“Figures,” Peter said in defeat.
Michael let out a long, slow breath. The tightness remained in his shoulders.
“We really had you going, huh?” Reggie said.
“What was that for?” Ian said, pushing into a standing position. He seemed small and weak in his undershorts.
“Get back down,” Dominic said. “We’re not finished with you yet.”
The basement door at the top of the stairs opened. From this angle, Michael couldn’t see who it was, but from the slow, methodical sound of the man’s footsteps against the wooden stair planks, he was able to figure it out before he saw the old man’s lined and tired face.
Louis Blake was dressed in a black uniform much like Dominic’s and Reggie’s. Over it, he wore a long, thin overcoat that made him look like an FSD officer. Michael inspected Blake’s face, but saw only a cold, gray slate with no traces of human emotions.
“Good morning, boys,” Blake said. “It’s three o’clock, and the sun won’t rise for another two hours. You’ve all requested training, and now you’re going to have it.” He paced before them. “You will have no days off and no excuse if you don’t show up. Miss a day of training, miss all three meals for that day.” He stopped pacing to study them. “Understood?”
Something roiled inside Michael’s gut. He kept still and listened.
“Yes? No?” Blake said, this time more sternly.
“Yes,” Michael said.
The others murmured, “Yeah” and “Uh-huh.”
“I used to be a major in the army. That’ll be ‘yes, sir.’ Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the boys said at once.
“You’ve all approached me about this before, but it’s different now that Michael’s here. Telepathic training was always meant to be done in pairs. That way you can partner up, and no one has to be left out. But no matter how you do it, combat telepathy isn’t for the weak of will. It takes discipline.”
Eli took in the others, his face covered in nervous sweat. He was smiling like a tired drunk. “Combat telepathy? Sign me up.”
Dominic hunkered down, elbows propped on his knees, and icy eyes on Eli.
“This is no game, fat boy,” he said in a cruel whisper. “You’ll be killing people in cold blood. You’ll be drawing blades across peoples’ necks before stabbing them in the back. You know what that’s like?”
The smile disappeared from Eli’s face. He stared at his bare feet, curled his toes, and kept quiet.
Blake stood in the center of the room, his face orange in the light of the gas lantern. He seemed to be on the verge of laughter.
“We begin now. Everyone on your feet. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They dressed in the clothing Reggie pulled out of a black bag. Then Reggie and Blake took off, leaving a grinning Dominic to take over.
He yelled at them constantly as they jogged up a three-mile path to an abandoned observatory. Eli explained it had once been used for star gazing and mapping. The building was small and gray beneath a domed roof, perched on a cliff overlooking a cluster of distant mountains. Above it, the sky was covered with a powdered dusting of stars.
They opened a rusty door in the back, gazing into pure darkness.
“The hell are we supposed to do here?” Eli said. “This place is a crypt.”
The boys recoiled as a blinding light turned on inside. Louis Blake stood in the center of the empty room, arms crossed over his chest, smelling faintly of gasoline. He had probably ridden a four-wheeler up another path to get up here as fast as he had.
“You’re too slow,” he said. “You’ll eat cut oats for breakfast as punishment.”
Michael sighed. Cut oats tasted like pencil shavings soaked in water.
“Can you deal with that?” Dominic asked, standing before the group of boys.
Michael shrugged. “I guess.”
Dominic flashed out of sight.
They all stood gaping at the spot in which he’d been standing a moment earlier. Before Michael could even form a thought regarding the man’s quickness, someone came up behind him, put an arm around his neck, and kicked his knees out from under him. As he sank toward the ground, the arm around his neck tightened its grip, choking him.
“That’s ‘yes, sir,’ to you, trainee!”
Michael’s voice sputtered out of him. “Yesh—yesshir!”
The arm around his neck fell away, and Michael collapsed onto his side, gasping for air. Dominic reappeared where he’d been standing before, coolly unruffled as though nothing had happened.
“How did you do that?” Michael said, pushing himself up.
Louis Blake stepped forward. “He slowed your perception of time. Everyone’s in this room, including mine, in fact. You could block the manipulation, but that takes time and effort to master.”
Dominic stared each boy in the eye. One moment, his hands were empty. The next, he had a large, curved hunting knife in his right hand and was holding it to Peter’s throat.
“I better not hear any of you boys talking openly about anything that goes on in this building,” Dominic said. “You hear me? I’ll kill you myself if you do.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said, his voice a gruff whisper. The others followed suit.
Dominic retreated. In a flash, the knife was gone.
“Someday, with enough training, you’ll all be able to do what he just did,” Blake said.
Dominic scoffed. “You’ll wish you could do what I just did.”
Hesitantly, Michael raised a hand, as if there was a possibility Dominic would slice it off. Blake nodded at him.
“What if someone follows us up here one morning? Like one of Meacham’s men?”
Blake pursed his lips before speaking. “I can sense the presence of every person in this town. I’ll know if someone tries to sneak up on us.”
Clearing his throat, he began to pace in front of the boys, gloved hands joined behind his back. The chain-smoking old man from before had disappeared—only Major Blake existed now. The man reeked of military pride.
“Why are we here?” He studied the dusty floor as he paced. “What are we training for, exactly? Is it defense against raiders, bandits, and cannibals—all very real threats in the Eastlands and even here in the mountains—or is it so we can prepare to someday support the New Dallas Republic war effort against Harris Kole?”
He cocked his head at the boys as if expecting an answer. They swallowed nervously, waiting for him to finish.
“You might have selfish reasons for being here. Maybe to impress a girl”—he raised an eyebrow at Peter—“or get revenge on an enemy you’ve never met.” This time, he nodded toward Michael. “Or maybe you just want to have fun.” Eli grinned when Blake gestured at him. “If that’s the case, you should all quit now. Combat telepathy is about unity. You’ll be sharing your senses and your thoughts to solve problems as a team—ultimately, as one single mind.
“You should have only one reason for being here,” he said, giving them each a solid, unwavering look. “And that is to shape your telepathy into an impenetrable shield to protect yourselves against enemies once I’m gone.”
Dominic’s face twitched at the words once I’m gone. Michael sensed a jolt of emotion go through him. When Dominic stared at the floor, Michael became certain something of significance had been said.
“What do you mean, once you’re gone?” Michael said. “Uh…sir,” he added.
Blake pursed his lips in thought as he glanced at each of them.
“I’m an old man. I won’t be around forever. Neither will this town, so you must be prepared.”
Blake’s hand flew up to his mouth. The boys fidgeted as the old man endured a series of rattling, wet coughs.
When he recovered, their training began in full swing.
Chapter 16
They started off with rigorous physical exercises meant to strengthen their core muscles and enhance bodily speed, strength, and agility. That meant sit-ups, calisthenics,
climbing trees, and running up and down the mountainside with Dominic shouting insults at them the entire time.
The first few days, the boys vomited, tripped, and collapsed more times than they could count. The cramps were terrible. Michael was in hell. He’d never exercised more than running up and down the stairs in the restaurant on really busy days, carrying boxes of sausage patties and extra-large cans of tomato paste. And to do it at three AM each day, when all he wanted was to crawl back into the warmth of his bed and sleep for hours…
“What about telepathy?” he asked Dominic one day, bent over and panting from one of their taxing runs. “I thought this was supposed to be mental training.”
Dominic flashed over and flung him onto his back. “Your body is an extension of your mind, idiot. Neglect it, and you’ll be useless in the field. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Another lap, all of you, for Michael’s ignorance.”
One evening, Michael rode an old bicycle toward Silo Street. The bike was a wire-thin piece of junk he’d found and fixed in Rudy’s garage, probably a girl’s bike, though it was too dirty and rusted to tell for sure. It didn’t seem to matter; compared to what Peter and the others had, he might as well be riding a tricycle.
He was still downtown when a motorcycle engine revved up behind him, growing louder by the second. Michael glanced back to see Ian blazing toward him, his face tipped into the wind, eyes narrowed to slits.
“Oh, shit.”
He tried swerving down a side road. Behind him, tires squealed as Ian took the turn at a dangerous speed. The road was narrow and empty, and the buildings around Michael were dark with disuse. This wasn’t the Hollows, but there were still parts of downtown where the buildings were too unstable to restore.
He pedaled the bicycle like his life depended on it, but Ian’s motorcycle was obviously faster. It took only seconds for Ian to pull up beside him.
The engine drowned Michael’s voice as he tried to ask Ian what the hell he was doing. Ian extended his left leg and veered into Michael’s lane, kicking the front wheel of the bicycle.
Michael struggled to keep steady. Ian kicked again, this time coming so close Michael could smell the gas fumes. Their shoulders almost touched.
Another kick sent him sprawling. As he tumbled over the uneven pavement, head slamming against the gutter, he saw Ian’s motorcycle roll over the bicycle, warping the wheel and snapping the chain off completely.
“Stay down,” Ian yelled. Then he abruptly stopped and killed the engine.
He stormed over to Michael, who was still on the ground, and kicked him in the stomach. Michael felt his last meal surge into his throat. The last thing he wanted was to puke in front of Ian.
He gulped it down. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk about this.”
“I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”
Ian was standing over him now, leather jacket trembling in the wind, open to reveal a pistol tucked into the front of his black jeans. His belt buckle was a grinning cow skull made of iron.
Michael clutched his stomach, taking a few shuddering breaths. “This is about Charlotte, isn’t it?”
Ian reared back, ready to kick him again.
Michael curled up. “I didn’t know she was with you, I swear.”
Ian pointed at him. “You stay away from her.”
“Ian, listen to me,” Michael said, trying to sit up. Glancing at his mangled bicycle, he tried to swallow his anger. That bike had taken him a whole afternoon to fix. It didn’t matter, though; what he needed now was a motorcycle. He was going to get one, come hell or high water.
“What could you possibly say?” Ian said. “That she seduced you? That you didn’t want it?” He shouted that last part, hands balled into fists, his face red. Michael had never seen someone so enraged.
“Nothing happened that night.”
“That’s not the point. If Eli hadn’t stopped you—”
“I’m weak, I’ll admit it,” Michael said, holding up his hands like shields. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend. I’m an idiot.”
Ian frowned, though the words appeared to calm him somewhat.
“We’re brothers now,” Michael said. “We weren’t before, but we are now. It’s part of our training. That’s—that’s how we’re going to get through all this, right?”
Ian made a psht sound, waving dismissively. He stared up the street at nothing.
Michael got to his feet slowly. “I’ll stay away from Charlotte, because you told me to. I had no idea you were with her when it happened. But I will ask you one favor.”
Ian gave him his full attention, more surprised now than angry. “What?”
“Come with me to the garage so we can fix your brakes.”
“Huh?” He was squinting at Michael now with his mouth slightly open.
“Your bike. The brakes are too tight. It’s putting a strain on your engine and the center stand every time you turn the wheel. You’ve probably felt it.”
Ian glanced at his motorcycle, which was leaning on its kickstand. It looked good. He obviously took better care of his than Peter and Eli did theirs.
“Let’s go to the garage. I’ll fix it up.”
“I don’t know much about brakes.”
Michael shook his head. “It’s okay. Consider it my way of apologizing. I’ve never been good at—you know…”
“I know,” Ian said. “I’m the same way.”
There was a moment of awkward silence between them.
“We’re not riding double,” Ian said.
“Got it,” Michael said. He had already begun to walk.
Chapter 17
Louis Blake took a deep breath before entering the mayor’s office on the topmost floor of the town hall.
He already knew how many men Meacham had with him—six. Blake was on his own. He figured that was better. If he had come with Dominic, it would have sent the wrong message.
He opened without knocking. They were expecting him.
“Louis,” Meacham said, not getting up from the chair behind his desk. The air was sweet with the tang of whiskey. Good whiskey, but there was no bottle in sight.
Warren and Elkin stood against the wall, behind Meacham. Four more of Meacham’s men sat or stood in various spots around the room. They watched Blake with a dangerous sort of boredom in their eyes.
“John,” Blake said, stepping onto the exquisite rug in the center. So many nice things in here, obviously purchased from caravans. But with whose money?
John Meacham winced. “A few of my boys tell me they see you going up to the slopes every morning at two-thirty. You got something going on up there?”
“Exercise,” Blake said, already feeling a rattling cough trying to claw its way out of his chest.
The men around him laughed.
“Get him,” Elkin said. “Guy can barely breathe, and he’s going to exercise.”
“Hey, have some respect,” Meacham said, and the men went instantly quiet. “You’re talking to a former major, so how about a little decency?” He fixed his eyes on Blake. “We all know about your dark past, Major Blake. You trained boys not much older than my son to be silent killers. Ghosts in the night. As far as I knew, you’d put those days behind you.”
Blake nodded once, keeping his eyes aligned with Meacham’s. He had no reason to worry. The man couldn’t prove a thing.
With his own challenging look, Meacham sighed and pushed out of his chair. “We built this town together, you and I, with our bare hands. Our sweat and blood went into these streets, and we both know I mean that literally. I’m no telepath like you, but every time I look at these villagers, I can tell they all feel like a family. They even consider you and your boys like family, despite your condition.” He’d made his way around the desk and was now standing in front of Blake, a few inches shorter but about fifty pounds heavier—just as much of that extra weight being muscle as well as fat. In a physical match, without telepathy, Blake would
have no chance against this man. “Well? Aren’t we family?”
“Depends on your definition of family, really,” Blake said. “As far as I’m concerned…” He sidestepped away from Meacham and began to pace about the room, eyeing Meacham’s men as he spoke. “Family is about supporting and trusting each other.” He turned to Meacham. “Do you trust me, John?”
Meacham’s face hardened into a smiling mask. “Of course I do, Louis. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Then trust me when I tell you that I’m not your enemy. Whatever I do, I do for the good of this community. I’m sure you can say the same.” He looked Meacham in the eye. “Am I right?”
Meacham tilted his head to the left. Blake noticed the man’s neck was red, then a flash of insight tore through him—he was about to be hit.
He stepped back, but Meacham was quicker. The punch to his jaw sent Blake staggering backward as if a rope around his neck had yanked him. It wasn’t a hard punch, not enough to break anything, though possibly a tooth had been knocked loose…
He managed to keep himself standing, though his knees were wobbly. Warren and Elkin leaped toward him, took hold of his shoulders, and pushed him to his knees.
“How dare you question my devotion to this town,” Meacham said, rubbing his sore knuckles. “Every drop of my blood and sweat goes into keeping these people safe. You bring these ment killers into my town. You’re the one who infects us with these ideas of moving east and merging with the NDR, plans with no guarantee of success that could ruin everything we’ve built here. The people are sick of it. You’re just a washed-up soldier, Louis.”
“Get off me,” Blake told Warren and Elkin. They only tightened their grips. “Get off,” he shouted.
An invisible explosion went off.
Warren and Elkin were thrust back by the force of it, each hearing a sound like the walls and roof being blown out over the town, feeling intense heat searing their skin. Blake was all too familiar with the effect of this particular illusion, how it felt when it caught a person off guard. He rose into a standing position.
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