more.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saul sat on the road, drawing stick-figures with a shard of white rock. The rain had already washed away two or three of his pictures, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to make the chalky images stick. Ceding defeat, he tossed the piece of rock into the trees opposite.
They were on a stretch of road not far from Ridgeway; at least, that was what the bullet-pocked sign at the side of the road said. It didn't make any difference, whatsoever, where they were. Saul wished he was alone again, away from his abusers, away from the pain.
Hadn't he suffered enough?
From not far away came the sound of rushing water. That would explain the second half of the sign, which read: Ross R Barnett Reservoir 1M.
Saul stood and stretched; the car was parked, locked and alarmed. Even if he ran, where would he go? He was in the middle of nowhere, with no idea of how to survive.
Those people were assholes – especially the man – but they were all he had to keep him alive.
Without them, he would go so far as to say he'd be dead already. They had weapons; knives, knuckledusters, that fucking shotgun which Lukas seemed to favour, and a never-ending supply of ammo. He'd seen the shells in the trunk of the car, boxed and stacked like a miniature armoury.
He hated them with a passion, but they knew what they were doing when it came to taking down those creatures, and he knew what they were doing to him after nightfall was wrong – and it hurt, by God it hurt – but was it really so bad? Did it really make him feel so worthless and pathetic that he would rather run, hide, try to survive on his own?
What, like he had been when they found him? He was a scrawny kid – no more than 65 pound wringing wet – and he had been hiding around that seven-eleven for days, too scared to step too far from it in case he was spotted by the things and chased and slaughtered and eaten.
The thought turned his blood to mercury, and he shivered, glancing around into the surrounding trees. The snow from last week was still clinging to the branches, slowly melting and dripping.
Saul suddenly felt the need to piss.
Don't you fucking move , Lukas had told him a little over an hour ago. There was a house along a trail leading of the road, and Abi and Lukas had stopped to go take a look, get supplies, probably fuck.
They fucked a lot.
Saul walked to the edge of the road, still in full-view of the black Oldsmobile, which the guy loved more than the girl, from what Saul could tell. She'd accidentally put a scratch on the passenger door last week and, after careful consideration and a bottle of Jim Beam, he'd proceeded to punch her in the face. Hard – not as hard as he could have done it – and she had apologised, sobbed, and pleaded throughout the whole sorry episode.
Saul had started off by willing the guy to kill her, to hit her hard enough to put his fist through her face, the same way it would if you connected full-on with one of those creatures. But then he'd felt sorry for her, and even thought about stepping in to stop the guy from doing any more damage.
Thought about it; didn't do it.
There was no sense in both of them taking a beating.
Saul pissed. Some of it went on his shoe, but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered any more. The world wasn't salvageable; that point was long past. So what if he pissed on his own shoe? It wasn't as if his mother could reproach him. She was dead. And his father . . . well, he was eaten by his grandfather. See, that was what was so wrong with everything; if you couldn't trust your own family not to eat you, who could you trust?
He finished pissing and put himself away, feeling better for the release.
He walked to the edge of the merging trail and stopped. There was no sign of them; he was starting to worry.
Not because he feared they were dead – no, they would be just fucking fine – but because he didn't
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saul sat on the road, drawing stick-figures with a shard of white rock. The rain had already washed away two or three of his pictures, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to make the chalky images stick. Ceding defeat, he tossed the piece of rock into the trees opposite.
They were on a stretch of road not far from Ridgeway; at least, that was what the bullet-pocked sign at the side of the road said. It didn't make any difference, whatsoever, where they were. Saul wished he was alone again, away from his abusers, away from the pain.
Hadn't he suffered enough?
From not far away came the sound of rushing water. That would explain the second half of the sign, which read: Ross R Barnett Reservoir 1M.
Saul stood and stretched; the car was parked, locked and alarmed. Even if he ran, where would he go? He was in the middle of nowhere, with no idea of how to survive.
Those people were assholes – especially the man – but they were all he had to keep him alive.
Without them, he would go so far as to say he'd be dead already. They had weapons; knives, knuckledusters, that fucking shotgun which Lukas seemed to favour, and a never-ending supply of ammo. He'd seen the shells in the trunk of the car, boxed and stacked like a miniature armoury.
He hated them with a passion, but they knew what they were doing when it came to taking down those creatures, and he knew what they were doing to him after nightfall was wrong – and it hurt, by God it hurt – but was it really so bad? Did it really make him feel so worthless and pathetic that he would rather run, hide, try to survive on his own?
What, like he had been when they found him? He was a scrawny kid – no more than 65 pound wringing wet – and he had been hiding around that seven-eleven for days, too scared to step too far from it in case he was spotted by the things and chased and slaughtered and eaten.
The thought turned his blood to mercury, and he shivered, glancing around into the surrounding trees. The snow from last week was still clinging to the branches, slowly melting and dripping.
Saul suddenly felt the need to piss.
Don't you fucking move , Lukas had told him a little over an hour ago. There was a house along a trail leading of the road, and Abi and Lukas had stopped to go take a look, get supplies, probably fuck.
They fucked a lot.
Saul walked to the edge of the road, still in full-view of the black Oldsmobile, which the guy loved more than the girl, from what Saul could tell. She'd accidentally put a scratch on the passenger door last week and, after careful consideration and a bottle of Jim Beam, he'd proceeded to punch her in the face. Hard – not as hard as he could have done it – and she had apologised, sobbed, and pleaded throughout the whole sorry episode.
Saul had started off by willing the guy to kill her, to hit her hard enough to put his fist through her face, the same way it would if you connected full-on with one of those creatures. But then he'd felt sorry for her, and even thought about stepping in to stop the guy from doing any more damage.
Thought about it; didn't do it.
There was no sense in both of them taking a beating.
Saul pissed. Some of it went on his shoe, but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered any more. The world wasn't salvageable; that point was long past. So what if he pissed on his own shoe? It wasn't as if his mother could reproach him. She was dead. And his father . . . well, he was eaten by his grandfather. See, that was what was so wrong with everything; if you couldn't trust your own family not to eat you, who could you trust?
He finished pissing and put himself away, feeling better for the release.
He walked to the edge of the merging trail and stopped. There was no sign of them; he was starting to worry.
Not because he feared they were dead – no, they would be just fucking fine – but because he didn't
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