Children Of The Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know (11 page)

There’s still no sign of Hicks but Mags will be up by now; I might as well go get her. I step over the rope and head for the stairs to the Exhibition Hall. The emergency lights are off; it grows darker as I descend. I’m halfway across the floor when I hear the voice.

‘Lookin’ for something Huckleberry? Some more dip maybe?’

I start; I hadn’t realized there was anyone down here. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I see Truck, sitting at a table in the far corner. He holds up the tin of Grizzly and smiles.

I glance behind me, half expecting to see Weasel, but the stairs are clear. I turn back to face him.

‘I want to go into the bunker.’

‘The bunker is it?’

He pokes the wad of tobacco behind his lip with his tongue and squirts a stream of tobacco juice into a cut-off plastic soda bottle on the table.

‘Yeah, the bunker.’

‘Well, Huckleberry, if that’s what y’all are after look no further. You’re already in it.’

I’m beginning to think Truck might have been left on the Tilt-A-Whirl too long as a baby. But then I remember what Dr. Gilbey told us about The Greenbrier, how everything here was hidden in plain sight. The Exhibition Hall has no windows. And you have to come down a long flight of stairs to get to it. I look back at the entrance. The wallpaper distracts your attention from it but you can see how thick the walls are.

‘That’s right, Huckleberry; maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look after all.’

He stands and hitches up his pants.

‘Can’t let you in, though. Doc’s a night owl; she won’t be up for hours yet. And she don’t like being disturbed.’

It’s clear I’m not going to get anywhere with Truck so I leave the Exhibition Hall and continue my search for Hicks. I find him in the lobby, kneeling on the marble floor in front of the gold-faced clock, fastening the snaps on his backpack. He looks up when he sees me. The shadow of the portico darkens The Greenbrier’s entrance but he’s already wearing those funny sunglasses with the leather side-blinkers.

‘Sergeant Hicks, can I talk to you?’

‘Now’s not a good time, Gabriel. Got some things to pick up for the Doc. Maybe when I get back.’

I was hoping for us to be gone as soon as Mags gets out of the bunker. I must look a little disappointed.

‘You can join me if you want. I’ll answer your questions on the way.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just to Lynch.’

‘Is it far?’

He shakes his head.

‘Next town over.’

I look back in the direction of the Exhibition Hall.

‘The girl will be fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll leave word you’ve come with me.’

I’ve nothing to do until Dr. Gilbey opens the bunker so I guess I might as well use the time to find out all I can about Fearrington. I run up to my room and grab my backpack. I take the stairs back down two at a time, smearing UV block across my face as I go. When I get back to the lobby my boots are on the bellhop cart. Hicks is already making his way outside.

Our snowshoes are where we left them when we came in yesterday evening; the portico roof towers over us as we snap them on. The day’s already as bright as it means to get but it’s little more than a grudging half-light that spreads itself over the ashen landscape beyond The Greenbrier’s massive columns. Even so, Hicks takes some time fussing with his sunglasses, making sure the blinkers sit flush. When he’s done he adjusts his bandana and draws the hood up over his head; his face disappears into the shadow of the cowl.

We make our way past the hulking gray shape of the helicopter. There hasn’t been a fresh fall, but the temperature must have dropped overnight because the snow’s covered with a skin of ice. Our snowshoes crunch through it, sinking deep into the soft powder underneath. Hicks sets a quicker pace than I was expecting and soon I’m sweating. In snow like this Marv and I would have taken it in turns to break trail but Hicks seems happy enough on point and if he means to keep this up I don’t plan to argue with him over it. There’s not much scope for conversation, but I figure that’s okay; there’ll be time later on to ask him what I need.

At the gates we turn right. We’ve not gone more than a couple of hundred yards when the road curves around and a large gray structure rises up on our left, a bell tower marking it out as a church. The long roof’s swaybacked with the weight of years of snow and in places it’s been breached, what remains of the rafters poking through around the edges. A large, arched doorway stares vacantly back at us as we pass; one of the doors there is gone and the other hangs inward on its last hinge. A weather-rotten sign says
St. Charles Borromeo Catholic Church
and lists times for mass underneath.

We follow the road as it winds its way westward through the mountains. After a mile we pick up water. It’s little more than a stream, for the most part frozen solid and covered over by snow. It meanders beside us, switching back and forth as we trudge on. We cross it three times but on each occasion the bridge has held. Shortly after the road dips under the interstate but Hicks shows no sign of switching trails and we continue on.

I’m beginning to wonder just how far Lynch is when we hit water for the fourth time. The road inclines gently up to the bank but even from a distance it’s clear this is no stream; beyond a narrow rim of shelving ice a wide, gray river flows sluggishly south, the dark waters thick and oily with the cold. As we get closer I can see that the bridge is out; it’s collapsed into the water no more than a quarter of the way into its span on either side. Hicks doesn’t alter course. He marches right up to where the concrete ends, slides off his backpack and bends down to unsnap his snowshoes. As soon as he’s tethered them to his pack he shoulders it again and disappears over. I inch forward and look down. There’s a fifty foot drop to the river and I get that weird sensation in the pit of my stomach, like when I’d go up on the roof in Eden with Mags and she’d perch herself right on the edge. Beneath me Hicks is making short work of the climb; he’s already most of the way down.

I step out of my snowshoes, tie them to my pack and follow him, wishing I’d paid more attention to the route he was taking. Once I start I realize it’s actually not that bad, however. A rust-pitted guardrail follows what once must have been the road almost the whole way to the water, and for the most part it seems to have held. The twisted metal jutting here and there from the crumbling concrete offers a choice of hand- and toeholds.

Hicks is waiting for me at the bottom. From down here the river looks even wider than it did up on the bridge. A small wooden skiff bobs lazily in the water, moored to a section of rebar that protrudes from the rubble just above the waterline. He rolls back an old tarpaulin that’s covering it and stands to one side so I can get in. It pitches alarmingly as I throw my leg over the side. I quickly find a spot and sit down, gripping the sides tight with my mittens. He casts us off and jumps in after me. As soon as he’s got himself settled he lifts a pair of oars and dips them into the gray water. The wind’s picked up a little since we set off and the waves lap steadily against the shallow sides. By the time we reach the middle I’ve got my breath back but Hicks looks like he’s having to fight the current and I figure this isn’t the time to start asking questions. I watch as he works the oars, his arms following a tireless mechanical rhythm. Before long what remains of the bridge on the other side looms over us and I feel the prow crunch into ice and a second later nudge bottom. I climb out and wait while he ties the mooring line off to another piece of rebar.

I’m thinking he might want to rest for a few minutes but he doesn’t. I follow him up the other side and we continue on.

*

H
ICKS’ PACE DOESN’T SLACKEN
after the river but even so it’s already well past noon by the time we hike into Lynch.

There’s not much to it. The shop windows we pass are darkened, broken, those that remain silted with a decade of grime. Hicks finally stops in front of a small wooden building with a sign outside that says The Livery Tavern. He says we’ll be spending the night here.

I guess I don’t look too happy at that.

‘Yeah, took us longer to get here than I was expecting. Too late to start back now. Don’t worry, the girl’ll be safe enough in the bunker with the Doc ’till we get back.’

He digs in his pocket and hands me a slip of paper with a dozen items written on it. He doesn’t ask whether I can read, he just says to get what I can; he’ll answer my questions when I get back. He steps inside, leaving me alone on the street.

I look at the scrap of paper again. I hadn’t planned on having to trade for the information I need but there’s nothing difficult there, and the faster I get done the more time I’ll have to ask him about Fearrington. I adjust the straps on my pack and set off.

I get back to the Livery Tavern a few hours later.

I unsnap my snowshoes, kick the powder off my boots and make my way inside. The curtains are drawn and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. Hicks is sitting at a long wooden table in the center of the room. He nods in my direction as I set the backpack down but makes no move to get up. The plastic thermos he had on the way back from Covington’s open in front of him, but otherwise the table’s bare.

My eyes shift to a large stone hearth in the corner, still banked with ash from the last time it was used. I’m tired but outside dusk’s already settling and I should really get a fire going. I’m a little surprised Hicks hasn’t bothered to light one; it’s freezing in here. I guess he just doesn’t feel the cold like a regular person. His parka’s unzipped and as he reaches for the flask I can see he’s taken his gloves off too; all he’s wearing are his liners.

I shuck off my backpack and get to work. It doesn’t take long; everything you might need is stacked neatly to one side. I guess the soldiers must scavenge here regularly enough to keep places like this provisioned.

My stomach’s reminding me I haven’t had breakfast or lunch so as soon the flames are licking up through the wood I dig in my backpack for a can of roast beef and gravy I found while I was out. I hold it up to Hicks but he just shakes his head and says he’s already eaten. Even if I’d had a bellyful of cold franks there’d be no way I’d turn down a meal like this. But hey, his loss. I take the top off the can and pop it in the fire. The label chars as the flames lick up the sides and soon the gravy’s bubbling away, filling the room with its thick, rich aroma. My mouth’s already watering; I can barely wait. As soon as it’s ready I fish it out with the leatherman’s pliers and take it back to the table. I grab a plastic spoon from my pack and start slurping the pieces of meat straight from the can. Within seconds I’ve burned the roof of my mouth in at least two places.

Hicks picks up the plastic thermos, lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. He grimaces like he doesn’t like the taste much and then nods in the direction of my pack.

‘Looks like you did good.’

I’ve just taken a spoonful of hot gravy so it takes me a moment to answer.

‘Yep, got everything on your list.’ And something that wasn’t: a pint bottle of bourbon with the tamper ring still in place. I don’t think it’s the brand he was drinking the other night but the Sergeant strikes me as more of a pragmatist than Quartermaster. I reckon it’ll do to get him in the right frame of mind for the discussion I mean us to have.

‘Who taught you how to find stuff?’

Between mouthfuls of roast beef I tell him about Marv and how we used to go out and get things for the others in Eden.

‘Eden. You mentioned that when we picked you up yesterday. Where’d you say it was again? Somewhere north of here?’

I don’t want to get on to the topic of where Eden might be so I just nod and turn my attention back to the can. But he doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer.

‘Do you remember any of the names of the towns you and Marv used to scavenge? Trapp? Briggs? Linden?’

Those are all places near Mount Weather. I shake my head.

‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I don’t read so well.’ I catch him glancing over at my backpack, now full of items from the list he gave me, so I add: ‘I mostly go by the word shapes.’

He squints across the table at me for a while, like he’s trying to figure out where the truth in that statement might be. I look down and go back to digging in the can. In the end he must decide it’s not worth pushing me on it.

‘So what happened to him, this Marv fella?’

‘He died.’

‘How’d that come about?’

‘He caught the virus while we were out scavenging. He killed himself before he could do me any harm.’

‘He get it from a fury?’

‘No, Marv was too careful for that. It was President Kane. He put it in his respirator the last time we went out.’

If Hicks is surprised by this he doesn’t show it. He just takes another sip from the thermos.

‘Doc says you and the girl plan to move on.’

I shrug. Probably.

‘That’s a pity; we could use you. Where’ll you go next?’

‘South, I guess.’

‘You don’t have provisions enough to get very far.’

I tilt the almost empty can of roast beef in his direction.

‘We’ll get by.’

He takes another swig from the thermos and works his jaw from side to side as if to say
Maybe. Maybe Not
. I think he’s about to say something else but he doesn’t. I reckon this is as good a time as any to start getting the information I need. I fish the bourbon from my pocket and slide it across the table. He looks at it for a long while, and I think I catch a look like the one Quartermaster used to get when I’d bring him back something like that. But in the end he just shakes his head.

‘Thanks kid, but me and bourbon don’t get on like we used to.’

Well, worth a try. For a few moments I go back to scraping bits of burned beef from the bottom of the can.

‘I heard there was another bunker, just outside Pittsboro, in North Carolina. Some place called Fearrington. Dr. Gilbey said you might have been there.’