Deep Trek

But he could hear clearly enough.

The voice of a woman. Old and sick and terrified. Begging for her life.

In the short time he’d been held prisoner, Jeff had heard enough helpless victims kicking and thrashing in the corridor outside, and seen some of them as he’d been led out for questioning.

They were some of the nastiest corpses he’d ever seen.

The thin steel wire was looped around the throat so that they strangled slowly, in great agony. The guards didn’t even bother to tie their hands or feet. Once they’d been lifted up, or stood on one of the square stools, they were inexorably doomed.

The wire bit in so deep, so quickly, that there was no hope of freeing themselves. In some cases the wire sliced through and burst the artery beneath the ear, sending a fountain of bright crimson to spatter across the walls and ceiling.

He’d never felt pity, just disgust at the stench and mess, and a stirring of panic for himself. But he wouldn’t get there, certain that he had something to offer, could make a deal.

Now some old slut was going to get it. But it sounded as if Joe was going to get his pound of flesh first.

“Yes, please, please,” she pleaded. “Let me…”

Jeff’s forehead wrinkled. Something was vaguely familiar about that pleading voice…

But he was too busy listening.

“So you want it, old hag?”

“Will you let me go…?”

There was the resounding noise of a round-arm slap across the face, followed by a gasp of shock and pain.

“Just get on with it, and no tricks, mind.”

The bleak lighting threw a muddled shadow along the filthy floor. Jeff, squinting sideways, could just make out the shape of a kneeling woman, hands lifting toward the towering shadow that was the guard.

“Watch out, belly, here it comes.” Joe was laughing and laughing.

Then he stopped laughing.

Stopped laughing very suddenly.

Jeff Thomas wondered what could have happened out in the corridor.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sly Romero was kneeling down on a blanket, hands clasped together, eyes squeezed tight shut.

The fire was burning brightly, the flames reflecting off the windows of the four-wheel-drive jeep that stood among the trees. Snow had fallen in the past hour, leaving a thin covering over the dry, cold earth.

Kyle Lynch was sharpening a knife on the sole of his boot, and Carrie Princip, left wrist bandaged, sat at his side.

Sly opened his eyes and stared across at them. “Sure it’s good me talking to Dad?”

“Sure. Last few days it’s been real important we kept quiet. In case the bad men with the guns came up and caught us.”

“Like with the fire and Mr. Abbey.”

“Yeah,” said Carrie. “Just like that. But you can tell Steve about it.”

“Did he see it happen? Where he lives?”

Kyle shook his head, hesitating. “Yeah, he… But he really likes to hear you tell about what happened.”

“Good, goody, goody good.” He closed his eyes again. “You know me was at Caffs Groceries, with the food and all, Dad? Me drink milk stuff, all pink and sweet. Saw pix in dark…liked it, Dad. Things looked good then.”

Carrie whispered to Kyle, “Boy’s right. Things looked good then….”

THEY’D BEEN HEADING north on Highway 395, toward Carson City, intending to drive the wheezing old pickup westward toward the coast and the rendezvous at Muir Woods on December 5.

A little past Walker, close to Wrightsville, a partly garbled message had led them to Caff’s Groceries. The message had indicated they might learn something there about Zelig and the location of Aurora.

Ted Abbey, once he’d been sure of their identities, had warned them that he didn’t know where the secret base of Aurora was located, just that it was north. He’d also explained about the threat from the Hunters of the Sun and mentioned their dead leader, Flagg.

“They know about me, you see. Know I’m here. Probably know about all of you, as well. They got ears and eyes everywhere, looking and listening from every mountaintop and every valley. One day they’ll come here. Sure I got some good defenses—but I have grave doubts it’ll be strong enough. They come with a mob and they’ll win. Eventually.”

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