Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  “I’m alone,” the boy said. “Been that way since my momma died and my daddy took up with raiders. Said I was too weak and dumb to take along. He tried to shoot me—said he was putting me out of my misery—but I ran and he missed. Then I ran some more. That was a month ago. I—”

  “Shut up. I didn’t ask for your life story. Your daddy was right. You’re weak, and I’d bet you’re dumb as a mutated donkey.”

  The boy knitted his eyebrows in sudden defiance. “I ain’t dumb. I know you’re sporting Glocks with Tritium fiber-optic sights. You see, I know guns. Can’t shoot, though.”

  The soldiers looked at each other, impressed.

  “Why can’t you shoot?” one asked.

  The boy shrugged. “The noise. Gives me the shakes.”

  “He knows guns, but he can’t shoot,” one soldier said, to which the other responded with a grin. “What do you think we could do with a healthy pair of hands that knows guns but can’t actually fire them at us?”

  They grinned at the implication. The boy watched their faces, apparently ignorant of the situation he had just stumbled into. His mouth hung open in confusion as the soldiers continued their conversation like he wasn’t even there.

  “Not as dumb as he looks. Maybe his daddy was wrong.”

  “Half-wrong. Still looks weak as hell. This one might last a while, though. Got an attitude, but we’ll fix that right quick.”

  “Colonel Keagan won’t complain. We need more hands on the line, right?”

  The boy was so confused he barely resisted as the soldiers cuffed him, then tossed him in the rear compartment of the van they used to transport newly acquired prisoners to Camp Brazen. They had found a prize today. A young, healthy kid who knew guns—nothing like the crusty, deformed old men or the drooling, glassy-eyed retards they usually found and then had to shoot.

  “What’s your name, cowboy?” a soldier asked once inside. He spoke through the slits in the metal siding between the two compartments, the boy sitting in darkness in the back.

  “Marshall,” the boy said. “Marshall Towne.”

  “Well, Marshall, today’s your lucky day. We’re taking you to a place where you’re gonna get a bed to sleep on, a pot to piss in, hot food to eat, and you might even make some new friends.”

  The boy scavenger remained silent throughout the ride.

  Sam Weisman came through in less than a week—a personal record for him. Blake was proud of his old friend.

  “This won’t be cheap,” Weisman said over the satellite phone.

  “I’ll give you the account number. Take out what you need.”

  Weisman was silent for a moment. Blake was certain he knew what the man was thinking.

  “You trust me enough to just…” Weisman paused, but Blake finished for him.

  “I do,” he said. “But regardless of that, I’m not going to need that money anymore. Things are changing.”

  I’m dying, Blake thought to say. But it wouldn’t help anyone’s situation to share that news. Sam had his own well-being to worry about.

  “Tell me,” Blake said, realizing his palms were sweating. “What did you find?”

  “Not the documents you were searching for. Something better.” Blake could almost hear the man smiling, his old, cracked lips stretching in a way they hadn’t in years. For once, neither thought to light a cigarette. “I’ve got a contact who was knee-deep in the experiments. A scientist. But not just any…”

  “Spite me,” Blake said. “You found a live one.”

  “Like I said, he won’t be cheap. Not this one.”

  “Name the price.”

  When Weisman spoke the number, Blake’s stomach tightened. “That’ll pretty much empty the account.”

  Weisman sighed. “Well, you said you won’t need it anymore.”

  “Fine. I can’t meet him in person, though.”

  “‘Course not. He agreed to a video chat.”

  Blake glanced around his home office. “That would require a computer, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You have one? If you do, all you need is a wireless networking card to connect to the sat phone. I don’t think you realize how complex that little phone in your hand actually is.”

  Blake frowned. “If it were all that great, it would have a screen.” Sighing, he shook his head. “I could probably build a PC with all the parts and old shells I have laying around.”

  “Get to it, Major. No telling if and when this guy might change his mind.”

  “What’s his name?” Blake asked.

  Again, he sensed that Weisman was smiling. “Just wait until you see his face.”

  7

  Warden Colonel Keagan barely glanced up from his clipboard as he assigned Michael a guide to the camp. He was flanked by two bored-looking guards, who scanned their surroundings as if there were vastly more important matters to tend to.

  “Call Dean Hampton,” Keagan said, then crossed something off the page.

  One of the guards half-turned, peering over his shoulder.

  “Hampton,” the man shouted. “Get Hampton!”

  A prisoner dressed in a hole-ridden, once-white shirt that was now brown from dust and grime accumulated over countless months—maybe even years—quickly darted into one of the low-slung buildings. A moment later, he scurried back out, followed by a shorter prisoner with a head of unruly brown hair and a greying beard. His clothes were equally dusty and tattered. This second man calmly walked up to Keagan and the guards, a defiant look in his eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” Dean Hampton said, eyeing Michael.

  “New blood,” Keagan said. “You know the drill.”

  Hampton nodded once, never taking his fierce brown eyes off Michael. It was then Michael happened to drop his gaze, noticing Dean’s left hand. It was missing. The scar tissue was messy and a dark red, the amputation obviously done somewhat recently and poorly.

  “Come on, son,” he said. “I’ll get you integrated.”

  Keagan nodded, as if at a job well done, and breathed in. Abruptly, he coughed with such force he almost dropped the clipboard. Michael was reminded of Louis Blake. He almost reached out, as if to help the warden, then caught himself. Keagan made eye contact with Michael for the first time. There was something steady and firm about his mental state. Michael had set his power to passively scan anyone he came into contact with for any signs of weakness. Keagan had none—his mind was as sturdy as a brick house.

  Michael would break him soon, and he would enjoy doing it.

  “Damn dust,” Keagan said, then cleared his throat. Still eyeing Michael, he said, “Get going, prisoner. And don’t let me catch you making eye contact with me again. Same goes for the guards.”

  Michael dropped his gaze. “S-sorry, sir,” he said, putting on his most pathetic voice. “Won’t happen again.”

  “That’s better. Hampton, take him with you.”

  Dean Hampton was a wraith of a man, much like all the others in Camp Brazen. They were a sorry sight—indeed, how malnourished and emaciated the prisoners appeared had been the first or second thing Michael noticed upon his arrival. They all resembled each other as a result—shaggy, bearded skeletons covered in a thin layer of sore-riddled flesh. Michael would look like them after a while. He pictured Arielle cringing at the sight of him upon his return—if he ever returned.

  “The warden’s a fair man,” his guide said, once the guards and the warden had left them alone together. “But the guards are a different story, especially when he’s not around. That’s your first lesson—be careful what you do or say around the guards. I’m Dean Hampton.”

  “Marshall Towne,” Michael said, extending his hand.

  Dean looked at it, glanced at the guards and warden walking away, then studied Michael’s hand as if deciding what to do with it. He shook his head.

  “Prisoners can’t touch each other here,” he said. “Not to shake hands, throw a punch, or even help another man to his feet after he’s been beaten. You’d do well to re
member that. Come on. Walk with me.”

  “Got it,” Michael said. “Thanks.”

  “No need to thank me. Everyone gets a guide when they first get here. But I won’t always be there for you. I’ve got my men to think about.”

  “You were an officer,” Michael said. It wasn’t a question. He could tell by Dean’s bearing, the straight line of his shoulders as he almost marched, the way he glanced around at the other prisoners they passed as if inspecting everyone, making sure they still had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. He hadn’t just been a leader of men—he’d been their guardian.

  “You see these rows of huts?” Dean asked, cutting to the chase. “This is where we sleep. That’s all we do in there, got it? Unless you’re sick or injured, don’t be spending any time in there except to sleep. You won’t get a chance to do much else, truthfully. They keep us busy around here. That’s where you’ll be staying.” He pointed at one of the huts. “I know the men who stay there. Good lads. They’ll help you get accommodated.”

  “Can I stay in your hut?” Michael asked. “I mean, since I feel I can trust…”

  “I know what you meant. I’m in the one right next door. Any trouble with the other men, you come see me. You got that?”

  Michael marked the two huts in his memory. It wouldn’t be difficult to remember the place. The huts were more like shacks—roughly built and rickety, as if a strong wind could blow them over, distinct in shape and size from the rest of the buildings, which had once been warehouses.

  In the distance, he saw two banners hanging side by side from one of the warehouses. They immediately inspired a hot surge of anger inside Michael’s chest—a conditioned response that flared whenever he saw those faces.

  The banners displayed pictures of Harris Kole and his father, Harold Targin Kole. Faces upturned, eyes gazing as if into the future, the colors vivid compared to the dreariness of the camp, the depictions made both men appear as romantic figures endowed with a divine quality absent from the rest of mankind, capable of blessing the camp with their omnipresent mercy.

  Having to restrain himself, Michael almost spat on the ground. He never thought he’d see banners like that again—at least not until the day he would make his way back to the People’s Republic, leading an army of soldiers.

  “Yup,” Dean said, noticing the direction in which Michael was focused. “They’re in here with us, too. Every day, all day.”

  “How many men are in here?” Michael asked, eager to switch the subject.

  Dean wiped sweat off his brow with his stump. “One hundred and twelve prisoners. If we’re talking guards, then it’s about fifty.”

  “That’s enough to take over the place. With that many, why don’t—”

  Dean cut him off, whirling on Michael and stopping him dead in his tracks with a fierce stare. When he spoke, his voice came out in a low rasp.

  “Listen, kid. I admire your spirit. In another life, you might have made a good soldier. I would have been proud to train you. But there’s a fine line between spirit and a ghost. You keep talking like that, and you might become the latter. You understand?”

  Michael nodded, peering into the shorter man’s eyes without blinking to show he understood. Dean’s expression softened a bit.

  “There are snitches,” he said. “Soon, you’ll get a radar of sorts. A sense of who’s who, and who can’t be trusted. That’s how they survive here. They work for the guards.”

  Michael uncapped the lens in his mind. He did a quick telepathic scan of his surroundings, then he felt it. Like someone’s hot breath on his neck. Or a piercing light he could only see from the corner of his eye.

  “There’s one watching me right now,” Michael said. “Isn’t there?”

  Dean didn’t look at the snitch. He was smarter than that. Instead, he gave Michael a tight nod and indicated they should keep walking.

  “His name’s Ferrance Walker. He’s the worst of the bunch.”

  Michael glanced at a group of soldiers carrying bags of feed into a barn that was noisy with the chirping of baby chicks. The man known as Ferrance Walker had paused to hang back in the shade of a wall. Stronger and sturdier than the other men, it could only mean he had access to better nutrition. He stared at Michael and Dean.

  The heat Michael had felt radiating from the man could only be one thing—anger.

  “What does he have against you?” Michael asked.

  Frowning, Dean couldn’t help but gape at Michael in wonder. “You’re pretty intuitive,” he said. “How did you know…”

  “The way he’s staring at us,” Michael said.

  “But you also sensed we were being watched.”

  “I’ve been surviving on my own for a while now,” Michael said. “You either have good instincts, or you’re dead meat.”

  “Or you’re a ment,” Dean said.

  Michael tensed. He checked the wall where Ferrance had stood, but the man was gone. He had disappeared somewhere inside the warehouse.

  “Not a chance,” Michael said. “I’m not one of those freaks.”

  “Nothing wrong with being different. Just keep to yourself. Different doesn’t last long in this place. You want to survive, then you keep your head down and try to blend in. As for what he has against me, well, I’ll tell you this much—there are men like Ferrance Walker, who gain influence and power by taking advantage of others. But then there are men like me, who work for it.”

  “Warden Keagan,” Michael said. “He respects you. And no matter how many times Ferrance rats your men out, he knows he isn’t capable of earning that kind of respect.”

  Frowning, Dean peeked at Michael from the corner of his eye. “Kid, you’re freaking me out.”

  “Sorry.”

  They had been walking for a few minutes when Dean finally stopped. He had taken Michael clear across camp, yet he had shown him little. But Michael knew Dean Hampton’s advice had been the point of this walk.

  “I’m in your debt,” Michael said. “If I make it three days in this place, it’s because of you.”

  Dean tipped his head, accepting Michael’s gratitude. He had clearly done this before, and effectively so, which was probably why Warden Keagan had called on him.

  “That warehouse is where we build,” Dean said.

  Michael studied the place. He had no difficulty picking it out among the other buildings—a warehouse almost twice the size of any other. Clicking and grinding noises came from within, the sounds of dozens of men working with wood and metal parts.

  “You’ll be working with the rest of us,” Dean said, “building weapons.”

  “You mean guns?”

  Dean nodded. “Assault rifles. But don’t get any ideas. We don’t make the bullets here. The only bullets in this camp go with the pistols the guards carry, which don’t work with the rifles.”

  “That’s smart,” Michael said. “But what about the guards in the towers?”

  “They carry a special kind of sniper rifle, and they store the bullets up in the towers, where you need a key to get into the lockboxes. I’m sure they checked you for bullets.”

  Michael nodded once, grimacing at the memory. It was no fun being held at gunpoint while a man checked one’s nether regions for smuggled contraband.

  “So, what now?” he asked.

  “Now,” Dean said, scratching his beard. “We eat.”

  Lunch that afternoon was a handful of cooked white rice and a bowl of cabbage soup with a few shreds of chicken floating across the surface. Michael’s stomach was empty at that point. He inhaled the food with the same vigor as the other prisoners. By the end of the meal, he felt even hungrier than before.

  The officers ate at a much longer table at one end of the room, surrounded by guards. They made no effort to conceal the heaping quantities of steaming rice, chicken, and vegetables they were allowed to consume.

  Michael instantly hated them. He wanted nothing more than to use his telepathic ability to force pain upon them.
As he watched them tear into their meaty bits of chicken, Michael found himself fantasizing about what it would be like to send the guards straight for their pistols, turning them on each other in a wild shootout.

  It was the all-familiar hatred Michael had felt living in the NDR, when his ever-present hunger would play with his emotions, twisting his waking dreams into revenge fantasies with politicians and policemen as his victims.

  Michael used meditation to calm himself. He would learn to live with the hunger as he had done before. There was no other way—single-handedly killing the guards using telepathy would not gain him the allies he had come here to find. It wouldn’t inspire these prisoners to follow him where he needed to take them.

  When the meal was over, a guard called for the men to get to their feet. They all stood together, then formed lines to dump their trays and exit the mess hall. All the while, guards with pistols stood by, watching for any sudden movement.

  They worked the rest of the afternoon. Dean Hampton ordered two of his men to help Michael get situated somewhere in the assembly line. The first thing they did was walk over to a large bucket full of protective goggles. They handed Michael a pair. The prisoners weren’t allowed to speak, but it was loud enough inside the plant they could get away with it in short, abrupt bursts while the guards were distracted.

  Michael was shocked at how modern the plant appeared to be. It was a maze of tables and machines on which prisoners worked on all stages of gun production—from forging and cutting to milling and assembling. The tables and counters were covered in shiny gun parts that would have been worth a fortune out in the Eastlands’ various markets, or in the black markets back in the People’s Republic. The ovens in the back made the entire room hot and humid, the air sticky against his skin like honey. Banging sounds erupted from the stamping machines shaping the hot barrels and other parts into their final forms.

  Michael found the act of screwing and snapping gun parts together to be a welcome opportunity to perform telepathic scans on the other prisoners—especially the guards. He couldn’t read their minds, but he was able to get a sense of whom he should avoid, which ones emitted the sort of telepathic heat that indicated anger or an unstable emotional state.