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

trunks and a simple black cutoff that exposed most of its blue-gray torso. Its hair looked like it had arrived here with it still wet from a leisurely afternoon spent in a swimming pool. It was a slicked back bed of spikes, now glistening with ice.

  "Murrrrrderer..." it said once, and once only, before the Rev swiftly dispatched it. Emmit was struck by how human it had sounded, how alive, compared to the dried-out husks he had grown accustomed to.  Tim jabbed his spear through the Link's neck, punching through the tangles of cords and arteries and severing the thing's head almost entirely. The blood that came out was still runny liquid, yet cooled enough to not steam as it hit the snow. It collapsed into an untidy heap at the Rev's feet, gurgling, one leg twitching like that of a dying cockroach.

  "You weren't kidding," the Rev said gravely, looking over each shoulder before returning to guide Emmit. "They're everywhere. I think even more than you may have estimated."

"Can we make it?"

Tim squeezed his shoulder, pulling him slightly to the right to avoid tripping over the draining corpse of the swimmer.

"If we're very, very quiet, I think we can. But I don't see the light, Emmit. I haven't seen it in a while, if I'm honest, and I don't know how you plan to—"

Emmit shrugged under the Rev's firm grasp, one quick hitch of his shoulders.

"We don't have any other choice, Tim. Maybe if we go looking for it, it'll... I don't know, switch on somehow.  Either way, we'll probably die. I'm gonna die on my terms."

The Rev didn't respond to that grim sentiment, and instead all Emmit heard was the storm wind sound of the Megahorde, hissing and moaning all around them. Neither of them harbored any delusions about where they stood in the scheme of things; most likely, they would join the horde before the night was through. But if they had to die, they would die fighting. Die trying. They wouldn't die at the hands of the two madmen back at the cabin, raging around like two hornets trapped inside a hot car. They would not be their food.  They would not become their feces.

Emmit detected the sweetish smell of burning wood again, and his shoe brushed a partially buried hunk of splintered wood. They were close to the shed now.

"Tim," he said, looking back over his shoulder. "I told you that Pup's in bad shape.  I wasn't exaggerating. Are you sure you're ready to see it?"

  Emmit dug his heels in, forcing the Rev to stop. He turned to face his ally, who was rubbing at his eyes and forehead as if trying to reinforce them. Prepare them for what was coming.

"I'm not ready to see it, no. But that doesn't change the fact that we can't leave him."

Emmit could see the glowing doorway ahead of them and, tapping Tim on his chest to let him know he was in control, he went ahead on his own. Stepping back inside the broken door, it was like his mind had been wiped once more. He had forgotten how thick and rich the smell of blood inside the meat locker had been. It was like pressing his face into a bowl of old pennies.

Pup had managed to drag himself closer to the fire pit for warmth, leaving a long, red smear behind him. He had rolled over onto his stomach, folding his arms under his head as a makeshift pillow. His breaths were fast and shallow. Emmit would have thought him dead if the Rev, mumbling his lord's name repeatedly as he jogged to the kid’s side, hadn't knelt and put a trembling hand on his neck.

"He's breathing," he said softly, "But I don't know if we can move him through a pack of Links without getting him killed. If we jostle his... legs... too much..."

Pup's eyes fluttered open, utterly devoid of light and life. His head bobbed and swayed as he tried to lift it from his arms, his hair matted to his forehead.

"Don't," he said plainly, and his face crumpled as he began to cry. Emmit moved over and sat down beside the Rev, folding his legs under him and resting on his shoes. He felt a fleeting rush of guilt as he did so; ridiculous guilt for the fact that he still had legs to sit on.

"Don't what, Pup?" He asked, in a soothing voice. He brushed the kid's hair out of his face. "Don't move you?"

Pup nodded, using a vast amount of the strength he had left in him. He licked his lips, which were a deathly shade of purple.

"I can hear them... out there. I can... hear that there's too... many of them. Don't... please don't take me out there with them."

His arm slowly slid across the floor, and his bloodstained fingers touched one of the sunken tourniquets gingerly.

"Take them off," he whispered, a fresh tear trailing down his cheek, leaving a glistening trail like a miniature comet. "I don't... want to be... turned… touched…"

The Rev's lower lip trembled ever so slightly as it puffed out from beneath his top lip, and Emmit noticed that his eyes were much wetter and much shinier than they had been moments before. He gestured towards the door with his spear and said, "I'll go watch the door, and... and I'll say a prayer."

He made it three steps before he stopped, half-turning to look back at where Emmit sat with Pup. Pup had laid his head on Emmit's knee, and Emmit was softly patting the kid's back.

"Listen to him, Emmit," Tim said huskily, then turned his back and went to lean against the shattered door frame. He didn't look back this time. Emmit stared down at the dying boy, swallowing the thick lump in his throat each time it formed again, desperate to appear stronger and braver than he actually felt.

"Pup..." he attempted, but his