Monsters

But there was also the issue of time, and her reluctance to let him out of her sight. She cast an anxious eye at the windows. She could tell from the gray cast of the sky that what had been early afternoon was now slipping well into late. They might be lucky enough to make it here before dark, but they’d be working their way back at night. It was also true that they’d spotted no people-eaters in weeks this far north. Chris and that old guy he’d been with, the one clobbered by the mace, had tripped booby traps that hadn’t seen action in a good two months.

So I need to take him. Ellie chewed the inside of her cheek. She realized that her eyes had fixed on his chest, noting every struggling breath, holding her own until the burlap rose again. She knew she expected every breath to be his last, like in the movies. A final dramatic gasp and then bye-bye. Got to get him onto my horse somehow. But Chris was too heavy to lift. Her eyes roamed the deepening shadows of the bare rafters. Even if she could find a rope and tie it around his chest or something and figure out a way of slinging the rope over a beam, she wasn’t strong enough to hoist him two inches. Could she drag him? That might work. Just roll him off the pallets, watch that his head didn’t go bump-thump on the stone, then drag him the way you hauled a little kid up the hill on a sled. Chris would be much heavier, of course, but she’d only have to manage twenty, thirty feet. She was much stronger now than back in October when all the bad stuff started. She rode horses, she walked for miles, she hauled augers and tackle, and she handled her Savage without too much trouble. So she could do this. But getting him onto her horse was a different problem.

And what about the birds? Will they let him leave? Cocking her head, she listened and then picked up their mechanical chatter. Still out there. They hadn’t bothered her, but maybe that was as far as this went. The birds might be—she didn’t know—a sign or something, like the way Alex once said you could tell if a storm was coming when the animals got really quiet.

“I can’t do nothing,” she said to Mina, who leaned against her leg. Her chilled fingers buried themselves in the fur behind the dog’s ears. “I have to keep him warm and get him out.”

What if she stayed? The others would come looking, and probably soon. They would know where to go. Bella was tethered at the fork. So she could stay put, keep Chris warm. But she might also be waiting a long time. No one would worry for another hour, maybe even an hour and a half. She could hear Eli now: Oh, you know how Ellie is once she gets fishing; she can sit out there forever.

Beneath the burlap, Chris let out another long moan. She was across the room in an instant, dropping to her knees to study his face. Through the crescent moons of his lids, she could see his eyes roaming. Chris was dreaming, and pretty badly, too. Deep, dark lines of fear and pain cut alongside his nose and across his forehead. Maybe a nightmare. Or maybe he was dreaming about being dead, which was probably just as bad.

She stood and patted the pallet. “Mina, come.” The dog obediently jumped up, careful not to step on Chris. Mina turned an expectant look, but Ellie shook her head, placed a hand on the dog’s neck, and maneuvered the animal as close to Chris as she could manage. “Just you,” she said, applying a bit of pressure to get her meaning across. “Down, girl, lie down. I need you to keep him warm.” And protect him until I get back. Mina wasn’t as big as a shepherd, but lying at full length her body heat ought to help. “Stay,” Ellie said, and put her hand up like a traffic cop. With a soft whine, Mina stretched her neck and nosed Ellie’s fingers.

“Love you, too, girl,” Ellie said, and planted a big kiss between Mina’s ears. She turned to go, then hesitated. Reeling out a length of leather cord, she ran a finger over the lines of that upside-down peace sign. For protection, Hannah said. Kneeling, Ellie gently slipped the cord over Chris’s head. He was a boy, almost a man, and his neck was bigger, so the cord was snugger, the charm only reaching to the pulsing hollow of his throat.

And then—don’t ask her why—she kissed him, too. Just a touch of her lips to his forehead, the way her daddy used to: Love you, kiddo.

“For luck,” she said.

30

Dumb luck, that’s what it was. With the tick of that rock, Tom’s training snapped into place, his reaction as instinctual as breathing: a quick shift of his weight, a backhanded swipe with his left as he spun, the Glock slashing up and around on a steep trajectory because he was aiming for a chin, a cheek.

He missed. Hell, he couldn’t even see what he was trying to hit. The Chucky had put itself in a direct line with the setting sun and was coming for him at his blind spot to boot. All Tom made out was a gray-white blur and two dark coins as the Chucky read his move and dropped below the arc of his swing. Tom went into a staggering spin, his momentum pulling him off-balance as the Glock whirred through empty air. In the next second, the Chucky drove in low and hard, plowing into Tom’s back, wrapping him up, pushing him into a blundering swan dive.

“Ugh!” Tom felt the air gun out of his throat. His arms shot out to break his fall, and he thought, Roll; plant your fist and roll, get on your side! If he hit face-first, it would be over, fast. He could see his end: the Chucky straddling his back, riding him, grinding his face into the deadening snow, holding him there until he suffocated. Or maybe the Chucky planned to simply dump him on his ass. One good slam of a fist to stun him and then Tom would spend his last thirty seconds on earth with his hands wrapped around the spurting rip in his throat as his blood pulsed hot and wet, and the Chucky watched and waited for Tom’s veins to run dry. Roll, go to roll, ro—

He tried; he really did. But two things happened in quick succession, like a one-two punch. The first was the jolt of his right boot on a hidden rock. Tom stumbled, his right leg crimping at the knee. The Chucky had him so low around the waist that the little stutter should’ve been enough for it to set its feet and drive Tom’s chest the rest of the way down. But Tom was trying to roll, and while this Chucky was good—and it was very good; it knew how to anticipate, how to fight—Tom still clutched the Glock in his left hand.

The gun, her gun, saved his life, not because he could shoot or use it as a club but because his hand was fisted in a death grip, and a rigid fist is stronger than an open, empty hand.

Tom’s left arm speared the snow. His fist held; his elbow didn’t crumple and his wrist didn’t break. It hurt like hell; electric jags of pain jittered through bone. Grunting, Tom willed his arms to remain ramrod straight, rigid as pipes. For one split second, Tom was holding both himself and the Chucky on his shuddering arms, his heaving chest hanging a foot from the snow.

Then the moment slipped past and Tom was gathering himself, thinking, I’ve got one shot.

Jackknifing his left knee to his chest, he twisted, cranked his left hip, then drove his leg back as hard and fast as he could, putting all his strength into a single, vicious kick. He felt when his boot made contact, the jar of it in his hip; understood from the give that he’d struck the Chucky’s left thigh, high above the knee.

It was a perfect, incredibly lucky shot. Howling, the Chucky crumpled left. Shifting his weight, Tom squirted right, pushing off with his stronger, left leg, fighting against the suck of deep snow as he spun free.

And he still had the Glock. In another time and place, he might have pitched it. The weapon was useless as anything other than a club, while fingers could clutch and claw and gouge eyes. But if the

mo ns ters gun got away from him—say, the Chucky made a grab—with enough pressure on that frozen trigger, the weapon might just fire. Tom couldn’t take the chance. On the other hand, if he threw it away, the Chucky might go after it. In a way, letting the Chucky try would be smart, a way of diverting its attention so Tom had time to strike with his KA-BAR. After all, a knife didn’t run out of bullets.

But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t make himself let go of the Glock. That gun had just saved his life. It was an omen, a sign, as if Alex was fighting by his side. He could feel her in the tang of adrenaline on his tongue, the blood that roared through his veins. So he hung on to that weapon—and her—as he tugged his knife from its sheath.

All right, come on. His gaze strafed the rubble-choked flat. For a disorienting moment, he thought the Chucky was gone. It was possible. A peroneal strike, one that caught the nerve above the knee, could incapacitate an enemy anywhere from half a minute to five. Maybe it knew it didn’t stand a chance, or spooked easily. But God, if it was gone and got help, brought friends—worse, if that Chucky’s buddies were already here—he might as well slit his own throat and save them the trouble. He probably could take two or three, but without a decent weapon . . .

Wait, the Bravo. But it was behind him, by his pack and that ski pole, and he just didn’t want to risk a peek. Besides, he simply didn’t believe the Chucky could’ve moved that fast. So where is it? Frantic, the panic starting to climb his spine, he jumped his gaze west, toward the woods. There was still a good hour before it was full dark and plenty of ruby light left, but long shadows now blued the snow. Still . . . at the edge of those cantilevered trees, he was certain something moved. Someone else out there?

A shushing sound, to his right, and then a small squeal, the sound of icy snow squeezed by pressure. As he wheeled around, he realized just how lucky he was to still be alive.

The Chucky had been there on the snow, recovering, silently gathering itself, all along. Now it was clawing to its feet, but in his fear and disorientation, it looked to Tom as if the snow itself had assumed human form. The Chucky’s camo over-whites were the best he’d ever seen. Even the boots were sheathed in white. Somewhere along the way, though, the Chucky had lost its white balaclava. So instead of only the dark coins of its eyes—which were strange—he saw its lips skin back in a snarl, and that brown snake of a braid.

Because it was a she: about the same age as Alex, but much taller and more muscular. He still outweighed this girl, but his height advantage was gone, and she was fast, a good fighter.

And yes, he had a knife. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">