Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  She inclines her head towards the campfire.

  ‘So where’d you meet these ones?’

  ‘They were living inside a mountain.’

  She raises an eyebrow at that, but if she has more questions she doesn’t ask them.

  ‘Known them long?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘But they’re treating you okay?’

  He hesitates a second then nods.

  ‘Even the ones with the guns?’

  He nods again.

  ‘That’s good.’ She goes quiet for a moment, like she’s thinking about something. ‘Hey, Johnny, do you plan to say anything? About meeting us, I mean. Only I don’t think it’d be a good idea if one of them was to take it into their heads to try and find us. You know, like the tall one did, going after those prisoners.’

  He thinks about that a moment, then shakes his head. When the tall boy comes back he doesn’t want him going off again.

  ‘Alright.’

  He looks back towards the entrance. The girl will be up soon. He’s already been gone too long.

  ‘I’d best get back.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  She reaches in her pocket, holds out a candy bar. He hesitates a moment then takes it from her. As he turns to make his way back towards the entrance, she reaches for his shoulder.

  ‘Hey Johnny, they’re not your kind anymore. You know that, right?’

  *

  I DON’T SLEEP MUCH the rest of that night. I pick up the book again, but I make no more progress with it. The candle burns down, spends a little while working out whether it means to keep going, then simply winks out. After that it’s just a matter of counting out the hours until at last somewhere far behind the clouds the sun rises and another gray dawn breaks over Starkly’s walls.

  Sounds drift into my cell - the creak of mattress springs, the scuff of boots on stone, the clang of metal - as around me the prison slowly wakes. I sit on the edge of the cot, waiting, but it’s a long time before anyone comes to release me. At last I hear Finch’s shoes and cane on the landing outside. I’m standing by the bars when he appears.

  ‘Good morning, Gabriel. And how was your night?’

  Truth is I’ve had better, but I remember how he feels about manners so I tell him I slept just fine. He smiles, like he’s pleased to hear it. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket for the keys and takes them out, selecting one for the lock. He’s about to insert it, but then he hesitates.

  ‘I must say, it has been pleasant having you here with us. I feel like we have got along terribly well. It is nice to have someone who shares the same interests. Much as I have come to care for them, my charges are not the sort for whom a literary discussion is the preferred mode of entertainment.’ He pauses, and for a second his pale eyes grow a little brighter. He presses his lips together, in what might be a smile. ‘Tell me, would you give some thought to staying with us a little longer?’

  The key hovers by the lock. I glance down at it, wondering how much of a bearing my answer might have on whether I’ll be leaving this cell today.

  ‘It’s a kind offer, Mr. Finch, it really is. But I reckon I should be heading on.’ I feel the need to say something more, to offer him a reason why. ‘I heard there were survivors, down south. Won’t be long now till winter’s on us again and I have a ways to go yet if I’m to find them before it gets here.’

  The smile flickers. One finger hovers over the head of the cane, taps it twice, then comes to rest.

  ‘I want to thank you for everything, though. For the meal, and for lending me this.’

  I hold up the copy of Watership Down.

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  He inserts the key in the lock, turns it, then stands back to let me out. I step past him onto the landing. Knox and Tully are waiting a little further along, by the stair.

  I hand him his book.

  ‘How far did you get?’

  ‘Not very.’ I glance back into the cell at the puddle of wax that used to be a candle.

  He looks down at the paperback. His fingers fiddle restlessly along the edges, as though he is deciding something. In the end he pushes it back towards me.

  ‘Why, you must have it, to take with you. To remember us by.’

  I start to tell him I couldn’t, but my hands betray me; they’re already reaching for it of their own accord. Any book is a treasure, but this one means so much more.

  ‘I insist. And who knows, maybe someday you will be in a position to do me a similar favor.’

  He says it like he expects our paths to cross again, but the truth is I have no plans to return to Starkly. I figure there’s little mileage to be had in pointing that out, however.

  ‘Well, if you’re certain.’

  He nods, once. But when I go to take the book from him his fingers suddenly tighten around it. I look up and something has changed, a hardening of whatever is behind his eyes.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t take this from you, Mr. Finch. Books are hard to come by, and it’s obviously one of your favorites.’

  And just like that it’s as though whatever spell he was under has been broken. He pushes the book into my hands.

  ‘Nonsense. I won’t hear of it, Gabriel. Never let it be said that Garland Finch was an Indian giver.’

  We make our way down the stair. The mittens Goldie took from me are waiting on the table where the night before we sat for dinner. There’s no mention of breakfast, and I don’t enquire after it. I wasn’t certain when I checked in last night I’d ever be checking out again, so all things considered I reckon I’m up on the deal.

  I exchange goodbyes with the warden in the hall. He says his leg’s no good in the snow, but Mr. Goldie will show me to the gate. Goldie bobs his head and smiles broadly, as if nothing could conceivably bring him greater pleasure.

  I follow him outside. I can’t say daylight’s improved Starkly any, but then my expectations weren’t high to begin with. Goldie jabbers at me all the way to the holding pen. Mostly it’s how sorry he is about our misunderstanding; how he hopes I don’t hold it against him. I tell him not to give it another thought, but he keeps up his jawboning regardless. His apologies don’t put me much at ease. I haven’t known him long, but I’m pretty sure remorse isn’t among this particular inmate’s limited catalog of feelings.

  He holds the gate open and I step through. Culver’s sitting behind the pockmarked screen, just like he was when I came in last night. Goldie bangs on the glass with the side of his fist and the tray slides out. He hands me the gun belt and then busies himself gathering up the bullets that were emptied from Hicks’ pistol while I loop the leather around my waist and cinch the buckle. When I’m done he hands me the cartridges with a smile. I slip them into my pocket while he runs on ahead to work the bolts on the door set into the main gate.

  I take one last look back into the yard. Finch is still standing by the entrance to the cellblock, leaning on his cane. He holds one hand up to wave me goodbye. I hesitate for a moment then return the gesture. Behind me the last of the bolts slide back and I hear the door swing inward.

  My snowshoes are waiting, right where I left them. The snow’s been wiped clean of the tracks we made coming down, but that’s okay; I’ll be able to find my way just fine without them. I tighten the bindings and set off. I think I hear Goldie’s voice calling after me, but whatever he says is lost to the wind. I don’t turn around; if he has parting words for me I don’t need to hear them.

  I don’t stop until I’ve crested the ridge. I pull off my mittens and dig in my pocket for one of the bullets Goldie handed me as I was leaving. I angle the tail to the light, searching for what I thought I saw there earlier. I hold it under my nose, to be certain. I check each of the others, to make sure there’s no mistake.

  There isn’t. They’re all the same. Dollars to donuts the ones nestling in the gun belt’s cartridge loops won’t be any different.

  I weigh the bullets in my hand one last time, then throw them as far
off into the snow as I can.

  *

  IT’S ALREADY EDGING into the afternoon by the time I find my way back to the interstate. I glance behind me then hurry up onto the overpass. The pistol shifts on my hip underneath the parka as I make my way across. There’s not many things I can say I’m grateful to Hicks for, but he did show me how to check a weapon, and that included the ammunition that went with it. The primers on the cartridges that were returned to me had been soaked in something, from the smell my guess’d be oil, to make sure they wouldn’t fire.

  It’s possible Goldie did that on his own initiative, of course, but somehow I doubt it. I’ve seen nothing to change the impression I had on our first meeting: there’s little more to him than a fast mouth run by a slow brain. Which means it was the warden told him to do it, and that’s a lot more worrisome. I could offer you three guesses as to why he’d go to that trouble when it’d be just as easy to have Culver hold back the bullets in the first place. But unless your name’s Angus or Hamish I doubt you’ll need more than one.

  Nope, he wanted me to walk out of those gates feeling good and relaxed, like my dealings with Starkly Correctional Institution and all its inmates were firmly in the rearview. And there’s only one reason I can think of for that: he means to send someone after me, to see where I’ll go. Could just be idle curiosity, of course. I guess even with all those books time must sit heavy on your hands in a place like Starkly. I wouldn’t bet on it, though. Well, I’ve been fooled by that trick before. I certainly won’t be falling for it again.

  I make my way down off the overpass and head straight for the U-Haul. I cross the lot and hike up to the low cinder block where Goldie jumped me. The door hangs back on its hinges, just how I left it. I snap off my snowshoes and step inside. Marv’s map’s lying on the floor. I return it to its rightful place in my pocket and make my way back to the interchange.

  I need to get back to Mags and the kid now, quick as I can. Someone will be coming down that road after me, however, and I can’t lead them right to the Juvies. I lift my goggles onto my forehead. On either side the highway stretches off into the distance, far as the eye can see.

  One way looks as good as the other so I choose left, then set off down the on-ramp. The wind picks up, but not enough to clear my tracks. For now that suits me. I want whoever’s following to pick up my trail. At first I swing around every few paces, expecting to find the dark shapes of whoever Finch has sent on the road behind. But each time it’s empty, and after a mile or so I allow myself to relax a little. My thoughts return to what I saw at Starkly.

  I have a theory now about the virus, of sorts. I reckon the furies that found themselves somewhere that was shielded the night Kane scorched the skies, those ones can probably still pass it on. Hicks certainly seemed to think so, and if he was wrong about that he put Ortiz to his end unnecessarily, after he got attacked by that one in the basement of the hospital in Blacksburg.

  For those furies that were out in the open when the missiles detonated it might have been different, however. The pulse that was released didn’t strike the virus from them, and it’s been building its way back up inside them all this time, just like Marv suspected. Whatever ability they had to transmit it was lost, though. The crucifix Mags wears, I can’t rely on that anymore.

  I tell myself none of it means she’s going to get sick again. The voice has been quiet since I quit the prison, but now it pipes up. It wants to know about all the other things: how quick she is now; how she can see in the dark; how her skin is always cold.

  How she was with Kurt.

  It seems like it has a lot more to say on the subject, but I hush it. None of that has to mean anything either. It’s already been weeks since Mags and the kid came through the scanner, and they’re both still fine.

  If something was going to happen to them it would have done so by now.

  I stick to I-85 as it winds its way west. I pass the exit for 501, the road that would take me south to Fearrington, but I don’t take it. About a mile further on the interstate elbows north at a place called Eno and shortly after runs through what must once have been forest. I slow down. This is far enough. If I’m going to find my way back to the Juvies I’ll need to cut south again, and here looks as good a spot as any. I have no backpack to drag in my wake, so I take out Weasel’s blade and cut a branch from the withered remains of a tree that’s still clinging to the embankment. I return to the center of the highway and keep going until the gnarled trunks on either side are as densely packed as I think they’re apt to get, then I quit the road, using the branch to sweep the snow behind me. When I reach the tree line I look back. I doubt what I’ve done would’ve fooled Marv, or Truck, but with a little help from the wind it might do. It’ll have to. Right now it’s as much as I can manage.

  I head cross-country for a while until I hit a little place name of Blackwood. I stop on the far side of town, lift my goggles onto my forehead and look west. From here I could go directly south to Fearrington, but I have one final detour to make. My backpack’s sitting in a print store, south side of Durham. I don’t care much to go back to the city, not after what I learned in Starkly, but there are items in it, chief among them the box of bullets for Hicks’ pistol and the list of codes for each facility in the Federal Location Arc I took with me from Eden. There’s a good chance Mags will have taken the list with her when she returned with the Juvies, but I can’t be certain of that. There’s no information on it that isn’t already in my head, but Mac and Goldie were scavenging right across the street when Mags ran into them.

  I can’t take the risk that they’d find it.

  Traffic clogs the streets as I approach the city. I pick my way among the wrecks. The buildings grow taller the closer I get to the center. I keep looking up, thinking I catch movement behind the darkened windows, but each time I check there’s nothing.

  I arrive back at the KwikPrint just as the last of the light’s slipping from the sky. My pack’s right where I left it, propped against the wall in the corner. There’s a note from Mags sitting on top, saying she’s taken the Juvies on ahead. I’m sorely tempted to head right back out after them, but it’s too late for that. There’s no way I’d catch up, not with the head start they have; I doubt I’d even make it out of the city. Better to rest up, get back on the road early.

  I head back to the entrance to check the street again, then wedge the door shut. I return to my pack and break out one of the last of my MREs. While it’s heating I search the aisles. I find a few cardboard boxes and a ream of paper in the storeroom that’s been overlooked, enough for a fire. I set it in back, as far from the windows as I can. When I’ve got the paper lighting I break down the boxes and feed the pieces to the flames while I wait for my ration to heat.

  Soon as my food’s passable warm I tear it open. I haven’t had anything but watery soup since the night before and I’m ravenous. I don’t lift my nose from the pouch until there’s nothing but a half-dozen sorry-looking beef ravioli left in the bottom. I lean back against the wall, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then reach for the canteen to wash down what I’ve just eaten.

  As I unscrew the cap I glance up, just in time to see a flash of something through the silted glass of the storefront as the first of them come for me.

  *

  THE CANTEEN SLIPS from my fingers. It hits the ground, teeters drunkenly as the contents slosh around inside, then topples. Water spills from the neck, darkening the dusty floor, but that’s not my concern now; I’m already on my feet, running to the window. I press my face to the cracked pane. A single flashlight beam, jitterbugging its way down the street as whoever’s behind it picks their way between the abandoned cars.

  How did they find me so soon?

  I waste precious seconds staring at it in disbelief, watching the beam grow steadily closer. It looks like just the one, but I’ve been fooled by that trick before. I snap myself out of my stupor. How they found me matters little now. I turn back to the fire. It’s t
oo late to worry about extinguishing it, so instead I reach down for Hicks’ pistol. The grip is still unfamiliar, but the heft gives me courage, at least until I remember it’s not loaded. I rush over to where my backpack rests against the wall and upend it, scrabbling through the items that spill out for the box of ammunition. I pry the hammer back and fumble the loading gate open. I shake the bullets onto my palm, not caring that most of them end up on the floor. I’ve been inside long enough for my fingers to have thawed, but haste makes them clumsy; it takes an inordinate length of time to jiggle each cartridge into its slot, rotate the cylinder and push the next one home. The last bullet slides into place just as I hear a sound from outside. I look up. The beam’s come to a halt right in front of the store.

  I snap the gate closed and cock the hammer, just as a lone figure steps up to the entrance. The flashlight makes it hard to tell who it might be, but from his height I’m pretty sure it’s Goldie’s companion, Mac. He raises both arms above his head. The wind’s gusting and he has to shout to make himself heard.

  ‘I don’t mean you no harm. I only want to talk.’

  ‘Is it just you?’

  ‘It is.’

  He turns his head, like he’s checking for something further up the street, then looks back to the door.

  ‘I’d appreciate if you’d hurry up and let me in. You can shoot me inside just as easy as out.’

  I hesitate a moment, weighing my options, then I call back that he can enter. The door opens and he stumbles in, a flurry of snow swirling around him. He pushes past me and makes straight for the fire, paying little mind to the pistol I have on him. He drops to his knees, shuffling as close to it as he can, his hands held out like he would grasp the flames to him if he could.

  When he’s warmed himself enough he pulls the scarf he’s wearing down and turns to me. If he has a weapon I don’t see it, but I certainly don’t plan on taking any chances. I make a show of leveling the gun at him, trying to keep my hand steady.