Children Of The Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know (6 page)

I creep back to the sleeping bag and climb inside.

H
E’S THE LAST ONE NOW
.

Still they keep the lights off. He’s told them they don’t bother him, that he’s not like the others, that he’d rather have them on. He’s told them more than once; he mentions it every time one of them comes down. He wants them to believe it, even though it’s not really true anymore. When they put the flashlight on him it hurts now.

He doesn’t have a name, or if he does he doesn’t remember it. He’s heard the doctor refer to him as Subject 99 and sometimes the mean soldier sings snatches of a tune that has the words Johnny 99 in it. He wonders if his name might be Johnny. The mean soldier doesn’t have a nice voice but the boy who might be Johnny likes the song anyway. Sometimes after they’ve gone he hums it to himself in the darkness, even though he doesn’t know what an auto plant is or if Mahwah’s even a real place or for that matter what Ralph was thinking mixing Tanqueray and wine if it can get you in that kind of trouble. He asked the doctor once whether his name might be Johnny but when she wanted to know why he couldn’t think of a reason other than the song and so he said he wasn’t sure. The doctor never answered him. But after that the mean soldier didn’t sing anymore. And the next time he came down he glared into his cage like he was mad at him for something and then he put his food tray on the ground and spat in it. He had to eat the food anyway, even though he wasn’t really hungry. Because not eating your food is a sign, like not looking at the doctor’s flashlight, and he doesn’t want to go to the other room.

He’s been here a very long time. He doesn’t know how long exactly, because days don’t mean much with the lights off. But definitely a long time. He wasn’t always here. He’s sure of that, even though he doesn’t know where he might have been before. He doesn’t remember anything about it. The doctor says he needs to try and he wants to, he really does, and not just to please her. But it’s no use. It’s like whatever was before is behind some thick gray curtain in his mind and there’s just no way to pull it back, no matter how hard he tries.

He thinks the room he’s in now is underground. There are no windows, although of course he knows that doesn’t prove anything. It’s definitely at the bottom of a long flight of stairs though, because he can hear the soldiers’ boots ringing off the metal each time they descend. Sometimes he counts the steps. The highest he’s ever got before the door opens is eighty-nine, but the first ones are always really faint and it’s possible there are more that he’s not hearing.

He can always tell who’s coming. The mean soldier’s boots are the loudest. He can hear their lumbering
thunk-clang
echoing down the stairwell for ages before he reaches the bottom. It’s the mean soldier he sees the most, because he’s the one who brings his food. He always carries the stick and he looks at him like he’s some sort of dangerous animal in a poorly built cage. He doesn’t need to be afraid, though. Johnny 99 would never hurt him, ever, he’s told him that. But still he makes sure to keep all the way to the back of the cage while the tray gets pushed through the slot at the front. They don’t bother to heat the food but that’s okay; they’re still bringing it, which is the main thing. He always eats everything they give him, even if he’s not hungry, or if he suspects the mean soldier has done something to it. That way they’ll know he’s still fine and doesn’t need to go in the next room, with the others.

The other soldier’s footsteps are much quieter; sometimes he makes it all the way down the stairs without Johnny even hearing and the first thing he knows the door at the end’s opening and he has to scurry to the back of his cage. The other soldier doesn’t bother with a stick or even a flashlight. He just sits on the ground opposite and stares in at him. The mean soldier sometimes calls him names but the other soldier never says anything. He just sits there in the darkness, studying him through the bars. When he’s done he gets up and leaves without saying a word.

The doctor’s the only other person that visits him. She doesn’t come as often now there’s only him left, and sometimes when she does she just shines the light into his eyes and then leaves without saying anything and he’s disappointed. But other times there are questions. He has to answer them as truthfully as he can, which he does, he always does, even though most of the time he just can’t remember. He’s not allowed to ask any questions of his own, even though he has so many and sometimes it feels like he might burst with the not knowing. That would ruin the experiment the doctor says. He must try and remember himself. It’s really important.

He knows he is sick, like the others were. That’s why he can’t remember. But the doctor says the medicine she gives him will make him better. He has to drink it all, every last drop, even though it makes him feel like he’s going to throw up. The medicine didn’t help the others, though. He watched each of them take it and one by one they all changed.

98 was the last, and she turned a long time ago now. Her cage had been directly opposite; she’d been there when he’d first woken up. He doesn’t remember much about before he got sick, but he remembers that. He had been very frightened then. He can see quite well now; his eyes have grown used to the darkness. But back then he hadn’t been able to see anything. He hadn’t known where he was, or what he was doing, here, in this tiny plastic enclosure.

98 had calmed him down. She’d whispered that it would be okay, but for now it was important that he be quiet. That was one of the rules, she’d said. If the mean soldier caught you making noise he’d come down and put the lights on and even though Johnny 99 hadn’t minded the lights back then it would drive some of the others, the ones who were already turning, crazy.

Well, crazier.

Later 98 had taught him the other rules as well, like going to the back of your cage whenever the soldiers came down and never, ever putting your hand through the bars. There were more rules than that, but those were the main ones. You couldn’t forget them, even for a second. If you did the mean soldier was apt to pay you a visit with the stick.

He misses 98. She had been nice to him. It had frightened him when the doctor had come down and shone a light into her cage and he had seen her for the first time. How could anyone’s eyes be like that? But after a while he had gotten used to it and then it hadn’t bothered him so much. He wonders if he looks now like 98 did then. There aren’t any mirrors in his cage, no surfaces that might give back even the faintest reflection, so he doesn’t know. His arms and legs seem very thin and pale but then he is small, and it is always dark down here, so maybe that is normal.

98 lasted a long time, longer than any of the others. But then one day the mean soldier started taking her food away untouched, and a little while after that she had started acting up whenever the doctor had shone a light into her cage. Johnny 99 had tried to calm her down, just like she had done when he had first arrived. That had seemed to help a little, at first. But then the doctor would come down with the flashlight and that would set her off again. After that Johnny 99 knew it wouldn’t be long. There’s never much time left after you change.

It was the mean soldier who came to get her, with the catchpole and the stick. Johnny 99 hadn’t been able to look. He’d pushed himself to the back of his cage and covered his head with his hands when it happened. He is ashamed of that because 98 was his friend, although in the end he doesn’t think she knew who he was anymore.

Johnny 99’s decided that won’t happen to him. He’ll keep taking the medicine and eating the regular food, even if he doesn’t feel like it, and he won’t flinch or look away when the doctor shines a light into his eyes, even if it hurts.

That way they’ll know.

He’s not like the others.

*

W
E’RE ON THE ROAD AGAIN
at first light. If Hicks’ head is hurting from the bourbon he’s not showing any sign of it; the pace he’s setting doesn’t slacken. The morning passes much as the day before did; a succession of frozen landscapes, like a series of old black and white photos. We hike through each, aiming for the bend or the crest that will show us the next. When the time comes we eat by the side of the road, huddled up in our parkas. Hicks’ stomach must still be feeling delicate from the whisky; he just sips from his thermos and lets another cigarette burn down between his fingers. He watches me as afterwards I bag our trash and bury it in the snow.

After lunch the road inclines for a couple of miles and when it finally crests we come to a small green sign, almost buried under a drift, that reads
Greenbrier County
. A little further on a high gantry that’s somehow survived rust and storm and virus spans the highway. A large faded blue sign mounted to it says
Welcome to West Virginia
and underneath
Wild and Wonderful
.

A mile or so after the sign the road fishhooks and then passes over what looks like train tracks. Beneath us, maybe a hundred yards back in the direction we’ve come, I can just make out the entrance to a tunnel. Ashen drifts reach almost all the way up the curved walls, almost hiding it completely. Hicks knocks snow off the guardrail then throws a leg over and drops down a steep embankment on the other side, sliding his way to the floor of a narrow ravine. Ortiz goes next and then I shuck off my backpack and follow him. A second later Mags gets to her feet beside me and dusts herself off, followed a little too closely by Jax, who arrives in an avalanche of snow. Boots spends a while looking down at us until Hicks loses patience and barks at him to hurry it up. He slips as he’s clambering over the guardrail and tumbles down the slope, shedding his goggles and respirator on the way down. The drifts are deep at the bottom and Hicks has to send Jax to dig him out. He finally gets to his feet, furiously wiping snow off his glasses. It might be the first time they’ve been cleaned since he got fitted for them.

The track curves around for a half mile or so and then straightens. The ravine widens out and we pass a short siding, a corroded railcar sitting idle against the buffers. In the distance I can see what looks like a long shelter, the roof timbers swaybacked under the weight of snow, running the length of what I’m guessing was once a platform. As we get closer a faded Amtrak sign says
Sulfur Springs
.

We leave the railway tracks behind us and make our way through a parking lot to the road. There’s a station house, almost buried under a blanket of gray snow, its small porch supported by two red and white pillars. The paint’s faded and peeling but they look like candy cane and for a moment it puts me in mind of a story Miss Kimble read to us about these kids who get abandoned in a forest by their ne’er-do-well father and then stumble on a witch who lives in a house made of nothing but Hershey’s kisses and Reese’s peanut butter cups. Miss Kimble said it was a classic but it always seemed kinda lame to me. Mags said she liked it though, because in the end the witch gets her ass thrown in an oven.

On the other side of the road two matching sections of wall curve inward to a pair of large stone gateposts, marking an entrance. The gatepost on the left has started to crumble, but the other’s mostly intact. The once-white paintwork’s flaking badly, but the sign there’s still legible. The dark green cursive announces that we have arrived at
The Greenbrier
. Underneath, in neat capitals, it says
America’s Resort
.

Hicks leads us between the gateposts and we start up a long driveway. I’m beginning to think there’s been a mistake. I look over at Mags and I can see she’s thinking the same thing. The facility listed on Marv’s map definitely shared the name on the post, but it was supposed to be a bunker. And then as the road curves around I finally get my first glimpse of The Greenbrier and I’m sure of it.

I stop, pushing my goggles up onto my forehead. Beside me Mags does the same. It’s like we’re back at the White House on the Last Day. But it’s clear even from this distance that The Greenbrier is much, much bigger; almost too big to take in in a single glance. The front is dominated by a huge portico, four massive columns supporting a low triangular gable that slopes down to a flat roof. I count five, no, six stories, rows of tall, dark windows filing off in each direction. They continue around on both sides, the wings forming a giant squared-off horseshoe that surrounds what must once have been the gardens. Tattered, weather-faded flags hang from poles that jut from the first floor balustrade.

We set off again, hurrying to catch up to the soldiers. As we get closer I see a dark shape squatting on the lawn, covered under a thick mantle of snow. I keep looking at it as we hike up to the entrance. The outline is unfamiliar, and it takes me a while to figure out that it’s a helicopter. It’s way bigger than the one that brought us to Eden, though, and there are two sets of rotors, not one. The first are mounted on a tall hump above the cockpit; the second rest on top of a tail section at the back and sit even higher above the long, riveted fuselage. The thick blades hang down under their own weight, the tips almost touching the gray powder. As we walk past I can see that the loading ramp at the back is down. Snow drifts up into the darkened interior.