by Hakok, R. A.
‘Well I guess it just didn’t occur to you.’ She glances at the shelf. There’s a box that has Meat Stew stamped on the side right by her head. ‘It’s okay. One of those will do.’
She reaches for it and now I feel a spike of fear. I’ve no reason to believe the contents of that box will be any different to the four I’ve already opened tonight. I step forward, placing a hand across the box’s flank. It happens to be the one holding the flashlight.
Her eyes narrow at the beam, like it troubles her, but not enough to make her step away. And for long seconds I just stand there, transfixed. Her pupils are wide, and what’s behind them glows, incandescent. This close it’s not silver, though, but palest gold.
I stammer out something about there not being enough. Her eyes flick to the boxes stacked all around us, then return to me.
‘Then I’ll trade him what I’m having for breakfast, Gabriel.’ She says it slow, like she’s trying to figure out how deep this new streak of asshole goes.
She stares back at me. I want to look away, but I can’t. I shake my head.
‘I already told the others: no one’s getting special treatment. That goes for you and the kid too. I’m sorry. Franks and beans is what we have. He’ll just need to get used to it.’
She takes a step closer, and for a second I think she might just take the box anyway.
And you might not be able to stop her.
The kid grabs hold of her arm and says it’s okay, he’s not hungry.
She keeps looking at me, her eyes shimmering with something that might now be rage. The kid says it’s okay again, louder this time. She holds my gaze for a second longer then lets her hand fall from the box.
‘C’mon Johnny, let’s go.’
*
HE HURRIES AFTER THE GIRL, out of the shelves, past the stacks of old, tattered boxes that push up against the guardrail. As they cross the gangway he remembers his flashlight. The girl said they should use them whenever the others are around, but hers hangs forgotten from her wrist, bouncing on its tether as she takes to the stair. It died on the way up from the plant room, but she hasn’t bothered to wind it.
He follows her as she makes her way around, quickly dropping through the level below. Boxes line the guardrail here too, just like above. Beyond, more shelves, stretching back into grainy shadow. Most are empty now, the closest ones already in various states of disassembly. The girl said they were going to grow things here. Food. He’s not really sure what that means. The only food he’s ever known comes in cans, packets, wrappers.
She keeps going down, passing silently through the floors where the rest of them are sleeping. Most of the doors are shut, but here and there one has been left ajar. The soft night sounds they make drift out from behind.
He feels bad. He should have just eaten what was in the bowl. Not eating your food is a sign; he knows that, better than anyone. How could he have forgotten? Does the tall boy think he’s getting sick again? Is that why he was scared, just now?
But that doesn’t make sense. The tall boy checked his dog tags; they prove it. And he had been frightened earlier, too, when he first brought the food down, before he could have known he wasn’t going to eat it. He hadn’t been wearing his goggles then, of course. But he didn’t think he had to, not in front of the tall boy. He already knew.
They leave the dorms behind. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it, and something behind his eyes feels scratchy, now. He raises one hand to his goggles, then stops. He knows what that feeling means, and rubbing them won’t help. He just needs to rest. Only one more floor and the hatch and then he will be back on his perch, high above the machines, and he can sleep, just like they do.
But when the girl reaches the next gangway she suddenly stops. She stands on the stair for a moment, listening, and then she crosses, quickly disappearing among the narrow stalls. He hesitates, unsure what to do, then he follows, making his way between the dark cubicles. He finds her standing in front of the row of washbasins.
She steps up to the nearest one and places her flashlight on the lip of the shallow basin. She leans forward, examining her reflection in the square of steel above. Her fingers probe the skin under her eyes. He wonders what she’s looking for. It may still be a shade darker there, but it’s hard to tell now. Those shadows have all but disappeared.
When she’s done examining her eyes she turns her attention to the rest of her face. A smudge of grease marks one cheek; another follows the line of her jaw. She reaches for the faucet. It sticks for a moment, but then turns with a dull groan. There’s the sound of pipes clunking and then water spits from the tap, quickly steadying to a stream. She cups her hands under it, then brings them to her face and starts scrubbing at the marks there with the cuff of her overalls.
When she’s finished she shuts off the faucet and checks her reflection again. She hesitates for a moment then pulls off the cap she wears and sets it on the washbasin next to the flashlight. She leans closer to the mirror. Her hair is growing back faster than his, but after all these weeks it’s still little more than stubble. A wide swathe of it darkens the top of her head, continuing all the way back to the nape of her neck. She lifts one hand, runs her fingers over it. She tilts her head first this way, then that, examining the sides. He follows her gaze, trying to work out what she’s doing. At first he thinks it hasn’t grown back as quickly there. But then he sees it’s not that; it’s just that what’s there is flecked with white.
And then at last he thinks he understands. He hesitates a moment then lifts the goggles from his face, settles them around his neck. He reaches for the flashlight and starts to wind the handle. The dynamo whirs and after a few seconds the bulb begins to glow. The tangle of rubber-jointed pipes throw complicated shadows against the wall behind.
The girl looks down to see what he’s doing. He holds the flashlight up, pointing it back towards himself. The beam isn’t that bright, but his eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness and he has to force himself not to squint. When he thinks he has the flashlight in the right place he looks up so she can see.
The girl’s eyes widen; she starts to take a step backwards. He quickly reaches for the tags he wears and holds them up. The slivers of pressed metal hang in the beam, slowly twisting at the end of the beaded chain.
Her gaze flicks from his eyes to the tags, then back again.
When he thinks she’s seen enough he holds the flashlight out to her. She stares at it for a long moment. At first he’s not sure she understands, or maybe she doesn’t care to. Then she takes it from him.
She turns back to the mirror and holds it up, searching for the right angle, just as he did. When she finds it she stops, and for a long time she stays like that. Then she closes her eyes. She leans forward, her hands grasping the side of the shallow washbasin.
He tells her it’s okay. They’re not sick. The tags, the cross she wears; they prove it. He starts to tell her what she told him, back when they first set out. The others, they’ll get used to it.
But then he stops. He’s not sure that last bit’s really true. It’s been a long time since they left the mountain place. And now the tall boy is frightened of them, too.
Perhaps it’s like the girl with the pink hair said, in the shopping mall.
Their kind, maybe they’re just too different after all.
*
WHEN I RETURN TO THE DORMS they’re dark, quiet. I push back the door to the cell, half expecting to find Mags in there, waiting for me. But it’s empty. Tell the truth I’m a little relieved. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her as mad at me as she was earlier, down in the stores, and I haven’t got the words to make it better. I step inside, wind the flashlight and set it on the ground, then lower myself onto the thin mattress next to it.
My legs ache, my shoulders are numb from hefting boxes and I’ve lost track of the times I’ve been up and down the stair. But the first part of it’s mostly done. Enough of the rations are now distributed between the upper floors of t
he silo and the corridor by the airlock that it’ll be impossible for anyone to keep track of what we have, even if they wanted to.
I lean back against the cold steel. All I want to do is climb into the sleeping bag, curl up into a ball and pretend none of this is happening. But I can’t. Up on the surface dawn can’t be more than an hour away. I can’t let Tyler or Eric find all the cans I’ve had to toss out of the blast door.
I’ll go back up there soon, bring the Juvies down their breakfast, let the Guardians know I’ll take their shift. They can stay in the silo, help Lauren with whatever of the boxes still need moving. I can’t see either of them objecting to that. Soon as I’ve dealt with the discarded tins I’ll set to work opening more. When I’ve got enough to last through the time I mean to be away I’ll leave. It shouldn’t set me back more than a few hours.
I’ll just take a little rest first. I feel my eyes start to close so I sit up straight, blink them open. I can’t afford to drift off. My backpack leans against the wall by the door; the cell’s small enough that I can reach it just by leaning forward. The snaps are already undone and I reach inside. Hick’s pistol sits on top, wrapped in the gun belt. I lift it out, set it down beside me. Cartridges nestle in their loops, the stamped brass ends glowing dully in the flashlight’s waning beam.
I return to the backpack. In a Ziploc bag buried near the bottom there’s the container of gun oil I took from Hicks’ pack before we left Eden, the worn nub of a toothbrush and a half dozen cotton swabs. I part the seal, shake the contents onto the floor next to the gun belt. The smell of the oil wafts out. I reach down for the pistol, draw it from its holster. The carrion bird etched into the grip feels rough against my palm. I turn the pistol over in my hands, pointing the muzzle up so I can get to the base pin.
I still need to work out what to do with the Juvies, when I get back. I look over at the pack. The map Marv gave me is in the side pocket, but I don’t need to take it out to know what it’ll tell me. There are only two locations on the map I haven’t yet been.
The first is a facility called The Notch, at a place called Bare Mountain. It’s the one Jake tried to test me on, when we were deciding what to do about Peck.
Would they have voted to leave if you hadn’t risen to the bait?
I push that thought from my mind. What’s done is done; wishing things were different won’t make it so, no matter how much I’d like it to. I just need to figure out a way to make it right.
I turn my thoughts back to the map. Bare Mountain’s no good. It’s all the way up in Massachusetts, even farther north from Mount Weather than we are south. The second facility is a place called North Bay, on the shores of a small body of water called Lake Nipissing, about a third of the way up Ontario’s eastern border. It might as well be the far side of the moon; whatever chance we have of reaching Massachusetts, there’s no prospect of us making it to Canada.
I jiggle the base pin free, set it aside and slide out the cylinder.
In the bottom corner of the map, in Marv’s careful hand, there’s a list of codes for other places. Crown, Cartwheel, Corkscrew, Cannonball, Cowpuncher; each name less likely than the one before. A few have lines drawn through them. Marv didn’t get round to explaining why he’d done that, but I reckon those were places that got hit in the strikes. Whether I’m wrong or right on that score makes little difference. There’s no corresponding mark on the map for any of them, which suggests either Marv didn’t know where they were, or they weren’t on it. Either way, I have no hope of finding them.
I pick up the container of gun oil and one of the cotton swabs and set to work on the back of the cylinder, where the ratchet touches the frame.
The last code given is for a facility called Cheyenne Mountain. It’s not marked on the map either, but at least for Cheyenne I understand why: Marv’s written Colorado after it. I’d need to find an atlas to check, but I think that’s way out west somewhere.
The Juvies don’t have it in them to make any of those places, even if we had the supplies for it. And why would they trust me to embark on such a journey, anyway? I know even less about those places than I thought I knew about here. There’s every chance each one is just the same: ancient, mothballed, long-abandoned relics; their machines all broken, whatever supplies might still be there long since spoiled. Mount Weather might be the only place left where we ever stood any chance of surviving, and I led us away from it.
I need to get them back there.
It’s less of a decision, more a lack of other options. A measure of relief comes with having arrived at it, all the same.
I set the swab down, reach for the toothbrush. I turn the cylinder over and start on the chambers, working the bristles up into each. The smell of the oil fills the tiny cell. I think of the wooden stool I found behind the door, in Eden’s armory, the seat shiny from years of use, testament to the hours Peck must have sat down there by himself, tending to each weapon. I think I understand now. The ritual is somehow calming. I hold my hand to my mouth, stifling a yawn.
There’s not much time. Winter’s still a couple of months off, but I can’t risk them getting caught out in it; I need them back inside before the first of the storms arrive. The journey down took over a month, which means I have four weeks, no more; by then they need to be back on the road. The good news is they should be able to follow the route we took coming down, for the most part. I can’t risk sending them back through Durham, of course, not with Finch’s men out looking for us, but finding another way around won’t be difficult, and it shouldn’t add much to the journey; once they’re clear of the city they can rejoin the interstate and from there it’ll be easy. They’ve hiked that road already; they know where the shelter is to be found. The interstate has another advantage, too, one I hadn’t appreciated before Starkly. Whatever might be starting to wake up out there, the danger will be in the towns, not out in open country.
I finish with the cylinder, wipe it down, set it to one side.
Supplies will be a problem. There’s precious few of the MREs we set out with left, maybe enough for the first couple of days, but not much more than that. I can’t rely on there being anything worth scavenging along the way, either, even if they knew how to find it. Which means they’ll have to survive on whatever they can take from here.
Pounding the snow’s hard work; I figure even on short rations each of them will need three cans a day, which means a hundred apiece for the trip. Plus basics: canteen, sleeping bag, fixings for a fire. A heavy load; more than they set out from Mount Weather with.
You think they’ll manage?
They’ll have to.
I’ll need to do something about the cans, to make sure they last, even with the lids punctured. I can’t risk them eating food that’d make them sick; there’s no place for that on the road. The holes I can reseal, like I used to do with the containers with Kane’s medicine, when I was smuggling them back into Eden. Wax should do the trick; there’s a box of candles in the stores. The cold will help. At night they can leave their packs outside. Maybe I can rig something up for during the day; line the insides with garbage sacks, pack it with snow.
How do you think they’ll take the news that they’re leaving again?
I pick up the pistol and set to work on the barrel.
I’m not going to tell them, not until I get back from The Greenbrier.
And you’re certain, about the other thing? About not going with them?
I lean back against the steel, close my eyes.
I am.
*
I WAKE TO DARKNESS. At first I think it’s still the middle of the night and all I want to do is drift back down to sleep. But then through the metal walls I hear the muted sounds of others stirring.
I lift my chin from my chest, wincing as an unexpected jolt of pain shoots down my neck. I reach up with one hand to rub it. Something I didn’t realize was there slips from my fingers. It lands in my lap, the weight of it startling. I open my eyes to try and make sense of it,
but the blackness is complete. I struggle with simple concepts like up and down for longer than a right-minded person has any business doing, but eventually I work out I’m sitting upright. I rub my eyes, trying to clear the sleep from them. The smell of gun oil is heavy on my fingers. Hicks’ pistol. I must have fallen asleep cleaning it.
I reach out with one hand, find the flashlight, wind it slowly. The mechanism grinds out its now-familiar complaint but eventually the bulb glows, spreading its light slowly over the steel.
The pistol’s reassembled and loaded; there’s brass in each of the chambers bar the one under the hammer, just like Hicks showed me. The box of ammunition I stole from him sits nearby, but the mattress it was resting on last night is gone. I glance up at the door. I closed it behind me when I came in, but now it’s ajar.
Mags.
She must have been here at some point while I slept. I think of her, staring down at me in the darkness. I wonder what it means that she took the mattress. It can’t be good, but the sounds from the adjacent cells are growing louder, reminding me I have things to attend to. I’ll worry about that later. First I need to find Tyler and Eric, let them know I’ll be standing guard this morning.
I slip the pistol into its holster, loop the gun belt around my waist, tighten the buckle and make for the stair.
I hurry up to the airlock, load one of the boxes with enough of the ham and eggs for the Juvies’ breakfast and return to the mess. I get the Sterno stoves lighting and start transferring the yellow mulch the Army reckoned would stand for ham and eggs to the tin bowls. The first of the bowls is already starting to bubble by the time I see the Juvies’ flashlights circling the stair. One by one they shuffle out of the darkness, take a bowl and make their way over to the tables.
Lauren comes over to stand next to me, an expression of concern troubling her features. She rests a hand on my arm.
