Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  The boy cranks the flashlight’s handle. As the beam settles on the nearest body he mouths the word Seth. He lets it linger there for a moment, then moves it along. When it finds the second one the boy jumps to his feet. He drops the flashlight and starts fumbling in his pocket for the gun the girl gave him.

  The man shakes his head.

  ‘Already dead. Peck. Shot it.’

  The boy picks up the flashlight. He stares at the creature lying on the floor for a long moment, like he might not trust what the man has told him. After a few seconds he slowly returns the gun to the pocket of his parka. His eyes return to the man.

  ‘Mags? Was Mags okay?’

  The man closes his eyes, nods. He raises a finger, points to an old metal radiator mounted to the wall.

  ‘Tied up, right there.’

  He holds his hand there for a while, like it’s important. Then he lets it fall to his side, as though the effort has exhausted him. He shakes his head.

  ‘Showed no interest in her. Would’ve…had to step right over her to get by.’

  *

  THE FLASK FINCH LEFT ME remains untouched, but I find myself eyeing it each time I reach the bars now, so I give up on pacing and take to the cot. I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the generator. The last few hours it’s been running ragged. The motor will hunt for a while, up and down, like someone’s tweaking the throttle, or it’ll take to sputtering, like something’s caught in the pipes. It always seems to right itself, however. Even as I listen it coughs, once, twice, like it’s clearing its throat, then returns to its languid drone.

  I close my eyes. Peck will be on the home straight by now; tomorrow evening they’ll be back at The Greenbrier. My fingers grip the side of the cot as I imagine Truck dragging her into that other room. The curtain inside my head starts to descend as the anger builds, pushing aside the feelings of helplessness and despair. The voice speaks, telling me to breath. I prefer its measured tones to the craven whispers of whatever it has replaced, but I can’t help but think it’s being far too relaxed about this. I wonder if whatever lives inside my head has gone native. Hicks said the furies put themselves into some sort of hibernation when they ran out of food. Maybe it’s looking forward to that.

  No.

  The generator takes to coughing again, for longer this time. Eventually it settles, but the chugging drone has become lumpier, more erratic.

  Are you ready?

  I sit up slowly.

  Ready for what?

  The motor catches, and for a second revs, like it’s been goosed. Then without warning it simply dies. There’s a moment’s silence, followed by a loud click from the front of my cell as the lock releases. I watch for a second in disbelief as the door slowly swings back on its hinges, and then I’m on my feet.

  But as I step out into the corridor I freeze. A little further along I can see my parka, draped over the back of the chair Finch had placed in front of the fury’s cell. The rest of my clothes are resting on the seat, neatly folded, my boots side-by-side underneath. None of those things are what’s giving me pause, however. The door to the cell next to mine: there’s no sign of the chain that once held it fast, and now it hangs open, too. I guess my lock wasn’t the only one to release when the generator died.

  I stare at it for a moment. Has the creature Finch kept there already escaped? But even as I think it I catch movement from the shadows behind. I watch as it slips through.

  It looks up as it sees me, and for long seconds we both just stand there, no more than a half-dozen paces apart, each waiting to see what the other will do.

  My eyes flick past it, to the corridor beyond.

  I don’t have time for this. I take a deep breath, getting ready to run at it.

  Wait.

  On the floor; look.

  I glance down, not daring to take my eye off the creature in front of me for more than a second. The flask Finch left is right at my feet. When I look up again I see the fury’s gaze has shifted there too.

  I slide it forward with my foot. As soon as it’s within reach the creature snatches the flask up, then hurries back into its cell. It pushes itself into the corner and busies itself with the lid. Its eyes dart to me one last time, then it lifts the battered metal container to its lips, tilts its head back and starts to drink. Drops of something dark trickle from its lips, falling from its chin to spatter the concrete.

  I’m already reaching for my parka when the smell hits me. My head snaps back to the cell, and for a moment I’m rooted to the spot, transfixed; all I can do is stand there and stare. Something inside me awakens, uncoils itself. I know what it would have me do. The creature in the cell senses it; its lip curls and it snarls back at me from the shadows. It is a puny thing, though, pathetic; it will be no match for me. I take a step towards it. Inside my head the brace wire shutter starts to descend.

  No.

  I grip the bars, wrestling for control. But the smell is maddening; it takes everything I have not to rush into the cell, rip the flask from the creature’s hands.

  You have somewhere else to be now.

  It shows me an image: Mags, forced onto her toes, her feet scrabbling for purchase as the noose tightens around her neck. The muscles along Truck’s arms bunching as he hoists her up.

  And now the rage has a different focus.

  I take a step backwards, then another. I grab my parka and boots from the chair and set off along the passageway at a run.

  At the top of the stairs concrete gives way to stone and I stop to pull on my boots. I take a couple of deep breaths as I tighten the laces, still trying to clear my head. I’m not sure what almost happened back there but whatever it was I can’t allow it again, least not till I’m clear of Starkly’s walls. I shuck on my parka and make my way down the hall, past laundry, kitchens, pantry, straining for sounds ahead.

  When I reach the cellblock I stop again. My luck seems to be holding; Starkly’s quiet as a morgue.

  Too quiet.

  The voice is right. It might still be dark outside, but there’s nothing; no snores, no dream-laden grunts, none of the other night sounds the prisoners would make. Only the tinny silence of emptiness, the occasional gust of wind against stone outside.

  If this is a game Finch is playing with me I don’t understand it. He either means to let me leave or he doesn’t. I take a deep breath and step through the door, making my way across the open expanse of cellblock quick as I can. I hold my breath, expecting at any moment to be challenged. But there’s nothing, and then I’m out in the yard, crunching through snow. Ahead lies the holding pen. I pull back the gate and step inside. The pockmarked booth is dark, empty. I make my way towards the access door set into the towering main gate and slide back the bolt. The hinges creak as I heave it open. I don’t bother to close it behind me. My snowshoes are waiting where I left them, propped against the wall outside. I step into them, ratchet the straps tight and then I’m gone.

  I stop on the ridge overlooking the valley long enough to dig up Mags’ backpack from where I buried it on my way in. I strap on the gun belt, sling her crucifix around my neck, and then I’m off again, bounding down to the highway with a pace I can scarcely believe.

  I take the straightest route I can figure, cutting cross-country where I figure it might save me a quarter mile, less. I’m a five-day hike from The Greenbrier with at best two days to cover that distance. I don’t trouble myself with whether it can be done. I just point myself north and make my strides as long and fast as my legs will allow.

  One by one the miles fall under my snowshoes. I pass through places with names like Prospect, Blanch, Vandola, but don’t stop in any of them. The day grows uncomfortably bright. I keep my head down, cupping my hands to my goggles when I need to raise it to study the road ahead. At last, somewhere far behind the clouds, the sun starts tracking for the horizon. As dusk settles I quit North Carolina and continue on into Virginia.

  Neither darkness nor cold will stop me now.


  Just before dawn I get that scratchiness behind my eyes that tells me I’ll soon need to sleep. I fight it for as long as I can, but soon my vision starts to narrow and things that cannot be there appear in what remains, making me think what I see now might not be trusted. Up ahead a shotgun shack sits just off the highway, gray snow banked against its dilapidated sides, more pressing down on its corrugated roof. A padlocked gate hangs rusting between two crumbling posts, but I don’t trouble myself with it; only a few broken staves remain of the fence that once completed its sad perimeter.

  The front door’s already busted open, so there’s no need to unsling Mags’ pack for the pry bar. I snap off my snowshoes and climb the steps. The boards are waterbuckled, sprung; they creak under my boots as I yank the screen door back. Ahead there’s a narrow hallway, the wallpaper mildewed, peeling; the ceiling cracked, crumbling, the laths poking through behind.

  I don’t bother with a fire, just find a spot on the floor and lay my head down. My eyes close and seconds later I’m gone.

  By evening of the second day I’m most of the way through Virginia. The flatlands are behind me now, and in front the Appalachians rise up, their snow-capped peaks scraping the underbellies of the clouds that hang ominous and low over them. I arrive at a place called Salem with dusk falling and hurry through it, looking for the interstate beyond. Peck will have cut east from here in search of one of the low passes that wind their way through the valley floor. But the quickest way’s north, into the mountains.

  I make my way across the overpass and continue on, what little color there is leaching away as darkness settles around me. Beyond the road climbs steeply, switching back on itself as it twists ever higher, each ridge gained merely a foretaste of the one to come. For the first time I begin to sense the limits of my newfound endurance, but it’s alright. My legs only need to hold a little longer. I am closer now than I could have hoped.

  Just as night’s getting ready to be done the road finally levels and I arrive at a place called Crows, where I stopped with the soldiers on our way to the hospital in Blacksburg. My eyes have been feeling gritty since Catawba, and for the last hour the darkness has had a dreamlike quality to it. I find a gas station and curl up behind the counter. I figure I’ll close my eyes for twenty minutes, be on my way again before sunup.

  *

  HE SITS IN THE DARKNESS, staring out. Beyond the station house’s candy cane pillars the parking lot is mostly empty. The boy with the curly hair huddles in the corner, bundled up in his parka. They cannot have a fire and inside the crumbling station house it is cold.

  It has been two days since they found the other two, in the church. The man called Scudder didn’t last the night. He listened from across the room as his breathing grew ragged, then just before dawn he hitched in a final gasp, something inside his chest rattled, and it settled for the last time.

  Before he died the man told the boy which way they had taken the girl. They picked up their tracks later that day and have been following them ever since, always staying out of sight, occasionally catching a glimpse as they crested some distant hill, but mostly just following their prints in the snow. Yesterday evening, as the last of the light was leaving the sky, they saw them ahead in the distance, trudging up an off-ramp as they exited the highway. He hurried to catch up, leaving the boy with the curly hair behind. But then he had been forced to watch, helpless, as they had marched through the crumbling gates and up towards the big house.

  He looks out into the parking lot. It is still dark, but already he can sense the approaching dawn. The girl will be back in the cage by now. How long will it be before the Doctor takes her to the other room?

  ‘We have to go inside.’

  He says it mostly to himself, but across the room the boy lifts his head from his knees.

  ‘H-how? We c-can’t get in. You saw yourself. Those were s-soldiers up at the entrance to the bunker. They had rifles.’ He holds the pistol up. ‘I d-don’t even know how to shoot this!’

  He goes back to staring out the window. The boy is close to giving up; he can hear it in his voice. He is afraid too. He tells himself the tall boy will know what to do, when he gets here. Except he should have been here already, and now they are out of time.

  He looks out at the parking lot. His eyes fall on a long-abandoned car, waiting patiently under a blanket of snow right in front of the station house. He gets up, crosses the floor. He clears a spot on dusty, trash-strewn floor with his mitten then sits next to the boy.

  ‘There’s one more thing we can try.’

  They hurry through The Greenbrier’s gates and start up the long driveway. The tracks they are making will be fresh, but that cannot be helped; if they stick to the churned up snow no one should notice. Behind him the boy stumbles uncertainly, feeling his way through the darkness. They cannot have the flashlights and dawn is still some time away; it is not light enough yet for his eyes.

  The road curves around, finally revealing the massive building. He makes for a dark shape that squats on the lawn in front of the entrance’s towering columns. As they draw close he leaves the tracks they have been following and hurries towards it. The huge rotors hang down under their own weight, the tips almost touching the powder. They creak and groan as they flex in the wind.

  He makes his way along the fuselage, all the way to the back. The loading ramp is down and snow has drifted up into the darkened interior, settling deep in the gaps between the cargo bay’s ribs. Webbing adorns the bellied walls; thick ratchet straps hang from the riveted ceiling, twisting in the wind.

  He unsnaps his snowshoes and makes his way inside, heading for the front. For a machine so large the cockpit is surprisingly cramped. Two high-backed seats side by side, only a narrow space between, busy with controls. He clambers over the frame, using the straps of the harness to swing himself into one of the seats. A console sweeps around in front of him, crammed with dials, gauges, their surfaces white with frost. More levers sprout from the floor between his feet. Snow darkens the canopy, but here and there a section remains clear. He presses his face to the closest one.

  He hears footsteps staggering up the ramp, and seconds later the boy appears at his shoulder, shivering. He looks down into the crowded cockpit, eyes the narrow space between the seats, then decides against it.

  ‘This is c-crazy. It won’t work.’

  He ignores him, continuing his search. Stress patterns craze the curving perspex, making it hard to see, but outside dawn is finally breaking; a reluctant light slowly congeals over the ashen snow. Without warning the wind catches one of the huge rotor blades, dips it down in front of them. He shifts in his seat so he can see around it, then stops, points. Behind him the boy leans forward, following his outstretched hand. A puzzled look troubles his face.

  He points again, jabbing at a spot all the way back in the shadows.

  And then the boy sees it too.

  On the far side of the massive columns a red light blinks once, then goes dark again.

  *

  I WAKE WITH A JOLT, blinking furiously at unfamiliar surroundings while my brain reboots. Then the memories load and I jump up, rush outside. My legs have stiffened while I slept, but I have no time for that now; dawn’s already spreading itself over the spiny ridges to the east. They’ll loosen on the road.

  I pick up the Kanawha Trail, beginning a hurried descent into West Virginia. I haven’t been on the road more than half an hour when up ahead I spot a weather-beaten sign for the interstate. The switchback mountain trail I’m following crests and at last I can see it below me, snaking its way through the valley floor. I quit the track for the steeper but more direct route through what would once have been forest, my snowshoes sending small avalanches of powder tumbling down the slope ahead of me as I bound between the blackened trunks, Hicks’ pistol bouncing against my leg with each stride.

  The trees come to an abrupt end and I stop and scan the highway below for any sign of them. The road’s clear in both directions, but it do
esn’t take me long to spot where they’ve passed through: a wide swathe of tracks out of the east, at least seven or eight abreast. They’ve beaten me here.

  I hurry down the embankment and join the highway, searching the snow for the deeper indentations Jax will have left, but it’s so badly chewed I can’t pick them out. I bend down, tracing the outline of the nearest one with my fingers. The edges are crisp, well-defined; the wind can’t have had more than an hour to smooth them out. They must have come through here earlier this morning. There’s still a chance I can head them off.

  I pick up the pace. The wake of freshly-churned snow leaves the interstate a mile later, at an exit marked 60, but I stay on, searching for the quicker route Hicks took when he first brought us this way. Soon after the turnoff the road fishhooks and then passes over a railway line, just as it exits a tunnel. I throw my leg over the guardrail and drop down the embankment on the other side. I hit the bottom in a cloud of powder and take off along the narrow ravine, pounding through the deeper drifts with as much speed as I can muster. The track curves around for a half-mile or so and then finally straightens. Ahead there’s a short siding, a corroded railcar sitting idle against snow-covered bumpers, and beyond in the distance a long shelter, roof timbers swaybacked under the weight of snow. I hurry towards it. A faded Amtrak sign, the words barely visible under a crust of ice and snow, tells me I’ve arrived.

  I leave the tracks behind and hurry through the parking lot. But as I come to the station house I stop. A set of fresh prints exit from between the candy cane pillars that mark the entrance.

  What was someone doing in there?

  I follow the prints out to the road. On the other side two sections of wall curve inward to a pair of crumbling gateposts. The tracks head in that direction, but the mystery of who made them is already forgotten; something else has caught my eye.

  The snow between the gates has been disturbed. A swathe of tracks, wide, just like the ones I ran into up on the highway less than an hour ago. I hurry across the road, thinking there might still be time to head them off before they reach the house. But as I get closer I can see the prints here are faint, the edges smoothed by wind, the hollows already mostly filled in by the driven snow.