He shot one soldier in the back of the head. The other turned, rifle swinging, and Dominic shot that one as well, taking him in the throat.
Gunshots rose on a nearby street, people screaming. Dominic ran toward the sound, narrowly avoiding a shot from above. He dropped to one knee, aimed, and took out the sniper on the rooftop.
Making his way toward the street once more, he encountered three Republic soldiers beating two farmers who had dared to put up a fight. Dominic executed them—swift, clean kills that barely slowed him down. He kept running, studying the pillars of gray smoke drifting toward the sky, trying to discern a pattern.
The smoke indicated a line of fiery destruction that began at the guard towers, seeming to be extending eastward.
He was moving along the main street.
Dominic changed direction, heading toward the center of town. When he reached the street bisecting Gulch, he heard an engine, saw headlights in the distance.
He stood in the middle of the street. The truck bore down on him. It could have been farmers trying to escape, or Republic soldiers in a hijacked truck.
A quick telepathic scan told him that whoever was driving had blocked him. The driver and the man in the passenger seat were on Selarix.
A lot of good that’ll do you.
Three quick shots. A moment later—the driver was either dead or wounded—the truck veered off course, only a few feet away from hitting Dominic. It crashed into a brick building and bounced off its back wheels before settling again. The passenger door burst open. A Republic soldier climbed out, falling to his knees.
Dominic shot him in the heart.
Less than a second later, a shot went off behind him, uncomfortably close.
Expecting to be hit by its discharge, Dominic swung around, instinctively dropping to one knee.
Ian stood on the sidewalk, having just shot a Republic soldier who’d been creeping up the street toward Dominic. The man struggled to get back up, but Ian walked over and shot him in the face.
“Thanks,” Dominic said as he jogged up.
“No problem. Come on. Flamer’s still on the loose.”
“I know. This way.”
Louis Blake had been in many battles throughout his military career, but none like this. Without his telepathy, he felt like a rookie soldier learning tactics for the first time.
He’d kept count of how many Republic soldiers he’d wounded or killed. Twelve so far. It helped him stay focused, to concentrate on something other than the pain in his lungs. Peter had taken down many more, always by Blake’s side as they approached the nearest sources of gunfire.
The news of Eli’s death had hit Peter hard. Blake could tell by the desperation in the boy’s movements, the way he paced restlessly whenever Blake stopped to catch his breath.
“Slow it down,” Blake ordered. “Focus. Let your anger fuel you, but don’t let it overcome you.”
“Those bastards,” Peter said. “Those spiteful bastards. I’ll kill every last one of them.”
They took a moment’s respite in a dark alleyway between Donnelly’s Goods and the old library. The gunshots erupting all over town were occurring at longer intervals now, fewer in number than before. A good sign.
“Just a little longer,” Blake assured him. “We’re going to win this.”
Peter sent out his telepathic voice.
What’s the status on the flamer?
Ian responded a moment later.
We’re on it. Me and Dominic.
Then Dominic spoke. Take the old man to safety. That’s the most important thing you can do right now, Pete.
Peter sighed, glancing at his rifle. “I’m on my last mag.”
“I have a spare,” Blake said. “Peter, I can’t hold the rifle anymore.”
The boy’s angry scowl was replaced by concern.
“You all right?”
Suddenly out of breath, tasting blood in the back of his throat, Blake fell against the wall, dropping the AR-15. Peter rushed to his side.
“Come on. I’ll get you out of here.”
The coughing began again—this time with a vengeance.
Peter held Blake as his body was racked by a series of liquid coughs that made his vision dim. He was about to lose consciousness.
“The noise…” Blake sputtered. “It’ll give us away. Leave me.”
Peter ignored him, closing his eyes instead.
Midas, he sent. Louis and I need you. We’re outside the store that sells those wind chimes. You know the one. Hurry. I can’t move him.
The store that sells wind chimes. That was smart. Peter had made sure to transmit a detail the invaders would never be able to match up to a location. Everyone in Gulch knew Donnelly’s sold wind chimes, though no one ever seemed to want to buy one.
They had a telepath with them. The man with the flamethrower. He might be listening in on them.
That gave Blake an idea.
“Tell them…” Blake said between coughs, his body failing him. “Donnelly’s…and the library. Lead him here.”
Peter appeared visibly confused. He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head.
“But it’ll give us away.”
“Yes. To him. Do it.”
Peter sent the message.
It took Dominic a moment to respond, and Blake knew why. Dominic understood. He’d always been the most cunning soldier Blake had ever trained.
Donnelly’s and the old library, Dominic sent. We’ll be there in two minutes.
Closing his eyes, Dietrich listened.
Donnelly’s and the old library. We’ll be there in two minutes.
Grinning at what felt like tonight’s defining moment, Dietrich changed course, abandoning the trail of destruction he’d begun along the town’s main street and heading down a side street toward the convenience store.
He knew the location well. From his perch above the canyon, scanning the town through a pair of binoculars, he’d often noticed the hastily constructed wooden sign bearing the store owner’s name in black paint. The library was right next to it, though Dietrich never saw anyone go in there. The people of Gulch clearly weren’t the type to appreciate literature. Dietrich had felt tempted more than once to break into the building and see what books might still be lying around, in case there were any gems not allowed in the WDPRA.
The muscles in his arms burned from carrying the weight of the flamethrower. He told himself it was almost over. The girl was in their possession, and the boy—Michael—had been hidden inside the town exactly as planned, unconscious for what would be another several hours, the drug in his veins making him impossible to detect telepathically—for now, anyway.
When he arrived at the end of a nearby street, Donnelly’s across from him and to his left, he stopped to study his surroundings. No visual sign of the enemy perched on a rooftop or hiding nearby. But he knew better than to trust his eyes alone. Closing his eyes, he performed a quick telepathic scan.
Blake and his soldiers weren’t on Selarix. They would be easy to detect.
Bingo.
Blake and the boy, Peter, were exactly where they said they’d be. If Dietrich were smart about it, he might be able to get all four—Dominic, Ian, Peter, and the old man—with a few well-placed bursts.
The flamethrower had a fresh round of cartridges locked and loaded, ready for one more go. Once these four were taken care of, he could get the hell out of this backward little town and return to Eddington.
Something clicked behind him. Dietrich’s entire body stiffened.
“You move and I’ll blow your brains clear to next Sunday.”
Dietrich let the flamethrower rest in its shoulder sling. He raised his hands.
“And who, might I ask, do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“Name’s Midas Ford. Can’t say it’s a pleasure, though.”
“How did you…”
“You ain’t the only one got his hands on some of that Selarix stuff. Might interest you to
know, I was part of the team that invented it. ‘Course, it went by a different name in the lab. We called it SLX-B7. Not as catchy, I know.”
“You’re that doctor,” Dietrich said, “and mayor of this shithole town.”
Footsteps resounded as the old man came closer. Dietrich had two pistols in holsters hanging across his chest. If only he could…
“Don’t even think about any sudden moves, firebrand. Keep them hands where I can see ‘em and step into the street.”
Dietrich shrugged. “You are the mayor, after all.”
The old doctor’s pistol pressed against his spine.
“The fact I’m a doctor,” Midas said, “means I know exactly where to shoot you so you never get back up again.”
He gave a light push with the gun’s barrel. As Dietrich was forced into the street, he gulped down fear and a bone-chilling sense of all he would miss out on after tonight.
Of course it was a trap. How could I have been so stupid?
Dominic and Ian waited for him in the alleyway between the store and the library. Blake sat against the wall, watching Dietrich with what appeared to be pure resentment and disgust. Blood stained his lips.
“We finally meet,” Dietrich told the old man. The others relieved him of his flamethrower and twin pistols before checking him for hidden blades. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Ignoring him, Blake gestured at Dominic. “I’m ready.”
Dietrich found the insult of being ignored more painful than the thought of being executed by these men. They should know how close he’d come to destroying this town, and how futile it would be to stop the plan for Michael Cairne he’d already put in motion.
“Are you sure?” Dominic asked the former general.
“One more go. This is the one that will mean everything.”
Minutes later, totally at a loss as to what they planned to do, Dietrich knelt inside the old library—surrounded by empty shelves, what a shame—with all manner of guns and pistols pointed at him.
Louis Blake sat in a nearby chair. He closed his eyes.
“What is this?” Dietrich asked.
It was the boy who’d almost shot him in Praetoria who answered.
“You’ll see, you spiteful coward. Once we’re in the Dreamscape, you’re mine.”
“You’ll never—” Dietrich began to say, but he was cut off by a hand—Dominic’s—roughly grabbing his hair and yanking his head to one side.
He felt a sting in his neck as Midas Ford stuck him with a needle, then the world was spinning. Dietrich’s body went limp as his mind descended out of this realm and into one that existed down below, in the deepest depths of his soul, where he was quickly trapped in a place beyond reckoning.
29
“He shit himself.”
Dietrich awoke with a gasp, lying on one side on the broken, dirty floor. A cold sensation around his groin told him he’d pissed himself. A vile smell confirmed the truth of the speaker’s observation a moment ago—that yes, he’d shit himself while in the Dreamscape.
It didn’t matter. Thank God he was out of that place. For what felt like hours, Ian and Dominic had tortured him into spilling everything he knew. Their instruments of pain had been purely mental and emotional ones, used relentlessly against him in a place darker than any darkness he’d ever known.
Now, as he struggled to contain his cowardly shaking, Dietrich became aware of the bleeding wounds all over his brain, where they’d torn him apart, neuron by neuron, while his secrets became exposed for all to see.
Louis Blake looked like a ghost of his former self, on the verge of collapse. When he spoke, his voice was as dry and fragile as flakes of ash.
“Dominic, Midas, go get Michael. Make sure he’s alive, but don’t wake him up. Not yet.”
“What about Charlotte?” Ian asked.
“She’s not worth it. Probably long gone by now.”
There was a moment’s silence followed by footsteps as the two men left the library.
“Peter, grab several of our men and search the town for any living Republic soldiers. Execute them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter ran to catch up to the others.
“Ian,” Blake said.
Rather than issue a verbal command, he gave the boy a curt nod. Dietrich knew what it meant.
“No, no, no,” Dietrich pleaded. “Wait, I can still be of use—”
His next words never materialized. Ian stomped his boot against Dietrich’s skull hard enough to knock him unconscious. The next impact broke through his skull. The ones that followed turned his brain to mush.
There was no one to save him this time.
No one to scoop him up—to send him back to the Republic.
Several bursts from the flamethrower cremated his remains, taking the library with it. Gulch was silent after that, all sounds of gunfire having ceased, the battle finally over.
30
Dawn’s light entered the windows of the tiny shack.
Finally. Thank God for a new morning. Charlotte had stayed up all night, listening to the pond’s endless lapping, those spiteful crickets intent on driving her mad. Dozens of times, her jaw had seized painfully after hours of grinding her teeth.
She took what remained of the Selarix and tossed it aside, hoped to never have to touch the stuff again. Hoped they were all dead by now. Hoped Gulch was once again the ghost town it deserved to be.
“William, wake up.”
The boy stirred against the blankets she’d laid out for him. Shaking him gently, then roughly, she finally roused him.
He abruptly sat up, blinking at his surroundings.
“Momma? Are we okay?”
“Yes. For now.”
She got up, stretched, and cursed. A dizzy spell almost forced her back down. She took a few seconds to let her head clear.
“Time to go.”
William followed her outside. It was a cool, windy morning. In the dawn’s light, the thin sheets of clouds hanging over the mountains had turned bright orange, like liquid fire.
It was the first thing Charlotte noticed—that ominous color so much like the fires that had erupted all over Gulch the night before.
The second thing she noticed was the pond—and the men watching her from the other side of it.
“Damn it,” Charlotte said.
Archibald Frugin rose, staring in what could only be a sense of profound shock and awe. His shirtless torso was agleam with the pond water he’d been using to clean himself. He gripped a dripping, bunched-up shirt in his left hand.
He must have said something, because the other five men with him suddenly stood straight as arrows and focused on her. Two were shirtless, one completely naked, caught on his way into the water to clean the grime off his body.
“Run,” Charlotte said.
Grabbing William’s hand, she started pulling him along. Naturally, the boy tripped and fell.
“Goddamn it, William!”
It didn’t matter. They were trapped with only one direction available for escape. The men were faster. They broke into full-on sprints, even the naked one, and managed to cut her off.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Archibald Frugin said. He approached, perusing her body with a grin. “If it isn’t the one and only Charlotte Casmas.”
“Get out of my way, Archibald.”
“Not a chance, wildflower. This is my town now, and you’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “Because I feel like it. For being a public nuisance, how about that? If you hadn’t gone spreading your legs for every ment sumbitch in town, maybe none of this would have happened.”
She tried to reason with him, thankful for the extra boost from the Selarix still in her system.
“If none of this had happened, the town wouldn’t be yours. You should be thanking me.”
Frowning slightly, he seemed to consider this. The moment passed and he was smiling again, shaking his head and clicking his t
ongue as if she were a wayward child he’d caught shoplifting.
“You’re staying out here with us until we kill off the rest of them ments and take back my town. Can’t have you getting in my way, can I?”
He gestured for his men to restrain her.
“William…” she said. “Hurt them.”
The boy gaped. “But…how?”
“Like you did with Aidan. Make them hurt. Just do it.”
Narrowing his eyes at the approaching men, William kept silent while his mind flailed. What was he supposed to do? No one had ever taught him to hurt another person in this way, and he couldn’t remember what had happened that time with Aidan.
He gave up with a defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping. “I can’t, Momma. I’m sorry.”
Charlotte wanted to smack the boy. “A lot of good you turned out to be.”
He sniffled, almost in tears.
A shot rang out, echoing inside the canyon.
One of Archibald’s men suddenly toppled, the bullet having torn through his skull, spattering blood all over his bare chest.
William clutched Charlotte’s arm, screaming. The remaining men scattered, seeking positions of cover.
Charlotte stood right where she was.
There were few men in this town who could shoot like that.
“It’ll be all right,” she told the boy.
Two more shots rang out. The naked man fell, a hole in the center of his back. Another man collapsed before he could finish running toward the shack.
Charlotte smiled, watching them struggle, bleed, and gasp their final breaths.
Another shot took the fourth man in the thigh. As he limped to get away, the shooter finished him off with a bullet to the neck.
Charlotte searched for Archibald Frugin.
She heard a splash, whirling toward the pond. Apparently not as clever as he talked himself up to be, Archibald had tried to seek cover by swimming to the other side.
The shooter simply waited.
When Archibald reached the other end, he emerged from the water and frantically ran toward a hunting rifle he’d left on the ground. Before he could take aim, a bullet hit him squarely in the chest, flinging him onto his back.
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