Children of the Mountain (Book 3): Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  I hurry through the showers and out onto the stair. I make my way down the concrete shaft, taking the steps two at a time.

  The Juvies are gathered in the mess. They sit around the tables, but no one’s talking. Some have their heads in their hands, others stare down at their boots. A few glance up as I step off the gangway, but most keep their eyes down, unwilling to look at me. I seek out Lauren, ask her where Mags is. For a moment she meets my gaze, then she looks away again without saying anything.

  I return to the stair. I find Jake by himself in the farms, tightening the bolts on one of his growing benches. I call across to him from the gangway.

  ‘Where is she?’

  He shakes his head, but doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.

  ‘I couldn’t stop them.’

  I hurry past him, down to the plant room, still not wanting to believe it. I climb through the hatch, calling out to Mags as I clamber down the ladder. The kid’s waiting for me on the landing below.

  ‘Is she down there?’

  But all he says is he’s sorry.

  He hands me something, wrapped in a scrap of card. It’s the crucifix she wore. I study it for a moment then turn the card over, read the message she’s left.

  *

  I PUSH THE BLAST DOOR OPEN and stagger out, pulling my goggles down as I go. I grab a pair of snowshoes from the pile by the entrance. I stare at Angus’s corpse as I adjust the bindings to my boots. The wind’s drifting gray flakes over his body, already starting to cover him up.

  I had a hand in it, what happened to him. It was me who sent him off after Peck, him and Hamish. And now he’s been returned; a reminder from Kane to the rest of us: the price of betrayal. Tyler and Eric lie slumped forward in the snow next to him, bearers of the same message.

  I sling Mags’ pack onto my back. There’s little heft to it, but it has everything I’ll need. Behind me I hear Jake shout something, but whatever he says is lost to the wind. I set off across the compound, heading for the gate. He catches up to me at the security barrier, grabs my shoulder.

  ‘Are you going after them?’

  I shake my head. That would be pointless.

  ‘Then what?’

  I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Instead I tell him to follow me.

  I turn and throw my leg over the barrier, dropping into the churned up powder on the other side. I hear him scrambling over behind me. I follow the trail for a dozen paces and then push my way in among the gnarled, blackened trunks. The branches claw at my parka but I stagger on, snowshoes crunching through the drifts until at last I reach it. Jake steps into the small clearing seconds after me. He stops and stares at the tins that litter the ground.

  ‘What’s this?’

  I cross to the far side of the clearing, drop to my knees. I tell him about the cans while I dig. If he has thoughts about why I chose to hide the truth of it from them he keeps them to himself.

  My fingers hit something hard. I scoop the snow away in handfuls, revealing a familiar olive drab container. I work my way quickly around the edges. When the lid is clear I sit back on my heels. Behind me Jake leans a little closer.

  Sweat prickles the skin between my shoulder blades as I pop the catches. The case hasn’t been opened since we fled Eden and the lid is snug; I hear the contents shift inside as I try and lever it open. I hesitate. What if something inside has broken? But that concern seems trivial now, absurd.

  There’s a soft sigh as the seal gives. I lift the lid. The inside’s lined with a layer of charcoal foam, molded in an egg-crate pattern. Beneath, sheets of the same dark material, square cutaway sections accommodating the trays I took from the cabinets in Eden’s armory. I examine the neat rows, each vial standing to attention in its individual slot. None of them seem damaged.

  I pull off my mittens. The cold bites but I hardly notice. I reach inside for one of the tubes. Behind me I hear Jake take a step backwards.

  ‘Gabe! What are you doing?’

  My hand shakes as I lift out the delicate vial, clinking the glass against the hard plastic of the tray. I hold it up, examining it in the ashen light. The liquid inside shifts sluggishly against the glass.

  I tell him what I mean to do. Just hearing the words out loud is enough to make my blood run cold. I realize how scared I am; how much I don’t want to do this.

  I stare down at the vials, lined up neat in their trays. I reach down, lift another one out, hold it up to him. An unspoken plea.

  If there were two of us.

  He stares at it for a moment and then takes a step backwards. His eyes drop to the ground and he shakes his head.

  ‘I…I can’t.’

  I slip the vials into my pocket.

  ‘Alright.’

  I close the lid, snap the catches.

  ‘You were right, Jake; coming here was a mistake. I thought I could put it right, but it’s on you now.’

  I reach inside my parka, pull out Marv’s map, hand it to him.

  ‘You need to get the Juvies back to Mount Weather.’

  He takes it from me, studies the cover for a moment, then slips it into his pocket. As we make our way back I explain what he needs to do with the rations, how to seal the cans that can be saved, the route he needs to take to avoid Durham. I talk quickly because there’s not much time. When we reach the trail I turn to leave but he calls after me.

  ‘Gabe, I’m sorry, for giving you a hard time, about everything. About Mags. It’s just…she’s…I mean, I always thought…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But when they came for her I couldn’t do anything either.’

  ‘It’s alright, Jake, really. I have to go.’

  I set off through the woods, the only sound my breathing and the crunch of my snowshoes. The trees end and I strike out across open fields, following the tracks Peck and the others have cut through the snow. When I reach the junction where the Mount Gilead Church Road runs into 501 I stop. Their tracks swing south, and for a long moment I just stare after them.

  I wasn’t to come after her; that’s what her note had said. It would do no good.

  I can’t argue with that. Peck, Kurt, Scudder, the Guardians, Jax; there’s just too many of them. All I have is an old pistol I can’t shoot worth a damn and a handful of bullets.

  I have no hope of beating them.

  Not like this.

  I reach into my pocket for one of the vials. But as I unscrew the cap I feel my resolve start to slip away.

  The voice inside my head is pleading with me now. It shows me image after image, of things I have seen in the dark places, of creatures once-human, now pale and bent and spider-thin, their minds lost to whatever bloodlust or rage now consumes them.

  Before I can lose my nerve I lift the vial to my lips, tilt my head back and drink what’s inside. The taste is a shock: like nothing I have ever experienced before. Bitter, metallic, like how it might taste if you melted down aluminum foil, only a thousand, thousand times worse. I drop to my knees, my stomach already heaving. I cover my mouth with my hand and swallow hard to stop myself throwing it right back up.

  I wait until the urge has passed, then look up to the skies. I reckon I have at best three hours of daylight left. There’s a Walmart just this side of Dogwood; I passed it on my way down. If I hustle I reckon I can make it by nightfall. I don’t have a second to waste; the clock’s ticking now.

  When I told Jake my plan he looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  But I’m not crazy.

  Not yet.

  I reckon I have three days before that happens.

  *

  I MAKE IT TO THE WALMART not long after dark. The door’s already busted open. I hurry inside and dump the firewood I gathered behind the checkouts.

  My side still aches from where I belly-flopped onto the freight train, but it’s not the only place now. The muscles in my back and legs are getting in on the act, too; they feel all sprung out of joint, strained and achy. I tell myself it’s from the hi
ke, but there’s a headache brewing just behind my eyes that says otherwise, and it seems like it means business. I resist the urge to pull the dog tags from around my neck to check them. There’ll be nothing to see yet; this is only the first day.

  I don’t much feel like eating, but I’ll need my strength for what’s to come, so I get a fire going and break out one of the MREs I took from the stores before I left Fearrington. While the chemical heater’s doing its work I walk the aisles looking for something to dull the pain. But there’s nothing; the shelves have been stripped bare. I wish I’d thought to bring some Tylenol with me, but then I remember my first aid kit’s still with my pack, in a junkyard south side of Durham.

  I head back to the fire and wait for my dinner. When the carton stops hissing I tear open the pouch and poke around at the contents, but I don’t manage to finish more than a few mouthfuls. I set it to one side, thinking maybe I’ll feel like it in the morning, then I climb inside my sleeping bag. The branches I managed to gather on the way up were black and moldering, and once the Sternos I use to get them lighting are spent they do little more than smoke up the place. I shuffle as close as I can regardless, but they provide little comfort.

  It’s only been a few hours, but already I feel it coming. I thought I’d have longer. I wonder if I should have waited another day to take the virus. There was never time for that, though. Even if he takes the long way around to avoid the mountains Peck’ll be back at The Greenbrier in a week, no more.

  I can’t let him get there before me.

  The fever sets in not long after I take to my sleeping bag. It rises in ominous waves that break and crash against my body, growing larger with each set. I know this is just the beginning, but already I feel worse that I ever thought possible. One minute I’m shivering, long shuddering spasms running up and down my spine, rattling my teeth together. The next I’m burning up, my back and legs drenched with sweat; heavy, salty beads of it roll from my scalp, into my eyes and mouth. And through it all, a jack-hammer of a headache that no amount of Tylenol could hope to tame.

  Sometime in the early hours the fever breaks, and the chills settle in for the long haul. I drag my parka over the top of the sleeping bags and throw more Sternos on the fire, but it does little good. My bones ache with the cold, like someone’s hollowed them out and packed the space there with ice. My hands are the worst. I try rubbing them together, but with the latex gloves I’ve taken to wearing it’s hard to get the friction.

  Exhaustion finally overcomes me and I drift off, but it’s thin, sketchy dreams that haunt my sleep. Some are familiar: of dark, endless tunnels and faceless things, long and bent and spider-thin, that stalk me through them, a shrill voice I haven’t heard in a long time, urging me to run faster.

  Others are new.

  In one a girl with pink hair shakes me awake, but when she sees what I’ve done her eyes go wide and she staggers backwards, disappearing into the night. That dream seems more real than the rest, but later when I check I can find no evidence she was ever there.

  When I wake the following morning the fire’s died and it’s bitter cold. My thermals are drenched and for a while I just lie there, shivering, barely able to contemplate getting out of my sleeping bag. I feel hammered hollow. My head aches like someone’s trying to drive a spike into the space behind my eyes; my muscles feel like they’ve been strung with razor wire. Not even a day has passed since I drank what was in the vial. How could Marv have lasted the hike to Mount Weather? It suddenly occurs to me I may have miscalculated. I assumed Marv got the same dose I took, but the truth of it is I have no idea how much of the virus Peck gave him. And it was put in his respirator, not swallowed straight like I took mine.

  The realization jars me into action. I might not have three days, or anything like it. I clamber out of the sleeping bag and start gathering up my things. Last night’s food pouch lies next to the blackened remains of the fire, but I don’t even look at it. As soon as I’m packed up I head outside and rejoin the road.

  I make my way north through the city, my head down, my arms held tight to my sides, shivering inside my parka. I stumble into the drifts; struggling to lift my snowshoes high enough to clear even the shallowest of them. After what seems like hours I finally come to the U-Haul, where Goldie surprised me with the gun. The low cinder block that once served as the office sits on the far side of the lot. The door’s still open; it swings back and forth on its hinges in the wind. I stagger up onto the overpass and continue on, leaving Durham behind me.

  By the time I reach the stretch of highway I think I remember the day’s already dying. I trudge along it, searching for the turnoff. There’s no sign, and I have to backtrack a couple of times before I find it. The road narrows to little more than a track, then starts to incline. Each step now is a Herculean effort.

  When I finally reach the ridgeline I rest for a dozen breaths, my hands on my knees. My lungs burn, my sides pumps like a bellows. Inside my parka my thermals are soaked with sweat; it runs freely between my shoulders, down my back and thighs. I shuck off Mags’ backpack, fumbling for the snaps. My fingers sing out in protest, like someone’s packed the space between my joints with ground glass. I take out what I need and cover the canvas over with snow. Then I pick myself up and stumble down into the valley. The gray fortress grows steadily closer, until finally its stone walls are looming over me. I stagger up to the gate and pound my fist on the rusting iron. For a long time there’s nothing, and then the sound of movement behind and the hatch slides back.

  A pair of eyes appear at the slot. It takes a moment for Goldie to recognize me, and then his mouth drops open and for a moment he’s at a loss for words. I don’t care to let him get started. I hold up the Ziploc bag with the handful of books Mags brought with her from Mount Weather.

  ‘I have something…for Mr. Finch. Tell him…it’s important…tell him he needs to come out and see me.’

  I push the bag through the slot before he has a chance to object. There’s a pause and then the hatch snaps shut. A wave of exhaustion hits me, threatening to drag me under. I put my hand out to the wall for support, but it’s not where I expect it to be and I end up slumping into the snow. My head falls between my knees and for a long time I just sit there, sucking in air in long, rasping gasps.

  At last from somewhere above my head there’s the clang of bolts being drawn back. I stagger to my feet just as the smaller door set into the gate creaks inward. Goldie beckons me forward and I stumble over the threshold into the holding pen. I glance over at the guard booth. The small man Finch had called Culpeper (no, that’s not right; Culver) watches me closely from his seat behind the pock-marked glass.

  Goldie tells me to wait, then he hurries off into the yard. I stand there for what seems like an eternity, shivering in the cold. I’m not sure how long I can trust my legs to hold me upright. It feels like they could give out again at any moment.

  At last the gate buzzes and I look up, just as Tully steps through. He stands to one side, holding it open. Moments later Finch appears in a heavy overcoat, the collar trimmed with fur, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. The hands that grasp the cane are clad in soft leather. I have the same thought I had when I first saw him: that he is other, exotic, not of this place.

  Knox steps into the pen after him, holding the Ziploc bag with Mags’ books. Behind him I can see other figures making their way across from the main building. They gather around the holding pen and take to staring at me through the wire.

  Finch leans forward.

  ‘Gabriel. What a pleasant surprise. I really hadn’t expected to see you back here so soon.’ He looks me up and down, slowly. ‘But I must say you do not look the better for our time apart. You have something of a desperate air to you.’

  ‘I brought you a present, Mr. Finch.’

  ‘Yes. I received your books. Very thoughtful, very thoughtful indeed. It was quite unwise for you to deliver them in person, however. But I like you, Gabriel, I really do. And so I will
accept your gift, and give you something in return, as good manners dictate. A piece of advice. One you have no doubt already received, but for reasons I cannot quite fathom, have chosen to ignore. Best you leave here, right now, this very instant. And never return. Lest you wish to find yourself in Mr. Blatch’s cook pot, like our friend the recently departed Mr. MacIntyre.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘The present’s not the books, Mr. Finch. That was just to get you to come out here. The present’s me.’

  I reach in my pocket. A pistol appears in Knox’s hand and he steps forward, but Finch waves him back. My fingers close around the second vial of the virus I brought with me from Fearrington. It’s sealed up in a zippy, just like the books. I pull it out slowly, hold it out in front of me.

  Tully steps forward and takes it from me. He hands it up to Finch, who examines it for a long moment.

  ‘Now where did you come by this?’

  ‘I’ve infected myself with one just like it.’

  There’s a rustle of uneasy murmurs and the inmates who have been gathering on the other side of the wire shift back, like they may not trust the protection the holding pen offers. Finch just stares at me, his expression implacable. I can see I have his attention now, though, and that’s good. My plan depends on it. It sends a chill through me, all the same, one that has little to do with the approaching night, or whatever is coursing through my veins. The curiosity of a man like Finch is not something to be wished for lightly. It’s the kind of thing that makes a snake slip its head into a bird’s nest; that will lure the fox into the henhouse.

  ‘And tell me, Gabriel, why would you have done something as foolhardy as that?’