Children of the Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know

by R. A. Hakok

  I stop and pull out the map again, pretending to examine it while I consider our options. It doesn’t take me long to realize we don’t have many. If we turn around now we could march right into them, but that’s not even my main concern. As I reached into my pocket my fingers brushed the last two containers of Gilbey’s medicine. Enough for just one more day if Mags keeps sharing. Eden’s still maybe five days ahead of us, at our best pace. Without Hicks I don’t know how I’m going to get us there in time to save her; I only know we don’t have time to backtrack. I fold the map and point ahead, like I know where we’re going. The truth is the road I’ve put us on is looking like a bad call, but there’s nothing to do now but keep following it.

  We set off again. The sides of the valley close up around us but the slopes remain bare, without even a single withered trunk to break the gray. With each step we take I feel more and more exposed. I keep looking over my shoulder. I started out this morning hoping at any moment to spot Hicks behind us, but when I turn around now it’s Truck and the others I expect to see.

  All afternoon we hike north, deeper and deeper into the valley. I look for mile markers but find none. I’m still stopping us every hour for frostbite checks, although I’m not sure why, other than for the break it provides. I’m not sure Mags can get frostbite anymore, and I already have it. I dread it now, the moment she lifts her goggles on to her forehead. I find myself staring at the darkening shadows under her eyes, trying to convince myself they’re not getting worse, but struggling to find the evidence of it.

  As dusk settles we pass a row of mailboxes, only their rusting tops visible above the snow. We’ll need shelter soon but there’s no sign of the homes to which they once belonged. I stop to search them. I tell Mags I’m looking for kindling but in reality I’m desperate for anything that might tell us where we are. But there’s nothing.

  Darkness falls around us. The temperature’s dropping fast and I’m starting to panic. We haven’t passed shelter since the pickup where we ate lunch, and that’s too far behind us now to contemplate. At last we come to a widening in the road that somebody has bothered to name Mustoe. It doesn’t show on Marv’s map but that doesn’t matter; as we round a bend I spot a small farmhouse, set back a ways from the road. We trudge up to it as the last of the light leaves the sky. I haven’t managed to replace the pry bar I lost at the hospital but as we get closer I can see I’m not going to need it. The back door’s already busted open and inside looks in a sorry state. If we had alternatives I’d walk us on by, but we are beggars now not choosers. I unsnap my snowshoes and step inside.

  *

  HE SITS IN THE CORNER, one wrist held up to his mouth. His small teeth probe for the edge of the tape binding the mitten to the cuff of his jacket, unaware that that is what he is doing.

  It is dark now, but that no longer soothes him. At first it was all he wished for, but he has come to fear the darkness, even more than the light.

  When they were outside the bunker he asked the girl where they were going. She said she would bring him somewhere and fix him. He hopes they don’t have far to go; he’s not sure how much longer he will be able to hold out. It is there, all the time now, gnawing at him, twisting his insides. If it would just stay out of his head he thinks he might be able to brace himself against it. But it doesn’t. It slips between his thoughts, wrapping itself around them, until he can no longer be sure which are his own and which belong to it.

  During the day it is a little better. He can no longer be close to them but as long as they are outside the wind carries their scent away. And he has other things to focus on, like planting his poles, and placing his snowshoes in the tracks the boy has made for him, and shielding his eyes from the light. The light is evil but now he sees it has a purpose; its cruel brightness helps to keep the other thing, the thing inside him, at bay.

  But now it is dark and there is nothing to do but sit and wait. His thoughts – its thoughts - are free to roam where they will.

  He looks across the room. The fire has died down again but he can see perfectly well. The girl lies curled up in her sleeping bag. She watched him earlier, while the boy slept. He remembers the way she used to smell, when they were back in the cages and she cut her hand. But her scent is becoming less interesting to him now.

  His gaze shifts back to the boy. He sits on the other side of the small kitchen, his back against the wall. He is still awake but it will not be long now. His head has already fallen to his chest once. He shifts his head to one side and tastes the air. The smell was so overpowering earlier, when the boy was changing the bandages on his feet. The thought of it makes the hunger rise up inside him, so sudden and strong it surprises him. He knows what it would have him do. He can almost feel the boy’s flesh between his teeth; he knows how the blood will taste as it slides down his throat. A low moan escapes his lips and his head swims with the thought of it.

  He could sit closer. Just a little. There would be no harm in that.

  He drops the cuff of the jacket from his mouth and places one hand on the floor, preparing to shuffle himself forward. For a moment it seems like he will succumb to the blackness but he shakes his head to clear it and pushes himself back into the corner. He knows the thing inside him will not be happy being just a little bit closer.

  He brings his wrist up to his mouth again. His teeth resume their search for the fraying edge of the tape.

  *

  IN THE DREAM I’M BACK in the tunnel. It is strange but familiar, a mix of Eden and Mount Weather and maybe other tunnels as well, ones that will lead to places on Marv’s map I have not yet visited.

  I’m in the darkest part. The inky blackness wraps itself around me, so dense that it threatens to smother me. There’s a flashlight in my hand, but it’s so big I’m struggling to get my fingers around it. I look down and see why; it’s the one Jack got me for when I had to go up in the attic. I hold it in both hands and flick the switch to turn it on but of course it doesn’t work. I press it to my cheek, because that used to calm me down, but something’s wrong. The metal that used to be smooth and cold now feels rough against my skin. I hold it out in front of me, and then I see why: large, scaly patches where the virus has taken hold. Even as I watch it eats through the metal, revealing the fat batteries nestled together inside.

  I toss the flashlight away, horrified that I had held it to my face. And that’s when I hear it. Its scuffling approach echoes up through the darkness behind me. Ahead in the distance I think I can just make out the faintest sliver of light. I start running for it but somehow I don’t seem to be making any progress. It’s like the darkness has a substance, a heft, that pushes against me, holding me back. The sound is getting louder; any second now I’ll feel its weight across my shoulders. I try to turn around but something prevents me. I keep running, but the end of the tunnel’s not getting any closer. And then I feel long, bony fingers closing around my leg and at last I scream.

  I wake with a start. The fire’s gone out and the sweat’s already cooling on my skin. I scan the room, peering into the blackness for angles, shapes, anything to prove I’m no longer in the tunnel. But without the fire I can’t make out a thing.

  I reach for the flashlight I left beside the sleeping bag. The dynamo whirs as I crank the handle. The bulb glows orange, then yellow as the faint pool of light it casts slowly pushes back the darkness.

  The fury’s still sitting in its corner. It raises its hands to ward off the beam, but for an instant I catch the reflection from its eyes as it squints back at me. I keep the flashlight trained on it a second longer then switch it off.

  I don’t care much for sleep after that. I just sit there, staring into the darkness, trying to figure out what we’re going to do. It’s been two days since we left The Greenbrier, more than enough time for Hicks to have caught up with us. Something’s gone wrong and I have to face it now: we can’t rely on him to bring us more of Gilbey’s medicine. My hand reaches inside the pocket of my parka for the two containers that
remain. I feel the dread rising and I struggle to push it back down. I tell myself it’ll be okay; she’s been taking whatever’s inside those plastic vials ever since she got infected. Some of it will still be in her system, and that has to count for something. She won’t change as quickly as Marv did. If we ration what’s left maybe I can still get her there before it’s too late.

  That thought does little to soothe me, however, and in the end I can’t sit there any longer with my thoughts. It’s still early but I get up and quietly start rebuilding the fire. Mags must have been awake too because as soon as I start moving around she sits up in her sleeping bag.

  I set a couple of MREs on to heat and we eat them in silence. She seems more interested in her coffee. She picks at her breakfast for a while and then pushes it aside. I take one of the containers from my pocket. She holds her hand out but I don’t pass it to her right away. I know what I have to do now. Hicks was right. I’ve already waited too long for this.

  ‘Gabe.’

  ‘No, you need to listen to me now, Mags. I’ve thought about this. You can only take half of it. The rest we’ll save for tomorrow. That’ll give us enough for four days. In that time I can get us there.’

  ‘And what about Johnny?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’m not giving you any more to give to it.’

  Her eyes flick to the container. For a moment she looks like she’s considering wrestling it from me. I’m much bigger than she is, but I doubt that would stop her from trying; I suspect the only thing that does is the knowledge that she’d probably infect me in the process.

  She looks back at me.

  ‘You have to promise me, just half, then you’ll give it back?’

  She doesn’t say anything. Eventually she nods once, like she understands.

  I hand her the vial and she unscrews the cap. She raises it to her lips and tilts her head back. When she’s swallowed half of it she stops and replaces the cap. I hold my hand out for it but instead of giving it back she tosses it across the room. The fury hesitates for a moment and then picks the container up. It looks at me like it’s wondering what it should do, but before I have a chance to say anything she turns to it.

  ‘Drink it Johnny.’

  It casts one last glance in my direction then unscrews the cap and drains the remainder of the liquid.

  We pack up our things and leave the farmhouse without speaking.

  For the next two days we hike north. Soon after we set off on the first morning a ridge rises up out of the gloom in front of us and the valley forks left and right. I take out Marv’s map but it isn’t clear on which way we should go so I take us east, figuring that’s the general direction we need to be headed. But after a couple of miles of heavy drifts the road runs out and we have to turn back.

  After that the valley widens out for a stretch and then narrows, the sides closing up around us once again. I’m still stopping us every hour for frostbite checks but Mags stands further away from me now and when she lifts her goggles onto her forehead I don’t want to look at what I see there. We pass through a succession of one-stoplight towns, little more than a handful of dilapidated buildings huddled around a church or a gas station, but after the barren emptiness of the last few days each seems like a metropolis. Route signs start showing themselves again, but we’re so far from Eden there’s little comfort in them.

  That afternoon we pick up a river that Marv’s map says is the south branch of the Potomac and at some point after we must cross into West Virginia but there’s no sign to welcome us. We eat lunch by the side of the road. I want to say something but I’m not sure what and we sit apart and spoon the cooling mix from the MRE pouches in awkward silence and then pack up our things and continue on. A sign says we’ve entered Hardy County and soon after the whole valley shifts east. As night bears down we stop at a small chapel sitting at a crook in the road just outside a place the map says is Durgon. It’s in a bad way. Its cinder block sides are crumbling and the corrugated roof looks like it may not have many more seasons left in it. But Mags has been slowing all afternoon and I’m not sure how many more miles she has in her today.

  The doors have long since been removed and the arched entrance gapes back at us like a toothless maw as we make our way up towards it. I get a fire going and start fixing dinner but she says she isn’t hungry. She just climbs into her sleeping bag and tells me to wake her when it’s her turn to stand watch. The fury waits until she’s asleep and then asks for something to bind itself with. I toss it one of the cable ties from Jax’s backpack. I guess it already has somewhere in mind because it picks it up and slopes off into the darkness and later when I check it’s tethered itself to a radiator. In the night I hear it struggling and the following morning its restraints look like a dog’s been chewing on them but the plastic’s held. Mags frees it as soon as she wakes up. As she’s sipping her coffee I hand her the last of Gilbey’s medicine and ask her not to share it but she does anyway and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  We set off shortly after. I check the road, but it’s empty. I don’t know what’s happened to Hicks, only that he isn’t coming. Today we’ll get off 220 and finally start heading east. If we can keep up this pace I figure another four days’ hike to Eden. There’s no more of Dr. Gilbey’s medicine left, and Mags has been on half rations since yesterday. All I have left to cling to now is that she won’t change as quickly as Marv did.

  The valley continues east. A grainy, reluctant dawn’s seeping into the sky ahead of us and for the first hour we find ourselves hiking into it. The light troubles the fury but there’s little I can do about it, even if I cared. The road eventually curves north again into Morose, the biggest town we’ve seen since Covington. As we reach the outskirts it inclines slowly to a bridge. Somewhere near the center a streetlamp lies collapsed across both lanes and I wait while Mags helps the fury to clamber over it. Underneath us the gray water burbles but I don’t bother unsnapping the throat of my parka to listen. I’m just desperate to get us off this goddam road I’ve put us on.

  We take our lunch in a Shop ‘n’ Save right next to the on-ramp for the highway. We eat quickly and set off as soon as we’re done. We’re finally heading east but now the Appalachians stand in our way; we’ll have to hike through them to get back on I-81. After we quit the town the road runs flat through a long narrow valley that looks like it was once woodland and then starts to climb. A faded sign sticking out of a drift says the place is called Culkin but it’s another place too small to show on Marv’s map. There’s little in the way of shelter and we lose the light and have to backtrack a mile to a farmhouse we passed at a bend where the road crosses water. The door’s shut but the lock’s weak in rotten wood and it doesn’t stand to my boot. Inside the whole place smells of damp and decay, but it’ll have to do. I get a fire going and break out our MREs but Mags says not to make her one; she’s just going to go right to bed. She asks for a couple of Tylenol and I give them to her with a cup of coffee. She swallows them and then disappears inside her sleeping bag. The fury’s found a spot for itself by a downpipe in the far corner. I hand it a cable tie and watch to make sure it binds itself securely and then turn in.

  I lay awake for a long time, just listening to the sound of the house creaking in the cold. From time to time there’s a scuffling from the far corner as the fury struggles against its restraints but then long stretches of silence. Sometime in the early hours I drift off, but the sleep that finally comes is filled with dreams of dark, endless tunnels and faceless things, long and bent and spider-thin, that stalk me through them.

  *

  I’M UP BEFORE DAWN next morning. Mags is still curled up in the sleeping bag next to me. We have another long day ahead of us so I figure I’ll let her rest. I build up the fire with the last of the wood I cut the night before but the branches are damp and in the end I have to use a little of the gas to get it going. The flames die down quickly once the gas has burned off but I reckon they’ll hold out long e
nough to warm water for coffee.

  While our MREs are heating I dig the charred tin mug from my backpack, fill it from my canteen and stick it among the coals. When the water’s bubbling I tear open a packet of coffee and dump it in. The bitter aroma fills the room. I put on my gloves and fish the mug out of the fire and take it over to where Mags is still asleep.

  She’s pulled the sleeping bag up over her head and is balled up inside it. I set the mug down and gently shake her shoulder. Her bones feel thin, sharp, through the quilted material and that frightens me but I leave my hand where it is while she slowly wakes up. I miss even this contact. At last she sits up, drawing the sleeping bag around her.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She winces as she hugs her knees to her chest. ‘Sore. Must have pulled a muscle yesterday.’

  The fire’s not casting much light. Even so I can’t help but notice how dark the shadows around her eyes have become. I look away quickly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I look back at her and force a smile back on to my lips. ‘Here.’

  I reach for the steaming cup. She searches for her own mug so I can transfer the contents. As she holds it up the surface catches what little light the fire’s offering and I can see the tin’s pitted and pocked, like something’s been eating away at it. I pour the coffee in and stand up quickly, muttering something about needing to get more water. I grab our canteens and head for the door.

  The first of the day’s light’s just beginning to creep over the horizon as I step outside. I stumble into the snow, pulling on my parka as I go. The land behind the farmhouse slopes gently down to a narrow stretch of water Marv’s map says is the Lost River. A wire fence runs from the back of the farmhouse and I follow it down, only stopping when I feel the snow giving way to shingle. It shifts under my boots as I squat down and dip our canteens. The gray water bubbles over the stones. I can feel the cold coming off it, yet I leave them there long after they’ve filled.