Authors: Norman Dixon
Should he tell Ryan? Did Ryan see? No,
he would’ve said something. Bobby had experienced many fears over his thirteen
winters, but never had he become the victim of finality. Life as he knew it was
over.
“Bobby, I’m sorry.”
Bobby sat next to Ryan and put his arm
around him. Even though it was cold,
Ryan was
extremely hot. Bobby never forgot a lesson, and he knew the fever was the
body’s poor defensive first strike at the Fection. “Don’t be. You did well.”
Ryan laughed. His teeth began to
chatter. “Ga-ga-got ten of ’em, Bobby boy, bet your ass I did.”
“Shit yeah.”
“Se-se-se-see, feels good doesn’t it?”
He had to admit, it did feel good.
Letting one fly was liberating. The moment brought a brief respite from the
growing dread. Bobby had to get help. But the more he tried to will his legs
into action,
the more he wondered… Why?
Why bother?
Something moved on the road. The kick of
a rock;
was that dragging feet? A shuffle?
Bobby’s legs unfroze and he whipped the little flashlight around pointing it up
the road. The thick night swallowed it. Another shuffle, dragging feet, hidden
by the dark.
“What is it, Bobby?” Ryan whispered. The
carbine shook in his good hand. He tried to steady it but it wobbled, up, down,
drifted, pointing into the blackness.
“I hear something, it’s close. Maybe ten
yards up the bend in the road,” Bobby whispered back. He’d lost the revolver in
the blast and opted for Ryan’s knife instead. He swept the light across the
road and crept forward.
“S-s-s-stay la-la-low." Ryan was
overcome by another bout of shivers. “I-I’ll ca-cover you.”
Bobby kept his eyes forward. “Can you
keep her steady?”
With a sharp intake of breath Ryan said,
“I won’t miss.”
Knife out to his right, Bobby zigzagged his
way up the road. The swaying branches played tricks on his senses, but he had a
good idea of the general location of the noise. Ignoring the creaking
distraction,
he kept his jumping heart at bay
with a hard swallow. It wasn’t the noise he found terrifying, it was the
possibility that at any second he’d catch a bullet from his brother. Right in
the back.
Bobby stopped a few feet from the bend.
The small cone of light revealed nothing. Beyond its sweep only the deepest
black, hiding more light steps, a shuffle. It was closer.
He stopped. Off to his right several
saplings surrounded a massive pine. Bobby side-stepped over to them and tore a
strip of fabric from his shirt. Bobby used it to tie the flashlight to one of
the saplings, giving the pliant branch a pull to test the tension. The light
bobbed about. He scampered to the other side of the road and hunkered down.
Falling pebbles, a scuttle, could be
deer, steps, shuffle, stop shuffle, insects—Bobby tried hard to focus on the
most important sound. The moon traced highlights on his knuckles, white light
flickered, darkness, clouds shifting in the wind, and his eyes searched the
dark helter-skelter, wild. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He screamed.
Breath, hot and heavy on the back of his neck, Bobby drove the knife up and
over his head. But a strong hand bent his wrist back.
“Bobby, Creeper might’ve fallen for that
one, not me."
The voice was almost alien to Bobby;
it was not filled with the usual drawl of the other
Folks. He was told it came from across the Pacific Ocean,
before the world went mad—a place called Russia. It
belonged to one of the Folks, probably the only one besides Ol’ Randy he
trusted, his friend, his mentor, Ecky.
“You drop knife." Ecky twisted Bobby’s
wrist back another inch. The man in him tried not to cry out, but the child
gave in to the pain and squealed. “What the hell have you been up to?
Settlement’s in uproar. Thought you might be Creeper bait by now.”
“Ecky, Ryan’s been bit!” Cale’s deep voice
ripped into the night.
Ecky spun Bobby around, massive hands
draped on his tiny shoulders. Strands of long brown hair poked out from under
his thick, woolen skullcap like octopus tentacles from the mouth of an undersea
cave. His thick eyebrows twitched. His face went from shock to anger in a
series of broken wrinkles.
“How long?”
Bobby looked away, ashamed to face Ecky.
He tucked his shirt deeper into his pants and pulled the wind breaker down. He
had no chance, but with Ecky’s and Cale’s help,
Ryan
had a slim one. With his secret in the back of his mind, dirty and cold, he
looked into those dark bloodshot eyes.
“Bobby, how long? How long?" Ecky
shook him violently.
“Three . . . maybe four hours. Once the
sun set I lost track of time. Ecky, I’m sorry." Bobby began to cry.
“Shit, save tears for when you really
need them. He’s got chance. Cale,” Ecky shouted to the young man gruffly, “get
him on your back. We move.”
If only Ecky knew those tears were not
meant for Ryan. He’d made his peace, silently, when he wrapped his brother’s
wound so many hours ago.
“You got running legs?" Ecky wiped
Bobby’s tears with a gloved hand.
Bobby nodded.
“Good. Cale, you ready?”
The young man nodded. His face ghostly
pale—eyes wide in terror.
“He ain’t that heavy, but I don’t want
to be tripping over shit I can’t see. Time for slow and steady is over, crack a
light.”
Ecky slid a long tube from the inside of
his jacket. He bent the tube until it made a snapping sound. He shook it. A
sickly green light split the dark night. He handed it to Bobby.
“You hang on to that and don’t drop it.”
With Ecky running point,
their group ran for the Settlement. The moon at their
backs, they ran hard. They ran like reckless animals scattered by a hunter’s
errant shot. They ran for Ryan’s life. But Bobby . . . Bobby was already dead.
Bobby couldn’t meet their eyes. It was
like every other day in the Settlement, only worse. Instead of pockets of cold
gazes, he got them all at once, every last one of the Settlement’s inhabitants,
and each stare pierced through him like a blast from the guard tower rifles.
His head felt heavy, the weight of the world was only a speck of sand in
comparison. He dragged his feet as they crossed through the main gate.
They were all there in the light of the
rising sun: Ol’ Randy leaning on Tilda, Pastor Craven, the Good Book clasped in
his long, bony fingers, Lyda in her doctor whites, soon to be covered with
Ryan’s blood, Ma and Pa Crannen’s twin sons, Jackson and Thomas, all the boys
in their brown jumpsuits, the farmers in their blue overalls, and far, far at
the end of the throng, three wide-eyed boys, chewing on their fingernails,
nervous, hovering together for familiarity, Bobby and Ryan’s brothers: Peter,
Bryan, and Paul.
The looks falling on Bobby and Ryan were
filled with scorn. All of them, except for those of his brothers, although
together again, the five were completely alone.
“Figured it’d be them boys. Nothing but
trouble since the day they was brought in. Many a good Settlement sons and
daughters didn’t see their first winters ‘cause of them boys . . . a shame,” an
old woman cried.
The crowd rumbled, some cheered in
response to her words.
“Shut up you old bat!” Ryan yelled from
Cale’s back.
“That’s enough now! Praise the Lord
Jesus the boys are safe, thank you saviors. Move along now, the Lord demands a
plentiful harvest before winter. There’s work to do yet. Move along."
Pastor Craven motioned above his head with his right hand. At the motion, the
church bell rang three times. The echo rolled through the fog-laden valley.
The Folks went about their business,
disgust heavy in their hearts.
Pastor Craven did not hide his
agitation. His nostrils flared and his knuckles rapped the leather bound bible.
He walked up to Cale, Ryan still clinging to his back, and leaned in on the
boy. His yellowed teeth long, like sticks of butter, and his breath smelled of
mint and whiskey. The Lord had demanded a long night, it seemed. He studied the
bandaged wound and said, “The Lord will demand penance for your sins, son. Even
if you don’t make it He will demand it of you." He ruffled Ryan’s hair.
“Lyda, get him to the infirmary . . . test him. I trust in the Lord above he
has not arrived too late.”
Lyda’s long blonde hair bounced on her
back as she ran to Cale. She dug a pair of worn glasses from her non-existent
cleavage, which had earned her the nickname BB, short for the blonde board. She
grabbed Ryan by the head, forced it back without a hint of care. Lyda studied
Ryan’s eyes then she let his head fall while she fished in the pockets of her
lab coat for gloves. She snapped the white latex on her hands and flexed her
fingers. Satisfied, she yanked Ryan’s head back again and pulled his mouth
open, peeled back his lips and examined his gum line for signs of the Fection.
“Cale, get him inside, quickly!"
Her ponytail flashed in the sun’s light, and then she was a white blur towards
the low, flat-roofed infirmary.
Ecky stood a few feet from Bobby, awaiting
orders. He couldn’t help but wince at Ryan’s treatment. He could understand
some of the Settlement’s views of the boys . . . but he would never agree with
them. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder and winked at Bobby, trying to
reassure the boy, tell him silently, everything was going to be okay.
Bobby smiled and winked back.
Pastor Craven’s hand snapped down and
his bony knuckles cracked Bobby across the face sharply
.
Bobby stumbled, but did not fall,
enraging the Pastor further. He struck out again, knocking Bobby’s head the
other way. The blow carried much more force with it, and Bobby fell hard on his
side, the rocks of the muddied road dug into his ribs making it hard to
breathe.
“At the Devil’s work again, Bobby
Carroll! The lot of you boys nothing but sinners." He spat on the ground.
“Lord, please calm my nerves as your sworn enemy Satan most foul uses these
boys to tempt me! I ask this in Jesus’ name, AMEN!" Pastor Craven took a
long, deep breath to steady his shaking hands. It wasn’t as sure as the
whiskey, but it would have to do in such a public place.
He pulled Bobby off the ground by the
collar, dusting the boy off with one hand, doing well to keep the bible from
the youth, as if he were pure evil. Couldn’t have Jesus sullied with the
thoughts of the adolescent now could we? One never knew what rotted at the core
of a boy’s mind: thoughts of sex, profanity, desire, masturbation; such sick
unclean things. Pastor Craven smacked Bobby on the behind, sending him in the
direction of his brothers.
“You go and get cleaned up now, Bobby
Carroll. The Lord can’t have you running around his fine land dirty. The rest
of you boys can meet him in the barracks where you will stay until further
notice. You are exempt from classes today.”
The boys huddled around Bobby, hugging
and whispering and giggling.
“That does not mean you all get a free
pass . . . far from it. Once I have this situation in the hands of the Lord, I
will be by the barracks with what He demands of each of you. Pray on it . . . pray
your little hearts on it.”
Ecky shuddered.
The boys walked slowly towards the
barracks.
“Well, Yannek, you’ve seen the boys to
safety. Can’t say I’m too happy with that, but a job well done." He
clasped Ecky on the shoulder. “But winter is fast approaching, and I fear we
won’t make it through without that second generator. The entire Settlement has
lost nearly a day’s work out of you. The Lord demands you return to work to
ensure his flock is kept warm through winter." Pastor Craven picked at his
teeth with a crooked fingernail.
“I understand, Pastor.”
“I know you do. We will make it up to
you one day.”
Bet you won’t, Ecky thought, as he
watched the Pastor stroll towards the infirmary.
* * * * *
The sharp sting of antiseptic burned
Ryan’s nostrils, and the intensity of the bright white lights dazzled his eyes.
He’d seen it from the inside only once before, several years earlier, when he
suffered a broken wrist from punching one of the native Settlement boys, James
Cumberland, for making fun of his brothers.
The infirmary was a far cry from a
hospital, but as far as anyone in the Settlement could guess it was the closest
functioning facility left in the world. It was a simple structure made of
roughly hewn timber farmed from the tree-lined mountainsides. Heavy beams ran
the length of the forty foot long ceiling with harsh fluorescent lighting in
between each sap-stained beam. There were four beds, one operating table, and
the rest of the space was dominated by supplies gathered from abandoned medical
facilities over the years.
Under the careful, watchful eye of Lyda,
the Folks sent small, well-armed raiding parties to retrieve supplies every
spring, but with each passing year the groups were forced to drift further and
further from the Settlement. As the Settlement’s only certified doctor Lyda
stressed the importance of the parties to Pastor Craven, and by the grace of
God he obliged. But the supplies would not last.