Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (the best motivational books TXT) 📗

straight for him. He felt guilty, as if he had done something wrong and Roy knew about it. But he hadn't done anything wrong. Why was he so afraid of this man?

"How'd you sleep?" Roy asked flatly. He crossed his mammoth arms over his chest. Emmit tried to keep his eyes locked on Roy's, but they kept returning to that handprint, his unwanted warpaint. The black looked like it sank all the way down to the bone; every wrinkle was filled like creeks that ran with some sort of dark ink, and as Roy spoke the black hand changed shape and flexed almost as if it were alive.

  Emmit felt the urge to lie to him about being out of bed and speaking with the Reverend, then mentally slapped himself. Why?  This wasn't the army. This wasn't prison (even if it felt like one). Roy and his crew had saved his life and taken him in out of the chaos, that was true, but Roy had no real authority over him.

  He has no legal authority over you, his mind chided him, but this is his camp. His yard. And in case you didn't notice, if there are any cops around, they're probably dead and thrilled as shit about it. He could just fracture your skull and call it a day.

  The brief, hot flash of pride faded almost as quickly as it had come. Emmit decided he would be honest with him. And besides, judging by his tone and body language, he already knew that Emmit had been outside.

  "Not good," he finally managed, reflexively removing his glasses with one hand and brushing the lenses against his chest. He held the club between his feet. "I decided to go outside and help with the watch."

  "Yeah," Roy said. "I know you did."

  Emmit stopped cleaning his glasses, and the two men stared at each other like rabid dogs about to get into a tussle— except one of the dogs was more like a wolf.

  "Is that an issue?" Emmit asked, trying to dial his tone back and be respectful even though he could feel his skin beginning to get hot as his fight-or-flight reaction took hold.

  Flight.

  "I told everyone to turn in and get plenty of rest, because we're going Link hunting today. Hand to hand combat, New Guy. I don't want to lose anyone.  I don't think you fully grasp how vital it is that we keep people here."

  Ah, Emmit thought, careful not to let his face betray what he was thinking. That's why the Reverend said you don't like to hear about that light in the woods. If people try to escape, they're not here to keep your camp running.

  Emmit could feel himself growing angrier. His brain, now packed with all of the agonizing memories of everything he had left behind, felt like a red-hot poker. He conjured up a mental image of himself dunking that glowing poker into a vat of water, hearing it hiss and squeal, seeing the bubbles boiling from it. The fantasy helped him relax, if only just a little.

  "I apologize, I wasn't trying to disobey you on purpose," Emmit said, swallowing dryly and keeping his voice as even and steady as a ship on a glassy sea. "I just thought I would be more help out there, rather than laying on my ass in the cabin."

  Roy's blackened face looked much less severe, and then he shocked Emmit by taking one giant stride forward and embracing him in a bear hug. He clapped him on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him, sending his glasses hurtling to the tip of his nose. Emmit awkwardly patted Roy's back, his palm thudding against the many layers covering the muscles beneath.

  "I don't mean to be a bastard. I don't," Roy said, holding Emmit's shoulders and never breaking eye contact. Not even when a wayward strand of his hair brushed across one of his wild eyes. "We just don't get many new people here, even less now than we used to. Not many people make it this far before they get swarmed. You saw that yourself. And I can't save them all, you know?"

  Emmit nodded and flattened his mouth, a familiar gesture that the internet (a luxury of the old world) had associated with awkward white people, not quite a smile and not quite a frown. Perfect for any situation.

  "He told you about the light, didn't he?"

  Emmit was so stunned that he let his facade slip, and Roy saw it. Roy smiled, deforming the palm of the black handprint. Emmit opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced over at the other survivors, where he saw the Reverend standing quietly away from everyone else, his gloved hands clasped together and held just under his chin. His eyes were closed, and his lips were a blur as he prayed to whoever might be listening to him.

  "Yeah, we've all heard that story. It's nonsense, New Guy. Bullshit. There's nothing out in those woods but death, and a whole lot of it. This camp..." he gestured to the decrepit cabin with its pitiful armory on display, then to the ragtag group of survivors fidgeting with their weapons.  "This is as good as it gets. Once you're here, there's no escape.  I mean it. The Rev is a good guy, one of the best. You just can't trust him."

  In his heart, Emmit somehow knew that Roy was lying. It was a barely perceptible twitch in his eye, or perhaps just a slight uptick in his voice, urgency he didn't often show. He looked like a politician denying the latest scandal allegations, except this scandal happened to be true.

It made Emmit want to try for the light that much harder— because if Roy was willing to lie about it, it had to be real. Emmit hoisted the heavy club and walked over to join the others, still not quite able to