by R. A. Hakok
It was the mean soldier who came to get her, with the catchpole and the stick. Johnny 99 hadn’t been able to look. He’d pushed himself to the back of his cage and covered his head with his hands when it happened. He is ashamed of that because 98 was his friend, although in the end he doesn’t think she knew who he was anymore.
Johnny 99’s decided that won’t happen to him. He’ll keep taking the medicine and eating the regular food, even if he doesn’t feel like it, and he won’t flinch or look away when the doctor shines a light into his eyes, even if it hurts.
That way they’ll know.
He’s not like the others.
*
WE’RE ON THE ROAD AGAIN at first light. If Hicks’ head is hurting from the bourbon he’s not showing any sign of it; the pace he’s setting doesn’t slacken. The morning passes much as the day before did; a succession of frozen landscapes, like a series of old black and white photos. We hike through each, aiming for the bend or the crest that will show us the next. When the time comes we eat by the side of the road, huddled up in our parkas. Hicks’ stomach must still be feeling delicate from the whisky; he just sips from his thermos and lets another cigarette burn down between his fingers. He watches me as afterwards I bag our trash and bury it in the snow.
After lunch the road inclines for a couple of miles and when it finally crests we come to a small green sign, almost buried under a drift, that reads Greenbrier County. A little further on a high gantry that’s somehow survived rust and storm and virus spans the highway. A large faded blue sign mounted to it says Welcome to West Virginia and underneath Wild and Wonderful.
A mile or so after the sign the road fishhooks and then passes over what looks like train tracks. Beneath us, maybe a hundred yards back in the direction we’ve come, I can just make out the entrance to a tunnel. Ashen drifts reach almost all the way up the curved walls, almost hiding it completely. Hicks knocks snow off the guardrail then throws a leg over and drops down a steep embankment on the other side, sliding his way to the floor of a narrow ravine. Ortiz goes next and then I shuck off my backpack and follow him. A second later Mags gets to her feet beside me and dusts herself off, followed a little too closely by Jax, who arrives in an avalanche of snow. Boots spends a while looking down at us until Hicks loses patience and barks at him to hurry it up. He slips as he’s clambering over the guardrail and tumbles down the slope, shedding his goggles and respirator on the way down. The drifts are deep at the bottom and Hicks has to send Jax to dig him out. He finally gets to his feet, furiously wiping snow off his glasses. It might be the first time they’ve been cleaned since he got fitted for them.
The track curves around for a half mile or so and then straightens. The ravine widens out and we pass a short siding, a corroded railcar sitting idle against the buffers. In the distance I can see what looks like a long shelter, the roof timbers swaybacked under the weight of snow, running the length of what I’m guessing was once a platform. As we get closer a faded Amtrak sign says Sulfur Springs.
We leave the railway tracks behind us and make our way through a parking lot to the road. There’s a station house, almost buried under a blanket of gray snow, its small porch supported by two red and white pillars. The paint’s faded and peeling but they look like candy cane and for a moment it puts me in mind of a story Miss Kimble read to us about these kids who get abandoned in a forest by their ne’er-do-well father and then stumble on a witch who lives in a house made of nothing but Hershey’s kisses and Reese’s peanut butter cups. Miss Kimble said it was a classic but it always seemed kinda lame to me. Mags said she liked it though, because in the end the witch gets her ass thrown in an oven.
On the other side of the road two matching sections of wall curve inward to a pair of large stone gateposts, marking an entrance. The gatepost on the left has started to crumble, but the other’s mostly intact. The once-white paintwork’s flaking badly, but the sign there’s still legible. The dark green cursive announces that we have arrived at The Greenbrier. Underneath, in neat capitals, it says America’s Resort.
Hicks leads us between the gateposts and we start up a long driveway. I’m beginning to think there’s been a mistake. I look over at Mags and I can see she’s thinking the same thing. The facility listed on Marv’s map definitely shared the name on the post, but it was supposed to be a bunker. And then as the road curves around I finally get my first glimpse of The Greenbrier and I’m sure of it.
I stop, pushing my goggles up onto my forehead. Beside me Mags does the same. It’s like we’re back at the White House on the Last Day. But it’s clear even from this distance that The Greenbrier is much, much bigger; almost too big to take in in a single glance. The front is dominated by a huge portico, four massive columns supporting a low triangular gable that slopes down to a flat roof. I count five, no, six stories, rows of tall, dark windows filing off in each direction. They continue around on both sides, the wings forming a giant squared-off horseshoe that surrounds what must once have been the gardens. Tattered, weather-faded flags hang from poles that jut from the first floor balustrade.
We set off again, hurrying to catch up to the soldiers. As we get closer I see a dark shape squatting on the lawn, covered under a thick mantle of snow. I keep looking at it as we hike up to the entrance. The outline is unfamiliar, and it takes me a while to figure out that it’s a helicopter. It’s way bigger than the one that brought us to Eden, though, and there are two sets of rotors, not one. The first are mounted on a tall hump above the cockpit; the second rest on top of a tail section at the back and sit even higher above the long, riveted fuselage. The thick blades hang down under their own weight, the tips almost touching the gray powder. As we walk past I can see that the loading ramp at the back is down. Snow drifts up into the darkened interior.
On the other side of the helicopter a path has been cleared. We step into the shadow of the portico; the colossal columns tower over us as we bend down to undo our snowshoes. As I stand I notice a camera mounted high on the wall above me. Its red light blinks once then goes dark again. There’s something about that that doesn’t seem right but Hicks is already making his way inside so I kick the snow off my boots and follow him through a set of double doors into a huge lobby.
And for a moment all I can do is stare.
*
KANE’S HOUSE IN EDEN always seemed luxurious. The sofas and armchairs where we would sit for confession were so much more comfortable than the plastic chairs in the mess, or the chapel’s wooden pews; the soft glow from the reading lamps so much kinder than the glare from the cavern’s arc lights. But underneath the rugs the floor was the same riveted metal my feet would touch first thing in the morning; behind the pictures that hung on his walls were the same welded panels I’d stare up at from my cot before the curfew buzzer each night.
This place couldn’t be more different. I look around, slowly taking it all in. Large black and white marble tiles stretch off in all directions, like I’m standing on a giant checkerboard. Above me a massive chandelier hangs from an ornate ceiling. The crystals are covered in dust but they still manage to catch the last of the day’s light coming through the lobby’s tall windows. A wide, carpeted staircase leads down to a lower level; next to it another spirals upwards. And scattered everywhere, items of furniture. Dustsheets shroud much of it but here and there something has gone uncovered. A pair of armchairs, the pattern on the upholstery like the feathers of a giant, exotic bird. A tall wooden clock, its golden face intricately carved, the pendulum beneath now still.
But what strikes me even more than these extravagances are the colors. Eden was steel and rock; a handful of small, windowless metal boxes huddled together inside a cavern dug deep into a mountain. It had no need for cheery tones; no part of it had been designed with joyful times in mind. What little there was got washed out by the arc lights, or faded to grainy shadow once the curfew buzzer sounded and those were cut. Mount Weather might be bigger, and more modern, but ultimately its purpose was no differ
ent. It existed solely to get whatever remained of humanity through its darkest hours.
It’s not like that here. As I look around I see large colorful paintings hanging from wallpapered walls; thick red carpets climb the staircases and from underneath the dust cloths the once-vivid fabrics of sofas and armchairs peek out. The patterns may have faded with time and here and there the paper on the walls is starting to peel. But even in the failing evening light this place is a riot of blues and greens and pinks and reds.
The thought I had as I caught my first glimpse of The Greenbrier from outside returns: Hicks has brought us to the wrong place. The facility marked on Marv’s map was supposed to be a bunker, and whatever this place might be, it isn’t one. After ten years I know what those look like. I’m about to ask him when he looks over and points at my boots.
‘You’ll need to take those off. Doc doesn’t like us tracking dirt in from the outside.’ Spidey pings a warning at this. But as I look over at Ortiz I see he’s already removed his and is stacking them on a nearby bellhop cart next to his rifle. Beside him Jax is hard at work on his laces, a task that seems to be consuming all of his powers of concentration.
I hesitate for a second then undo my boots and hand them over. Hicks flips one over to check the size and then adds them to the cart. Mags frowns like she’s not happy about this either but in the end she does the same. He disappears down the stairs and comes back a moment later with a pair of trainers for her and some slippers with The Greenbrier embroidered on the front for me.
‘Sorry kid, nothing in your size. You’ll have to give me that sidearm now too. All weapons get locked away here. Doc don’t allow guns inside the house. No exceptions.’
Marv’s gun’s not loaded anyway, so unless I’m planning to hit someone with it it’s not going to be much use. I reach into the pocket of my parka and hand it over.
He takes it out of the Ziploc bag and ejects the magazine. Then he pulls the slide back and checks the chamber for a round. When he doesn’t find one he looks up at me and raises an eyebrow in what I think might be an expression of amusement, but maybe not. Behind him Jax has finally worked out how many times the bunny has to hop around the tree before his footwear comes off. He stands up and lumbers off through the lobby like he’s suddenly remembered somewhere important he has to be. Ortiz grabs his backpack and hauls it into the corner with the others. He collects the giant’s outsized boots from where they’ve been discarded and adds them to the others on the bellhop cart and then sets off down the corridor with it. Hicks follows him into darkness.
Boots blinks at Mags behind his glasses and asks if she wants dinner. She looks at me. I’m not sure I care much for more of Private Kavanagh’s company but we’ve hiked a long way since lunch and my stomach’s already betrayed me by growling loudly at the mention of food, so I shrug my shoulders and nod. He digs into his pack and pulls out a packet of boil-in-the-bag frankfurters and a tin of beans.
We follow him across the lobby and down a long, wide hallway. Tall arch windows look out onto what I’m guessing would once have been the gardens, where now the gray outline of the helicopter squats in the dying light. The muffled sounds of conversation drift up from somewhere ahead of us on the right.
Boots stops in front of a set of double doors and holds one open for Mags to go through. I follow her into a huge dining room. Two rows of sculpted columns support a high ceiling, at least a dozen chandeliers like the one in the lobby hanging between them. Large, ornate mirrors that would once have reflected the light back line the walls, their surfaces spackled black with years of neglect.
Most of the furniture’s been stacked neatly in one corner but in the center one table remains. I see Jax already seated at it, his broad back to us. Three other men sit with him, all in uniform, the remains of a meal spread out in front of them. The soldier at the head of the table seems to be giving forth on something but he stops mid-sentence as we step in and looks over at us.
‘Well, look what we got here.’
*
THE OTHER TWO MEN turn around in their seats, and for a long moment no one speaks. Then one of them inclines his head to the soldier at the head of the table who first spotted us.
‘Damn but that boy looks tall enough to hunt geese with a rake, don’t he Truck?’
Boots is over at a sideboard fiddling with the knobs on a camping stove, trying to get the burners to light. He doesn’t seem to be having much success and without gasoline I wonder how much longer it’s going to take him. Everyone at the table’s staring at us so I figure we should go over and say hello.
Boots finally manages to get the stove going and now he scurries across the room and darts in front of us, anxious not to relinquish control of his prize. He pulls out a chair for Mags and motions for her to sit. I slide myself into the next one along before he has the chance to claim it for himself. Across the table Jax is loading a rubbery-looking frankfurter into his mouth whole. He stares back at me as he chews on it. It’s unclear from those flat blue eyes whether he recognizes us from before or not.
Boots makes the introductions. The soldier at the end of the table who looked like he was holding court when we came in is a big man, thickset, although the way his sweat-stained fatigues hang on his heavy frame suggests he was once even larger. His sleeves are rolled up and he rests a pair of meaty forearms on the table. His thinning black hair sweeps upwards from a low forehead; a pair of small dark eyes examine us from underneath thick eyebrows that almost meet in the middle. The lower half of his face is dominated by a large jaw and heavy jowls that are darkened with stubble. His bottom lip bumps out and he keeps poking at whatever he’s got tucked there with his tongue. Taken together his features lend him the appearance of a big old bulldog, perhaps fallen on hard times. His fatigues say his name is Truckle but Boots introduces him as Truck. He offers us a yellow gap-toothed smile and spits a long stream of something brown into a cut-off plastic soda bottle at his elbow.
The soldier to his left who commented on my height is thin, wiry. He smiles as it’s his turn to be introduced but his eyes keep darting back to Truck, like he’s less interested in us than in the larger man’s reaction to our presence. The name patch on his breast reads Wiesmann but Boots calls him Weasel. The smile flickers a little at that, like it’s not a name he cares much for. I have to admit it’s pretty apt though. The sharp, inquisitive eyes and overbite don’t call to mind someone you’d leave in charge of the henhouse.
The third man’s name is Rudd. He looks older than the others seated around him. What little hair he has left is gray, and cut to a brisk military stubble. Deep horizontal lines have grooved themselves across his forehead; more bracket his mouth, which seems naturally inclined to pull down at the corners. He seems dour, stern; hard-eyed and humorless. He looks up briefly at the mention of his name, his puffy eyes narrowing to slits, and then returns to the more serious business of digging a plastic fork into his plate of beans. His fatigues are frayed and patched, and like the other soldiers they seem to hang on him, like they once belonged to a larger man. But at least they seem like they’ve been washed recently.
With the introductions over Boots heads back to the sideboard to check on our food. The heavyset man he introduced as Truck reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a small metal tin with the words Grizzly Wide Cut and a picture of a bear stamped across the lid. He raps it on the table a couple of times and then pops the lid and works three blunt fingers deep into the tobacco, pulling out a thick wad. As he holds it up to his nose I notice a small, grubby bandage taped to the inside of his arm, in the same spot Boots was picking at last night. He inhales deeply, then places the tobacco between bottom lip and gum. He works his lip in and out a few times to get the juices flowing, finally smacking them together in satisfaction. When he’s done he replaces the lid on the tin and leans backs in his chair.
‘So Huckleberry, where y’all from?’
The accent’s southern, but not polished or polite like Kane’s was. Maybe
it’s the tobacco he’s just placed in his mouth but he slurs over his consonants, omitting some altogether, instead choosing to linger lazily on the vowels. The nickname I seem to have acquired comes out Huck-a-beh-ree.
I tell him we’re from a place called Eden. His eyebrows knit together as if he’s thinking hard about where that might be. It looks like he might be building up to ask some more questions, so I decide to head him off with one of my own first. Boots has just set a plate with an anemic looking frankfurter and a spoonful of watery beans in front of me. I pick up a plastic fork and point at it.
‘Is this all you have left?’
Truck’s face hardens and he spits another stream of brown tobacco juice into the container at his elbow.
‘Franks and beans not good enough for you, boy? Some might say you’re lucky we’re sharing with you at all.’
I open my mouth to explain that I didn’t mean to cause offense; I was just asking a question. The food actually smells okay; I’ve certainly had worse. But Mags beats me to it. She pushes her plate out in front of her, the contents untouched. I see what’s coming and put my fork down with a sigh.
‘You needn’t worry. We have our own food; we won’t need to trouble you for any of yours.’
Boots pipes up behind me. ‘It’s true Truck. They’ve got a bunch of army rations on them. All sorts of flavors.’
‘Is that so?’ Truck’s gaze shift from Boots back to Mags. ‘And just where are y’all headed, miss?’
‘South.’
‘South, is it?’
‘Yes. We’ll be moving on soon.’
