Road of the Dead (20 page)

I
could hear the van lurching and skidding across the yard, bouncing up and down in the rain-sodden mud, and I could see the glare of its headlights strobing through the cracks in the barn wall, illuminating the loft in a blaze of flashing white lights, and just for a moment I was floating again…floating back through the lights…through the cracks in the wall…out into the airless black air of the yard. And in that moment I could see everything. I could see Red in the windscreen of the Transit van—his grinning face, his grubby red suit, his wrong eyes glazed in mad concentration. I could see the headlights sweeping around the yard, lighting up flashes of static rain. I could see the barn, the outhouses, the mutant shack. Bins and boxes and empty sacks. I could see the storm-drenched moorland beyond the yard, the wind-whipped trees, the ash-black fields, the hills in the distance rising from a plain of darkness…

And then suddenly the lights were gone and the barn was black again, and I was back in the flesh of my body, and my lungs were filled with the gaseous stink of decay. The smell was so thick I could taste it. It was vile, sickening, like a poisonous cloud in my belly. It was the smell of dead things, rotting things…the smell of terrible dreams. I knew it didn’t
mean
anything—it was only the stink of choking exhaust fumes and the churned-up mud in the yard—but knowing that didn’t make me feel any better. My belly wasn’t rational.

I breathed steadily, trying to keep calm, but it didn’t work. My stomach gave a sudden heave and I threw up all over myself.

The van pulled up outside the farmhouse. I couldn’t see it, and it was hard to hear anything above the steady roar of the rain, but my senses were pumped up with blind sight and fear, and I could hear what I needed to hear: the engine idling, the wind howling, the engine dying. The rain intensified for a moment, drowning out everything but the beat of my heart, and then a gust of wind swept over the yard and the rain slackened off again.

I closed my eyes and listened to the unseen sounds from the yard: a horn beeping, long and loud; the van door sliding open, slamming shut; another door opening—the farmhouse door—then voices calling out through the rain. Ugly voices, blunt and sour.

“Who’s that?”

“Red. Where is he?”

“Uh?”

“The
kid
, chrissake. Henry wants the kid. Where is he?”

“In the barn.”

“Get out here. Bring some rope and a flashlight.”

For the next couple of minutes I just sat there in the darkness, listening to the sound of the falling rain—the roaring on the roof, the quiet drip-dripping on the dusty floor, the heavy splattering in the mud outside. It wasn’t the same as listening to the rain at home. It didn’t make me feel happy anymore.

I wanted it to stop.

I wanted everything to stop: the noise, the fear, the stink, the pain, the sickening ache in my belly. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore. I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be scared. I didn’t want to be brave. I didn’t want to be strong or weak or smart or stupid or precious or careless or dead…

I didn’t want to
be
anything.

I was exhausted.

Empty.

Cramped and cold.

My arms ached.

My eyes hurt.

I smelled bad—vomit and piss, the stink of my fear…

They were coming now. I could hear them outside, trudging across the yard. Opening the barn door. Crossing the floor. Voices. A ladder rattling against the hatchway. The hatchway opening. The flash of a light.

My insides were twitching like electric soup.

“Christ, you stink.”

I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the floor and said nothing. Red was standing over me, shining a light in my face, and Sim and Vince were waiting in the shadows behind him. I wasn’t going to look at them. I wasn’t going to speak. I wasn’t going to be anything.

“Hey,” said Red, jabbing me with his boot. “What’s the matter with you? Look at me.” He kicked me again. “I said
look
at me.”

When I still didn’t move, he leaned down and cracked me across the face with his flashlight. My head jerked back, and I felt a numbing shock in my jaw, but it didn’t seem to hurt. I swallowed a trickle of blood and let my eyes roll back to the floor. There was a knothole in one of the floorboards—an odd little oval shape with intriguingly slanted sides—and that was my sanctuary. That was where I was nothing. Deep in the hole. Lost in the dark. Being nothing. Riding the pain.

When Red grabbed my hair and slammed my head back against the post, I still didn’t feel anything, but this time—when my head rolled back—I couldn’t get back to
my hole. Red was keeping hold of my hair, forcing my head back, shoving his face into mine. Making me look at him. I closed my eyes. I could feel his sour breath scouring my skin.

“Open your eyes,” he hissed. “Look at me.”

I imagined my hole. My sanctuary.

A switchblade snapped. Cold steel pricked the skin of my eyelid.

“Open them or lose them,” Red said.

My sanctuary shimmered, the hole closed up, and I opened my eyes to Red’s wired face. He was so close I could see myself in his demented eyes. I was distorted, convexed, like a looming face in the back of a silver spoon. I was monstrous.

Red breathed on me again, his breath like rotting silence. I closed my mouth and stared at myself in his eyes. My monster-self. My monster-face. My monster-eyes. Two new holes. My monster-sanctuary. I held it for a while, but then Red blinked and his grin twitched and I felt the knife blade stroking my cheek, and then suddenly everything was gone—the knife, the face, the monstered eyes—and I was watching Red as he moved away and straightened up, folding the switchblade shut.

“That’s better,” he said, still staring at me. “When I tell you to look at me, you look at me—understand?”

I nodded.

“Answer me.”

“What?” I said.

“Answer me. Don’t just nod your head—
answer
me.”

“Right…”

“Yeah, right.” He leaned his head to one side and scratched his neck. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose, and I saw his eyes flick down at my legs. He sniffed again, shaking his head. “You always piss yourself?”

“What?”

“You stink of piss. Every time I seen you, you stink of piss. Now you’ve gone and puked all over yourself, too. What’s the matter with you?”

It was one of those answerless questions again, a fearsucker’s question—
What are you looking at? What’s your problem?
—and as I thought about it, my mind flashed back to the ring of stones and the stunted thorn tree, to Jess and Tripe and Skinny and Nate, and Red in his red suit, standing there smiling, just as he was now—nodding his head, twitching his shoulders, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket, waiting for my reaction…

I wondered what he’d say if I asked him why he did it.
What do you get out of it, Red? I mean, all this nasty stuff—the vicious games, the taunts, the threats…this dance of violence—why do you do it?

But it was pointless asking. I knew why he did it. He did it for the same reason that any of us do anything. He did it because he liked it.

“D’you miss your daddy?” he sneered at me. “Is that it? D’you piss yourself cos you miss your daddy?”

I didn’t say anything.

He laughed—a thin little snigger. “Shit,” he said, spitting on the floor. “What d’you do for them Delaneys, anyway? How d’you get them on your side?” He grinned his grin at me. “You pay them? You get the girl a new
dog
or something? Is that it? Get a dawg for the dawg?” He drew back his lips and barked. His eyes were crazy. “Dawg for a dawg,” he started hooting, “dawg for a dawg, bitch for a bitch…” Then suddenly he stopped, jerking his face at me, and his voice went cold. “What d’you do?”

“Nothing,” I said.

He stepped closer, shining the light into my face. I turned away and closed my eyes.

“Look at me,” he said.

I didn’t move. I’d had enough.

“Open your
eyes
.”

I held my breath.

I heard the knife flicking open, and I could sense the blade inching toward my face, and I knew it was too late to do anything now. My eyes were staying closed whether I liked it or not. I shut myself down, getting ready to ride the pain, but as the tip of the blade touched my skin, and I reached out for the darkness inside my head, a voice from the shadows said, “Come on, Red—this is stupid,” and suddenly everything went still.

The knife stopped moving.

Red sighed.

I pulled myself back from the darkness.

The voice was Vince’s.

I kept my eyes closed and listened hard to the stillness.

“What?” said Red, his voice a bare whisper.

“There isn’t time—”

“
What
did you say?”

“We haven’t—”

“You calling me
stupid
?”

“No, I was just trying to—”

“What? You were just trying to
what
?”

Another short silence.

Then Sim spoke up. “He’s right, Red. We ought to get going. Get the kid out of here. If Henry wants—”

“I
know
what Henry wants.” Red’s voice was calmer now, less manic. “What d’you think I’m doing?”

“Yeah, I know,” said Vince. “But if Ford finds out where we are—”

“He won’t.”

“He might. And if he does—”

“What? You think I can’t handle him? You think I’m running from a
gypsy
?”

“No—”

“I ain’t running from
shit
.”

“No one’s running from anything, Red—we’re just taking care of business, that’s all.”

Silence again. The flashlight was out of my face now. I raised my head slightly and half-opened my eyes. Red was standing with his back to me; the other two were facing
him. Vince looked tired and worried. Sim had a length of rope in his hands. Vince glanced over at me. Our eyes met for a moment, but his face showed nothing. He turned back to Red again.

“If we don’t go soon, the lane’s going to be flooded. You know what it’s like—”

“Yeah, all
right
,” Red said irritably. “We’re going—OK?” He sniffed hard and spat on the floor. “Come on, then—what are you waiting for? Let’s get the little shit out of here.”

As Sim got to work on the handcuffs again, hacking them off with his usual vigor, Vince stooped down beside me and looped the length of rope around my neck. I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t do anything. I just stared at nothing and tried to think. It wasn’t easy. I wanted to close my eyes and open my heart and float away to find Cole, but I knew that I couldn’t. There wasn’t time. Things were happening. Here and now. I had to be
here
. I had to be me.

I had to do something now…

I had to
think
.

Think, look around, think:
Red’s over there, on the other side of the barn, smoking a cigarette; Sim’s behind you, still hacking your wrists to shreds; Vince is adjusting the rope around your neck, leaning in close to tighten the knot…

“Just keep your mouth shut and you’ll be all right—OK?”

The whisper came from the back of his throat. It was so quiet I could barely hear it. I looked at him. His head was lowered in front of my face, his eyes fixed intently on the knotted rope.

“Don’t do anything,” he breathed. “You won’t get hurt.”

“What?” I said, not bothering to whisper. “You mean like Rachel didn’t get hurt?”

Vince froze for an instant, then suddenly jerked the rope tight as Sim spoke up from behind us.

“What’s he saying?”

“Nothing,” Vince said, standing up quickly. He glared at Sim. “You ready yet?”

“Yeah, hold on.”

I felt a sharp tug on my wrists, then Sim grabbed my arms and pulled me up to my feet. Vince stepped back, uncoiled the rope, and gave it a spiteful yank. My head nearly jerked off my shoulders. I would have fallen over if Sim hadn’t been holding me up. He spun me around and shoved me up against the wooden post.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he said.

I did as I was told, but as he let go of me and reached into his pocket for another pair of cuffs, my dead legs buckled and I slumped to the floor.

“Shit,” hissed Sim. “What you doing? Get up.”

He kicked me in the ribs. I struggled up off the floor, got to my knees, but that was it—I couldn’t get any
farther. My legs were numbed from sitting on the floor for hours.

“Get
up
,” Sim said, kicking me again.

“I can’t,” I said. “My legs—”

Sim kicked me down to the floor, then knelt on my back and grabbed my arms and snapped a new pair of cuffs on my wrists. He stood up, grabbed the rope around my neck, and yanked me up to my feet.

“Stay there,” he spat, pushing me against the post. “You go down again and I’ll stomp the shit out of you.”

He let go of me and stepped back. My legs started going again, and I saw his face tighten, but I managed to keep myself up by leaning back against the post and gripping it between my arms.

He stood there staring at me, breathing hard. I looked back at him—his dumb streaky hair, his dumb streaky eyes. There wasn’t anything there. Vince was standing next to him, the rope in his hand, looking at me as if I was his dog and I’d just jumped up and bitten his hand.

I was still trying to be here. Still trying to do something. Still trying to think. But I still hadn’t thought of anything.

Red was coming over now, walking tough, his cigarette gripped tightly between forefinger and thumb. He raised his hand and flicked the burning cigarette at me. It hit me in the chest and bounced to the floor in a hail of sparks.

“What’s going on?” he said, stopping in front of me.

“Nothing,” Vince told him. “He fell over.”

“His legs are gone,” Sim added. “He can’t walk. We were just—”

“Carry him,” said Red.

“What?”

Red stepped up and sank his fist into my belly. The pain groaned out of me and I sank to the floor in a heap.

“Carry him,” said Red.

They picked me up and carried me across to the hatchway. Vince was at my shoulders, Sim had hold of my legs. The rope was still attached to my neck. My belly was still moaning with pain. I didn’t like the sounds I was making—sad little groans, like a dying animal—but I just couldn’t help it. The pain was everywhere—tearing me apart, eating right down into me. Sim didn’t like the sounds I was making, either. I could see the growing irritation in his face, and when we got to the hatchway and they dropped me to the floor, he let out his anger with a sharp little kick to my head.