“How did this feeling come to you?” Michael said, sitting back and relaxing a little. The story was starting to make more sense.
“Come on, Mike,” Eli said, lifting his hands and letting them fall to the table with a slap. “What’s with the interrogation? Why can’t we just enjoy—”
“Hold on.” Michael raised a hand to silence him. “Let me hear this.”
Eli picked up one of the whiskey bottles, opened it, and smelled it. He sighed in delight as Redman continued his story.
“Anyway, I go in there and see the place has been picked clean already. So I start thinking, if I was a powerful man who owned a mansion, where would I keep my rainy day stash, y’know? First thing I figured was a safe behind a painting or underneath a rug. Well, all the paintings and rugs were gone by then, so I checked for any loose floorboards.”
Michael scanned as he listened, feeling for any undercurrent of doubt in the lower levels of Redman’s conscience. Nothing.
“I couldn’t find any loose floorboards anywhere in the house,” he continued, “but then I started thinking, what about the ceiling? That’s always the last place you check when you’re going through a house.”
“And how do you know all this crap?” Eli said. When he saw the blush on Redman’s face, he cackled and gave him a light shove.
“I was a professional thief before the NDR recruited me as an infiltration agent.”
“No way,” Eli said.
“Swear it on my momma’s grave.”
“Go on,” Michael said.
Redman nodded. “I checked every roof panel in the house. Turns out my gut instinct was right.”
Michael gave a slight nod. “You found it, which means its yours. Congratulations. If I were you, I’d sell it and use the money to set up your new home in the NDR.”
“With all due respect, sir, I will do no such thing,” Redman said. “The government’s going to pay for my house when I get to New Dallas. Right now, our boys need to celebrate.”
Michael nodded once, not surprised at all by the boy’s reaction. Part of him was glad; his men needed this.
Eli clapped a hand on Redman’s shoulder. “You and your boys better get good and drunk, Redman. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir!”
Chapter 12
Even though it was Midas who had to deal with the worst of it, Louis Blake was at the end of his patience with the people of Gulch. A bunch of ignorant hillbillies is what they were. Not a single one of them had any idea that planning for the future meant more than just chopping wood for the winter.
A group of townspeople crowded the Overseer’s office, clamoring for a chance to speak their minds. The ministers tried to calm the crowd, but it was no use.
“We’re not going to leave our property behind,” one man shouted. “Not without compensation!”
“And who’s going to take over when we’re gone?” a woman yelled. “Bandits and raiders, that’s who. We can’t just leave it here all gift wrapped and pretty for ’em!”
A man missing most of his teeth pumped the air with his fist before speaking. “Me and my boys, we just finished rebuildin’ all our farm equipment, and you want us to just leave it here? No way in damnation.”
A bearded man shouted, “You think those skinny boy-soldiers are gonna save us? Hail no!”
Filled with a rage he couldn’t explain, Blake shot up from his seat before Midas Ford could speak.
“All right everyone,” he shouted, lifting his right hand as high as it would go. “Quiet down. Let me explain to you again”—for the hundredth time, he wanted to say—“why it would be a good idea to think about relocation…”
“Here he is,” Charlotte said, displaying her son to Dietrich and Warren.
Warren barely looked at the boy, but Dietrich had that fatherly instinct so many men around these mountains lacked.
“Hey there, little fella,” Dietrich said, crouching in front of William. “Amazing. It’s like all telepathy vanishes around him. I can’t send or sense a thing.”
“My little blocker,” Charlotte said, swirling her fingers in his hair. “My fighter.”
“I’m not a fighter,” William said, looking up at her. “I’m a cripple. I can’t fight. Isn’t that right, Momma?”
Was he trying to get a rise out of her? The look in his eyes at that moment told her he wasn’t; the question was innocent enough. Or maybe he just needed the validation.
“You’re not a cripple anymore,” she said. “Tonight, you’re our shield. That’s more important than any weapon, do you understand?”
He nodded. She couldn’t sense his emotional state. No one would have been able to, not even Michael. The absence of telepathy sure leveled the playing field; right now, Warren was the most powerful person in their group. A scary thought.
“I want to hear you say it,” Charlotte told her son. “What are you?”
“I’m your shield,” William said.
Warren and Dietrich looked at each other, apparently satisfied. It was good enough for Charlotte. Soon they’d be out of this wretched place and on their way to wealth and glory in the People’s Republic—a hope no one could take away from her.
In the back of the café, Arielle pulled the tray of bread rolls out of the oven, humming softly to herself.
Closing her eyes, she drew the warm, doughy smell deep into her lungs and smiled. The oven was one she had made herself, and using it was more trouble than it was worth. She fiddled with it only on special occasions and relied on the baker down the street for her daily loaves.
Tonight was definitely going to be special; Michael and the boys and a few of the soldiers were going to celebrate their freedom and the upcoming move to the People’s Republic. Once there, the men would rejoin their army. Arielle and her family and friends would be welcomed into the nation with open arms. She would start up another Cold War Café, and Michael would become a soldier, or maybe an engineer or an architect like he’d always dreamed.
She put her hand over her belly and felt the slightest bit of movement within. Or was it her imagination? The baby was growing so fast! Her belly became more swollen with each passing day, though she wasn’t far enough along for anyone to be able to notice just yet.
She picked up the tray of buns using a towel and walked to the door, which she kicked open so she could enter the café. She would serve them with a few slices of cheese and ham. Hopefully the men wouldn’t drink too much tonight. She was always telling Eli and Ian—
Terrified, she came to a full stop, breath catching in her throat.
A man was standing across the room—a total stranger. When she saw him, the shiver that ran through her body caused the tray to slip out of her hands, sending bread buns rolling all over the floor. She had met all of Michael’s men. The one standing before her was someone altogether foreign to this place.
He was of average height, had a bushy brown beard and wavy tresses of hair that fell around his neck, and was dressed in the dirty, worn clothes of a mountain man. When he smiled at her, his teeth were bright white against his grimy face.
Alarm bells rang in her mind. No mountain man would have such white teeth.
She opened her mouth to scream, but as soon as her lips parted, a hand clapped over them and a lanky arm tightened around her belly from behind.
The baby! She wanted to scream but couldn’t. She readied herself to send a telepathic message. Michael!
Before she could finish the thought, the man with the white teeth lunged at her, a needle gleaming in his right hand. She felt the sharp pinch in her neck.
The drug was ice cold entering her body.
“Shhhh,” he said as the hand over her mouth tightened.
“There she goes, thattagirl,” the man behind her said, the one holding her in place. She recognized that voice. The memory of his face accompanied her into darkness.
Warren.
“Listen to me, people.”
Midas Ford lifted his arms to shut eve
ryone up. Two men were arguing near the front, and one had just started to push the other. The rest of the townspeople were shouting at each other. They shouted at Blake and Midas, thrusting fingers at them in accusation.
“Everybody, just, quiet, DOWN.”
Blake’s voice came out in a roar. He used his ability to force a dropping sensation in their chests. Still worked like a charm. The room went silent.
“What is it with you people?” Blake raged. “Don’t you understand? If you stay here, you’ll die. This place is too vulnerable, it’s too unprotected. We have a chance to migrate to the NDR, to a civilized place where your kids can grow up without fear of becoming slaves, or food for cannibals! Why can’t you see that?”
The people watched him, stunned.
“You broke the law,” a woman shouted. “You used it on us.”
Another clamor began, this time with everyone denouncing Blake, pointing their fingers directly at him, screaming for his blood. Midas ordered his few remaining policemen to keep them back.
One of the ministers—a troublesome woman Blake had disagreed with dozens of times in the past—broke away to join the crowd. Two other ministers followed until three of them were facing Blake and Midas, red-faced and shouting in rage.
It was over. A state of anarchy had begun, and no peaceful measure would take it away.
Not this time.
Chapter 13
The first thing Michael noticed when he entered the Cold War Café, followed by Eli and Ian and a dozen of his men, was that all the lights were on but no one was there. Then he saw the bread rolls, which had been placed neatly on a tray on the counter. The air was thick with their delicious scent. He salivated.
“Who’s hungry?” Michael said, and went to get the tray.
“We are,” came a chorus of shouts. Half of his men were already a little drunk, and they hadn’t even broken out the bottles yet. A cap squeaked as someone opened a flask.
Michael picked up one of the bread rolls and was about to bite into it when he noticed something strange: one side of the roll was covered in grime, as if it had fallen to the floor and not been wiped clean afterward. He picked off a piece of lint and inspected it, then checked the other rolls on the tray. Every single one had grime and dirt stuck to it. Had Arielle dropped them without bothering to clean them off? Maybe this tray wasn’t meant to be eaten. Maybe she was in the back right now, making another batch.
He shrugged. Couldn’t waste perfectly good bread. Besides, prison food had been way worse than this. Once you’ve eaten raw rat flesh, right off the bone, a roll with a bit of dirt on it was no big deal.
“Come get ’em!” he shouted, and took a big bite.
The angry crowd—led in part by Archibald Frugin—had stormed out of the town hall. The people went their separate ways to retrieve any weapons they could get their hands on—rifles, preferably. Archibald had scheduled a meeting to commence in half an hour out by the barns.
Blake rushed out of the hall to find Dominic. Those who wished to leave Gulch would have to do so as soon as possible, tomorrow morning at the latest. Otherwise Michael might resort to martial law to deal with this problem; he certainly had enough men to do so. Once he overstepped that boundary, who knew how far he would go? Who knew how intense the boy’s lust for power had grown?
He needed Dominic and Reggie.
Dominic, you there? he sent, reaching across town with his mind.
Here, Dominic replied.
We need to pack up. The people have turned.
Oh yeah? Screw ’em. They can’t rise against us. Not with Michael here.
I can’t register Michael’s presence. Can you?
A pause.
God damn it, Dominic sent. He’s drunk.
Michael sprang up from his seat to stand before his men, a bottle of whiskey swinging in his right hand. It was half-empty.
“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” he shouted over the cheering soldiers. “We’re gonna lead an army of men against the People’s Republic, and then we’re gonna hang Harris Kole outside his palace with a sack over his head.”
The men cheered.
“To hanging that parasite,” a soldier shouted, inciting more cheers and shouts. The men drank.
“And as for the rest of those socialist parasites who follow him,” Michael continued, “to hell with them. We’ll string them up, too.”
“Cheers! To hell with ’em!”
“We’ll hunt down every last Party member and put their heads on pikes. We’ll erase every trace of that vile government from the face of this earth.”
“Cheers! Kill ’em all!”
“And then we’ll piss on their flag.”
Michael was already undoing his fly. Eli grabbed his arm to stop him.
“Piss outside first,” he said, laughing.
Michael held the bottle up as high as he could and cheered. His men followed along. Strange to feel this drunk after only three swallows. He tried to ignore the feeling that something was wrong.
Maybe it was his metabolism, and the fact that all those months in prison had left him skinny and malnourished. Whatever it was, he felt like shit. His stomach kept turning and twisting like a warm, wet cloth being wrung between two hands.
He stumbled outside behind the café. The air was warm and dry against his face, a nice night for a bonfire. Maybe he’d get his men to move the party outside, someplace wide open and crisp, where he could enjoy the shivering of the trees against the black sky and the feel of wind rustling his hair.
Why was he so dizzy?
And where was Arielle? She hadn’t shown up once at the café like she had promised. Maybe she was mad at him for drinking in her café?
No, that wasn’t right; it had been her idea to have the party here. She had even made food for them. Still, it was strange that she would drop a tray of bread rolls and then line them back up on the pan as if nothing had happened.
Arielle, he tried calling to her. Nothing. Maybe he was drunker than he’d thought. Telepathy wasn’t so easy after a few drinks. And something about this liquor made him feel—different.
He grimaced, swaying a little, as he urinated into a bush. He couldn’t be this drunk and dizzy around his men. He was their leader, not just one of the boys. Tonight was over for him. He’d have to go sleep it off. His men would be fine without him. Let them party the night away. He would retire, maybe curl up next to Arielle and beg her forgiveness for getting so drunk.
He fumbled with the zipper on his pants but couldn’t manage it. His fingers felt like putty. The thought struck him that maybe—just maybe—the alcohol had been poisoned, and Redman’s luck in finding that liquor hadn’t been luck at all. It made perfect sense; a great tactic to weaken them before an attack. Exactly the sort of thing he would have done to gain an advantage.
The next thought hit him like a punch to the stomach: How could he have been so stupid?
“Oh no,” he said.
A voice behind him said, “Oh yes.”
The blow took Michael in the back of the head. He sank against the damp tree where he had just relieved himself. He looked up at a familiar face.
It was the man from Praetoria. The Type II telepath Ian had shot. Michael knew those eyes, despite all the other drastic changes to his appearance.
“We meet again,” the man said, covered in hair that hadn’t been there before. He had a long beard now, and wavy hair that went down to his shoulders. Michael had seen the holes in the man’s chest that night. This had to be some sort of trick.
The man took the bottle of whiskey from Michael’s numb fingers and held it up.
“Didn’t you know?” he said, smiling at the bottle, then down at Michael. “Alcohol is the quickest way to disarm a telepath. It reduces mental clarity, impedes your concentration. But then again, you knew that didn’t you? And you still fell for it.” His smile turned into a hateful grimace. “My name’s Dietrich, by the way. Pleasure to finally meet you, Michael Cairne.”
He shook the bottle, causing the liquid to slosh. Michael could hear his men singing inside the café, another of their old army songs. He tried to contact them.
Eli…Ian…
But he couldn’t project his thoughts. It wasn’t just the alcohol, but something else in the bottle. It had to be.
“I added my own ingredients, of course,” Dietrich said. “Courtesy of Harris Kole’s scientists. You wouldn’t believe the drugs they have available now, just to prevent people like us from using our God-given abilities. It’s amazing how effective they are.”
“Fuck—you,” Michael stammered.
Dietrich leaned over him. “Oh no, fuck you, you little prick. I got you this time. You can say goodbye to your little girlfriend, too.”
Michael’s body tensed. “No…”
A scowl of disgust came over Dietrich’s face as he brought the bottle down against Michael’s skull, sending him into darkness with a numbing thud.
A group had gathered by the old barns on the outskirts of town, without Blake or Midas Ford. It was one of Archibald Frugin’s barns, and Dominic was not surprised to see him standing before the crowd, his hat in one hand and a rifle in the other. Thirty or so people stood watching him, holding revolvers, rifles, and even pitchforks. They nodded along with his words like zealots listening to a preacher’s sermon.
“The day of the telepath in Gulch is over,” Frugin said. “This is our town, and we’ll do what it takes to keep our people here. Louis Blake and Michael Cairne must go, and they must take their army with ’em—or there’s gonna be hell to pay.”
The people cheered.
“We ain’t gonna leave our homes, our farms, our businesses just because they say so.”
More cheers.
“Let us take back control of this town. Let me guide us back to prosperity.”
People clapped and hooted. Farmers took off their hats and waved them in the dry, night air.
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