Authors: Norman Dixon
He couldn’t get
the voice out of his head, though.
“Still a might
too cold for me,” Jamie huffed.
“Cold,” Bobby
said with a smile. “This is amazing.”
“Not as amazing
as my meatballs. Hurry up ahead and get a look at the thing. Don’t fall off.
One look, and then we eat." She hadn’t even known the boy for more than a
few hours and already the pangs were getting the better of her. Each of his
unsteady steps sent a thud against her breast.
The forests on
either side of the tracks were the personification of the voice in his head,
pressing in on him, squeezing. He wobbled his way along the slick metallic roof
to the platform overlooking the spiny dragon’s head. Steam and thick smoke
rolled over him, stung his eyes.
I can still hear
you,
Bobby
thought with dismay. What was going on with him? What kind of gift had his
mother passed on in death? What kind of curse?
Please stop . .
. please. . . .
“You’ve had your
look at the thing. Let’s go now,” Jamie shouted over the train’s pounding.
Bobby readied
the CAR-15.
“What are you
doing?” Jamie shouted.
Bobby could see
the top of the Creeper’s head through a break in the steam. He stared at the
greasy scalp, as if he meant to drive his thoughts right through it, like the
bullet he was about to fire.
I’m sorry . . .
Bobby thought, pulling the
trigger.
Who’s there—
Bobby heard the
words along with the crack of his shot, an instant of revelation and death that
Time would not allow him back. His heart began to pound. Jamie was screaming
something at him. The Creeper had
heard
him, of that much he was
certain, but he was so quick to pull the trigger, so quick to soothe the pressure
he . . . he didn’t even care about his actions. Had the winter removed every
ounce of his humanity?
“Fucking kid!”
Bobby turned
towards the voice. He only got about halfway before a calloused fist crashed
against his temple. He saw blue sky twist overhead and then he fell fast into a
cloud of acrid smoke.
Somewhere far
away Jamie screamed again.
After, what felt like weeks of eating
and chatting Ol’ Randy finally got young Cale to allow him a meal with real
utensils. First they were plastic, brittle from the cold and age, and he made a
show of breaking them in his massive hands. His patience had paid off. The
weight of the silverware was reassuring, and the gamey venison added a bit of
strength to his weakened frame. He only hoped he’d be able to stay lucid long
enough to see his plan through.
The sickness marched across his insides
like a conquering army, scorching his mind, his muscles, and leaving nothing
but horrible pain behind. Either time was running out, or it already had, slipping
through the haze of far off stares and mindlessness. Ol’ Randy wasn’t sure of
exactly how much time had passed. He knew only that Jackson and Thomas had yet
to return, and he had to retain some hope even in the face of the Lord’s call.
Each day he prayed for just a little
more time. He could deal with the pain . . . he just needed more time. He had
to make sure that Bobby was okay.
“This is good. Jake cook this?” Ol’
Randy asked as he chewed.
“Yes, sir. Said he made it special for
you." Cale leaned against the open cell.
“Should I spit it out?”
“Folks still care about you.”
“They should’ve cared about those
boys." Ol’ Randy slid the knife up his sleeve as Cale turned away to
cough. He had prayed endlessly for what he was about to do. And again he reminded
himself that the young man would heal if he chose to put up a fight at all. Ol’
Randy would be as gentle as his clumsy hands would allow.
He put the fork to his mouth, waited for
Cale to do his nervous look at the floor reaction, then dropped it with a clatter.
Ol’ Randy let the plate slip and began to feign a coughing fit. All twitching
limbs he rolled onto his stomach and palmed the knife.
“Sir . . . sir—are you?" Cale did
not hesitate. He practically ran to his imprisoned mentor. He checked for a
pulse, and slowly eased Ol’ Randy onto his side, moving his head back to clear
an airway. Everything seemed okay. The old man’s breathing was even and cool;
his heartbeat strong and steady. There was nothing out of the ordinary except
for the knife jabbing his throat.
“Sorry, kiddo, but it has to be like
this. I have to make sure that boy is safe.” Ol’ Randy maneuvered Cale
against the wall at the tip of the knife, an ordinary affair when it came to
the matters of knives, but in Ol’ Randy’s hands a formidable weapon.
“You’ll never make it in time,” Cale
gasped, “over a week already. They either made contact, or are about to."
Cale adjusted his feet ever-so-slightly.
“Don’t do that.” Ol’ Randy pressed the
knife deeper, drawing blood. “I taught you that move. Are the patrol rotations
the same.”
Cale stonewalled his teacher. He
believed Ol’ Randy was right in the matters of the boys, but no matter how many
hours he spent mulling it over Cale could not disobey the Pastor, nor the rest
of the Folks. This was his home. He had no intention of ever leaving it.
“ARE THEY THE SAME!” Ol’ Randy
commanded. His sounded voice
wrong
like ancient stonework grinding the
bones of a non-believer.
“Ye-yes, sir." Cale gulped. “They
haven’t ch-changed.”
Ol’ Randy looked to the tiny window. The
sky was all but dark—there’d be only a handful of lights on across the yard.
Since Yannek’s departure the second generator took a dive and they were trying
to conserve power. It was the best shot Ol’ Randy had.
“You are a good kid, Cale." He took
the knife away slowly. “Probably too good for your own good, I reckon. Ain’t
your fault, though. I blame
’em
for a lot, but I can’t blame
you.” Ol’ Randy considered bolting for the door, but he knew that if he
left Cale unharmed the kid would take more than a mental beating. He flipped
the knife in the air and slammed an open palm to Cale’s nose.
The kid took the shot like a man,
stumbling slightly, but retaining his wits. The second shot fixed that,
dropping him to the cold floor in a heap. Ol’ Randy dragged his body to the cot
and tucked him in.
His stomach in knots, hands shaking, Ol’
Randy locked the cell and crept upstairs quiet as a cat.
The yard was steeped in shadow. Only a
few low lights wobbled in the growing dark. He could hear the screech of the
kids as they were being herded towards the barracks on the opposite end of the
Settlement, and a strong wind carried with it the creaking of swaying branches.
Ol’ Randy took a moment to breathe in
clean air. In the damp earthiness of the cell he had forgotten just how sweet
the Colorado breeze was. He didn’t linger. Moving along the exterior wall of
the bank he peered around the corner towards the guard tower. With a little bit
of light lingering on the horizon they wouldn’t be using thermals just yet.
Like clockwork the figure standing guard, most likely Jimbo Thorton, moved
around the platform, and finally down the tower’s ladder.
Ol’ Randy’s large frame was
unmistakable, a thing of tall tales shared over bottles of hard liquor that
everybody in the Settlement knew in great detail. He needed to avoid contact
but he couldn’t act suspicious. Hands tucked into his pockets he slouched over,
trying to appear smaller was an awkward thing for a man that carried himself
with perfect posture—it actually hurt him to bend low. He shortened his strides
and followed the pathway towards the smokehouse.
A hundred yards wasn’t an incredibly
long distance, and had it been the right season he would have been able to use
the cornstalks for cover, but it might as well have been miles. He tucked his
head down like some invalid forced to live in an attic crawlspace all of his
days. Each step brought him closer to the smokehouse, and the alley behind it.
The kids used the alley as a way to
sneak beyond the fence. The closeness of the smokehouse to the fence provided
ample cover, and even though the fence was repaired year after year, they
continued to exploit it. Being on the cliff side the breach wasn’t really a
threat from the Creepers or the living, it was too small to be an effective
means of entry. Ol’ Randy hoped his lean winter would see him through.
“Hey!” someone called, freezing him in
his tracks. His heart pounded like a smithy’s hammer on hot steel—
clang-stutter-stutter-clang-stutter-stutter.
Easy old man,
he reminded himself. However, even as the voice was joined by
another, and they drifted in the opposite direction, another more dreadful
sensation emerged.
The pain in his side.
Holding the ache with his hand only
seemed to help if he applied great pressure, both with his hand and clenching
his abdominal muscles. The effort quickly had him out of breath as he reached
the dark smokehouse. It would be another several weeks before the men were out
hunting to fill the coffers with venison, elk, and bison. For that he was
thankful.
Ol’ Randy made his way around the long,
low building to the alley. The sun had finally given up its hold on the day and
night slipped across, as if it slit that golden throat with a stygian blade. He
allowed his eyes to adjust. Flecks of color danced like fireflies that exploded
in bright bursts with each stabbing pain. He had to focus though, he had to
keep his head on straight. More from memory than sight, he counted the paces
along the fence.
One . . . two . . . three
, he counted, testing the
ground as if it were about to crumble away and toss him into nothingness. When
he stopped, gripping the fence to stabilize himself, the pain ripped through
him stronger, dropping him to his knees. It took every ounce of his strength to
keep from screaming out. He kept telling himself that he’d weathered worse over
his many years, but when he tried to recall such memorable pain he found
examples that paled in comparison.
Lord, please hear me now. I gotta’ see
that boy through to safety. Give me that chance . . . I beg you O’Lord.
Ol’
Randy crossed himself.
His fingers scrabbled in the dank earth
for the lowest rung of chain link. He didn’t have long, if in fact, he had any
time at all. With the onset of night thermals would be on, and searching. While
those eyes wouldn’t see him along the alley the second he moved beyond the
fence he’d stick out like a sore thumb, and there was no jumping away from danger
on this side. He’d have to skirt the cliff a good three hundred yards. Never a
gambling man, he picked a hell of time to roll the dice.
He went prone, much to his body’s
protest, and lifted the fence. At first his shoulders caught, as did his hair
in the rusty links, but he pressed on, making himself smaller, pushing harder.
When he got halfway through a familiar voice crushed every bit of hope that
existed within him.
“Crawling on your stomach like a beast,
a snake, Randal, you shame yourself and the Lord above,” Pastor Craven said
from somewhere behind him, somewhere close.
Ol’ Randy tried to squeeze out, tried to
turn around. All he managed to do was get himself stuck. He kicked out blindly,
found only air, and then righteous pain ripped through his leg. Light fell over
him, flickering, wavering orange light. He smelled smoke . . . he was burning.
The Pastor laughed at him. “It seems
fitting that I take what you so cruelly took from me. Uh-uh don’t you fret now.
I won’t take more than ya’ took from me. A bit off the top perhaps,” he laughed
again, “no, I jest. Just at the knee. Quit your squirming you evil bastard . .
. you’re not on fire. It’s a torch . . . times are hard since you saw to the
disappearance of our engineer. Now let me see about lifting this here hammer .
. . what did you call it . . . ah, yes, Tilda. Well it’s time for me to put
this ol’girl to the test.”
Ol’ Randy’s rage tore him free of the
fence. As he pulled through Tilda crashed down on the back of his knee,
crushing the bone to jelly. Webs of purple mixed with red pulsed before his
eyes. He tasted the dirt, but he grappled to remain conscious with the tenacity
of a cornered animal. Shaking, dry heaving, panting, he pulled himself forward.
“Oh she’s a bute, Randal, let’s give her
another go." The Pastor spit on his hands, rubbing them together and then
picked Tilda up once more. He swung.
Even Ol’ Randy pumped full of adrenaline
could not remain aware under the weight of that pain. The front and back of his
knee were as flat as a tube of toothpaste. He finally had a pain to compare to
his exploding insides. He tumbled down into the deepest dark where things
existed that he could not fathom, and when they opened their jaws hot and rank,
they laughed at him with the Pastor’s cackle.
Bobby . . . I’m sorry for all I done,
he thought as
the blackness closed around him.
* * * * *
“Please make sure he doesn’t die,
Deliah." The Pastor hovered over the bloody bed with a smile, baring his
yellow teeth.