Revolution No. 9 (14 page)

A
couple of hours later, Monks heard Sidewinder kick loudly against the lodge's wall.

“Hey! Asshole!” he yelled. “Come on out.”

Monks uncurled himself stiffly and squirmed to the foundation's opening, his raw shins scraping against the hard rock-strewn dirt. He pulled himself out into the rainy gloom, fearful that he was going to get a boot or rifle butt in the face. But Sidewinder only held the leveled weapon on him.

“Freeboot says you can go back inside,” he said sullenly.

Monks's eyes teared up with pleasure when he stumbled into the firelit warmth of the lodge. But when he walked into Mandrake's bedroom, he saw that the shackles with the cable attached were lying on the floor.

“Put 'em on,” Sidewinder ordered. His raingear was dripping puddles onto the floor, and his face radiated his rage and resentment.

Monks sat, pulled off his boots, and snapped the iron rings around his own ankles.

“Freeboot's got some business to take care of,” Sidewinder said. “He told me to tell you the kid better be better when he gets back.” He turned on his bootheel, in pseudo-military style, and stalked out.

Mandrake was in bed, lying on his tummy. He didn't open his eyes or respond when Monks turned him over. His forehead was hot. Whatever complication was at work was advancing. Monks helplessly moistened the inside of the child's mouth. Dehydration was quickly entering into the mix—while sheets of rain pounded down on the metal roof.

Sidewinder hadn't said how long it would be until Freeboot came back, but this much was certain: the kid was not going to be better.

Monks sat down and painfully unstuck his pant legs from the crusted blood on his shins, then pulled them up to his knees. By now the lacerations were surrounded by long purple bruises, and swollen into knobs. He explored them with his fingers, grimacing fiercely. At least they weren't the kinds of wounds that were likely to get infected, and any bone chips would eventually heal themselves. It just hurt like hell.

A couple of minutes later, he heard the lodge's door open and close. Quiet footsteps hurried across the floor toward him.

Marguerite stepped hesitantly into the bedroom. She looked concerned, even frightened. Her eyes widened at the sight of his legs.

“I heard what happened,” she said. “I got Freeboot to let you back in.”

Wearily, Monks nodded thanks.

She stepped to the curtain, to leave, he thought. Instead, she looked around the outer room, then came back in and knelt beside his chair.

“I'll help you get away,” she whispered. “I know how. You have to take me, too.”

He stared at her in numb amazement. For the first time, she seemed really to be looking at him. Her dark eyes were clear, free of the spaced-out affect he had grown used to.

But wariness followed instantly. He had not forgotten that she was the one who had set him up in the first place.

“Is this another one of Freeboot's tests?” he said.

“No.” She looked puzzled. “Freeboot's gone, he'll be gone all night. So will most of the others.”

That jibed with what Sidewinder had said.

“How did he catch me?” Monks asked, probing to find out if there was a hidden camera that might be watching them right now.

“Coil told him.”

The news came like another ugly bucket of sludge, thrown on top of all the rest. But it had the ring of truth.

“What changed your mind?” Monks said.

As she hesitated, guilt, shame, and the admission of her own stupidity passed across her eyes.

“I didn't want to believe you,” she said. “That Mandrake's going to die. But I've been watching him, while you were…gone. He seems like he's almost dead now.”

Monks kept staring hard at her, trying to believe her.

Her gaze faltered. “I understand why you don't trust me,” she said.

“Bring me a gun, and I'll start.”

“I can't get a gun. But Hammerhead's standing guard. He volunteered, because of me.”

“And?”

“You could take his gun,” she said.

“Just walk up and ask him for it?”

“I could—you know, get him thinking about something
else,” she said, with her eyes still lowered. “You'd have to hit him, or something.”

Sure, nothing to it
, Monks thought. “With what?”

“There's pipe wrenches in the toolshed.” She held out her hands about three feet apart. Monks was distantly surprised that she even knew what pipe wrenches were. But that was probably as good a weapon as anything short of a firearm. A knife or garrote was too risky against a man as strong and well trained as Hammerhead.

A hard blast across the back of the head, while not exactly honorable, might do it.

“What about this?” he said, reaching down to rattle his shackles.

“There's bolt cutters, too.”

“Can you get other gear? Flashlight, matches, compass? Some food, warm coats. A rucksack, to carry Mandrake.”

“I'll try,” she said. She reached into a pocket of her jeans and pressed something into his hand. It felt smooth and cold like a pebble. “This will jack you up.” She rose and slipped out.

Monks opened his hand and looked at what she'd given him—a small glass makeup jar with a screw-on lid. It was full of finely ground white powder.

His first impulse was to throw it out. But he hesitated. Meth seemed to be the key to the violent, psychotic edge that the
maquis
had, and that might be a big help right now.

He opened the jar and and tapped some of the powder out onto the dresser top—about half the amount he had seen Freeboot use. He didn't have a knife to inhale it with, but he knew that it could be done through a narrow paper tube, and he fashioned one from a page he tore out of one of the
Heavy Metal
magazines.

He snorted hard with each nostril. It shot in like a hot
sharp wire thrusting up behind his eyes and into his brain. The burn worsened instantly, becoming almost intolerable, bringing him to panic that he had done himself serious harm. But then it gradually calmed, leaving a metallic-tinged residue—and a bristling, fiercely euphoric energy.

Monks paced the small room, allowing the ache in his shins and the clank of his chains to steadily heighten his fury, like the drumbeats of a primitive tribe in a war dance—tangible reminders of his own helplessness, of the child who was slipping away from him, of his terror that this was another trap that was going to bring him only a brutal, agonized death.

Very soon, his hands were flexing in anticipation of that pipe wrench.

M
arguerite came back twenty minutes later, carrying a big laundry basket covered with a dripping poncho. Monks pulled the poncho off. On top were neatly folded pajamas for Mandrake. But they hid a warm hooded snowsuit underneath, and a nylon rucksack big enough to carry him. Then came a large polyfil jacket with a water-resistant shell, the kind that the men wore around camp. Wrapped up in it were a folding pocket knife, a heavy-duty flashlight, matches, and a Ziploc bag stuffed with bread, cheese, cold cuts, and candy bars. There was no compass, but this was a hell of a good start on getting out of here and staying alive.

At the bottom, his groping hand touched metal. A pair of bolt cutters and a pipe wrench about thirty inches long were nestled in the laundry like snakes in a brushpile.

“Hammerhead just called in his security check-in,” Marguerite whispered urgently. “We've got an hour before they'll
miss him. He's waiting for me, over at the bathhouse. Give me a couple of minutes.”

“Whoa, wait,” Monks said. “You have to keep him outside. I need a clear shot at him.”

She bit her lip nervously. Then she brightened.

“I'll tell him I want to do it in the rain.”

Monks was impressed. That was thinking on your feet.

“Get up against a wall,” he said. “That'll keep his back turned.”

“Don't worry, he won't be thinking about anything but me.” She left again, looking scared but determined.

Monks got out the bolt cutters and snipped the chains from his ankles. His feet once again were free. He put the snowsuit on Mandrake, then slit the rucksack to allow for his legs and eased him into it. This was going to be a lot easier to carry than the clumsy sling.

Then he traded the bolt cutters for the big pipe wrench, clenching his shaking hands around its steely shaft and hefting it to gauge its balance.

Everything was going to have to go right the first time.

The driving rain slashed at his face, blurring his vision as he eased out the lodge's door. He stared into the night, crouching, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The bathhouse was about forty yards away. Within half a minute, he could see two entwined figures. Hammerhead was shoving Marguerite up against the wall, his hands working at the waist of her jeans, revealing her pale skin as he pushed them down. His rifle was slung over his shoulder.

The wrench handle was getting wet and slippery. Monks wiped it under his arm and moved forward, quickly closing the forty-yard gap. The rain helped to cover the sound of his steps, and there was no doubt that Marguerite was right about Hammerhead's mind being far from anything but her just now.

Monks slowed, taking the final steps in a mincing prowl.
He was close enough now to hear the big man's grunts as he worked to rid her of her jeans. He rose out of his crouch, planted his feet, and cocked the wrench like a medieval executioner with a mace. The blow might crush Hammerhead's skull, but mercy was something that Monks could not afford.

Then he realized that Marguerite had frozen in place, and was staring fearfully at him over Hammerhead's shoulder.

With ferocious speed, Hammerhead shoved away from her and started to turn, head lowering and hands rising.

Monks swung with all the strength in his arms and shoulders, but it was not the well-placed slam that he had counted on. The wrench caught the side of Hammerhead's thick skull above the right ear, glancing upward and almost flying out of Monks's grip.

Hammerhead reeled back but stayed on his feet. With a blood-chilling sound that was part roar and part snarl, he charged at Monks, coming in low with outspread arms like a linebacker.

Monks pivoted off his left foot in a boxer's slip, and brought the wrench down hard across Hammerhead's shoulders as he lumbered past. This blow drove him to his knees. Incredibly, he kept slogging forward, clawing at his rifle to unsling it.

Monks leaped after him, boots slipping in the mud. This time, he swung the wrench at Hammerhead's right upper arm. He felt the
snap
of the humerus all the way up in his teeth.

Hammerhead roared again and fell onto his side, the broken arm flopping. Monks stepped in and yanked the rifle off his shoulder, then made a quick 360-degree sweep of the camp. Nothing else visible was moving.

His fingers traveled over the rifle's breech, identifying safety and selector switch. It was similar to the AK-47s he had seen in Vietnam. The only times that he had ever fired
assault rifles were a few sessions with AR-15s in basic training. Weapons expertise was not a high priority for medical officers on hospital ships. But after treating enough wounds from larger-caliber weapons like this one, he had familiarized himself with them out of some sort of superstitious dread, as if the guns themselves were the enemy.

Marguerite was still against the wall, eyes wide with shock and jeans pushed down to her hips. Her last-second panic might have saved Hammerhead's life.

“We need a place to lock him up,” Monks snapped at her. “Come on, quick.”

She started to move like someone coming out of a dream, pointing at a dark shed another twenty yards away, then fumbling to button her pants.

Monks stepped back to Hammerhead and pressed the muzzle against his head.

“All I need is an excuse,” Monks said. “Get up and drop your gear belt.”

Hammerhead got heavily to his knees, then to his feet. Clumsily, with his left hand, he unhooked his web belt and let it fall. Besides the radio, it had a survival knife and extra clips of ammunition. Monks scooped it up and slung it over his shoulder.

“Now get inside there.”

Hammerhead staggered toward the shed, left hand clasping his dangling right arm. Marguerite hurried ahead, unhooking the door's hasp and swinging it open. Monks could just make out the ghostly shapes of workbenches and machinery inside.

Hammerhead stopped, his face tight with rage and pain.

“You're dead, motherfucker,” he muttered, and Monks's meth-charged brain almost ordered his trembling finger to tighten that final quarter inch on the trigger.

Instead, he said, “Turn around.”

Slowly, breathing hard, Hammerhead turned to face the shed.

Monks stepped up behind him, raising the rifle as he moved, and slammed the butt into the back of Hammerhead's skull. He crashed to the ground like a fallen oak and lay still.

This time, Monks had not had the slightest hesitation. In fact, it had been thrilling.

He dragged Hammerhead into the shed and slammed the door shut. Marguerite dropped in the half-inch bolt that secured the hasp. Her rich black hair was slick and shining with rain like a wet animal pelt, and her eyes shone with an unknowable range of emotions. Monks gripped her shoulders and hugged her hard.

“Let's get Mandrake,” he said, and sprinted toward the lodge.

M
onks jogged along behind Marguerite, the warm inert weight of Mandrake bobbing gently on his back, like a child who had fallen asleep in his carrier. She led them to a steep, narrow ravine a quarter of a mile from the main camp. It looked like a giant ax split in a cliff face—the kind that was usually dry, but could become cascades during storms.

“The sensors don't work when it floods,” she said into his ear, half yelling to be heard over the rushing water.

He shined the flashlight on the muddy, frothing stream, looking for a place to ford. It was about ten yards wide, the depth hard to estimate. The banks were slick and steep, but there were small trees that would serve as handholds.

“What happens when we get across?” he yelled back.

“There's a trail. But we have to be careful, they've got ATVs.”

“Do you know the country out there?”

“Not really. Just right around here.”

Monks decided to worry about that when and if they got that far. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, easing it beside Mandrake's head.

“Hang on to my belt,” he told her.

They made their slippery way down the near bank, bracing themselves against the trees. At the bottom, he took a tentative step into the stream. It tore at his boot, filling it instantly with a powerful drag that tried to pull his foot out from under him. He crouched, hands outspread in case he fell, then started across.

There was plenty of tangled deadfall underwater that tripped their feet, but gave them more handholds. At midstream, Monks realized with relief that the water was only thigh deep. They floundered the rest of the way across and pulled themselves up the far bank. In the shelter of a big fir, they dropped to the ground, soaked, panting—

But out of the camp.

Monks emptied out his sloshing boots, wishing bitterly that he'd at least had had the intuition to put on lug-soled hiking boots when he'd left his house.

He checked his watch. It was 7:28
P.M.
Hammerhead would be missed when he failed to call in at 8
P.M.
—maybe earlier, if he came to and his shouts attracted someone, or he managed to kick his way out of the shed. With luck, the sentries would spend some time trying to figure out which way they had gone, but that could not be counted on. Monks figured that they had half an hour at most before they would have to abandon the road and strike off into the wilderness. The going would be much rougher then.

He took the small jar of meth and the paper tube out of his jacket's zippered inside pocket and handed them to Marguerite. He was acutely aware that their head start was dwindling fast, but an energy charge was worth the extra minute. The next hours, however they turned out, were going to be brutal.

When she was finished, he took his turn. With the drug's harsh fire piercing his brain, he gave her the flashlight, unslung his rifle, and followed her at a jog. The path was overgrown with weeds, barely visible, but he could see the vestiges of tire tracks.

His sense of direction was utterly blotted out. He could have been heading toward the moon.

He slogged along at his half-run, working to keep up with the younger, quicker woman. The meth told his brain that he could lope like a wolf all night, but his body, with the days of cumulative fatigue and his clumsy boots and wet clothes and the extra weight he was carrying, was already laboring hard. His ears strained to pick up the sound of an approaching engine over the driving rain.

If the heavily armed, night-goggled
maquis
caught up with them, it would mean a firefight.

A short one.

 

When the half-hour was up, Monks guessed that they had gone about two miles. He was starting to get a feel for the terrain. The trail was cut into a mountainside, running at a slight downhill grade. He watched the faint luminescent tunnel that Marguerite's flashlight opened up in the blurry night, hoping for a flat stretch to one side or the other, but the going was steep, both uphill and down. His body heat from the first strenuous exertions had evened out, and he was noticing that tonight was quite a bit colder than it had been. The raindrops pelting through the flashlight's beam were taking on the thick, splayed look of turning toward snow. So far, whatever tracks they had left would be hard to follow. But in fresh snow, footprints would be unavoidable—another reason to get off the road.

He decided to head uphill. It might help throw off their pursuers, who would expect them to take the easier course. And downhill was likely to lead them to another flooded
ravine like the one they had crossed getting out of camp, but potentially larger and impossible to ford. He watched the light beam intently for the next couple of minutes, and finally settled on a rockslide as a takeoff point.

He slowed to a walk, pulling in deep rasping lungfuls of wet air, and called hoarsely to Marguerite to stop.

“Turn off the light, and don't turn it on again unless I tell you,” he said when he caught up to her.

But before she clicked off the beam, he caught a glimpse of her eyes. The earlier euphoria was gone. She looked scared and tense, and while it was impossible to tell in the rain, he thought she might be weeping. He realized that with all of his own concerns, he hadn't thought about the hurricane of violence and emotions that she had been going through.

He put his arm around her shoulders.

“Look, we're doing great,” he said, speaking forcefully, close to her, as he would to a green ER resident or nurse losing her nerve. “You're saving this little boy's
life
, remember that. Now come on, we're going to
make
it.”

He wondered if, in the instant before the light beam vanished, she saw the madness in his own eyes.