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

a candle. Then came the sticky rivulets of blood, the heat of it nearly indistinguishable from the heat of the wound itself. The folds of his layered shirts soaked it up and grew heavy with it, clinging to his feverish skin as his nostrils filled with the smell of iron.

  He hadn't even realized that he was screaming.

  All at once, the men let go of his arms and he crumpled forward, reflexively bringing both hands to the raw valley of flesh on his face and gingerly covering it. His body writhed, wracked with pain, and his eyes unleashed a flood of stinging tears that only served to heighten the burning. He didn't want to cry anymore, not because of shame but because it made his face move, made the muscles work and flex. His face developed a pulsating heartbeat of its own, a meaty thudding that seemed to resonate all the way to the roots of his teeth.

  He felt cold air wash up his back as the door was opened and closed. Poke coming to watch, he thought absently. Coming to observe the fruits of all the pain he had allowed Emmit to cause him. Fine, he nearly sobbed aloud, let him watch. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore except for getting out of here alive.

  His racing thoughts turned to Muddy, Muddy who had died screaming out there in the enemy woods, swamped and dogpiled by beaming corpses. He had been screaming. What had his agony felt like? The toxic pain of the corpses' touch was familiar to Emmit now, and Muddy had endured that acidic corrosion on every inch of exposed skin. Compared to that, this new beauty mark was nothing. A paper cut. A hangnail.  Somewhere out there in the dark, Muddy was one of them. Human beef jerky. A Link, staggering around with the soiled idiot masses of them, existing and not existing at the same time. Yes, this was bad. But Muddy had had it much, much worse. That helped him cope with the pain, as it always seemed to. Someone always had it worse.

  Emmit felt his black and grimy hands pulled away from his face, and he fought the urge to swing wildly at whoever had dared to touch him again. He was glad that he didn't attack— it was the voice of the Rev that came from the watery and distorted silhouette that crouched over him. He felt a bitingly cold wetness press against his face.

  God that feels so good, thank you so much, that feels so much better, I wish I could give you my heart and soul for that because it feels so much fucking better—

  His hands flew to the miraculous balm, mashing it against the wound. It felt like an old shirt or maybe a sock, filled with snow and ice. The river of lava that had begun to flow from his temple to his collarbone instantly began to numb.

  "This helps," said the Rev, his smooth voice quivering with pity. "I know, brother."

  "Thank you," Emmit said feebly, and curled into a ball.

  He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard Roy's boisterous voice again, only now, that voice was more like a bad song being played on the radio for the fourth or fifth time in as many hours— a song you hated more and more with each repetitive loop.

  "Dinner time, fellas," Roy said cheerily. "Who's hungry?"

Chapter 9: The New Provider

The next two weeks passed agonizingly slow without much excitement to speed them along. The men occupied themselves with menial chores like chopping firewood (a grueling task that had to be done with a blunt, clumsy stone axe) and going on patrols around the perimeter of the camp. Roy and Poke usually made the daily rounds, only finding a Link to put down every few days or so. Sometimes they brought back clothing that hadn't been soiled too badly, like heavy winter coats and work boots.

  Emmit took every chance he could to keep ice and snow pressed against his face, which was still puffy and tender and beginning to itch maddeningly as the healing process started.  No infection had taken hold, which had surprised him. The blade Roy had marked him with had been moldering in his boot for who knew how long, and he hadn't bothered to sterilize it first. That got Emmit thinking about the conspicuous lack of animals in this strange wilderness. Perhaps bacteria and viruses were absent too, so no wound ever got infected? Again, he felt unease tickling its familiar path up his spine. There were no animals, and yet they were eating meat almost every night.

  What was that title they kept saying my first night here? The Provider? Roy never had to be the Provider, that's what Poke said, right?

  He opted to banish that line of thinking from his sore and weary head. It was too much to try to sort out on top of everything else, and with each passing year-long day there was room in his mind for little more than his son. He knew, distantly, that he was simply running away from something that made him feel uncomfortable. He allowed himself to. He didn't have the strength for another problem right now.

  And no matter what it is, we're starving.

  He cursed himself for thinking such a thing and being okay with it, then shook the thought out of his head. Roy obviously cared a great deal about keeping his team of survivors alive, and his new facial scar was proof. Surely that couldn't be what they were eating. No. They were not eating human flesh. Most likely Roy had a secret farm or pig pen or something, constructed far away in another clandestine part of the woods. A place he kept secret from the rest of them like his shed behind the cabin. The Provider was probably the person Roy