“That is what you said! That’s what you always say! You said that before the tribunal! And six months ago you said that you’d never met the Baltimore team!”
“I don’t have time for this,” he spat, storming past me. “I have patients to take care of.”
I let out a derisive laugh. “Which ones? The ones you can heal in an instant, or the ones you can’t do anything for?”
He froze, his hand on the tent flap. He turned his head partially as if to speak to me, but then he ducked out of the tent.
I was fuming, yet too tired and cold to go after him. I sat down on his cot and pulled the blanket around me again, replaying what had just happened. Something had gone wrong in the last five minutes, but what? The argument had started when I’d brought up Baltimore. Clearly it was a sore spot, though I couldn’t begin to guess why. Berenice had been the target, not him.
Eleanor poked her head in the tent. “Is the battle over?” she deadpanned.
I wrinkled my nose. “You heard that?”
“I’m pretty sure people in Montana heard that.” She handed me a bundle of clothes, then sat down on the cot opposite me. “But don’t worry about it. Tempers are typically pretty high in the days before and after raids, so yelling isn’t uncommon. I don’t know what you’re mad at him about, but give him a break. He doesn’t need you harping. He’s dealing with a lot right now.”
“Like what?” I muttered, peeling off my bloody clothes.
“Well, for one thing, he killed two people the other day. He’s been beating himself up for it ever since.”
I gasped. “He killed people? When? Why?”
Eleanor’s shoulders slumped. “The men in the van. They were at the other Westerner camp near here. I think Benny was scared for his life, and he just attacked when he got the chance. Dean and the guys raided the camp right after. They found Benjamin with the gun in his hand, standing over the two bodies. Dean pointed his weapon at Benny and told him to get on the ground. Benny, being Benny, told Dean to go screw himself. Dean was about to open fire when Graham recognized that Benny was wearing a superhero uniform and suggested that maybe he wasn’t a Westerner.”
“That is not the story he told me. He never mentioned killing anyone.”
“He was probably embarrassed. He likes to pretend that he’s as pure as the driven snow. Stuff like that probably reminds him that deep down, he’s not your Mercury.” Eleanor tilted her head toward me with a hard smile. “He’s Benjamin Trent, and no amount of playing superhero will ever change that.” Her tone had taken on a mocking edge.
This wasn’t the Eleanor I knew. In fact, nothing about this woman matched my memory of the sunny, sweet woman for whom I’d developed a slight fondness.
When would the surprises stop?
All my questions about where Eleanor had been these last few months vanished. I wanted to get out of her presence, unwilling to deal with possibly more deception.
I quickly pulled on the clothes she’d given me, finally warm and dry in thermal undergarments, Army surplus pants, and a black fleece. I missed my steel soled boots, but my “hippie” boots worked well enough, especially with my new wool socks.
I made my excuses to Eleanor and left the tent.
The sun was fully up, and the camp was awake and bustling. People walked with purpose from tent to tent, carrying weapons, paperwork, large boxes, and various other items. Men leaned over the outdoor shaving area, which was a flat board laid across two fifty-five gallon drums, and a dingy mirror propped up at ninety degrees. A large tent’s flap opened, and I smelled the enticing aroma of pancakes and sausage. The whole scene reminded me of a military installation, but happier.
While I took in the sights, the ground began to shake, and the distant sound of horses’ hooves grew louder each second. Hundreds of horses crowned the hill to the north, most without riders. The lead horse, a shimmering black-coated beauty, was ridden by a woman whose strawberry-blonde hair shone in the sunlight as it streamed behind her.
As I watched, the horses with riders broke away from the rest of the herd and trotted to the edge of camp. The other horses continued to gallop over the hill and out of sight.
The woman dismounted first. Her horse had no saddle, but its mane contained several tiny braids and beads. I caught a glimpse of her profile as horses walked around her and my suspicions were confirmed—my cousin Christiana was alive.
I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years, and back then she’d been a shaking, spacy, psychotic mess that complained of hearing voices. Now she was vibrant and thriving; she laughed and spoke with a few men that stood around her and teased her gently about her messy, windblown hair.
I couldn’t find Gregory, but I recognized a few of the riders as men who’d stormed the shipping container. There was another rumble, mechanical rather than equine, and a military truck rolled up, bumping and tossing on the uneven ground. I recalled from childhood training that the truck was called an LMTV, but I had no idea where the Sentinels had purchased it.
The LMTV came to a stop on the top of the far hill and people began to jump out the back. Two of them unloaded Marco’s stretcher.
I ran toward them, relieved to see that he was finally awake.
As I approached, he rolled his head to the side and gave me a weak smile. “You’re okay.”
I smiled for some reason. “I was shot. Right through the hand.”
“Your hand looks fine to me.” He sat up with a small groan. “Guys, let me down.”
John Carl and Bobby lowered the stretcher, and I helped Marco to his feet. “Benjamin healed my hand. He’s here. But that’s not the wild part of the story. Ask me who shot me.”
“Um, okay. Who shot you?”
I looked Marco square in the eye. “Gregory.”
Marco stared at me without blinking for several seconds. “Jill, that’s a sick joke.”
“Marco, Gregory shot me in the hand this morning.”
“Stop saying that!” His voice higher than normal. “Greg’s… Greg’s dead.”
“He’s alive, like my cousin Christiana over there. Benjamin’s in the medical tent. The elders said they were dead, but they’re alive.”
“Gregory’s dead!”
“No, I’m not.”
My brother’s deep voice, so unlike my memories of him, came from a nearby tent, where he was watching us. Gregory walked toward us, twisting his neck gaiter in his hands.
Marco stumbled backwards into a horse. “What… what is… what’s going on? Jill, I don’t understand.” His eyes darted back and forth between Gregory and me. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Gregory walked up to Marco, who was now several inches shorter than him. “Marco, I never died. I was taken by the Westerners. I’m really here. I’m okay.” He stared down at our dumbstruck cousin. “I thought I’d never see you again, too.”
Marco shoved Gregory away. “What is going on? First Gregory is alive, and then Benjamin just shows up? Where’s Isabel? Are there more people that I don’t know about?”
Gregory’s eyes were heavy with grief. “You have no idea.”
21
My team, sans Benjamin, sat around a collapsible table in a large tent. Benjamin had already received the briefing, as he’d snippily informed me when I’d told him to report to the command tent ten minutes earlier.
Dean stood at the end of the table, while Graham, Eleanor, and a tall man named Ken sat opposite us. Dean unfolded a map of the western US and smoothed it out on the table. The western states were covered in several dozen tiny red dots and a handful of blue dots.
He looked at me. “Before giving this brief, I always ask the newcomers what they think they know about the situation. I’ve never heard the same answer twice.”
I leaned back in my chair. “A week ago I would’ve told you that the Westerners are people who think they’re better than everyone, and they kill the people in the camps because we serve the public, which they find personally offensive.”
“And something happened within the last week to make you change your mind.”
“There was an attack on Chattahoochee while we were there for a tribunal. Benjamin was taken, along with Marco’s sister Isabel. We questioned one of the Westerners and he said they were there to ‘get’ people. We deduced that bodies had been planted in a fire to make it look like Benjamin and Isabel had been killed.”
“Planted bodies?” Dean repeated. “That’s new.”
“Could be they’re getting scared of being found out,” Ken said. “This gravy train can only go on for so long. A few bodies would lend credence to their charade.”
“There are lots of bodies back at my camp,” Reid said, his voice hard. “That wasn’t a charade.”
Dean nodded, thoughtful. “You’re from the Idaho camp, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll get to that soon enough.”
“Anyway,” I said, getting back to the story. “We got a lead that took us out here. We tricked the Westerners into taking us to their camp, but once we saw that Benjamin and Isabel weren’t there, we planned to break out. Then you showed up.”
“And all these people who I thought were dead are actually alive,” Marco said, his fists clenched so hard that they were turning white. “And I want answers. I want to know why Gregory shot Jill. I want to know why I saw Hank Theodorakis shaving his face this morning. I want to know why all these people are here but Isabel isn’t!” He slammed his fists on the table. “What is going on?”
Dean sat down and folded his hands on the table. “Money,” he said simply. “This is all about money.”
He pulled the map toward him and pointed to a dozen different spots in the west, all marked with small blue dots. “Each of these blue dots either were or are known Westerner compounds. We’ve attacked six of them and rescued as many captives as we could, but there are still six remaining.”
He pointed to a remote location near the Canadian border. “The one here, in Idaho, has about one hundred people.” He pointed to another remote area. “This one here, in Montana, is the command center, so to speak. It’s where the leaders and their families live. Our intelligence is that two hundred people live there.”
“And that’s where the people are taken?” I guessed. “To the compounds?”
“Yes. The Westerners have struggled to keep up their populations for a long time, just like you guys. Over the last thirty years, they’ve resorted to dealing with their devil, the camps, to bring in new people. They buy women for childbearing and men for labor. Or, I should say, they buy girls for childbearing and boys for labor. They seem to prefer them young, probably because they’re easier to control but still useful.”
His words sounded rehearsed. How often had he given “the big speech?”
“Childbearing,” Marco said, horrified. “Oh my God. Isabel is—”
“We’re going to rescue your sister,” Dean said. “We know where she is. The doc’s description of the journey pointed to her being dropped off at this sorting station here.” He pointed to a red dot in Montana. “They only stop there if the captive is headed for the leaders’ compound.”
“Sorting station,” Ember said, her voice distant. “Sorting… I remember that the Westerners were going to ‘sort’ us. What’s that mean?”
“It’s where they decide who to give you to,” Ken said flatly. “The compounds put in requests and the sorting stations try to meet them.”
My team made noises of disgust.
“This is what you do, isn’t it?” I asked. “You rescue the people the camps sell.”
Dean nodded. “I’m the son of Lisette Monroe. My mother was sold more than twenty-five years ago by your camp. I escaped when I was a teenager with some others, and we founded the group that became the Sentinels. We call ourselves that because we’re always watching the Westerners, looking for people who need help.”
Lisette Monroe had been a friend of my mother’s. In a different life, Dean might’ve been a camp boy. Maybe even a superhero, if his power allowed it. What was his power? I envisioned him in one of my team’s tunics, a knife in his hand, and enjoyed the image.
I drummed my fingers on the table. “That doesn’t answer the main question, though. Why are the elders selling people in the first place? Why would they deal with our devils?”
Ken pulled the flaps on the tent closed, casting us into the dim light of the lanterns. Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a little box, no more than two inches long, an inch wide, and an inch deep.
He opened it and removed a small item from the case, then put it on the table. “Do you know what this is?”
“That’s JM-104.” I recognized the tiny vial, which was even smaller than the one Elder St. James had used on Reuben.
“You call it JM-104. I call it the heart of the slave trade you never knew about.”
Dean put the vial of JM-104 back into its little box. “We’ve had to question a lot of people to get this information. I can assure you that it’s true. Did you ever wonder where we all came from?”
“You mean the Supers?” I asked. “Sure, but nobody knows, right? I think the science is that we’re an elegant quirk of nature, like your blue eyes.”
Eleanor scowled at me, but Dean breathed a laugh.
“I’m flattered, but that’s not quite right. We were made by Bell Enterprises, though not on purpose. BE works very hard to keep that secret. What’s not a secret is that before they were an international chemicals and pharmaceuticals manufacturer, they were Bell and Sons. They made miracle elixirs and snake oil back in the days when nobody had to put the ingredients of that kind of stuff on the label. One of their products got popular. Really popular. It was called Dr. Bell’s Energizing Concentrate, and it was basically the late 19th century version of an energy drink.”
“The slogan,” Eleanor said, humorless. “Tell them the slogan.”
“’It makes you stronger.’ But the product was pulled off the shelves after a few years and never produced again. The Bells never officially explained why, but our… associates have recovered documents that explain exactly why. A highly specific demographic, one tenth of a percent of pregnant women who drank it, reported that their children weren’t normal. They had abilities.”
My teammates gasped.
“They were Supers,” I said, breathless.
The timeline, if I was guessing correctly, lined up with what I knew about the first superhero, my great-great-grandmother Christina St. James. She’d gone public with her powers during the First World War to rescue her son from a German prison camp.
“Yeah. And the Bells knew they’d created them. And that’s where things get dark.”
I leaned toward him. “Tell me.”
“The Bells have worked for years to make sure that our people are taken care of, so to speak. The Bell family lobbies for us in Congress, pays for the Super hospital in Virginia, and contracts with every team to provide their medical supplies. I think they feel bad.” He smirked. “Their business rivals, Howard Chemical Engineering, on the other hand, were able to create an antidote for our condition sometime in the late 60s. They called it JM-104. Don’t ask me what it stands for, because none of us have been able to find out.”
“Oh my God,” Ember whispered. “We don’t need an antidote. There’s nothing wrong with us.”
“Get to the point,” Marco growled. “My sister. Why did they take my sister?”
“I’m getting there. You have to understand the background to understand the current situation. The Bells realized that the Howard antidote would certainly be used against our will at some point, so they straight up stole it. They stole the formula and every known supply of the stuff and told the elders they planned to destroy it. The elders said no.”
“Because they had a method to control us,” I said, cottoning on.
“Bingo. The Bells had given them the single most useful tool to control the superheroes ever made. But the Bells didn’t want it used
like that, so they destroyed the formula and told the elders that since the supply was limited, they’d have to pay for it.”
Eleanor cut in. “When the Howards started hiring every supervillain in existence to find the stupid stuff, the Bells demanded even more money to defray the costs of the damage. Bombs, break-ins, assassinations… it all gets quite expensive, you see.”
“You said this is all about money. Let me figure this out.” I held up my hand while I thought.
Money was the one resource that was always scarcest in the camps. I’d been told all my life that we were so poor because we couldn’t have jobs. That was certainly true, to an extent. But why couldn’t we have jobs? To keep us under the thumbs of the elder, away from anything that could expand our minds. But without jobs, or any other regular income, how would the elders even begin to pay the Bells for storing JM-104?
In the absence of traditional employment, they’d have to sell something to earn money.
I could think of just one ultra-valuable commodity in the camps.
I swallowed down the bubbling hatred that had just burst back into life. “The elders are selling people for money. Money to buy JM-104 and keep us in line.”
“That’s… really hard to believe,” Reid said slowly. “That this is all a multi-generational conspiracy to control us. We’d never even heard of JM-104 until last week. And it doesn’t explain why my camp actually has casualties.”
Dean let out a long breath. “That’s what I thought, too, when I first heard it. I believed for years that my mom had been snatched by the Westerners simply because their numbers are low and they needed women. But then someone pointed out to me that children of elders never get taken.”
He let that sink in.
“And did you ever notice that the missing people are always in their teens? And that none of them are ever on the superhero track? That seems odd, doesn’t it? You’d think that eventually somebody would break that mold, but no. It’s almost like they’re being chosen beforehand,” he said acidly. He looked at Reid. “There’s one camp that refuses to sell. Guess which one.”
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