Since then, Abir had been one of Dean’s most loyal followers. He seemed to feel kinship with Michael, yet he was clearly intimidated. Whenever Michael tried to speak to the man, who was in his early twenties, Abir would drop his gaze and his voice would shake.
And yet, he had volunteered—apparently following Michael’s example—to bring food and water to Dean. Terrified though he seemed at first, Abir succeeded in the smuggling attempt and came back wearing a grin Michael had never seen on him before. He swung his arms confidently, even winked at Michael with his good eye as he passed.
Once they made it back into the hut, they settled into their makeshift beds and began a whispered conversation, like they always did. Prisoners weren’t allowed to speak to each other inside the huts, and guards had a bad habit of sneaking up on open windows to listen in.
But no one seemed to care about the risks anymore. When Michael had first arrived, his hut had been silent enough to hear the sniffing of the rats that occasionally scampered across the room. Now, even shy Abir buzzed with whispered recollections of fond memories from his past life, most having to do with food.
The men were changing.
When they weren’t angry about Dean being in the hotbox, they were nostalgic about the outside world or hopeful about the next day. When Michael had first arrived, the prisoners had been too exhausted, depressed, or hungry to waste energy on conversation.
It wasn’t just his hut mates or the camp’s Hamptonites, either.
Most nights, as Michael attempted to fall asleep, he would let his telepathic sense roam the camp, just to see where it took him, what he might feel, whom he might connect with, and which conversations he might pick up.
It wasn’t just his imagination. Prisoners all across the camp were changing, becoming more hopeful, determined, and talkative amongst themselves.
Not every development brought Michael hope.
A rumor had begun to circulate, based on gossip overheard from the guards, that General Halsidier was returning to camp in a matter of days, and that he had been tasked by none other than Harris Kole himself to reduce the camp’s prisoner population by forty percent. They were beyond full capacity, and the budget was tight. Plus, Kole wanted more of the camp’s guards freed up for assignments out in the Eastlands, where they could seek intelligence on the enemy.
This meant executions—lots of them.
Michael knew why it was happening. Kole was amplifying his efforts to find him. That was the reason for the increased production quotas over the past few months. More guns and more guards free to use them meant a greater reach into enemy territory, where he must have thought Michael was hiding.
Now that they had the guns, they didn’t need as many prisoners to build them anyone.
General Halsidier would have to be dealt with.
And soon.
12
You do everything I say, exactly how I say to do it. Got me?
Ferrance Walker knew the drill. He didn’t have to respond to the voice inside his head. Since he wasn’t a ment, it would have been impossible for him to do so anyway. All he had to do was listen, remain calm, and do as he was told.
He still couldn’t believe his luck. A Type II telepath, in Camp Brazen, who could have escaped long ago, had instead remained to help Ferrance finally get the hell out of this rat-infested shithole. And only days earlier, he’d been about to stick it in the boy’s mouth. Not that he liked that sort of thing—not normally, anyhow—but the sense of power it gave him, to force another man down to his knees like a slave and completely strip him of his dignity, made Ferrance feel like he might actually survive the camp and get out someday. The power made him feel safe—even safer than he felt when he was snitching on the other men, and oh, how delicious that felt, too.
The irony of it pleased him. If he hadn’t tried to stick it in the boy’s mouth—if he had just kept his head down like the rest of the prisoners—he wouldn’t have managed to score this opportunity in the first place.
As he awaited his next command from where he hunkered down in the shadows by the barn wall, he took a moment to relish the trills and buzzes of pleasure that surged inside his veins. He had gotten himself to this point—by being powerful, by taking what he wanted, and by being smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut around the guards and when to use his knowledge to his own advantage.
Once he got out of here, he planned to become powerful and influential. The mayor of a small town, potentially, where he would have three or four teenage wives and sire a dozen sons to carry on his name. Or maybe he would make his way to the NDR to become a wealthy merchant. He had heard about the whorehouses in New Dallas. Maybe he could buy up a few, then spend his final years counting his money and burying his face between the thighs of nubile young whores who called him “sir.”
Reaching down, Ferrance adjusted the crotch of his pants. He had become fully erect in only a few seconds. He was so close to living his new life he could taste it.
Yes. He was going to make freedom his bitch.
Now, Marshall Towne said, his voice filling Ferrance’s overactive brain like a hot, soothing wind. Stick to the plan.
Ferrance nodded as he sprinted silently toward the massive garage near the front gate. They had spent an hour after roll call going through the different steps. He knew what to do as surely as he knew how to unzip his pants and take a whiz.
When he arrived, he crouched in the shadows, wondering if the boy were somehow watching him from afar—or if he didn’t need to, his telepathy serving as eyes instead. What an incredible gift to have at one’s beck and call. Ferrance would have loved to have the ability to hypnotize any woman he wanted into spreading her legs for him whenever he chose. Maybe it didn’t work that way, but he was sure that having such influence over another person’s mind would at least make it easier.
Pushing those thoughts aside for now, he studied the well-lit area in front of the garage, where floodlights illuminated guards going about their administrative tasks. Even at this hour, the camp allowed small trucks to come and go. Most went to nearby farms and towns, where guns were traded for supplies like food, water, and medicine.
Everyone at Brazen knew they had a surplus of guns. Unless Harris Kole planned to invade the NDR outright, he had no need to store a thousand automatic rifles and shotguns out here, with dozens more being produced each week.
Inside the garage is the truck we talked about. The guard at the wheel is asleep. He should have the keys…
Ferrance listened as he made his way to a side door flooded with light from an overhead bulb.
The coast is clear. Head inside.
Ferrance’s body shook with nerves and adrenaline. He couldn’t help but shake his head in amazement. How was this even possible? There had been at least three guards in full view of the door, yet no one had spotted him. Once inside the garage—which he already knew would be empty except for the sleeping guard—he made his way across the well-lit floor. He passed old, rusted cargo trucks along the way, inspecting each for a sleeping figure at the wheel.
When he finally found it, he breathed a sigh of relief and said, “I’m here.” Then he shuddered at his own stupidity. Marshall had warned him to keep his mouth shut despite the urge to respond to the commands. The telepath couldn’t hear Ferrance, and talking out loud would only get him caught.
Stash the body inside one of the other trucks. Make it quick. He won’t wake up.
Ferrance was glad for all the extra food he’d been able to score from the guards by being the camp snitch. It had allowed his body to maintain its strength and muscle in a way that was non-existent among the other prisoners. He used that strength to slide the sleeping man’s body out of the seat, catching him as he toppled, and carry him over one shoulder to the nearest truck, where he was able to lift—carefully and very slowly—the sliding back door, revealing empty darkness. He stashed the man inside, climbed into the cargo space, checked the guard’s pockets, and grinned when he foun
d the set of keys and the identification badge Marshall had promised.
Now for the hardest—and most terrifying—part.
The garage door had to be opened manually. Ferrance grabbed the handle, his heart hammering against his ribs, and swung the door open much like he had witnessed the other guards do a hundred times before. If he opened it too slowly, it might look suspicious. That much he had figured out on his own, without Marshall. The boy hadn’t been there long enough to have picked up on such details.
Before the door even settled into place, Ferrance was on his way back to the truck, imagining half-a-dozen guards warming his back with their suspicious stares. Cold sweat dripped into his eyes.
Calm down, Marshall said. It was more of a warning. This next part is the hardest, but it’ll be over soon.
“Thanks, kid,” Ferrance said in a whisper, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Turn on the engine, then drive slowly toward the front gate…
Marshall proceeded to issue orders, calmly and methodically. Ferrance found the boy’s words soothing. Or maybe he was using his power to calm Ferrance’s nerves. Either way, he almost felt sorry for the boy. He almost regretted having been so hard on him. Almost.
When he reached the closed gate, Ferrance shifted the truck into park and politely nodded to the guard as he raised the laminated ID badge. Ferrance’s hand shook. The guard didn’t seem to notice. They were required to check everyone’s ID, even if they knew the driver. Hell, they could be best friends with the driver and they still had to check.
No corners could be cut—not ever. The punishment was severe, though it was nothing compared to the torture doled out to the prisoners on a daily basis. Any guard who didn’t follow protocol exactly as it had been dictated by past and present wardens faced a penalty that involved being taken to the basement of the headquarters where the warden kept his office. They kept prison cells down there, though not for the prisoners of the camp. Instead, the guard who had broken the rules would be placed in solitary for a week, forced to listen to WDPRA propaganda for ten hours a day as his only distraction.
Ferrance knew this only because of John Redding, a guard he used to snitch to who had spent a week down there, and, for whatever insane reason, had chosen to share this information with Ferrance like they were best friends bonding over a beer. Redding was no longer with the camp, which was no surprise. Guards who were that careless never lasted long.
“Here you go, Rick,” the guard at the checkpoint said, handing the badge back to Ferrance. There was something off about him—his eyes were glassy, and his voice had come out in a soft monotone, like he was sleepwalking. “Be safe out there.”
Marshall was a spiteful genius. This wasn’t a gift—it was a superpower.
“Will do,” Ferrance said, pocketing the badge, though he wouldn’t need it after this. He planned on throwing it out the window as soon as he got out of camp.
The guard was about to make his way to the back, to check out the cargo area like he was supposed to in case any prisoners were being smuggled, but he stopped.
“Hey, Rick, by the way,” he said in that trance-like tone, which had begun to make Ferrance deeply uncomfortable. “Are you bringing, you know, that thing? During the trip tomorrow?”
“Uh…” Ferrance’s mind went blank in the grip of a sudden overwhelming anxiety. “Yeah. Definitely. You can count on me.”
The guard had dropped his voice to a whisper, neck craned so he could speak directly into the window without being overheard. He seemed to be staring through Ferrance’s face, as if he were actually speaking to an imaginary person who had replaced Ferrance in the front seat.
“How close are you to having all fifty-two?”
Ferrance cursed his luck. “I’ve got them all. All fifty-two, in fact.”
“Wait, how did that happen?”
The guard was frowning now. His left eye twitched erratically, as if something inside the man’s brain was splintering and about to snap.
Spite me, Ferrance thought. I should have just said “Close enough” and told the man to shut his trap.
“How did you find all five of the missing ones?”
Persistent little bastard. Ferrance wanted to punch the man in the face and floor the gas pedal, quiet escape be damned. But that would be stupid and impulsive. Plus, he wasn’t sure the truck could break through the gate, or that he could outrun the guards who would most certainly come after him.
“I searched high and low,” Ferrance said. “But mostly, I just got lucky.”
The guard shook his head, his stupid goddamned left eye twitching like a leaf shaking in the wind. Ferrance had begun to sweat again. Something was happening to the guard, just below the surface.
“You said three got lost in that ruined school. You actually went back and found them?”
“Sure did,” Ferrance said. “Hey, I’m on a tight schedule. Want to check me out and open that gate?”
The guard stared blankly at Ferrance for a moment, then blinked a few times and said, “Huh.”
“Huh, what?”
“No big deal. I didn’t know you went back without me. But what about the other two? You said you dropped those into a collapsed floor. We talked about climbing down and getting them, but you said it was too dangerous. Like hell you went down there by yourself. Plus, that was a week ago, and you’ve been in camp ever since.”
Ferrance struggled to control himself. All his fear and anxiety had been replaced by a hot, blunted rage that made him want to scream at the stupid bastard to get the fuck out of the way and open the spiteful gate already.
And where was Marshall Towne? Wasn’t he listening? Couldn’t he do something?
Then it hit Ferrance, elevating his rage even more—the realization the boy had screwed him over, probably as payback for that night in the warehouse.
“Where was that collapsed floor again?” Ferrance asked, his breaths shallow, becoming panicked. He would try to buy time until an idea struck him. It seemed more and more unlikely, just like his escape.
“I just told you,” the guard said, squinting at Ferrance as if he couldn’t quite see him—or maybe he was beginning to see too much. “The school where we played the last two times.”
Played? What could he possibly mean by…
Marshall’s voice broke through Ferrance’s thoughts like a splash of cold water. And thank God for that. Ferrance had come dangerously close to screaming at the man.
Cards, Marshall said. He’s talking about fifty-two cards in a deck. I’m trying to keep him under, but I’m too far away and he’s getting suspicious. He’ll crack soon. Talk your way out of it.
Ferrance leaned his elbow through the window, trying to seem relaxed. He kept his face pointed forward. Too much eye contact might make the guard feel threatened, which might wake him up to reality.
“Listen,” Ferrance said. “I lied, okay? I didn’t go back to the school.”
“Okay…” the guard said. “Just curious how you ended up with a full deck again. You don’t have to tell me.”
“I stole the cards from another deck I found. I didn’t want to tell you, because I took them from someone we know.”
Stunned, the guard dropped his voice into an excited whisper.
“Someone else smuggled a deck into camp? Who was it?”
Ferrance shook his head. “I won’t say, especially not after what I did. I’m not proud of it. But now we have a full deck, so we can play tomorrow. Sound good to you, partner?”
The guard beamed. He was a young man, late twenties, so the thought of playing an illegal game of cards out in the ruins of the city during a scouting trip probably excited him more than a woman thrusting her naked tits into his face did.
“You’re the man, Rick.”
Smiling, the guard smacked the frame of the truck a few times before making his way to the back. Ferrance listened to the sliding door slam open. He held his breath, then released it in a sweeping sigh of relief when it shut again
and the guard called out “All clear!”
The gate opened. Sweet, sweet release. Better than sex, consensual or not.
Now get out, Marshall commanded, and get far away from here, because they’ll come looking for you. If I ever see you again, and I almost hope I do, I’ll slit your snitch-rapist throat.
Ferrance shifted the truck into drive.
“Go spite yourself, kid,” he said, grinning.
Whistling a happy tune, Ferrance drove out into the darkness, realizing he had forgotten the water pouch.
No big deal. He knew of a town where he could stop and steal some supplies. He wouldn’t be there long. Just long enough.
13
Cutting, shaping, sanding…
Once Michael had gotten the hang of it, he found he could put himself on autopilot, his hands taking on a life of their own. His mind was always on other things—on how to keep Dean alive just a bit longer until Michael formulated a plan, then figured out how to spring that plan into action to actually make a difference here.
A mind-numbing puzzle remained. How could he make a group of desperate, hopeless men rise up as one to fight back against their armed oppressors? And how would he manage to pull it off with no casualties?
“Hey, those are pretty good,” Donny Ralley, the prisoner mentoring Michael, called, having to shout to be heard over the electric saws. Only a few years older than Michael, the man wasn’t a bad instructor.
“Thanks,” Michael said with a tip of his head.
He held up the unfinished stock, made from walnut, which would eventually be pieced together with other parts to become a single-barrel shotgun. Donny gave him a thumbs-up.
“Really,” he said, lifting his goggles away from his eyes. “You’re an artist.”
Michael warmed at that. “The luck of getting a good teacher.”
Donny grinned, looking genuinely pleased by the compliment. There was a massive gap between his two front teeth that gave him a comical appearance. He was as tall as Michael and gangly in appearance, but he had a more youthful look that reminded Michael of his brother, Benny.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 48