Aaronovich leans upon the wall, fighting for air. She tries to tell herself that she’s accepted what may well come next, that she’s evaluated and consented to it. Of the three of them, she’s the one most valuable to the inmates alive and intact. They might hurt her, but not so badly that she can’t do her job. If there aren’t already wounded in need of her services, she has no doubt there will be soon, and that she isn’t the only one aware of that fact.
All these things Aaronovich assures herself of. But they’re not easy to believe.
She can’t get a proper view of the yard without exposing herself. Therefore, it makes sense that she should be moving, so that at least she’ll be ready to run. Again, even if she can’t dispute her own logic, her every instinct rebels against it. Nevertheless, Aaronovich starts walking. Being still feels too much like waiting for the inevitable.
She’s taken a dozen steps by the time she clears the corner of the Big House and sees: there are four of them crossing the yard.
She recognizes Nguyen, Farmer, Baptiste, and Oxendine. Other than Nguyen, they’re all big men; they’re heading out in force. That posse seems excessive for a woman doctor in late middle age and one recently beaten guard. Then she understands. This isn’t for them, or not solely. The convicts don’t know where Doyle Johnson is. They don’t know why he’s disappeared, if he’s disappeared at all. And Johnson, the man who defied and eventually executed Plan John, who killed Ben Silensky, is a genuine danger.
She doesn’t run. She doesn’t run because they haven’t spotted her, and if she does then perhaps they will. It feels absurd that they shouldn’t be looking at her, and more so when she compels herself not to look at them either. But their attention is on the Big House and on the rumble of the generator, which even now she can hear as a fluttering vibration on the air.
She’s past the halfway point. She can’t resist a glance. They’re closer, but only because they’re closer to the front of the Big House. They aren’t looking her way. Why should they? There’s no reason. So she can’t run, though it would be easy to.
Aaronovich returns her gaze to the asphalt before her. She watches her own feet, the dust they stir. Five steps. Ten. She mustn’t look. Fifteen. She passes the corner of the administrative wing. Abruptly, the strength deserts her. Her legs give up, and dashing out a hand for support is all that keeps her standing. She feels the cool, uneven surface of the wall, absorbs the reality of it. Yes, she’s made it this far.
Aaronovich releases the wall, and is relieved when the world doesn’t spiral away from her. Up is up, down is down. She can stand, and so she can move. She puts one foot in front of another, and then doing so becomes easier and she’s walking almost normally. Past the next corner, once she knows she’s hidden by the administrative wing, her breathing begins to steady.
She had hoped, though, that Contreras and Carlita might be waiting here. The next corner will be the nearest point to the cellblock where they could have hidden out of sight. That they aren’t there is either a good sign or a terribly bad one, and as she approaches, Aaronovich’s pulse mounts.
But it’s a good sign after all. When she peeks around, she can see them clearly. They’re in the doorway of the tower beside the gate, the one Doyle Johnson made his own, in what seems a vanished lifetime. Carlita raises a hand in greeting. Contreras leans out, sneaking a glimpse of the cellblock. Satisfied, he scurries to the gate and reaches for the heavy chain and padlock that bind it shut.
If anyone was looking from the front of the cellblock, they couldn’t miss him. If anyone were to leave now, he’d be directly in their line of view. There are two inmates outside – Silas and Cousins, Aaronovich thinks – but their attention is directed the opposite way, after the four who set out toward the Big House.
If either of them should turn…. But such thoughts will only paralyze her, so Aaronovich resumes walking. She hugs the outer wall, as though its ash-gray expanse might camouflage her. Ahead, Contreras has the padlock off and is hefting its weight in one hand, as he tries to unravel the chain with the other.
That’s his mistake. One-handed, it can’t be done quietly. She observes the realization on his face, the dread, even as she hears the clank of metal against metal. Aaronovich’s eyes drift mechanically to track the two by the cellblock.
Yes. One of them has turned. And yes, it’s Silas. He sees Contreras first. “Hey!” He reaches to slap his companion hard on the shoulder.
The second man – not Cousins, no one she can identify – turns too. “What the fuck?”
She doesn’t slow down. Nor does she run. She’s near to Contreras, nearer than they are. She motions to Carlita, suddenly afraid that she won’t come, certain she finds hesitation in her face.
Then Carlita is hurrying toward them, and Aaronovich has reached Contreras, and Contreras has the chain off and on the ground, is gripping the gate with both hands. Aaronovich joins her strength to his. She feels the chain-link shift. A gap is all they need, but Silas is halfway to them. If he’d run, he might be on them by now. He looks confused, irresolute.
Aaronovich slips through. Contreras follows, snatching up the chain as he passes. Silas is close. Carlita is closer, and out in time for Contreras to drag the gate shut after her, for Aaronovich to wrap the chain in place and to snap the padlock shut.
Silas clings to the knotted wire with both hands. He’s inches away, yet he might as well belong to a different world. “What is this?” he growls.
To Aaronovich’s shock, he seems more frightened than angry. In his eyes she recognizes the look of someone faced by the incomprehensible.
She takes a moment to consider Contreras and Carlita, to confirm that they’re both all right. She takes another to put herself under the same scrutiny. Yes, she’s out of breath and her heart is racing, but those are temporary symptoms and they’ll pass.
“Come on,” Aaronovich says. She starts up the road, toward the distant fringe of forest.
“Where are you going?” Silas asks. His voice is choked.
Maybe they have a key for the padlock. If Foster is dead then likely they will have. If not, they have tools, should they choose to use them. She can’t assume they won’t get the gate open, and so she walks as fast as she’s able. But somehow, she knows the three of them have made it.
“There’s nothing out there,” Silas calls after.
Yet through the words, Aaronovich is sure she can detect his doubt, the doubt that says, There’s nothing in here either.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The night is the longest of Kyle’s life.
The worst moment, the point when he’s certain he’ll lose control, comes about midnight. The needle has been hovering in the red for an hour, and there’s no choice but to stop and refill the gas tank from the can stored in the trunk. Even on full beam, the headlights merely cut a sliver from the pervading black. As Johnson stands over him, propped precariously against the jeep’s flank, the flashlight he holds only makes the night feel more vast and unforgiving, and it seems to Kyle that, at any second, the darkness might flood in to drown them both.
Later, he’s forced to take other, brief breaks. He has never been so exhausted, never imagined it possible. Early in the morning, soon after sunrise, Johnson insists that they stop properly, so that Kyle can eat and rest. Kyle can’t argue. His driving is becoming erratic, and more than once he’s come close to veering off the road entirely.
Abigail has dozed in fits and starts, curled upon the back seat and sometimes mewling softly to herself. Johnson, so far as Kyle can tell, hasn’t slept at all. He’s been taking painkillers, but the listless manner in which the muscles of his face droop suggests they’re doing little good. They share a can of beans and one of hot dogs between the three of them. After that, Kyle can’t help but sleep. Oblivion comes over him like the wave of darkness he’d feared, and he’s helpless to resist.
When he wakes,
the light has hardly changed. He feels sick, distant, and no less tired. Johnson is watching him. His eyes are hollow. “Can you drive?”
Kyle nods. Yes, he can drive, since there’s no choice.
Soon after that, Johnson finally slips from consciousness. Kyle, confident in his direction and having no desire for company, leaves him to whatever tortured rest he can get. Occasionally he sees Sickers at a distance, and their presence unsettles him. They feel like a threat now in a way they didn’t before. Even Abigail’s presence is constantly drawing at his nerves. He recalls that she saved their lives, however his exhaustion twists that remembrance into something frightful.
He’s glad, really, when he begins to mistrust his course. It’s an excuse to wake Johnson, and that in turn becomes the justification for another hour’s unsatisfactory rest, another rudimentary meal. Yet Kyle feels no better for either. He knows objectively that there must be an end, that this interminable drive can’t go on infinitely. But, as he slips back behind the wheel, with Johnson’s gaze showing concern amid the ever-present pain, Kyle can’t convince himself. His gut tells him that they’ll never arrive because there’s nowhere to go. They’ve been absent from Funland less than three days and already the memory of it seems unreliable.
Then – and Kyle can’t say what time of day it is, or how long they’ve been travelling – through the tiredness he feels a vertiginous tug of familiarity. At first, he puts it down to imagination, for this stretch of road is identical to any other. The forest hemming them close to either side is no different from other forests they’ve passed. Only as he rounds the next bend does he understand. Ahead is the crashed SUV, which once belonged to Johnson’s ex-wife or to her husband.
“Stop here,” Johnson says.
Kyle slows. “Why?” He doesn’t like this place. And they’re so nearly back. He could refuse; he feels powerfully that he should.
“Stop, Kyle.”
There’s an imperative in Johnson’s tone that he finds himself unable to resist. Kyle brakes and draws up to the side of the road.
For a minute they sit in silence. Through every moment, Kyle wants to restart the engine and pull away, Johnson be damned. Instead, he stares at the wheel, and at his own hands gripping its curve. Kyle only looks round when he becomes aware of movement, but it’s just Johnson rubbing the fingers of his good hand across eyes bruised by fatigue.
As though with that gesture he’s arrived at a decision, Johnson draws the pistol from his jacket pocket. He places the weapon in his lap and considers it.
“I need you to wait here,” he says. “There’s something I have to do.” Uncertainty flickers across his features. “To try and do,” Johnson corrects, with doubt Kyle has never before heard in his voice. “If I’m not back in an hour, or if you think you’re in danger, then go.”
“What are you talking about?” This makes no sense. They’ve done what they needed to, and it’s been a success, it’s been worth the risk. They’re alive and, for the first time in forever, they have a chance.
“Park up near the gates. Contreras should be watching out.”
“What? No.”
“Kyle. I have to do this.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No, you won’t.”
Kyle can feel himself drawing close to panic, the nightmare sensation of passively enduring a terrible occurrence that he’s unable to prevent. “Johnson, this is insane. This is fucking crazy. Please, don’t do this.”
“I’ve no choice.” Yet Johnson sounds so unsure that Kyle is certain he’s about to change his mind, until the very moment when he opens the passenger-side door. With one arm useless, even climbing out is difficult for him. His jaw is clenched tightly. His eyes are compressed to slits.
Kyle gets out too, almost falls out, his limbs numbed by driving and his brain by two days without proper sleep. He leans on the hood and hisses at Johnson, “You asshole. You murdering asshole. What is this?”
He can feel that he’s crying. That only makes him angrier, and more helpless, for Johnson has already descended the bank beside the road and is within the verge of the forest.
Kyle knows he should go after him. He should go after and drag him back, literally drag him if that’s what it takes. He knows that’s what he should do, and can’t comprehend why he doesn’t. He can’t explain why he watches, motionless, as Johnson’s shape becomes smaller amid the trees, and as the shadows thicken around him.
Then, abruptly, Johnson is gone from view.
Kyle sags against the hood of the jeep, feeling its distant warmth through the tips of his fingers. From the back, a noise makes him start: faint scratching. When he looks, Kyle is briefly horrified to see Abigail clawing at the glass with her stubs of nails. She glances his way, dark eyes expressionless but mouth turned down in a scowl of anxiety. He can discern her faint whimpering.
The sound reminds him of Sickers, and suddenly the nearby trees don’t feel safe. The trunks are like bars. They’ve shut Johnson away, and who can predict what else they might conceal? Kyle gets into the jeep. Abigail is still making nervous noises in her throat, and he wishes he could do or say something that she’d be comforted by. However, his presence alone seems to settle her. She gives up on the window and moves to crawling back and forth upon the seat, till she tires of that too and curls at one end. A minute later and Kyle thinks she’s asleep.
Kyle envies her. He feels agonizingly tense, yet his eyelids are intolerably heavy. He doesn’t want to close them, but he has no say in the matter. He knows he can’t possibly sleep. His body is dead weight, his mind also. He tries to find anger at Johnson. He lacks the strength. He’s adamant that he can’t sleep, until he does.
There’s no question that what wakes him is a gunshot.
Just one, far off. Nonetheless, he’s convinced of what he heard. Kyle sits rigid, expecting a second shot, or shouts, something, anything. But now there’s only silence, heavy and blanketing, as though it’s a component of the encroaching dusk.
How long since Johnson left? While he can’t say for sure, he thinks perhaps half an hour, enough for late afternoon to slip into evening. Half of the time Johnson told him to wait. Kyle peers at the rear seat. Abigail is still sleeping, or appears to be. If the shot disturbed her, she gives no sign. Kyle settles back, forcing the tautness out of his muscles. Yet he can’t close his eyes again. His tiredness has retreated to a point of focused pain behind his forehead.
Time passes.
Kyle wonders distantly what he’s doing. Here is every opportunity he’d dreamed of when they set out. Here’s the revenge he sought. What’s changed since then? He stares toward the edge of the forest. The shadows are lengthening. The sun is out of view. It’s been at least an hour, probably longer. There’s no wind and the trees hang still, with hardly a twig stirring. If there were movement, even in the half darkness, then he would see.
More time has gone by, he thinks, since the gunshot than before it.
And he’s growing afraid of the encroaching night, of what the dark might bring. Regardless, if it were only that, Kyle feels certain he’d stay. He’s grown used to fear. It can’t control him the way it once did. That isn’t what’s undermining him, but the conviction, beyond his ability to explain, that Johnson won’t be returning – and that he never meant to.
Kyle spares the forest one more glance. There’s nothing but the shafts of trunks, row upon row receding into blackness. For a moment he wants urgently to dare those dark spaces, to trace Johnson’s steps, to find him and bring him back.
Instead, Kyle starts the jeep’s engine.
Chapter Fifty
She thinks she hears an engine. But the distant hum resolves to nothing, and afterward Aaronovich can’t be sure.
The minutes wear by. She doesn’t intend to sleep. It’s a gunshot that wakes her. Carlita and Contreras are both already looking in the direction
from which it came, gazing helplessly into the thick foliage as the echoes abate.
Aaronovich is on her feet by then, anticipating a second shot. There isn’t one, and eventually she sits once more, her back against the bole of a tree. She’s cold and tired and she aches, deep in her bones. She’s not cut out for this. And now this fresh alarm; it frustrates her. What could it mean? A single gunshot, out here in the forest?
She knows they should be discussing it, but she can’t bring herself to speak, and Carlita and Contreras don’t seem inclined to either. Aaronovich tells herself that it’s because they don’t want to risk drawing attention. There’s a slender chance that Funland will have sent out search parties, especially if they’ve discovered that she’s taken the last of the medical supplies. There’s a more significant likelihood of infected being close at hand.
She wishes she could say with certainty that she’d heard the engine, and that the sound had come from the nearby road. If that were the case, perhaps it would be worth their setting out on foot. Maybe Kyle and Johnson have had an accident. Conceivably they might need help. Yet, without knowing for a fact, the hazards involved in scouting for them would be too great. Aaronovich has already decided that they should wait until nightfall before moving on, as that’s the earliest time by which Johnson had hoped to return.
She is only beginning to realize how absolutely she’s believed in him. Somehow it had scarcely occurred to her that Johnson wouldn’t make it back. Now, here in the dark woods, that blind faith seems absurd. But she has nothing to replace it with. If Johnson and Kyle don’t come then they’ll have to decide: either accept whatever fate awaits them in Funland, or take their chances in the wilderness. The prospect of making that decision horrifies her almost more than the options it represents. She hasn’t allowed herself to think this far. If she had, she might never have dared act at all.
A Savage Generation Page 37