If Meacham had been able to get his hands on enough assault rifles to outfit his men, he could get his hands on Selarix without a lot of extra effort. If that was the case, his mind was probably doing cartwheels right now.
Without his telepathy to guide him, Blake felt like he was standing in a war zone wearing nothing but a blindfold. He turned off his flashlight outside the lodge—the last place he had sensed Meacham—and kicked open the side door. He walked into pure darkness.
Closing his eyes, he focused on a series of techniques to calm his nerves and divert his energy to his other four senses. He would be able to tell, by sound and smell, what was around him. It wasn’t perfect, and if he opened his eyes it would take at least a minute for his sight to return to normal, but it was all he had.
He raised the pistol and began to make his way through what had once been the lobby, his ears and nose searching for John Meacham.
“No,” Warren shouted.
With her middle finger raised, Charlotte fell through the hole in the hallway floor, taking the strip rug with her, looking almost like someone falling into water.
Before he could react, someone at the other end of the hallway turned the corner and fired at him. Warren felt the slug graze his shoulder, heard it sink into the man behind him. Without thinking, he dove off to the side and crashed into the wall as the gun let off a few more rounds.
“Peter Rivers,” he shouted, checking his wound and wincing. “You’re a dead man, y’hear me?”
One of his men—Julian—had been shot in the neck, his body pale yellow as he stepped into the light coming in through the door. The blood was almost black in the light as it sluiced out of him and dripped all over the floor. Warren was amazed at how much came out. Julian fell back into the wall and slid down until he was sitting, his chest heaving, before his limbs lost all strength and he toppled onto his side.
“Give me an M16,” Warren told his men, ditching the pistol. “One of you has one. Give it to me.”
Kevin Ferlocher, one of Meacham’s latest recruits and a whelp no older than fifteen, handed over his rifle, obviously upset at having to part with it. Warren wanted to shoot the little prick for being such a pussy.
“Come on in, Warren,” he heard Eli call from inside. “I can hear your thoughts. You’re afraid. Well, I got the cure for that.”
Warren kept silent. He nodded at the others with him. They nodded back, then lifted their hands to block their ears as Warren crept over to the door.
Four men armed with M16 assault rifles guarded the jail, all dressed in brown with golden badges flashing on their shirts. The head jailer looked at his watch.
It was time. Oh yes. Time to rid this town of that queer sharpshooter once and for all. Maybe afterward, they could raid his precious store and get themselves something nice to wear.
“Let’s take him out,” he said. “I’m itchin’ to spill some blood.”
He was a small man with darting eyes who kept licking his lips nervously. If he could just get through this night without disappointing John Meacham, tomorrow they would all get to live like kings. It had been promised.
“Take it easy, Ted,” his partner said. “We’ve got all night.”
The man who had spoken was also named Ted, but his friends called him Teddybear because that’s what his mother called him, and they knew he hated it. As big and burly as a bear, he was deaf in one ear and walked with a limp from having fallen from a tree as a child.
“I’m takin’ it easy,” Ted said. “Let’s go.”
Teddybear limped after him.
When they were inside, Ted put aside his rifle. “We should have a little fun with him first.”
He grinned and his eyes darted around the room before pointing toward the jail cell in which the prisoner now lay like a heap of soiled laundry on the narrow cot.
“There he is,” Ted said.
Reggie groaned as Ted inserted the key into the lock and opened the cell.
“You sure about this?” Teddybear said.
Ted grinned and pulled out a hunting knife with a dirty, serrated blade. It looked as if he’d used it to skin an animal and then put it away without washing off the blood.
“He won’t be so pretty without a face, know what I mean?”
Teddybear winced a little in disgust, but nodded his approval anyway.
Charlotte landed on a pile of blankets and coughed from the dust that rained down on her. Then her ears exploded as an assault rifle went off overhead, making light flash over the hole.
Above her, someone cried out in pain. One of the boys had been hit. She scrambled to get away, praying William was somewhere safe. He had been out looking for his friends when all of this began. A feeling—maybe telepathic, maybe not—told her he was okay for now.
This was all Michael’s fault. She was certain of it. She had almost died tonight because of the violence he had brought to Gulch.
She would make him pay for this someday.
If only he’d brought a grenade to throw into the hole after that bitch.
Gripping the M16 tightly, Warren released a splash of bullets into the hallway and heard a satisfying growl of pain. Grinning, he retracted the rifle and pressed himself against the wall, and was shocked when he saw what was happening to his men.
Kevin rose into the air, his eyelids cranked all the way open. But he was already dead.
His body was cast aside as if someone had thrown him, but all Warren saw was a shadow. He searched in the dark for his pistol, picked it up, and shot at it, whatever it was, but the shadow evanesced and took form across the room, where it slashed Hardy Denloch’s neck open with a flash of metal.
Warren shot at the shadow and hit Hardy instead. Lincoln Jessup was standing by the door, and as the shadow approached, Warren lunged toward Lincoln, pulled him down, and used him as a shield. The shadow took human form and cut into Lincoln using movements almost too fast to see.
A face. Warren had seen the thing’s face.
He bolted for the door, jumped down the entire set of stairs, and went tumbling across the grass. He shot up again and ran, glancing over his shoulder only once to see Ian Meacham standing in the doorway, a blade gleaming down by his side.
“You’re next, Warren,” Ian called after him.
Warren ran for the mountains.
The two guards outside the jail fell first.
They were in the middle of a conversation when Dominic’s knife flashed at them, severing their voices once and for all.
Inside the jail, Ted had managed to lay Reggie out on the cot as if he were a patient about to undergo surgery. Reggie had been gagged with a balled up handkerchief and his wrists had been handcuffed around his front. He grunted and struggled, his eyes swollen shut, blood running from a gash in his lower lip that had been opened anew by Teddybear’s fist.
Ted held the knife and even now made delicate slashing motions in anticipation of his next act. Behind him, Teddybear looked around warily; he had heard the thumping sounds of the guards falling outside.
“Did you hear that?” he said.
Ted ignored him and focused on his victim instead. Reggie squirmed, moaning as he tried to scream.
“Hey, hold up,” Teddybear said. “I thought I heard—”
His words were cut short as a force he hadn’t seen coming tossed him into his partner, sending them both tumbling across the tiny space. They scrambled to get up against the wall. A tall, dark figure stood at the entrance to the cell, holding a gleaming instrument that was so slim they couldn’t identify it in their stupor.
Dominic lifted the scalpel to the light and twisted. His next words came out a grating rasp.
“Say good-bye.”
Rocio closed her eyes and tried to breathe steadily. Her trembling arms still rested on the mattress with the pistol aimed at the door.
“Why did this have to happen?” she said. “Why do so many people have to die like this?”
Fran and Sally each put a hand on her ba
ck to comfort her.
“They’ll come for us,” Sally said. “Don’t worry.”
A pounding came at the door. Rocio let off a round, startling them all.
“Holy shit, don’t shoot,” Peter said from the other side. “We’re safe for now.”
Rocio let out a sigh and collapsed on the mattress.
Chapter 21
Louis Blake crept through the dark corridors, both hands holding the pistol steady.
With his eyes closed, reality became nothing more than sounds and smells. He heard every creak of old wood, smelled the oil from the lantern John Meacham had lit; with effort, he was able to tune out the sharp whistling of wind entering the cracks in the walls and focus on sounds that could possibly be footsteps. In this state, Meacham’s body odor was strong enough to lead him in the right direction.
A snap sounded to his right. He swung around to aim the gun, then ducked as something large and heavy swung through the air. He had smelled it coming, had sensed the shifting of the air around him.
The log barreled into the wall, lifting a cloud of dried plaster particles. The place must have been outfitted with traps, which was probably why Meacham had led him here.
Blake opened his eyes and searched the area, his vision unadjusted and blurry. The particles of dust and dry wood entered his nose and dropped straight into his damaged lungs. He let out a barrage of coughs that drowned all other sounds. The tree trunk dangled before him, a dark shape against an even darker background, barely visible at all. He could see almost nothing of his surroundings except a few slivers of moonlight streaming in through the boarded-up windows.
A sound came from his right. Blake fired the gun three times, making sure to re-aim as each burst of light made the man before him visible. But Meacham moved too fast before vanishing completely.
Steeped once more in darkness, Blake backed up against the wall, making sure there was space to his left and right in case he had to roll away from gunfire.
A crackling burst of light lit up the room. The assault rifle went wild, spraying the walls with metal. Blake dove toward the gunfire instead of away. Meacham wouldn’t think to shoot down at the floor in front of him. He would assume Blake was trying to run away. Hopefully.
The rifle silenced and the sound of Meacham’s deep, barreling laughter filled the room. Surrounded by dust and smoke, Blake readied his pistol, about to let loose a torrent of coughs that would give away his position. They were too painful to hold back; he coughed as he shot three times.
He missed. Meacham ducked away into another room.
Blake pulled himself up into a sitting position against the wall. He coughed again and again, condemning himself with each one. If he died tonight, he would deserve it.
Meacham’s voice reached his ears, along with a metallic fumbling sound as he struggled with what must have been shaking hands to load another clip into the rifle.
“You thought you could beat me, huh, Louis? You are your own worst enemy. If only those cigarettes had done the trick sooner, then I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit.”
“You’ve lost the town,” Blake said, his lungs about to burst. “Give—up—John.”
Each cough tasted like blood now.
“Think again,” Meacham said. “I’ve already got followers in Lansing and Outridge just waiting for me to give the word. A year from now, this whole mountain range, and every town in it, is going to be mine.”
Blake winced. Lansing and Outridge were peaceful mountain towns to the north and south of here. The assault rifles Kiernan had discovered in the barns weren’t for taking over Gulch. John Meacham had bigger plans than that. Blake had been so concerned with training the boys, he hadn’t even caught a hint of what was really going on around here.
A shoving sensation entered Blake’s mind. He sprung out of the way as Meacham’s rifle blasted bullets all over the spot he had just vacated. His telepathy was coming back, which meant the drug was ebbing out of Meacham’s system.
Hoping the man was temporarily deaf from all the gunfire, Blake felt his way through the room in search of an exit. His right foot sank through a rotted floorboard, catching in a hollow space beneath it. He clenched his teeth to keep from groaning as the splinters cut into his leg.
“Where are you, old buddy?” Meacham said from around the corner.
A soft creaking sound reached Blake; Meacham had fallen into a crouch on the other side of the wall, aware he had Blake exactly where he wanted him. He was probably aiming the rifle into the room right now, ready to let out another burst.
Blake tried to pull his leg out, but couldn’t. A nail had dug into the flesh of his calf and caught on the fabric of his pants. If he tried to break free, the sound would give him away.
“Are you dead, Louis?” Meacham said. “Say yes if you’re dead. Come on, say yes.”
The pain was sharp and cruel, like someone stabbing a frozen fork into his calf muscle and twisting. Trying to ignore it, Blake arched his back and lowered himself face up—leg still in the hole, pistol in both hands now—until his shoulders and the back of his head touched the floor. He would have been seeing things upside down if the room weren’t so dark. Now he just needed Meacham to fire another burst—hopefully away from the floor—so Blake could aim his pistol properly.
“Come get me, John,” he said. “If you’re not too stoned.”
The room lit up with gunfire that rattled Blake’s eardrums. Tracking the flashing lights, Blake aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger until the clip was empty.
All gunfire ceased. Blake heard only his own heavy breathing, followed by the metallic clatter of the rifle falling to the floor.
“Gotcha,” Blake said.
Blake remained face-up on the floor, listening for a moment.
“John?” he said, grunting as he pulled his calf away from the jutting nail and lifted his foot out of the hole. He was getting dizzy from the loss of blood. His ears rang from all the gunfire.
Searching the room, he saw nothing but inky blackness. The rays of moonlight coming in through the boarded windows couldn’t penetrate it.
A beam of light turned on in the hallway outside the room. Blake ejected the spent clip in his weapon, slipped another one in, and chambered a bullet. He raised the pistol, frowning in confusion as the light moved over the walls. By that light, he saw Meacham’s rifle lying across the floor.
“Who’s there?” Blake said.
Don’t shoot.
Mike? Is that you?
Keep your gun lowered. Trust me.
Blake lowered the pistol. He watched as John Meacham entered the room, followed by someone with a flashlight.
He raised the pistol at Meacham to shoot, but a force somewhat like invisible hands gripped his arm and sent it back down to his side.
Stepping around him, Michael shone the light into Meacham’s face. The man’s pupils contracted, his only response. Otherwise, he just stood there, staring blankly ahead, not even seeing Blake.
“What did you do?” Blake said.
Michael kept his speech telepathic.
I can control it now.
“The death whisper.”
No. I haven’t learned that yet.
“Could you do the same to me? Turn me into a mindless puppet?”
No. Not yet, anyway.
Blake glared at Michael, clenching his teeth in frustration. Something about this felt wrong. In all of Blake’s years using telepathy in combat, he’d never seen anything this ugly. Meacham’s face had gone completely slack. He was even drooling.
“Well?” he asked Michael. “What are you going to do with him now? Execute him while he’s unarmed?”
A hint of a smile crossed the boy’s face.
We’ll arrest him and give him a fair trial. We’re not savages, Major.
Chapter 22
Blake and Dominic woke the boys up early, before the sun had even risen, to begin cleaning up the town. The air was stiff and freezing cold, and Michael’s sk
in was so dry that scaly red patches formed on his knuckles and elbows.
They gathered the corpses of Meacham’s men, wrapped them in sheets, loaded them into trucks, and drove them out to a distant spot past the mountains. They spent the day digging holes in the hard earth, consuming nothing but crackers and coffee Dominic kept in a tall thermos. They worked mostly in silence.
The people of Gulch stayed in their houses with their families. Only the very determined went outside to do any work. Arielle went from house to house, asking if anybody needed help or supplies. Most people were too afraid to stick their heads out of their windows for fear that stray bullets might come their way.
Once in a while a man or a woman would whisper from behind a half-open window at Michael as he passed.
“Is it over?” they would ask. “Are they dead?”
And Michael would nod with a grim expression on his face before getting back to work.
By nightfall the work was all done, the corpses had been buried, and John Meacham sat in a jail cell alone, wrapped in a thick cloak, his head bowed. The prison still smelled of blood from the men Dominic had castrated and killed. No one spoke of his actions that night, and from the look on his face, it was obvious that anyone who did bring it up would be sorry.
For the next three days, Blake tasked Michael and the others, along with Arielle and several women, to go from house to house offering food and firewood. The boys helped patch up bullet holes and fix broken windows. Most of the townspeople were receptive to their efforts. A few even smiled and expressed gratitude. Of course, there were also those who opened the door only a crack and said in a threatening voice to leave the basket on the floor and get the hell out, preferably far away from Gulch.
“No-good ments,” a few of the older men added.
Blake had them post flyers all over Gulch declaring that a meeting would be held in the town hall with Meacham himself giving the opening announcement. Rumors began to circulate that he had changed somehow, that Michael had corrupted his mind. A handful of brave souls—mostly farmers still loyal to Meacham—tried to visit him in the jail, but Blake had put the boys on rotating shifts to guard the building and keep them away.
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