Boys in the Valley(48)

Instead he continues to pull the boy backward, a hunched demon dragging a soul into the lake of fire. “Damn you,” he grunts, fighting the boy every inch of the way.

“I’m scared!” Ben screams. “Don’t do this! Brother Johnson, he ain’t right!”

Johnson looks down into the opening, sees Bartholomew already below. His serene, pale face gazes upward.

That mad little fucker looks almost happy.

“Enough! Climb down that rope or I’ll throw you down. And it’s a long drop, boy. You hear me?”

With a lurch, Johnson swings Ben’s body over the opening. Ben’s legs slide into the open trap, dangle in mid-air. He’s breathing fast as a hare, face white with fear and shock, hands clutching at Johnson—small fingers scrabble at the sleeves of his garments, rake his beard, paw his face.

He shrieks and wails. Begs.

“Fine, we do it your way!” Johnson yells. He grips Ben’s arms and holds him over the opening, his feet kicking at the darkness, eyes desperate for salvation.

Johnson lets go.

He hears the thud of Ben’s body hitting the dirt below. Not wanting to listen to any further protestations, he yanks the rope upward, hand-over-hand, then grips the icy-cold door and slams it shut, hot breath puffing out in crystallized clouds. He waits for more screams, more tears . . . but hears nothing.

Although he’d never admit such a thing, perhaps not even to himself, he does feel badly for the child. He’s never seen a boy so terrified. Yeah, sure, many of those he carried out here fought. Some more than others. And many of them cried.

But this was something else.

This was a boy fighting an executioner.

Johnson’s had enough. His troubled mind pulses with emotions, fills with thoughts that make him sick and uncomfortable. He shuts them all out, begins his trek back to the orphanage. He’ll find the kitchen and demand some soup. Something to warm him, settle his nerves.

By God, what I’d do for a drink.

He’s twenty paces away from the hole when he hears a harsh, wailing scream.

He spins, goes still.

Listens.

The snow-filled wind whistles in his ears.

A distant tree branch snaps.

It’s just the wind, Teddy. Just the cursed wind. Nothing more.

He pulls the hood tight over his head and continues on his way, eager to be out of the cold.





29


THERE ARE NO VOICES AT DINNER.

For the second time in as many days, David sits at my table. Right now, he’s across from me, and I’m glad. He and I need to be unified if we’re going to get through this and, more importantly, help the others get through this.

I look down at my plate and nearly weep as my stomach wheezes in despair.

Two pieces of watery cabbage. A potato so small and knotted it takes all my willpower not to put the whole thing in my mouth at once for the fulfillment of having, temporarily, the wonderful feeling of being full. That, and so I won’t have to look at the ugly, misshapen thing another second.

“Did you hear about Michael?” David asks.

Oh no.

“Tell me.”

David takes a moment to see who is within earshot, and it strikes me again how paranoid all the kids are acting now. As if everyone is wary of everyone else.

“James went to the outhouse after Poole’s big speech, saw Michael wandering around outside, along the fence by the road. He called out to him but got no answer. When he went close to check on him . . .”

“What?”

David swallows hard, takes a moment, then continues. “He was all bloody. James said his hands were like raw meat.” David shakes his head. “He’d chewed off his own fingers.”

“David . . .”

“It’s true, Pete.”

I’m disgusted, and more than a little skeptical. This must be exaggeration. The rumors now will be far worse than any truth, but this seems a step too far. “Sorry, I don’t believe it.”

David shrugs. “I checked his bed before dinner. It’s soaked in blood. One of the staff was up there with an armful of sheets just as I was leaving.”

“Then it was an accident. Got his hand caught in something.”

David stabs at a leaf of soggy cabbage with his fork. “Maybe. But James says his mouth was dripping blood, and that he was laughing like a fool.” David drops his fork on the table, rubs his face. “God, I can’t eat this shit anymore.” He looks at me, almost accusatory. “I thought you brought back supplies.”

“We did. A wagonful,” I say, as if it serves as an explanation for being forced to eat scraps. “There are many of us,” I add lamely.

David grumbles and sighs, picks up the fork and stabs again, lifts the dull green cabbage into his mouth, chewing slowly. He takes a small sip of milk, most likely wanting to make it last. “Anyway, he’s in the infirmary.”

I nod, decide not to pursue it. It’s both too bizarre and too awful to think about, so I change the subject. “John Hill says a few weeks of hard winter are coming.”

David smiles coyly, and I know what’s next. Despite everything, David will always find a way to tease me mercilessly about certain things.

I’m an idiot for bringing up John Hill.

“And how is young Grace?” he says.