Read Online Children Of The Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know by R.A. Hakok - Free Book Online
Authors: R.A. Hakok
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muffled sounds of conversation drift up from somewhere ahead of us on the right.
Boots stops in front of a set of double doors and holds one open for Mags to go through. I follow her into a huge dining room. Two rows of sculpted columns support a high ceiling, at least a dozen chandeliers like the one in the lobby hanging between them. Large, ornate mirrors that would once have reflected the light back line the walls, their surfaces spackled black with years of neglect.
Most of the furniture’s been stacked neatly in one corner but in the center one table remains. I see Jax already seated at it, his broad back to us. Three other men sit with him, all in uniform, the remains of a meal spread out in front of them. The soldier at the head of the table seems to be giving forth on something but he stops mid-sentence as we step in and looks over at us.
‘Well, look what we got here.’
*
T HE OTHER TWO MEN turn around in their seats, and for a long moment no one speaks. Then one of them inclines his head to the soldier at the head of the table who first spotted us.
‘Damn but that boy looks tall enough to hunt geese with a rake, don’t he Truck?’
Boots is over at a sideboard fiddling with the knobs on a camping stove, trying to get the burners to light. He doesn’t seem to be having much success and without gasoline I wonder how much longer it’s going to take him. Everyone at the table’s staring at us so I figure we should go over and say hello.
Boots finally manages to get the stove going and now he scurries across the room and darts in front of us, anxious not to relinquish control of his prize. He pulls out a chair for Mags and motions for her to sit. I slide myself into the next one along before he has the chance to claim it for himself. Across the table Jax is loading a rubbery-looking frankfurter into his mouth whole. He stares back at me as he chews on it. It’s unclear from those flat blue eyes whether he recognizes us from before or not.
Boots makes the introductions. The soldier at the end of the table who looked like he was holding court when we came in is a big man, thickset, although the way his sweat-stained fatigues hang on his heavy frame suggests he was once even larger. His sleeves are rolled up and he rests a pair of meaty forearms on the table. His thinning black hair sweeps upwards from a low forehead; a pair of small dark eyes examine us from underneath thick eyebrows that almost meet in the middle. The lower half of his face is dominated by a large jaw and heavy jowls that are darkened with stubble. His bottom lip bumps out and he keeps poking at whatever he’s got tucked there with his tongue. Taken together his features lend him the appearance of a big old bulldog, perhaps fallen on hard times. His fatigues say his name is Truckle but Boots introduces him as Truck. He offers us a yellow gap-toothed smile and spits a long stream of something brown into a cut-off plastic soda bottle at his elbow.
The soldier to his left who commented on my height is thin, wiry. He smiles as it’s his turn to be introduced but his eyes keep darting back to Truck, like he’s less interested in us than in the larger man’s reaction to our presence. The name patch on his breast reads Wiesmann but Boots calls him Weasel. The smile flickers a little at that, like it’s not a name he cares much for. I have to admit it’s pretty apt though. The sharp, inquisitive eyes and overbite don’t call to mind someone you’d leave in charge of the henhouse.
The third man’s name is Rudd. He looks older than the others seated around him. What little hair he has left is gray, and cut to a brisk military stubble. Deep horizontal lines have grooved themselves across his forehead; more bracket his mouth, which seems naturally inclined to pull down at the corners. He seems dour, stern; hard-eyed and humorless. He looks up briefly at the mention of his name, his puffy eyes narrowing to slits, and then
Boots stops in front of a set of double doors and holds one open for Mags to go through. I follow her into a huge dining room. Two rows of sculpted columns support a high ceiling, at least a dozen chandeliers like the one in the lobby hanging between them. Large, ornate mirrors that would once have reflected the light back line the walls, their surfaces spackled black with years of neglect.
Most of the furniture’s been stacked neatly in one corner but in the center one table remains. I see Jax already seated at it, his broad back to us. Three other men sit with him, all in uniform, the remains of a meal spread out in front of them. The soldier at the head of the table seems to be giving forth on something but he stops mid-sentence as we step in and looks over at us.
‘Well, look what we got here.’
*
T HE OTHER TWO MEN turn around in their seats, and for a long moment no one speaks. Then one of them inclines his head to the soldier at the head of the table who first spotted us.
‘Damn but that boy looks tall enough to hunt geese with a rake, don’t he Truck?’
Boots is over at a sideboard fiddling with the knobs on a camping stove, trying to get the burners to light. He doesn’t seem to be having much success and without gasoline I wonder how much longer it’s going to take him. Everyone at the table’s staring at us so I figure we should go over and say hello.
Boots finally manages to get the stove going and now he scurries across the room and darts in front of us, anxious not to relinquish control of his prize. He pulls out a chair for Mags and motions for her to sit. I slide myself into the next one along before he has the chance to claim it for himself. Across the table Jax is loading a rubbery-looking frankfurter into his mouth whole. He stares back at me as he chews on it. It’s unclear from those flat blue eyes whether he recognizes us from before or not.
Boots makes the introductions. The soldier at the end of the table who looked like he was holding court when we came in is a big man, thickset, although the way his sweat-stained fatigues hang on his heavy frame suggests he was once even larger. His sleeves are rolled up and he rests a pair of meaty forearms on the table. His thinning black hair sweeps upwards from a low forehead; a pair of small dark eyes examine us from underneath thick eyebrows that almost meet in the middle. The lower half of his face is dominated by a large jaw and heavy jowls that are darkened with stubble. His bottom lip bumps out and he keeps poking at whatever he’s got tucked there with his tongue. Taken together his features lend him the appearance of a big old bulldog, perhaps fallen on hard times. His fatigues say his name is Truckle but Boots introduces him as Truck. He offers us a yellow gap-toothed smile and spits a long stream of something brown into a cut-off plastic soda bottle at his elbow.
The soldier to his left who commented on my height is thin, wiry. He smiles as it’s his turn to be introduced but his eyes keep darting back to Truck, like he’s less interested in us than in the larger man’s reaction to our presence. The name patch on his breast reads Wiesmann but Boots calls him Weasel. The smile flickers a little at that, like it’s not a name he cares much for. I have to admit it’s pretty apt though. The sharp, inquisitive eyes and overbite don’t call to mind someone you’d leave in charge of the henhouse.
The third man’s name is Rudd. He looks older than the others seated around him. What little hair he has left is gray, and cut to a brisk military stubble. Deep horizontal lines have grooved themselves across his forehead; more bracket his mouth, which seems naturally inclined to pull down at the corners. He seems dour, stern; hard-eyed and humorless. He looks up briefly at the mention of his name, his puffy eyes narrowing to slits, and then
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