Children Of The Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know (16 page)

I’m tired but sleep won’t come and so I just sit on the floor in my parka, staring out at the gathering storm. The weather’s worsening. Along the horizon the sky’s restless with lightning; it shudders inside the clouds, occasionally breaking free to stab down at the ground below.

When I got back to my room I threw up the ham I ate for breakfast. I went back to the bathroom twice more until there was nothing left. There was a knock on my door soon after and when I opened it Hicks was standing there with a rifle. He said there were things I needed to learn. I followed him down to the dining room. He sat me down at the table and laid the rifle in front of me. It was called an M4, he said. He showed me how to check it was safe and then he taught me how to strip it. He made it look easy; it’s like his fingers knew what to do without him even watching then. It took me a while to get the hang of it, but soon I could break it down until it wasn’t more than a collection of receivers, assemblies, pins and springs. He made me memorize the names of each, and where they fit in relation to each other, so I’d be able to put it back together again afterwards.

When he was happy I could do that he handed me a dozen cotton swabs and a small plastic container of something that said ‘Weapons Oil Arctic’ on the front. Every component had to be inspected, wiped down and oiled. The gun already looked pretty clean to me but Hicks said pretty clean wouldn’t cut it. The tiniest grain of dirt could screw up the mechanism or prevent the firing pin striking the tail of the bullet. I thought of Marv’s pistol, buried for weeks in the snow outside Mount Weather where I dropped it after I shot the fury. I doubt it would have worked even if I’d had bullets for it.

I set to with the swabs. He watched me for a while and then he reached down to his hip and slid the pistol he carries out of its holster. He laid it on the table and started emptying the bullets from the chamber. We worked in silence. When I finished with the last piece he had me reassemble the rifle and then he inspected it. He said I hadn’t wiped the bolt carrier down properly. He told me to strip it and start again.

The bolt carrier was fine; it was the last thing I checked before I put the rifle back together. I reckon Hicks was trying to give me something to do, something to keep my mind from turning to what I had just seen, and I guess I should be grateful to him for that. But all I could think of as I sat there surrounded by slides and springs and receivers, the smell of the oiled metal heavy in the air, was Eden’s armory. The assault rifles standing to attention in their racks, the blue-gray steel gleaming dully in the glare from the overhead lights. The bank of refrigerator cabinets against the back wall that for a decade housed the virus that ended our world.

The same virus that now works its way through Mags’ veins.

Outside the wind howls, rattling the silted panes in their frames. The fire in the grate slowly burns down and one by one the quaking embers die. I don’t bother to stoke it, I just wait in the darkness, letting the room turn cold around me.

Hicks says it’ll be okay. The medicine Dr. Gilbey’s giving Mags will keep her from turning until she can find a cure. But all I can think of is Marv. Marv had been strong, but he’d not lasted the three days it had taken us to hike the Catoctin Mountain Highway to the Blue Ridge Mountain Road.

I go back to watching the storm. As long as it stays to the south of us we’ll leave in the morning. There’s a big hospital out in Blacksburg. It’ll be a hard hike through the mountains but Hicks reckons we can be there in a little over a day if we push. It has a radiology department. There’s a good chance we’ll find what Dr. Gilbey needs there.

The thought of going looking for one of those things that attacked me in Mount Weather’s tunnel scares me almost more than I can bear. But that’s what I must do now, for as long as it takes Dr. Gilbey to find a cure for Mags.

*

W
E SET OFF AT FIRST LIGHT
. Ortiz and Jax are already waiting in the lobby when I get down. Ortiz asks if I want breakfast but I don’t think I can eat so I just shake my head and hoist my pack onto my back. Hicks hands me a rifle and I sling it over my shoulder.

We leave The Greenbrier and head for the interstate. The storm continues to pound the horizon but it’s keeping its distance so we press on into Virginia and pick up a road the sign says is the Kanawha Trail. From there it’s a steep climb. Hicks doesn’t let the pace drop and soon my legs are burning but I’m glad for it. There’s no conversation. That suits me fine, too.

We stop for lunch by the side of the road at a place called Crows. Ortiz and Jax share a pack of cold frankfurters between them while Hicks just sips from his thermos. I’m not feeling hungry but he says I have to eat so I dig an MRE out of my pack and set it to heat. When it’s done I pick at it for a while and then hand the pouch to Ortiz. While he’s scooping out the remains Hicks picks up the cardboard carton my meal came in. He packs it with snow and then hands it to Jax.

‘Take that down the road and place it on the guardrail, just in front of that first tree.’

He looks at me.

‘Alright, on your feet. Time for your first lesson with the rifle.’

I stand.

‘Show me your trigger finger.’

I slide off my mitten and hold up my right hand. The cold bites immediately, even through the liners I’m wearing. He reaches over and grabs my index finger. A short knife with a serrated edge appears in his other hand. Before I have a chance to protest he tucks the tip of the blade into the liner at the crook of the first joint and slides it forward. The knife must be sharp; the material puts up no resistance as it slices through. He withdraws the blade, folds it back into its handle, and just as quickly it disappears back into his parka.

‘You always need to be able to feel the trigger. Now you can poke your finger out when you need to take the shot and slide it back in again when you’re done.

I hold my hand up and examine the liner, still a little shocked by the speed with which it happened. There’s a slit that reaches almost up to the tip of the glove.

He reaches for my pack and sets it down in the snow in front of me.

‘Alright now, lay down.’

I snap off my snowshoes and lie behind the backpack, feeling the powder crunch and compact until the ashen flakes are only inches from my face. He squats next to me and sets the rifle down so the barrel rests across the pack. He tells me to take hold of it. It feels a little weird at first; the thick down of the parka makes it hard for the stock to sit snugly into my shoulder.

‘Push it a little bit forward and away from you, then tuck it back in to get it at the right spot. That’s it.’

Down the road Jax is packing the MRE carton into the snow on top of the guardrail. When he’s done he turns around and starts lumbering back towards us.

Hicks pulls a clip from his pocket, thumbs in three bullets and hands it to me. I slide it up into the housing and feel it lock into place. He points to the charging handle and tells me to pull it back to load the first round into the chamber.

‘It’s a shade under a hundred yards to that carton. The scope’s zeroed to that range. Take a look.’

The rifle feels cold against my cheek, even through the thin cotton of the mask. I squint through the sights, adjusting my aim until the center of the crosshairs settles on the cardboard container. Jax is already safely out of the way so I poke my finger through the slit Hicks made in my glove liner and start to slide it onto the trigger.

‘Did I tell you to do that yet?’

I slide my finger back out of the trigger guard.

‘Alright, first take a long deep breath and let it out. Now remember to keep looking through the scope after you take the shot. You’ll want to see where the bullet lands.’

I nod.

‘Take the weapon off safe, but only one click, mind. You want it on semi, not auto.’

I find the switch with my thumb and slide it forward one notch.

‘Good. Now you’re set.’

The metal feels cold as I curl my finger around it. I realize my heart’s pounding. I slowly start to squeeze, feeling the slack come out of the mechanism. All of a sudden there’s a loud crack and the rifle thumps back into my shoulder before I’m ready for it. The parka absorbs most of the recoil but nevertheless it startles me and I allow the muzzle to jump. By the time it settles back down again it’s all over. I have no idea where the bullet’s gone. All I know is the MRE carton remains exactly where Jax placed it on the guardrail, unmolested.

‘Alright, shift your shoulder forward for me. That’s it; make sure your body’s leaning into the stock. Now remember you need to hold the gun on target long enough to see where the bullet hits.’

I put my cheek back to the metal, once again finding the carton through the scope. I breathe out slowly, squeezing the trigger as the air slips from my lungs, and this time when the gun jumps I’m ready for it. The muzzle rises up a little but not much and I catch a puff of snow behind and to the right of the carton where the bullet lands.

Hicks unsnaps the throat of his parka and pulls down his bandana. He just stands there for a moment, like he’s checking something. When he’s done he holds his hand out for the rifle.

‘That’ll do for now. Wind’s picking up and I haven’t shown you how to compensate for it. No point in wasting bullets.’

I remember the thing that chased me out of Mount Weather’s tunnel. I kept firing Marv’s pistol at it but not a single bullet found its target. This gun might be the only thing standing between me and whatever we find in Blacksburg tomorrow. I need to know I can do it.

‘There’s a round left. Let me try one more time.’

Hicks squints down at me. For a moment he looks like he’s going to say no, but then he just shrugs.

‘Alright.’

This time I pull my mask down so I can feel the wind on my face. I imagine it blowing across the tracks we made, slowly filling in the prints left by our snowshoes. I put my cheek back to the rifle. Without even the thin cotton the freezing metal bites the flesh there, but I ignore it. I look through the scope, finding the carton again. I see how the wind picks up the snow, swirling the flakes in little eddies over the guardrail, dancing them around the cardboard. I shift the barrel a fraction so the crosshairs hover in the air no more than a hand’s breadth to the left then I exhale slowly and squeeze. I feel the recoil but this time I’m on it and the muzzle barely moves. For an instant I smell burnt gas; it mixes with the sweet scent of the gun oil and then just as quickly the wind carries it away. Down the road the carton disappears from the guardrail in a small cloud of snow. Behind me Ortiz whistles.

‘Damn, Sarge. The kid might just have a talent for this.’

*

I
T’S THE FOOTSTEPS
he hears first, just like always. He looks across at the girl. She still hasn’t moved from the back of her cage. She went there after the mean soldier left and she hasn’t stirred since.

He shuffles himself away from the bars and starts the count. There’s something different, now: not one set of footsteps but two. He closes his eyes and concentrates on separating them. The first is definitely the lumbering
thunk-clang
of the boots the mean soldier wears. But the second are lighter, quieter; the footsteps of a much smaller person. He knows immediately who they belong to.

It’s been a while since the doctor visited. He casts a guilty glance in the direction of the food tray that sits, untouched, near the front of his cage. He had meant to eat some of it but he thought he would have more time. He wonders if he should try now. He scurries forward and lifts the plastic spoon from the congealed mess of beans and tobacco, but then thinks better of it. He only has moments; he’ll be able to manage a mouthful at best. And recently the food has started to make him feel like he might throw up, even when the mean soldier hasn’t done anything to it. It will be worse if the doctor thinks that the food is making him sick.

The count reaches eighty-nine and somewhere off in the darkness he hears the click as the locks disengage and a soft groan as the door is opened. Across from him the girl has moved to the front of her cage and is looking out through the bars. He shuffles back into the corner and listens. The doctor is coming first; the heels she wears click hollowly on the hard floor. He can hear the soldier’s boots scuffing the concrete in her wake. The beam from the flashlight dances between the rows of cages. He keeps his eyes open, making an effort not to squint. He does not want the doctor to know the light bothers him.

She stops in front of his cage. Her face appears in front of the bars as she bends down to look in but it’s a perfunctory examination and for once he is grateful. She turns around to face the girl. The soldier catches up and stands beside her, the stick held loosely by his side. Johnny 99 wishes the girl would go to the back of her cage like she’s supposed to, but she doesn’t. She just sits there holding the bars.

‘Do I need to have the Corporal place you in restraints?’

The girl considers this for a moment and then shakes her head.

‘Good. He told me you refused to take your medicine yesterday.’

The girl looks up at the soldier.

‘That’s not how I would have described it. We had a misunderstanding over his use of the cattle prod.’

The doctor
tsks
her disapproval.

‘Yes, he is something of a blunt instrument, aren’t you Corporal?’

‘Ma’am.’

She turns to the soldier and holds out her hand. He passes her the stick. Her fingers slide along the shaft, all the way to the ugly metal prongs that protrude from the end. The girl doesn’t move but she watches the doctor closely.

‘They are such ugly things, aren’t they? Do you know we found them here? I suppose the powers that be – the powers that
were
I should say – anticipated a certain amount of unrest, even among their appointed representatives. They have proved quite useful, though. Those infected with the ferrovirus are quite susceptible to the effects of electricity, far more so than the rest of us.’