Repatriation pt 5
Brakes shrieked. The van rolled to a halt. Beside Roy, Dave lurched forward, smacking his face into the dash with a loud thump. He moaned from the impact. In his peripheral vision, Roy watched the tuft of yellow hair switch left-to-right. Ignoring the plea for attention, Roy snatched at the door handle. Frosty air rushed into the cabin. Legs and back stiff from the ride up, he felt his age as he got climbed down. Dave followed him out. He stood staring at the woods while Chanda grabbed the carry cot.
"How's she looking?"
Roy stretched out, forcing life back into his limbs and lower spine. Casually scanning the tree line, ears alert for any hint of company, he strolled to the back of the van. Chanda held the child in her arms, brow furrowed as she wiped mucus from the child's crusted face.The shotgun already hung from a sling across her shoulders. Brass-toppped red cartridges glinted on an ammo belt strapped around her narrow waist.
"Her colour's better," she said, a genuine smile battling with the concern etched on her face.
"Is your place far?"
"About a hundred yards that way."
He jabbed a thumb into the trees. Tension rippled across Chanda's face. She nodded. The solid determination in her features made Roy's heart skip. He shook his head, pushing the emotional response deep into his gut. His hand dropped to the quiver at his hip, eyes following. The gesture was more something to keep his mind occupied than a need to check how many bolts had survived his encounter with Bart.
"I don't suppose you had time to grab my bow?"
"Strangely enough," Chanda said, pulling Grace tight to her chest and kicking an empty box deeper into the van.
"Dave thought to grab it while I dumped you in back."
"Well I'll be damned!"
He smiled as he spoke, kept his eyes locked on the weapon. He scooped it up, felt reassured by it's familiar weight. Up-ending it, he slipped his foot into the stirrup, pretended the wire didn't cut into his palm as he drew the string into place.
"Right," he said, sliding a bolt into place.
"Let's get this kid somewhere warm."
Senses alert, Roy led the way. Silent except for the whisper of his boots through the snow, he felt tension knot the muscles in his spine. Over his shoulder, Dave puffed and groaned through almost every step. Rocks grated under the other man's shoes. Roy found himself wondering how the blond could find so many twigs to snap underfoot.
"Chanda," Roy said, voice louder than he'd like.
"You still have the gun and the baby?"
A slight grunt followed hushed whispers and footsteps. Grace coughed, whined for a half-second, then fell back into silence.
"Just the gun now," Chanda said, her voice a sharp whisper.
"Good. See there?"
Without looking back, Roy gestured to a patch of snow up ahead. A thick furrow of brown, churned earth scored the white plain. Broken tree limbs and trampled underbrush surrounded the spoor. Slick pools of blood drained into the mud. The air hummned with mutant pheromones.
"This is the second one I've seen today. Something's attracting the freaks. Keep your noise down and your eyes peeled."
"How much farther do we have to go?"
Dave whined between huffing breaths, the pitch of his voice cuttig through Roy. Ignoring him, Roy increased his pace, ducked into a thatch of close-grown pines. Eyes narrowed, he stopped short. Dave walked into him, knocking him forward a step. Grace keened a single long note.
"Why did you stop? What's wrong? Where's your bunker?"
The blond man pulled his daughter close to his chest. His pale blue eyes flashed an accusatory stare.
"You said it was a hundred yards. The baby needs medicine. She needs to get out of the cold."
Face neutral, Roy jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"Entrance is behind that hummock. There's a big steel door set in the ground."
Nose tilted to he canopy, Dave nodded. Child clutched to his shoulder, the shorter man stamped past the engineer.
"If you look," Roy called to Dave's back.
"There're also foot prints. They shouldn't be too hard to spot. They're fresh and no one's bothered to cover them up."
Back a rigid pole, Dave froze. Grace shifted on his shoulder, obviously disturbed by the tremor rippling through her dad's spine. With more stealth than he'd shown in the few hours Roy had known him, the blond guy began walkng backwards.
"Is it safe?" Dave asked, the weight of tears in his throat.
"Is it safe for Gracie?"
"Your guess is as good as mine."
Snow crunched. Chanda broke the tree line. Gun ported across her chest, she scanned the surrounding forest with a look of fierce concentration. Roy shifted his attention to the trees, suppressing a smile and the butterfly wings in his chest.
"Sorry," she said, joining the men.
"I thought I heard something back there. Is everything okay."
Roy licked his lips, opened his mouth to speak. Dave cut him off.
"There's tracks near the entrance to his bunker," Dave spat, juggling his hold on the child.
"Look. You can see they're fresh. Look at them!"
Chanda rested the barrels of her shotgun over her shoulder. Planting her free fist on a hip, she shifted her attention to Roy.
"How secure is your front door?"
Roy scratched his head. His fingers burred against minute regrowth on his shaved scalp.
"When I'm inside, nothing can get in."
He paused, drew a breath.
"But I don't tend to put it in lock-down when I'm hunting. Even before the world turned to shit, I liked to know I could get in fast. You'd have to be pretty strong to smash the lock, and I was particular about the design I chose. Picking lock's ain't as easy as on TV, but there's always the possibility."
Chanda cocked a hip.
"Is there any other way in?"
Roy shrugged, took in the area with a sweep of his hand.
"This part of Wales is riddled with mines. Some are documented, others carved out by amateurs and free miners for centuries. I've blocked off where I can, but if something like Bart came hammering on the walls or even something that found a pick..."
He let it hang, feeling bad at the uncertanty in his voice. He felt worse when Chanda nodded, cogs clearly turning behind her hazel eyes.
"Guys?"
Annoyance flashing in his chest, Roy spun to face the blond man. Anger dripped away to tconcern then the first chill touch of fear. While he'd been talking, Dave had moved toward the hummock. He stood atop it, baby held tight to his chest. He'd kicked up the snow with around his feet. Thick steel glittered under his loafers. Red painted lines marked the metal.
"I think I can answer your question," the blond mumbled.
"Shit," Roy snapped, readying his bow and striding toward Dave.
"That's my front door."
-TBC-