by Hakok, R. A.
That time might not be far off now, however.
*
THEY FINALLY CATCH UP to the soldiers three nights later. Or at least two of them.
They enter a town with dusk upon them. All day they have hiked in the shadow of mountains that seemed to grow no closer, but now in the fading light they suddenly loom high over them. The boy with the curly hair checks a road sign against the map he carries. He says this place is called Salem, and beyond it lies the interstate. That way is easier, but longer. Or they can continue north, into the mountains. Tomorrow they will have to decide.
The boy chooses a small church for shelter. He knows there is something wrong as soon as he steps inside. A smell packs the air: thick, sweet, and for a moment he feels something inside him stir. The boy dumps the branches they have gathered on the floor and shucks off his backpack, seemingly unaware.
He glances down at the bundle of moldering sticks. It is his job to light the fire. He is good at it, and so the boy lets him. That task will have to wait, however. He peers into the grainy shadows, trying to locate the source of the smell, but there is nothing. There is no mistaking it, though; it is strong; almost overpowering. It makes him think of another church and the soldier with the patch over his eye, opening a flask, sliding it towards him. The thing inside him clenches again at the memory, and this time he has to work harder to force it back down.
He tilts his head, testing the air. It seems to be coming from somewhere in the back. He crouches down, making his slowly way between the scattered pews, checking each as he goes.
He finds the first of them lying on the floor at the end of one of the long wooden benches. It is one of the men from the night they arrived at the first place inside the mountain. Not the dangerous man, with the gray eyes and the gun, but the other, the one who had been standing by the lake while the others had held the boy with the curly hair down and poured water on him. He lies propped against the wall. His cheeks were red before, but all the color has drained from them now. His parka is open and a large bandage has been taped to one side of his neck. The material is dark, sodden with his blood. His eyes are closed, but now and then his chest rises and a fresh bead of it breaks free from underneath the gauze, trickles down his neck.
The thing inside him struggles, and for a moment all he can do is stare while he wrestles with it. At last he calls out. The boy must sense something is wrong from the tone of his voice. He drops the kindling he is gathering and comes running. When he sees the man lying on the ground he bends down next to him.
‘Sergeant Scudder.’
For a moment there is nothing, but then the man’s eyes flutter open. He sees the boy and then his eyes shift to him, grow wide. He tries to get up, but he is too weak.
‘It’s okay. He won’t hurt you.’
The man’s eyes suggest he doesn’t believe it. He stares like that a moment longer, then croaks for water.
The boy fetches his canteen and holds it to his lips. The man sips greedily, but most of it runs down his chin, mixing with the blood on his neck. When it seems like he is done drinking the boy lifts the canteen.
‘What happened?’
The man’s eyes flick to the boy, then return to him. He takes a shallow breath, whispers a single word: Waiting.
‘Someone was waiting for you?’
The man nods.
‘Here?’
The man points over in the direction of altar. The boy reaches for his flashlight, but he has already seen them. Two more bodies. The nearest is one of the boys from the lake. The other he doesn’t think he recognizes, but it takes him a moment to be certain. The sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks make it seem familiar, but then everyone looked like that when he was in the cage.
The boy cranks the flashlight’s handle. As the beam settles on the nearest body he mouths the word Seth. He lets it linger there for a moment, then moves it along. When it finds the second one the boy jumps to his feet. He drops the flashlight and starts fumbling in his pocket for the gun the girl gave him.
The man shakes his head.
‘Already dead. Peck. Shot it.’
The boy picks up the flashlight. He stares at the creature lying on the floor for a long moment, like he might not trust what the man has told him. After a few seconds he slowly returns the gun to the pocket of his parka. His eyes return to the man.
‘Mags? Was Mags okay?’
The man closes his eyes, nods. He raises a finger, points to an old metal radiator mounted to the wall.
‘Tied up, right there.’
He holds his hand there for a while, like it’s important. Then he lets it fall to his side, as though the effort has exhausted him. He shakes his head.
‘Showed no interest in her. Would’ve…had to step right over her to get by.’
*
THE FLASK FINCH LEFT ME remains untouched, but I find myself eyeing it each time I reach the bars now, so I give up on pacing and take to the cot. I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the generator. The last few hours it’s been running ragged. The motor will hunt for a while, up and down, like someone’s tweaking the throttle, or it’ll take to sputtering, like something’s caught in the pipes. It always seems to right itself, however. Even as I listen it coughs, once, twice, like it’s clearing its throat, then returns to its languid drone.
I close my eyes. Peck will be on the home straight by now; tomorrow evening they’ll be back at The Greenbrier. My fingers grip the side of the cot as I imagine Truck dragging her into that other room. The curtain inside my head starts to descend as the anger builds, pushing aside the feelings of helplessness and despair. The voice speaks, telling me to breath. I prefer its measured tones to the craven whispers of whatever it has replaced, but I can’t help but think it’s being far too relaxed about this. I wonder if whatever lives inside my head has gone native. Hicks said the furies put themselves into some sort of hibernation when they ran out of food. Maybe it’s looking forward to that.
No.
The generator takes to coughing again, for longer this time. Eventually it settles, but the chugging drone has become lumpier, more erratic.
Are you ready?
I sit up slowly.
Ready for what?
The motor catches, and for a second revs, like it’s been goosed. Then without warning it simply dies. There’s a moment’s silence, followed by a loud click from the front of my cell as the lock releases. I watch for a second in disbelief as the door slowly swings back on its hinges, and then I’m on my feet.
But as I step out into the corridor I freeze. A little further along I can see my parka, draped over the back of the chair Finch had placed in front of the fury’s cell. The rest of my clothes are resting on the seat, neatly folded, my boots side-by-side underneath. None of those things are what’s giving me pause, however. The door to the cell next to mine: there’s no sign of the chain that once held it fast, and now it hangs open, too. I guess my lock wasn’t the only one to release when the generator died.
I stare at it for a moment. Has the creature Finch kept there already escaped? But even as I think it I catch movement from the shadows behind. I watch as it slips through.
It looks up as it sees me, and for long seconds we both just stand there, no more than a half-dozen paces apart, each waiting to see what the other will do.
My eyes flick past it, to the corridor beyond.
I don’t have time for this. I take a deep breath, getting ready to run at it.
Wait.
On the floor; look.
I glance down, not daring to take my eye off the creature in front of me for more than a second. The flask Finch left is right at my feet. When I look up again I see the fury’s gaze has shifted there too.
I slide it forward with my foot. As soon as it’s within reach the creature snatches the flask up, then hurries back into its cell. It pushes itself into the corner and busies itself with the lid. Its eyes dart to me one last time, then it lifts the battered metal container
to its lips, tilts its head back and starts to drink. Drops of something dark trickle from its lips, falling from its chin to spatter the concrete.
I’m already reaching for my parka when the smell hits me. My head snaps back to the cell, and for a moment I’m rooted to the spot, transfixed; all I can do is stand there and stare. Something inside me awakens, uncoils itself. I know what it would have me do. The creature in the cell senses it; its lip curls and it snarls back at me from the shadows. It is a puny thing, though, pathetic; it will be no match for me. I take a step towards it. Inside my head the brace wire shutter starts to descend.
No.
I grip the bars, wrestling for control. But the smell is maddening; it takes everything I have not to rush into the cell, rip the flask from the creature’s hands.
You have somewhere else to be now.
It shows me an image: Mags, forced onto her toes, her feet scrabbling for purchase as the noose tightens around her neck. The muscles along Truck’s arms bunching as he hoists her up.
And now the rage has a different focus.
I take a step backwards, then another. I grab my parka and boots from the chair and set off along the passageway at a run.
At the top of the stairs concrete gives way to stone and I stop to pull on my boots. I take a couple of deep breaths as I tighten the laces, still trying to clear my head. I’m not sure what almost happened back there but whatever it was I can’t allow it again, least not till I’m clear of Starkly’s walls. I shuck on my parka and make my way down the hall, past laundry, kitchens, pantry, straining for sounds ahead.
When I reach the cellblock I stop again. My luck seems to be holding; Starkly’s quiet as a morgue.
Too quiet.
The voice is right. It might still be dark outside, but there’s nothing; no snores, no dream-laden grunts, none of the other night sounds the prisoners would make. Only the tinny silence of emptiness, the occasional gust of wind against stone outside.
If this is a game Finch is playing with me I don’t understand it. He either means to let me leave or he doesn’t. I take a deep breath and step through the door, making my way across the open expanse of cellblock quick as I can. I hold my breath, expecting at any moment to be challenged. But there’s nothing, and then I’m out in the yard, crunching through snow. Ahead lies the holding pen. I pull back the gate and step inside. The pockmarked booth is dark, empty. I make my way towards the access door set into the towering main gate and slide back the bolt. The hinges creak as I heave it open. I don’t bother to close it behind me. My snowshoes are waiting where I left them, propped against the wall outside. I step into them, ratchet the straps tight and then I’m gone.
I stop on the ridge overlooking the valley long enough to dig up Mags’ backpack from where I buried it on my way in. I strap on the gun belt, sling her crucifix around my neck, and then I’m off again, bounding down to the highway with a pace I can scarcely believe.
I take the straightest route I can figure, cutting cross-country where I figure it might save me a quarter mile, less. I’m a five-day hike from The Greenbrier with at best two days to cover that distance. I don’t trouble myself with whether it can be done. I just point myself north and make my strides as long and fast as my legs will allow.
One by one the miles fall under my snowshoes. I pass through places with names like Prospect, Blanch, Vandola, but don’t stop in any of them. The day grows uncomfortably bright. I keep my head down, cupping my hands to my goggles when I need to raise it to study the road ahead. At last, somewhere far behind the clouds, the sun starts tracking for the horizon. As dusk settles I quit North Carolina and continue on into Virginia.
Neither darkness nor cold will stop me now.
Just before dawn I get that scratchiness behind my eyes that tells me I’ll soon need to sleep. I fight it for as long as I can, but soon my vision starts to narrow and things that cannot be there appear in what remains, making me think what I see now might not be trusted. Up ahead a shotgun shack sits just off the highway, gray snow banked against its dilapidated sides, more pressing down on its corrugated roof. A padlocked gate hangs rusting between two crumbling posts, but I don’t trouble myself with it; only a few broken staves remain of the fence that once completed its sad perimeter.
The front door’s already busted open, so there’s no need to unsling Mags’ pack for the pry bar. I snap off my snowshoes and climb the steps. The boards are waterbuckled, sprung; they creak under my boots as I yank the screen door back. Ahead there’s a narrow hallway, the wallpaper mildewed, peeling; the ceiling cracked, crumbling, the laths poking through behind.
I don’t bother with a fire, just find a spot on the floor and lay my head down. My eyes close and seconds later I’m gone.
By evening of the second day I’m most of the way through Virginia. The flatlands are behind me now, and in front the Appalachians rise up, their snow-capped peaks scraping the underbellies of the clouds that hang ominous and low over them. I arrive at a place called Salem with dusk falling and hurry through it, looking for the interstate beyond. Peck will have cut east from here in search of one of the low passes that wind their way through the valley floor. But the quickest way’s north, into the mountains.
I make my way across the overpass and continue on, what little color there is leaching away as darkness settles around me. Beyond the road climbs steeply, switching back on itself as it twists ever higher, each ridge gained merely a foretaste of the one to come. For the first time I begin to sense the limits of my newfound endurance, but it’s alright. My legs only need to hold a little longer. I am closer now than I could have hoped.
Just as night’s getting ready to be done the road finally levels and I arrive at a place called Crows, where I stopped with the soldiers on our way to the hospital in Blacksburg. My eyes have been feeling gritty since Catawba, and for the last hour the darkness has had a dreamlike quality to it. I find a gas station and curl up behind the counter. I figure I’ll close my eyes for twenty minutes, be on my way again before sunup.
*
HE SITS IN THE DARKNESS, staring out. Beyond the station house’s candy cane pillars the parking lot is mostly empty. The boy with the curly hair huddles in the corner, bundled up in his parka. They cannot have a fire and inside the crumbling station house it is cold.
It has been two days since they found the other two, in the church. The man called Scudder didn’t last the night. He listened from across the room as his breathing grew ragged, then just before dawn he hitched in a final gasp, something inside his chest rattled, and it settled for the last time.
Before he died the man told the boy which way they had taken the girl. They picked up their tracks later that day and have been following them ever since, always staying out of sight, occasionally catching a glimpse as they crested some distant hill, but mostly just following their prints in the snow. Yesterday evening, as the last of the light was leaving the sky, they saw them ahead in the distance, trudging up an off-ramp as they exited the highway. He hurried to catch up, leaving the boy with the curly hair behind. But then he had been forced to watch, helpless, as they had marched through the crumbling gates and up towards the big house.
He looks out into the parking lot. It is still dark, but already he can sense the approaching dawn. The girl will be back in the cage by now. How long will it be before the Doctor takes her to the other room?
‘We have to go inside.’
He says it mostly to himself, but across the room the boy lifts his head from his knees.
‘H-how? We c-can’t get in. You saw yourself. Those were s-soldiers up at the entrance to the bunker. They had rifles.’ He holds the pistol up. ‘I d-don’t even know how to shoot this!’
He goes back to staring out the window. The boy is close to giving up; he can hear it in his voice. He is afraid too. He tells himself the tall boy will know what to do, when he gets here. Except he should have been here already, and now they are out of time.
He looks out at
the parking lot. His eyes fall on a long-abandoned car, waiting patiently under a blanket of snow right in front of the station house. He gets up, crosses the floor. He clears a spot on dusty, trash-strewn floor with his mitten then sits next to the boy.
‘There’s one more thing we can try.’
They hurry through The Greenbrier’s gates and start up the long driveway. The tracks they are making will be fresh, but that cannot be helped; if they stick to the churned up snow no one should notice. Behind him the boy stumbles uncertainly, feeling his way through the darkness. They cannot have the flashlights and dawn is still some time away; it is not light enough yet for his eyes.
The road curves around, finally revealing the massive building. He makes for a dark shape that squats on the lawn in front of the entrance’s towering columns. As they draw close he leaves the tracks they have been following and hurries towards it. The huge rotors hang down under their own weight, the tips almost touching the powder. They creak and groan as they flex in the wind.
He makes his way along the fuselage, all the way to the back. The loading ramp is down and snow has drifted up into the darkened interior, settling deep in the gaps between the cargo bay’s ribs. Webbing adorns the bellied walls; thick ratchet straps hang from the riveted ceiling, twisting in the wind.
