If the hunter came back—and he would; that sled was worth something—one look and he’d know Tom was still alive. A gamble, but one Tom had to take. No telling if or when that sled would come in handy, but he wanted it safe, where he could find it again, just in case.
There was also no way he was leaving Jed for scavengers or, worse, the Chuckies if they wandered through. Maybe it was stupid and a waste of time when he should be running, but he covered Jed’s head, shouldered the Bravo, and dragged his friend all the way back up the hill.
The cabin was a ruin: a skeleton of scorched timber and charred debris floating on a gray moat of refrozen snow and ash. Stepping carefully, he started from the fireplace and worked his way in a rough diagonal until he found the bodies. There were three: blackened limbs tucked and crimped, like babies in a womb, as the tendons cooked, fleshless lips revealing too-white teeth in eyeless skulls. Despite that, Grace was easy to identify because she was small and the only body with the charry remains of an apron and a gold diamond wedding band.
He laid the two of them together at a pretty spot overlooking the lake—and then paused, staring at Jed as Raleigh nosed the body and whined. Tom had no parka; Jed still did. Just thinking it over made him guilty and ashamed, but he did need the jacket and Jed was past caring. Hell, the old man would probably insist.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Getting the zipper down through all that iced gore took some time. Tugging it off Jed’s stiff, frozen body was worse. Tom had to roll him like a log from side to side to work the parka free. The jacket was too big and smelled of Jed and blood, but it would do. Then, using bricks and stone from the fireplaces, he fashioned a low cairn. He worried the stones might not be deep enough, but he did the best he could.
Jed once explained why a Marine sniper called his weapon a Kate. The name had nothing to do with a girl. Kate meant “Kill All The Enemy.”
Tom spread his hand over the tomb’s cold stone.
“I can do that,” he said.
* * *
Their patient, standard bred mare stood in the woods next to the garage that Jed had transformed into a makeshift stable. Left alone, Dixie would starve to death. The other, Grace’s Shetland, had panicked and leapt from the cliff to shatter on the rocks below. Although that pony had to be dead, he shouldered the Bravo and climbed all the way down to make sure. No way he’d leave her to suffer.
Thankfully, Jed stored the horses’ feed and Raleigh’s food in the stable and not the cabin’s cellar. He scooped hay pellets and oats into saddlebags, dumped dog kibble into a canvas carryall. Wisconsin was a four- or five-day walk in good weather, a week or more in bad. A horse would be faster, but follow the main roads and he’d be asking for trouble. Where there was one hunter, there would be others. He was bounty, and worth killing for. So he’d have to stick to the woods, and that meant more time and added distance. No straight shots.
Despite what Jed said, he’d had no intention of seeking out a soul. Look where helping him had gotten Jed and Grace. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more death. But now he had to factor in the animals. While his supplies would last two weeks, the animals would run out of food well before then. Hell, another storm and even he’d be in big trouble.
In the stable, he drew out Jed’s list and the maps as Raleigh nosed in to be fussed over. There were three names, evenly spaced, like pearls, between here and the border, and a fourth in Michigan. By then, he might not have a choice but to stop. Sighing, he folded the list and slid it into one of the parka’s inside pockets. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
Moaning, the dog laid its chin in his lap. “Yeah, I know, boy. It’ll be okay. Come on.” He ruffled the dog’s ears. “Let’s go see about a girl.”
Now, after four days on the road, he was still in Wisconsin, traveling beneath the bilious glow of a crescent moon.
Too slow. He ripped open an MRE of Mexican mac and cheese. With the possibility of Chuckies in the woods, a fire was out. Slopping water into the heater pouch, he slid in the MRE, then tucked both back into the cardboard container. Almost out of feed for the horse. He set the box up so the chemicals could work their magic. She might eat bark, but—
At his side, Raleigh suddenly bristled. The dog let out one very small wuff which it choked off almost immediately, as if realizing that making any noise at all was a big mistake.
Tom knew, in an instant. Oh shit. He had a moment to be thankful that he had not started a fire. A glance at Dixie showed that the mare’s eyes had gone pearly with terror. She was chuffing. Please, be still, he pleaded, silently, stretching for Jed’s Bravo. The rifle was already chambered, and he eased back on the safety, wincing a bit at the soft rasp of metal.
He listened, ears straining. Nothing. No sound. The moon’s gangrenous glow turned the snow deep pewter, barely distinguishable from the darker trees. His breath clouds were tangled gray webs. He let go of another, longer breath, blowing as if through a straw, watching where it moved. Off to his left, and Raleigh was staring right. So he was downwind.
Good. If these things go by smell, I might be okay.
Something rustled. Tom’s heart jumped like a hooked fish. A whisper of snow and then a thud. Footsteps. Another thud. Not snowshoes, he decided. So there must be a well-traveled trail he hadn’t seen. He pivoted right, from the waist, slotting the rifle so his cheek rested against the stock. He let his eyes drift offcenter, the better to see in the moon’s ashen glow.
Two shadows ghosted through the trees not fifty yards away. Both had long hair, and he thought the smaller, slighter one might be a girl. Her right hand clutched a stubby rifle, maybe something with a pistol grip. The larger one was broad and very big across the shoulders like a linebacker in full gear. Then the boy Chucky made a misstep, staggered—and suddenly sprouted a third arm.
Oh my God. Gooseflesh pebbled his skin. They’ve got a body. Stooping, the boy hefted the body, shrugging it back onto his shoulders, grunting a little at the weight. Now that he understood, Tom could see that the body had only the one arm, the right. The left ended in a blacker-than-black hole at the shoulder joint.
Then the head fell back, and the dead girl’s long hair fanned away from her face—
Alex. Horror blasted through his mind. Alex?
Turning, the girl Chucky raised her rifle to her mouth—and tore off a bite.
Not a rifle.
An arm. The girl ripped at the meat. Her jaws worked, and in the gleam of that sick light, he saw the white ripple of her throat as she swallowed.