by Hakok, R. A.
I keep us to the sidewalk, pressed to the buildings for what little cover they provide. The paint marks continue, growing fresher with each one we pass. A half-dozen blocks south of where I left the Juvies I stop. I realize I haven’t heard the kid’s snowshoes in a while. When I look behind me he’s come to a halt under the faded yellow star of a Hardee’s. I raise my hand to hurry him on, already cursing under my breath, but something in the way he’s crouched gives me pause. I turn my snowshoes around and make my way back. I find him bent over a familiar shape in the snow. A discarded rattle can sits on top of a shallow drift, only a light dusting of windblown powder covering it. He lowers his head to it again, wrinkling his nose at the smell, but when I pick it up I don’t get anything. The paint’s still bright on the nozzle, however, like it’s not been long since it was used. I drop the can and we continue on.
The marks are everywhere now. I slow us down, checking doorways, entrances, even the silted windows above, trying not to start each time I catch my reflection in the darkened glass of an abandoned storefront. Up ahead a delivery truck’s mounted the curb, barring our progress. Mags’ prints go up it then disappear. As I get closer I can see two words, scratched into its ice-crusted flank in letters each a foot high.
GO BACK.
I scurry forward and peer over the crumpled hood. A hundred yards beyond the block ends at another street. There’s a KwikPrint on the corner, its weather-faded awning snapping and fluttering in the wind. Beyond I can just make out what looks like another set of tracks, coming out of the east. The wind’s already flattening their edges, but they can’t be any older than hers; whoever made them must have passed through right about the time she did. I look back down at the prints I’ve been following, trying to stay calm.
She had time to leave a message, which means she saw them before they saw her. Probably. I look down at the snow. Other than the prints she’s left, and the set running up the middle of the cross street, it’s smooth, unmarked. There’s no way she would have let someone take her without a struggle, and there’s no sign of that.
So where is she?
I feel the kid tugging at the sleeve of my parka. He points a mitten in the direction of the KwikPrint, and then without warning he takes off towards it. I hiss at him to come back, but he’s showing no greater inclination to heed what I say now than he did earlier. He crosses the street and disappears into the store. I hesitate a second longer then break from the cover of the truck and hurry after him.
The tattered awning flaps above my head as I step under it, into the shadow of the entrance. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they do I see a familiar figure, standing by the window. The kid’s already out of his snowshoes, crouching next to her. I unsnap my bindings and hurry over to join them. She presses a finger to her lips.
‘Didn’t you see…’
I don’t wait for her to finish, just throw my arms around her, hold her tight to me for a long while. Eventually she taps my arm.
‘Hey.’
I wait a moment longer then let her go. She turns back to the window, but not before I catch what might be a smile. It occurs to me it’s not an expression I’ve seen much of recently.
She looks over my shoulder, back towards the entrance.
‘Where are the others?’
‘As soon as I spotted the paint I got them off the street and came looking for you.’ I hadn’t intended it, but I realize that does sound pretty heroic, in a Last of the Mohicans sort of way. That was one of Mags’ favorite films, back in Mount Weather, so I decide not to go into detail on how many blocks I had to pass before I finally noticed the big red X’s sprayed on pretty much every building since we left the highway. I can’t see how Hawkeye would have missed something like that.
She leans a little closer to the pane and goes back to looking out. Large cracks zig-zag their way across the glass, and what’s not broken is coated with grime, all of which makes it pretty hard to see. I find a section that’s a little cleaner than the rest and press my face to it.
‘So what are you looking at?’
She points at a Save-A-Lot kitty corner opposite.
‘The two men I almost ran into, coming up the street, they went in there. That was over an hour ago now. They haven’t come out yet.’
For the next twenty minutes we keep watch in silence. Outside the day starts to darken, and I wonder if, whoever it is we’re waiting for, they’ve settled in for the night. But then Mags and the kid both stir. I cup one mitten to the glass and peer out, holding my breath. At first I don’t see anything, but a few seconds later there’s movement by the doorway and a tall man steps into view. He’s bundled up in so many clothes it’s hard to tell much about him other than his height. He looks up to the sky, then gestures to someone else to hurry up. There’s a pause and a second, shorter, man steps into view. He adjusts the straps on the pack he’s carrying and then both set off up the street, Indian file.
I follow them until they’re out of sight and then I step back from the window. An idea’s starting to form, but I’ll need to be quick. I glance at my pack, propped against the wall. I shouldn’t need it; I don’t mean to be gone that long. I start making my way towards the door.
Mags turns to look at me.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going after them.’
She stares at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses.
‘You’re what?’
‘Okay, I know how it sounds, but just think about it a second. Fearrington’s going to be small; we know that, right? If we’re lucky there’ll be basic supplies, food, water, but probably not much else. Which means pretty soon I’m going to have to find us stuff. Marv’s map says this is the only place of any size within a day’s hike. The fact that someone else is working this place doesn’t have to be a problem; I can stay out of their way, as long as I know where they’re going to be. Now the marks I spotted earlier made me think whoever they are, they’re coming out of the north.’ I point out towards the Save-A-Lot. ‘But the tracks those men made came out of the east and now they’re headed west. I just need to follow them a little ways to figure out which it is. Otherwise sooner or later I’m going to end up running into them again, just like you almost did. Only next time I may not be so lucky as you were.’
She looks at me a while, like she’s considering this. I guess she must see some sense in it, because she reaches for her backpack.
‘Alright, I’ll come with you.’
I shake my head.
‘You need to get back to the others. I left them in a Walgreen’s a dozen blocks back the way we came. The kid knows where it is.’
I see her weighing what I’ve just said. She doesn’t look convinced.
‘Some of them might be starting to fret by now.’ Might? If Amy isn’t already the proud mother of kittens I’ll be amazed. I figure it’s best not to overdo this last bit, however; Mags knows the Juvies every bit as well as I do. She thinks on it some more. In the end she nods reluctantly.
‘Alright, but not far, okay? Seriously, Gabe - don’t make me come looking for you.’
*
THE TWO MEN from the Save-A-Lot are already half a dozen blocks distant by the time I step outside. I watch from the shelter of the KwikPrint’s doorway to make sure they’re not in the habit of checking behind them, then I wave Mags and the kid onto the street.
She steps into her snowshoes, pulls up her hood. She’s about to set off but then she turns and grabs my arm.
‘I mean it, Gabe: be careful, okay?’
‘Don’t worry; I’ll be back here long before you. If I’m not bring the others as far south as you can while there’s light, then find somewhere to hole up. I’ll come find you.’
I watch until she and the kid have disappeared around the delivery truck, and then I turn my attention back to the two men. They’re already little more than a couple of charcoal smudges, mostly lost to the swirling snow.
I pull off my mittens, unzi
p my parka and reach for the pistol on my hip. I saw no sign of a rifle slung over either man’s shoulder, but I don’t plan on taking any chances, all the same. I pry the hammer back and lever the loading gate open, then jiggle a round from the cartridge loops on my belt, drop it into the chamber and move the cylinder on a turn. The cold finds its way through my liners fast; by the time I’m pushing the last one home the tips of my fingers are starting to lose feeling.
I drop the gun back in its holster, pull on my mittens and poke my head out, just as my quarries disappear up a side street. I set off after them. My heart’s beating a little faster, but as I cross the street I realize most of it’s excitement. I meant what I said to Mags: I’m not going to do anything stupid. I don’t plan on following them far, just enough to see which way they’re headed. It’ll make a welcome change from herding the Juvies down mile after mile of interstate. For the first time in weeks I feel useful.
I hurry along the sidewalk, keeping my eyes on the single set of prints they’ve left in the snow. When I get to the spot where their tracks veer off I stop and peer around the corner. I still haven’t seen any sign they’re checking behind them, but I hold back anyway, watching as they trudge steadily away from me. Maybe this is going to be even easier than I had counted on. They’re headed north now. If they show no sign of deviating from their current course by the time I lose them again I’ll take it as their destination and call an end to the pursuit.
I wait five minutes, then ten. I catch only occasional glimpses of them now, through gaps that open in the drift. I lift my goggles onto my forehead, squinting into the windblown snow, but it doesn’t help. The sightings grow less frequent, and for a long while I don’t see them at all. And then, just as I’m about to turn around and head back to the KwikPrint the wind drops, and for a second before it picks up again I see them cutting across the street, like they mean to leave it. I look up to the gunmetal sky. There’s not much left of the day, but this might be my only opportunity to figure out where it is they’re coming from. I hesitate a second longer, then pull the goggles back down and set off after them again.
For the next half hour I follow the men as they wind their way through the city. After the first few turns I think I have a sense of the general direction in which they’re headed, but then suddenly their route seems to lose all reason. They switch this way then that, at times doubling back, until I start to wonder whether they know themselves where they’re going. The wind strengthens. It drives the drifts in long, shifting ridges that snake across the road, clearing their prints; I have to keep shortening the gap between us to keep them in sight. They seem oblivious to my presence, however, and in any case the flurries of snow that obscure them will keep me hidden too.
They disappear down yet another cross street and I hurry to catch up, but when I get to the corner and peer around there’s no sign and for a moment I think I’ve finally lost them. I look up. The sky’s darkening and I can feel the temperature beginning to drop; I think it might be time to cut my losses and turn back. But then through a gap in the snow I see a flashlight wink on, followed moments later by another.
I set off after them again. Tracking their beams is easier so I allow myself to drop back a little, more comfortable now that I can keep a block between us. They finally seem to have found a heading they’re happy with, too. The road begins to incline, and from the signs we pass it looks like we’re almost back at the interstate. Ahead of me the flashlights stop and then perform a complicated little dance. I wait, peering into the gloom, trying to work out what’s going on. After a few seconds the beams resume their onward march. I creep forward again, more slowly now, until I reach the interchange. Ahead the gantry arm from a stoplight lies collapsed in the snow, blocking my path; the light show I’ve just witnessed must have been them clambering over it.
The wind’s strengthening; already there’s little left of their tracks. I stand at the foot of the overpass, my arms hugged to my sides, watching the intermittent pinpricks of light until they finally lose themselves to the swirling snow. I’ve seen as much as I need to, though. I look around. I’m farther north than I expected and dusk’s already settling; it’s too late to go looking for Mags and the others now. I’ll find somewhere to shelter for the night, catch them on the road tomorrow.
I make my way down off the interchange. There’s a U-Haul lot right across the street. A single-story cinder block with a faded sign above squats in one corner, and as a bonus the door’s already ajar, saving me the bother of busting it open, which is just as well given that the pry bar’s sitting in my pack, back in the KwikPrint. I point myself toward it, already looking forward to the fire I’ll soon have going.
I unsnap my snowshoes at the entrance and push the door back. The floor’s dusty, scattered with debris. A long counter stretches the length of the far wall. There’s a metal box mounted behind, its lock pried open, keys still hanging from hooks inside. Next to it a whiteboard, marked with the comings and goings of vehicles. To one side a stack of packing boxes that look like they’ll hold a flame. I’m in luck; I won’t even need to go outside again for firewood.
I step inside, pulling what remains of the door closed behind me. The sound of the wind recedes. But as I bend to undo my bindings I hear a soft snick-snick and I freeze. It’s a sound I have recently come to know; the sound of the slide being pulled back on a handgun, as its owner chambers the first round.
*
A COLD KNOT OF FEAR tightens my stomach. I raise my hands and turn around to face a thin black man, bundled up in an assortment of rags. A pair of dark eyes, the whites tobacco yellow, stare back at me from deep in a wide, angular face. He holds the pistol he’s just cocked sideways in front of him, at a flat angle, his finger already curled around the trigger. The muzzle’s close enough that even in this light I can read the words Smith & Wesson stamped along the barrel.
Hick’s pistol rests useless against my hip, under my zipped-up parka. The idea that I might draw it and fire a round in the air, and that that might frighten him off, suddenly seems laughable.
‘Why you been following us?’
My mind races, searching for something to say. I can’t tell him anything that’d make him think there’s more than just me. I also really – and I can’t stress this enough – really don’t want to get shot.
‘I…I thought you might have some food.’
His lip curls in a derisive grin, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. If it was his intention to put me at ease, it doesn’t work. There’s something cruel, feral about it; a malice that infects the whole of his face. He inclines his head to one side, but the pistol doesn’t move.
‘Does it look to you like I might have any to spare?’
That sounds like a rhetorical question, but I shake my head anyway.
‘You strapped?’
I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what he means.
‘Are you packing?’
I’m still not sure what he wants me to say. My eyes flick over my shoulder. He must see I’m not carrying a backpack.
‘Do-you-have-a-wea-pon?’
He says it one word at a time, punctuating each syllable with a short, agitated jab of the pistol into my chest. I nod quickly, desperate for him to stop doing that.
‘Yes. Yes. Under my coat.’
‘Take it out. Nice and easy, now.’
I unzip the parka and reach down to the holster, pulling Hicks’ pistol out with my fingertips. When he sees it he whistles through his gilded teeth and snatches it from me. He stares at it for a moment and then it disappears inside one of the many folds in his clothing.
‘Belt too.’
I unbuckle the gun belt and hand it over.
‘Anything else?’
I start to tell him about Weasel’s knife, but he’s already rummaging through my pockets. He finds the blade, examines it for a second and then that goes the way of the pistol. My heart sinks when he takes out Marv’s map, but all he does is study the cover for a mom
ent and then toss it. It occurs to me now, too late, that I never thought to make a copy. Kane’s master list of codes for each facility in the Federal Relocation Arc is sitting in the outside pocket of my pack, back in the KwikPrint, but without the map showing the bunker’s location Mags might never find it. I glance down to where it lies, discarded, on the dusty floor. The snow outside will be wiped clean of my prints long before she’ll think to come after me. How will she know to look for it here?
‘That it?’
I nod.
‘Travellin’ a bit light aintcha?’
I don’t know what to say to that so I just nod again.
‘Alright, hold out your hands.’
An already looped length of cord appears from one of his pockets. He pulls off my mittens and slips it over my wrists, drawing it tight. He runs the cord around a few more times, passing it between my hands in a neat figure of eight, and then ties it off with practiced efficiency, like he’s done this before. He tests the knot. The work’s good; I can already feel pins and needles pricking my fingertips. Satisfied, he picks up one of my mittens, removing a tattered, fraying glove so he can try it on. The fit must be close enough because he pulls off the other, smiling at me like he’s happy with the trade.
I bend down to recover the gloves he’s discarded, but he just pushes me in the direction of the door before I have a chance to retrieve them.
His accomplice waits for us up on the overpass. He’s thin, like the first one, and no better groomed, but taller, a raggedy scarecrow of a man. He grips a flashlight in each hand, the yellow beams describing stretched out circles in the gray snow. The one with the teeth pushes me forward towards him. The scarecrow shifts a flashlight and holds me in its beam while he looks me up and down. The first man smiles, his eyes wet with excitement. The light from the beam glitters off the gold caps that crowd his mouth.
‘Look what I found, Mac. Just wait till Finch sees him. Just you wait.’
