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

by R. A. Hakok

  But he ignores me, continuing to hold his face inches from the soldier’s, tilting his head from side to side like he’s tasting the air. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve been hasty putting the gun away. Suddenly the sky strobes and he starts. He fumbles for his goggles, pushing them back up. They’re meant for an adult, so they cover most of his face. When he finally looks over it’s hard to read the expression there.

  ‘You okay?’

  He pauses for a long moment and then nods. But I’m beginning to suspect there’s more than one person inside that little head of his now. And the kid who answered that question may not have been whatever was crouched on the roof of the station wagon just a moment ago.

  *

  WEASEL DOESN’T GIVE us much trouble after that, at least not for a while. He holds his hands meekly out in front of him while I cable tie them together. When I’m done I collect his flashlight from the hood. It’s temperamental but the beam’s way stronger than the little wind-up I keep in my pocket so I figure I’ll have use for it later, at least while the batteries hold. I motion forward with it and he starts walking ahead of us up towards the interchange. I keep the gun on him the whole time but I doubt he even notices. Every few steps he looks over his shoulder to check if the kid’s still behind us.

  There’s a KFC next to the on-ramp and I head for it. I don’t have to worry about breaking in; all that’s left of the door is a mostly empty metal frame, all buckled and bent around the lock where a long time ago somebody took a pry bar to it. There’s a little drift, but the snow only reaches in a couple of feet. A sign over the entrance just says Hungry? I am, as it turns out, but the Colonel will have to wait. We take off our snowshoes. Broken shards crunch under our boots as we step inside.

  I'd prefer somewhere a little harder to find but right now the kid and I need to be gone. I tell him to wait in the restaurant and he climbs up into one of the booths. Weasel starts to perk up a little now it’s just me and him and I have to push him through a set of swing doors into the kitchens. I set his flashlight down on one of the counters. The light flickers for a second but then steadies.

  ‘Truck’ll find me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ I’m kinda counting on it actually. The jury’s still out on whether I might have been able to put a bullet in him back in the parking lot, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have it in me to tie him up somewhere and just leave him to starve.

  ‘Then we’ll come get you, Huckleberry. Just you wait. You’re goin’ in a cage. I’m going to come visit you every day. You and…’

  He stops.

  ‘The girl. Where’s the girl? She ain’t with you, is she? Where’s she at, Huckleberry?’

  I push him forward again, but he turns around to face me, and now there’s a triumphant look on his face.

  ‘Did she turn already, is that it? She did, didn’t she?’ He lets out a whoop. ‘God-damn! How was that? You didn’t have to shoot her did you?’

  Probably wasn’t Weasel’s smartest move. I’m tired and cold and hungry, and given where my dreams have been going lately that was just way too close to the bone.

  So I punch him.

  I’ve never actually hit someone before. Afterwards, when I think back on it, I’m pretty sure I don’t do it right. In Thirty Days of Night Eben rams his fist right through the back of Marlow's skull and it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. But later my hand will hurt, a surprising amount. I guess Eben had already turned into a vampire by that point. And Thirty Days was a film, of course, and not real.

  I guess if I’d been smart I would have swung at him with the flashlight. But right then there’s just a satisfying crunch as my knuckles connect with his nose and for the second time that evening Weasel ends up on his ass. By the time I step over him and grab the hood of his parka blood’s already running freely down his face. He’s holding his cuffed hands to his nose to try and staunch the flow but it drips between his fingers as I drag him into the storeroom, falling in heavy red drops that spatter on the tiled floor.

  It doesn’t take me long to bind him. Once I’m happy he won’t be able to free himself I tear off a strip of duct tape and go to place it over his mouth. He fusses a little at that so I pinch his busted nose. He howls, spraying blood and mucus all over my liners and the cuffs of my parka. But this time when I approach him with the tape he holds still. He has two final words for me as I stretch it over his lips, and as you’ve probably guessed those words are not Happy and Birthday. For good measure I tear off an extra-long strip and wrap it all the way round the back of his head and spend a few more seconds tamping it down. I doubt it’ll hush him any better but it’ll be fun when Truck eventually finds him and has to pull it off. When I’m done I search him for anything we might use. There’s a pocketknife that looks like it’s seen better days but I’ve been looking for a blade since the leatherman got left behind in The Greenbrier so I take it. The only other thing I find is a radio. Weasel’s no longer in a position to call for help but I figure better safe than sorry. I transfer it to my parka and step back out into the kitchen.

  The flashlight’s on the counter where I left it but when I pick it up the beam finds the kid, crouched on the floor next to the spot where Weasel fell when I hit him. I guess he must have heard the ruckus and followed me in. His eyes narrow and I point it away quickly.

  ‘Come on, we need to get going.’

  He gives no sign that he’s heard me. The beam flickers again and threatens to go out but then steadies.

  ‘Johnny, come on.’

  He looks up at me slowly, like he’s coming back from a far away place. Eventually he picks himself up and slouches off in the direction of the door.

  Outside the weather’s worsening. I watch it through the broken door as we strap on our snowshoes. The kid seems a little distant but right then I’m mostly focused on getting us back on the road. It won’t be long before Truck starts to wonder what’s happened to Weasel. I reckon he’ll send Jax or Boots looking for him first, and if they don’t find him he’ll come himself, and sooner or later – I’m hoping later - he’ll be found. I need to put some distance between us before that happens. The wind’s already covering the tracks we made up here, but I bend down to sweep the snow that’s drifted in clean of our prints. When I’m done I grab Weasel’s snowshoes and we set off towards the interchange.

  The world reveals itself frequently now, out of a darkness rent by lightning. The sky’s restless with it. Towering thunderheads crowd into the valley behind us and hang low along the ridges on either side. The storm lights them from within, occasionally sending blue-white forks to stab down at the mountains below.

  We pass the on-ramp but don’t take it. The interstate’s too exposed; the storm’ll be on us before the night’s out and I don’t want to get caught without shelter. According to the map route 11’s less than a quarter mile west and it runs pretty much parallel all the way up as far as Falling Waters, where by now Mags and Hicks will be waiting for us.

  We make our way up on to the overpass. The wind’s merciless. It blows straight up the valley, drifting the snow across the road in front of us, forcing us to lean into it. I stop in the middle and dump Weasel’s snowshoes over the guardrail. I wait until we’re on the other side before I allow us his flashlight. It flickers and starts but the beam’s much brighter than the wind-up I carry and I’m glad of it.

  We head into town and turn north onto 11, but even with the wind at our backs it’s still bitterly cold. The night’s sharp with it now. My hood’s zipped all the way up but still it finds its way in, biting at any inch of exposed skin like a thousand tiny needles. I have to keep us out in it if we’re to have any chance of catching Mags and Hicks, but I don’t plan to make the same mistake I did when I quit The Greenbrier. I reckon I’ll walk us for a couple of hours then rest for a while, get a fire going and warm up before we set out again.

  *

  WE MAKE IT AS FAR as a place called Winchester before the cold finally drives me in. We haven’t come
as far as I’d hoped. The kid’s slowed down a lot. He seemed to be coping better with the drifts earlier, when we were coming up the interstate. Since we left Weasel in the KFC it’s like he’s regressed to that chimp-like crouch he had when we first left the bunker.

  We head through the center of town on what looks like the main drag. I spot what we need, right on the corner: a First Citizens Bank with an ATM lobby. There’ll be nothing in there worth having, but I’m not here to scavenge. All I’m looking for now is somewhere to shelter, and places like that are usually a good bet. I guess by the end folks had figured out that money wasn’t going to be much use to them anymore; the banks mostly got passed over for anywhere that might have had food or fuel.

  I make my way in, drop the armful of dead branches I hacked from a stand on the way into town and shuck off my backpack. The kid pushes his way through the door behind me and skulks off into darkness on the other side of the lobby. I don’t see anywhere to bind him so I don’t bother. We won’t be here that long.

  There’s a small metal trashcan in the corner, overflowing with ATM receipts. I scoop out a handful for kindling and then dig out the squeeze bottle of gas I carry and douse the sorry-looking pile of firewood. Marv said I had to keep the gas for emergencies, but I figure this qualifies; one look at the blizzard that’s building outside tells me it’s no time to be walking the streets looking for fuel tanks that might have been missed. I pull off my mittens, fish in my pocket for the lighter and fumble with cold-numbed fingers to spin the wheel. After a few attempts the gas catches and I lean in and hold my hands as close as I dare.

  The wood’s damp and once the gas has burned off the flames die down quickly. I shuffle myself closer but the sad excuse for a fire’s doing little to ward off the cold so I unzip my parka and jam my hands up into my armpits instead. I flex my fingers a few times to get the blood flowing. My knuckles are starting to hurt where I hit Weasel, but at least that means feeling’s returning. I turn my attention to dinner. While my MRE’s hissing away I fill the charred tin mug I carry with water from my canteen and nestle it among the flames. I upend the carton and go searching among the various items that tip out for a packet of coffee. I really don’t care for the taste, but it’s warm and Mags says it keeps you awake and right now those are both things I need.

  A few minutes later I’ve wolfed down something the packet said was meatballs in pasta and I’m staring out the grimy window, letting the mug warm my fingers, when something inside my parka squawks. It takes me a moment to work out it’s the radio I took from Weasel. I dig in my pocket and hold it up. For a while there’s just static but then I hear Truck’s voice, rendered tinny and distant by the small speaker. It’s clear they haven’t found him yet. Good. I leave the radio on the ground beside me while I finish the coffee. I hear Truck a few more times and then for a long time there’s nothing.

  Outside lightning bathes the intersection in its harsh white glare, briefly illuminating a sign on the gantry arm that points east along route 7. A half-day hike in that direction would bring me to the turnoff for the Blue Ridge Mountain Road, to the spot where I left Marv and made my way on to Mount Weather, the place that over the winter became our home. For a moment I allow myself to wonder if I’ll ever see it again but then I stop. It doesn’t matter. The only thing I care about in what’s left of this world is somewhere ahead of me, hopefully already most of the way through West Virginia, waiting to cross into Maryland. I reckon another three hikes like the one we’ve just done and we’ll catch up to them.

  The radio’s still hissing static. I pick it up, slip it back in my pocket and drain the last of the coffee. I call over at the kid to let him know we’re heading out again.

  We meet up with I-81 a mile or so outside town. We pass underneath it and continue north on route 11.

  I keep looking behind me, worried about what’s coming our way. I no longer need to count the gap between flash and crack to know how close the storm is. The wind shrieks down the valley with seemingly little to get in its way. It drives the snow in long, shifting ridges that span the width of the road. The kid’s really struggling with the drifts. He can barely make it a hundred yards without falling, and each time I have to go back and haul him upright.

  Sometime after the underpass Weasel’s flashlight blinks out for the last time and I toss it into the darkness. I don’t hear where it lands. I dig in my pocket for the wind-up. The cold’s relentless. Whatever warmth had managed to seep into my fingers from the fire and the coffee evaporated within minutes of stepping outside again. I switch the flashlight between my hands so I can keep one of them jammed up into my armpit. I’m not sure it’s doing any good. Inside my mittens my frozen fingers tighten; I have to keep opening and closing them to make sure they’ll wind the stubby handle.

  We pass a collection of buildings huddled tight around a junction. A CITGO gas station sits opposite a diner, a faded red Coca Cola sign still clinging bravely to the wall. Up ahead there’s something big, lying on its side across the road. The snow’s drifted high around it, disguising its shape. I stop and stare at it while I wait for the kid to catch up. Back in Eden I used to know every car, pickup and rig on the turnpike just from the shape it made under the powder, but the best I can muster now is fallen dinosaur. Marv told me to mind the cold; he said it could really mess with your thinking. I don’t mean to let it catch me again. I wonder if we should stop here, find a place to warm up. But we haven’t even made it to West Virginia yet, and Mags and Hicks will be all the way through it now, getting ready to cross the Potomac into Maryland come first light. We’ll never catch them if we keep stopping. Lightning flashes somewhere close by, and I catch a glimpse of a set of huge double tires poking up into the sky at the end of a thick axle. From there I finally figure it out: it’s a cement truck.

  I look around. Behind me the kid’s gone down in a drift. I pick up my snowshoes and start making my way back towards him. The wind’s definitely getting stronger; it fights me with every step. I grab hold of his arm and pull him to his feet. We set off again but we don’t make it far before he’s mired again. I turn around to dig him out then grab his parka and drag him behind the truck. We sit in the snow, our backs to the underside of our temporary shelter. The wind howls around it, sending snow up into the sky in furious flurries.

  ‘This isn’t working. We’ll never catch Mags like this.’

  I say it mostly to myself, so I’m surprised he hears; even in the lee of the fallen monster it’s surprisingly loud. He looks at me for a long time then just nods, like he understands.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  And then I realize that he expects me to leave him here. I shake my head.

  ‘No, I mean I’ll need to carry you. Just ’till the drifts get a little better.’

  He shakes his head, but I’m not paying attention. I’m already shucking off my backpack, making a list of the things I’ll need.

  Now I know what you’re thinking: chalk another one up to the bitch, right? But I don’t reckon it’s that. For sure it’s cold, almost more than I can stand now, but as far as I can tell I’m still thinking straight.

  I certainly know what Hicks would say, and I’m not sure Marv’s views on the subject would be much different. But the truth is neither of them are here. Maybe part of it’s that I told Mags I’d bring him back. I don’t reckon that’s all there is to it, though. If he’s as close to turning as Hicks reckons it’s probably not going to end well for him, whatever I do. But if that’s how it’s to be maybe I want it to be somebody’s doing other than mine.

  The wind gusts shrill through a gap in the cement truck’s chassis and I have to shout to make myself heard.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  He hesitates for a second and then I think I see him nod inside his hood.

  I slip off my mittens and dig in my pocket for the roll of duct tape. It takes a while for my frozen fingers to find an edge but eventually I manage to tear off a strip. I stick it to the sleeve of my park
a and then pull the zipper on his jacket down. But when I go to stick the tape over his mouth he shakes his head vigorously and pulls away. I guess right there is where I should have thought it through some more but I just figure he doesn’t care for being gagged any more than Weasel did. I’m about to explain this bit’s not up for discussion when he holds out his hand. I pass him the tape. The mittens he’s wearing make it difficult and the wind’s certainly not helping but in the end he manages it. I zip his hood back up then start transferring the things I’ll need from my backpack to the parka’s large side pockets.

  He squirms a little as I pick him up and hoist him onto my back, but then the lightning flashes and he grips tight and buries his head in my parka. The arms around my neck feel no thicker than the branches I cut for firewood, but they’re surprisingly strong. I stand. He weighs less than my pack would after a day’s scavenging. We’ll make much better time now; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.

  Okay, a little bixicated there, maybe. But in my defense, it wasn’t an altogether terrible idea. There was just one kinda important thing I forgot.

  *

  WE CROSS BACK INTO West Virginia at a place called Ridgeway. It’s somewhere approaching the middle of the night and the cold has turned cruel now. With each step I curse it through chattering teeth.

  I stop us at the first place we come to, no more than a hundred yards over the state line. A sign above the door with a grinning pig’s head says The Hogtied and underneath it Cold Beer To Go! A single pickup, buried deep under a decade of snow, waits patiently in the parking lot. I stagger up to the entrance. The outer door hangs askance in its frame but the inner one seems to have held. I guess the cold’s finally getting to the kid because he continues to cling tight even after I bend down to let him off; I have to pry his arms from around my neck and slide him to the ground. He crouches there for a second and then scurries off inside. The door swings shut after him.