Children of the Mountain (Book 3): Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  ‘And that’s exactly what it does; it rewires you, makes you all those things.’ I stare at my hand a moment longer, then let it fall to my side. ‘You could ask Gilbey yourself, she’d tell you. If I hadn’t killed her, that is. Her and Corporal Truckle.’

  I leave him a moment to digest those details, then I glance down at the gun on my hip.

  ‘See, Kurt, if I wanted I could draw this pistol, put a bullet right between your eyes, have it back in its holster before you even knew you’d been hit. I’m new to the killing business, though, and it’s been a busy day. So I reckon I’ll wait till you swing that rifle in my direction. I figure that way I’ll sleep a little easier tonight.’

  Kane’s eyes narrow, like he’s not buying it. He turns to Kurt, his tone impatient.

  ‘If he was going to do something he would have done it already. Finish them both and let’s go.’

  I ignore him, keeping my eyes on the rifle Kurt has clutched to his chest.

  ‘Ready whenever you are, Kurt.’

  I try to flex the fingers of my right hand, and this time I think I feel them wiggle. Kurt’s gaze drops there.

  ‘Maybe we should just get out of here, Mr. President.’

  Kane lets out an exasperated sigh, and for a second I think he might take the weapon and do this himself. But he doesn’t. He simply shakes his head and then turns and walks off into the tunnel.

  Kurt calls over his shoulder.

  ‘What about Randall, Mr. President? I-I think he’s still breathing.’

  Kane doesn’t stop. His voice drifts back up to us through the tunnel, already growing hollow with distance.

  ‘He’s beyond saving. That other one was infected, so he’ll have it now too. Come along.’

  Kurt looks down at Peck, then his eyes return to me.

  The voice inside my head warns me against it, but I can’t resist. I wave my good hand in his direction, like he’s dismissed.

  ‘Listen to your master, Kurt. Best you run along now.’

  He starts to follow, then his face twists and he jabs a finger at me.

  ‘Freak.’

  I lean forward, offering him a smile. My features the way they are now I’m guessing that brings him no more comfort than I intend it to. He takes a quick step backwards, and when he speaks again there’s fear in his voice.

  ‘I’m warning you, both of you: you’d better not follow us.’

  He holds up the rifle as if to make his point, but I notice he takes care not to point it at me. I spread my good hand, a gesture of supplication. To my surprise the other manages something vaguely similar.

  He takes another step backwards, then without warning he turns and runs off after Kane.

  I watch their flashlights until they’re little more than pinpricks in the darkness.

  *

  WE MAKE OUR WAY through the decontamination chamber, back into the bunker. The safety lights are still burning, but other than Pops the corridor remains empty. Mags squeezes my side and points to the left, to a door with a push bar marked Emergency Exit.

  ‘That’s the way we came, the first time Gilbey brought me down here.’

  I push on the bar, half-expecting an alarm to sound, but it just creaks open. We step through into a concrete stairwell and start climbing. Mags seems a little steadier on her feet now, but it’s slow work all the same. When we reach the first landing I stop and try to splay my fingers. They twitch, like they want to do my bidding, but the messages my brain’s sending still aren’t getting through right. Mags watches, then her gaze shifts to the pistol, nestled in its holster.

  ‘Is it true, everything you said back there?’ She studies the floor a moment. ‘It’s not that they didn’t deserve it, after all they’ve done. And I know what it feels like, to be so mad...’

  Her voice trails off and she looks up at me, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I shot Weasel, just like I said. It was that or he was going to shoot me. Gilbey’s dead, too. I didn’t kill her, but I did release the thing that did. I meant it for Truck, but she got in the way. As for Corporal Truckle, as far as I know he’s still alive, most likely holed up in one of those cages they put you and Johnny in, hiding from it. So, no, I didn’t kill him either. I just didn’t save him when I had the opportunity.’

  I look away as I say the last bit, because there’s more to it than I’ve let on, and I don’t want her to see it in my face. I wonder what she’d think if I told her about the baton I slipped through the door handles, or why I might have chosen to do something like that.

  We continue up the stairs. At the top there’s another door and then a long, low-ceilinged corridor. A single fluorescent tube hangs from the ceiling, the light it throws barely sufficient for its length. Beyond, set back in the shadows, a familiar vault door, a large latch handle at its center.

  We make our way towards it. I press down on the handle and the door creaks back into darkness. I reach out with my hand, feeling for the join, and then push. The section of fake wall pops out, concertinas, allowing me to slide it sideways. We step into the Exhibition Hall.

  An emergency lamp flickers above my head. Shadows from the concrete pillars that brace the high ceiling shift against the walls. The garish wallpaper does well to hide the fact that we haven’t yet left the bunker, a fact I mean to remedy without delay. On the far side of the room stairs lead up to the Colonial Lounge. Beyond there’s a long passageway and then the lobby, all that now stands between us and getting out of this place.

  We’re halfway across when I hear a sound. Mags must have caught it too; she freezes at my side.

  Something appears at the bottom of the stairs. A dark shape, the contours unfamiliar, until I realize it’s not a single person but two: one lean, rangy, the other of much heavier build. The larger one reaches the foot of the stairs, stumbles into the flickering light and now I recognize him. He’s bent forward, an arm twisted high behind his back. The thinner man stands behind, shoving him on.

  Hicks.

  It’s less of a shock than I was expecting; I guess deep down I knew the chances of us getting out of here without running into him were slim. His prisoner’s more of a surprise, however. By now Jake should be somewhere in Virginia, leading the Juvies back to Mount Weather.

  Hicks pushes him forward a few more steps, then stops and looks at me.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come back.’

  I feel the anger bubbling up again, that he would say something like that.

  ‘You didn’t leave me that choice.’

  He nods, like he understands.

  ‘I figured.’ He squints at me, shifts his jaw from side to side. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  He says it without an explanation of what he means. Could be the way I look now, or that Mags is free. Maybe he found Weasel outside. It might be all of it.

  I slide my arm behind my back and try to flex my fingers again. This time they tighten, like they want to do my bidding, but the signal my brain’s sending’s still getting jumbled somewhere before if reaches them.

  Mags looks over at Jake.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Jake looks scared, but he nods.

  She turns to Hicks.

  ‘So what do we do now, Sergeant?’

  The voice warns me against saying anything rash, but its influence is already waning as the anger builds inside me. I don’t wait for him to respond.

  ‘He’ll let Jake go and step out of our way, if he knows what’s good for him.’

  I don’t need the voice to tell me that’s not going to happen, though. That’s just not who he is; I doubt there’s ever been a single thing in his life he wouldn’t have sacrificed on the blessed altar of getting the job done. I think of Mags, and Johnny, all the others he helped put in cages. And for what? To comply with an order he’d been given, years ago, by some politician or general long since dead.

  The thought of it makes me even angrier.

  ‘I’m warning you, Hicks. Get out of our way now. I haven’t come th
is far to die in the trying.’

  Mags squeezes me, letting me know she needs me to be quiet now. I hear her say the one thing that might change his mind.

  ‘Gilbey’s dead, Sergeant. Whatever you thought you were doing here, it’s over. There’s no point anymore.’

  Hicks stares at her for a moment, then looks at me for confirmation. I feel Mags squeeze my side again. I’m not sure I can be trusted to speak, so I just nod. And for a moment it seems like it might work. He sags, like the weight of the world has just settled on his shoulders; like there may be nothing holding him up anymore but the clothes he’s wearing. But then he shakes his head.

  ‘Godammit son, do you know what you’ve done?’

  And with that whatever hope there was for us all to walk out of the room evaporates. The anger returns, and this time there’s no hope of holding it back.

  What I’ve done?

  I spit the words out, with as much venom as I can muster.

  ‘Something you should’ve, a long time ago.’

  He rocks back on his heels, like I’ve just slapped him. Whatever strength had abandoned him a moment ago, something else takes its place now: a cold indifference, as though he cares little about what happens next, only that there is business yet to finish.

  He lets go of Jake.

  I slip my arm out from around Mags, hiss at her to get out.

  She opens her mouth to protest, but I tell Jake to take her. He hesitates, then hurries over. I push her towards him, not daring to take my eyes off Hicks.

  ‘Gabe, wait…’

  I don’t want to hear what she has to say. I bark at them both to leave. She starts to struggle, but Jake picks her up easily, starts carrying her towards the stair.

  Hicks shifts his arm and the parka falls back, exposing a pistol, just like Marv’s. He works his jaw from side to side.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, kid.’

  And just like that it hits me, sudden and absolute. This is it; I have embarked on the final seconds of my life. And for a moment the shock of it displaces even the rage. I look past Hicks to where Jake is dragging Mags up the stairs. The sight of it triggers a final burst of memories: the first time I saw her, in the dayroom of the Sacred Heart Home for Children, a tattered paperback cradled in her lap; sneaking up to the roof of Eden’s mess before the curfew buzzer sounded, to tell her the stories I had found on the outside; the first time we kissed. And with them an instant of unbearable sadness. Because these are things I want so much.

  Hicks’ hand hangs loose at his side, his fingers still hovering over the steel on his hip, the instrument that will take this away from me. And just like that the anger returns, hardening my will. The calm voice lets go, ceding control to the older part of me, the part that takes care of heartbeat and breath, tooth and claw. The part nature built first to keep my ass alive.

  Behind me the emergency light flickers. My nerves are already jumping like bowstrings; it’s all it takes. The muscles in my hand twitch, and then it begins.

  Time slows, is replaced by something else. Hicks’ fingers are already closing around his weapon. When I saw him, in the basement of the hospital in Blacksburg, after Ortiz got surprised by the fury, I could scarcely believe how fast he was. Shrapnel-fast. One instant his hand had been empty and the next there had been a pistol there. I told Mags afterwards I didn’t think even Peck would have been a match for him, and now I see the truth in that.

  It wouldn’t have been close.

  My brain’s sending furious messages to my own hand, but it still hasn’t moved, and yet I know with cold certainty that even now I could beat him, if I weren’t for what Truck had done to my arm.

  The anger grows, becomes a rage, a fury.

  And at last I feel something there.

  Purpose.

  My hands dips for the holster.

  Too late.

  Hicks has already drawn the Beretta. He brings it up in one smooth motion, sudden and terribly deadly. I can see the barrel now, wide, like a tunnel. He can’t miss, not from this distance.

  And then my own pistol is in front of me. I feel its weight, the coldness of the steel, the contours of the grip, the subtle give in the trigger, the punch of the recoil. There’s the pepper-smell of gunpowder and then I’m stepping through it and it’s gone, even as I squeeze again.

  I stride forward, keeping my finger tight on the trigger, my off hand fanning the hammer back, over and over. The bullets shake him, like a sapling in a blizzard, and then I’m standing over him, the last round fired and all there is the dry click of the hammer hitting an empty chamber. The pistol slips from my fingers and I let out a howl, wordless and incoherent, of relief, or rage, or sadness, I can’t be sure.

  I feel something touch my arm and I spin around, still struggling to drag my brain out of the torrent of adrenalin.

  Mags.

  She bends down and collects the Beretta from where Hicks has dropped it. Her brow furrows and she looks up, like she’s deciding whether to show me. She hesitates a moment then holds it out.

  I take it from her, not understanding. She points to a spot at the back, between the grip and the rear sight, and then I see.

  The safety.

  It was never off.

  *

  I RELOAD THE PISTOL with the last of the bullets from the gun belt while Jake explains how he’s come to be here. His skills don’t lie in storytelling; he’s done before I’ve dropped the final cartridge into its chamber. I snap the gate shut and return the pistol to its holster.

  We’re not done yet.

  The kid’s plan to empty out The Greenbrier worked, at least as well as could be expected; Jake said he took off with Jax and a couple of the Guardians on his tail. I can’t see how that will have gone well for him. The kid’s quick, but his legs are short; no way he’d be able to outpace The Viking, not in the snow. I need to go find them. First we need to get clear of this place, though; if there’s anyone still left inside they’ll have heard the gunfire.

  But when we reach the lobby there’s just a single figure waiting. He stands in the center of the checkerboard marble, hands clasped behind his back, staring up at the chandelier that hangs from the high ceiling. He looks over as we enter.

  ‘Ah, Gabriel.’

  ‘Mr. Finch?’

  He’s wearing the overcoat with the fur-trimmed collar he had on that night in the holding pen. The hem is splashed with dirt, like he has travelled a distance in it.

  He turns to Mags.

  ‘And this must be Mags.’ He holds out a hand. ‘I am delighted to meet you, my dear. Gabriel has told me so much about you. My name is Garland Finch.’

  Mags eyes him suspiciously, then takes his hand. He offers Jake a smile, then gestures to a pair of armchairs that sit either side of a tall wooden clock.

  I look around uncertainly, still not sure what’s going on. Through the lobby’s tall windows I see a handful of dark shapes, bundled up in rags, making their way towards the entrance.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr. Finch, but we have business to attend to. There’s a friend of ours still unaccounted for.’

  He flutters his fingers, like this should not be a concern.

  ‘Oh, don’t fret on his account, Gabriel. I expect he’ll be with us presently.’

  I’m not sure what he means by that, but now more men are gathering outside and I have yet to figure out how to get us by them, so I follow him over to the chairs. His heels click on the marble. There’s no sign of the cane and only the merest hint of a drag in his stride. He stands in front of the clock, taking a moment to admire the carvings on its golden face, then bends to the nearest chair and lifts the drop sheet that covers it. The upholstery is patterned like the feathers of some colorful bird. He brushes the dust from it and motions for Mags to sit. She hesitates then takes a seat. He points me towards the other one.

  ‘I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Finch.’

  ‘As you wish, Gabriel, as you wish.’

  He chooses
a spot on the sofa opposite, carefully placing one knee over the other, then looks up at me. The spectacles are gone. Without them his eyes seem an even paler shade of blue.

  I glance back towards the entrance. What looks like the entire population of Starkly Correctional Institution now seems to be waiting outside. I realize it must have been their tracks I saw this morning, out on the interstate, not Peck’s.

  ‘When did you send them out?’

  Finch’s lips crease in a smile.

  ‘The morning after you showed up.’

  ‘You were always going to go for it.’

  He nods.

  ‘I do hope you will excuse the subterfuge.’ He spreads his hands. ‘Only when I heard you speak of this place, it seemed like an opportunity too great to pass up.’

  He leans forward and his expression changes, as though an unpleasant thought has just occurred to him.

  ‘You didn’t have any designs on it yourself, did you?’

  I shake my head. I can’t imagine anything worse than spending another night here.

  ‘Good, good. I would hate for us to fall out over it.’

  ‘You held me in that cell, though.’

  He spreads his hands by way of apology.

  ‘Yes, but your incarceration was only temporary. I assumed you would need our help, and I needed time to get these fellows here. You will forgive me Gabriel, but your plan did seem a little…threadbare.’ He looks over at Mags, then back to me again. ‘Although I have to say, you seem to have managed admirably.’ He gestures in the direction of the Exhibition Hall. ‘What will we find back there?’

  ‘Just bodies, for the most part. There’s a level beneath the plant room; you might want to be careful when you go check it out. One of the furies got free. It has a soldier trapped down there.’