The boy made his way over to the table with stiff movements, his elbows knocking against the backs of chairs. His boots made a shuffling sound against the carpet. Michael wanted to be as far away from this bald, clumsy creature as possible. Something about the way the agent ordered him around, like he wasn’t even a person, turned Michael’s stomach.
Harrelson sat with a heavy plop across from Michael, his eyeballs moving from side to side like pale cocoons about to burst in their sockets.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” the agent said as Harrelson’s sightless eyes rested on Michael. The agent pointed at the blind telepath with the tip of his cigarette. “You lie to me, and he’ll know—and then it’s off to the Tank with you. And your parents? Straight to the labor camps, split up so they won’t ever see each other again. And you can forget about having a brother since you’ll never see him again, either.”
Michael locked eyes with Harrelson, nodding to show he understood. This was it. This was going to be the end of his family and his life.
“Question number one,” the agent said. “Have you ever been contacted, or have you ever made contact with, a member of an anti-government group?”
A shred of a memory flashed in Michael’s mind of being in a van with a small group of people dressed in black. Images from the dreams he’d been having, perhaps.
Or were they memories from his past?
“No.”
“He’s lying,” Harrelson said, blinking once. His voice came out smooth and genderless.
An icy feeling washed over Michael’s skin. “I’m not lying. I—I don’t even know any rebels. I’m just a dishwasher.”
Harrelson sat back, brows furrowing as he considered this.
“He’s not lying.”
The agent scowled at Harrelson. He stubbed the cigarette out on the table, not bothering to ask for an ashtray. “Make up your mind, please.”
Harrelson blinked several times. “He’s hiding something.”
The agent leaned over the table, squinting at Michael. “When your uncle first arrived, was he acting normal?”
Michael wanted badly to tell the truth. To say that yes, Uncle Sal had been perfectly normal until Michael had used some sort of telepathic weirdness to plunge him into a catatonic state. It would have been so much easier than trying to hide from Harrelson, whose eyes were like magnifying lenses trying to burn a hole into Michael’s forehead.
He was about to answer truthfully when a voice slid into his head.
You can block him.
“What?” Michael blinked several times, scanning the room.
“Answer the question, kid,” the agent said.
There’s a string in the blind kid’s mind. You can see it vibrating if you look closely.
Michael squinted at Harrelson, pushing to locate the string.
There. He felt it more than he saw it—a thin wisp of thread dancing in the center of Harrelson’s forehead, similar to the one he’d seen inside his uncle.
Harrelson and the agent peered at Michael, suddenly suspicious. Despite being blind, Harrelson appeared to be watching him. Maybe he was seeing him, in his own way.
“Kid, you have exactly one second to answer my question,” the agent said.
Now, pluck that string as you say the word “No.” Pretend your mind has fingers. Run them across.
Michael did as he was told, and said, “No.”
“No, what?” the agent said.
He ran his invisible fingers across the string, like he was gently playing a harp.
“No, sir. Uncle Sal was not acting normal when he got here. He seemed—drunk, maybe, or really sick. I don’t know what was wrong with him.”
Instead of vibrating more, Harrelson’s mental string seemed to relax. His eyes took on a calm and satisfied look, as if he’d just eaten a heavy meal.
“The subject is not lying,” Harrelson said.
Michael wanted to sigh in relief, but he thought it would look suspicious. He kept himself frozen in place, moving only to blink.
The agent sat back, his finger tapping the table. Biting his lower lip, he made a series of sucking sounds as he considered the situation.
“Would your mother, father, or brother have any reason to cause your uncle harm?”
Michael flicked his mental fingers again. “No, sir.”
He’s yours now, the voice told him. Good work.
Chapter 13
The following night, the Lanza family celebrated.
Michael’s father brought out his last three bottles of wine, probably the most valuable items he owned. They had closed the restaurant early. His mother lit candles.
Michael tried his best not to brood. He was thinking about the voice in his head, about being a ment, about how easy it had been to control Harrelson’s lie-detection abilities, even as the agent and the blind boy went on to interview the rest of his family.
It wasn’t just Harrelson’s mind that could be manipulated. For hours, under the guidance of the mysterious voice in his head, Michael had sat there, plucking people’s mental strings like a little kid strumming a guitar with no idea how to create real music.
Eventually, when the agents began to leave, the voice cut off for good.
“Mikey, here ya go,” his father said, offering to fill his glass. As soon as the wine was poured, he gave Michael a thumbs-up to lift his mood.
Terry had instructed them not to talk about anything out of the ordinary, in case the restaurant had been bugged, which it probably had. They were also under strict orders never to speak of the previous week’s events to anyone outside the family.
Smiling, his mother and father each put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Benny made small talk, obviously doing so in case of microphones.
As Benny spoke, he reached across the table, put his hand on Michael’s, and winked at him.
Tears came to Michael’s eyes. His mother and father—and yes, they were his parents, to hell with what anyone else might say—both squeezed his shoulders, and Benny squeezed his hand. What they couldn’t say with their mouths, they said with their bodies. They all had tears in their eyes, except for Benny, who grinned as he rambled on about some old friend he’d bumped into that morning.
Terry whispered, “You protected us.”
Michael studied their faces. He didn’t want any other family besides this one. I love all of you, he wished he could say aloud. Instead, he tapped his chest, right over his heart.
His mother, father, and brother did the same.
After his parents had gone upstairs for the night, Michael and Benny decided to clean up a little. The kitchen was filled with shivering orange light from candles they’d set up along the counters. It was quiet out in the streets. A perfect setting to enjoy a bit of the restaurant’s gin.
“You got those trash bags?” Benny said, pointing at a pile of them.
“Do I look like your bitch?” Michael said.
Benny shook his head. “You’re too ugly to be anyone’s bitch.”
They burst into laughter that faded into drunken giggles. Benny made his way to the basement to lock the fridge. Michael lifted two trash bags, slung them over his shoulder, and took them out behind the restaurant.
He wished he could see the stars. The night sky above the outer sectors was always the same yellow-black color from all the electric lights glowing in the Inner Sanctum, the only part of the city allowed to consume electricity after ten o’clock. Michael would have been happy just to have the stars shining overhead.
“I can show them to you,” a familiar voice said behind him.
Michael spun around to face the man. He was standing beneath the battery-powered bulb above the door, dressed in a leather jacket, a black T-shirt, and dark jeans. He’d fixed his wavy hair into a short ponytail that looked greasy and tangled.
Despite the man’s chiseled features, almost effeminate in their fineness, there seemed to be something wrong with his face. In the low light, Michael could make out bum
ps and bruises on the man’s skin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut.
“Who are you?”
The man narrowed his eyes. “I’m the voice inside your head.”
Remember me?
Michael flinched. Those last two words had been like cold water flooding his skull.
“I’m the one who saved you from going into the Tank. Name’s Dominic.”
“How did you do that?”
The man touched a bruise on his face, wincing. “I’m a telepath, like you. Thought you’d have figured that out by now.” He took another step forward, and Michael backed away. “You don’t owe me anything. I just want to talk.”
“What happened to your face?”
“This?” The man touched his swollen cheek. “Illegal bare-knuckle boxing match. A man’s got to earn a living.” His knuckles were just as cut up and bruised as his face. “Don’t be so scared. I’m here to give you an opportunity.”
“To do what?”
The man bent to pick up a trash bag. Michael had piled them outside the dumpster so he could throw them in one after the other. Dominic nodded for Michael to get the other one.
“Might as well get these out of the way,” Dominic said, shrugging.
Quietly, they deposited the bags into the receptacle. Dominic was courteous enough to lower the lid gently so as not to slam it and wake Michael’s parents.
“I’m here to offer you a new life,” he said finally, slapping his hands together. “In the Eastlands.”
“And what if I don’t want it?”
“Pretty soon, you won’t have a choice. You ever wonder what happened to your mother?”
Michael jerked his gaze to the man’s face, heart speeding up.
“She was killed in cold blood by the dictator of this unholy country, Harris Kole himself.”
“But… how?”
Dominic shook his head. “It happened during an escape attempt. She managed to smuggle you out of a military research facility in the mountains northwest of here, but she had to sacrifice herself to do it.
“She was a telepath, Michael, like you and me. A powerful one. The government was looking for a way to weaponize the ability, and finding her was their first success. Creating you was their second.”
Michael could only stand there, stunned. Moths flew in circles beneath the lamp, seeking warmth from the dim light. Dominic flinched as one bumped the side of his head. He waved it away with a sour expression.
“And what do you want with me?”
“I want to help you,” Dominic said. “Give you a chance of survival, because out here…” He scanned the brick walls, brows raised. “You’re up for grabs.”
“So, they’ll kill me, too? Like they killed my mother?”
Dominic shook his head. “Worse. They’ll paralyze you from the neck down so you’ll never be able to run away. Then they’ll test you, see what your mind is capable of. Finally, they’ll open up your skull, then drill holes in your brain to see what they can find. Maybe they’ll kill you afterward. Or maybe that’s just the beginning.”
Michael took a deep breath, straightening to his full height. This was beginning to feel like some sort of intimidation tactic. He made fists out of his cold fingers. “Who do you work for? The Liberators? The Revolters?”
Dominic shook his head, glancing at his watch. “I work for Louis Blake, the man who helped your mother smuggle you out in the first place. He’s been looking for you.”
“The terrorist, right?”
“All revolutionaries are terrorists at first, wouldn’t you say? Besides, what they say about him on the news is a lie meant to keep the system in place and the men who run it in power. They’ve turned him and the rest of us into bogeymen to scare children at night, to keep them worshipping the One President like they’ve been doing for decades. Are you afraid of the bogeyman, Mike?”
Michael stepped toward the door. “I have a family. They need me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dominic said, moving toward him. “They’ll slaughter your family like cattle. That’s the first thing they’ll do.”
“And if I leave, they’ll do the same. Or send them to the camps.”
“They can come with us,” Dominic said.
Michael shook his head. “My father would never leave his restaurant. He… he needs me.”
“I can tell you don’t even believe your own words. He would understand if you ran away. He knows what you are.”
“But Benny…”
“Your brother can take care of your family. With you here, they’re in danger. Don’t you understand that, Michael? You’re putting them in danger by being here.”
Michael shook his head as if to rid it of some vile thought. “Please don’t come here again,” he said, and his voice cracked. “I—I mean, thanks for your help, but after what you showed me in there, I think I can take care of myself and my family now.”
Dominic leaned toward Michael a little, shoulders squared like he was going to challenge him to a fistfight. “What, you’re such a tough guy now? Just because you took care of one telepath and a bunch of cops, you think you can protect your family from the Fatherland Security Department? Listen to me, kid. All hell is about to crash down on your shoulders. Don’t be stupid.”
Michael had opened the door. He started backing through it. “Leave me alone,” he said.
When the door was shut, he slid all seven locks into place and listened for the sounds of Dominic’s footsteps leaving the lot.
He heard nothing at all.
Chapter 14
For days, it was all Michael could think about—the man with the beaten face who had tried to recruit him into a revolutionary group. It almost didn’t seem real. And Louis Blake—a hero instead of a terrorist? What would Benny say to that? What would his father think if he went off to join a man the news broadcasts had labeled one of the deadliest mass killers in WDPRA history?
The more Michael thought about it, the more he burned with the urge to admit the truth to himself—he was excited by the idea.
Still, it wasn’t worth the risk. If he escaped the country, his entire family would be sent to the labor camps. He couldn’t live with himself knowing he’d been responsible for such a fate.
One night, he snuck out of the restaurant and headed toward the nearest black-market location. Not because he had anything to sell, but because he needed to stretch his legs, clear his mind, maybe see if Dominic would try approaching him again. Was the man giving up so easily? Did it matter, since they both knew what Michael’s answer would always be?
A soft clap drew his attention. Looking farther up the avenue, he saw that a shoe had fallen into the street. Above the shoe was a pair of dangling legs, one foot bare. They swayed gently in the breeze. Michael’s stomach sank as he studied the rest of the body. The man was short and skinny. Light from the crescent moon illuminated his white hair and revealed part of his face.
He was old—old and familiar.
Michael’s throat clamped shut, and he had to gulp down air. Tears stung his eyes as he took a few steps toward the corpse, which had been strung from a lamppost using rope. The body spun gently, and moonlight washed across a cardboard sign attached to his chest.
It read, BE WARNED. BLACK-MARKET RATS WILL HANG.
“No,” Michael whispered, wiping away tears. “You spiteful bastards. You spiteful fucking bastards.”
They had tied a rope around his neck. Hung him out in public. Everyone would see him in the morning. Michael scooped up the shoe that had fallen from Joel Kridentz’s foot. He would have put it back on the man, but they had hung him too high for that. It didn’t matter. His clothes would all be stolen by scavengers as soon as day broke.
Michael slipped the shoe into his pocket—a reminder he would keep for the rest of his life. A reminder never to be stupid and expose himself or his family to the men who did this.
Running and hiding was fine by him. It meant living, and that was all he cared about.
&nbs
p; “I wish you’d been wearing your dynamite,” Michael said, gazing up at the man’s still face. “I wish you’d blown them all to hell.”
Days passed like a slow form of torture. The anger, the questions, the fear—they eroded Michael’s soul even more than the famine was eroding his body. He thought nothing would ever change, but it did.
That night, they came back for him.
Dominic, was Michael’s first thought as the hand clamped over his mouth, pulling him out of a hurried, anxious dream he immediately forgot. He became aware of a dark room, the foul warmth of someone’s breath wafting over his face, the roughness of calloused hands on his lips and chin.
“Hold him steady,” a voice said.
A flashlight clicked on, creating shadows that yawned across a broad face. It was one of the two men who had accompanied Uncle Sal in the restaurant the day of his promotion. Michael even remembered their names—Boyd and Welcher.
“Shh…” Welcher, the bigger of the two, said, pulling the flashlight away so his face was again hidden in darkness. “Be real quiet.”
The light swung, smashing into Michael’s head and knocking him out cold.
The sensation of his bare feet thumping down the basement stairs woke him.
Michael’s heels were sore when they finally dropped him into a chair. He was dressed in a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else. The men had strung up a battery-powered lantern they must have brought with them. It filled the basement with a weak, piss-colored glow.
“Mike.”
He looked to his right and saw Benny, also bound to a chair, apparently unharmed. Sweat was pouring down his face, soaking his white undershirt. Like Michael, he was also dressed in his boxer shorts, though he wore a thick pair of cotton socks that Michael often teased him about.
“Mikey,” he said again, trembling.
Welcher slammed his elbow into Benny’s face. The effect was unlike anything Michael had ever seen, as if Benny were not a real person but a doll. His head bobbed and his eyes rolled up to reveal their veined underbellies. Whimpering, he blinked a few times. Blood ran from one nostril and gathered along his trembling upper lip.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 9