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

Ten days earlier

*

D
AWN’S LITTLE MORE
than a faint gray smear on the horizon as I step out of the tunnel. I look through the bars of the half-raised guillotine gate, my eyes searching for the tattered, faded windsock that hangs beside the control tower. It was gusting yesterday but the wind’s eased overnight and now it shifts only occasionally. Heavy thunderheads sit low along the spiny mountain ridge, but at least they’re moving away from us, carrying what I hope will be the last of the big winter storms east. I know what Marv would say; it’d be safer to hold off another week. But I figure anything we get this late in the season should blow itself out in a day or two, and we’ve already waited long enough.

I look back over my shoulder. The Juvies have gathered to see us off, but I can tell they’re already anxious to get back inside. They wait inside the shadow of the tunnel, reluctant to step into the grainy pre-dawn light. Most of them haven’t been outside since we got here.

I’ve tried to warn them. We’re not safe here. As soon as the weather clears Kane will send Peck for us. They used to listen; when we first arrived it was all any of us could think about. But back then the memories of our escape were still fresh. As the days slipped into weeks and those became months things began to change. Nobody wants to talk about Kane now. I’ve heard more than one of them say that maybe Peck won’t even come.

I should have seen it. Outside the storms might have raged but inside the mountain our new life was good. The morning buzzer no longer jarred us from sleep, no curfew forced us back to a narrow cot or a cramped cell at night. Jake had the farms up and running within weeks of our arrival but the truth is there was no need. Anything we might have wanted was right there in the stores for the taking. All I can offer them is Marv’s map; an uncertain destination and until we find it, the promise of cold and hunger.

So I figure if I’m to have any chance of convincing them to move first I’ll need to find somewhere for us to go. I’ve already made the hike out to Culpeper, the nearest facility in the Federal Relocation Arc, a network of underground shelters stretching all the way through Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia and down into the Carolinas. It was less than sixty miles so I was there and back inside a week, even allowing for a day holed up against the storms on the way out.

The bunker was just where the map said it would be, carved right into the side of the mountain, its squat bulk waiting patiently for me behind a rusting razor wire fence. Silent guard towers watched down as I cut a hole in the chain-link and pushed my way through. Lead-lined shutters covered the narrow, recessed windows, sealing them tight, but Benjamin’s code worked just fine on the blast door, just like it had at Mount Weather.

Culpeper was no use to us however; I don’t think it had even been designed for people. The ground floor housed nothing but banks of long-dead servers, here and there the occasional computer terminal, all covered in a thick layer of dust. A wide metal ramp led down to a huge subterranean vault. Row after row of pallets, each stacked four or five deep, stretched all the way into the darkness at the back.

I dug out my flashlight and cranked the stubby plastic handle as I made my way between them. Each was packed with shrink-wrapped bales. The blade on the leatherman sliced through the plastic easily, releasing a pristine wedge of green bills, bound tight and stamped with a seal that said Federal Reserve Bank of Richmond. I wandered the aisles, freeing a bundle from each of the bales until I had a collection of presidents and founding fathers from Washington to Franklin that put me in mind of Miss Kimble’s civics and government class all those years ago. I took one of each to show Mags and piled the rest in the middle of the floor. I figured they might do for kindling but it turns out money doesn’t burn so well after all. I left early the following morning, the best part of a week gone and nothing for my efforts but a first grade show and tell.

Most of the Juvies had already been against leaving Mount Weather, but even those that might still have been worried enough about Kane to consider it lost their enthusiasm when they heard what I’d found at Culpeper. Jake asked me what I thought Marv would do and I had to admit I didn’t think he’d have led us out without a destination either, so that settled it. Mags and I will head south for Sulfur Springs, the location of The Greenbrier, the next facility on the map. It’s all the way down in West Virginia, I reckon a seven-day hike each way, but if it checks out we’ll be that much further from Kane, so maybe it’s for the best. It means we’ll be gone at least a couple of weeks though; more than enough time for Peck to get here from Eden if Kane has a mind to send him early.

I’ve told them they need to start posting sentries. I wanted them on the Blue Ridge Mountain Road, out where Marv’s buried. That’s the way we took from Eden, and it’s the route I reckon Peck will choose too, when he comes. It’s a good spot; from up there you can see for miles along the highway in each direction. But no one wanted to hike out that far so we finally settled on two-hour shifts in the control tower on top of the ridge. They’ll have next to no warning when he shows, but I guess it’s better than nothing. Jake’s worked out a roster. He says he’ll make sure it gets done.

I’ve already applied UV block back in the apartment so I pull my hood up and slide a pair of ski goggles down over my eyes. As soon as Mags has said the last of her goodbyes we snap on our snowshoes and turn and walk out underneath the guillotine gate. Marv’s gun weighs down the parka’s deep side pocket. It’s spent the winter hidden behind one of the ceiling tiles in our bedroom. I almost wasn’t going to bring it. It’s heavy and besides, the magazine’s empty. Mount Weather has an armory just like Eden’s but the door’s locked and the only code Marv gave me was for the blast door. I considered heading back up to Fort Narrows to look for some more bullets; I reckon that’s where he’d been getting the stuff he’d been stashing under the floorboards in the farmhouse. But it’s the best part of a two-day hike each way, and right now I figure that’s time better spent looking for somewhere to move us. Besides, I can’t see how I’ll need it. Mount Weather and Culpeper were both abandoned, and in all the years I was scavenging I never saw so much as a single print in the snow to suggest there’s anyone else waiting for us out there.

I look back over my shoulder one last time but most of the Juvies are already heading back into the tunnel. Soon only Jake remains, just standing there in the shadow of the portal, watching as we leave. I raise my hand but it takes him a moment to wave back, like it wasn’t my departure he’d come to see.

We make our way out of the compound between dark, empty buildings, their roofs bristling with frozen antennas or the stacked gray boxes of long-dead microwave relays. Dotted here and there around the perimeter are the concrete cowls of the airshaft vents that lead deep into the mountain. Mags has figured out how to seal those from the inside so at least when Peck comes he won’t be getting in that way. I can’t see why he’d go to that trouble though; Kane will give him the same code for the blast door that Marv gave me.

The first of the morning light’s finally seeping into the sky, like water into an old rag, as we trudge up to the entrance. The gate towers over us; a gust of wind rattles a faded steel sign against the bars as we approach. On either side a high chain-link fence stretches off into the distance, its rusting diamonds topped by a half-dozen strands of razor wire hung outwards on elbowed concrete pylons. It all looks formidable but I know it won’t hold them long. I find the section I opened with bolt cutters the day I first arrived and pull the wire back for Mags to step through.

*

F
OR THE FIRST SIX MILES
we follow the road south along the ridge. There hasn’t been a fresh fall in a few days and the snow’s settled. Good tracking skiff, Marv would have called it. Our path descends gently then flattens, snaking along the spine of the mountain range. Limbless, lifeless trees poke through the gray shroud, stretching away down the slopes on either side. At some point we traverse the ridge and drop down onto the western rim of the valley. There’s little to tell where the road is now and I’m navigating based on the gaps between the withered trunks. But I’ve hiked this way several times over the winter and I have to stop only occasionally to dig out a mile marker to make sure we’re still on the right path.

I break trail and Mags follows in my footsteps, our breath rolling from us in short frosted puffs. She seems excited; she kept asking me whether I thought we’d have time to go looking for books. She’s read everything we have in Mount Weather and the few trips I’ve made out over the winter have yielded little new, just a single weary copy of
A Prayer For Owen Meany
I lucked into on the way back from Culpeper. She finished it the same day I returned. I told her to keep her pack light but I’m pretty sure it’s found its way in there.

I’m glad to have her with me but the truth is I’m more nervous about this than she is. For the first time I think I understand why Marv was reluctant to take me out with him after Benjamin died. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to remember everything I learnt from him; I even dug out the first aid book I used to keep under my bed in the farmhouse and read it through again, cover to cover. But what if I forget something? What if I screw up and get us lost, or worse? Mags says I should stop worrying, and maybe she’s right. The worst of the storms have passed and we’re both carrying enough MREs for several weeks, more than enough to get us to The Greenbrier and back without having to worry about finding food along the way.

We’ve been tracking steadily downhill for maybe an hour when we come to a road sign. I scrape off the ice; the rusting metal underneath says we’re approaching the highway. I tell Mags it’s time for frostbite checks. She unsnaps the respirator, lifts her goggles onto her forehead and closes her eyes. I study the faint smattering of freckles that run along her cheekbones underneath those long, dark eyelashes. There’s little wind but the cold still bites at every inch of exposed skin and I know I should hurry. Nevertheless I can’t help but pull down the surgical mask I still prefer so that I can kiss her.

‘Hey! Pay attention. I thought you said we had to take this seriously.’

I offer her a sheepish grin and lift my goggles onto my forehead so she can check me. A moment later I feel her arms slip around my waist and she leans in to me and I feel her lips, soft and warm, back on mine. We’ve barely left and already I find myself wishing we could just forget about Kane and turn around and go back to the warmth of our small apartment.

The mountain road ends quarter of a mile later and a long, straight section of highway, two, maybe three lanes in each direction, stretches off in both directions. The wind’s stayed low and it’s eerily quiet. I look up. The storms might be moving on but the skies are still heavy with snow. When I hiked out to Culpeper a week ago I took the road east from here. I haven’t ventured west yet but I doubt there’ll be much in the way of shelter along the highway.

We make our way down. The snow’s heavier now and we’re trudging through drifts, Indian file, from the get-go. The road inclines for a mile or so and for the next hour it’s a long steady climb uphill. I listen to the sound of Mags’ breathing as she follows in my footsteps. She’s been in Mount Weather’s gym over the winter preparing for this but my legs are longer than hers and I can already feel them burning with the effort.

Eventually the road crests and levels and we come to a faded sign that says
Ashby Gap
and beneath it
Welcome to Clarke County.
We sit next to it in the snow, our breath escaping in white plumes as we sip water from our plastic canteens. A wide, open valley stretches out, gray and cold and lifeless, beneath us. I search the shrouded landscape for anything of color but there’s nothing.

We stop for lunch where US340 crosses the highway. The wind’s picking up again, blowing the gray snow across the road, already starting to cover the tracks we’ve made behind us. Up ahead the traffic light gantry’s collapsed, the virus-weakened metal no longer able to bear the weight of the gantry arm, which now lies buried in the middle of the intersection. It’s deep enough to step over but I take us out wide around it anyway. What Kane did to the skies means it shouldn’t be a threat but you can never be too careful.

I ask Mags where she wants to eat and she takes a moment to weigh the options. There’s a McDonalds right there, a faded red flag with the arches fluttering next to a tattered stars and stripes, but she chooses a Dunkin’ Donuts that sits kitty corner opposite. It’s been turned over like everywhere else but overall it looks in better shape than the other places currently competing for our business. We trudge up to the entrance and step out of our snowshoes. The door’s definitely seen better days; all that’s left is a mostly empty frame, the last of the glass gripped in fragments around the edges and in the corners. Broken shards crunch under our boots as we walk in.

I get our MREs heating while Mags stares out the busted window at a panel van that’s settled on to its tires under the snow. I can tell she’s taking it in, processing it, so I don’t say anything. It used to happen to me sometimes, even after I’d been scavenging for a while. Sometimes something simple like an abandoned car or a faded road sign will cause the enormity of it all to suddenly hit you, and you realize the way the world once was is nothing more than an idea now, a place to be visited in memories but never again found.

*

A
FTER LUNCH
M
AGS
fixes herself a coffee and I use it as an excuse to bag our trash. I’ve never cared much for it; sometimes, if I haven’t eaten, the bitter aroma’s almost enough to turn my stomach. Tell the truth I’m not sure Mags started out with much of a taste for it either. I think it’s something she taught herself to like because we weren’t allowed to have it while Kane was in charge.