Read Online Children Of The Mountain (Book 2): The Devil You Know by R.A. Hakok - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R.A. Hakok
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returns to the more serious business of digging a plastic fork into his plate of beans. His fatigues are frayed and patched, and like the other soldiers they seem to hang on him, like they once belonged to a larger man. But at least they seem like they’ve been washed recently.
With the introductions over Boots heads back to the sideboard to check on our food. The heavyset man he introduced as Truck reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a small metal tin with the words Grizzly Wide Cut and a picture of a bear stamped across the lid. He raps it on the table a couple of times and then pops the lid and works three blunt fingers deep into the tobacco, pulling out a thick wad. As he holds it up to his nose I notice a small, grubby bandage taped to the inside of his arm, in the same spot Boots was picking at last night. He inhales deeply, then places the tobacco between bottom lip and gum. He works his lip in and out a few times to get the juices flowing, finally smacking them together in satisfaction. When he’s done he replaces the lid on the tin and leans backs in his chair.
‘So Huckleberry, where y’all from?’
The accent’s southern, but not polished or polite like Kane’s was. Maybe it’s the tobacco he’s just placed in his mouth but he slurs over his consonants, omitting some altogether, instead choosing to linger lazily on the vowels. The nickname I seem to have acquired comes out Huck-a-beh-ree .
I tell him we’re from a place called Eden. His eyebrows knit together as if he’s thinking hard about where that might be. It looks like he might be building up to ask some more questions, so I decide to head him off with one of my own first. Boots has just set a plate with an anemic looking frankfurter and a spoonful of watery beans in front of me. I pick up a plastic fork and point at it.
‘Is this all you have left?’
Truck’s face hardens and he spits another stream of brown tobacco juice into the container at his elbow.
‘Franks and beans not good enough for you, boy? Some might say you’re lucky we’re sharing with you at all.’
I open my mouth to explain that I didn’t mean to cause offense; I was just asking a question. The food actually smells okay; I’ve certainly had worse. But Mags beats me to it. She pushes her plate out in front of her, the contents untouched. I see what’s coming and put my fork down with a sigh.
‘You needn’t worry. We have our own food; we won’t need to trouble you for any of yours.’
Boots pipes up behind me. ‘It’s true Truck. They’ve got a bunch of army rations on them. All sorts of flavors.’
‘Is that so?’ Truck’s gaze shift from Boots back to Mags. ‘And just where are y’all headed, miss?’
‘South.’
‘South, is it?’
‘Yes. We’ll be moving on soon.’
The soldier Boots introduced as Weasel turns to the big man I’ve just managed to rile with my unfortunate question.
‘Just like all the others, right Truck?’
‘Right, Weez, just like all the others.’
But he stares at me as he says it, his tongue still working the tobacco he’s got tucked behind his lip. Beside him the older man whose fatigues say his name is Rudd looks up long enough to cut me some stink eye and then goes back to rounding up stray beans with his fork. The atmosphere around the table’s definitely turned a little frosty after my attempt to divert Truck from questions about Eden. I’m trying to figure out how to get us back on track when from somewhere else in the building there’s a sound like a lawnmower being started. It catches, revs for a couple of seconds then settles into a languid idle. Around the room a handful of emergency lights flicker to life. I see Mags looking up as well. The chandeliers’ dusty crystals reflect the soft glow, but that’s not what’s caught my attention, and now I realize what was bugging me about the camera above the entrance, when we came in. We’re above ground, and this place can’t have been shielded.
With the introductions over Boots heads back to the sideboard to check on our food. The heavyset man he introduced as Truck reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a small metal tin with the words Grizzly Wide Cut and a picture of a bear stamped across the lid. He raps it on the table a couple of times and then pops the lid and works three blunt fingers deep into the tobacco, pulling out a thick wad. As he holds it up to his nose I notice a small, grubby bandage taped to the inside of his arm, in the same spot Boots was picking at last night. He inhales deeply, then places the tobacco between bottom lip and gum. He works his lip in and out a few times to get the juices flowing, finally smacking them together in satisfaction. When he’s done he replaces the lid on the tin and leans backs in his chair.
‘So Huckleberry, where y’all from?’
The accent’s southern, but not polished or polite like Kane’s was. Maybe it’s the tobacco he’s just placed in his mouth but he slurs over his consonants, omitting some altogether, instead choosing to linger lazily on the vowels. The nickname I seem to have acquired comes out Huck-a-beh-ree .
I tell him we’re from a place called Eden. His eyebrows knit together as if he’s thinking hard about where that might be. It looks like he might be building up to ask some more questions, so I decide to head him off with one of my own first. Boots has just set a plate with an anemic looking frankfurter and a spoonful of watery beans in front of me. I pick up a plastic fork and point at it.
‘Is this all you have left?’
Truck’s face hardens and he spits another stream of brown tobacco juice into the container at his elbow.
‘Franks and beans not good enough for you, boy? Some might say you’re lucky we’re sharing with you at all.’
I open my mouth to explain that I didn’t mean to cause offense; I was just asking a question. The food actually smells okay; I’ve certainly had worse. But Mags beats me to it. She pushes her plate out in front of her, the contents untouched. I see what’s coming and put my fork down with a sigh.
‘You needn’t worry. We have our own food; we won’t need to trouble you for any of yours.’
Boots pipes up behind me. ‘It’s true Truck. They’ve got a bunch of army rations on them. All sorts of flavors.’
‘Is that so?’ Truck’s gaze shift from Boots back to Mags. ‘And just where are y’all headed, miss?’
‘South.’
‘South, is it?’
‘Yes. We’ll be moving on soon.’
The soldier Boots introduced as Weasel turns to the big man I’ve just managed to rile with my unfortunate question.
‘Just like all the others, right Truck?’
‘Right, Weez, just like all the others.’
But he stares at me as he says it, his tongue still working the tobacco he’s got tucked behind his lip. Beside him the older man whose fatigues say his name is Rudd looks up long enough to cut me some stink eye and then goes back to rounding up stray beans with his fork. The atmosphere around the table’s definitely turned a little frosty after my attempt to divert Truck from questions about Eden. I’m trying to figure out how to get us back on track when from somewhere else in the building there’s a sound like a lawnmower being started. It catches, revs for a couple of seconds then settles into a languid idle. Around the room a handful of emergency lights flicker to life. I see Mags looking up as well. The chandeliers’ dusty crystals reflect the soft glow, but that’s not what’s caught my attention, and now I realize what was bugging me about the camera above the entrance, when we came in. We’re above ground, and this place can’t have been shielded.
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