Through The Valley

by Yates, B. D.

  "Good man," Roy said, thumping him on the shoulder.

  Yet again Emmit found himself laying down and staring at the ceiling, convinced he would never sleep again. But it didn't take long for the stress to drain him, and he did.

  Chapter 6: Never Ever

  "Daddy... what happens when someone dies?"

  Hot damn, that night had gotten Emmit into big time trouble with Deek's mom. Deacon had come over to spend the weekend with him once, to celebrate Halloween. Emmit had taken him trick or treating, and he had spent money he didn't have on an adult sized Joker costume (Deacon had gone as Batman). They'd had a blast together like they always did, pausing between houses to battle each other. Emmit had lightly thrown play punches, doing his best evil laugh. He could envision Deacon's tiny teeth, bared between the pointed nose of his plastic mask. The boy had really been slugging him that night, bruising his thighs and arms. He hadn't cared about that; he was the father of a boy and that was just what boys did. They played rough.

  Deek had told him that he wanted to watch horror movies once they had gotten back to the apartment, and Emmit had been apprehensive at first. He knew that a small child probably shouldn't be watching guts and gore and murder, but he also didn't want to raise Deek to be sheltered and naive. The type of kid who got bullied for not being "cool". Hell, he'd grown up watching whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and he had never needed any sort of therapy to repair the mental damage. Eventually he'd decided that graphic sex and rape would disqualify any movie he would show his son (which was fine by him, Emmit didn't care to see that stuff either). He'd gone old school: George Romero's zombie classic, Day of the Dead.

  It was a long movie, too long to hold Deek's attention until the bloody end. Deacon had stopped adding to the pile of wrappers beside him and was staring off into space with a concerned look on his face, gnawing his lower lip and fiddling absently with the cloth of his costume cape. Emmit had paused the movie and asked him if he was okay, and that was when he had been hit with that dreaded question, where people went when they bit the big one, that all children must ask of their parents eventually.

  He had ruffled Deek's light blond hair, already messy from the mask, even though he knew he hated it. Deek ducked out from under his hand.

  "Gee pal," he said, trying to keep his voice light and friendly. "That's a great question."

  "What happens?" Deek demanded again, and Emmit had been gutted by the pained, terrified look in his eyes.

  Lie to him, or be honest?

  Emmit decided he would straddle that line to the best of his ability.

  "Well buddy... I guess nobody really knows. Lots of people believe lots of different things."

  "Like what?"

  Man, I am not ready for this, he had thought, searching the limits of his vocabulary to try to find some palatable way to explain death to a child.

  "Okay, well... let's see here, uh... well there are different religions, and..."

  Deek's face was knotting up with confusion and impatience. He was losing him.

  "Okay. Some people think that when a person dies, they leave their body behind and their spirit goes to Heaven," he said, raising his hands to the ceiling like he was praying at a church service. "And, there are other people who think that when we die, it's like you go to sleep. Except... you don't wake up."

  Deek's eyes had quadrupled in size and his mouth had fallen open, forming a giant elongated oval.

  "Never?" He had demanded, beginning to breathe hard. His shoulders, impossibly slender, heaved.

  "Never ever," Emmit had tried to say as gently as possible— and Deacon's paralyzing fear of death had begun.

  What the fuck did you tell my son?!

  Kelly's infuriated voice echoed in his ears as he held his hands out in front of him, and Poke slapped a club into his palms. Emmit squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, trying to block the memories out. A single tear fell from the duct of his left eye and trickled slowly down to the corner of his mouth.

  "The fuck? What are you, scared?" Poke asked stupidly, his mouth slack and his eyebrows raised. Emmit wanted to hit him, very badly.

  "No," Emmit said huskily. "Thinking about my son."

  Poke shrugged nonchalantly; he didn't give two shits about anyone but himself, which seemed to be a prerequisite for the type of person who chose drug dealing as a profession. Emmit did not want to look him in the eyes. He didn't want that kind of connection with Poke. Somehow, he thought, he would be infected by his nastiness if he spoke to him too much. Emmit didn't think he was the portrait of perfection or any better than anyone else, but people like Poke reeked of disrepute. When they were around, you tended to keep your hand over your wallet.

  "Hate to break it to you Papa, but he might as well be on the moon," he said, tugging another layer of stitched clothing down over his skeletal body.

  Poke... it is so important to your future that you stop talking.

  "It doesn't matter where he is," Emmit snapped back, a little darker than he intended. Poke only chuckled.

  "Yeah yeah, you're breakin' my fuckin' heart," he sneered, then turned to select his own weapon from the lineup Roy had leaned against the cabin wall for them. The weapons, like the meat, were stored in Roy's secretive shed. The thought of hot food got Emmit's stomach growling and burbling.

  God, what I wouldn't do for some bacon and eggs over easy, maybe a big bowl of grits with melted butter and honey...

  Poke chose a spear, a sapling that had been cut down and tipped with a rock that had been shaped into an arrowhead. He was grinning as he twirled it dexterously, jabbing at the still air with it. Emmit's club felt dumber somehow, too simple to take into combat. He took a step back, cocked it over his shoulder like a baseball bat and gave it a swift practice swing. It cut heavily through the air, making a satisfying swoosh. Suddenly, the heft of it felt good in his hands. Maybe it wasn't such a dumb weapon after all.

  It did spin a zombie's head around backwards, in case you forgot.

  Pup had chosen what looked like a set of daggers, and although he was too far away for Emmit to see how they had been crafted, he found himself going over schematics in his head as he bounced the heavy club off of his palm. The smoothed wood slapped quietly against his hand. He imagined the knives were nothing more than sharpened rocks lashed to wooden handles, maybe with more strands of the thread or strips of old clothes wrapped around to make a hilt that was easier to hold. That was how he would have made it, anyway.

  Pup wasn't stretching or jogging in place, nor was he practicing his stabs and jabs. He stood in place quietly, staring down at the daggers in his hands as if they were speaking to him. His breaths came out in fast little clouds that drifted above his head like smoke from a locomotive.

  He's just a scared kid, Emmit thought, and felt pity for the boy. "Pup" was an apt nickname for him. Up until then he really hadn't gotten a good look at the kid. He couldn't have been older than eighteen or nineteen. His head was capped with a shock of hair that still had traces of blue in it, a dye job he had probably brought with him through the "time warp". He still had acne, too; his boyish features couldn't be called a pizza face, but there were still clusters of zits scattered around his forehead and nose like constellations.

  Muddy was busy swinging a club around in circles like a child with a bubble wand. He was grinning his Jack o' Lantern grin, chuckling as the weight of the club pulled him in different directions. The fingers of his disabled arm hung like dead worms, flopping against his chest. Emmit began to wonder if perhaps he might be mentally disabled. The little man tried to lift the club up over his head and the burden carried him backwards, and he dropped clumsily on his ass, laughing in idiot guffaws as he sat in the snow.

  As if some mysterious horror director had summoned him, Roy stalked out of the cabin, his heavy boots burying themselves deep into the snow. His hair and beard were tangling together into flowing tangles as they fluttered in the soft wind. The black handprint over his face was imp
ossibly black, making his wild eyes look like they were going to pop out of his skull like cannonballs. Instantly, they zeroed in on Muddy.

  "Muddy!" He roared, his explosive voice echoing again and again across the desolate landscape.

  Muddy-dy-dy-dy—

  The other men shot to attention like a troop of soldiers caught goofing off by a drill instructor, and before he could stop himself, Emmit was doing it too. He had a white knuckled grip on the club, holding it in front of him defensively. With the new patchwork clothing “armor” he’d been given, he matched everyone else. It really did feel like an early morning in boot camp.

  Didn't he say something about being quiet? He'll draw every Link in the area down on us.

  "Quit fucking around," Roy grumbled, snatching the club out of Muddy's good hand. He yanked it so strongly that Muddy was pulled up out of the snow with it, stumbling forward as wet clumps of dirty snow tumbled from his damp posterior. "You know you can't handle a club."

  Roy leaned the club against the cabin and snatched up another spear, pointing the deadly sharpened stone on the tip right between Muddy's eyes. The little man grabbed it gingerly. Roy seemed to soften then, like an abusive husband about to comfort the crying wife he just slugged for burning dinner. He placed his hand on Muddy's folded arm, squeezing it gently.

  "I just don't want you getting yourself killed," he said, then with a gesture that seemed almost strangely intimate, he brushed his fingers across the scars on Muddy's cheek. The ones Emmit had thought looked like the number 11. "You know bad shit happens when you guys don't listen to me, right?" Roy's voice sounded like a powerful but aged engine, growling under the chipped and rusted hood of someone's project hot rod.

  Muddy wilted, and suddenly he looked very small and weak. He nodded, childlike, sticking the end of the spear into the ground and straightening his back. There was no laughter left on his face; his eyes were haunted and empty.

  "Remember what I told you," Roy continued. "Lunge sideways, with your good arm towards the Link. Brace the spear along the back of your arm and your shoulder. That will help compensate for the other arm."

  "I won't forget, Boss."

  Roy turned, and Emmit saw with growing dread that he was headed straight for him. He felt guilty, as if he had done something wrong and Roy knew about it. But he hadn't done anything wrong. Why was he so afraid of this man?

  "How'd you sleep?" Roy asked flatly. He crossed his mammoth arms over his chest. Emmit tried to keep his eyes locked on Roy's, but they kept returning to that handprint, his unwanted warpaint. The black looked like it sank all the way down to the bone; every wrinkle was filled like creeks that ran with some sort of dark ink, and as Roy spoke the black hand changed shape and flexed almost as if it were alive.

  Emmit felt the urge to lie to him about being out of bed and speaking with the Reverend, then mentally slapped himself. Why? This wasn't the army. This wasn't prison (even if it felt like one). Roy and his crew had saved his life and taken him in out of the chaos, that was true, but Roy had no real authority over him.

  He has no legal authority over you, his mind chided him, but this is his camp. His yard. And in case you didn't notice, if there are any cops around, they're probably dead and thrilled as shit about it. He could just fracture your skull and call it a day.

  The brief, hot flash of pride faded almost as quickly as it had come. Emmit decided he would be honest with him. And besides, judging by his tone and body language, he already knew that Emmit had been outside.

  "Not good," he finally managed, reflexively removing his glasses with one hand and brushing the lenses against his chest. He held the club between his feet. "I decided to go outside and help with the watch."

  "Yeah," Roy said. "I know you did."

  Emmit stopped cleaning his glasses, and the two men stared at each other like rabid dogs about to get into a tussle— except one of the dogs was more like a wolf.

  "Is that an issue?" Emmit asked, trying to dial his tone back and be respectful even though he could feel his skin beginning to get hot as his fight-or-flight reaction took hold.

  Flight.

  "I told everyone to turn in and get plenty of rest, because we're going Link hunting today. Hand to hand combat, New Guy. I don't want to lose anyone. I don't think you fully grasp how vital it is that we keep people here."

  Ah, Emmit thought, careful not to let his face betray what he was thinking. That's why the Reverend said you don't like to hear about that light in the woods. If people try to escape, they're not here to keep your camp running.

  Emmit could feel himself growing angrier. His brain, now packed with all of the agonizing memories of everything he had left behind, felt like a red-hot poker. He conjured up a mental image of himself dunking that glowing poker into a vat of water, hearing it hiss and squeal, seeing the bubbles boiling from it. The fantasy helped him relax, if only just a little.

  "I apologize, I wasn't trying to disobey you on purpose," Emmit said, swallowing dryly and keeping his voice as even and steady as a ship on a glassy sea. "I just thought I would be more help out there, rather than laying on my ass in the cabin."

  Roy's blackened face looked much less severe, and then he shocked Emmit by taking one giant stride forward and embracing him in a bear hug. He clapped him on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him, sending his glasses hurtling to the tip of his nose. Emmit awkwardly patted Roy's back, his palm thudding against the many layers covering the muscles beneath.

  "I don't mean to be a bastard. I don't," Roy said, holding Emmit's shoulders and never breaking eye contact. Not even when a wayward strand of his hair brushed across one of his wild eyes. "We just don't get many new people here, even less now than we used to. Not many people make it this far before they get swarmed. You saw that yourself. And I can't save them all, you know?"

  Emmit nodded and flattened his mouth, a familiar gesture that the internet (a luxury of the old world) had associated with awkward white people, not quite a smile and not quite a frown. Perfect for any situation.

  "He told you about the light, didn't he?"

  Emmit was so stunned that he let his facade slip, and Roy saw it. Roy smiled, deforming the palm of the black handprint. Emmit opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced over at the other survivors, where he saw the Reverend standing quietly away from everyone else, his gloved hands clasped together and held just under his chin. His eyes were closed, and his lips were a blur as he prayed to whoever might be listening to him.

  "Yeah, we've all heard that story. It's nonsense, New Guy. Bullshit. There's nothing out in those woods but death, and a whole lot of it. This camp..." he gestured to the decrepit cabin with its pitiful armory on display, then to the ragtag group of survivors fidgeting with their weapons. "This is as good as it gets. Once you're here, there's no escape. I mean it. The Rev is a good guy, one of the best. You just can't trust him."

  In his heart, Emmit somehow knew that Roy was lying. It was a barely perceptible twitch in his eye, or perhaps just a slight uptick in his voice, urgency he didn't often show. He looked like a politician denying the latest scandal allegations, except this scandal happened to be true.

  It made Emmit want to try for the light that much harder— because if Roy was willing to lie about it, it had to be real. Emmit hoisted the heavy club and walked over to join the others, still not quite able to accept that he was about to go hunt humans... well, former humans.

  "Alright guys," Roy boomed, selecting a spear for himself and inspecting it. "We're gonna break up into two teams this time."

  Chapter 7: Link Hunt

  Emmit had known he would be separated from the Reverend even before Roy had made the call. He just wished he hadn't been stuck with Poke. Muddy, he didn't mind him so much. It was just Poke, with his cringey tattoos and rotten teeth and rasping voice. If back-alley drug dealing had a face and a voice, they were Poke's.

  Roy had taken the Rev and Pup on his team, and they had all begun to tromp thr
ough the snow in the direction Emmit had run from not so long ago. They drifted slowly apart, forming a giant V through the glistening trees. It had begun to snow again although the sky remained a friendly shade of blue. Fortunately for them all, it didn't compare to the rampage of a storm that had been tearing through the area when Emmit had come through the "time warp". It was almost peaceful, if you could tune out Poke's voice, Muddy's incessant giggles, and the nagging thought of bashing in the brains of something that had once been human.

  Emmit thought he could do it. He didn't even think he would hesitate. Once he saw those dead eyes and sleepy grins inching toward him, the panic would be behind the wheel. He would swing his club until he broke his own wrists if that's what it took.

  Occasionally his thoughts would drift back to nightfall and the faint hope of seeing the Reverend's beloved light. He wanted so badly to believe in it. He even felt that he was 99.99% positive it was real, just because of the leery way Roy had mentioned it. But he couldn't risk his life, couldn't risk never seeing Deacon again, unless he laid eyes on it for himself. That would be the catalyst.

  They had been walking single file, following a brownish smudge of a trench that zigzagged and wound through the trees. It looked like a game trail, but even with his lackluster vision Emmit could spot drag marks and human shoe prints. The snow was speckled with mud and other dark substances that he didn't care to identify. He casually stepped over a tattered glove that had been lost along the path, which appeared to still contain the mummified remains of a hand. A startlingly white knob of bone jutted out from the frayed wristband.

  Well, we're definitely heading in the right direction if we're looking for a fight.

  He was fingering the wrappings around the stone head of his club, trying to make sure they weren't too loose, when the line suddenly came to a stop. Poke whirled around, his eyes dark and full of venom. His facial tattoos had faded to a light gray on his chalky face.