Children of the Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know

by R. A. Hakok

  Beads of sweat break out on my forehead and my stomach does a slow forward roll. My head feels light and my heart starts to race and suddenly I’m on my hands and knees, still clutching the flashlight, as what little’s left of the MRE I had for lunch comes flying out of my mouth onto the carpet along with a dark brown wad of tobacco. I continue to retch long after my stomach’s expelled the last trace of it. Above me Truck’s still chuckling, but somewhere along the way Weasel’s stopped. Now I hear him whisper:

  ‘Whaddya say, Truck; shall we go pay the girl a visit?’

  I feel something inside me harden, and my head empties of all thoughts but one. I spit the last of the tobacco and wipe my chin with the back of my hand. The corridor’s narrow here; it’s as good a place as any. I glance up. Weasel’s still standing behind Truck, so he’ll have to wait his turn. I slide my hand into the parka’s side pocket. My fingers slip around the cold metal they find there. The blade opens easily under my thumb and I feel it lock into place. It’s already halfway out when from somewhere further along the corridor I hear a familiar drawl.

  ‘What’re you fellas doing over this side of the house?’

  Truck turns around.

  ‘Aw, now nuthin’ for you to concern yourself with, Sarge. We was just funnin’ with young Huckleberry here is all.’

  ‘Time for you boys to be in bed I reckon.’

  I hear a Yes, Sarge from Weasel as he turns and scurries down the hallway. Truck makes no move to follow him.

  ‘You might want to think on now, Hicks. Those stripes on your shoulder don’t mean what they used to.’

  ‘Maybe not, but this pistol here stands for the same as it always did. Any time you’d like a closer look at it, Corporal, you be sure to say.’

  Truck casts one last look in my direction, then he hitches up his pants and makes his way off into the darkness.

  I fold the blade back into the leatherman and let it slip from my fingers. My hand reaches for the flashlight and I get to my feet. I’m not really paying attention to where the beam goes and it slides off the wall and catches Hicks standing in the middle of the corridor. He squints and raises one hand as if to deflect it.

  ‘Get that damn thing out of my face.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I point the flashlight back at the floor. The beam circles the mess of mostly-digested MRE and ground tobacco that’s already starting to seep into the thick red pile. Hicks looks at it and then back up at me.

  ‘You’ll need to get that squared away before Doc sees it; she’ll have a shit-fit if she finds you’ve puked on her carpet. But first let’s go check on that girl of yours.’

  *

  MAGS IS STILL UP when we get back to her room. Her brow creases as I tell her about Truck and Weasel. She looks over at Hicks.

  ‘It was lucky you showed up when you did.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Luck had little to do with it. I was watching to see what that pair would do. I doubt they’ll be back, but all the same I’d rest easier if you slept in the bunker tonight.’

  Mags looks over at me and I nod. Dr. Gilbey might be a little creepy but she’ll be safer down there with her than out here by herself. It only takes a moment to gather up her things. I sling her pack over my shoulder and we follow Hicks down the corridor.

  When we get back to the Colonial Lounge Dr. Gilbey’s gone. The thick red rope hanging from the brass stanchions blocks our way, but Hicks just steps over it and continues on. A little further along the corridor ends in a wide staircase. A sign says The Exhibition Hall with an arrow pointing straight on. We make our way down a long flight of steps. At the bottom a short passageway opens abruptly into a huge room, bigger than the dining hall we were in earlier. Garish wallpaper covers the windowless walls for most of their considerable height, but otherwise everything’s plain, without any ornamentation other than the flickering emergency lights.

  Hicks crosses the floor. He stops on the other side under a bulkhead lamp and feels along the wall with his fingertips. When he finds what he’s looking for he pushes and a panel pops out. Dr. Gilbey said The Greenbrier had its secrets, and now I see what she meant. The busy pattern does a good job of hiding the seam; you’d need to be right up against it to see it.

  He slides his fingers behind and pulls, and a whole section of fake wall concertinas out, revealing a deep alcove behind. Set back in the shadows there’s a steel vault door. It’s no taller than a regular door, and maybe only half again as wide. A large latch handle sits in the center. Above it the words ‘Mosler Safe Co.’ have been impressed on the metal.

  There’s a small intercom mounted flush to the wall on one side. Hicks pushes the red button. There’s a burst of static and then Dr. Gilbey’s voice, rendered tinny by the small speaker, drifts out.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘There’s been an incident, ma’am. I need you to open up.’

  There’s a long pause and then from somewhere inside the buzz of an electric motor and the sound of bolts being recessed. Hicks grabs the handle and pushes it down. There’s a heavy clunk and he pulls the door out towards us.

  The doorway’s not that wide, but behind it I can see a long, low-ceilinged corridor. A single fluorescent tube halfway along its length flickers, casting just enough light to see to the end. From this point all pretense of luxury or grandeur has been dropped, and in its place familiar concrete and steel.

  A door at the end of the corridor creaks open and Dr. Gilbey steps through.

  ‘What’s the reason for this disturbance, Sergeant?’

  ‘Just a little trouble with the men, ma’am. Nothing for you to concern yourself with. All the same I reckon it’d be safer if the girl spent the night in the bunker.’

  Dr. Gilbey looks at Mags and simply says, I see.

  ‘Can I stay with her?’

  She switches her gaze to me.

  ‘Is the boy in any danger, Sergeant?’

  ‘I don’t believe so ma’am. It was the girl they were interested in.’

  She looks at me for a long moment and I get the feeling I had earlier, in the Colonial Lounge, like I’m being sized up, examined.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Gabriel. As I explained earlier the bunker is strictly off limits; one of you down here will be quite enough.’ She turns to Mags. ‘Now Magdalene, you’ll need to confine yourself to one of the dormitories. No exploring. Is that clear?’

  Mags nods.

  ‘Alright. Well, come along then. It is rather late.’

  I hand Mags her backpack. She takes it from me and leans in to kiss my cheek.

  ‘Take care, okay?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Sergeant Hicks is right next door.’

  I watch as she follows Dr. Gilbey down the cheerless corridor. She pauses for a moment at the end and gives me one more backward glance. Then she steps through into shadow and is gone.

  *

  IT’S STILL EARLY when I wake the following morning. I climb out of bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes. After what happened with Truck and Weasel I’m ready to be gone. Mags was right; there’s nothing for us here. I’ll find out from Hicks what he knows about Fearrington and then we can be on our way.

  His room’s next to mine but there’s no answer when I knock, so I make my way down to the lobby. There’s no one there either. The bellhop cart’s returned, but our boots are nowhere in sight. I head for the dining hall but the only person there is Jax, just sitting by himself at the table. He looks up as I enter but doesn’t say anything, just stares back at me with these flat blue eyes and then goes back to shoving frankfurters into his bushy Viking beard. I go back to the lobby and take the long corridor down to the Colonial Lounge. The door’s open. Outside the first of the day’s light’s already settling over the terrace but it doesn’t look any more appealing than it did in darkness. Beyond the frozen fountain there’s a low, crumbling wall and then the ground slopes upwards into hillside. Blackened trees poke through the gray snow. The ones nearest the house have been felled, but i
t looks too neat to be the work of storms. I guess that’s where the soldiers must be collecting their firewood.

  There’s still no sign of Hicks but Mags will be up by now; I might as well go get her. I step over the rope and head for the stairs to the Exhibition Hall. The emergency lights are off; it grows darker as I descend. I’m halfway across the floor when I hear the voice.

  ‘Lookin’ for something Huckleberry? Some more dip maybe?’

  I start; I hadn’t realized there was anyone down here. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I see Truck, sitting at a table in the far corner. He holds up the tin of Grizzly and smiles.

  I glance behind me, half expecting to see Weasel, but the stairs are clear. I turn back to face him.

  ‘I want to go into the bunker.’

  ‘The bunker is it?’

  He pokes the wad of tobacco behind his lip with his tongue and squirts a stream of tobacco juice into a cut-off plastic soda bottle on the table.

  ‘Yeah, the bunker.’

  ‘Well, Huckleberry, if that’s what y’all are after look no further. You’re already in it.’

  I’m beginning to think Truck might have been left on the Tilt-A-Whirl too long as a baby. But then I remember what Dr. Gilbey told us about The Greenbrier, how everything here was hidden in plain sight. The Exhibition Hall has no windows. And you have to come down a long flight of stairs to get to it. I look back at the entrance. The wallpaper distracts your attention from it but you can see how thick the walls are.

  ‘That’s right, Huckleberry; maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look after all.’

  He stands and hitches up his pants.

  ‘Can’t let you in, though. Doc’s a night owl; she won’t be up for hours yet. And she don’t like being disturbed.’

  It’s clear I’m not going to get anywhere with Truck so I leave the Exhibition Hall and continue my search for Hicks. I find him in the lobby, kneeling on the marble floor in front of the gold-faced clock, fastening the snaps on his backpack. He looks up when he sees me. The shadow of the portico darkens The Greenbrier’s entrance but he’s already wearing those funny sunglasses with the leather side-blinkers.

  ‘Sergeant Hicks, can I talk to you?’

  ‘Now’s not a good time, Gabriel. Got some things to pick up for the Doc. Maybe when I get back.’

  I was hoping for us to be gone as soon as Mags gets out of the bunker. I must look a little disappointed.

  ‘You can join me if you want. I’ll answer your questions on the way.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just to Lynch.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Next town over.’

  I look back in the direction of the Exhibition Hall.

  ‘The girl will be fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll leave word you’ve come with me.’

  I’ve nothing to do until Dr. Gilbey opens the bunker so I guess I might as well use the time to find out all I can about Fearrington. I run up to my room and grab my backpack. I take the stairs back down two at a time, smearing UV block across my face as I go. When I get back to the lobby my boots are on the bellhop cart. Hicks is already making his way outside.

  Our snowshoes are where we left them when we came in yesterday evening; the portico roof towers over us as we snap them on. The day’s already as bright as it means to get but it’s little more than a grudging half-light that spreads itself over the ashen landscape beyond The Greenbrier’s massive columns. Even so, Hicks takes some time fussing with his sunglasses, making sure the blinkers sit flush. When he’s done he adjusts his bandana and draws the hood up over his head; his face disappears into the shadow of the cowl.

  We make our way past the hulking gray shape of the helicopter. There hasn’t been a fresh fall, but the temperature must have dropped overnight because the snow’s covered with a skin of ice. Our snowshoes crunch through it, sinking deep into the soft powder underneath. Hicks sets a quicker pace than I was expecting and soon I’m sweating. In snow like this Marv and I would have taken it in turns to break trail but Hicks seems happy enough on point and if he means to keep this up I don’t plan to argue with him over it. There’s not much scope for conversation, but I figure that’s okay; there’ll be time later on to ask him what I need.

  At the gates we turn right. We’ve not gone more than a couple of hundred yards when the road curves around and a large gray structure rises up on our left, a bell tower marking it out as a church. The long roof’s swaybacked with the weight of years of snow and in places it’s been breached, what remains of the rafters poking through around the edges. A large, arched doorway stares vacantly back at us as we pass; one of the doors there is gone and the other hangs inward on its last hinge. A weather-rotten sign says St. Charles Borromeo Catholic Church and lists times for mass underneath.

  We follow the road as it winds its way westward through the mountains. After a mile we pick up water. It’s little more than a stream, for the most part frozen solid and covered over by snow. It meanders beside us, switching back and forth as we trudge on. We cross it three times but on each occasion the bridge has held. Shortly after the road dips under the interstate but Hicks shows no sign of switching trails and we continue on.

  I’m beginning to wonder just how far Lynch is when we hit water for the fourth time. The road inclines gently up to the bank but even from a distance it’s clear this is no stream; beyond a narrow rim of shelving ice a wide, gray river flows sluggishly south, the dark waters thick and oily with the cold. As we get closer I can see that the bridge is out; it’s collapsed into the water no more than a quarter of the way into its span on either side. Hicks doesn’t alter course. He marches right up to where the concrete ends, slides off his backpack and bends down to unsnap his snowshoes. As soon as he’s tethered them to his pack he shoulders it again and disappears over. I inch forward and look down. There’s a fifty foot drop to the river and I get that weird sensation in the pit of my stomach, like when I’d go up on the roof in Eden with Mags and she’d perch herself right on the edge. Beneath me Hicks is making short work of the climb; he’s already most of the way down.

  I step out of my snowshoes, tie them to my pack and follow him, wishing I’d paid more attention to the route he was taking. Once I start I realize it’s actually not that bad, however. A rust-pitted guardrail follows what once must have been the road almost the whole way to the water, and for the most part it seems to have held. The twisted metal jutting here and there from the crumbling concrete offers a choice of hand- and toeholds.

  Hicks is waiting for me at the bottom. From down here the river looks even wider than it did up on the bridge. A small wooden skiff bobs lazily in the water, moored to a section of rebar that protrudes from the rubble just above the waterline. He rolls back an old tarpaulin that’s covering it and stands to one side so I can get in. It pitches alarmingly as I throw my leg over the side. I quickly find a spot and sit down, gripping the sides tight with my mittens. He casts us off and jumps in after me. As soon as he’s got himself settled he lifts a pair of oars and dips them into the gray water. The wind’s picked up a little since we set off and the waves lap steadily against the shallow sides. By the time we reach the middle I’ve got my breath back but Hicks looks like he’s having to fight the current and I figure this isn’t the time to start asking questions. I watch as he works the oars, his arms following a tireless mechanical rhythm. Before long what remains of the bridge on the other side looms over us and I feel the prow crunch into ice and a second later nudge bottom. I climb out and wait while he ties the mooring line off to another piece of rebar.

  I’m thinking he might want to rest for a few minutes but he doesn’t. I follow him up the other side and we continue on.

  *

  HICKS’ PACE DOESN’T SLACKEN after the river but even so it’s already well past noon by the time we hike into Lynch.

  There’s not much to it. The shop windows we pass are darkened, broken, those that r
emain silted with a decade of grime. Hicks finally stops in front of a small wooden building with a sign outside that says The Livery Tavern. He says we’ll be spending the night here.

  I guess I don’t look too happy at that.

  ‘Yeah, took us longer to get here than I was expecting. Too late to start back now. Don’t worry, the girl’ll be safe enough in the bunker with the Doc ’till we get back.’

  He digs in his pocket and hands me a slip of paper with a dozen items written on it. He doesn’t ask whether I can read, he just says to get what I can; he’ll answer my questions when I get back. He steps inside, leaving me alone on the street.

  I look at the scrap of paper again. I hadn’t planned on having to trade for the information I need but there’s nothing difficult there, and the faster I get done the more time I’ll have to ask him about Fearrington. I adjust the straps on my pack and set off.

  I get back to the Livery Tavern a few hours later.

  I unsnap my snowshoes, kick the powder off my boots and make my way inside. The curtains are drawn and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. Hicks is sitting at a long wooden table in the center of the room. He nods in my direction as I set the backpack down but makes no move to get up. The plastic thermos he had on the way back from Covington’s open in front of him, but otherwise the table’s bare.

  My eyes shift to a large stone hearth in the corner, still banked with ash from the last time it was used. I’m tired but outside dusk’s already settling and I should really get a fire going. I’m a little surprised Hicks hasn’t bothered to light one; it’s freezing in here. I guess he just doesn’t feel the cold like a regular person. His parka’s unzipped and as he reaches for the flask I can see he’s taken his gloves off too; all he’s wearing are his liners.

  I shuck off my backpack and get to work. It doesn’t take long; everything you might need is stacked neatly to one side. I guess the soldiers must scavenge here regularly enough to keep places like this provisioned.