“That’s impossible.”
Aaron grunted. “All this is impossible. But that would explain the pink crap that explodes out of their heads when you hit them hard enough. The brain gets changed. It’s not a brain anymore, it’s some kind of gel that exists to boost transmission from….” He nodded up. “And when they bite us, it focuses that transmission on the person who gets bit. Changes ‘em.” He traced the semicircle on Ken’s arm again. “You only got half-bit,” he said again. “Wasn’t enough to fully focus the transmission.” He looked Ken in the eye. “You got damn lucky, Ken. Damn lucky.”
Ken thought about it. About the sense of it. It fit, but it was guesswork. Still, Aaron was speaking as if it was more than simple conjecture. He spoke as if he knew. Certainty in his voice. Ken almost asked what the cowboy was holding back.
Then he realized that Aaron hadn’t answered one question. The most important question.
“Aaron,” he said, and put as much force into his voice as he could. He tried to imagine that it was the cowboy that was bound, and he was the one who was free and held the only light in the car. “What does this have to do with my kids?”
Aaron looked away. Looked down.
“Ken,” he finally said. “I think we might have to kill them.”
6
When he said the words, he said them in a monotone. A voice that was bereft of concern. He might as well have been announcing that he had to go to the Laundromat: “Gotta go to the store. We’re out of milk. Might have to kill your kids.”
Ken didn’t know if that meant he didn’t care about Liz and Hope. Maybe he did care, and this was the only way he could say it.
It didn’t matter. Either way, it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the words. The words that spoke of a death sentence for his family. For his remaining children.
Derek’s gone. He wants to take Hope and Lizzy.
Ken’s body moved without his involvement. As though it sensed that the children it had had a part in creating were in danger. The animal part of him that was separate from his conscious mind took over. He shoved his way up the wall, faster than he would have thought possible. Adrenaline seized him, pushed him instantly beyond himself. Everything disappeared around him, leaving only a dark tunnel with the pinpoint spot of light that marked Aaron’s location.
He was standing in an eyeblink, and in the next moment launched himself at the light. A noise that might have been “No!” but might just as easily have been a wordless shriek bounced around the metal boxcar. His bound hands reached for the cowboy. Fingers outstretched. Palms out to grab the man. To throttle the danger away from his children.
Aaron stepped aside. It might have been the distorting effect of the adrenaline, the curvature of space and time inflicted by Ken’s panic, but the move seemed almost casual. Aaron just stood and moved away. Ken slammed down with an “Oof” on the bare metal of the boxcar. Bounced. Air exploded from his lungs. He gasped. Tried to breathe. Couldn’t.
A boot landed on the back of his neck.
“Don’t. Do. That. Again.” The words were tight as overwound watch springs. Vibrating with tension. Barely-contained danger.
Ken had felt something crack when he landed. He held himself absolutely still. Unwilling to reveal the pain of what had just happened.
He heard a sigh. The light shifted and he could imagine the cowboy passing his hand over his forehead again. “None of this is what we want. And none of it is set in stone. But –”
The train rocked again. Harder than before. Hard enough that Aaron’s boot came off Ken’s neck as the cowboy stumbled. Ken tried not to move, tried to remain on his stomach, as motionless as possible.
The cowboy was silent a moment.
Then the scuff of boots.
The slide of a door. Light speared in.
“Stay,” said Aaron. Ken felt like a whipped dog.
The light disappeared.
All was dark.
The boxcar shifted again as something rocked the train.
Ken smiled.
7
Ken waited ten seconds to be sure. Sure that Aaron wasn’t coming back. Sure he was alone.
Sure that he had actually heard the crack.
When Aaron stepped out of the way, Ken’s hands went under him. An automatic reaction, the motion of a person about to fall flat on his face. Not so helpful when your hands are bound together with zip cuffs, and all that happened was he ended up crashing his full body weight on his arms and wrists. It hurt. Hurt the stumps of his left pinky and ring finger, which were scabbed over but still ached like hell. Hurt the bruises and scrapes that covered his body. Hurt the back of his head, concussed and lacerated. Hurt the front tooth that he had lost and jammed back in its socket and which had miraculously stayed in place through the last hours or days or however long it had been since Aaron took him by surprise.