Through The Valley

by Yates, B. D.

  Never mind the fact that you haven't seen it for yourself yet.

  That didn't matter, couldn't matter, because it was the only lead and the only hope of escape he had. His entire world had come to a screeching halt, pitching him into a strange timeline where the moon didn't exist, animals and germs didn't exist, and dead men walked. Was it really so insane to believe that there might be a portal, a time warp of some sort, glowing out there in the perilous dark that might send him hurtling back across time and space to pick up where he had left off?

  He made up his mind as Roy was finishing a detailed explanation of how to build the framework for a tower, crisscrossing his fingers as he spoke while the other men listened quietly. He decided he would leave the very first time he saw the light, without hesitation.

  If you're not the next Provider.

  Well, that was a possibility. But that's what the secret spearhead was for. Let them try to kill him. Let them just fucking try.

  "It's a daunting task, for sure," Roy was saying as Emmit focused on him again. "And we can't start a plan this huge on empty stomachs. Which brings me to the really bad news."

  "Oh no," Pup whimpered, and hugged his knees to his chest. He buried his pimply face between them, his hair hanging over his kneecaps in greasy tangles. He began to rock slowly back and forth.

  "We haven't had any new arrivals since Papa here. Poke and I haven't heard so much as a peep out there, not from anything still human. What you just ate represents the last of our food supply."

  He turned, lifted the small wooden cup of toothpicks, and held it in front of him.

  "We have to draw for the next Provider, and with Muddy gone, your odds of survival, unfortunately, aren't great."

  He noticed Emmit's wide-eyed stare and offered him a pained smile.

  "Yes, Papa, you've been left out of the loop. That's by design, not dishonesty. You've noticed that there are no animals in this place, I’m sure?"

  Emmit pretended to consider it, then performed his best "I hadn't thought about it" shrug.

  "It's nothing new. I promise you that. The Donner Party, that rugby team that survived the plane crash in the Andes mountains, lots of other stories. In times of extreme need, you must do extreme things to survive."

  He extended his hand, offering the cup to Emmit. He was careful to keep his fingers wrapped around the little wooden slivers inside, to make sure Emmit couldn't inspect them before he drew one.

  "I decided a long time ago that it's only fair to let fate decide. This is why we don't use our real names; we don't get to know each other. We don't become family. We function as a team and every man and woman who comes here is equal, and an equally important part of that team. No one gets targeted simply because we don't like them, except for the undesirables I mentioned when you passed your initiation."

  Emmit lifted his hand to draw his wooden stick, then faltered. Roy pushed the cup up against his fingers.

  "Providers are heroes, really. Sacrificing themselves so that others might live. In fact," he said, turning to address the rest of the watching room, "In the new camp we'll build a shrine to honor each and every Provider, past and present."

  He was waiting patiently. Emmit held his breath, closed his eyes, and selected the first piece of wood his fingers touched.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the object that held his fate in limbo; it was just a twig. A stupid, simple worthless twig. He held it between his fingers; it was about the length of a pencil. That was long, right? Surely the short stick was much shorter than this.

  Or was it?

  If he spread his pointer finger and thumb apart, he could comfortably hold it between the two. Maybe it wasn't as long as a pencil. Maybe none of them were really all that short. Maybe they had been cut to be remarkably similar, almost indistinguishable, to discourage cheating?

  Emmit was left to stare at his twig, paralyzed with helplessness, as Roy turned to Pup.

  "Your turn," he said gently. Pup's hand lashed out like a striking snake, snatching his twig and stuffing it under his arm. It looked like he was trying to rescue some small treasure from the hot embrace of a fire. He didn't look at his.

  The Rev had been praying with his fastened hands resting on his knees. He untangled his fingers long enough to draw from the cup, looking up at Roy defiantly. He held his stick between the palms of his hands and lifted them to his face, resting his thumbs just under the tip of his nose. Emmit was not the praying sort, not even in the face of death, but he leaned his ear slightly to listen.

  "I pray to you, God almighty, my light and my savior. I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I fear no evil, for you walk with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me..."

  Emmit listened to his soft voice reciting the prayer, but he felt no comfort from it like he’d hoped he might. God, if he were anywhere, was not in this room while they decided which of them would be murdered and eaten. He was asleep on some golden throne, blissfully unaware of the violence and destruction his creations were inflicting upon one another. On the other hand, perhaps he was leaning forward eagerly with a bowl of heavenly popcorn, watching the drama play out like a TV addict binge watching a vicious reality show.

  Roy was extending the cup to Poke now. The nasty little man's eyes, bloodshot and resting on purple bags under the lids, were locked on Roy's icy ones. Poke smirked as he drew his, his expression sly and secretive—

  Wait just a minute.

  It had happened so fast that Emmit wasn't even sure he had seen it, but it had looked...

  No. They can't be that blatantly cruel.

  It had looked like Roy had deceptively separated one stick out from the others, with the tiniest flick of his pinky finger, and that had been the one Poke had chosen. The scrawny, badly tattooed scumbag certainly looked more confident than the rest of them as he palmed his twig, trying, and failing, to look nervous.

  "Hate this part," he said, for good measure. There was no faking the mortal terror a person felt when they knew they could be seconds from a dirt nap. Poke simply wasn’t afraid, because he knew it would not be him.

  "Everyone, one by one, bring me your sticks," Roy said. "Please do it calmly."

  I can't let this happen. It's just not fair. I can't let them lie to us, a lie that will get one of us killed. It's not fucking fair. After everything we've gone through, everything they've put me through, I cannot sit here on my hands and let this go. I cannot let them kill me. What if it's that kid? What if it's Tim? What if it's me? No. Not fair. Not fair, at all, no way, no how, not going to happen. Not fair. Not fair. Not FAIR.

  "Not fair," Emmit rasped, his lip curling. The rage was taking hold now, the delicious toxic substance spreading through him like a steroid, a nourishing venom.

  "Fuck me," Poke sighed, tossing his free hand in the air. He looked expectantly at Roy, his face resembling a wife who has been insulted by some vulgar punk and waits impatiently for her husband to defend her honor.

  "Excuse me?" Roy asked, his voice shaking. Emmit climbed slowly to one knee, then stood on both feet. His legs were solid; there was no longer any doubt, no timidity within him. He would fight for his life. He would fight for Deacon, and yes, even Kelly; his wife who despised him no matter how fiercely he still loved her.

  "I said, it's not a fair draw."

  Roy slammed the little wooden cup down onto the shelf above the fireplace with such ferocity that it split in two, sending a shower of unchosen twigs scattering across the floor. The shelf tilted crazily and finally clattered to the floor. Roy swiftly kicked it out of his way, his powerful leg launching it like it weighed no more than a dried leaf in a fall breeze, rather than a solid wooden shelf.

  "Not a fair draw. How the fuck is it not, Papa? It's a blind fucking draw. Drawing straws. It's older than dirt, tried and fucking true. Random. No bias. How is it not fair?"

  Emmit felt like a steel cable, strong and sturdy but straining to hold the immense burden of his anger. His body, every muscle and tendon
, was bursting with endless stores of potential energy. He would snap soon, but that was alright. At this rate, they would find a way to kill him sooner or later anyway. Better to show them now that he wasn't a weak little calf that they could casually herd into the slaughterhouse chute.

  Oh, my little boy...

  His body trembled, vibrated with rage, and then the snap came.

  "Because I watched you separate the sticks, Roy! I saw you push one out for Poke! You can't have your right-hand man end up squirting out of your asshole tomorrow night now can you?!"

  The Rev was climbing to his feet now, speaking sternly but gently, with one hand extended to each of them. He was quietly trying to defuse the growing conflict, but it was atomic now; an unstoppable chain reaction that should be hidden from, impossible to control. Poke strode over to him and shoved him back down to the floor, pinning his back to his tangled bedding with one foot.

  Roy's mouth became a cannon, his voice an explosive combustion of noise and hatred and flying spittle the likes of which Emmit had never seen or expected. The force of his shout alone might have been enough to knock a cabin wall down.

  "YOU'RE DONE!" He vociferated, and one step was enough to halve the distance between them. He cocked one tree-trunk arm back behind him, pivoting on his hip. Emmit raised his hands to shield his face, feeling the spearhead tumble up his sleeve and lodge just behind his elbow. The point dug in immediately; but he had no time to feel any pain.

  There was an earth-shattering WHOCK! followed by the dreamy sensation of falling through space. There was warm, aching pain pressing on the center of his forehead like the weight of a skyscraper reduced to a single pinpoint. There was a bolt of lightning striking the bridge of his nose. Something snapped beneath the skin, a brittle sound like Deacon biting into a baby carrot, back when he was first trying out his newly completed set of baby teeth. He smelled coppery blood, and when he sucked down breath, he tasted it. Another thud as the back of his head hit the floor. His arms and legs twitched, but refused to move beyond those trace, reflexive impulses. He saw a tunnel; long and foggy, expanding and contracting like gray, living smog. The tunnel collapsed in on itself and Emmit began to snore, deep grinding breaths that tore into his nasal passages hard enough to arch his back off the floor. When they whistled back out again, blood came with them.

  His glasses, snapped nearly in half by Roy's supersonic fist, had fallen off and skittered across the cluttered floor and come to rest right beside the Rev's thrashing leg. Poke saw them and smiled his black grin. He spun on one heel, raised his foot from the Rev, and brought it back down with a brittle crunch.

  Chapter 10: Blinded and Bound

  When Emmit came to, he had a few tantalizing seconds to think that maybe he had dreamed all of it. He half expected to roll off his sunken, haggard old couch and land on the floor of the apartment that was no longer his, trying to comprehend the sheer scope and magnitude of the night terror he had just had.

  After those scant few seconds, the pain managed to catch up with his dazed brain, and Emmit groaned. His head felt like a paper bag full of broken glass, and his nose was plugged solid. He snuffed as hard as he could, feeling the blockage in the bridge of his nose give way and his throat clog with mucus and blood. He grimaced and spat it away from him as hard as he could. Some of the nasty mixture hooked into his lip, and on impulse he moved to wipe it away— but couldn't.

  His hands were bound, tightly, behind his back. His ankles were lashed together too, constricted by knotted loops of rope.

  Oh, shit.

  That small sentiment was all Emmit could muster, but it described his situation perfectly. He squinted and blinked, trying to scope out where he had been taken through blurred vision. His right eye burned furiously; he assumed that meant there was blood in it.

  Jesus, he wished he had been born with better eyes. He could sense that he had been tossed into a small wooden box; it didn't take a genius to deduce that he must be inside Roy's shed. The meat locker behind the cabin, complete with an undead guard skewered to the ground outside. The room flickered with a dull orange glow and smelled strongly of woodsmoke. Emmit rolled and flopped awkwardly, following the light source to one of the rear corners, where a small stone fire pit had been built. It looked like a miniature wishing well, only instead of mossy water and coins, it held a small fire that was fighting for its life. Above him he could hear a spectral moan, and his clammy face and damp forehead were periodically kissed by a blessed cool breeze. Roy hadn't taken the time to build a chimney for his meat locker, but there was at least a smoke hole in the roof.

  Good. I won't suffocate before he gets the chance to finish me off.

  Emmit realized then that it wasn't the light haze of smoke in the tiny shed that was obscuring his vision. It was his glasses, or rather, his lack of glasses. The old familiar panic sensation began to throb in his midsection; the feeling of waking up late for work and then realizing you couldn't find your car keys or your wallet. The feeling of the rent's due date coming and going without being paid. The feeling you got when you dreamed about going to school and walking past all the pretty giggling girls, just to realize that you hadn't remembered to dress yourself and your bits and pieces were swinging freely for all to behold. He was naked without his glasses. He wasn't blind, not completely. But he was damned close to it. He'd have to rely on luck in the immediate future, and Emmit Mills always seemed to lack any kind of luck but bad.

  Alright, it's alright. Now is not the time to panic. You're not blind, you can still see enough to get out of here. If you keep your damn head.

  "Nnnnnnn..." came a hoarse, nasally hum from somewhere in the dark behind him. Emmit made a hushed chirping sound and jumped, jerking his head in all directions like an angry chicken. The dim room seemed to be full of murky and hostile shapes, and he couldn't make any of them out.

  "Who is that?" he whispered, wriggling his fingers and rubbing his wrists together. The ropes weren't budging. They had probably been tied by Roy himself, with every ounce of angry strength he had. He kicked his feet. There was some wiggle room down there, but his ankle bones were still jammed together, interlocked like puzzle pieces. He felt like a hogtied pig.

  Nothing but silence answered him.

  "Tim? Pup? Did he get one of you too?"

  Silence; and then another pitiful sounding "Nnnnnn..."

  Emmit was able to pinpoint the sound now that he was listening for it. It was coming from a dark and indistinct mass leaning against the wall, just far enough out of the firelight to be hidden from his infinitesimal field of vision.

  Fuck, he took me and one of them. Thanksgiving coming early, Roy?

  There was no helping whoever it was as long as he was tied up, and if Roy had left a fire burning, he probably meant to come back. The death clock was ticking down. Emmit needed to think fast. He thrashed his limbs furiously, imagining himself snapping his bonds like a superhero and rising pompously from the floor as the firelight washed over his statuesque muscles... except he didn't have much muscle, not even after all the work he'd done for the camp. The ropes didn't give him a single inch.

  Need to cut them with something. If this is where he carves us up, there must be knives in here.

  He decided he would roll like a log to each wall if he had to, maybe feel around on the floor for anything Roy might have dropped or a rough edge of wood that he could rub up against. His body was begging for the pain to stop, but it would have to cope with the stresses just like his racing mind did. There was nothing but pain to be had in this place.

  Emmit shifted his weight, pushing himself with his snake-like body, and thudded over onto his right side. He immediately felt a sharp, stabbing pain bite into the flesh just above his elbow. He cried out, then snapped his mouth shut. The panic and angst in him were replaced with a sudden flash of shimmering hope, and if his hands had been free he might have slapped himself.

  The spearhead!

  He jiggled his arm around, and yes, it was still the
re, rattling against the inside of his sleeve like the ball in the bottom of a spray-paint can. Apparently, Roy hadn't bothered to search him, and why would he? He kept track of all the weapons in the camp, because he kept them all locked up in--

  Here! They're all in here!

  Emmit grinned. Things weren't looking the greatest for him presently, but they were at least looking up. If he could just get his fucking hands free...

  "Nnnnahhhhh..." came the wheeze again, and Emmit heard the soft whisper of fabric dragging across the floor. The voice sounded higher pitched than the Rev's, the throat less broken in, younger. That meant it could only be one person.

  "Pup?" He said quietly, and was answered by a twitch from the mass leaning against the wall.

  "Pap... Papa?" Pup said feebly, his voice exhausted and thick from bouts of crying. "You're... a... alive?"

  Emmit felt his heart fracture into pieces that sliced and cut inside him, but the aching sadness and pity that followed were soon overtaken by unbridled hatred. Pup had lost the draw and had been nominated to be the next Provider-- even though Roy obviously intended to kill and eat Emmit too. He didn't need to kill the kid. But he was going to anyway. Cruel, sick, sadistic bastard. Plenty of meat to sustain them as they moved away from the Megahorde to build their new prison camp, he supposed. All according to Roy’s design.

  "Yeah buddy, I'm still alive. I'm tied up though. I'm trying to get loose."

  In his dark corner of the room, Pup began to sniffle and whine. He sounded like an injured puppy, which was apt given his nickname. He moaned, the long and pitiful wail of a wounded soldier left behind on the battlefield. Emmit cringed at the volume of it, then was sorry for expecting a terrified kid to have the presence of mind to remain silent. Pup knew what was going to happen to him, and had been left in the uncomforting darkness to contemplate it while he waited.

  "I am too," he whimpered, his words breathy and ululating as he slipped them in between sobs. "And I can't feel my legs."