Her behemoth . . .
Her God.
*
Marla sat on the end of the bright-green container, her feet dangling over the edge as if she was on a fishing trip, waiting for something to bite.
The only difference was: a bite on this trip could only be construed as a bad thing.
She reached into the pack and retrieved a water-bottle, which she handed across to Shane.
'Thanks,' he said, unscrewing the cap and swallowing half of it down in two hungry gulps.
'Well, this has turned into something of an adventure,' she said as she peeled the wrapper off a chocolate bar. 'Feel like Indiana Jones yet?'
Shane stared out across the treetops; somewhere off in the distance, the sweet sound of birdsong carried along on the wind. It was out of place – something so beautiful, so . . .
normal
– in this world.
'I don't think I'll
ever
feel like Indy,' Shane said, all the time twisting the cap on the water-bottle. On-off-on-off. 'I've always thought of myself more as James Bond, anyway.'
'Bet you'd look good in a tux,' Marla smiled, her chocolatey lips made Shane look away; it would have been so easy to lean across and help himself to some of that chocolate.
'Guess we'll never know,' Shane offered morosely.
'Awww,
bullshit
. We'll find us a nice wedding store somewhere, get you all shaven and tidied up, spend the afternoon playing dress-up. It'll be fun.'
Shane pictured it. Him wearing a black suit, a bow-tie, a bowler-hat; Marla slipping in and out of the changing-room, each time in a new frock. At one time, such an afternoon would have been the bane of his life – he hated shopping, especially women's shopping – but not anymore.
It sounded heavenly.
'Yeah, I bet the looters didn't hit the wedding-clothes stores when this shit went down,' Shane laughed. The thought of a surviving group, all dressed to the nines, was hilarious. Instead if machine-guns and swords they were just going around, poking at lurkers with fancy umbrellas and canes.
'There you go,' Marla said. 'It's a date. I'll bet when we get to where we're headed, there'll be loads of places like that. Entire stock-rooms full of tuxedos and braces. Hell, I reckon we'll be able to get River into something pretty and pink.'
That, Shane thought, was not going to happen.
Marla glanced out across the trees, chewing chocolate as if it was going out of fashion. She must have stayed like that – completely oblivious to Shane's sideways glances – for five minutes. You wouldn't have thought they were in the middle of the apocalypse, not with the serene smile painted across her face, not with the delicate birdsong just a few hundred feet away.
Somewhere behind them, Terry cursed as he slipped with the wrench. They both turned to see the man in charge of getting them moving again shaking his hand. He looked up, noticed Shane and Marla staring at him, and waved. 'I'm okay,' he said. 'Just mashed my thumb up.'
Shane laughed. 'Be more careful. You'll need those thumbs to drive the train.'
Terry waved, didn't reply.
'He seems confident enough,' Marla said. She screwed the empty foil wrapper into her palm and toyed with it, relieving some tension, no doubt.
'He's good at stuff like this,' Shane said. 'If I remember correctly, he was in workshop at the pen, made some nice furniture, too. Reckon he could have made a decent living out of that shit if things . . . well, if things hadn't turned out the way they have.'
'There's a bit of a difference between knocking up a spice-rack and fixing a diesel locomotive.' Marla squeezed the wrapper so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She was obviously still dubious about them getting on their way anytime soon.
'Yeah, but, come on . . . it's not as if a few hours trying is gonna hurt. I mean, this time yesterday we thought it was just us. Before the jets, we were quite happy.' He paused, realised how stupid his comment was.
Happy
? He was happier in prison; at least his family – Megan, Holly – had still been alive. 'You know what I mean,' he continued. 'We were none the wiser, and we pushed on regardless. Those jets gave us something to aim for, and we're aiming for it. Doesn't matter if we get there today, tomorrow, or a week next Tuesday.'
Marla laughed. It was always funny to hear Shane go off on a rant. 'Better
not
take that long,' she said, smiling. 'I don't think I can bear a whole fortnight with Lukas. The guy gives me the creeps.'
From Marla, that was something. She'd been a doctor at the prison, surrounded by the country's vilest, most deviant sonsofbitches ever to commit a crime. She could spot people like that a mile off.
And Shane had sensed it too.
'Don't worry about them,' he assured her. 'I've got my eyes open on the situation.'
Just then, something shook the trees twenty feet in front of them. Twigs snapped as whatever was down there crunched them underfoot.
Shane picked up Marla's pistol; his own was down to three bullets, and they would have to last until they could get more supplies.
Marla handed him a second magazine, just in case he needed it.
He hoped not.
Something moved again, this time a little closer. A branch suddenly poked up from nowhere, freed by the motion of the invisible figure below. Shane aimed the Beretta towards the trees, being careful not to make any sound as he flicked the safety off with his trembling thumb.
Marla didn't take her eyes off the spot where the last noise emanated from; something was there, and only an idiot would make the mistake of losing it.
Shane pushed himself to standing; it was hard to remain stealthy when all you wanted to do was start firing, aimlessly, into the void. Adrenaline was already taking over, and his heart was racing so rapidly that the steady
hush-thump
of blood in his ears was causing him to miss vital sounds from down on the ground.
Marla pointed a finger across to where she thought she saw something, and then lowered it, shrugging, not sure if she had seen something or if it was just her mind playing tricks on her.
Cruel tricks that were apt to get them all killed.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose as a thick, dark cloud emerged from the trees, accompanied by the fluttering of wings and a terrible cawing.
Crows.
A whole fucking murder of them, aiming towards the sky at a speed so fast that Shane checked their asses for fireworks.
'Something spooked them?' Marla asked, no longer trying to remain quiet. It didn't matter anymore; if there was something there, the crows had undone all their hard work.
'I don't think so,' Shane said, clicking the pistol's safety back on. 'Might be a deer or something, but I've never seen birds fly away from a lurker before.'
The crows disappeared into the distance, cawing and cackling. Shane wasn't sure, but it sounded like the murder were laughing about all the fuss they'd just caused.
Ha, ha, you though we wuz lurkers. You wuz wrong, scaredy-catz!
Shane stretched; his back audibly cracked, so loud that he was afraid he might have done some permanent damage. He was just about to ask Marla what they had left in the way of chocolate when a tiny hand appeared at the edge of the container.
'Look!' Marla whispered.
The hand slowly released what looked like a piece of paper before vanishing over the edge of the steel box.
Shane told Marla to stay where she was and moved across the container, slowly – though his footfall still echoed out, one of the downfalls of keeping watch on top of what was essentially a hollow box.
Saul, who had been odd up until that point – but understandably so if his parents were anything to go by – was running away, back towards River, who was starting to help Terry fix up something on the train. When he reached her, he hid behind her, and she patted him on the head, as if she were an adult and not two years the kid's junior.
Shane picked up the slip of paper – which was actually a printed receipt on one side and a faded, blue watermark on the other.
'What is it?' Marla asked, intrigued.
Shane sat down and slowly opened out the tattered slip.
The kid must have used an old screwdriver dipped in something icky to draw with.
Ten out of ten for ingenuity.
The crude picture was of two big stick-figures and a small stick-figure. The heads on these rudimentary creations were massive in comparison to the bodies, and none of the limbs were equal in length. Shane, once he got past these minor annoyances, tried to figure out what the image meant.
He showed the slip to Marla, whose eyes slimmed down as she, too, attempted to interpret the oily design.
'Looks like he did a picture of him with his mom and dad,' she said. 'Pity we don't have a fridge to stick it on.' She handed it back to Shane, who wasn't convinced.
He scanned it again. Two big stick-figures . . . one small, which must have been Saul. But there were lines through the bigger ones, marks that Shane had originally mistaken as a slip of whatever tool the boy had used to sketch with.
'Look,' Shane said, pointing out the marks. 'These two figures look like they've been crossed out.'
And they
did
. Both of them had a thin line running through them. The smaller figure was as clear as day in comparison.
Marla squinted once again. 'Maybe he just made a mistake.'
'Uh-huh. Not the same mistake twice. He's intentionally tried to cross these two bigger ones out.'
So he had, but
why
?
Then Marla gasped. 'You don't think he's going to
kill
them, do you?' she asked, though even as the words past her lips she realised how silly they were.
'Come on,' Shane said. 'The kid doesn't even make eye-contact with River. He ain't gonna go on a murderous rampage, especially not one involving his own parents.'
'I don't understand it. Shane, what if they're meant to be
us
? What if those bigger figures aren't Lukas and Abi?'
Shane looked down at the slip again; the more he stared at it, the more confusing it became. It was as if the ink was spreading, the oil was slipping down the page, smearing the evidence, and soon there would be nothing to look at but a Rorschach test from a mute boy.
'This one's definitely Lukas,' Shane said. There was a difference in size between the two bigger stick-figures; Marla and Shane were almost identical in height. 'He's drawn this one larger on purpose, so that we know who he means.'
Marla felt, all of a sudden, they were taking part in some new ridiculous gameshow.
Win, Lose, or Die . . .
'But why would he cross his parents out? Why would he draw—'
Shane's expression altered so drastically that it resulted in the cessation of Marla's second question.
'
What
? Shane, what is it?'
He glanced down at the slip for the final time, knowing exactly what Saul was telling them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emma was so angry with Dredd for what he'd done that she made a point of not celebrating with the other rowdy folk at the base when he brought the chopper back in.
How could he do that to them? How could he go out there, playing John-fucking-Rambo with those creatures while she and Gabriella sat waiting in a smoke-filled camp? The only way they'd been able to keep updated was through the antique technology of field-radios, and it had been utter hell listening as hundreds of gunshots crackled on the other end.
When Dredd finally came after her, she was sat in the tent; Gabriella was between her legs. A book lay open in Gabriella's lap, but the girl was not really interested in the exploits of Pinocchio, not anymore, not since she was five.
As her dad came in, she launched herself up to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. He winced in pain, hissed through clenched teeth. The Wave Hawk was not the most comfortable bird he'd ever flown, and as a result he was covered in bruises and scrapes from being tossed around the cockpit.
'Gabriella, go and play with Lizzie,' Emma said, picking up Pinocchio and slamming the cover shut with some authority.
Gabriella released Dredd and was about to object when she noticed the determined expression on her mother's face.
She didn't argue; she kissed Dredd on the cheek before disappearing through the tent-door.
Dredd knew he was in trouble. The tent seemed to have been relieved of all oxygen, and you could cut the atmosphere with a spoon.
'I know what you're going to say,' he said, stumbling forward into the tent proper. 'And I'm sorry. Emma, those things were all over the Bay. Another few hours and they'd have got in. I don't care how stupid they are, or how slowly they shamble around. More than fifty of them is a bit of a problem.'
'Shut up!' Emma said, though she knew he was right. 'Let me be upset for a while. I'm really pissed at you, you big buffoon. You know we had to listen to your Biggles manoeuvres over the fucking radio. While Pimlico polluted the whole camp with his cheap-ass cigars.'
Dredd laughed. 'Yeah, I got him those ones from a looted store in Clinton. All the good ones were already taken.'
He dropped to his knees and grabbed Emma's hands between his own. 'Look, I did what I had to. Those snipers up there were about as useful as a chocolate kettle. I told Frank how much you'd hate me for it.' He grinned, and Emma hated him because of it. She could never stay mad at him, even at his most stupid.
And the general had had no choice; Dredd was the only capable helicopter-pilot. It was a sign of the times, but Emma was coming to terms with the fact that her husband was an extremely useful – not to mention valuable – asset to the cause.
'You might want to train up some of those jet pilots to fly the chopper,' Emma said. Dredd could tell she was deadly serious by the steely expression on her face. It was a look that even he – her husband, who could get away with pretty much everything and anything – would defy.