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

by R. A. Hakok

  And that makes him sad.

  Because he knows she probably will. She can’t have long now. In a few days she’ll get sick and then the gray curtain will come down and everything she knew from before will be gone.

  *

  THE INTERVALS BETWEEN flash and thunder grow shorter as outside the storm bears down. The sky’s roiling now, tortured. Lightning shudders inside the thunderheads, lighting them up all the way back to the horizon. The wind howls around the giant columns and gusts against the window, shaking the glass in the flaking frame.

  I should get some rest for what lies ahead but instead I sit on the floor in my parka, just staring out into the darkness. All I can see is Mags, forced onto her toes, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the Exhibition Hall’s smooth tiles. I bury my face in my hands and breath, trying to banish the image, but it won’t leave. My fingers still smell of the gun oil I’ve been working with all day. Right after I got to see her Hicks took me into the dining room and sat me down at one of the tables. He brought a bunch of weapons up from the bunker and laid them out in front of me. It was rifles mostly, but there were some pistols too, including one I recognized as Marv’s Beretta. I already knew how to strip the M4s but he showed me how to break each of the other guns down too. When that was done I set to work with a toothbrush and a stack of cotton buds, working the solvent up into the breech, swabbing out the chamber and bore, wiping each part down before finally setting it aside to dry.

  Hicks says there’s a big hospital over in Roanoke. He reckons it’ll take us three days to hike it. We’ll set off as soon as the storm clears.

  I don’t plan on being around for that. I’m still not sure what part he has in all of this, but I know now that Gilbey’s not to be trusted. As Truck was hauling Mags off her feet Hicks took his eyes off her for a split second to deal with me. I guess that was what she must have been hoping for. And in that instant she turned her hand toward me and I saw what was written there. A single word scratched into her palm, the dried blood spelling out only three letters.

  Run.

  So that’s what I intend to do. My backpack rests against the wall, ready to go. While everyone was at dinner I snuck down to the lobby and went through the soldiers’ gear for the items I’ll need. I’ve spent the last hour fashioning boots to replace the ones I surrendered to the bellhop cart when we came in earlier. I’ve wrapped the slippers Hicks gave me with strips torn from the blanket on my bed; sections cut from one of Jax’s plastic gunny sacks go around the outside, held in place with the last of the duct tape from my scavenging kit. They don’t look pretty but they seem warm enough and the plastic looks tough. Hicks had meant for Jax to carry a fury back inside it, so I guess it must be. They’ll have to do until I can find better.

  From outside there’s another flash, followed a few seconds later by a clap of thunder. Out of habit I count the seconds between, but that’s not what I’m waiting for now. The soldiers came up from dinner almost an hour ago; I heard them talking in the corridor outside. One by one they slipped off to bed, and then it got quiet, the only sounds those of the approaching storm. Hicks knocked on my door a little while later with a plate of franks. I didn’t feel much like eating but I took them anyway. I’ll need the sustenance. I have a long night ahead of me.

  Across the hallway I can hear Truck snoring. I wait fifteen minutes to make sure he’s sound asleep, then I grab my bag. I used a drop of gun oil on the hinges earlier and the door opens without a sound. I cross the hall. The thick carpet muffles my footsteps, but nevertheless I tiptoe down the stairs. The generator gets cut after dinner and the emergency lights are off but the flashlight stays in my parka and I make my way across the lobby in darkness. Outside the sky flares, briefly bathing the shrouded furniture in harsh white light. The sound of my makeshift boots scuffing the marble seems loud but I don’t think it’ll carry far enough for anyone to hear it, and besides, the storm’s kicking up enough of a racket now to cover it. The wind pushes against the entrance door as I open it and I have to hold tight with both hands to prevent it slamming behind me.

  It’s colder than I was expecting. The wind snatches the breath from me almost before I have a chance to exhale it. I slide the thin cotton mask up over my mouth and fasten the throat of my parka. It’s too dark for goggles and the icy snow stings my eyes. I zip the hood all the way up but the wind whips and tugs at it, threatening to dislodge it even before I’ve left the shelter of the portico.

  My snowshoes are where I left them when we got back. The huge columns tower over me as I slide my makeshift boots into the bindings and ratchet them tight. I’ve already fixed the soldiers’ guns; it was a stroke of unexpected luck Hicks fetching them up for me to work on earlier. Now I pull out the leatherman and hack through the straps on their snowshoes and then toss them off into the darkness. They’re bound to have spares so it probably won’t do me much good, but I figure every minute I can put between us now will be worth it. When I’ve taken care of the last of them I shift the backpack so it sits high on my shoulders, tighten the straps and set off.

  It’s slow going. Until I get out of sight of the house I’m relying on the lightning to show me the way, but between the flashes I’m blind. I grope my way around the helicopter, listening for the creak and groan of its huge rotor blades as they twist and flex in the wind. It takes me what seems like forever to reach the road, but finally I’m passing between The Greenbrier’s crumbling gateposts. I dig in my pocket for the flashlight. The dynamo whirs as I crank the stubby handle. The bulb glows orange, then yellow, finally casting a faint pool of watery light that hardly seems worth the effort.

  I take a right and follow the road, grateful that at least now the wind’s at my back. Breaking trail keeps me warm for a while but it doesn’t take long for the cold to find its way inside my parka and through the extra layer of thermals I’m wearing. My makeshift footwear’s not as warm as the boots I surrendered either; I can already feel my toes tingling. But then that was to be expected. I tell myself I can handle a little bit of cold, and at least the sacking seems to be keeping the snow out. I’ve barely made it past the church before I begin to sense a more serious problem, however. The duct-taped plastic has no structure to it. When I tried them out in the room my improvised footwear seemed comfortable enough, but of course that was before I strapped on snowshoes and started pounding drifts. Now the hard plastic of the bindings cuts into my feet with each step.

  There’s little I can do about that right now. I need to keep moving; the corrugated crash barriers I’m relying on to show me the way are already disappearing under the drifting snow. I stop and dig out each mile marker, every signpost, even where I’m fairly certain I’m on the right track. The storm will get worse before it gets better, and I can’t afford to get lost out here.

  *

  IT TAKES ME THREE HOURS to reach the river, almost twice as long as when Hicks and I hiked it the other day. The flashlight shows only the icy flakes that swirl past me in the darkness and I end up missing the sign for the bridge. Before I know it the road underneath me has disappeared and there’s a sickening jolt as I feel one foot sinking through into empty air. I try to back up but the tails of my snowshoes dig in and I lose my balance. The wind gusts, like it means to send me over, and for a second it seems like it might succeed. I stagger backwards, arms flailing, and land awkwardly in the snow, pushing large chunks of it over the edge as I scramble back to safety.

  I lie there for a moment, just staring up into the shuddering sky. I can’t stay here, though. I have to hurry now. The storm’s almost on me, the gap between lightning and thunder already little more than a heartbeat. I pick myself up and inch forward again. When I’ve gone as far as I dare I point the flashlight down but I can’t see the water. There’s just a black chasm into which the driven snow twists and tumbles. I bend down and unsnap my snowshoes. My feet are already numb with the cold but it’s a relief to step out of them nevertheless. I tie them to the outside of my pack and start to clim
b down the rubble.

  Down at the river the skiff bobs and jerks against its tether. I pull off the tarp, shuck off my pack and take out the rope. The length I keep with my scavenging kit would never have done, but with what I’ve taken from Jax’s and Weasel’s packs I should have enough. I tie one end to the mooring point, throw the rest into the boat and climb in after it. I take a moment to steady myself then cast off, using one of the oars to push the skiff off the bank, like I saw Hicks do. I’m not as practiced at this as he was though, and it pitches and dips alarmingly as I struggle with the current. The windup torch sits meekly between my feet, its yellowing beam only sufficient to illuminate the rope that’s slowly paying itself out into the dark water behind me.

  Stroke by stroke I work my way across the churning waters. The wind kicks up icy spray; waves lap furiously against the prow and crash against the sides. My arms are soon burning but in the darkness between flashes it’s hard to tell how much progress I’m making. At last I hear a creak and a second later the front of the boat rides up as it crunches into something. Above me lightning strobes, for a second illuminating the crumbling remains of the bridge towering over me. One more pull on the oars and the prow nudges concrete and comes to an unsteady halt. I climb out and carry the end of the rope to the piece of bent-back rebar Hicks used as a mooring point on this side. I feed it through and tie it off to the metal eye that’s bolted to the prow, then clamber back in and push off again. It takes me a while to turn the boat around but as soon as I’m pointed in the right direction I ship the oars; I can use the rope to pull me back now. I brace my feet against the sides and start grabbing armfuls of it. The wind that was at my back on the way out is in my face for the return. Even in the lee of the bank I can feel its strength.

  There’s a blinding flash of light, followed by a crash of thunder and for a second the sky above me reveals itself, a seething maelstrom of grays and blacks, lit from within. Heavy ashen flakes start to tumble and swirl out of the darkness. The visibility drops, like a thick curtain pulling itself around me, and soon I can barely see the front of the little skiff as it pitches through the waves. The wind wants to push me back but I refuse to let it. With each armful of rope I curse it. The thermals I wear are supposed to wick the sweat away but they’re already overwhelmed and soon it’s running freely down my back and sides. I look down into the boat. Only half a dozen loose coils remain and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll make it. Then finally just as the last of them starts to unwind I feel the bottom nudge something.

  I pick up the torch and wind it. The beam shows me nothing more than swirling snow, but when I point it over the side I see chunks of ice bobbing up and down in the dark, agitated water. I must be close to the bank. I grab an oar and feel for the bottom. Waves are lapping furiously at the sides but it’s no more than a couple of feet deep. The rope’s tied to the hook on the prow; if I untie it to give me the extra few yards I need I’ll lose the end in the water and then this will have been for nothing. I give one more pull. The boat moves forward and I feel the wooden hull grate over something that might be rubble. The last of the rope slips over the side.

  I look down at my makeshift boots. The duct tape’s fraying badly where the snowshoes’ bindings have worked against it, but the plastic underneath seems to be holding. I’ve wrapped several strips of tape around the top where my pants go into the boot, and the material there is waterproof. It should be enough.

  I stand up. The boat rocks dangerously as my foot sinks into the icy water. The surface is uneven and I stumble but in a couple of steps I’m up on the bank. I grab the tarp from where I left it by the water’s edge and step back into the shallows to bundle it in, resting the oars on top so the wind can’t catch it. I take the bottle of gas I stole from Boots’ pack and douse the thick canvas. I cup my hand around the lighter. It takes a dozen or more tries for it to hold flame, but eventually I get the tarp to light.

  I step back out of the water and start to pull the boat across the river. The flames creep up over the sides, like a funeral pyre. For a while I can follow it, but before long the storm has swallowed it whole. I keep grabbing armfuls of rope until eventually I feel resistance. I give one last heave to make sure it’s grounded then I find a loose lump of concrete and wrap the end of the rope around it several times and tie it off. I go down to the water’s edge and heft it as far as I can into the river. The wind drowns the splash; I never hear it. The rope sits on the water for a second and then slowly slips beneath the surface as the concrete sinks to the bottom.

  I open my pack and grab some of the firewood I brought from my room. I use the last of Boot’s gas to light it. The wind harries the fragile flames, threatening to snuff them out, but whatever he adds to the mix makes it tenacious. I huddle close but it’s too small for any warmth. I tell myself that was never its purpose, but the truth is I need it now. My makeshift boots seem to have kept the water out, but inside my feet ache with the cold. The exertion that warmed me on the crossing is already working against me; inside my parka I can feel my sweat-soaked thermals cooling against my skin. I set an MRE to heat. As soon as it’s ready I wolf down the half-mixed contents before they too have a chance to give up their warmth. When I’m done I scatter the packets that came in the carton around, wedging them under crumbling concrete or impaling them on sections of twisted rebar until the area around me is strewn with trash.

  The fire’s already burning down and I’m starting to shiver, but at least down here I’m mostly sheltered. I look up. Above me the wind howls over the collapsed bridge, sending flurries of ashen flakes tumbling over the edge. I’d like to stay a little longer, but that’s not possible. I need to get back now.

  Hicks told me Gilbey had a code to get them into The Greenbrier, except that when they got there it didn’t work. There’s no keypad for the vault door in the Exhibition Hall, though; it only opens from the inside. Which means there must be another door somewhere, one that will take a code. I don’t know where that might be, but my guess is finding it won’t be too difficult; it’ll be big, way bigger than the one I’ve already seen. The blast doors at Eden and Mount Weather and Culpeper were all large enough to drive a truck through, and there’s no reason The Greenbrier should be different. Places like that needed to be stocked after all.

  Once I find it what’s on Marv’s map should get me in, just like it has everywhere else I’ve tried. I don’t have that map on me of course; it’s tucked behind a pipe organ up on the balcony of a little chapel in Covington. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve studied it often enough over the winter that all I have to do is close my eyes and I can see the twelve numbers and letters Marv had written there.

  I stand, hoist the backpack onto my shoulders and pull the straps tight. My makeshift boots feel heavy and when I look down I see they’ve iced up from when I stepped into the river. I knock the worst of it off and then slowly start to climb back up.

  This will be the last night Mags spends in that bunker.

  *

  EXCEPT THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS out of course, but I guess that bit you already knew. I don’t think it was the plan. That was as good as I could have come up with in the circumstances, and on a different night it might even have seen me through. It was the storm. I just didn’t account for how bad it would get on the way back.

  Without Marv’s map it’s hard to be sure, but I reckon it’s a little shy of six miles from the spot where the bridge gave out to what remains of The Greenbrier’s gates. I don’t know how many of those I made in the end, only that it wasn’t enough. Not that it matters. One mile or five, the truth is the storm had me beat before I hauled myself back up from the river; it just took me a little while longer to figure that out. I guess Marv was right: the cold really is a vicious bitch; it can seriously mess with your thinking. I only wish I had learned that lesson in time.

  I’d like to tell you she was the last thing I thought of, as the drifting snow covered me over and the last of my body’s heat leached out into the sof
t, enveloping flakes. But she wasn’t. By the time my head came to rest in that gray powder I couldn’t have told you where I was headed or why.

  *

  IT IS THE FOOTSTEPS that bring him back, echoing down the stairwell. He doesn’t know how many he has missed, but he suspects a lot because they are loud, as though their owners are already right outside the door.

  He hears the lock click and he opens his eyes. Although somehow he doesn’t think his eyes were actually closed, it is just that now it is his turn to use them again. He blinks and looks around the cage. He feels like he has been away somewhere, although he knows that is impossible. For as long as he can remember the cage is all that there has been.

  Something is wrong.

  Down here in the darkness time has little meaning; it is difficult to say where one part of it begins and another ends. But that unrelenting sameness makes it easy to tell when a piece has gone missing, like it just has. He can’t have fallen asleep, can he? He doesn’t sleep anymore. He hasn’t in a very long while.

  Something is definitely wrong.

  The door is already opening. The girl must have heard it too because she’s sitting up, waiting. He tilts his head to one side and sniffs the air. The scent from her cage is weaker now, but still, infuriatingly, there.

  Somewhere at the end of the row a flashlight comes on. The doctor’s heels click sharply on the concrete as she approaches, like she’s angry. He can tell from the soldier’s shuffling gait that he’s struggling to keep up. He suddenly realizes his face is still pressed against the bars. He scurries back to his corner. Moments later the hem of a lab coat appears in front of his cage, glaringly bright in the flashlight’s beam. The soldier’s grubby fatigues arrive seconds after, the bottoms spilling over the tops of his scuffed boots.