“Where you headed?” the man asked, his tone still cowboyfriendly.
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“Listen.” The aw-shucks expression the old guy wore slipped just enough that Tom caught a quick glint of something almost predatory. “In case it’s kind of escaped your notice, we just saved your ass. We’re trying to help you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I really do.” He really did. “But why should you care about me?”
“You rather we side with the bounty hunters?”
This guy, Tom thought, was very good at deflecting questions and putting people on the defensive. He had just the right amount of bluster. “That’s not an answer.”
The old guy opened his mouth, but Mellie put a hand on the man’s arm. “Back off a little. Can’t you see he’s scared and hurt? Cut the boy some slack.”
The guy looked like he wanted to say something, then shrugged. “Whatever. He wants to end up bait, no skin off my butt. I’d advise not heading east, though.”
East was precisely the direction he needed to go. “I’m headed to Rule.” Tom watched them toss a look. “What?”
“Well, he’s right,” Mellie said, tipping her head at the man. “I don’t think you want to go there.”
That was what Wade had said, too. “Why not?”
“You feeling lucky?” the guy asked. “The way’s real thick with Chuckies. That’s why we’re fighting them and Rule.”
“Why fight Rule?”
“Why do you want to go there so bad?”
Tom debated a half-second, then said, “There’s a girl I know. We got separated a while back, but I know she was headed there.”
He saw something spirit over the man’s weathered face, like he was adding two and two to make four. “She have a name?”
He didn’t see how it would hurt. “Alex.”
“What?” The old man’s mouth actually dropped open in an expression of genuine shock. “Did you say Alex?”
“Yes.” Tom saw that Mellie was studying the old man with a look of appraisal, her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Well, I’ll be a son of a—” The old guy seemed almost confused, at a loss for words. He ran a gnarly, calloused hand over his mouth, but Tom couldn’t tell if the old guy was searching his memory or trying to decide what might be the safest and best thing to say. But the eyes that found Tom were as dark and bright and canny as a buzzard’s.
“I’ll be damned. You’re the soldier, aren’t you?” the man said. “You’re the kid who knows explosives, the one we went looking for months ago. You’re Tom.”
59
He knows me. Hearing his name drop from this stranger’s mouth cut his legs out from under. Tom thought Mellie sucked in a quick, startled breath, but he was so shocked he couldn’t be sure. Later, he would decide he’d been mistaken. Now, he felt the blood leave his face and the world tilt. This stranger, this old man, knew him, knew his name. And months ago meant . . .
“H-how—” he said, hoarsely. “How do you—”
“Because I’ve met Alex,” the old guy said. “I know her.” Oh, thank God, she made it, she’s safe. Surviving his first firefight was exactly the same: a wash of exhilaration and then relief that left him sick and shaky and sweaty as a junkie. Tom’s knees wobbled, and he felt the sudden tightness in his throat and the burn of tears. She’s alive.
“Easy, easy.” The man was up and now wrapped his arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Come on, son, you’re all done in. Let’s sit you down.”
“No, we . . . I need to see her. We should go,” Tom said, but he felt suddenly weak, the combination of shock and relief and all that had happened that day finally draining him of strength. He let the old man jockey him into a chair. “How far? How long will it take us to get there?”
“Not so fast.” The man looked away, jaw working, as if trying out the right words and seeing how they fit in his mouth. He returned his attention to Tom. “It’s not what you think. We got to talk about what you and us are up against here.”
“Up against?” A flare of panic now. “Why? What’s wrong? Is Alex all right? Is she hurt?” Something clicked in his brain. They went back for me, but I was already gone. They’d assume I was dead, and Alex would . . . “Is she still there? Did she leave? What’s going on?”
“More than you know.” The man’s face seemed to close. “Alex talked them into a rescue. Believe me, it wasn’t easy, but she was a pit bull about it. Everyone knew it was a huge risk, but when she told the boys in charge that you were a soldier and knew explosives . . . well, you shoulda seen their faces light up. They couldn’t hustle out of Rule fast enough. But when we got there, you were already gone. Everyone figured you were dead.”
So he’d been right. A terrible, black foreboding washed through him. If Alex thought I was dead, would she stay? Oh God, what if she didn’t believe it? What if she went looking for me? “Is she . . . did she leave? Where did she go?”
“Where did you go?” Mellie had been so quiet and watchful that Tom had forgotten she was there. Mellie laid a hand on his shoulder. “Where were you, exactly?”
“Wisconsin.” Blame the shock and his confusion, but the word tumbled from his mouth before he had time to think.
“Where in Wisconsin?” Mellie asked.
“Uh . . .” He ran his good hand through his hair. “A couple . . . Jed and Grace, they came through on their way west. I was pretty out of it. I honestly don’t remember much. All I know is I woke up four or five days later, and we were at their cabin. Grace was a nurse and—”
“Cabin?” Mellie echoed.
“Odd Lake, yeah.” Still reeling, Tom returned his attention to the man. He could feel his brain trying to put all the pieces together. “I don’t understand. You’re from Rule. You came to find me. So why are you fighting Rule now? What’s going on? Why are you here and not in Rule? Who are you people?”
“My name’s Weller, Tom. And I hate to say, but Alex . . .” Weller showed his teeth in a grimace.
Oh no. I’m too late, I waited too long . . . “What? But what?”
“I’m real sorry, Tom, but the last I knew, Alex was in the prison house.”
“What? Prison house?” he cried, aghast. That she was alive should’ve buoyed him, but this was five times worse. If prison house had the same meaning in this village as it did in Afghanistan—if they tortured people—Alex might be as good as dead. “In Rule? Why?”
“Well . . .” Again, Weller’s hand slowly wiped his mouth. It was the reluctant gesture of a man thinking, and very carefully, about what he should say next.
“Jesus,” Tom said. He could feel the sweat beading on his upper lip. “Just say it.”
“They’re . . . let’s just say they’ve got some real bad actors in that village,” Weller said, finally. He looked straight into Tom’s eyes. “We’re not only talking the way the village has been run before everything went to hell. I’m talking now: how they treat people, the things they’ve done to secure the borders, in particular.”
“What does that have to do with Alex? Why would they throw her in a prison?”
“Let’s just say she, ah, wouldn’t cooperate.” Weller’s features arranged themselves into an expression of regret.
“Meaning?”
“You seem like a smart boy, Tom,” Mellie interrupted. “You’ve been to war. You’ve seen how fast things break down. So what do you think happens to young girls at the hands of old men?”
“And not all of ’em old,” Weller added, softly. He and Mellie traded another long look before he repeated, “Not all.”
Oh my God. He had to close his eyes. Now Weller’s reluctance, how carefully he’d seemed to search for words, made perfect sense. This is my fault. If she hadn’t been alone, if I hadn’t gotten myself shot, none of this would’ve happened.
He heard his voice rise as if from the hollow blackness at the bottom of a well. “Tell me what to do to get her out, and I’ll do it.” He opened his eyes and found Weller. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
There was a tiny, nearly invisible tug at one corner of Weller’s mouth, a look of satisfaction there and gone in the blink of an eye. “Well, the kid who called the shots,” he said, “his name was Peter. But you don’t have to worry about him. He got himself killed in an ambush, and good riddance. But the kid who’s taken over? Son of a bitch is a psychopath.”
“What kid?” Tom asked. “What’s his name?”
“Boy by the name of Prentiss,” Weller said. “Chris Prentiss.”
60
“Are you all right?” Still huffing, winded from the desperate struggle, Chris pushed up from the bloodied snow. He looked toward Nathan, who sprawled against the school’s north wall. Nathan was breathing hard, a hand clamped to his left bicep. Blood oozed between his fingers. His parka was shredded from shoulder to elbow. “He bite you anywhere else?”
“No. Lucky his feet went out from under on the ice, though.” Nathan’s face was the color of ash. “Little bastard latched onto her like a damned leech.” The old man pulled his head around his shoulder and called, “He get you bad?”
“No.” Lena huddled in a heap of clothing at the corner of the building and beneath the breezeway where they’d tethered the horses. The breezeway ran on the east wall and led to a snowcovered jungle gym and the tatters of a lonely basketball hoop. The Changed had torn her parka open at the throat. Livid, brightred scratches stood in parallel tracks on her neck where his nails had first stripped away her scarf before clawing at her sweater. That he hadn’t used his teeth was a miracle. “Where did he come from? Why was he here? The school’s all by itself. No houses nearby, nothing.”
