?
The dark windows of the control tower stare down through the twisted bars. Behind, clouds the color of coal dust squat low along the spiny mountain ridge.
Mags comes to stand next to me. She asks if I’m ready.
I’m not sure I have an answer for her, so instead I grasp the charred metal and squeeze myself through.
*
IT TAKES US ALL OF THAT FIRST MORNING just to clear the Blue Ridge Mountain Road. We stop for lunch in a barn just off the John S Mosby highway. The Juvies huddle at the back and eat quickly, their eyes darting over to where Mags and the kid are sitting by the door. Afterwards we cross the highway and continue south, into the mountains. I keep us to the valley floor, where the going’s easiest, but our pace doesn’t improve.
About an hour into the afternoon I stop at the crest of a shallow rise and set the container down in the snow, making sure it’s settled before I release the handle. Mags pulls down the bandana she now favors in place of a respirator and asks if everything’s okay. I tell her it’s fine; I’m going to wait here a minute while the rest of them catch up. She should go on.
She looks at me for a moment, then pulls her mask back up and sets off again. I stand next to the kid, staring at the raggedy line of Juvies shuffling up the incline. They stumble through the drifts like a herd of indifferent turtles, lifting their snowshoes high, flapping them around like the good Lord Himself might not be sure where they mean to set them down. I have some sympathy for the chronically uncoordinated; long as I can remember it seems like my own limbs have been a measure too long for the body they came with, and rarely under any semblance of control. But this is unwarranted, even by those standards. Had it been this way when we set out from Eden? That trip had certainl
y taken an unconscionable length of time for the miles we had covered, but I don’t remember it being this bad.
The kid pushes his goggles up on his nose. They’re the ones I got him after we escaped The Greenbrier, when the light was troubling him. They were meant for an adult, so they’re way too big on him, but they were the only ones that were dark, which at the time was important. He’s removed the tape I bound the visor with, but I still can’t see a thing through it, so I have no idea what he might be thinking. I’m about to ask when without warning he points his poles around and takes off after Mags.
I turn my attention back to the Juvies. One by one they drag themselves up the rise, snowshoes crunching clumsily through the ice-slicked snow. When they get to the top they shuffle on by, eyeing the drab olive container at my feet with suspicion. I wait till the last one has passed, then I reach down for it and set off after them.
I wonder what Marv would have made of it. I come to the conclusion he’d probably have shot one of the stragglers, for the example it might provide. I return to that idea more than once as the afternoon slips by, far faster than our progress.
The thought of it becomes sorely tempting.
We keep heading south, winding our way between peaks with names like Hardscrabble, Pignut, Watery, Lost. Our progress continues, painful slow. The Juvies stop often, and when they do it’s always as one; it seems like we can’t cover much more than a mile without a snowshoe that needs fixing or a bladder that needs to be emptied. Getting them to their feet again after is the devil’s own work.
As evening draws in I take us off the road. I hiked this stretch, back when I visited Culpeper, so at least I know where to bring us for shelter. I choose a gas station just outside a place called Marshall. I head around back to find a place to stash the virus while the rest of them shuffle inside. When I join them Mags already has a fire going. The Juvies have arranged themselves on the far side of it, as though some line only they can see divides their territory from that assigned to her and the kid. They huddle close as they dare to the smoldering branches, picking at half-warmed rations, occasionally casting nervous glances over the reluctant flames. I pass around the first aid kit and then get to work on my own meal while they tend to whatever blisters or chafes have been earned that day. There’s little in the way of chatter. Those that are done unfurl their sleeping bags and turn in, until soon there’s only me, Mags and the kid left.
The kid finishes the HOOAH! I’ve given him, then he curls up on top of his sleeping bag and closes his eyes. Seconds later he’s out. When we were leaving The Greenbrier Hicks warned me he wouldn’t ever sleep, but the scanner seems to have cured him of that; since he came through he’s developed a knack for it, almost like an animal. It’s rarely for long, though - mostly little more than a catnap - but deep, complete. For the next while he’ll be dead to the world; you could stand over him clashing cymbals and I doubt he’d stir.
I dig out the map and spread it on the floor, checking how far we’ve advanced by the light from the dying flames. It looks even less impressive measured that way. Mags sets her ration aside. She hesitates a moment, then reaches over and rests a hand on my shoulder. She says it’ll be okay, I just need to be patient. It’s only the first day; they’ll soon settle to it, find themselves a pace. She says it was no better when we first quit Eden.
I don’t recall it that way, but when I point this out she says I probably can’t be relied on to remember on account of recently having being shot and not being that much use in a snowshoe myself. I’m not convinced, though. I mutter something about us being no better than those English rabbits.
‘English what?’
I start to fold the map.
‘Rabbits. They weren’t built for long marches, either. It says so, right at the beginning, when Hazel and Fiver and the others first set out from the Sandleford warren.’
She looks at me like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘“They spend all their lives in the one place, never traveling more than a hundred yards at a stretch. They prefer not to be out of distance of some sort of refuge that will serve for a hole.”’ I’m sure I have some of the words wrong, but I think it’s pretty close. I think I can even hear Mom’s voice in my head, reading them to me. ‘It’s from Watership Down, remember?’
She shakes her head.
‘Was it among the books we had at Mount Weather?’
‘No, but…’
I stop, midsentence. An uneasy feeling settles low in my stomach, that she would even ask. I could name every single volume we had on the bookshelf in our tiny apartment: the books I brought with me from under my bed in the farmhouse outside Eden; the ones that had been left behind by those who had fled when the bunker had been evacuated; the few paperbacks I managed to scare up on the scavenging trips I took whenever the storms would ease. She knows what was there as well as I do, better even. She’d read and re-read every single book on it, countless times over the long winter.
I look over at her. She smiles.
‘Then I don’t think you’ve told me that one. Sounds like a good story.’
She shifts a little closer, like she might be ready to hear it.
I’m not sure what to say. Every story I have, Mags already knows it. When I’d find a new book on the outside I could barely get back to Eden quick enough so we could go up on the roof of the mess and I could tell her about it.
But she’s right, of course; I never did tell her that one. I didn’t need to. It was the book she was reading when we first met, all those years ago, in the day room of the Sacred Heart Home for Children.
*
THE THREE DAYS THAT FOLLOW continue much as the first.
The snow’s settled deep in the valleys, and for the most part we’re forced to hike Indian file. Mags breaks trail out front while I spend my time at the rear, with the dawdlers and the lollygaggers. At first we switched up every few hours, but that didn’t work so well. The kid insists on being at her side and the Juvies found it hard to concentrate on the road ahead with him on their heels. I asked if she got tired, breaking trail all day. She said she didn’t. Truth was she felt great, better than ever. The morning after we quit Marshall she lifted Truck’s dog tags from inside her thermals and tossed them. There was no need for them she said; it’d already been five days since she came through the scanner, and that was plenty of time for the virus to show. I pulled the cross I took from Marv’s grave from my pocket and handed it to her. I explained how it’d been mine, when I used to go outside scavenging. I said it had always brought me luck, and I wanted her to have it. She studied it for a while, then she smiled and slid it inside her thermals. Afterwards she kissed me.
I felt bad about lying to her like that, but her not remembering about the rabbits worries me almost as much as what happened with Kurt in the cavern. I tell myself I’ve forgotten things along the way too, important things. At some point in the years after the Last Day I stopped being able to call up Mom’s face. The voice points out that’s not the same, however; I still remember I had a Mom. I have no answer to that, so I take to asking questions, probing for gaps in what she should know. Herding the Juvies all day there’s little opportunity, but in the evenings, after we’ve found shelter and they’ve gone to sleep, there’s plenty of time. The further back I go the sketchier she gets on the detail. After a while her answers grow short, like I’m being annoying, or maybe she suspects something is missing and it’s the not-knowing that vexes her, so I stop. I wait till she’s gone to sleep and then I check the cross. I do it every night, but the metal remains clear, or at least I find no marks other than the ones I put there with the Patio Wizard I used to fool Kane. I tell myself whatever work the virus has done, the scanner’s put a stop to it.
It has to have.
The kid doesn’t remember a thing from the time before he got sick.
Just shy of noon on the sixth day after we quit Mount Weather we hit a little no-stoplight place name of Warren. The Juvies have been
dragging their snowshoes all morning; we’ve barely made a half-dozen miles since we broke camp, and I don’t see us doing better with the afternoon. I catch her looking back at the long straggly line of them stretched out behind us, like even she may be beginning to doubt they have it in them to make this journey.
We wait out front of a Gas ‘n’ Go while they catch up. The kid stares off into the distance, fiddling with the strap on his goggles. Something’s gotten into him today, too. We hit our first properly deep drifts earlier, not long after we broke camp. I bent down to pick him up, like I’d done countless times before, but he just stopped and shook his head, then set off again, without so much as an explanation. There were stretches where he was barely able to lift his snowshoes high enough to clear the snow, so I asked him again, but for some reason he wouldn’t contemplate taking a ride. If it was just the three of us I might have made him, but the truth is it’s not him that’s holding us up now.
I turn around and look at the road ahead, watching as it winds its way through the valley floor. There’s little of anything for what looks like miles, not even a barn or a stand of blackened trees to break the emptiness. This is as far as I’ve been; after Warren we’ll be in new territory. I worry what that will mean for our progress. I can’t risk keeping us out after dark, not in a place like this. From now on as soon as the sun starts dipping towards the horizon we’ll need to turn over what remains of the day to finding shelter.
I guess Mags must have had the same thought, or maybe mine are just easy to read, because she announces she’s going on ahead to find us somewhere to spend the night. I’m not sure I like that idea. I didn’t particularly care for how he delivered the message, but Jake had one thing right: it’s not safe out there; that much was true even before I learned the world’s not as empty as I once thought it was. And there’s another part to it, too; one I don’t care to admit. The outside, scavenging, finding us places to stay - that’s my job; it’s maybe the only thing I know how to do. If anyone has to hike out to find us shelter, it should be me.
