by R. A. Hakok
I motion to the kid to stay where he is then I crouch down and edge up onto the overpass, staring at the spot where I thought I saw something. For what seems like an eternity there’s nothing and then I see it again, closer now. Four figures walking line abreast towards us. Even at this distance Jax’s bulk is unmistakable.
I glance behind me at the small figure waiting in the middle of the road. By the time I get him down the on-ramp they’ll be at the interstate. We’d never make it around the bend in time, and even if we did they’d spot us on the next straight. My feet are mostly healed; if it was just me there’s a chance I could outrun them. But not with the kid. I cross to the guardrail on the other side. It’s a near vertical drop to the road below.
I tell him we’re going over. He shuffles forward and looks down suspiciously then turns back to me.
‘Go on. The snow’s deep. It’ll be fine.’
He takes one more look and then clambers up onto the guardrail. He stops on the top like he’s about to change his mind so I grab his parka and push him over. A second later I hear a soft whumpf as he disappears into a drift in a cloud of gray snow. I glance around. There’s no time to do anything about the tracks we made getting up here. They shouldn’t be visible from the other side, so as long as Truck doesn’t take it on himself to cross the interstate he shouldn’t see them. I unsnap my snowshoes, throw my leg over and the next thing I know I’m falling into soft powder.
It takes me a moment to dig myself out, then I find the kid and drag him under the overpass. We scooch behind one of the concrete pillars and wait. A few minutes later four figures appear at the top of the off-ramp on the other side of the highway, right by the Do Not Enter sign where I stood and said goodbye to Mags a few hours ago. They stop for a long moment as if in discussion and then the one who might be Truck bends down. He stays like that for a while, like he’s looking for something in the snow. Hicks said Truck was backwoods raised but I don’t care if he was suckled by bluetick coonhounds, there’s no way the tracks we made this morning will still be visible. At last he stands up again and they start down onto the interstate.
We watch them until they disappear around the first bend.
*
ALL AFTERNOON WE FOLLOW the soldiers up I-81. Mostly we keep to the median, always making sure there’s a turn in the road between us. On the long straight stretches we have no choice but to wait them out and then hustle to catch up. In the low ground between north- and southbound lanes the snow’s drifted deep and it’s heavy work. The kid’s making a real effort to keep up, but our progress is painfully slow.
The sky darkens; it has a mean look to it now. A churning mass of thunderheads crowds along the western ridge and then moves down into the valley behind us. The wind picks up. It blows off the mountains, driving the snow across the highway, filling in the soldiers’ tracks until only the deeper indentations made by Jax’s snowshoes remain. There’s little shelter from it, even in the gulley.
We pass a succession of exits but Truck shows no sign of quitting the interstate. Just as dusk’s settling we come to a long, straight section that inclines steadily. I break a HOOAH! from one of the MRE cartons and watch as they slowly trudge away from us in the failing light. The kid’s happy for the rest but I’m worried we’ll lose their tracks and stumble into them waiting for us. The drifting snow begins to hide them from me so I climb out onto the road and lay prone in the powder to watch. Just as I think they’re about to disappear over the next crest I see them heading for the off-ramp.
It takes us the best part of an hour to catch up to where they got off. Night’s almost on us and I’m having trouble picking out Jax’s prints now; if I hadn’t seen them take this exit I reckon I’d have walked us on by. Deep inside the clouds lightning shudders and for the first time I hear the low rumble of thunder, still some ways off, but doubtless headed our way. We make our way up to the interchange. A familiar Exxon sits at the top of the off-ramp, its forecourt canopy collapsed onto the pumps under a blanket of snow and I realize this is where Mags and I first got on I-81 almost three weeks ago now. I take us up to the Waffle House where we spent the night. It’s just as we left it, the door still leaning inward on its one remaining hinge. I tell the kid to wait inside, I’ll be back soon. He stares at the busted door but makes no attempt to go in.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find where the soldiers are sleeping, see if I can’t figure a way to hold them up.’
I spotted a sign for a Holiday Inn as we were leaving the highway. I reckon Truck will have seen it too. There’s a good bet that’s where they’ll be.
‘I want to come with you.’
‘Well you can’t.’
This comes out a little harsher than I intend. But it’s already full dark, the temperature’s dropping and I don’t need to look at the map to know we’ve not made it a dozen miles today. Falling Waters is still the best part of a day’s hike ahead of us, and there’s a storm coming. And on top of that I have to think of something to stop the soldiers from catching up with Mags and Hicks. So right now I don’t have time to spit, much less worry about whether the kid might get lonely if I leave him by himself for twenty minutes.
‘Are you going to use your flashlight?’
I’m tempted to tell him to quit acting bixicated, but instead I just shake my head.
‘’Course not. They might see it.’
He stares at me as I start back towards the road. I’ve gone barely half a dozen paces when I hear him behind me again.
‘You’re going the wrong way.’
I turn around. He’s pushed the goggles up onto his forehead. One arm is extended and a small duct-taped mitten is pointing at right angles to the direction I was taking.
‘I can see the big soldier’s prints. They went that way.’
I don’t know how he can make anything out in this darkness but he seems pretty certain and I have nothing to go on other than the Holiday Inn sign so I beckon him forward and tell him to lead on. We follow what’s left of Jax’s prints across the interchange and down an access road on the other side. Lightning flares and the kid drops his poles and scrambles to pull his goggles back down, but I’ve seen what I need. Ahead there’s a sign that says Welcome To The Rest Easy Motel and underneath Low Extended Stay Rates! Behind it a flat-roofed building two stories tall overlooks a small parking lot. From a window on the ground floor the soft glow of firelight seeps out onto the snow outside.
We hike up to a door on the corner that says Reception. I tell the kid to wait and he hunkers down against the wall as I make my way through the parking lot. An old Taurus sits under a blanket of snow in front of the room the soldiers have taken. Next to it there’s a pickup, parked at a hasty angle, its tailgate still down. I snap off my snowshoes and creep between them, painfully aware of the sound my boots are making as they crunch the powder. When I draw level with the pickup’s fender I stop and look out. The faint orange light from a fire escapes from behind a set of grubby curtains. For a long moment I just listen, but I can’t hear anything above the sound of the approaching storm. I take a deep breath and break cover, crossing the walkway to crouch underneath their window. I stop again, straining to hear. But there’s nothing. I start brushing snow aside with my mittens.
I had hoped to find four pairs of snowshoes, but I guess the soldiers have learned their lesson from when I took my leave of The Greenbrier. Well, it was worth a try. I have no other plan for stopping them so the only thing to do now is cut out of here and try and put as much distance as possible between us overnight. I’m about to head back to where my snowshoes are waiting when lightning flares again, followed closely by the heavy rumble of thunder. I hear a voice from inside.
‘Sure is getting nasty out there, Truck.’
On the other side of the window the curtain twitches. I have half a second to press myself under the sill before it gets pulled back and Weasel’s face appears at the grimy pane above me.
I hold my breath. I don�
�t dare move. If he looks down now he’s bound to see me.
‘You sure they ain’t gotten off here?’
‘Weez, I told you. They ain’t left the interstate.’ Innuh-stay. There’s no mistaking Truck’s drawl.
‘I dunno. Maybe we missed somethin’. Doc was sure they was headed for Mount Weather.’
‘We didn’t miss nuthin’. Why don’t you make y’self useful. Go out and cut us some more firewood.’
‘Aw, Truck. It’s nasty out there. Why can’t Jax do it?’
‘Because I told you to. Go on now. I ain’t goin’ tell you again.’
The curtain closes and from behind the door I hear footsteps and then the sound of something being moved out of the way. I crawl towards the adjacent room, but when I reach up for the handle the door’s locked and won’t budge.
There’s no time to find another hiding place so I throw myself into the gap between the Taurus and the pickup. I figure I might be able to squeeze under one or other of them but their tires have long since given out and there’s no way I’ll fit so instead I shuffle forward and press my face into the gray snow. Through the gap between the pickup’s front wheels I see the door opening. Light from the fire inside spills out onto the snow, followed a moment later by the aroma of cooking frankfurters. I haven’t eaten since the HOOAH! out on the interstate and my stomach betrays me with a growl so loud I’m sure Weasel will hear it and come to investigate. But just then from inside I hear Truck barking another order.
‘Dammit Weez, shut the door. You’re letting all the heat out.’
A pair of black boots fills my vision as Weasel steps out of the room and then the light from inside disappears as he closes the door behind him. I hear him mutter a curse and then he bangs something with his hand and finally a cone of pale yellow light blinks into existence, illuminating the stretch of walkway visible to me through the pickup’s wheels. A large rubber flashlight appears on the ground a couple of feet in front of the fender. The beam shines right under the truck, showing me its perished tires and rusted springs. A pair of snowshoes fall into the snow and Weasel bends down and starts fiddling with the straps. I’m close enough to see the repairs he’s had to make to them from my last hatchet job. I hold my breath. If he bends down just a little further he can’t help but see me. But if I try and move he’ll hear me for sure, so I just lay there, holding my breath, and wait.
He’s almost done with the second snowshoe when the beam from the flashlight suddenly goes out. He curses again and then picks it up and shakes it. It flickers back to life for a second and then dies.
‘Piece of shit.’
He bangs it against the wall, hard. The beam returns and he goes back to work. When he’s done he stands and picks it up, returning the underside of the pickup to darkness. The yellow cone moves to a spot somewhere further along the walkway, mercifully in a direction away from where the kid’s hiding. A second later Weasel’s boots disappear from view as he sets off after it. When I’m sure he’s gone I pick myself up from between the cars and peer over the hood. He stops at the end of the walkway in front of a soft drinks machine and bends down to check the dispensing tray. When he finds nothing he hits the front of the machine with the flashlight and moves on.
I wait to make sure he’s not coming back and then retrieve my snowshoes. My hands are shaking a little so it takes me a second or two longer than it should to strap myself in and then I set off for where I left the kid. His head pokes out from around the corner as I approach and I wave at him to follow me. Moments later we’re making our way out of the parking lot, back towards the interstate.
*
THE NEXT BIT’S MY FAULT.
In my defense, after my near miss with Weasel I suspect there’s little more than adrenaline pumping through my veins. But instead of taking a couple of deep breaths to calm myself I slide over and let it climb up into the driving seat. It doesn’t take it long to find the fast pedal, and soon it’s goosing it like it doesn’t particularly care for the gas miles we’ll have to show for it later.
I set off at a pace the kid’ll never be able to match. He doesn’t say anything of course, just lets me push on ahead, with every step putting more and more space between us. Maybe he figures I’ll slow down soon enough. Or perhaps he reckons he’s being ditched again, because that’s just how things seem to be working out for him lately.
I tear across the parking lot, still hell-bent on setting a new Shenandoah County snowshoeing record. Lightning flares, briefly illuminating the sign we passed on the way in, and beyond it I see the access road that’ll bring us back up to the interchange. I tuck my head down and make for it. I don’t look behind me to see if the kid’s keeping up, because, like I said, right then there’s a wide-eyed lunatic with his hair on fire behind the wheel of the Gabemobile.
Just as I’m coming up to the sign a dark shape steps out from behind. It takes me a moment to work out it’s Weasel. I guess he must have struck out behind the motel and doubled back to try his luck finding firewood out here. His flashlight’s given out on him again and he’s just standing there shaking it to try and get it to come back on. There’s a second where he still hasn’t seen me and I have time to wonder whether I might yet be able to duck back into the parking lot. Then the sky lights up again, bathing us both in stark white light.
The only consolation I have is that he seems every bit as startled as I am. He steps backwards and would probably have ended up on his ass in the snow if there wasn’t a station wagon parked up behind him. As it is he stumbles against the wing and drops the flashlight he’s been screwing with. It lands in the snow on the hood and suddenly blinks back to life. There’s a moment where we both just stare at each other, then he’s scrabbling in the pocket of his parka while I ditch my mittens and reach for Marv’s Beretta. He gets there first and pulls out the handsaw he’s brought with him, but the thick gloves he’s wearing prevents him levering the blade out of the handle. He fumbles with it for a while and then in his frustration he throws it, but from his aim it’s unclear whether he meant to hit me or just be rid of it. It sails off into the darkness. I hear it plop in the snow somewhere behind me as I pull out the gun.
‘Damn. I knew it. I just knew it. You did get off the highway. What you up to Huckleberry, sneakin’ around here? Trying to mess with our snowshoes again?’
I raise the pistol a fraction, like this isn’t his hour for having questions answered.
‘You got a bullet in there this time? Bet you ain’t. I’ll bet you ain’t.’
He pushes himself off the station wagon and takes a step towards me.
I pull the slide back and tilt the Beretta forward. The flashlight half-buried in the snow on the station wagon’s hood must be throwing off just enough light for him to see into the chamber because he takes a step backwards and raises his hands.
‘Alright, alright. Take it easy now.’
I risk a quick look behind me. The kid’s disappeared, probably run off into the darkness at the sight of one of the soldiers. I’ll worry about finding him later. I return my gaze to Weasel. A thin smile’s spreading across his face.
‘You ain’t gonna pull the trigger.’
I haven’t actually figured out what I mean to do yet, but that option’s definitely not been cleared from the table. I raise the gun and point it at his chest.
‘I worry you’re putting too much stock in our friendship, Weasel.’ I emphasize the last word on purpose. The smile flickers for a second and I see his features harden. He shakes his head.
‘Nope. I’m countin’ on you not wanting more company than you already got right now. Gunshot’s a pretty distinctive sound, Huckleberry. Loud too.’ He nods in the direction of the motel. ‘Truck’ll hear it. What, you think he’s in there right now watching TV with the volume turned all the way up?’
I realize he has a point. Even if there was more than just one bullet in Marv’s gun there’s no way I want Truck and the other soldiers out here hunting for me with their automatic
rifles. But I can’t take him with me. And I can’t let him go back to the motel. They’d be on me just as quick.
There’s another flash and for an instant the parking lot lights up again. A crash of thunder follows moments after and out of habit I log the gap. Storm’s close now. It occurs to me that the thunder would probably mask the sound of the gunshot, if I timed it right. I curl my finger around the trigger, feeling the cold metal through the slit in the liner. All that’s left is to figure out if I have it in me to pull it.
Turns out that’s a question that’ll need answering before the night’s out, but not right now. Lightning crashes again and this time, on the roof of the station wagon, where a moment ago there was nothing, something crouches. I have just enough time before it goes dark again to recognize the kid. He’s pulled his hood back and his over-sized goggles hang around his neck. He looks just like a smaller version of the thing that attacked Ortiz in the hospital. Something must show on my face because Weasel turns around and looks behind him just as the kid slides down the windshield onto the hood.
A strangled cry escapes his lips. He tries to step away from the car but his feet get all tangled up in his snowshoes and this time there’s no saving him. He stumbles sideways, his arms pinwheeling, and ends up on his back in the snow. The kid jumps off the hood and lands on all fours next to him. Weasel’s got a hand to the fender and is already trying to haul himself upright but the kid just narrows his eyes to slits and moves his face close. Weasel lets go of the fender with a whimper and quits.
I slide the pistol back into my pocket and reach for a cable tie.
‘Alright Johnny, let him up now. We got to get going.’