by Matt Rogers
Then a hand clamped down on his shoulder and pushed him back down to a seated position.
Slater settled his heart rate, then looked up.
Into the eyes of Elias.
He said, ‘Oh. Hey, kid.’
Elias’ gaze bore into him, scrutinising him, studying him for signs of mental destruction. That amount of Bodhi … it had to have crippled Slater permanently. Elias’ hands were rigid and straight, and Slater knew he was trying to charge his ki, his energy.
He could see all of Elias’ demons, all the man’s insecurities and beliefs.
Elias believed unconditionally in the power of Wing Chun.
That’s why he was unarmed.
Slater said, ‘Are you here to kill me?’
Elias said, ‘Took me forever to find you. Dane told me to put you out of your misery. He butchered it last night. Gave you a dose that was a little too heroic. Then he found out who you really were.’
Still seated, knees tucked up, Slater waited for Elias to trail off before he said, ‘Kid, why are you still talking?’
Elias hesitated, then composed himself. ‘Because you’re helpless.’
‘Yeah?’
‘The Bodhi hasn’t worn off yet, so your wires are scrambled. Your brain’s fried. And even if you can put up a fight, you know you can’t possibly match me.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Why don’t you find out for yourself?’
‘Are you charging your ki?’ Slater said. ‘Is that what’s happening?’
He said it with such mocking derision that goosebumps appeared on Elias’ neck. His anger rose to the surface. The kid wasn’t able to suppress it.
His voice shaking, Elias said, ‘You’ve thrown a few punches and kicks and you think you know what combat is?’
Slater said, ‘I’ve been in combat my whole life. I know what works and what doesn’t.’
‘You’re not making this any easier for yourself.’
Slater leapt to his feet, every sense primed, anticipating exactly what was going to happen.
It happened.
Elias, with all his belief and devotion and focus, finished charging his “ki” and threw an open-handed strike at Slater’s neck. It was fast, and decently impressive, and if the side of his hand connected with Slater’s throat it might have done real damage. But Slater implemented an ounce of head movement he’d picked up from boxing, and executed a shoulder roll. He leant back against the tree and took the blow on the meat of his deltoid muscle.
It stung a bit.
That was all.
Elias’ hand darted back like it had been caught in a bear trap, and a look of pure shock crossed over his face. It was either disillusionment at the effectiveness of Wing Chun, or terror at what Slater might be capable of.
Or both.
Slater said, ‘Try again.’
88
King and Violetta hustled all the way down into the centre of the commune, listened hard, and heard nothing.
Through laboured breaths, Violetta said, ‘Should we steal a ride?’
‘They’ll be locked up,’ King said. ‘Let me think.’
A wailing alarm ruptured the early morning quiet.
They nearly jumped out of their skin.
Shouts that were practically war cries emanated from the bunkhouses.
King’s stomach dropped.
Dane emerged from one of the distant buildings, hands behind his back like a monk. Above the piercing alarm, he shouted, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Get Alexis,’ Violetta said in King’s ear. ‘She’s still in her bunk. We need to get Ale—’
Disciples began pouring out of the bunkhouse that contained Violetta and Alexis’ room. They were rabid, barely human, possessed by the hatred and paranoia that Maeve had instilled in them.
In that moment King realised Maeve had succeeded.
The siren song of brutality ran deepest through Mother Libertas in times of crisis. Violetta posed no harm to the movement, but they didn’t understand, nor did they care. The wailing alarm had turned them into savages, reduced them to their primal instincts, instincts that had been expertly shaped by Maeve.
They were all hungry for blood.
They didn’t care where it came from.
Now King recognised why he hadn’t acted sooner. Because of this. Two hundred members could be activated with the touch of a button, the alarm sending them into a frenzy. They didn’t need Bodhi for this. This came from deep in their souls.
They would do whatever the Riordans commanded.
King stood frozen to the spot as Dane plucked useful followers out of the pack with hand gestures. He ushered nearly a dozen of the fittest, strongest men into a tight cluster, then silently commanded the rest to hang back.
The air went still.
Dane pointed at Violetta and said something to the pack. King couldn’t hear what was said above the noise of the alarm. Then Dane’s finger point moved over to King, and Dane drew a line across his own throat.
Message received.
King didn’t hesitate. He took Violetta by the hand and ran with her into the mess hall, slamming one of the entrance doors open and spilling into the perimeter corridor circling the main cavernous space. They ran down the hallway in the dark, the shadows swallowing them.
Violetta panted with fear and struggled to control her emotions.
As they ran he said, ‘What happened with Maeve?’
She filled him in.
His insides twisted.
The fear was insidious on Violetta’s breath. ‘Jason…’
‘I know,’ he said, forcing himself to remain stoic. ‘I know what this means.’
Outside the building’s walls, distant cries echoed across the grassland.
Of elation, of ecstasy, of purpose.
Violetta said, ‘What do we do?’
Each syllable wavered.
He found an unlocked door leading into the giant main space and ushered her through. The mess hall was spotless, every speck of dust and residue cleaned away by the disciples. The long tables shone under the overhead lights that stayed on all night. The benches were empty. Not a soul about.
King led her to the other end of the hall, hoping to find an exit they could slip out of before the disciples surrounded the building. He came to a door set beside the long countertop where meals were served. He tried it. Locked.
He swore for no one but Violetta to hear.
She said, ‘We can’t blow our cover. We can talk our way out of this, I’m sure of it. It’s understandable that you got spooked, that I got spooked. We can explain…’
King looked at her. He knew his eyes were steel.
He said, ‘No way.’
‘Jason…’
‘Fuck the cover,’ he said. ‘Fuck all of this. The cover’s blown anyway, isn’t it? Why else would Maeve say the baby’s the second coming of Gaia?’
‘How would she know?’ Violetta said. ‘It’s highly goddamn improbable that she knows our identities considering our own government doesn’t know where we are … there’d be nothing in the files that revealed I’m pregnant.’
‘Have you told anyone?’ King said. ‘Anyone at all?’
Violetta racked her brains. He could see the memories flying past behind her eyes. She stopped on one of them. Her face cringed.
King said, ‘When?’
‘I cramped in front of Brandon and Addison,’ she said. ‘On our first night here, in the mess hall. But that could have been anything. Period pains, stomach bug, you name it…’
‘They told Maeve,’ King said. ‘And Maeve guessed. She bluffed, and you didn’t call it. But I think she also knows who we really are. That’s why she’s acting this way. I think she believes her own delusions.’
‘It’s not a front,’ Violetta agreed. ‘She honestly thinks my child is a sign from the gods. How does she lead these people if she believes what she’s feeding them?’
‘I think her head’s a mes
s. She doesn’t know what she believes.’
‘We need to get out of here,’ Violetta said, trying not to hyperventilate. ‘Bunker down, lay low, regroup. Otherwise…’
King tensed up, staring over her shoulder.
She froze.
King said, ‘Looks like it’ll have to be “otherwise.”’
She turned.
Disciples bled into the mess hall through the twin entrances on the other side of the space. They moved in silence, their hands bare. No one was armed. Even though Maeve and Dane might know who the newcomers truly were, the message hadn’t been passed down to the followers just yet.
They thought they could do this through sheer force of numbers.
And maybe they could.
King counted eleven disciples stepping in.
All men.
The de facto foot soldiers.
89
Bodhi had Slater zoned in like nothing else.
At massive doses, the compound was insane.
Now, with the afterglow of a heroic dose coursing through him, he was twice as focused.
Elias stood there, completely vulnerable, trying to harness his invisible energy. It didn’t seem to work, because he threw the next strike dejectedly, aiming for Slater’s centre mass, hoping to wind him.
Slater tensed his chest and took the blow where it was intended to land.
It bounced off his pectorals.
It did nothing.
Slater said, ‘You’ve only used this on helpless hostages, haven’t you?’
Silence.
Elias threw another strike, harder than the second, putting his whole being into it.
Slater jerked into another shoulder roll and the side of Elias’ hand smacked off his shoulder again.
No factor.
Slater said, ‘This is a fight, Elias. I can fight back.’
Elias kept valiantly attempting to master his ki and he stepped in for a close-range elbow, a move he must have practiced well over ten thousand times. He executed it fluidly. His cocked right arm swung with impressive speed.
Slater stepped aside.
The elbow missed.
Slater said, ‘How many dissidents have you killed for the Riordans?’
Elias swung again with the same elbow.
Slater shoulder rolled.
Took the blow across his upper arm.
Slater said, ‘How much power did that give you? How did it make you feel?’
Elias’ eyes were burning, his face twisted. He threw a barrage of punches and elbows, treating Slater like a Wing Chun dummy, emptying his gas tank on the mu ren zhuang. He did everything right, everything that martial arts had taught him. He didn’t allow his emotions to take over, didn’t let the rage creep in and affect his composure. He threw his attacks with pinpoint precision, using the full extent of his anatomy.
But he overlooked one critical aspect.
He always had.
The fact that he’d never trained against a resisting opponent.
Slater caught one of the elbows and threw it aside and got right up in Elias’ face. He kept the knowledge that Elias had murdered defenceless followers in the back of his head, so he didn’t hold back. He headbutted the guy in the jaw, cracking the bone, which put Elias in a dark place the kid had never felt before. It’s easy to stay within the confines of your comfort zone and never train to face adversity, and that’s what Elias had done his entire life. He was fast and sharp and could hit hard after relentless practice on the mu ren zhuang, but that’s about twenty percent of what you need in a fight to the death.
There’s so many more intangibles.
As Elias stumbled back with a broken jaw, Slater kicked him low in the calf, causing the muscle to seize up, and Elias went down on one knee.
Slater lined up a kick that ordinarily would have slammed into the body, but instead cracked into the side of Elias’ skull because of his kneeling position.
Elias splayed into the dirt.
Slater said, ‘Get up.’
No movement.
Slater said, ‘Come on, get up.’
Elias got to his knees, then worked his way shakily back to his feet. His mouth and nose poured blood. His eyes had watered up, and his jaw hung open unnaturally. He couldn’t shut it. It was broken.
Slater said, ‘Harness your ki. Like you do before you kill those who betray the movement.’
Elias was statuesque, defeated.
‘Come on,’ Slater said. ‘You’ve tapped into some higher ability, haven’t you? You can fight better than any of these MMA fighters you see on TV. You’re a master. Prove yourself.’
It touched the right nerve.
Concentration swelled in Elias’ face as he tried to shut out the pain and summon ten straight years of practicing Wing Chun in privacy. All those hours, all that hard work.
Slater learned long ago that smart work beats hard work any day of the week.
Elias threw a final, all-out hand strike, aiming for Slater’s throat.
His eyes were rabid with desperation.
Slater slapped it aside, drilled a calloused fist into Elias’ nose, then seized the back of his neck and held him in place as he smashed three consecutive elbows into the guy’s throat. Each impact caved in muscle and tissue and bone. Elias’ eyes rolled up, exposing the whites, and he fell unconscious to the dirt.
He died choking.
Slater thought of all the people he’d killed for the Riordans, and figured Elias deserved worse than that.
Unfortunately there was no time to be cruel.
Standing over the body, Slater muttered, ‘Shame.’
He rolled the corpse over so it was face-down, lifeless eyes burrowed into the dirt.
He went to find Alexis.
90
One of the disciples in the mess hall took the lead and said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
King put a hand on Violetta’s shoulder, conveying the need for her to stay where she was, and he stepped forward, using himself as a human shield. There were still a few dozen feet of empty tables and benches between him and the first disciple.
He said, ‘Let’s all cool it. We need some breathing room. We’ll work this out later, okay?’
The first man shook his head slowly, each swing of his chin menacing. ‘That’s not how it works, I’m afraid. You heard what Mother said. You are chosen, Violetta. You can’t shy away from this.’
King pined desperately for calm and peace, but those concepts were long gone.
His stomach knotted as he realised he might have to blow the cover by force.
But he had to be sure.
He said, ‘What are you going to do with her, exactly?’
The disciple’s eyes flared.
The dark silence said everything.
But the man spoke anyway. ‘You heard the command. She is priceless, and it looks like you two don’t want to hang around. That’s not acceptable. The baby will usher in a new era for Mother Libertas. If the lady doesn’t want to stay, then we’ll make the lady stay.’
King sensed every ounce of the danger his unborn child was in.
It changed him in his core.
He sensed the darkness rising in him, matching the energy in the air.
He said, ‘Is that right?’
The first man smiled, relishing the confrontation. He’d been moving closer this whole time, sidestepping the long tables, and now King could see the swollen pupils. A low dose of Bodhi, enough to strip him of inhibitions, remove fear, elevate excitement. King stared past the man to the other ten followers, and all of them had the same glint in their eyes.
They were separated by mere feet now.
King hadn’t lifted a finger in anger his whole time in the commune.
That was about to come to an end.
He said, ‘You sure this is the way you want to go?’
The first man said, ‘You’re making the choice. Not me.’
‘We’re going to walk out of here,’ King s
aid, giving him a final chance. ‘That’s within our rights.’
The guy smiled devilishly. ‘Not anymore.’
King said, ‘Fine.’
A couple of dozen feet behind him, King heard Violetta quietly say, ‘No.’
He ignored it.
Nothing would endanger his child.
Nothing.
King sized up the first guy. He was tall, big, strong, with pale skin and sandy hair. A farmhand in a previous life, maybe. Now a devoted convert.
Given a purpose, an identity, a tribe.
In that moment, King properly soaked in the disciple’s behaviour for the first time. All the man’s doubt and hesitation was gone, replaced by ardent commitment to the cause, leaving him free to commit any atrocity he desired in the name of the movement.
For the first time, King truly understood the danger of Mother Libertas.
Then King became an automaton. Stripped himself of his own inhibitions for the following minutes, until Violetta and the child inside her were safe. Adrenaline fused with relentless determination and overrode his senses.
Violetta said, ‘Jason, no.’
He ignored it.
He walked straight at the first guy and said, ‘Okay. We surrender.’
The guy cocked his head. ‘You do?’
King’s demeanour didn’t gel with his words, and he was closing the distance fast.
King nodded. ‘Yeah, man. We screwed up. I’m sorry.’
‘Stay right there—’
Too late.
King darted into range and unleashed a colossal uppercut into the base of the farmhand’s jaw.
The other ten disciples charged at him, their rage as dark as their souls.
91
The alarm didn’t stop.
The blaring noise had filled the church for minutes now. The building’s thick stone walls muffled most of the din, but some sound snuck through, which was enough. The whine reverberated, echoing off the walls and the high ceiling.
Addison’s eyes were wide, depression giving way to terror.
Brandon was already stirring, crawling through semi-consciousness, the alarm lurching him awake like a walking zombie. Alexis realised that was neurological conditioning. The Riordans must have practiced the panic drill over and over again with their disciples until it was muscle memory, making them the equivalent of sleeper agents snapped into activation with a coded sound. The alarm was a distress signal. A threat to the foundations of Mother Libertas.