Children of the Mountain (Book 3): Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  ‘Gabe, you look exhausted.’

  ‘Yeah, couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘I noticed the stores as I came up. Seems like you were busy last night.’

  I shrug, hoping to get her off the topic.

  ‘Figured I might as well be useful.’ I notice the two Guardians on the gangway. ‘Hey, Tyler, Eric, can you guys help Lauren with the boxes this morning? I’ll keep watch outside.’

  Lauren’s face rearranges itself into a frown, but Eric seems relieved. Tyler asks if I’m sure.

  ‘It’s only fair. You guys were out yesterday.’

  Jake takes one of the bowls off its stove.

  ‘What about Mags? Is she coming up?’

  A few of the Juvies raise their eyes from their bowls, like they’re waiting for my answer. I shake my head.

  ‘No, I…she said she was in the middle of something with the generator. I’ll bring her and the kid their breakfast before I head outside.’

  Jake looks at me for a moment like he’s not sure what to make of this, but then he collects a spoon and heads over to one of the tables. Lauren lifts a bowl from its makeshift burner.

  ‘Don’t you want to eat first?’

  I look down at the yellow mulch she’s offering. Truth is I’ve never cared much for eggs. The powdered substitute we had in Eden bore more than a passing resemblance to the paste Miss Kimble used to give us when we were doing art, and what’s in these cans looks like it’s from no better stock.

  I shake my head.

  With what I have planned for the day I doubt I’d be able to keep it down anyway.

  I bring a couple of bowls down to the plant room. The kid’s sitting on the same catwalk where he’d startled me the night before. He looks up as I make my way around the stair. After what happened in the stores I’m not sure what to say to him so I just leave the bowls on the grating nearby and ask him to bring one down to Mags.

  A few minutes later I’m back in the airlock. The wind’s picked up overnight. I can feel it, pushing against the blast door as I heave it open. Gray flakes swirl around the edges and dance into the narrow chamber.

  I smear UV block across my cheeks and then pull up my hood. Outside the snow is littered with the cans I tossed out of the airlock. I pick up one of the cardboard boxes and start gathering them into it. The contents have frozen overnight so there’s hardly any smell, and what little remains the wind carries away, but I pull the cotton mask I wear up over my nose anyway. When the box is full I snap on my snowshoes and set off through the compound, cradling it to my chest. The tattered windsock snaps angrily on its tether as I pass.

  At the guard shack I rest the box on the raised security barrier while I clamber over, then pick it up and carry on. I follow the trail for a while, until the gnarled, blackened trunks grow thick around me. I glance back over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching, then I turn off the track and start making my way deeper into the wood. Dead branches whip and claw at my parka as I squeeze myself between them. After a few minutes I arrive at a small gap in the trees, hardly big enough to count as a clearing. I glance back over my shoulder. Somewhere a little further from the trail would be better but I’m in a hurry now, so I upend the box and dump the cans into the snow.

  A couple more trips and all the tins I threw out of the airlock have been relocated to the place I’ve found for them in the woods. When I’ve disposed of the last of them I collect the container with the virus from behind the guard shack and carry it out there too. I bury it in a drift a little way off to one side then I go back to the airlock and start over, opening cans from the boxes I brought up last night. I come up with a system: I puncture each tin on the bottom, in the crevice between rim and base, where it’s harder to spot. For those handful of cans in each box that haven’t spoiled a drop of candlewax seals the hole. I get pretty good at it. By the time I’ve done a dozen of them I doubt anyone would notice, unless they were told where to look.

  When I get to the bottom of the first box I go outside, collect the spoiled cans from in front of the airlock and ferry them off into the woods. I’m about to turn around and head back but then I stop, pick one of the cans from the pile and set it in the crook of a tree. The clearing’s mostly sheltered from the wind, so I don’t need to spend much time digging it in. I turn around and measure out ten paces. That’s not very far in snowshoes, but I reckon it makes sense to start with a realistic goal.

  I slip off my mittens and unzip my parka. The gun belt sits low across my hips, the old pistol snug in its holster. I take a deep breath, let it out slow, watching it turn white before it’s carried away. I picture how Hicks was, in the hospital in Blacksburg, when the fury attacked Ortiz. I was looking right at him, but it happened so fast all I have now are a series of disconnected images. One second his hand had been empty, the next there’d been a pistol there. A burst of shots in rapid succession, his off hand little more than a blur as it worked the hammer, his other pumping the trigger, just like one of those gunslingers from the movies.

  I flex my fingers against the cold, then reach down and practice sliding it out. The pistol feels heavy, awkward in my hand. I bring it up slow, keeping the hammer down and my finger away from the trigger until I’ve got the barrel pointed roughly where I think I need it to be. I doubt I’ll get the drop on anybody that way, but at least I’ll stand a chance of walking away with all my toes accounted for afterwards.

  I reach for the hammer with my thumb. The mechanism’s stiff and it takes some effort to cock it. I settle the sight back on the can and squint down the barrel, lining the blade at the end with the groove at the back so that both rest on the target. A random gust of wind picks up the snow, swirling the flakes in little eddies around the tree, but I have no thoughts of correcting for it. I just hold the grip steady as I can and slowly squeeze the trigger. The hammer snaps forward before I’m ready for it. There’s a loud bang and the pistol bucks, jumping skyward with the recoil.

  When the smoke clears the can’s where it was, undisturbed, just like the tree it was resting in, and as far as I can tell, all the others that surround it. I have no idea where the bullet went.

  I return the pistol to its holster. I tell myself it’ll be alright; I’ll have more time to practice with it on the road.

  Besides, my plan doesn’t depend on me being a sharpshooter.

  The stack of cans inside the airlock grows steadily. By mid-morning the passageway that leads to the shaft is once again clear of boxes, but I reckon I’m done. There’s enough rations there now to last the Juvies while I’ll be gone.

  I gather up the last of the spoiled cans and set off across the compound. If there was any doubt before, there can be none now; most boxes had no more than a handful of cans that could be saved. I have no reason to think what’s down in the stores will be any different. I don’t need to check the card in my pocket to know that’s nowhere near enough to see the twenty-four of us through the winter.

  A gust of wind picks the windsock up, sets it clanking against its pole as I pass.

  What’s there should stretch for three, though.

  When I return from The Greenbrier I’ll send the Juvies back to Mount Weather. Mags, the kid and me will stay here for the winter. I doubt there’ll be too many objections to that, not after they find out where I’ve been, and why I went there.

  I reach the security barrier, rest the box on top of it.

  When the storms clear I’ll find Mags, the kid and me somewhere else to go.

  That’s months from now. You’re certain Gilbey’s medicine will see them through till then?

  I have no answer for that, so instead I clamber over and set off into the woods on the other side.

  *

  I’M HALFWAY DOWN THE SHAFT from the airlock when I hear something like a cough from way down deep in the silo. I stop to listen. For a long moment there’s silence and then I hear it again. On the third go it catches, sputters, almost dies, and then settles into a lumpy rattle. A few seconds later the bul
khead lamp closest to me flickers to life. I look over the railing, just in time to see others coming on beneath me.

  I hurry down, taking the steps as quickly as I can. The noise grows louder as I drop out of the shaft into the silo’s upper levels. I continue round the spiral stair. All around me bulkhead lamps are lit. Here and there a bulb has blown, and more than a few falter like they’re on the verge of it. But enough are burning to bathe the ancient workstations, the dusty server stacks, in their soft yellow glow.

  When I reach the farms the Juvies are gathered around the guardrail. They lean over, eyes fixed on the source of the sound, but none seem keen to investigate. I continue past them, round and round the spiral stair. Jake’s waiting for me at the bottom. He stands by the open hatch, like he wants to go down, but something’s giving him pause. I peer into the plant room’s depths and now I see what’s troubling him. Above me the silo’s lit up like Christmas, but below there’s only inky blackness.

  ‘Why would the lights not be on down there?’

  He says it without looking up, like maybe the question’s not meant for me. Whether it is or not there’s a voice inside my head that’s ready with an answer.

  I don’t wait to hear it. I unzip my parka and lower myself through the hatch, searching for the rung of the ladder with the toe of my boot. When my feet touch the grating I step off and reach into my pocket for the flashlight. I hesitate. Now that I’m down here Jake’s question’s got me thinking too. Mags might not need the lights, but that’s no reason to turn them off.

  Unless they bother her.

  I look up through the hatch, but Jake shows no sign of following me, so I rejoin the stair and start making my way down. I go more slowly now, probing the gangways I pass with the beam. I find the kid in his usual spot, sitting by the guardrail, his legs dangling over the edge. He looks up as the flashlight finds him, then goes back to staring down into the darkness.

  I continue on, calling out to her as I go. The harsh clatter from the generator grows louder; soon I have to raise my voice above it. I can feel the reverberations in the handrail now, too. I keep sweeping the darkness with the flashlight until finally I spot her, halfway out along one of the gangways, right on the edge of the beam. The top of her overalls are tied around her waist and she’s working a pipe wrench almost as long as her arm, tightening the mounting bolts at the base of one of the ancient machines. The muscles across her narrow shoulders cord with the effort as she leans into it.

  I call her name one more time and she stops what she’s doing, hoists the wrench onto one shoulder. The air is thick now, humid. Her skin gleams with sweat; the thin cotton of the vest she’s wearing clings to it.

  She waits till I’ve lowered the flashlight, then turns to look at me. The beanie she’s been wearing ever since we quit Mount Weather is gone, but the mohawk’s back. It looks like it’s been done recently, too; there’s a nick just above her ear where she’s pressed too hard with the razor.

  I wonder what that means.

  ‘What do you want, Gabriel?’

  The long form of my name again, but there’s no trace of the anger I heard in her voice last night. Mostly she just sounds weary, like she might not care any more. I can’t decide if that’s worse.

  ‘I dunno, I…’ I glance around, searching for something to say. ‘Why is it dark down here? The lights are on in the rest of the silo.’

  It’s her turn to look away.

  ‘I stripped the bulbs from the bulkhead lamps. Jake’ll need them for his growing benches.’

  I want to tell her that no, he won’t. The Juvies won’t be here to see a single crop from the farms; they’ll be gone long before he has a chance to plant the first chits. But she can’t know those things, not yet, so instead I just shrug.

  ‘Well, you did it.’

  She inclines her head. Maybe.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She hesitates a moment then sets the wrench down and walks toward me. I back up to let her by and then she sets off down the stair without saying another word. I assume she has something she wants to show me, so I follow her. When she reaches the bottom she makes her way out onto the last gangway. This close to the generator the racket is deafening, but I can just make out another sound, underneath it. I point the flashlight over the railing. Beneath me the steps disappear into water. Where it was still before the oily surface is agitated now, countless ripples splashing and lapping off the metal below.

  Mags is waiting for me by the clattering machine, so I follow her out onto the catwalk. The thin mattress she took from our cell lies spread out on the grating. I have to step over it to join her.

  This close to the machine it’s hot. I unzip my parka. Her eyes drop to the pistol at my waist. They linger there for a second then she looks up at me again. She says something, but it’s just moving lips. I bend down to hear what she’s saying. She hesitates a moment and then leans in. This close to the machine she has to shout to make herself heard.

  ‘This is the one I got working. The other’s beyond fixing.’

  I feel her breath on my neck. I have to force myself to concentrate. My eyes just want to follow the chain from the crucifix as it disappears inside the neck of her vest.

  ‘Okay, but we can manage with just one generator, though, right? I mean without all that equipment up there to run?’

  She nods.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the problem.’

  She looks at me like I should understand, but I don’t. She hesitates again, then takes my arm by the cuff of my parka and directs my hand to the casing. I can feel the heat, now, radiating from the metal. And something else: a thrumming, heavy in my fingertips. When I lay my hand flat it travels up through my palm until my whole arm is vibrating.

  ‘Something in there’s not right.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’

  She looks doubtfully at the shuddering machine.

  ‘I might be able to, if I took it to pieces. I’ve watched Scudder break down all sorts of things. But there’s no guarantee I could put it back together again, after. We’d need fresh seals, gaskets, lubricant. Is there anything like that in the stores?’

  I shake my head, no. I’m not even sure where I’d start looking for some of that stuff on the outside.

  ‘So how long will it last?’

  She returns her gaze to the generator.

  ‘I don’t know. As long as it doesn’t get any worse it might hold out for years. It could give up on us later today.’

  I close my eyes while I digest this latest piece of bad news. It may not matter for the Juvies; in a couple of weeks they’ll be on their way back to Mount Weather. Mags, the kid and me, we won’t be making that journey with them, however; this will be our home for the winter. I hadn’t figured on spending those long months without heat, or light. I don’t care much to think about what that would be like.

  She steps away from the machine, back into the shadows. When she returns she’s carrying a cardboard box.

  ‘I’ll need to run the generator for a while to clear the flooding. Those vibrations will work things loose pretty fast, so I’ll be staying down here to keep an eye on it. Okay?’

  I nod, still a little distracted by what she’s just told me.

  ‘Good.’ She hands me the box. Inside are the bulbs she’s removed from the bulkhead lamps. ‘And Gabe, I’ll be busy, so maybe it’d be best if I wasn’t disturbed. Can you let the others know?’

  I doubt they’ll need telling, but I nod again anyway.

  ‘Sure.’

  Her eyes drop to the mattress for a second.

  ‘That means you too.’

  She turns away before I have a chance to say anything.

  ‘You can leave rations for Johnny and me by the hatch. If you can see your way clear to swapping out his franks and beans for something else I’d appreciate it. Hard enough to get him to eat regular food in the first place.’

  *

  I MAKE MY WAY BACK up through the plant room.

/>   I have to balance the box of light bulbs on my shoulder to climb the ladder. Jake’s waiting for me at the hatch. I hand it to him.

  ‘She thought you’d need these.’

  I expect questions about that, but I don’t get any. He just stares at the box.

  I swing the hatch closed, but the noise from the ailing machine is only slightly reduced. It travels up through the silo with little to stop it, like the walls had been designed to hold it in, to amplify it.

  ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘There’s a problem with the generator. She doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means she doesn’t want anyone going down there, Jake.’

  I don’t have time to explain it further, even if I had a mind to. Things are worse than I thought. Mags knows something’s wrong with her; that’s why the lights are off, why she’s shutting herself down there, making sure everyone stays away. I’m not sure how much time I have, but it’s probably a lot less time than I counted on.

  I set off up the stair, taking the steps two at a time. At the dorms I step off and run across the gangway to my cell. I never really got around to unpacking, so it takes only seconds to stuff what I’ll need into my backpack. I return to the stair and continue on up.

  When I reach the farms the Juvies are still gathered around the guardrail. Jake’s with them, still carrying the box I gave him. He calls out to me from the gangway.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  Their eyes settle on me, waiting for an explanation. I glance behind them. Growing benches in various stages of completion stretch back into shadow; it won’t be long until the first of them are ready. Too bad they’re wasting their time; those benches will never see a harvest. They give me the excuse I need, however.

  ‘Outside.’ I nod in the direction of the benches. ‘Those look almost done, and now Mags has the power back on.’ I point to the box of bulbs he’s carrying. ‘You’re going to need more than what’s there to get the farms up and running.’