Children of the Mountain (Book 3): Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  ‘How old do you think he is, Gabe?’

  The question takes me by surprise.

  ‘I dunno. He doesn’t look much older than we were, when Kane brought us to Eden.’

  ‘But that would mean he would have to have been born after the Last Day.’

  I say something about it being possible. It is of course, but somehow I’m not sure I believe it, any more than I reckon she does. Truck told us the survivors who found their way to The Greenbrier had shown up not long after everything had fallen apart. Before we arrived they hadn’t seen anyone in years.

  An image pops into my head, unbidden, of the girl I found in the closet in Shreve, all those years ago. I hadn’t thought on her in a long while. I can still picture her, though; her face pressed to the backboard; the dark circles around her eyes; her ashen cheeks sunken and hollowed. Her hair had been white and brittle, like an old person’s, but I remember thinking the same thing about her as I just did about Johnny: she couldn’t have been much more than a first-grader. I wonder now if I got that right. I hadn’t been scavenging more than a few months back then, but it had already been six winters since the Last Day. Kane scorched the skies not long after we first went inside the mountain, which meant she had to have been in that closet ever since. The dress she was wearing had hung in tatters from her tiny frame, but what remained of it had still fitted, like she hadn’t grown in all that time.

  There’s a soft crack as a branch shifts in the fire. A handful of red sparks rise in a swirl and then disappear. Mags looks over at the kid but he’s still out of it.

  ‘I asked him how long he was in that cage. He said he didn’t know. He said it was hard to tell down there, in the darkness.’ She pauses. ‘A long time, I think. Months. Maybe even years.’

  She doesn’t say anything for a while. When she speaks again it’s like it’s mostly to herself.

  ‘I don’t know how he did it. I was only there for a few days and...’

  She doesn’t finish, just lets the sentence hang there in the darkness. I feel her shudder.

  ‘I don’t think I could do that again.’

  I pull her close and tell her she won’t ever have to. And right then I mean it, as much as I think I’ve meant anything in my whole life. Not that that matters. I should know better by now. The world doesn’t bend itself to hopes and prayers, leastways not any I might have to offer.

  I’ll learn, though, soon enough.

  Promises like that I simply have no business making.

  *

  HE WAKES FROM A DEEP AND DREAMLESS SLEEP, his eyes blinking wide. The transition is sudden, jarring, like someone has found the switch inside that works him and flicked it on. For long seconds he stares into the darkness, his pulse racing. Until his brain reboots he is empty, just breath and heartbeat and blood pumping, with no memory of who he is, what he might even be. Slowly it comes to him, in fragments at first and then all at once, a rush of sights, sounds, smells; what little he remembers. He presses his cheek to the sleeping bag, inhaling the warm, slightly musty odor. The quilted fabric does little to soften the hard floor, but it is a comfort nonetheless. He knows where he is now, and it is not the cage.

  He blinks again, more slowly this time, his heart finally beginning to calm. He doesn’t know how sleeping was, before, but somehow he doesn’t think it was like this. He wonders if he will ever get used to it.

  He lifts his head, taking in his surroundings. On either side rows of empty shelves, stretching off into gloom, the aisle between scattered with discarded packets, wrappers, here and there an abandoned shopping cart. Everything cast in grainy shades of gray, except around the fire, where a few motes of color still remain. He looks over to where the boy and the girl are sleeping. The boy’s breath rolls from him in slow plumes, hangs for a moment in the still air, then vanishes. He cups one hand to his mouth and exhales slowly, watching. But there’s nothing; his breath doesn’t smoke like that. He wonders what it means.

  Something shifts among the embers, then settles. The fire is dying. An idea comes to him, sudden, exciting: he could go outside and find more branches, build it back up. He knows how; he has watched the girl. He sits up. He won’t sleep again tonight, and morning is hours away yet; it would certainly help pass the time. There is something about the idea that thrills him, too. For a very long time he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere.

  He looks along the aisle, towards the entrance. That is where the others are, though; he would need to walk right past them. He stares in that direction for a long while, watching for any sign of movement. It seems like they are all asleep now, but it is hard to be sure. He knows how to be quiet; he is very good at it. But what if the door is noisy and he wakes them?

  It is better if he stays away, that was what the girl had said. Just until they got used to him. She had smiled then, but it wasn’t her usual smile. There was something sad about it. And she had looked away right after, like she wasn’t sure how much she believed it either.

  It wasn’t her idea, he knows that. It was the girl with the blond hair. He heard her, talking to the tall boy. It wasn’t her she said; it was some of the others. She didn’t mind him at all.

  But she does, he can tell. The girl with the blond hair might be more afraid of him than any of them. She pretends not to be, and she is quite good at that. She smiles whenever she looks at him, so it never shows on her face, and she keeps it from her voice. He can smell it, though, every time she is near. Her fear has a bitter odor. She spreads it among the others with her questions, at night, when they huddle by the fire. She thinks he can’t hear her if she whispers, but he can.

  Earlier, did you see...?

  Gabe says they’re cured, but…

  How can that be normal?

  He looks back at the fire, already little more than a handful of embers, nestling in ash. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need it. The cold doesn’t bother him, not really. If it did he could climb inside the sleeping bag, like the others do. He won’t do that, though. The thick material is soft, but he does not like to be confined.

  He remembers the candy bar the boy gave him. He reaches into his sleeve and takes it out, opening it slowly. He means to make it last, but it is too delicious and in a few bites it is gone. He pulls the wrapper apart, searching for crumbs. When he’s certain the last of them have been had he puts it on the fire, watching as the foil shrivels with the heat. For a second the flames flicker bright around it as it is consumed, then they too disappear, as quickly as they came.

  His gaze shifts to the trash-strewn aisle.

  He doesn’t have to go that way, of course; he could head towards the back of the store instead. There won’t be firewood there, but maybe he’ll find something else; something on the shelves that’s been missed. The tall boy checked earlier and said there was nothing, but he might have more luck. He feels himself growing excited again. Maybe even another candy bar.

  He gets up slowly, taking care not to make a sound. At the last minute he remembers the flashlight. He doesn’t need it, of course, but it makes the others feel better, that’s what the girl says. He picks it up and winds the handle slowly. The little motor inside hums; moments later the bulb glows orange, then yellow.

  He sets off down the aisle, picking his way carefully among the debris. He is only tall enough to check the bottom shelves, but there’s nothing there; everything has long since been stripped, plundered. After a while he gives up and just walks. The flashlight hangs at his side, already forgotten.

  He wonders how long it will take the others to get used to him. The girl said not long, but he’s not sure about that. He sees how they look at him. Mostly they pretend he’s not there, but sometimes they can’t hide it, like when the tall boy had bent down to carry him through the deep snow. They had stopped and stared, as though the idea of it was appalling to them. He won’t let himself be carried anymore. It would just be another way for them to see he is different, and if they think he’s different they won’t ever get used to him. Bes
ides, he’s much better with the snowshoes now. He never falls down, and it’s only when the drifts get really deep that he struggles. It’s just because his legs are short, and there’s nothing he can do about that.

  He reaches the end of the aisle. The shelves give way to long racks of clothes. Some have been knocked over, the garments that once hung there lying in heaped disarray, but most still stand. He holds his hands out as he makes his way between them, letting his fingers brush the moldering fabrics.

  A sudden flicker of light ahead, there and then gone again. He freezes and for a dozen hurried heartbeats peers into the grainy gloom. But it is only a mirror, for an instant catching the beam from the forgotten flashlight. He continues on, making his way towards it between the racks. As he gets closer he can see that the glass is broken. Only a few shards still remain, gripped by the frame; the rest have fallen to the floor. They crunch under his boots as he steps up to it.

  He tilts his head to one side, studying his fractured reflection. He is still getting used to it. He does not remember what he looked like before, of course, and there were no mirrors in the cage; no surfaces that might have offered even the faintest clue as to his appearance. Sometimes when they are outside he catches himself in the darkened glass of an abandoned storefront, but it is never for very long and he is always masked, hooded, his eyes hidden behind the dark goggles he wears.

  He leans a little closer, reaching up with the cuff of his jacket to wipe the dust away. The beam from the flashlight wanders and for an instant the eyes that stare back at him flash silver.

  His heart races; he glances over his shoulder, worried that somebody might have seen. But there’s no one there; they’re all still sleeping. He winds the flashlight and raises it, more slowly this time. When he finds the right angle he holds it up, forcing himself not to squint.

  How long will it take them to get used to that?

  A long time, he suspects. He remembers how frightened he had been when the doctor had come down and shone a light into 98’s cage and he had seen her eyes for the first time. And he is much braver than they are.

  He lowers the flashlight and closes his eyes for a moment, thinking. He reaches for the goggles that hang around his neck and pushes them up. They are a little big but the girl has adjusted the strap so they mostly fit, and the lens is dark; the tall boy got them for him when he was sick, to help with the brightness. He raises the flashlight again, but this time the goggles do their work; now there is nothing to see. He moves the beam closer, tilting his head this way and that until he is certain of it. Then he turns around and starts making his way back towards the fire.

  It was lucky he found the mirror. He does not care to think about what might have happened if one of the others – especially the girl with the blond hair – had noticed first.

  The thought that he might still be sick does not occur to him. He feels fine. And he has the metal tags he wears around his neck, the ones they took from the soldier. He checks them all the time and they never change. The tall boy says that proves it; the thing inside that made him dangerous has gone.

  Well, not gone, exactly.

  But not in control anymore.

  Definitely not.

  *

  SOUTH OF WHAT WAS ONCE RICHMOND the interstate has little to say for itself, and for mile after mile we trudge on through empty, snow-shrouded flatlands. The days run one into the other. On the twenty-third morning after we set out from Mount Weather, when by my earlier reckoning we should already have arrived at our destination, we finally quit Virginia. The other side of the state line proves no more bountiful than what preceded it. Our packs grow light. I have the Juvies empty them, so I can check what we have left. I had counted on us arriving at Fearrington with enough food for a return journey on short rations, should we need to make one. I’m not sure exactly where it’s happened, but somewhere along the way we’ve passed the point where that might have been possible.

  We keep trudging on, ever south. Mags has to work hard to find us shelter now. Mornings she sets off before we’ve broken camp. I spend the days herding the Juvies along a stretch of interstate no different from those that have gone before. Afternoons I watch for her return, but often dusk’s settling by the time I spot her hiking back towards us. Sometimes she says there’s nothing we can reach with what remains of the day and we have to backtrack. I asked her once how far she goes when she leaves us but she just said a ways and wouldn’t be drawn on it.

  That’s how she is most of the time now: quiet, withdrawn. Evenings she eats what little she cares for from her MRE and turns in without saying more than a dozen words. At first I tell myself she’s just tired, on account of all the extra miles she’s putting in, finding us shelter. I’m not sure that’s it, though. I wait up each night until she passes into whatever it is she calls sleep, and then I check her crucifix. That crudely cast cross has become my talisman. I remember how Marv’s had been, before he died. The virus had only had a couple of days to work on it, but already it had been pitted and pocked, like something had been eating away at it. Hers is always the same: the metal no different than how it was when I lifted it from his grave.

  We pass our fifth night in North Carolina in a Red Roof she finds for us just outside of a place called Heavenly that has no business trading on that name. As day breaks we rejoin the interstate and point our snowshoes south once again. For once Mags won’t be leaving us. Our next milestone is Durham, and barring calamity we should reach it before nightfall. Place that size there should be no shortage of places to sleep.

  The drifts aren’t bad along the first stretch so we can walk side by side. I settle in next to her, the kid between us. I make a few attempts at conversation, but she seems more comfortable with silence so I let it be. The kid looks up at her through those outsize goggles, then back at me. He wears them day and night, now; I can’t recall the last time I saw him without them. I wondered about that when he first started doing it; I was worried it might be his eyes bothering him again. But when I mentioned it to Mags she got mad. She said I should stop trying to find problems where there were none. If it was the light that was troubling him why would he have taken to wearing them at night? I couldn’t find a flaw with that, so I quit asking. I watched him close for a few days, all the same.

  The morning slips by, our progress no better or worse than the days that have gone before. With each crest in the road I find myself scanning the horizon, eager for my first glimpse of the city. We’re embarked on the last leg of our journey now. We’ll be in Durham by evening and Fearrington’s no more than a day’s hike beyond; even accounting for our laggard pace we should be there by nightfall tomorrow. I should be relieved, but now that we’re almost at our destination I’m nervous. I glance over at the pack Mags is carrying. It bears little resemblance to the one she set out with. Whatever rations we have left, they won’t see us back to Mount Weather. Not even close.

  I look behind me at the long, raggedy line of Juvies stretched out behind me on the interstate. We all voted, but I know the truth of it. They’re here because of me, a bunker marked on a map a dead man gave me, and the things I told them about it: that I’ll be able to find it; that Marv’s codes will work to get us in; that there’ll be food there to sustain us.

  If any of those things prove false we’re in a whole heap of trouble.

  Sometime just shy of noon we pass an exit sign and not long after an overpass appears around a bend in the road. Ahead the interstate stretches off into the distance, with no apparent end to it. If we stayed on it would bring us all the way to 501, which in turn runs right by Fearrington. But the way I mean to take us – south through the city – is more direct; I reckon it could shave as much as a day off our journey. Our supplies could certainly use that, but mostly I just want to see what waits for us here. There was no mention in the newspaper clippings of Durham being hit in the strikes, but then there was no confirmation it had been spared either, and what we saw in Richmond has been on my mind since we cam
e through it. Our new home’s going to be a lot smaller than Mount Weather was. Even if it’s stocked like I’ve assumed we’re going to need things, and Durham’s where I’ll be coming to get them.

  I lead us off the highway. At the top of the exit ramp a lone semi blocks the intersection; it looks like it was in the middle of executing one final turn when something called a halt to its advance. As I get closer I see what: the traffic light’s given out just as it was passing under, staving in the roof of the cab. A single cluster hangs from the end of the collapsed gantry arm, creaking and groaning as it shifts in the wind.

  From the junction the road slopes down. Drive-thrus line up one after the other on either side, their once-garish signs competing for our attention. A decade of weather has left them faded and tattered, but it’s still a riot of color compared with what we’ve been seeing on the highway. My heart sinks in spite of it; the Juvies may not have much reading between them, but they remember enough to know what those signs mean. Behind me I hear the first of them asking whether it’s time yet for lunch.

  I turn my snowshoes around, but the rebellion’s already caught hold. I look up to the sky. It’s not yet noon but somewhere behind the clouds the sun will soon be contemplating its downward course. We’re close to Durham now, though, so I guess I shouldn’t sweat it. I call after them twenty minutes, knowing it’ll be an hour if I’m lucky. They set off in the direction of a flat-roofed building the sign out front identifies as Bojangles’ Famous Chicken ‘n’ Biscuits, a spring in their stride that’s been sorely lacking all morning.

  I shake my head and start to follow their tracks. As I enter the parking lot I get that familiar scratchy feeling, like stepping through cobwebs, only inside my head. Spidey’s been quiet for days, but now something’s woken him up. He hasn’t yet reached for the alarm button, but he’s telling me he’s not happy about something, all the same. I stop, for the first time paying attention to the sorry-looking diner the Juvies have chosen. The roof’s a little heavy with snow, but no worse than the Speedway or the Taco Bell on either side of it. It gives no indication it’s likely to quit on us, least not until we’re done with lunch.