“So,” he said, “you’re telling me the boy could escape any moment he chose. Therefore, he must still be here, mustering support from the prisoners. That it was Dean Hampton who stole a truck and drove out of here?”
A sudden memory caused Keagan to change course. “No. If what I think is correct, one of our men drove the truck out of here alone, under a telepathic spell of sorts, to cause us to split our forces by sending over a dozen men into the Eastlands as part of a fruitless search party. The boy showed me what he can do. He’s capable of creating realistic illusions—not just visual, but touch as well. Even while drugged.”
Keagan recalled the illusion of snow Marshall had created in the prison cell. What else was the boy capable of? If telepaths could invade people’s senses and enter their dreams, there was no telling what they might cause the remaining prisoners to do.
“I’ve heard enough,” Halsidier said, his voice softer now. His tone was exasperated. “You have five days to interrogate every prisoner in this camp. I don’t care if you torture each and every one to death. Get to the bottom of this, then arrest that boy. He’s even more valuable now than we thought.”
“After five days…” Keagan began.
Spinning to face him, Halsidier wagged a threatening finger.
“If after five days, you haven’t taken care of this, I’ll order the men to wipe every single prisoner off the face of this earth. Then you and I will have a little talk about a potential future for you behind the bars of a cell while your wife and daughter are shipped off to the worst labor camp Harris Kole ever dreamed up. You got me, Warden Colonel? Do your job.”
Suddenly aware of the weight of his pistol in its holster, Keagan envisioned blasting a bullet through Halsidier’s face and painting the window with his brains.
“Yes, sir,” he said before turning and marching out of the office.
Day one.
Keagan found himself repeating it throughout the day. By dinnertime, he was so frantic—and barely able to hide it—that he wolfed down his food in the kitchen before heading to his next interrogation.
He had already issued an order to the guards. Only he was allowed to interrogate the prisoners, which would cut down on the beatings and any chance of misinformation being spread throughout the camp.
By eleven o’clock that night, Keagan was so tired and frustrated he almost smashed his fist across the mouth of a particularly bothersome prisoner for an annoying habit he had of repeating Keagan’s questions before answering them.
He called it a night.
“I heard the alarm this morning,” Andrea said, rising from the living room couch the moment Keagan stepped through the door. She looked worried, as if she’d been fretting endlessly in that same spot all day long. “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
“One of the prisoners escaped.”
Her eyes widened. “Another one? Simon, something’s going on. Maybe it’s related to those dreams I’ve been having?”
Keagan took off his belt and holster, glad to be rid of them for a few hours.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t been hungry. You look like shit, honey.”
“I feel like it, too. Where’s Sarah?”
“Sleeping.”
“Good.” He hurried over to embrace her. “You should be, too.”
When he tried to kiss her, she turned her face away.
“What’s wrong, hon?”
Fresh tears welling in her eyes, Andrea took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.
“I don’t know what to do. I had another dream a few hours ago when I was taking a nap. Since then, I haven’t been able to think straight. I just keep pacing, wondering what it means.”
“Another nightmare?”
Keagan’s pulse quickened, more from excitement than fear. Maybe her dreams held the answer he was searching for…
“No,” Andrea said softly, her gaze distant. “It was… it was different this time…”
Keagan led Andrea to the couch, urging her to sit. He took a seat on the armchair, dragging it closer so he could take his wife’s hands.
“Tell me what happened in the dream. Don’t leave out any details.”
“You think it means something?”
“Honey, do you know what a telepath is?”
She nodded. “Of course. People call them ments. They can sense lies and other things like that.”
“That’s not all they can do. There are some telepaths who are capable of influencing people’s behavior, maybe even of getting into their dreams. I think this Arielle girl might be one. She might be trying to get to you, so you’ll share information about what’s going on inside the camp. You have to try to resist her.”
“Okay,” Andrea said, dropping her gaze. “I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise, Simon.”
Wiping tears from his wife’s cheeks, Keagan listened as Andrea described a place that sounded less like a dream and more like a fantasy.
6
Day two.
Keagan inhaled his breakfast in the mess hall kitchen before heading toward his next interrogation—the fourth one of the morning. His first had started at four o’clock.
He was getting nowhere fast.
To the amazement of the guards who accompanied him into the cells, Keagan refused to use torture. Not since Marshall Towne had he used the picana on anyone. If Dean and the boy’s strategy was, in fact, to muster hope and rebellion among the prisoners, torturing them would only add anger to the mix.
Anger was a dangerous emotion.
Ten minutes into the interrogation, Keagan found his mind drifting to the dream Andrea had described the night before. Arielle had shown his wife—had literally led her by the hand—through a picturesque town surrounded by steep, jagged mountains that cupped it the way palms might cup a flame.
A former student of the Party’s more romantic literary works, Andrea possessed a flair for description. Even now, Keagan could visualize the place as if she had telepathically shared the dream. Her way of describing the quaint buildings, cracked roads, and rugged mountainsides rising in every direction had been incredibly effective.
“They’re all going to die,” Arielle had warned his wife. “You have to help them. Bring them to us.”
It was then Andrea awoke from the dream. Since then, she hadn’t been the same. That night before they went to bed, Keagan found her leaning over the kitchen sink, gazing blankly at a pile of dirty dishes as though she’d forgotten how to wash them using the rags and the jugs of water Keagan had lugged downstairs from the communal spouts connected to the ceiling tanks.
She managed to fall asleep easily enough—they both did—but when Keagan awoke at three AM to prepare for work, her side of the bed was empty. Frantically, he searched until he found Andrea in a chair by the living room window. She was focused on the darkened street. When Keagan tried to speak to her, to shake her gently out of her reverie, Andrea simply shook her head and told him to go to work.
At noon, he made his way toward the mess hall to eat another rushed meal in the kitchen—aware he was avoiding the dining area simply to stay away from Halsidier—when an odd sight, caught from the corner of his eye, took him utterly by surprise.
He froze. “What the hell…”
With mounting disbelief, he squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Nothing good. A crouched black shape with white spots all over it. His horror mounting, Keagan sprinted toward it, his hand on the grip of his pistol.
“Get away,” he roared at a few prisoners who had stopped to stare. “Move it now or I’ll shoot you down.”
At first, he thought the man had been burnt to a crisp, so deep was the blackness of his skin. But that didn’t explain the dirty white shreds covering him.
Suddenly, Keagan smelled it—powerful fumes that rose in waves off the kneeling figure, reminding him of a newly paved road.
Tar.
And the white things we
re feathers.
Lifting his head, the naked, soiled man shot Keagan a pleading look. Keagan recognized him as Virgil Paulszuk, one of the guards. He hung by ropes binding his wrists, one attached to a pole holding up the WDPRA flag, the other to a nearby building.
“Please,” Virgil pleaded. “It burns.”
“Hold on,” Keagan said.
Searching desperately, he located a rock with a sharp edge. It took several minutes of hacking away at the ropes to free Virgil. Throughout this, he caught glimpses of prisoners watching him from the hut windows.
It didn’t matter what they saw now.
The damage had been done.
“Here,” Keagan said, lifting Virgil and wrapping the man’s arm around his shoulder. “Try to walk. Do you know who did this to you?”
Weakly, the man shook his head.
“Water,” he croaked.
“In a minute,” Keagan said as he led him toward the medical building.
This is only beginning, Keagan thought.
This is how it starts.
The warehouse was full of two things—tables and guns.
Keagan strode in to face General Halsidier, steeling himself for what would undoubtedly be another torrent of abuse. Likely the worst yet. Instead, he found the general bent over one of the tables, carefully inspecting an assault rifle.
“General,” Keagan said.
Halsidier turned, a wild look in his eyes. Clothes slightly disheveled, a day’s worth of facial hair darkening his face, he looked as though he’d stayed up all night and skipped his morning shower. Like he was in the grip of some powerful mania.
“Tarred and feathered,” Halsidier said, his bellowing voice reverberating around the vast, empty space around them. “By the Republic’s good graces, they tarred and feathered the moron.”
Keagan frowned slightly, then composed himself, not wanting to offend the general. Words escaped him.
“Don’t just stand there,” Halsidier said, licking his lips. “Tell me it’s funny. I laughed my ass off when I heard about it.”
“Sir…” Keagan said before clearing his throat. “We’ve accounted for the missing truck using our tracking equipment. As you may know, all vehicles are outfitted with them in the event one is hijacked.”
“And you found it. Where?”
“Just east of here. There was no sign of the escaped prisoners. The driver had no memory of signing out the vehicle or driving out of camp.”
“So they escaped and wiped his memory,” Halsidier said.
“Maybe, sir, or maybe not. I believe they might still be here.”
“And what have the interrogations yielded?”
“The interrogations are progressing, sir, but I have yet to get anything of value. The prisoners have changed, like they’ve been prepared for something, but they don’t know what that something is. The enemy has kept them in the dark, probably to avoid any information getting out.”
Halsidier approached. Licking his lips again, the general seemed ready to take a bite out of Keagan’s face and spit it out while laughing.
Were Halsidier’s pupils dilated? Or maybe they were always like that…
“You say they’ve changed,” Halsidier said. “You know this how? Are you a mind reader, Simon? You a ment, like that boy?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Because if there’s one thing I can’t have, it’s ments in my camp. You’re going to find that boy before he gets into your mind and turns you into one of those zombies. I have the key right here.”
Fingers trembling the slightest bit, he reached into his inside coat pocket and retrieved a black leather case about three inches wide and twice as long, thick enough to hold cigars. He handed it to Keagan, who simply gazed at it.
“Open it,” Halsidier ordered.
Totally lost as to what might be inside, Keagan unzipped the case. He examined what appeared to be four tiny needles. Above the plungers were two thick vials, which contained a transparent fluid.
“Sir,” he said. “I’m not sure what this is.”
“It’s Selarix.” Halsidier gave a low chuckle. “And there’s plenty more where that came from. I ordered it from the Republic the day you told me that boy was a ment. Best decision I ever made. When you’re on that stuff, they can’t get into your mind.”
Now it made sense. Halsidier was stoned off his rocker. It must have been an amphetamine of some sort, judging by his unnerving restlessness.
“Thank you,” Keagan said. “I’ll use it for emergencies. Wouldn’t want it to affect my—”
“Are you stupid, man?” Halsidier barked. “This is an emergency. We’ve got ments on the loose, and you want to walk around unguarded? Would you turn down a bulletproof vest before a firefight?”
“Thank you, sir,” Keagan repeated, slipping the case into his back pocket.
“Don’t put it there!” Halsidier threw his arms up. “What if you sit on it?”
Almost at the end of his patience, Keagan took out the case and relocated it to a side pocket. Halsidier licked his lips, wagging a finger.
“You have three days, Warden Colonel. Your interrogations better turn something up. By daybreak on Wednesday, I’m ordering executions. One every hour until these parasites have all been wiped out.”
“I understand,” Keagan said. “And the One President, sir?”
“What about him?” Halsidier’s brows descended. “You been talking to Harris Kole, Simon? Been going behind my back? Because only I talk to the One President.”
He’s paranoid. Completely, unquestionably paranoid.
“Of course not, General. He never gave me his number.”
Amazingly, Halsidier’s suspicion vanished in the face of a sudden wash of amusement. Tipping his head back, he released a booming haha that seemed to shake the walls.
The world no longer made any sense.
“That’s a good one,” Halsidier said, turning to the rows of tables. “Never gave me his number. Good one. Good for a laugh. Now get out of here, Simon. You have three days. Get back to work.”
“Warden Colonel,” one of his soldiers practically shouted, bursting through the door of the prison cell.
Keagan had been sitting on a stool, interrogating a prisoner who hung from a chain attached to the ceiling, handcuffs binding his wrists and a trickle of blood running down one forearm. The man had revealed nothing of value, and the interrogation was nearing its end. He leaped up at the sudden noise.
Slightly embarrassed, he flashed the soldier an angry look.
“What the hell do you want, Private? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Sir,” the wide-eyed man said. “It’s your… uh, well, you’re needed at the main gate. It’s urgent, sir. She won’t leave.”
Keagan’s first thought was the mysterious ment girl, Arielle, must have shown up at the entrance to Camp Brazen, but that made no sense. Which could only mean…
Andrea.
He hurriedly pushed past the soldier. When he arrived at the main gate, several of his men were trying to restrain Andrea without harming the baby in her arms.
Sarah. She actually brought Sarah.
“Andrea,” he gasped. “What… why in God’s name did you bring her here? What are you doing?”
Dismissing the men around him, Keagan led Andrea beyond the gate. He took Sarah into his arms since Andrea was too shaken to hold her properly, then ordered the nearest soldier to close the gate.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea said. “Honey, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t stay in that horrible apartment any longer. I had to see it for myself.”
“See what?” Keagan asked, horrified.
Sarah giggled, poking at her father’s cheek. Tightening his grip on his little girl, Keagan felt a surge of resentment toward Andrea the likes of which he’d never experienced before.
“You’re crazy, Andrea. You can’t come here.”
“Crazy?” she challenged. “Is that what my dreams are? I’m going insane? Then why w
ere you interested in hearing about the one last night? Why did you warn me about Arielle? Who is she, Simon? What does she want?”
Frightened by her mother’s shrill demands, Sarah began to whimper.
“It’s okay, baby,” Keagan soothed, kissing her cheek. “Everything will be okay.”
“Don’t lie to her.” Andrea sniffled, on the verge of tears again.
That was all his wife seemed to do anymore. Dream and cry. Now, she found it necessary to put their family at risk by coming to camp without even having an escort to protect them.
Keagan couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Go back to the apartment,” he ordered as if she were one of his soldiers. “Stay there, and don’t you ever take Sarah outside again. One of my men will drive you. If I find out you’ve gone outside…”
“Then what, Simon?” Andrea thrust her face toward his. “What will you do? Beat me? Cut off my hands? Make me eat dog shit? Like those poor boys from my dream?”
Keagan scanned the gate to make sure none of his men were listening. The area on the other side was clear.
He forced his next words through gritted teeth, such fury in his voice that Andrea, brave as she might have felt a moment earlier, retreated a step.
“Don’t you ever bring up those dreams outside our home. Do you not get it? No one can know they’re communicating with you!”
“They?” she whispered. “Who’s they, Simon?”
“You’re leaving. Now. I’ll have you escorted back and placed under watch. You’ve forced my hand, Andrea.”
She smiled wickedly. “Yes, of course, like I’m one of your prisoners. I’ve been your prisoner since they gave you this job. We both have. Sarah and me.”
Precious time was being wasted.
Day two of five. Only three more days to go.
“Private,” he called over his shoulder. “Someone needs to open the gate and bring a truck out here!”
Handing Sarah—who was now mewling and sobbing—to her mother, Keagan felt his insides wither. It was that damned parasite again. Except this time, it wanted to burst through his rib cage and attach itself to his little girl.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 54