Children Of The Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know (19 page)

It had been a relief when the soldier had come to take her away.

He had watched as she had put on the restraints. She had glared at the soldier when he had slid the catchpole into the cage but in the end she had let him slip the noose over her head and bring her out. She had been a little unsteady on her feet at first, but the soldier had been in a hurry and had pushed her forward. She had struggled to keep her balance with her ankles bound, and at one point as the soldier had led her towards the door he had heard her stumble and the soldier had cursed. It had taken her a long time to climb the stairs.

Now he hears footsteps again and he knows she is returning. She descends very slowly, but then finally he hears the click as the locks disengage and then the door opens and moments later there’s the soft shuffle of her feet on the concrete as she approaches. The beam from the soldier’s flashlight bounces ahead of them down the aisle. It seems brighter than it was earlier, and he screws his eyes shut against it. The footsteps stop in front of his cage and there’s the sound of the latch being sprung and the door opening. The scent returns, thankfully fainter now than it was before. He opens his eyes a fraction, just in time to see the soldier’s face appearing at the bars. He reaches into the breast pocket of his fatigues, pulls out a container of the medicine and tosses it in.

‘Here, take that while I sort her out.’

Johnny 99 shuffles forward and collects the medicine while the soldier manhandles the girl into her cage. After what happened the other day he’s taking no chances. He keeps a tight hold on the pole so that her head’s pulled back against the bars while he undoes the restraint that loops around her waist. Then he lifts the noose over her head and slides it out and latches the door closed. The girl raises her cuffed hands to her neck and rubs there.

The soldier squats down in front of her cage. He reaches into his pocket and takes out another container of the medicine.

‘Now before I give you this I think you owe old Truck here an apology for all the trouble you’ve been causing.’

The girl stares at the container. It reminds Johnny 99 he has to take his own medicine, or the soldier will be mad at him. He unscrews the cap and raises the vial to his lips, bracing himself for the bitter taste.

The girl shakes her head.

‘I wonder what’s going to happen to you, Corporal, if you have to go back to the doctor and tell her you couldn’t get me to take my medicine again? Seems like having someone down here is important to her.’ She looks up at the roof of the cage, only inches above her head. ‘I wonder how someone like you would fit in one of these.’

But the soldier just smiles and returns the container to his pocket.

‘Oh darlin’, I ain’t going to tell the Doc any such thing. This time my report’ll say you drank it all down.’

Johnny 99 looks at the container the soldier’s just given him. That’s twice the girl will have missed her medicine. He searches his cage for the plastic cup his water comes in and quickly transfers half the contents of the vial to it. He pushes the cup into the shadows behind him.

The soldier nods at the cuffs on the girl’s wrists and ankles as he gets to his feet.

‘And you can stay in those for a while. Might teach you some manners.’

He turns around to face the boy and bangs the bars with the toe of his boot.

‘You done in there yet?’

The boy makes a show of draining what remains in the plastic container and then places it near the front of his cage and backs away. Without water to wash it away the bitter metallic taste is overpowering. He presses his lips tight together and concentrates on not returning what he’s just swallowed to the floor of his cage. The soldier doesn’t seem to notice. He rummages in his pocket for a Ziploc bag, wraps it around his hand and uses it to pick up the spent vial. He holds it up to the flashlight to check it’s empty then presses the seal closed and stands. The beam recedes as he makes his way back down the aisle. The door opens with a soft groan and then there’s a click as the locks engage, followed seconds later by the distant sound of boots on metal as he starts to climb the stairs.

The boy waits a long time after the last footstep’s faded to silence. When he’s sure the soldier isn’t coming back he picks up the cup and slides it out between the bars, inching it across the concrete with his fingertips. If he lies down and stretches out he can get it almost halfway across the space between the cages. When he can push it no further he pulls his arm back through the bars and whispers to the girl to let her know what he’s done. She lies on the floor of her cage like he did and slips her hands out through the bars. Her arms are longer than his and so the cup should be within her grasp, but her wrists are still cuffed together, which limits her reach. And he almost forgets that she can’t see either; the first time she manages to get her fingertips to it she almost knocks it over. He shuffles to the front of his cage and whispers directions. She pulls her hands back through the bars, adjusts her position and tries again. This time her fingers wrap around the plastic and she pulls it back in.

He watches as she lifts the cup to her lips and drinks the medicine. When she’s done she bends over to retch and for a moment the boy thinks she will be sick and it will all have been for nothing. But then it passes and she leans back and runs her fingers around the inside of the cup. When she’s extracted the last of whatever’s there she sets it down and looks out through the bars. She still can’t see in the darkness, so she’s not looking right at him when she says it, but it doesn’t matter. She whispers thank you, that she won’t forget it.

And that makes him sad.

Because he knows she probably will. She can’t have long now. In a few days she’ll get sick and then the gray curtain will come down and everything she knew from before will be gone.

*

T
HE INTERVALS BETWEEN
flash and thunder grow shorter as outside the storm bears down. The sky’s roiling now, tortured. Lightning shudders inside the thunderheads, lighting them up all the way back to the horizon. The wind howls around the giant columns and gusts against the window, shaking the glass in the flaking frame.

I should get some rest for what lies ahead but instead I sit on the floor in my parka, just staring out into the darkness. All I can see is Mags, forced onto her toes, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the Exhibition Hall’s smooth tiles. I bury my face in my hands and breath, trying to banish the image, but it won’t leave. My fingers still smell of the gun oil I’ve been working with all day. Right after I got to see her Hicks took me into the dining room and sat me down at one of the tables. He brought a bunch of weapons up from the bunker and laid them out in front of me. It was rifles mostly, but there were some pistols too, including one I recognized as Marv’s Beretta. I already knew how to strip the M4s but he showed me how to break each of the other guns down too. When that was done I set to work with a toothbrush and a stack of cotton buds, working the solvent up into the breech, swabbing out the chamber and bore, wiping each part down before finally setting it aside to dry.

Hicks says there’s a big hospital over in Roanoke. He reckons it’ll take us three days to hike it. We’ll set off as soon as the storm clears.

I don’t plan on being around for that. I’m still not sure what part he has in all of this, but I know now that Gilbey’s not to be trusted. As Truck was hauling Mags off her feet Hicks took his eyes off her for a split second to deal with me. I guess that was what she must have been hoping for. And in that instant she turned her hand toward me and I saw what was written there. A single word scratched into her palm, the dried blood spelling out only three letters.

Run
.

So that’s what I intend to do. My backpack rests against the wall, ready to go. While everyone was at dinner I snuck down to the lobby and went through the soldiers’ gear for the items I’ll need. I’ve spent the last hour fashioning boots to replace the ones I surrendered to the bellhop cart when we came in earlier. I’ve wrapped the slippers Hicks gave me with strips torn from the blanket on my bed; sections cut from one of Jax’s plastic gunny sacks go around the outside, held in place with the last of the duct tape from my scavenging kit. They don’t look pretty but they seem warm enough and the plastic looks tough. Hicks had meant for Jax to carry a fury back inside it, so I guess it must be. They’ll have to do until I can find better.

From outside there’s another flash, followed a few seconds later by a clap of thunder. Out of habit I count the seconds between, but that’s not what I’m waiting for now. The soldiers came up from dinner almost an hour ago; I heard them talking in the corridor outside. One by one they slipped off to bed, and then it got quiet, the only sounds those of the approaching storm. Hicks knocked on my door a little while later with a plate of franks. I didn’t feel much like eating but I took them anyway. I’ll need the sustenance. I have a long night ahead of me.

Across the hallway I can hear Truck snoring. I wait fifteen minutes to make sure he’s sound asleep, then I grab my bag. I used a drop of gun oil on the hinges earlier and the door opens without a sound. I cross the hall. The thick carpet muffles my footsteps, but nevertheless I tiptoe down the stairs. The generator gets cut after dinner and the emergency lights are off but the flashlight stays in my parka and I make my way across the lobby in darkness. Outside the sky flares, briefly bathing the shrouded furniture in harsh white light. The sound of my makeshift boots scuffing the marble seems loud but I don’t think it’ll carry far enough for anyone to hear it, and besides, the storm’s kicking up enough of a racket now to cover it. The wind pushes against the entrance door as I open it and I have to hold tight with both hands to prevent it slamming behind me.

It’s colder than I was expecting. The wind snatches the breath from me almost before I have a chance to exhale it. I slide the thin cotton mask up over my mouth and fasten the throat of my parka. It’s too dark for goggles and the icy snow stings my eyes. I zip the hood all the way up but the wind whips and tugs at it, threatening to dislodge it even before I’ve left the shelter of the portico.

My snowshoes are where I left them when we got back. The huge columns tower over me as I slide my makeshift boots into the bindings and ratchet them tight. I’ve already fixed the soldiers’ guns; it was a stroke of unexpected luck Hicks fetching them up for me to work on earlier. Now I pull out the leatherman and hack through the straps on their snowshoes and then toss them off into the darkness. They’re bound to have spares so it probably won’t do me much good, but I figure every minute I can put between us now will be worth it. When I’ve taken care of the last of them I shift the backpack so it sits high on my shoulders, tighten the straps and set off.

It’s slow going. Until I get out of sight of the house I’m relying on the lightning to show me the way, but between the flashes I’m blind. I grope my way around the helicopter, listening for the creak and groan of its huge rotor blades as they twist and flex in the wind. It takes me what seems like forever to reach the road, but finally I’m passing between The Greenbrier’s crumbling gateposts. I dig in my pocket for the flashlight. The dynamo whirs as I crank the stubby handle. The bulb glows orange, then yellow, finally casting a faint pool of watery light that hardly seems worth the effort.

I take a right and follow the road, grateful that at least now the wind’s at my back. Breaking trail keeps me warm for a while but it doesn’t take long for the cold to find its way inside my parka and through the extra layer of thermals I’m wearing. My makeshift footwear’s not as warm as the boots I surrendered either; I can already feel my toes tingling. But then that was to be expected. I tell myself I can handle a little bit of cold, and at least the sacking seems to be keeping the snow out. I’ve barely made it past the church before I begin to sense a more serious problem, however. The duct-taped plastic has no structure to it. When I tried them out in the room my improvised footwear seemed comfortable enough, but of course that was before I strapped on snowshoes and started pounding drifts. Now the hard plastic of the bindings cuts into my feet with each step.

There’s little I can do about that right now. I need to keep moving; the corrugated crash barriers I’m relying on to show me the way are already disappearing under the drifting snow. I stop and dig out each mile marker, every signpost, even where I’m fairly certain I’m on the right track. The storm will get worse before it gets better, and I can’t afford to get lost out here.

*

I
T TAKES ME THREE HOURS
to reach the river, almost twice as long as when Hicks and I hiked it the other day. The flashlight shows only the icy flakes that swirl past me in the darkness and I end up missing the sign for the bridge. Before I know it the road underneath me has disappeared and there’s a sickening jolt as I feel one foot sinking through into empty air. I try to back up but the tails of my snowshoes dig in and I lose my balance. The wind gusts, like it means to send me over, and for a second it seems like it might succeed. I stagger backwards, arms flailing, and land awkwardly in the snow, pushing large chunks of it over the edge as I scramble back to safety.

I lie there for a moment, just staring up into the shuddering sky. I can’t stay here, though. I have to hurry now. The storm’s almost on me, the gap between lightning and thunder already little more than a heartbeat. I pick myself up and inch forward again. When I’ve gone as far as I dare I point the flashlight down but I can’t see the water. There’s just a black chasm into which the driven snow twists and tumbles. I bend down and unsnap my snowshoes. My feet are already numb with the cold but it’s a relief to step out of them nevertheless. I tie them to the outside of my pack and start to climb down the rubble.

Down at the river the skiff bobs and jerks against its tether. I pull off the tarp, shuck off my pack and take out the rope. The length I keep with my scavenging kit would never have done, but with what I’ve taken from Jax’s and Weasel’s packs I should have enough. I tie one end to the mooring point, throw the rest into the boat and climb in after it. I take a moment to steady myself then cast off, using one of the oars to push the skiff off the bank, like I saw Hicks do. I’m not as practiced at this as he was though, and it pitches and dips alarmingly as I struggle with the current. The windup torch sits meekly between my feet, its yellowing beam only sufficient to illuminate the rope that’s slowly paying itself out into the dark water behind me.