“Thank you, Midas,” Blake said, moving in the opposite direction. Stopping, he glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Midas. Do you have a gallon jug? One of those plastic things people used to use to hold milk?”
Midas held his screen door halfway open, head cocked as he considered. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while. But I got something similar.”
“Good,” Blake said. “Fill it with cough syrup and bring it with you.”
Eli, Ian, and Peter stared up at Blake from where they sat around the dinner table. He had barged in, interrupting their meal of grilled asparagus and meat from whatever animal they had killed on their latest hunt.
“I know he told you where he was going,” Blake said.
They glanced at each other, then looked down at their plates in silence.
“Tell me,” Blake said. “That’s an order. Where is Michael?”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said, swallowing the food in his mouth. He had some trouble, his face contorting as he struggled to press it down by forcefully squeezing his throat muscles. Eli reached over to whack him on the back, Blake growing more annoyed by the second. Finally, when Peter could speak again, he said, “He told us he was going East in search of…of…”
“Slaves to rescue,” Ian said, coming to Peter’s rescue admirably.
“So he could bring them back,” Eli said. “Grow the community.”
Blake didn’t need a telepathic scan to know they were lying. With an exasperated sigh, he took a seat at the table, his body plopping loudly into the chair. It was where Michael would have sat for dinner.
“I’ll level with you boys,” Blake said, ignoring their uncomfortable glances at each other. “Just so you know you don’t have to lie to me. I’m going after him. We never should have let him leave. I’m going to bring him back.”
Blake sensed relief wash over the boys. Ian was the first to speak.
“We’re going with you.”
“No. I’m not putting the lives of more young people at risk. Midas agreed to come to look after me. Aside from a few men who know how to shoot a rifle, that’s all I’ll need.”
“What about Dominic?” Eli asked. “Good luck keeping him away.”
A new voice made everyone jump.
“I’ll speak for myself, thank you.”
Startled, everyone turned toward the front door. Dominic stood there, arms crossed as though he’d been listening all along—in disapproval, judging by the set of his shoulders and the scowl on his face.
“Following me?” Blake said.
Dominic approached the table. “I saw you leaving Midas’s house. You had that look you tend to get, like the world’s coming apart at the seams and only you know how to fix it. Or so you think.”
“Come with me,” Blake said, rising from the table to stare intently at Dominic.
“No can do.” Dominic shook his head. “I promised him I would look after the girl.”
“Arielle will be fine,” Blake said. “She’s upstairs sleeping. Besides, with Meacham and his men gone…”
“I gave my word,” Dominic said, his tone indicating the matter wasn’t up for debate.
Ian pushed his plate away before rising to his full height. “I’m going,” he said. “At least one of us needs to tag along. You’re too vulnerable out there by yourself, sir.”
Blake smiled warmly at the boy. “Very kind of you. Care to tell me where we’re going?”
“Camp Brazen. It’s a labor camp—”
Ian stopped midsentence, apparently stunned by Blake’s reaction. Blake had put a hand over his eyes, placing his other against the table to steady himself.
“Son of a bitch.” It came out in a furious snarl.
Dominic could only stand there, shaking his head. “What an idiot.”
“And you let him?” Blake roared at the boys. “What’s the matter with you?”
Shrugging, Peter glanced at his friends.
“I guess we’re going,” he said.
“Where exactly are we going?” a girl’s voice asked. “Camp Brazen?”
Every head in the room whipped around to see who had spoken.
Arielle stood with her arms crossed. She had made her way silently down the stairs, now standing near the front door—behind Dominic, who was impossible to sneak up on—looking decidedly unhappy. Her hair was mess, with strands bending and hanging every which way. She wore a plush white robe that served to make her blonde hair stand out all the more brilliantly.
“Good work, Louis,” Dominic said, “having this conversation right below where she sleeps.”
“She would have found out anyway,” Blake said.
Arielle shook her head. “Typical men. Let’s keep the women in the dark, where they can be safe from the real world and they won’t get in the way.”
Blake moved to approach her, raising his hands apologetically, but Arielle stopped him by thrusting a finger at his face. “Stop right there,” she demanded.
“Arielle…”
“Louis, don’t say another word. I’m going with you. If Michael’s in danger, then you could use my help. Don’t forget, I’m also a Type II telepath. I’m trained and experienced, and I have the ability to manipulate empathy in a way you could only dream of doing.”
Dominic fell into an armchair with a sigh.
“We could stop you by using force…” Dominic suggested.
“But you know as well as I do,” Arielle said, “that I would steal a truck and track you down…”
“In that case, we could all enter Camp Brazen like one big happy family,” he drawled sarcastically. He jumped to his feet, then stalked Arielle with a murderous gleam in his eyes. “Holding hands, skipping, chanting telepathic commands like crazy street magicians.”
“Dominic,” Blake warned.
“…and then, somehow,” Dominic continued, “we’ll convince Michael, the second most stubborn person on earth after you, sweet Arielle, to just up and leave the camp he willingly entered on some stupid, childish whim, then we’ll be on our merry way, back to Gulch, hoping all the while that no one—like maybe a group of trained soldiers—follows our tracks.”
Arielle scowled, her stare hot enough to rival Dominic’s. She seemed on the verge of shouting—maybe to threaten or insult him much like he had just done her.
Instead, the angriness melted away. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she gazed deeply into Dominic’s eyes.
You’re angry because you love me, and you don’t want me to get hurt. You also love Michael, who will blame you if anything happens to me…
Her telepathic voice reached everyone in the room. The boys were riveted in their seats, watching Dominic as if in nervous anticipation of his response.
Dominic glared at her.
“Don’t do it,” he said, taking another step toward Arielle. “Don’t go there.”
“Dom,” Blake said, every muscle in his body tightening. Dominic seemed furious, but he would never actually hurt the girl…would he?
But you agree they’ll need me, Arielle continued to whisper into their minds. Plus, you think it’s unfair I have to stay behind just because I’m a girl. So you’re going to give in, and you’ll let me go with them. You’ll do it because it doesn’t matter how angry Michael will be with you. Because this is his fault and letting me go will be an act of rebellion against his wishes, which would make you feel like you finally stood up for yourself.
Blake went to restrain Dominic, who was now only a foot away from Arielle and appeared ready to wring her throat. But before Blake reached him, Dominic staggered backward, as if drunk, and fell once more into the armchair.
“It’s his fault,” Dominic said with a growl, “and I’m not going to sit here anymore and wait. We never should have let him go.”
He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands, like a child about to weep.
Blake couldn’t stand it any longer. But the girl was right. Even he, Louis Blake, would never have been able to infiltrate Dominic’s mi
nd the way she had just done, forcing him to admit his shame in front of everyone. Arielle truly had a gift.
“Get up, Dom,” Blake said. “We need to start prepping.”
Dominic rose slowly. When he was finally standing up straight, his six-foot-two frame looming over the girl, he lost the forlorn expression and gave Arielle one of his classic, sharp-eyed grins.
“I tried to block you,” he said, wonder lacing his tone. “But I couldn’t.”
Arielle smiled sweetly. “Do you like how I pulled that one out of my pocket?”
“You’re very special,” Dominic replied, “and I see why he loves you so much. I love you more than you know.”
“And I you,” Arielle said.
Dominic pulled her toward him, and they embraced like a long-lost brother and sister uniting for the first time in years.
Blake turned to the boys seated around the table. Their mouths hung open. Eli had tears in his eyes.
“What the spiteful wrath just happened?” Ian said.
Blake clapped once, urgently, then growled his next command at the boys. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get your asses out of your seats and go start packing supplies. We leave at daybreak on the day after tomorrow.”
11
“It’s cornbread,” Michael said, passing the rock-hard cakey clump through the opening just above the ground. “Your favorite.”
He had to lay on his stomach to see inside. Even then, all he ever glimpsed was a weak hand reaching over to take what he offered. Occasionally, he spotted part of Dean’s face, a tired, hooded eye.
“Thank you,” Dean whispered so low Michael could barely hear him. “Now get out of here.”
“And how are you going to swallow that without water?” Michael asked, his throat tightening with pity and affection. “Here.”
He squeezed the water pouch through the opening. Dropping the cornbread, Dean immediately went for the water, twisting the cap off and drinking deeply. After three days in the hotbox, water was more than just precious—it had become life itself.
“One second,” Dean said.
Michael could tell what happened next from the sound of Dean’s hurried movements. He took the pouch over to the far corner of the shack, then came the sound of liquid being dumped into the plastic cups the guards gave with each meal. Thirsty as he must have felt, Dean wasn’t a greedy or impulsive man. He knew the water had to be rationed. His life depended on it.
Afterward, he returned the pouch to Michael for another day.
“I’m all set,” Dean said. “Don’t hang around.”
“How are you holding up?” Michael asked.
“I won’t tell you again. Get out of here. They’ll see you.”
Michael nodded. “I understand. Just know you’re missed.”
“Tell the men I’m doing good.”
Judging from his flat tone, Michael couldn’t tell if it were true or not. He could have used telepathy to get a read on him—a sense of how much pain the man might have been feeling—but it seemed like an invasion of Dean’s personal space.
“I will, Dean.”
This wasn’t Michael’s first visit. Far from it. He had volunteered to be among those tasked with keeping Dean Hampton alive—not just once, but every time Michael could. When another prisoner mentioned a run to the hotbox to smuggle food or water, Michael would insist on taking over the dangerous assignment.
The risk was enormous. Anyone caught nourishing a hotboxed prisoner would end up in a hotbox himself. Gone were the brutal days when the camp’s doctor—following Warden Smith’s orders—would cut off a hand for the offense, but in some ways, the hotbox was worse. Men died in those tiny shacks—more than the number of men who lived to tell the tale.
They were always grateful to hand the task over. After several days of this, the men who followed Dean began to call Michael “Good ol’ Marsh,” after his fake name, Marshall. One even broke the rules and embraced Michael, so terrified had he been of entering that barren, sun-filled clearing where the hotboxes were kept gathered in the center like slightly oversized outhouses.
It was easy enough. Michael used telepathy to scan for any guards or other prisoners who might see him. They almost all left that area alone. It might as well have been haunted by the ghosts of the prisoners who had withered and died there, alone in the hellish heat.
On the rare occasion a guard entered to abuse the hotboxed prisoners, Michael wouldn’t wait for him to leave. Instead, he would issue a telepathic suggestion—always something different, to resist patterns—that would send the man away, usually to investigate something minor, like a prisoner crying for help. Then he would flag the guard to better sense his presence should Michael decide to return.
On his way to the warehouse, where a long day of fashioning rifles awaited him, Michael passed by the barn housing the chicken coops and heard a loud whisper.
“Marshall, over here. Don’t run away.”
Michael turned slightly to see Ferrance Walker standing in the shade against the wall. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders stooped, which Michael took to mean he had no intention of causing harm. Grabbing a quick read on him, Michael sensed a thick surge of anticipation in the man. Ferrance had been looking forward to this chat.
“What is it?” Michael said, then lied. “And I’m carrying a shiv, in case you get any ideas.”
“I don’t doubt you are,” Ferrance said. “After what happened. You gotta know something. You see, I’m not like that. I’m not into—boys. Or men, either. I just been in here for a long—”
“Save it,” Michael snapped. “What do you want? Why haven’t you ratted me out?”
Ferrance grinned. “You get straight to the point. The other men are right. You’re a tough one. A weaker man might have escaped already, but not you.”
“What do you mean?”
All at once, it hit Michael like a bright light turning on in a dark room—the instant realization of what Ferrance wanted…and the accompanying idea it might be worthwhile, in two ways.
One, it would protect Michael from being ratted out…
“Help me,” Ferrance said, “if you won’t help yourself.”
…and two, it would rid the camp of a dangerous snitch.
“I know you’re a Type II, and I know what it means.”
Michael joined the man in the shade. At this point, there was no chance Ferrance would attack him or stab him with a shiv. He practically shivered with excitement.
“If only to get rid of you,” Michael said. “Yes, I’ll help you escape.”
“Just tell me the time and the place,” Ferrance said.
“Tonight,” Michael said, tossing him the water pouch he’d used to nourish Dean, which only a moment ago had been hidden in the waistband of his pants. “Use this for the water you’ll need afterward. Tell no one where you’re going. They’ll interview us all to get an idea where you might be headed.”
“‘Course,” Ferrance said, nodding and tucking the water pouch into the back of his pants. “I’ve worked this out in my head a thousand times. You’re clearly a lot smarter than me, but I ain’t dumb myself.”
Michael wanted to spit in the man’s face. His lame attempts at flattery were stomach turning.
“Four hours after evening roll call,” Michael said. “To the minute. If you fall asleep and don’t show, you don’t get another chance. And if that means you want to rat me out…”
Michael’s hand wandered down toward his shoe. Warily, Ferrance eyed the movement.
“If this don’t work out,” Ferrance said, “I would welcome a blade to the gut. Getting out of here is all I care about. But I want your word, Marshall.”
“You have it,” Michael said. “I would throw you out of here right now if it were possible.”
Ferrance winked. “Meet here?”
“That works.”
Without another glance at the man’s revolting smile, Michael headed toward the warehouse.
He spent the rest of the day immersed in the mundane repetitiveness of his work, his thoughts occupied with exactly how he would help an impulsive idiot like Ferrance escape without alerting the guards.
One solution came to mind, and Michael had a hard time discarding it.
Expose Ferrance at just the right moment. Let the tower guards shoot him down.
Michael would have to wait to see what happened.
Ferrance didn’t look at Michael once throughout roll call, which made him more confident about the man’s commitment to being careful. After twenty minutes of guards with clipboards counting prisoners, Michael and those closest to him headed back toward their hut.
“How’s he doing, Marsh?” asked Yeltsin Sokolov, a former soldier under Dean’s command back in the NDR and resident joker of the camp. “Don’t let him turn into a raisin.”
“He’s holding up,” Michael said. “Healthy as can be. He’ll make it.”
Franklin Klein, another former soldier—Michael thought of them as Hamptonites—chimed in. “He get his dinner and water today, Marsh?” This man acted like everyone’s mother. He’d been a combat medic once.
A small group of Hamptonites followed Michael. He felt pleasantly comfortable among his new friends, like he was back home with Peter, Eli, and Ian.
“Greg brought it to him this time,” Michael said. “I was free, but he insisted.”
Yeltsin patted Michael on the back—illegally, though he seemed to feel the risk of touching him was worth it. “You’re such an inspiration, Marshy Marsh. Now everyone wants to be a hero like you.”
Grinning, Michael shook his head. “I just like the man. He makes me feel like there’s hope.”
“I’ve been feeling that way, too,” said Abir Zaid, a small, reserved young man who normally kept quiet. He was missing an eye. Five months earlier, another prisoner had gouged it out in an apparent hate crime, but Dean had stepped in to pull the attacker off before he could blind Abir completely. Keagan had just become warden, and he punished the attacker by sending him into the hotbox that was known to be the worst of the bunch. The man hadn’t lasted two weeks.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 47