by Norman Dixon
“Bobby, snap out of it.”
Bobby blinked the blurriness from his eyes. The memory of the story dispelled by the cold night air and Ryan’s snapping fingers.
“I did it again?”
“Yeah, it’s so cold." Ryan’s face was as pale as clean hospital linen, his thin blue lips—a doctor’s errant pen stroke. He cradled his injured arm in his lap.
Ryan had, at best, a day of pain-filled humanity left.
But how long did he have left? Bobby’s wound wasn’t deep, and his t-shirt alone stopped the tiny trickle of blood, but it was enough. The Creeper broke skin. That’s all it took for the Fection to spread. Spit mixed with blood and his heart did the rest, pumping the disease through his veins slowly over a twenty four hour period. The thing was, he didn’t know where in that day-long period his final heartbeat would come, or if he’d be one of the exceptions to the rule. He could be one of the unlucky bastards that got bit and languished for days before turning.
Should he tell Ryan? Did Ryan see? No, he would’ve said something. Bobby had experienced many fears over his thirteen winters, but never had he become the victim of finality. Life as he knew it was over.
“Bobby, I’m sorry.”
Bobby sat next to Ryan and put his arm around him. Even though it was cold, Ryan was extremely hot. Bobby never forgot a lesson, and he knew the fever was the body’s poor defensive first strike at the Fection. “Don’t be. You did well.”
Ryan laughed. His teeth began to chatter. “Ga-ga-got ten of ’em, Bobby boy, bet your ass I did.”
“Shit yeah.”
“Se-se-se-see, feels good doesn’t it?”
He had to admit, it did feel good. Letting one fly was liberating. The moment brought a brief respite from the growing dread. Bobby had to get help. But the more he tried to will his legs into action, the more he wondered… Why? Why bother?
Something moved on the road. The kick of a rock; was that dragging feet? A shuffle? Bobby’s legs unfroze and he whipped the little flashlight around pointing it up the road. The thick night swallowed it. Another shuffle, dragging feet, hidden by the dark.
“What is it, Bobby?” Ryan whispered. The carbine shook in his good hand. He tried to steady it but it wobbled, up, down, drifted, pointing into the blackness.
“I hear something, it’s close. Maybe ten yards up the bend in the road,” Bobby whispered back. He’d lost the revolver in the blast and opted for Ryan’s knife instead. He swept the light across the road and crept forward.
“S-s-s-stay la-la-low." Ryan was overcome by another bout of shivers. “I-I’ll ca-cover you.”
Bobby kept his eyes forward. “Can you keep her steady?”
With a sharp intake of breath Ryan said, “I won’t miss.”
Knife out to his right, Bobby zigzagged his way up the road. The swaying branches played tricks on his senses, but he had a good idea of the general location of the noise. Ignoring the creaking distraction, he kept his jumping heart at bay with a hard swallow. It wasn’t the noise he found terrifying, it was the possibility that at any second he’d catch a bullet from his brother. Right in the back.
Bobby stopped a few feet from the bend. The small cone of light revealed nothing. Beyond its sweep only the deepest black, hiding more light steps, a shuffle. It was closer.
He stopped. Off to his right several saplings surrounded a massive pine. Bobby side-stepped over to them and tore a strip of fabric from his shirt. Bobby used it to tie the flashlight to one of the saplings, giving the pliant branch a pull to test the tension. The light bobbed about. He scampered to the other side of the road and hunkered down.
Falling pebbles, a scuttle, could be deer, steps, shuffle, stop shuffle, insects—Bobby tried hard to focus on the most important sound. The moon traced highlights on his knuckles, white light flickered, darkness, clouds shifting in the wind, and his eyes searched the dark helter-skelter, wild. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He screamed. Breath, hot and heavy on the back of his neck, Bobby drove the knife up and over his head. But a strong hand bent his wrist back.
“Bobby, Creeper might’ve fallen for that one, not me."
The voice was almost alien to Bobby; it was not filled with the usual drawl of the other Folks. He was told it came from across the Pacific Ocean, before the world went mad—a place called Russia. It belonged to one of the Folks, probably the only one besides Ol’ Randy he trusted, his friend, his mentor, Ecky.
“You drop knife." Ecky twisted Bobby’s wrist back another inch. The man in him tried not to cry out, but the child gave in to the pain and squealed. “What the hell have you been up to? Settlement’s in uproar. Thought you might be Creeper bait by now.”
“Ecky, Ryan’s been bit!” Cale’s deep voice ripped into the night.
Ecky spun Bobby around, massive hands draped on his tiny shoulders. Strands of long brown hair poked out from under his thick, woolen skullcap like octopus tentacles from the mouth of an undersea cave. His thick eyebrows twitched. His face went from shock to anger in a series of broken wrinkles.
“How long?”
Bobby looked away, ashamed to face Ecky. He tucked his shirt deeper into his pants and pulled the wind breaker down. He had no chance, but with Ecky’s and Cale’s help, Ryan had a slim one. With his secret in the back of his mind, dirty and cold, he looked into those dark bloodshot eyes.
“Bobby, how long? How long?" Ecky shook him violently.
“Three . . . maybe four hours. Once the sun set I lost track of time. Ecky, I’m sorry." Bobby began to cry.
“Shit, save tears for when you really need them. He’s got chance. Cale,” Ecky shouted to the young man gruffly, “get him on your back. We move.”
If only Ecky knew those tears were not meant for Ryan. He’d made his peace, silently, when he wrapped his brother’s wound so many hours ago.
“You got running legs?" Ecky wiped Bobby’s tears with a gloved hand.
Bobby nodded.
“Good. Cale, you ready?”
The young man nodded. His face ghostly pale—eyes wide in terror.
“He ain’t that heavy, but I don’t want to be tripping over shit I can’t see. Time for slow and steady is over, crack a light.”
Ecky slid a long tube from the inside of his jacket. He bent the tube until it made a snapping sound. He shook it. A sickly green light split the dark night. He handed it to Bobby.
“You hang on to that and don’t drop it.”
With Ecky running point, their group ran for the Settlement. The moon at their backs, they ran hard. They ran like reckless animals scattered by a hunter’s errant shot. They ran for Ryan’s life. But Bobby . . . Bobby was already dead.
CHAPTER 4
Bobby couldn’t meet their eyes. It was like every other day in the Settlement, only worse. Instead of pockets of cold gazes, he got them all at once, every last one of the Settlement’s inhabitants, and each stare pierced through him like a blast from the guard tower rifles. His head felt heavy, the weight of the world was only a speck of sand in comparison. He dragged his feet as they crossed through the main gate.
They were all there in the light of the rising sun: Ol’ Randy leaning on Tilda, Pastor Craven, the Good Book clasped in his long, bony fingers, Lyda in her doctor whites, soon to be covered with Ryan’s blood, Ma and Pa Crannen’s twin sons, Jackson and Thomas, all the boys in their brown jumpsuits, the farmers in their blue overalls, and far, far at the end of the throng, three wide-eyed boys, chewing on their fingernails, nervous, hovering together for familiarity, Bobby and Ryan’s brothers: Peter, Bryan, and Paul.
The looks falling on Bobby and Ryan were filled with scorn. All of them, except for those of his brothers, although together again, the five were completely alone.
“Figured it’d be them boys. Nothing but trouble since the day they was brought in. Many a good Settlement sons and daughters didn’t see their first winters ‘cause of them boys . . . a shame,” an old woman cried.
The crowd rumbled, some c
heered in response to her words.
“Shut up you old bat!” Ryan yelled from Cale’s back.
“That’s enough now! Praise the Lord Jesus the boys are safe, thank you saviors. Move along now, the Lord demands a plentiful harvest before winter. There’s work to do yet. Move along." Pastor Craven motioned above his head with his right hand. At the motion, the church bell rang three times. The echo rolled through the fog-laden valley.
The Folks went about their business, disgust heavy in their hearts.
Pastor Craven did not hide his agitation. His nostrils flared and his knuckles rapped the leather bound bible. He walked up to Cale, Ryan still clinging to his back, and leaned in on the boy. His yellowed teeth long, like sticks of butter, and his breath smelled of mint and whiskey. The Lord had demanded a long night, it seemed. He studied the bandaged wound and said, “The Lord will demand penance for your sins, son. Even if you don’t make it He will demand it of you." He ruffled Ryan’s hair. “Lyda, get him to the infirmary . . . test him. I trust in the Lord above he has not arrived too late.”
Lyda’s long blonde hair bounced on her back as she ran to Cale. She dug a pair of worn glasses from her non-existent cleavage, which had earned her the nickname BB, short for the blonde board. She grabbed Ryan by the head, forced it back without a hint of care. Lyda studied Ryan’s eyes then she let his head fall while she fished in the pockets of her lab coat for gloves. She snapped the white latex on her hands and flexed her fingers. Satisfied, she yanked Ryan’s head back again and pulled his mouth open, peeled back his lips and examined his gum line for signs of the Fection.
“Cale, get him inside, quickly!" Her ponytail flashed in the sun’s light, and then she was a white blur towards the low, flat-roofed infirmary.
Ecky stood a few feet from Bobby, awaiting orders. He couldn’t help but wince at Ryan’s treatment. He could understand some of the Settlement’s views of the boys . . . but he would never agree with them. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder and winked at Bobby, trying to reassure the boy, tell him silently, everything was going to be okay.
Bobby smiled and winked back.
Pastor Craven’s hand snapped down and his bony knuckles cracked Bobby across the face sharply.
Bobby stumbled, but did not fall, enraging the Pastor further. He struck out again, knocking Bobby’s head the other way. The blow carried much more force with it, and Bobby fell hard on his side, the rocks of the muddied road dug into his ribs making it hard to breathe.
“At the Devil’s work again, Bobby Carroll! The lot of you boys nothing but sinners." He spat on the ground. “Lord, please calm my nerves as your sworn enemy Satan most foul uses these boys to tempt me! I ask this in Jesus’ name, AMEN!" Pastor Craven took a long, deep breath to steady his shaking hands. It wasn’t as sure as the whiskey, but it would have to do in such a public place.
He pulled Bobby off the ground by the collar, dusting the boy off with one hand, doing well to keep the bible from the youth, as if he were pure evil. Couldn’t have Jesus sullied with the thoughts of the adolescent now could we? One never knew what rotted at the core of a boy’s mind: thoughts of sex, profanity, desire, masturbation; such sick unclean things. Pastor Craven smacked Bobby on the behind, sending him in the direction of his brothers.
“You go and get cleaned up now, Bobby Carroll. The Lord can’t have you running around his fine land dirty. The rest of you boys can meet him in the barracks where you will stay until further notice. You are exempt from classes today.”
The boys huddled around Bobby, hugging and whispering and giggling.
“That does not mean you all get a free pass . . . far from it. Once I have this situation in the hands of the Lord, I will be by the barracks with what He demands of each of you. Pray on it . . . pray your little hearts on it.”
Ecky shuddered.
The boys walked slowly towards the barracks.
“Well, Yannek, you’ve seen the boys to safety. Can’t say I’m too happy with that, but a job well done." He clasped Ecky on the shoulder. “But winter is fast approaching, and I fear we won’t make it through without that second generator. The entire Settlement has lost nearly a day’s work out of you. The Lord demands you return to work to ensure his flock is kept warm through winter." Pastor Craven picked at his teeth with a crooked fingernail.
“I understand, Pastor.”
“I know you do. We will make it up to you one day.”
Bet you won’t, Ecky thought, as he watched the Pastor stroll towards the infirmary.
* * * * *
The sharp sting of antiseptic burned Ryan’s nostrils, and the intensity of the bright white lights dazzled his eyes. He’d seen it from the inside only once before, several years earlier, when he suffered a broken wrist from punching one of the native Settlement boys, James Cumberland, for making fun of his brothers.
The infirmary was a far cry from a hospital, but as far as anyone in the Settlement could guess it was the closest functioning facility left in the world. It was a simple structure made of roughly hewn timber farmed from the tree-lined mountainsides. Heavy beams ran the length of the forty foot long ceiling with harsh fluorescent lighting in between each sap-stained beam. There were four beds, one operating table, and the rest of the space was dominated by supplies gathered from abandoned medical facilities over the years.
Under the careful, watchful eye of Lyda, the Folks sent small, well-armed raiding parties to retrieve supplies every spring, but with each passing year the groups were forced to drift further and further from the Settlement. As the Settlement’s only certified doctor Lyda stressed the importance of the parties to Pastor Craven, and by the grace of God he obliged. But the supplies would not last.
“Cale, get him on the table,” Lyda said, chewing on her glasses.
He nodded and laid the boy down. Cale had survived twenty-two winters, but as hardened as he was to life on the Settlement, he was not prepared for this. His mouth dry, and skin pale as winter’s snow. The sight of the boy covered in blood and trying to put on the bravest of faces rattled Cale. But he had an obligation to the Settlement and the Lord. He swallowed that fear, choked it down with determination and faith.
Lyda busied herself with gearing up for the amputation. She donned a heavy rubber apron, gloves, and a full helmet with a faceguard. Every precaution was taken when dealing with blood, infected or not. She powered on the bone saw, testing the action with a whir. The whine of the tool made her jump as it broke the silence. Her emotions had gotten the better of her.
“Are you gonna’ take my arm?" Ryan’s voice was smooth, but his limited winters came through in it.
Lyda turned to face him. She was thankful the disdain on her face lay hidden beneath the helmet. It was not very Christian of her to hate this child, but she did. She hated him; she hated them all with an ilk that filled every fiber of her being. She hated them more than she hated the Creepers that took her husband, Steven, seven winters ago. She hated them because they killed her child.
“No, the Creepers already saw to that." She unrolled the sterile operating kit with shaking hands. Tears rolled down her freckled cheeks, warm and sticky under the suffocating helmet. “This is going to sting a bit.”
Ryan laughed. “Can’t be all that bad. Won’t be playing baseball anytimmmmme . . .” His head lolled to the side as drug induced slumber gripped him.
“Cale, you don’t need to be here for this." Lyda busied herself with legating the artery.
“I’ve seen worse. I’m here to help, Lyda." Cale reached out for her shoulder, but stopped when she flinched away.
“You’d better go. This isn’t like being out in the field. This is a little boy." Lyda picked up the scalpel carefully, studied it in the harsh fluorescence.
“Lyda.”
The door to the infirmary opened. Pastor Craven cleared his throat. He paused in the doorway, the sun at his back, reminding Lyda, ever so briefly, of Steven returning from the fields, from God’s war, but as the aging pre
acher broke the threshold the memory faded.
“You’d better go, Cale,” she said, harsher this time.
Cale nodded to her, hesitated a second, but one look at Pastor Craven revoked that hesitation. He acknowledged the Pastor then headed for the fields and lighter air.
“Pastor,” Lyda greeted him in an even tone, doing well to hide her reservations about the boy.
“Doctor . . . is he out?" The Pastor walked to the head of the table and loomed over Ryan’s sleeping body.
“Yes, you don’t need to be here for this, Pastor." She knew he wouldn’t leave at her word, but she had to try. She thought for a brief second that if she could be alone with Ryan, with the scalpel in her hand, she might have just enough nerve to kill him, and put her demons to rest. Perhaps, that was why Pastor Craven simply waved her off, as if her suggestion was complete nonsense. Where most normal people found comfort in the sleeping face of a child, she found only unending pain, pain that tore at her mind, at her womb, prodded by the cruel finger of memory. She squeezed the scalpel in her fist.
“Is everything okay, Doctor?”
“Yes, Pastor . . . just shaking off the jitters. Even with the Lord on my side it never gets easy, and it’s especially hard when they are this young." She let her shoulders drop, completing the lie.
“Indeed, but are you sure, Lyda? Maybe I can gather a few of the others to aid you. Lord knows they’ve had the experience. I know how you feel about this child. Believe me, I know how we all feel about these children. But those feelings must be put aside for the Lord." The Pastor patted the boy on shoulder and smiled. He started to pray inwardly that Lyda would accept his offer, but she was as stubborn as a newborn fighting sleep. Then he prayed for her to make a mistake, a slip of the knife, he prayed for the child’s death.