Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  *

  I HURRY ACROSS THE COMPOUND, clamber over the security barrier, and make my way into the woods.

  I have less time than I thought. I need to get Mags some of Gilbey’s medicine, quick. The Greenbrier’s due north from Fearrington, a distance just shy of two hundred miles. I reckon I can make it in five days if I go as the crow flies, which I intend to do. That means going through Durham, which I had hoped to avoid, but tacking west around the city would add the best part of a day to my journey, and that’s time I don’t have. I tell myself it’ll be okay, long as I’m careful. I’ll stay off the main roads, out of the way of whoever Finch might have out looking for me. I’ll give the hospitals a wide berth, too. Most of those I spotted on the way down were close to the center anyway, and there’s no reason for me to venture in there.

  I make it to the outskirts with little of the day’s light left to spare. Depots and warehouses line the road on either side, their windows silted or smashed, their corrugated roofs sagging under the weight of snow. I hurry between them, searching for somewhere that’ll do for shelter.

  As night falls I spot a junkyard, nestling between a railway siding and a cluster of squat gas tanks. I stop in front of it and peer through the fence. Vehicles lie in haphazard piles, their doors missing, their trunks agape. It looks like they were once stacked five or six high, but whatever attempt at order there was before has long succumbed - only here and there a few teetering columns remain. Dotted among the wrecks are other shapes, dark, hulking: huge, tracked machines with powerful hydraulic limbs, raking claws; elsewhere the square-toothed jaws of giant, slab-sided compactors. They all rest silent now, their operator compartments deserted, filling with snow. It’s a sorry-looking spot and no mistake, but I couldn’t hope for better. Nobody in their right mind would bother to scavenge a place like this; stands to reason they wouldn’t come looking for me here either.

  The gate’s padlocked, but the fence has been breached before; it doesn’t take me long to find a spot where the chain-link’s parted company from the uprights. The wire scratches and claws at my parka as I squeeze myself through. I find what I’m looking for near the back, behind an old Airstream trailer: an unremarkable cinder-block with a low, sloping roof. The temperature’s dropping so I hurry towards it, already contemplating the fire I’ll soon have going. I reckon it’ll be safe enough to light one; the building’s set well back from the street, hidden from view by the piles of vehicle carcasses that clutter the lot.

  I make my way up to the entrance and step out of my snowshoes. When I try the door it’s locked, but the wood in the frame is old and doesn’t stand long to the pry bar. I hurry inside, a little windblown snow following me in. I close the door behind me and wind the flashlight. The beam shows me an open space, laid out like a waiting room. Threadbare sofas push up against the walls, low tables slung between them, here and there an armchair. Beyond, almost at the end of the flashlight’s reach, a long wooden counter that runs the width of the room. What looks like tall metal shelves behind, stretching back into darkness.

  Spidey’s antsy about something, but as usual he’s not sharing the detail. It seems pretty low-level, though, and he’s been on edge ever since we made it back to the city, so I shuck off my backpack and prop it against the busted door. I step over to one of the sofas and sit. The cushion sags and I can feel the springs beneath, but at least the fabric’s dry. There’s even a stack of magazines, neatly arranged on one of the tables. I won’t even have to go searching for kindling.

  I sit there for a moment, just listening, but there’s nothing except the sound of the wind outside. I glance over at the counter, the shelves beyond. This wasn’t a place folks would have chosen to live, before, so I can’t see how anything’ll be waiting for me back there. I guess I’d better go check it out, all the same. I hesitate, watching my breath hang in the flashlight’s yellowing beam. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this. These past weeks it had become Mags’ job, on account of it was she who was finding us shelter. I didn’t like that it fell to her to do that, but I can’t say I missed it much, either.

  I look over at my backpack, resting against the door. I’ll tend to it once I’ve got my dinner on. I undo the snaps, dig out one of the cans I’ve brought, hold it up to the flashlight. There’s no sign of leakage; the wax I’ve used to seal the hole’s still doing its job. I shouldn’t get my hopes up, though; it hasn’t yet been a day. We’ll see what shape the tins are in in a couple of weeks, when I get back to Fearrington.

  If you get back to Fearrington.

  I return to the pack and pull out one of the Sternos and a makeshift stove. There’s no point doubting myself now; it’s the only plan I’ve got. Gilbey will go for it; there’s no reason she wouldn’t. All I’m asking is for some of her medicine. Hicks was ready to cut me a deal for the location of the Juvies; what I’m offering this time is even better.

  I don’t care to revisit what that might mean for the current inhabitants of Starkly prison, so instead I busy myself opening the can and setting up the jury-rigged burner. When it’s done I fumble in my pocket for the lighter. Seconds later the little blue Sterno tab is aglow, filling the air with its acrid fumes.

  I step back while it warms my meal. I’d like to get started on a fire, but spidey’s still jangly about something or other so I wind the flashlight and make my way back to the counter. On the far side rows of wide-spaced metal shelves, stretching all the way up to the ceiling.

  I hesitate a moment, then step in among them. On either side, high as the flashlight will show me, car parts: springs, shocks, mufflers, body panels, here and there what looks like an entire engine; the innards pulled from the vehicles outside. I head further back, letting the beam sweep the laden shelves. After a dozen or so paces cardboard boxes take the place of hubcaps and chromed fenders. I set the flashlight down and pull one out. A few motes spiral lazily through the faltering cone of light. Spidey takes it up a notch at that, and for once I’m way ahead of him. I run a finger along the shelf, then hold it up. Hardly any dust. When I check the floor it’s the same, almost like it’s been swept recently.

  I lift the flap on one of the boxes, point the flashlight inside. I’m expecting more car stuff, so at first when I see what’s there I think it’s my eyes playing tricks on me.

  Candy bars.

  Scores of them, maybe hundreds. Hershey’s; Twizzlers; Oreos; Peanut Butter Cups. A dozen other names, some I haven’t seen in more than a decade.

  I pull out a Butterfinger and hold it up to the light, then tear off the wrapper. The chocolate is gray and when I take a bite it tastes a little gritty, but otherwise it’s fine. I check a couple of other boxes from higher up on the shelf. The contents are all the same. I pocket the Butterfinger and reach for a box from the other side of the aisle. It feels heavier, and when I drag it down I see why. Inside, instead of candy bars, soda cans, packed most of the way to the lid. I lift one out, pop the tab. The soda’s flat, but it’s good all the same; way nicer than the snowmelt from my canteen that tastes of plastic and ash and the cloth I’ve used to strain it.

  I take another sip and return my gaze to the boxes stretching up into darkness. At last, a piece of good luck. Candy bars are way lighter than tins. If all the boxes are like the few I checked there should be more than enough here to see the Juvies back to Mount Weather, without me having to worry about whether some stupid wax seal will hold.

  I finish the Butterfinger, pocket the wrapper. I wonder who stashed all this stuff here, though, and what happened to make them just abandon it? I return the box of sodas to its place on the shelf and start off again, the beam dancing ahead of me down the aisle. The cardboard boxes continue for a while and then stop, as abruptly as they had begun. At first I think the shelves beyond are empty, but when I shine the flashlight further along I see they’re not. The beam catches a familiar shape, just beyond the next upright: a pair of stockinged feet. Spidey bleats a warning, begging me to run, but instead I stop, take a brea
th. It’s been a while since I’ve come across a dead body, but it’s hardly my first. Over the years I’ve seen my fair share of them, grown as used to the experience as I expect a person can. I can’t say I’m thrilled at the prospect of finding another, but I’m certainly not about to abandon a find like this over it.

  I take a breath, steady the flashlight. At least the mystery of who stocked this place has been solved. I have to hand it to them: they picked a good spot to hide their stash, a place no one would think to check; the fact that it’s gone undiscovered all this time is testament to that. I guess they set up camp right next to it, presumably meaning to guard it against those who would have taken it from them. At some point along the way the cold’s had another idea, however, and the cold, being a vicious bitch, has prevailed: they’ve frozen to death, long before they had a chance to consume what they’d gathered. I shift the beam forward, trying to ignore the fresh caterwauling inside my head as it shows me a pair of hands, folded neat across a shallow rise of chest. It’s a girl, or at least once was. A girl no older than I am. The light slides up over collarbones thin as pencils, to a slender neck. Spidey’s pinging like crazy now, and at last I start to realize my mistake. This is no corpse. Her skin is pale, smooth, unblemished by decay. She looks just like she’s sleeping.

  I cover the windup with my hand before the light can land on her face, afraid that it might wake her. Spidey’s pleading with me to get out of there, but instead I glance over to the other side of the aisle. Another one, a boy this time, hands just the same, neat across his breastbone. I slowly angle the flashlight up, sweep it carefully over the shelves above.

  On either side, more of them, as far as the beam will show me.

  *

  I TAKE A QUICK STEP backwards, then another, my heart racing. Looks like these furies are all still out of it, just like the ones in the basement of the hospital in Blacksburg, but after what I saw in Starkly I might not be willing to bet the farm on it. I turn around and hurry back towards the counter. Outside night’s already fallen; under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even be contemplating a fresh search for shelter. I’ll have to take my chances, however; I don’t plan on spending another minute under the same roof as whatever’s back there.

  But as I step from between the shelves I stop. The door I thought I had closed behind me when I came in hangs ajar, and when I look there’s no sign of the backpack I had propped against it. That’s not what has spidey dialed all the way up to DEFCON 1, however. I glance over at the sofa. The little Sterno’s still burning away in its makeshift stove. The flame is low, the light it casts next to useless, but sufficient to show me a dark shape, hunched over it.

  I freeze and for a dozen heartbeats just stand there, staring. The figure on the sofa doesn’t move, least not as far as I can tell. I can’t even be sure it’s seen me. I realize I’m still holding the soda can I took from the shelves. I set it on the counter as quietly as I can and reach down for the pistol. As my fingers close around the grip whatever it is that’s sitting there looks up from the flame.

  ‘Hey! How’re y’all doin?’

  The hand on the pistol relaxes a fraction and I allow myself to exhale. I shine the flashlight in the direction of the voice. The hood of a sweatshirt covers his head, hiding his face, but whoever this latest interloper in the run of poor choices that has become my life might be, at least he’s not like one of those things in back. I know this for one simple reason: furies can’t talk.

  That undeniable piece of logic does little to calm spidey, however. I try to quiet him as I make my way around the counter, but with little success. The figure on the sofa speaks again.

  ‘My name’s Vince, by the way.’

  I hold a finger to my lips then use it to point behind me.

  ‘Nice to meet you Vince, but you need to keep it down now. There’s a bunch of furies back there.’

  I half expect him to up and bolt for the door at this news, but instead he looks past me, into the shelves, like he’s considering what I’ve just said. After a moment he just says Good to know, then gestures at the can of franks and beans bubbling away on the stove.

  ‘This yours?’ He leans forward. ‘Sure don’t smell very good.’ He shakes his head, as if to confirm it. ‘Hey, y’all wanna see something neat?’

  He doesn’t wait for my answer, just pushes up his sleeves and places his hands over the makeshift stove. His arms look thin, like he may not have eaten recently. He flips them over, so his palms are facing down, then starts moving them in slow interlocking circles, like he’s a magician, performing a trick. His hands speed up, going faster and faster until they’re a blur. After a few moments he pulls them away with a flourish. The stove’s still there, the remnants of the Sterno burning away inside it. But the can that was sitting on top a moment before has disappeared.

  ‘Pretty neat, huh?’

  He keeps his head down, but I get the feeling he’s waiting for a reaction, maybe even some applause. I just stand there with the flashlight, uncertain what to do. I begin to wonder if there’s something not right with him, like maybe not all his dogs are barking. I know he heard what I said, because he responded to it.

  ‘Alright, let’s see what else y’all got in here.’

  He bends forward and reaches down between his knees, his hand disappearing into something that looks like it might be my backpack. He pulls out a can, appears to study it for a moment, then discards it. It clatters noisily to the floor.

  I glance over my shoulder, nervous that something back there might have heard.

  ‘Hey, stop that now. We got to get out of this place.’

  He keeps rummaging through my pack, like he doesn’t hear me, or if he does he doesn’t care. I take a step closer.

  ‘Listen, friend, I don’t know what your deal is, but I mean to be on my way, and if you have any sense you’ll come with me. It’s not safe here, you might want to trust me on that.’

  He doesn’t lift his head from the pack. Instead he pulls out another can, sends it sailing over his shoulder. It crashes to the floor somewhere behind him.

  ‘Hey, quit that! I mean it now. That’s my stuff.’

  ‘It’s only fair. That candy bar y’all ate was ours. The Coke you drank, too.’ He pulls out another can, tosses it. ‘And then there’s the door you busted.’

  Ours? Does he live here, among the furies? That’d make him crazier than a sprayed roach, and I don’t care much to tangle with an insane person. Spidey’s begging me to just cut my losses and get out of here. I glance over at the door, then back at the hooded figure hunched over my backpack, still pulling stuff out it. But I can’t just leave; I need what’s in that pack to get me to The Greenbrier.

  I pull the pistol from the holster and hold it up so he can see.

  ‘Hey, asshole! That’s enough. I mean it now; I have a gun.’

  If he hears me he gives no sign of it. Another tin gets discarded, skitters across the floor, rolls noisily off into darkness. I level the pistol at him, like I mean business. He continues to ignore me, so I lever the hammer back with my thumb. There’s a loud click as it locks into position.

  That finally seems to get his attention. The hood lifts a fraction, like he might be considering what I’ve just said. He tilts his head to one side and raises his voice.

  ‘Y’all hear that, Cass? Sundance here says he’s got a gun.’

  I’m wondering if whoever he’s talking to is real or just a figment of his imagination, when all of a sudden out of the corner of my eye I catch movement, a shifting in the darkness, almost too fast to comprehend. My brain’s still contemplating what instructions it might want to issue to the rest of my body when I feel the pistol wrenched from my hand.

  I snap my head around, startled. Where a second ago there was nothing now a girl stands. She’s wearing a denim jacket, a bunch of buttons pinned to the front: This Is Not The Life I Ordered; Stare All You Want; Bite Me; a bunch of others I can’t read. Beneath it a short skirt, scruffy-looking high
-tops. Her hair is cut in a ragged bob. In the flashlight’s yellowing glow it seems orange, maybe even pink. Her bangs hang down, hiding most of her face, but where they end I can see her jaw working. She turns the pistol she’s just taken from me over in her hands, points it at the ground, squints along the barrel.

  ‘Hardly a gun, Vince. More of an antique.’

  I point the flashlight at her. She looks at me sideways through the strands of hair – definitely pink – that fall across her face.

  ‘What, you couldn’t have found something older?’

  She lowers the hammer, studies the pistol a moment longer, then with a flick of her wrist sends it spinning towards the sofa. My eyes twitch left, trying to follow the shallow arc it takes, but I’m way too slow. By the time I catch up Vince is already on his feet, and now he’s standing atop the low table. He snatches it from the air with an almost alarming grace.

  I take a step backwards, finally beginning to realize how wrong I’ve got this. I swing the flashlight in his direction. The beam shows me faded jeans, snugged down over a pair of scuffed work boots, a leather jacket. The sweatshirt he wears underneath has an eagle’s head on it and the words Lynyrd Skynyrd. I don’t know what that means; it doesn’t even sound like English. I hesitate for a second and then angle the flashlight up. The beam slips into the cowl of his hood, suddenly setting his eyes ablaze. He narrows them a fraction, but doesn’t look away.

  He steps down off the table and pulls back the hood, revealing a shock of white hair. His face splits into a lopsided grin. If it was his intention to reassure me with that gesture, he’s missed the mark, and by some margin. He regards me the way a fox might a chicken that’s just wandered into its den, all of its own accord.

  I stand there, rooted to the spot, just staring back at him.

  He holds me in his gaze a moment longer, then he looks over my shoulder and whistles through his teeth.

  *