by Hakok, R. A.
These tracks are old; whoever made them came through a while ago. I stare at them for a long moment, not understanding. And then my heart fills with dread as off to one side I spot the deeper set I have been looking for.
I’m too late.
They already have her inside.
*
I STARE DOWN AT JAX’S PRINTS, not understanding. The tracks I picked up out on the interstate were fresh. But these are a day old, maybe more.
I point my snowshoes around and start heading west on 60, away from The Greenbrier’s gates. My legs are tiring, but I force them on, pounding the snow harder than ever. The road slowly curves around. A huge gray structure rises up on my left, its breached roof and disintegrating bell tower familiar from the time I spent there with Hicks. I barely notice. The thought of what Gilbey might have done with the time she’s already had fills me with rage.
When I reach the trail I cut off the road and switch back, making my way in among the blackened trunks. The path starts to incline as it skirts it way around the hill that sits behind The Greenbrier. The muscles in my legs send a warning that they might not be expected to keep this pace up much longer, but I pay it no attention. I strain for any sounds from the trail ahead, but there’s only my breathing and the crunch of my snowshoes through the ice-slicked powder.
The track widens and a low concrete structure slowly separates itself from the trees. Snow drifts high against its featureless sides; more of it rests in heavy layers on its flat roof. The woods seem still but I stop, forcing myself to listen. And that’s when I hear it: from somewhere up ahead, the low murmur of conversation.
I slip off my mittens and slowly unzip my parka.
I start forward again, forcing myself to go slow. The track curves around and now I see them, in front of the entrance to the bunker: two figures, bundled up in parkas, their breath smoking in the cold. A fire burns between them. They stand close, holding their hands out to the flames. One has a rifle slung over his shoulder; the other doesn’t appear armed. Neither has seen me yet, but that won’t last. My hand drops to the pistol on my hip. I start to draw it from its holster.
No.
The voice shows me an image: a small clearing; a can nestling in the crook of a branch, untroubled by the bullet I had just fired at it.
It’s too far.
You can’t let them raise the alarm.
I let the pistol slide back into its holster. I raise my arms out from my sides and start making my way up towards them.
It’s Boots who spots me first. He looks up from the fire and calls out to his companion, who turns to face me. My head’s down, my face hidden in the shadow of the hood’s cowl, but Weasel seems to have little trouble working out who it is. He slings the rifle off his shoulder, but keeps it low.
‘Well, there he is. Hicks said you’d show up.’
I keep trudging up the path towards him, my arms outstretched. He takes a step away from the fire, unconcerned by my approach.
‘You’re too late, though. Doc’s already begun.’
He smiles, revealing a gap where the stock of Mags’ rifle dislodged the teeth there. There’s a cruelty to the expression that seems to infect the whole of his face and I feel something harden inside me, that he would take pleasure from this. I feel an overwhelming urge to break into a run, to launch myself at him, to claw the grin from his face.
The voice inside my head tells me to wait. It starts to measure out the distance between us. The count helps calm me down.
Good.
Weasel turns to his companion. Private Kavanagh is at least showing the good sense to look nervous.
‘Just look at him come, Boots. Must be keen to get himself into one of those cages.’
He turns back to face me.
‘Is that right, Huckleberry? You been missing us?’
I keep walking towards them. My hands are still held out from my sides, but now I slowly start to flex my fingers. Behind the soldiers the entrance to the bunker slides into view. A section of the huge metal gate at the end is already visible; the outline of a smaller door set into the steel. A rusting sign above, a faded symbol of a lightning bolt.
They have no idea.
‘What’s the rush, Huckleberry?’
The smile’s still there, but for the first time I hear nervousness in Weasel’s voice. His thumb reaches for the safety, even as his finger slips through the trigger guard. With his other hand he reaches down for the charging handle.
Just a few steps more.
‘Hey! You just hold it right there, now.’
Alright. That’ll do.
I exhale slowly, forcing my heart to slow. In the skip between beats my hand reaches for the pistol. I lift my head and the hood falls back, for the first time revealing my face.
Weasel’s smile vanishes like a breath in the wind. His eyebrows reach for his hairline and he starts to bring the barrel up. The rifle’s still at half-mast, but in his panic he squeezes the trigger anyway. Flame bursts from the muzzle, the snow between us erupting in an arc of exploding powder that tracks its way ever so slowly towards me.
I slide the pistol from its holster, my thumb already reaching for the hammer. I feel the tension in the mechanism, the click as it locks in place, and then the barrel appears before me and there’s nothing to do but squeeze. There’s a loud bang and the pistol jumps with the recoil, sending my first shot high and wide. A puff of snow behind and to the left tells me where the bullet lands and I see now how right Hicks was to tell me to watch for it; that part is important. Adjusting for it is child’s play, and then it’s just a matter of waiting for the cylinder to rotate, placing the next round under the hammer. It seems to take forever, but at last I hear it click into place.
The second bullet catches him in the neck, snapping his head back. His legs give out from under him and he slumps to the ground.
I swing the pistol around, searching for Boots, but he hasn’t moved. He stands, rooted to the spot. He stares back at me, eyes wide with fear.
I keep the pistol on him as I draw level with Weasel. There’s a ragged hole where his throat once was. He holds a hand there, trying to stanch the flow. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except a low gurgle and a pink cord of saliva. He looks up at me a moment longer, like he doesn’t yet believe it, then a dull blankness slides over his eyes and he just flickers out like a candle.
I stand over him for a second, watching the blood slip from between his fingers to stain the snow beneath. Something twists inside me at the sight of it, but the voice repeats the message it gave me in Starkly: there’s no time for this; I have things to do; and this time I heed it quicker. I turn to face Boots.
‘What he said about Gilbey, is it true?’
He stares at me blankly, like he’s having trouble processing the question. He seems more scared of me than the pistol I have on him, so I grip the throat of his parka and draw him close.
I ask again, and this time he bobs his head, quick.
‘You’d best not be here when I come back out.’
*
I HOLSTER THE PISTOL and bend down to unsnap my snowshoes, then hurry inside. Behind me I hear the crunch of snow as Boots stumbles off into the woods, but I don’t bother to check which direction he’s taking. The blast door’s open, resting all the way back against the wall on its huge, buttressed hinges. Beyond it the tunnel stretches off into grainy gloom.
High in the corner the red light of a camera blinks once, then goes dark. The voice wants me to wait, to think this through. Hicks is expecting me, and there’s no cover that way, nowhere to hide.
But I’m already sprinting. With each step I expect to hear the first crack of gunfire, but somehow it never comes. I make it to the door marked Decontamination unharmed and pass under another camera bolted to the wall above, entering the showers. Rusting nozzles protrude from the tiles, narrowing my path, and then I’m through, stepping into a long corridor. Safety lights hum, adding shades of green to the gray. From somewhe
re off in the distance there’s the low drone of a generator.
I run towards it, past dormitories, a cafeteria, infirmary, drab halls filled with chairs. The thrum from the generator increases as I open the door to the power plant. I make my way up onto a narrow gangway, my boots clanging on the metal grating. I push through another door at the end; the noise from the plant recedes as it closes behind me. I hurry down the stair beyond, taking the steps two and three at a time, but the descent seems to take forever in spite of it. At last I reach the bottom. A single door leads out of the shaft, a keypad to one side blinking out its silent guard.
I try it, but it won’t budge, so I shuck off my backpack, reach inside for the pry bar, and start to attack the lock. It has been designed to resist such attempts, however: the gap between door and frame is narrow, the edges reinforced with steel. There’s nowhere for the bar to get purchase.
My efforts grow increasingly frantic, as I imagine what Gilbey might be doing right now to Mags in that other room. Inside my head I feel the brace wire starting to come down. I drop the pry bar and draw the pistol, level it at the lock.
No! They’ll hear.
I squeeze the trigger. There’s a bang, loud in such a confined space, and the gun bucks in my hand. Sparks fly from the lock and there’s the whine of a ricochet. The shaft fills with the smell of gunpowder.
I take a step back and aim my boot at the lock. There’s the sound of wood splintering, and this time I feel it give. It yields on the third kick and I burst through into a familiar room: long, low-ceilinged, plastic cages lining the walls on either side.
I leave everything behind me and set off at a run, the cages little more than a blur on either side. Halfway along I think I catch the briefest glimpse of something, a shape, drawing back into the shadows behind, but I don’t stop. Whatever might be there isn’t my concern now.
The room ends at another door. I brace myself, getting ready to charge it. The voice inside my head pleads with me to slow down; it tells me I can be quiet and still go quickly. But it is small now; it struggles to make itself heard. It goes silent for a moment, then it says the one thing that might cut through the maelstrom: her name.
You’ll be no good to her if you get yourself caught.
I manage to reassert some semblance of control just as I arrive at the last cage. I skid to a halt in front of the door and reach for the handle. To my surprise there’s no resistance; it isn’t locked. I push down, more gently than I would have thought possible only seconds before.
The door opens with a soft groan and I step through into a smaller room, its only feature a row of black metal chambers set into the wall at waist height. Each has a large latch handle, the words Crematex Incinerator Corp. stamped in raised letters above. I pass quickly between them. Most of the chambers are closed, but near the end one of the doors hangs outward on its hinges. I catch a glimpse of charred concrete behind as I hurry past.
The next room’s like the first, long, low-ceilinged, rows of plastic cages stretching off into gloom on either side. The ones closest the door are empty, unremarkable, but as I make my way deeper among them that changes.
The first one I come to has the number 98 stenciled along the top. Inside a gray shape crouches. A scar circles the top of its shaved scalp, the tissue puckered and rucked around the edges. Its shadowed eyes are open, but it just stares out, unblinking, giving no indication it knows I’m there. On a shelf above rests a large glass jar. Inside, something gray and folded, cut in cross-section, hangs suspended in clear liquid.
The cages beyond are all the same; I make my way quickly among them. A sound drifts towards me out of the darkness now, faint, muffled. I can’t be certain if it was there earlier, or if it just started up.
I hold my breath for a moment, listening. It’s high-pitched, like the whine of a mosquito, only regular, mechanical. And then I feel my throat constrict as I realize what it is.
*
HE STANDS AT THE TOP of the loading ramp, peering out. The wind gusts around him, sending flurries of gray snow dancing up into the helicopter’s darkened cargo bay. He tilts his head to one side, scenting the air, listening for any sound. But there’s nothing. The sun has been up a while now. They can’t wait any longer.
On the other side of the helicopter a path has been cleared through the snow. He makes his way down the ramp and scurries along it, making sure to keep his head low. He does not want to be seen. Not yet.
As he approaches the front of the massive building he slows. Peeling flagpoles jut from the second floor balustrade, the tattered flags that hang there snapping and fluttering in the wind. Ahead, recessed in shadow, the wide entrance door, and above, mounted high on the wall, a single camera. Its red light blinks once, then goes out.
He glances back at the helicopter. The boy with the curly hair stands by the cargo door, watching his progress. A worried look troubles his face. He does not think this is a very good plan; he only agreed to it because he could not think of another.
He returns his gaze to the entrance. The lobby’s dark windows stare down menacingly. His heart races, fluttering inside his small ribcage like a trapped moth. He does not want to go back in the cage. He looks at the helicopter again. It is not too late; he could still turn around. He and the boy could hide there for the hours of daylight that remain, and then escape together under cover of darkness.
But that would mean leaving her in there.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, summoning his courage. There is not as much of it as he had hoped; already far less than there was when he left the helicopter, just moments ago. Before even that has the chance to desert him he stands, takes several quick steps into the shadow of the portico.
The colossal columns tower over him. He makes his way between them, continuing up the steps to the entrance. He stands on tiptoe and peers through the door, but beyond the lobby is dark, empty. Above the light on the camera blinks, then goes out again.
His heart is pounding; he can hear it now, hammering away inside his chest; it is all he can do not to run. He closes his eyes, tries to push the fear back down, like he saw the girl do in the airlock.
He takes a deep breath and steps under the oblong box mounted to the wall. He lifts his goggles onto his forehead and looks up. The camera’s single mechanical eye stares down at him impassively. He raises his hands above his head, waves them hesitantly. The light blinks and he almost bolts, but then it goes out again.
He keeps his arms above his head while he watches through the glass for any sign of their approach. The doctor wants him back; the dangerous man said so, when he came to take the girl away. As soon as they see he’s here they’ll come out for him. He needs to lead them away, to give the boy time to go inside and find her.
He looks up into the camera. But how much longer should he wait? Surely they’ve seen him by now. He imagines them, sprinting along whatever corridors and passageways lay beyond, only seconds from bursting into the lobby. The muscles in his legs tense at the thought. He mustn’t let them catch him.
A soft whirring from above, barely audible above the sound of the wind. His eyes flick upwards, just in time to see the camera’s iris narrow as it focuses on him.
His hands reach up for his goggles even as he bolts for the path that’s been cleared through the snow. He takes the steps in short, urgent strides and then his feet are crunching powder. For a second he thinks he hears something behind him, a sound that might be the thud of boots on stone, but he forces himself not to look back – surely they can’t be here already?
The thought of it spurs him on; he tucks his elbows tight to his sides and runs for all he is worth. When he reaches the spot where he left his snowshoes he steps into them and drops to a crouch, fighting the impulse to look over his shoulder while his fingers works the straps. As he tightens the last one he hears the clunk of a handle and the unmistakable clatter of a door being thrown back on its hinges. There’s a harsh shout and then he is on his feet, mittens bouncin
g on their tethers, arms and legs pumping as he scrambles up the embankment and takes off into deeper snow.
*
I DRAW HICKS’ PISTOL and break into a run, ignoring the vacant stares from the cages on either side as I sprint towards the source of the sound. The room seems to stretch out, like I might never reach the end, but eventually a door separates itself from the gloom ahead. The voice begs me to be careful, but it is small now, drowned out by the shrill whine that grows louder, the rage that builds with each step.
I reach the door, crash through it without slowing. I find myself in dazzling brightness; instinctively raise a hand to shield my eyes. The sound is coming from somewhere in front of me, but the light is so intense I can’t stand to look directly at it. My entrance seems to do the trick, however; the pitch drops as whatever’s causing it is switched off.
A complicated raft of smells pack the air. The sharp tang of disinfectant, the coppery aroma of blood, the burn of an electric motor. And underneath it something else, stale, familiar. The voice inside my head really wants me to pay attention to that but I can’t, not till I’ve found her.
The light’s too bright to look at so I squint into the corners, trying to gather details. The room is square, wider and higher than the one I’ve just left. Counters run most of the way around the walls. A sink, a microscope, other equipment I don’t recognize. Above, shelves, stacked with bottles, jars, other containers, an array of glass and ceramic, all gleaming in the brilliance. To my right a doorway, or maybe a large alcove, a dark curtain hiding whatever’s behind.
I force my gaze back to the center. What looks like an operating table, its angular surfaces ablaze under a huge domed light hanging down from above. I catch a glimpse of movement on the other side of it and I step forward, narrowing my eyes against the glare. I point the pistol in the direction I thought I saw it.
‘The light; turn it off.’
