“My name is Michael Cairne, and tonight marks the beginning of a new war—a war that will be fought against the Party that has deprived you of food, freedom, and the sanctity of your own voice for the past fifty years. I’ve lived in these conditions same as you, ever since I was a boy growing up in New Sancta City, always waiting for the next ration slip so I could eat scraps not even fit for a dog. I won’t stand for it anymore. Will you?”
The crowd remained silent. They listened, waiting for his next words. Could this really be happening? Was someone actually speaking out against the regime? And in such public fashion! It was unthinkable.
Beneath the enormous face, Harris Kole continued to kneel with the pistol pressed to his temple. He stared pleadingly at the crowd, eyes darting from side to side.
“I promise you, this nation will find prosperity and freedom,” Michael said, “but not under the boot heels of cowards like Harris Kole. We are done being hungry. We are done being poor. Starting tonight, we will take back what’s ours!”
There were no cheers, only sharp intakes of air—the hissing breaths of people in shock at what they were hearing. They stared reverently up at those cracked lips and narrowed brown eyes. Despite the zoom on the smaller screens, they barely noticed Harris Kole’s face. As he shivered and sweated, one of his eyes was warped by the force of the barrel pressed to his temple.
“Stop it,” Kole shouted. “Get out of my head!”
Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. In response, Harris Kole pointed the gun straight up and fired, then returned the barrel to its original position against his temple. The crowd gasped. His bodyguards and officers, lined up along the back of the stage, cowered.
“Tonight is the fiftieth year of our suffering,” Michael said. “Fifty long years of oppression, torture, imprisonment, and hunger. Fifty years of being told you are not strong enough to provide for yourselves, that you must sacrifice your freedom so all may suffer equally. Fifty years of being treated like simpleminded children by a government in love with its own power. Forced to obey, or the thought police will rip you from your bed at night while you scream in fear.
“It ends tonight. I ask you to join me in raising your faces proudly and declaring the value of your own minds and hearts. You are a collective of free individuals, and you will thrive on the values of independence, autonomy, friendship, and love. Not worship of a man who would rape your mothers, wives, and daughters while enslaving your brothers and sons and taking ownership of your property. This is your moment to shrug off your chains and work together to be free—to reclaim your dignity as human beings.
“This age of freedom will not begin with an execution. This war will not be fought solely by men like me. It will be fought by free people. People like you, and like the man and woman who stand in front, behind, and next to you. Your brothers and sisters.”
Those enormous brown eyes dipped down to create the illusion he was staring at Harris Kole’s tiny body on the stage.
“Now, put down that gun, Harris…”
Harris Kole dropped the pistol, visibly aghast at what he’d been reduced to.
“…and get up.”
Kole rose from his knees and stood shakily, scanning the area for help.
“Yes,” Michael said. “Look at them. Look at the people you and your father have treated like dirt. The people you have starved and beaten into submission. No more. Like me, they will never submit to you again.”
“Get out,” Harris Kole screamed, covering his ears like a child wilting before a furious father.
“Show them,” Michael said calmly, clearly savoring each word. “Show them the true face of all cowardly usurpers of power like you.”
“Please,” Harris Kole said, his voice a thin whine. “Please don’t.”
“Harris. Show them your true face.”
Harris Kole spun around like a soldier obeying a drill sergeant’s orders. He unbuckled his pants, his soldiers watching in growing horror as the ruler of their nation—a man who reputedly descended from a god and was therefore a god himself—pulled apart the ends of his belt, his pants opening wide…
And pulled down his trousers and underwear, dropping them to the floor.
The crowd drew in a collective gasp.
They could only watch, each man and woman frozen in place, as Michael’s face disappeared on the main screen to be replaced by the towering image of Harris Kole’s pale, sagging buttocks. The man even bent forward slightly, as if in supplication, stretching the loose flesh, making visible the light scattering of black hairs and pimples.
The biggest ass they had ever seen.
It was the most honest thing Harris Kole had ever shown them. It had been there all along, all their lives, but they had failed to see it. Right there, waiting to be exposed. Like the absurd, god-awful punchline to a terrible joke, finally played for laughs.
Which was exactly what happened next.
It rippled across the crowd—a light titter at first, followed by great heaving laughter that soon turned into cheers.
Roaring in anger, Harris Kole finally gathered his wits. He yanked his pants off the floor before quickly fastening them around his waist. He spun around, ducking to sweep the gun off the floor, then faced the laughing crowd, his eyes bulging in a face that had turned as pink as a cooked ham.
“You spiteful pricks,” he spat, and the crowd heard it over the microphone clipped to his chest, deciphered the venom in his voice as he spoke. “You stupid, spiteful pricks.”
The laughter died down.
A man shouted from the crowd. “Show us the rest of it!”
Shrieks and howls of laughter exploded once more from the gathered citizens. Harris Kole’s face deepened in color, now more purple than pink.
He aimed the gun at the crowd.
“Shut up,” he screeched. “Just shut up! You’re nothing without me. My father and I—we gave you people everything you have.”
The cheers and laughter turned to jeers and hisses. Harris Kole was being booed now by his own people, the very people he’d always regarded as petty slaves, no better than animals seeking scraps from his table. And like animals, they had to be punished.
He fired the gun into the crowd.
A woman shrieked.
Kole’s Selarix-addled brain warmed as pleasure flooded its cells. They seemed to expand, like tiny sponges soaking up warm milk. Each shot he fired into the crowd lifted him up until he felt he might rise like a god and float over these miserable scumbags, perfectly immune to their ridicule.
The clip clicked, empty. He continued pulling the trigger, breathing in great, wheezing gasps through his bared teeth.
The boos intensified into a dull roar. Like one great, heaving mass possessed by a singular mind of its own, the crowd surged forward. Kole finally snapped out of his reverie, shouting orders to his soldiers.
“Let’s get out of here. Now!”
He motioned for his soldiers to follow him toward the helicopter.
It’s over, Harris Kole kept telling himself as he ran. Spite me, it’s over.
Epilogue
Eight Years Later
A stiff desert wind rolled across the plains, making the old shack creak.
Beyond the two-room structure, by a grove of bending ironwood trees, a young man stood at the foot of a raised patch of earth. A grave marker stood at the opposite end, little more than a plank of wood that had been stuck into the earth. A single word had been carved into it.
MOTHER
William Casmas studied it, scratching the thin patch of hair on his chin. It was a recent development, facial hair, though only a dusting here and there. His mother had teased him about it, saying that his beard meant it was time to find a wife.
“No one ever cared for me like you did,” he told the grave marker, picturing her smiling face.
Dropping to his knees, he clasped his hands together, as if about to pray. But William didn’t believe in God. His mother hadn’t either. Her philosophy on
life was simple. Eat. Sleep. Survive. Hope. Those were the only things one could really do out here. At least until death finally came to steal away one’s pain forever.
Secretly, William had always known better. Since childhood, he’d done more than just hope for a full belly when he went to sleep each night. He understood life was about a whole lot more than simply surviving. Now, he had his chance to prove it.
“You were always there for me, Momma. Always protected me. But I’m ready to take care of myself now. It’s time.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the shack where he and his mother had lived since leaving Gulch. The place had been abandoned when they’d found it, almost in ruins, but they’d fixed it up—together—into a nice, cozy little home that would stand for the next twenty years if people left it alone. He’d miss the place.
The door opened a few inches. Eyes peeked out at William from the darkness within.
“It’s okay,” William told the little boy behind the door. “Come out here, Sebastian.”
The door swung open and the boy ran out, squinting in the sunlight. He gripped something in his right hand.
“What you got there?” William asked when the boy finally stopped at the foot of the grave. He stood there, miserably staring down at the pile of dirt.
“It’s for Momma,” he said before he broke down, whimpering and crying.
The son of Michael Cairne, William thought. Whimpering like a little baby.
The thought amused him. Grabbing a clump of the boy’s greasy, long black hair, William yanked him close.
“Do not cry,” he said.
The boy’s whimpers immediately stopped. He stared into William’s eyes, a flatness settling in his own.
Sebastian was a good boy. Very obedient. Always had been, except for a bizarre wild streak that seemed to possess him whenever there was danger nearby. Like the time he’d almost set fire to the shack after hearing gunshots in the distance. Or the time he’d sprinted into the woods, subsequently getting lost, during a hurricane.
“Yes, sir,” Sebastian said.
“Now, tell me. What did you make Momma?”
William let go of the boy’s hair. Wincing, Sebastian rubbed the sore spot on his scalp.
“It’s her. Look.”
Opening his hand, he showed William the straw figure he’d made using twine, sticky bits of tree sap, and other crude materials. It was clearly a woman. The boy had even cut lengths of his own hair to paste to the figurine’s head.
“It’s very pretty, Seb. Momma’s gonna love it.”
“Can I…”
William nodded. “Set it down.”
Sebastian dropped to his knees, arranging the figurine on his mother’s grave.
“I miss you, Momma.”
“Don’t cry now, you hear?” William warned.
Shaking his head, Sebastian quickly wiped his eyes and stood.
“That’s a good boy.” William smiled warmly, gently patting his head. “Now, go inside and get cleaned up for lunch.”
Sebastian nodded and ran into the shack, his bare feet slapping the barren earth.
When he was gone, William stretched his lanky body, already feeling the soreness in his muscles after a long morning of digging into the hard-packed earth. He felt free now, and it was a good feeling, like shrugging off invisible chains that had always borne down on him, causing a dull ache he only detected now that they were gone. He took a deep breath.
William stood that way, erect and proud, as he focused across the plains on the distant mountains. It was time to pack. Tonight would be their last night in the shack, and it would be a long one.
He and the boy ate lunch. They poured some of the thin soup over their mother’s grave. Sharing it. Sacrificing it. The gesture had been the boy’s idea.
The next morning, William awoke with the sunrise to the chirping of birds. As he got up, his metal cot made the same squeaking noises it had made since he was a child. Sebastian’s bed was silent, the boy fast asleep. For some reason, it annoyed William. The boy was usually up before sunrise, full of energy, but now—the first day after their mother’s death—he saw fit to sleep like the dead?
William kicked the metal frame of the boy’s cot.
“Mom… Momma?” The boy pushed himself up, blinking at his surroundings.
“Let’s go,” William ordered.
They followed the same routine their mother had ingrained in them for years, even conducting their morning exercises and a quick training session meant to make them stealthier while thieving. Under Charlotte’s watch, they never skipped their daily training sessions, and she never failed to accompany William—leaving Sebastian behind, of course—into the neighboring towns to steal the food that kept them alive. If not for her strength and daring, they would have starved a long time ago. Without her guidance, William never would have learned to use his telepathic ability at will.
They ate a quick breakfast of boiled oat mash, salted kale, and eggs, then washed up as best as they could with a bucket of water they’d let warm in the sun. Afterward, William scented himself and the boy with dried flower petals his mother had gathered the week before, so they wouldn’t smell too bad out on the highway. Trucks were chugging by more frequently these days, many not even guarded. That was a good sign. People were dropping their defenses since all the major slaver settlements closer to the NDR had been wiped out.
On the highway, William and Sebastian had to wait an hour before the first truck appeared on the horizon, headed eastward. They’d been sitting in the shade of an old, sun-bleached car. The highway was full of these bone-like relics, all picked clean of anything useful or valuable.
Stop, stop, stop, he projected, easing the driver’s mind into submission.
The vehicle slowed to a full stop across the cracked and crumbled pavement.
“Well,” the driver said as William climbed inside. “That was strange.”
“What was?” William asked.
The driver frowned. “I was gonna keep right on going, but—”
“But what?” William narrowed his eyes.
You can trust me, he sent.
“Ah, never mind. What’s your name, pardner?”
“William Casmas. This is my brother, Sebastian. And you, sir?”
“Just call me Clayton. Ever’body does. You headin’ into New Dallas? That’s where I’m going to apply for my citizenship. Only twelve more hours ‘til we get there, by my measure.”
“Sounds good, Clayton. Take me there.”
“Sure thing.” He winked at the boy. “Looks just like you.” He grinned at Sebastian, who tried to stretch his cracked lips in some semblance of a smile before glancing nervously at William.
A jovial man by nature, Clayton had a broad, bearded face, hair as brown as dirt, and twinkly eyes that seemed all too friendly and optimistic out in this wasteland. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, probably a farmer looking for a better life in the city. Ever since Michael had taken power, taxes in the NDR had reached an all-time low, sending the economy to heights it had never seen before. His massive army had focused on keeping raiders and paramilitary groups away, making the city and its surrounding suburbs extraordinarily safe, its people free to do as they wished, to conduct business as free individuals. To make promising lives for themselves.
“You lookin’ for work once you get into the city?” Clayton asked.
William slid his right hand into his pocket. “Maybe. Why, Clayton? What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I got a cousin who just opened a grocery store right downtown. He pays a fair wage, and could use a decent set of hands. The boy could handle the fruit stand. I’ll introduce you to him if you’re interested. He and I are gonna be partners.”
“I don’t know if that’ll work out, Clayton, old buddy.”
“Why’s that?” Clayton raised an eyebrow.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m not going to New Dallas to find work, old buddy.”
“Why do you
keep calling me that?” Clayton asked with a nervous chuckle. “I only just met you, pal.”
William shrugged. “Just trying to be friendly, I guess.”
He flashed a pleasant smile at the man. Clayton nodded once. He turned his eyes back to the road, clenching and unclenching his rugged hands against the steering wheel. “If you don’t mind me askin’, Will, why else would you and your brother be going to New Dallas if not to find work? You got family there? Parents, maybe?”
William chuckled, peering out the dusty window at the flatlands beyond.
“Well, Clayton, the truth is, I’m going to New Dallas because I plan to destroy it.”
Clayton whipped his head around in time to see the screwdriver slip free of William’s pocket. But, by then, it was too late. William stabbed the blade into Clayton’s trachea. He yanked it out and stabbed the man once more, this time in the jugular. Blood sprayed out, tickling William’s face.
As Clayton howled and struggled, William managed to reach over and swing open the man’s door. A current of air entered the truck as it careened to the right. It swiped the shell of an abandoned car.
Alarmed, Sebastian shouted his brother’s name, bracing himself. Clayton tried to claw at William’s face, but he was too quick and caught the man’s hands while managing the steering wheel with his right elbow.
Thankfully, Clayton wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Placing his right hand on the steering wheel to steady it, William used his other arm to push the man through the open door. Clayton held on to the frame, eager to stay inside.
Let go, Clayton…
The man lost his grasp. All William had to do was give him a shove to tip him out of the truck. Clayton slammed into the concrete divider. Then he was gone, a thing of the past, nothing more than a tumbling bundle in the rearview mirror. The screwdriver followed soon after him.
William yanked the door shut, taking a deep breath. He studied himself in the mirror, saw the blood spattered on his face, and smiled.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 69