Shadows (36 page)

Nathan gave a slow, almost reluctant nod. “That’s the theory.”

“Theory?” Lena asked. “Why would this even be a secret? So what if she was Amish and then shunned or excommunicated or whatever? Who in Rule would even care?”

“Well, if their leader’s the Reverend’s brother,” Nathan said, “they just might.”

“Brother?” Chris echoed in surprise. “My grandfather’s
brother
? I thought he was dead.”

“He is,” Nathan said.

“But you just said—”

“Wait, I get it. It’s not dead-dead, Chris. It’s dead, as in excommunicated,” Lena put in. She’d pushed herself all the way to a sit. Her skin was milky-white, and the circles around her huge eyes were a dusky purple. “To the Amish, it’s the same thing.”

“But his last name is Hunter, not Yeager,” Chris protested.

“
You’re
a Yeager,” Lena said.

“Only half,” Chris said. “My dad wasn’t from Rule at all.”

“Once you’ve left the Amish, you’ve crossed into the
English
world,” Nathan said. “
Yeager
is German for ‘hunter.’”

Chris let that sink in for a moment. If his grandfather’s brother had provided a refuge for shunned or banned Amish kids, then that meant Rule had to be some kind of crazy breakaway community, too. It would explain some of their customs, how cult-like the village was. But which split came first, Rule from Oren, or Hunter’s group from Oren?
Or even Rule.
“Do Amish have, like, I don’t know, a council? Some group of guys who run things?”

“All I ever heard of was the bishop,” Lena offered, and then she pulled in a gasp. “Wow. Wait a minute, that’s not right. The way the Amish did it was like this committee.” She held out a thumb. “There was a bishop,” she said, and then counted the rest off on her fingers: “Also three ministers, and . . . a deacon.”

“Five guys,” Chris said. “Just like Rule.”

“Not like Rule.” Nathan wagged his head. “As far as I know, a bishop never makes the laws. Any big issues have to be put to a vote in the community. Rule was never run that way. What they had instead was a sixth chair, which was supposed to
represent
everybody else. Go take a look at the Council chamber sometime. You’ll see. It doesn’t look balanced.”

Now that he thought about it, Chris remembered that, way back,
Alex
had once pointed out the same thing—a sixth chair, set by itself, behind the others:
Six chairs, but only five men, Chris. It’s like there’s someone missing.
And the missing man was Rule itself?

Something else Alex had mentioned also floated out of memory. His grandfather was very fond of Biblical brother stories: Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau. But his favorite was Isaac and Ishmael, and what had he once said about the world outside Rule?
The followers of Satan have become as beasts; they bear the Mark of Cain and the Curse of Ishmael.
But if Isaac
was
his grandfather’s brother, then which brother was really the beast?

“What’s Jess’s connection to Hunter?” Chris asked. “Why does she think he can help us, or even will? It’s got to be more than just him giving sanctuary to a bunch of kids.”

“I honestly don’t know, Chris,” Nathan said. “This is what me and Doc have been able to piece together, and it’s still mostly guessing. But you find him, and then I think we got a shot at putting what’s gone wrong with Rule to rights.”

“And if he’s dead?”

“Then I don’t know,” Nathan said. “We just got to hope that he’s not.”

“What do you think?” Chris asked a few moments later. Nathan had ducked out, ostensibly to check the horses, but Chris knew the old man was giving them space to talk things over. Not, Chris thought, that this would change much. He couldn’t see any way out of the box but to continue on toward Oren.

“I think it’s still pretty crazy. Oh, man . . .” Lena unzipped then reluctantly peeled back the flap of her sleeping bag with a grimace. “It’s so cold my teeth hurt whenever I breathe.”

He watched her make her slow, careful way out of the bag. “How are you feeling?”

“Bad.” She paused. “I’m sorry I’m slowing you down.”

“That’s okay. Weller was right. We had to put down some serious distance east before hooking back. It would have been the same either way.”

“Maybe.” She stuffed the bag into its carry sack and cinched down the drawstring without looking up. “Do you ever wonder what’s going on in Rule? Like if they’ve found Peter yet?”

“I don’t think about Rule much at all, not as a place where I belong anymore. I think about what it’s doing, what it’s
done
. But Peter? Sure.” Chris snapped his pack shut. The sound was loud in the cold, like the crack of an icicle. “Whether it was his idea to feed the Changed, or the Council’s . . . it doesn’t matter. He should’ve fought it, and he didn’t.”

“So, if he
is
alive . . .” She fell silent a moment, then continued, “If he’s alive, and you
do
decide to fight Rule, would you fight him?”

“I guess I’d have to.” Turning aside, he unzipped the tent flap. “I don’t know. I just hope I don’t. To tell you the truth, Lena . . . I hope he’s already dead. Then it won’t have to be a choice.”

“But what if he isn’t?”

“Then I hope I could talk to him.”

“What if he won’t listen? You know how Peter gets.”

Yes, he did. Cold pillowed against his face. The air was so dry he felt his eyeballs pucker. He could almost make himself believe that he was past rage and sorrow for his friend even as the pang in his chest gave the lie.
God, why is this up to me? I can’t kill Peter; I’d rather blow my own brains out first. I’m not even sure I can fight Rule.
“Is there a reason you care?” He didn’t look around. “Maybe . . . something I should know?”

“Maybe. Yeah. I . . .” Her tone was flat and dull. “It . . . it only happened twice. Sarah doesn’t know, but . . . yeah. I think . . . I think so.”

That has to be it. They’re not tracking us because she’s Changing.
The wash of relief left him so weak he clutched the tent flap. He remembered the boy winding that scarf around his neck—the one Chris had planted in the bodies because it was the only explanation that made sense.
They’re able to find us because she’s
pregnant
, and
Peter’s
the—

“So what are you going to do?” Lena pressed. “If Peter’s alive and he won’t listen and you have to fight?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Chris said.

“Oh shit.” Luke retched again but brought up only watery phlegm. In the glow of that green moon, the boy’s face was the color of moldy cheese.
“Shit
.
”

“Keep it down, unless you want every damn Chucky to hear us,” Weller hissed. He still had both hands clamped around the dead boy’s head, and a knee planted behind his shoulders. The boy was no older than Luke, and had made the mistake of wandering away from the pack to enjoy a little snack. They’d heard him slurping and gulping while he was still a good twenty yards away from their hiding place, a snow trench behind thick scrub forty feet from Shaft Two. The boy was so focused on his treat— a double fistful of brains—that he didn’t see Weller until the very last second. The boy had fought and thrashed and nearly bucked the old man, but Weller ground the kid’s head into the deep snow until the boy suffocated.

“Sorry.” Luke was gasping. He shot another glance at the spongy goo splattered over the snow. “It’s just . . . I never . . .”

“Isn’t the worst you’ll ever see,” Weller said, using the back of his hand to smear a wormy snail slick from the underside of his chin.

“Lay off.” Tom put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “We had to do it this way, Luke. Didn’t want to get blood on his clothes.” But he was angry. A good headlock and the boy would’ve been unconscious in ten seconds. A quick twist of the neck right and then left and it would’ve been over. That boy had suffered all so Weller could make a point. Tom had known guys like him in the Army, too.

Don’t let it get to you.
His heart was pounding too hard. He willed himself to ice, felt the change as the adrenaline tailed off and his pulse slowed.
He’s an asshole, but he knows the mine and Rule. You need him just as badly as he needs you.

“All right, let’s get his shirt off, and that jacket, but I’d avoid the pants.” Huffing, Weller levered himself from the snow. “Chucky took himself a little dump.”

Weller was enjoying this way too much. “I’ll do it,” Tom said. He rolled the body, then quickly unzipped the boy’s jacket and stripped him from the waist up, taking not only the clothes but the boy’s flashlight, knife, rifle, and spare box cartridge full of ammo. He tossed the shirt and parka to Luke. “He’s about your size.”

“Oh. Yay.” Luke handled the clothes as if they were rattlesnakes. “We sure I got to do this?”

“No, but it can’t hurt.” Weller kicked snow over the ruin of gluey brains. “If you two smell like Chuckies, it’s all to the better. Remember, once we get inside,
I’m
bologna.”

“You can do this, Luke. Leave the thermal top for me. Now, be quick.” Hooking his hands around the dead boy’s ankles, Tom dragged the body into the trench, then scuffed snow until the boy was invisible. The rifle, a scoped Browning BLR ’81, was a good weapon but useless for their purposes. Their Uzis were silenced. After thumbing out the bullets, he broke the weapon down and threw all the hardware in different directions. By the time he returned, Luke was just zipping up the dead boy’s jacket.

“This feels kind of creepy.” Luke gave the cuffs a tug. “Like, you know, I’m wearing him.”

“That’s the idea,” Weller grated.

“You can burn it after, Luke,” Tom murmured. His eyes were focused on the rolling, brushy terrain between their hiding place on this rise and the shaft. In the moonlight, the snow glowed with the soft phosphorescence of a firefly and reminded him of the view from night-vision goggles. Ahead, the swell of a snowcovered mound bulged. “You sure that’s the shaft?”

“Yeah,” Weller said. “Stick close. Last thing we need is to take a tumble.”

They shambled over the snow, awkward because of the packs and ropes and Uzis, and Tom felt the terrain change under his boots. The mound wasn’t solid but ice-encrusted rubble. They crabbed over the snow, and then Weller reached for a small, juryrigged headlamp. A tiny
snick.

In the sudden spear of light, the shaft yawned in a black, circular sore: a wide tube of concrete about twenty feet across. The headframe and hoist were gone. Only an iron ladder bolted to the concrete remained. Weller scratched through snow for a rock, then opened his hand over the shaft. Tom counted, silently. Five seconds. Fifteen. At thirty, he said, “I didn’t hear anything. You?”

Weller shook his head, then swarmed to the ladder. Everything looked solid, but up close, Tom could smell rust and see where the rungs had oxidized and crumbled. Thin fractures spidered around some of the bolts where water had seeped then frozen, breaking open the concrete.

“Only one way to test it,” Weller said. He threw a quick clove hitch onto a carabiner, then clipped in. Luke grabbed Tom’s waist and Tom braced himself, the rope looped across his back and firmly gripped in both hands, as the old man carefully lowered himself onto the first rung, shifted his weight. Took the second rung. The third. “Think we’re good to go.”

Luke ran a hand over the iron. “Feels pretty rotten to me.”

“Boy, I was dropping down cliffs in Quang Ngai while Charlie rained fire,” Weller said. “This is nothing.”

Yeah, yeah, and you picked your teeth with a bayonet.
“We don’t have much choice, Luke,” Tom said.

“But there’s nothing to tie the rope to,” Luke said. “If the ladder goes—”

“It’s a long way down,” Weller said. “You backing out?”

“Just do what I do,” Tom cut in. He’d be damned if he’d let Weller embarrass the kid. “Except if I slip . . . don’t do that.”

Luke exhaled a shaky laugh. “I’m good. Uh, how far are we going again?” The kid’s voice broke on the very last word.

“Far enough to knock the legs out from under those little shits,” Weller said.

“What if we can’t?” Luke asked.

“Then it’s going to get pretty exciting,” Tom said.

Way back, her parents took her to the Iron Mountain mine outside Vulcan. After donning red hard hats and yellow slickers, they’d ridden a small tram into the mine through a rock straw so narrow she could put out either hand and touch stone. Caged bulbs hung from a low-slung ceiling, but pockets of thick shadow and inky tunnels pushed in. She hadn’t thought she was claustrophobic— but then, in the main stope, the tour guide turned out the lights, just for show. The darkness closed down like a fist, and was so absolute it was all Alex could do to keep from screaming. Her eyes opened wider and wider and wider. If this had been a Road Runner cartoon, they’d have popped right out of the sockets on little springs:
ka-boing, ka-boing
. But there was nothing to see, because there was no light. At. All.

She wasn’t a wuss, but that had been bad.

This was way, way worse.

They’d split her and Daniel off from the others, driving them further and further into the mine; down through endless turns, through a warren of drifts and tunnels festooned with spraypainted numbers and letters, and then down gated stairs. She lost track of the turns, and the greater reek of the Changed faded away.

Now, though, she was in complete and utter darkness. Well, except for Mickey, who said she’d been crouching on a nubbin of rock in this isolated side-chamber for over seven hours. No sound either, except the splash of water over rock, Daniel’s rapid breaths, and the thrum of her heart. Oh, and the bats. Even if she hadn’t caught their scent—dry and dusty and a little sour—she would have heard their papery rustle. Sometimes, they squeaked. No problem. Just . . . she really didn’t need to run into them.
With my luck, I’ll get rabies.
She wondered if rabies was passed on in meat and then decided she was being morbid.