Messiahs

by Matt Rogers

  Her face said, No shit.

  Alexis figured Brandon’s brainwashing was beyond salvation.

  Addison walked away, leaving Alexis alone on the outskirts.

  She took a deep breath and steeled herself.

  For the first time, the consequences of failure properly hit her.

  Victims like Addison will die.

  It put an invisible weight on her shoulders, crushing down on her, and there was nothing she could do to remove it.

  53

  The commune shrank away as King walked into the grassland, but it never disappeared entirely.

  Such was the nature of the land. Aside from the hill that the Riordan farmhouse was positioned on, the prairie was flat in every direction for dozens of miles. There were slight undulations, but they were few and far between. King knew he would draw the ire of Maeve and Dane for disobeying, but it wouldn’t do him any good if they trusted him implicitly. He wanted to methodically rattle them, put them on the back foot, see how they reacted. It was all part of gathering intelligence. If they verbally assaulted him when he got back, he’d know they were volatile, unable to keep their emotions in check.

  He crested one of the slight rises in the landscape and started to descend the other side.

  He stopped.

  Elias was fifty feet in front of him, lowering a corpse into a hole.

  There was no blood. The body had previously been a man, maybe in his mid-twenties, with long hair and pale skin turned even paler in death. His neck was swollen and bruised — a mixture of purple and black. His lips were blue. Rigor mortis was already setting in.

  Elias was sweaty with exertion. His blond hair was matted to his head and his face glistened. He looked up and saw King, but he didn’t pause. With a smirk he continued lowering the corpse until he could dump it into the grave. He’d dug the hole himself — a shovel covered in dirt lay beside it.

  He brushed the dirt off his hands as he let go of the body.

  Without looking up, he said, ‘You’re not supposed to be out here.’

  King’s head and heart fought a silent battle.

  His heart told him to kill Elias right there. Expedite the process. Go back to the commune, deal with the Riordans, and get the hell out of Wyoming. He’d seen more than enough to know that everyone in charge here deserved death. But his head told him to wait. Maintain the cover, look for weaknesses and openings in the Riordans’ defences so they could get the job done efficiently, without butchering it and enraging all the followers.

  His head won.

  Just.

  He shrugged and said, ‘Does it matter if I am? You don’t think I’ve seen a body before?’

  Elias seemed to appreciate the honesty and the straightforwardness. He straightened up, opening his shoulders, becoming warmer. Showing camaraderie. He said, ‘Well, I think they were waiting to reveal what this job requires.’

  King said, ‘They never would have approached me if it was something simple.’

  Elias nodded.

  King said, ‘Who was he?’

  Elias put his hands on his hips, stared into space. Thinking hard. Then he said, ‘I shouldn’t say. You should go back, pretend you didn’t see anything.’

  ‘I will,’ King said. ‘I’ll pretend not to know.’

  Elias looked at him.

  King said, ‘So?’

  It swayed Elias. He said, ‘The outside world isn’t ready to find out about us. Not yet. It’ll happen in due time, but right now anyone wanting to speak up are whistleblowers. You saw what our government wanted to do to Snowden.’ Elias gestured into the hole. ‘I did what I had to do before he could flee our borders.’

  King tried not to look at the corpse at risk of showing his infuriation. He battled down disgust as he said, ‘What was he going to do?’

  ‘He was weak,’ Elias said. ‘He knew what he signed up for but he changed his mind when he got here. Maybe the living conditions weren’t as luxurious as he hoped. Who knows … but he was going to steal a truck and head back to civilisation. He was going to alert people who absolutely need to stay in the dark.’

  King glanced at the body, noting the swollen, bruised neck. ‘How’d you kill him?’

  ‘A Wing Chun strike,’ Elias said. ‘To the throat.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘I know. That’s why they keep me around.’

  Because you can beat helpless unresisting hostages to death, King thought. Very impressive.

  Elias stood there, smug.

  King said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’

  Elias’ face changed.

  Imperceptible, but it shifted.

  He said, ‘You’re not going to say anything about this, are you?’

  ‘I thought we already went over this.’

  ‘Just don’t get any ideas,’ Elias said. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You and I aren’t so different.’

  Oh, but we are, King thought.

  He said, ‘What am I thinking?’

  ‘That it was a lapse of judgment to do this where you could stumble across it,’ Elias said. ‘You could take that to the Riordans, convince them I’m inept. Persuade them that the job’s not right for me, that it’s right for you.’

  King smirked. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, friend. Trust me.’

  As soon as he turned his back and walked back to the commune, the smile vanished from his face.

  Dark stoicism replaced it.

  He felt Elias’ eyes on his back.

  54

  With the body buried under six feet of hard-packed dirt, Elias tried to wind down in his living quarters.

  But he couldn’t.

  He sipped green tea from a fine china mug — a luxury he’d only been permitted because of the power he wielded as the Riordans’ enforcer — and sat cross-legged on the hard wooden floor. He’d never used cushions or padding to meditate. He considered them weak. Strength was voluntarily enduring discomfort.

  Right now, though, he rippled with discomfort that was entirely involuntary.

  He’d been stewing on the chance encounter with the newcomer all morning. First name “Jason,” last name unknown. And that was all Elias knew. He knew even less about his dark-skinned, quiet, permanently angry compatriot.

  Around an hour ago he’d decided to do something about it.

  There was a knock at the door to his quarters.

  Elias got up, put the empty teacup on the small side table, went to the door and opened it.

  He ushered the young man in with haste.

  The guy’s name was Grayson. He was twenty-four, previously a construction worker with a lacklustre work ethic and no real promise in life. He’d stumbled across Mother Libertas much the same way everyone did, and Maeve’s whisperings had converted him within days. Elias had heard rumours — that Grayson’s sister, Karlie, had been scouring Gillette for signs of him, and instead of dispatching Elias, Maeve had sent a brother and sister out to deal with it.

  It rubbed Elias the wrong way.

  Maybe that’s why he’d chosen Grayson for this task.

  Grayson’s plain round eyes were alive with desire. Elias had promised him something in exchange for this clandestine meeting…

  Grayson said, ‘Where is it?’

  Elias said, ‘In the tea.’

  He handed Grayson a fresh cup of green tea that he’d prepared minutes earlier.

  Grayson said, ‘A full dose?’

  ‘And a little extra,’ Elias said. ‘It’ll put you on cloud nine. Just make sure no one notices you’re tripping. That much Bodhi is like a never-ending orgasm.’

  Grayson said, ‘When do you want it done?’

  ‘At the afternoon congregation,’ Elias said.

  ‘That’s not far away. I’ve got a knife, but it’s not sharp enough to—’

  Elias pressed a razor-sharp switchblade into Grayson’s hand.

  Grayson clutched the knife, took a deep breath, and downed the entire cup.

  Elias said, ‘
Make sure you do it fast. And if you get caught, you know what to do.’

  Grayson feigned drawing the blade across his own throat.

  It always flabbergasted Elias how quickly Maeve could get her followers to sacrifice their own wellbeing for the good of the cause.

  Then again, that was the whole point of cults.

  Elias thought about asking, Why are you doing this? Why did you agree to stab a man you don’t know in church for a single hit of Bodhi?

  But the second question contained the answer.

  The stuff was that good.

  So he didn’t say anything. Just motioned to the door and gave Grayson a look like they were brothers in arms, fighting the good fight against a perceived common enemy.

  Grayson nodded back and walked out.

  In an hour he’d be on top of the world as the Bodhi flooded his brain.

  55

  King got back to find Dane waiting for him outside the mess hall.

  The followers were piling into the building for the first communal meal of the day — a hearty breakfast to fuel them for the workday. There was endless work to do on the commune — renovations, construction, repairs, the thousand odd administrative tasks that are required to coordinate two hundred people living together in the middle of nowhere. It was paramount that the living conditions, while poor, never devolved into squalor. With an intermittent stream of Bodhi, the disciples could put up with simple living (their pleasures coming from elsewhere), but they needed basic necessities to survive.

  Drugs fuelled productivity, which kept the commune’s resources and assets growing, and it allowed the disciples to attend their daily congregations and practice their meditations without worrying about where their next meal would come from, or where they’d sleep at night.

  Dane pulled King aside and said, ‘Happy now?’

  King slapped him on the shoulder. Despite his impressive height, the man was frail. ‘Very.’

  Dane said, ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘You’re going to need to drop the ego,’ King said. ‘It’ll make us work better together.’

  ‘We don’t work together,’ Dane said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So when are we figuring that out?’

  ‘You’ve been here eight hours,’ Dane said. ‘You haven’t even had your first meal yet. Settle in. Talk to some people. Get a feel for the place.’

  ‘I’m not signing up for your cult. I’m getting hired to protect it.’

  All the warmth vanished from Dane’s eyes, replaced by cold calculation. He looked over King’s shoulder, but his lizard-like tension uncoiled as he realised none of the followers streaming past had been in earshot. He waited for the last few stragglers to enter the mess hall, leaving them alone outside.

  In an entirely new tone, Dane said, ‘You use that word again in public and I’ll have you executed. Don’t test me.’

  King froze.

  How would the man I’m portraying respond?

  He backed off and nodded respectfully. ‘Understood. I apologise.’

  Dane said, ‘I’m putting you on the next ride out of here. You’re not fit for the job.’

  King’s heart thudded.

  ‘Dane, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Really, I am.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘I’ll do what you need.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’

  ‘I’ll prove myself.’

  Dane thought about it.

  ‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘After breakfast you sweep floors and scrub toilets until the afternoon congregation. Should be five or six hours of work.’

  King nodded immediately, reverting to recruit mentality. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dane paused. He hadn’t been expecting that. He smiled. ‘Might have some use for you after all.’

  He dismissed King with a wave.

  King walked into the mess hall, realising that the Riordans’ intent all along had been to employ psychological warfare to make King and Slater subservient.

  Then they’d protect the commune free of charge.

  After they were converted.

  56

  King and Slater ate across from Violetta and Alexis on one of the tables in the mess hall, but they couldn’t discuss anything substantive.

  It was infuriating.

  They chit-chatted about the imagined night they’d met in the bar. They discussed what future plans they’d had before coming here. They talked about how much they liked the community, the sense of belonging.

  Slater wouldn’t dare say anything else.

  As soon as he’d started chowing down on his thin bacon, overcooked eggs and slightly burnt toast, he’d realised they were being surveilled. The disciples on either side of them ate in silence, focusing hard on their food, their ears open. Paying attention to every word. Maeve or Dane must have put them up to the task.

  When he and King finished eating, they got up without incident, bidding a muffled goodbye to Violetta and Alexis, who nodded disinterestedly back.

  They didn’t so much as hold eye contact.

  Someone would notice.

  When Slater turned to leave, as a few of the disciples were already doing, Maeve was at the exit doors.

  She stood beside a trolley with multiple tiers, each tray sporting a grid of see-through plastic cups, barely larger than shot glasses. Roughly two ounces of water were poured into each small cup. She wore her trademark peach farm dress, and her face was open and warm.

  As each disciple left, she handed them a cup, watched them drink it, and returned it to the tray.

  Slater didn’t need to sample the liquid to know it was a Bodhi microdose.

  The key to productivity for the coming day.

  There was no way to avoid or refuse it without drawing attention, so Slater steeled himself.

  It would be the first substance in his veins since he’d quit drinking half a year ago in New York.

  Somehow it frightened him more than a live firefight.

  He knew his brain, knew its finer intricacies. If he wasn’t careful, this would spiral him back to where he’d been.

  You take this, he thought, and that’s it.

  No matter how good it is.

  When you get back to the outside world, you don’t touch a drink.

  A harsh ultimatum, but one he knew he needed.

  Or he’d cave, over and over and over again.

  He went straight for the exit, despite King’s concerned gaze.

  King muttered, ‘Are you sure—?’

  Slater shushed him and said, ‘Yes,’ as he went past.

  Maeve was watching him like a hawk.

  Slater went to walk past her.

  She put a hand on his arm. There was no force behind it, but her grip carried invisible weight.

  She said, ‘Drink this.’

  She handed him a disposable cup.

  He looked down at the water. It seemed normal, innocuous.

  He said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gaia’s spirit,’ she said. ‘Mother will be with you throughout the day.’

  Slater raised an eyebrow.

  Maeve said, ‘See for yourself.’

  He couldn’t say I don’t do drugs anymore because she hadn’t revealed it was drugs. And if he refused on the grounds of suspicion, he’d insult the very nature of Mother Libertas.

  He couldn’t blow his cover here, with two hundred people around him.

  Not unarmed.

  He drank the liquid down, worried it was a full dose. But that would be ludicrous. In the Bahamas, Jace had lost his mind on a full hit, awash in ecstasy, uncaring of the consequences of his actions. That wouldn’t lead to a productive workday here in the commune. No, it was definitely a microdose.

  He handed the empty cup back to her.

  She smiled at him, gripped his arm a little tighter, and whispered, ‘Mother awakens.’

  He walked out, thoroughly unnerved.

  Behind him, King downed his own cup without complaint or hesitation.r />
  They moved outside, into the chilly air.

  King was pale.

  Slater’s heart skipped a beat.

  He looked around, checking for signs of Dane, but the man was gone.

  Slater turned back to King and said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Violetta,’ King hissed under his breath. ‘The baby.’

  Slater muttered, ‘Fuck.’

  57

  Violetta’s heart was in her throat the whole way to the exit.

  She’d seen Slater and King drink their cups.

  She couldn’t do it.

  Two doses, she thought, and it filled her with terror for her unborn child.

  No matter how small, drugs were drugs. Not to mention their potency.

  Dexedrine, MDMA, and benzodiazepine.

  She’d already been subjected to a microdose without her knowledge. Now she’d have to accept a second. In all likelihood there’d be no consequences, but she wasn’t willing to accept even the slightest risk.

  As she advanced toward Maeve, she thought, Can I control my own physiology?

  King and Slater could. They could put themselves into heightened states in an instant, conjure up all sorts of unpleasant sensations if it fuelled them to fight harder.

  But could she?

  She was a handler, not an operator.

  She took a breath to centre herself, then focused all her attention on her stomach. She tried to imagine the food inside it — she’d eaten plenty — churning, breaking apart, digesting.

  She tensed her abdomen as hard as she could without letting it show on her face.

  She imagined putrid stenches, disgusting tastes, the grossest visions her mind could conjure.

  She pictured her gag reflex spasming.

  It spasmed.

  Vomit swelled in her throat.

  She kept the feeling at bay for just long enough to reach Maeve. She had to queue up behind nearly a dozen disciples, and she feared she’d started the process too early. But the line moved quickly, without interference. Maeve didn’t need to pay attention to the regular followers. They were hooked. They’d drink Bodhi without thinking twice.

  Violetta reached the front of the line.