“On the other hand, I’m happy to see you go so you can find a place where teaching means something real.”
“I wish I could say the same about you. You have so much potential. Why do you go on hiding your beautiful mind from the world?”
“What should I be doing with it?”
“You could be in Virginia at that special government facility I told you about. Putting your talents to use.”
“You know why I won’t do that,” George said. “We already talked about this. They would have me doing bad things for very bad people.”
“You don’t know that.”
“In any case, I’m not a collaborator.”
She sighed again. “The revolution.”
“That’s right.”
“A million-something kids against the United States government. That’s not a revolution.”
He smiled. “I’d rather die on my feet—”
“Than live on your knees,” Amelia said. “Got it. Be patient. Things will change.”
“But only with a fight. No social progress is possible without it.”
“My aunt marched with Martin Luther King. I know all about the struggle. The point is the people didn’t rise up. They demonstrated, disobeyed, marched. Peacefully. Nonviolence is hard, but it’s the only way to win. You use violence, they’ll crush you. It’s what they want. That’s the kind of fight they always win.”
George nodded. “All right. We’ll be patient.”
She gave him a doubtful look. His capitulation had been far too easy.
“Please don’t do anything stupid when I’m gone,” she said. “I mean it. I have a feeling I’m going to worry about you plenty the way things are.”
“We won’t do anything stupid. I promise.”
She smiled. “Good. I know it’s hard. It’s going to be all right. I honestly believe that.”
“Good night, Ms. Oliver.”
“Good night. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you some books to read.”
Amelia shouldered her pocketbook and left the classroom. She walked through musty hallways heading for her car. A daily ritual. Soon, it’d be the last time. She’d leave it all behind with some regrets.
But mostly, with relief.
After she left, Brain thought: You will not be harmed.
He looked out the window. Most of the kids had run off into the woods to play for the half hour they had left before supper. A few teachers stood around smoking in the yard. They smiled at Ms. Oliver as she approached. She quickened her pace and strode past to her car, her hand kept near her pocketbook.
She would have the normals throw him a bone and call it a meal. After years of suffering—more dead kids like Sucker Punch, more crucified scapegoats like Dog—the plague children might receive half measures that added up to nothing.
Victory is never given, it is taken—through violence if necessary. You want foundational change, you don’t talk to Dr. King. You talk to Malcolm X. No real progress would ever come from the normals. That kind of thinking was barking up the wrong tree. Scratch that. Right tree, wrong dog.
The mutagenic had to win on their own. And no half measures for him. He didn’t want integration. He didn’t want to drink from the same water fountain as normals or ride in the same part of the bus. Brain wanted it all. A return to ancient times when men worshipped the plague men as gods and enshrined them in myths that endured thousands of years.
One of the teachers in the yard caught him staring out the window and frowned. Brain gave him his best aw-shucks grin and waved. The man spat on the ground.
Brain went to the mess hall for supper. He stood in line until it was his turn to pull a greasy steel tray from the stack. The air was hot and wet with steam. A kid ladled stew into a bowl and dropped it and a biscuit on his tray. Brain grabbed a spoon and poured a mug of water. Surrounded by his toughs, Tiny waved to him with his thick, spiky arm. He sat with them and they ate without talking.
All of them had endured Discipline: Tiny for killing a bull that had attacked him, Burn for setting fires, Quasimodo for running away, Lizzie for tripping a teacher with her tail, Beaver for destroying firewood. The teachers didn’t know Tiny was the strongest man alive, Burn could start fires with his hands, Quasimodo’s humpback sprouted wings, Lizzie’s nine-foot tail could strike like a bullwhip, and Beaver’s teeth could chew through steel.
This, Ms. Oliver, is how a million kids will win, he thought. Because we are a million only now discovering we are living atom bombs. Powers we could have employed to build instead will be used to destroy. Our bodies are weapons, but the war will start in the mind. We must find the will to use them.
Tiny slurped the last of his supper and put the bowl down. “You get in trouble with Ms. Oliver?”
“She quit,” Brain said. “She’s leaving the Home at the end of the month.”
“God damn,” Beaver said. “She’s about the only thing I like about this place.”
“What’s next?” Tiny said.
“We practice our abilities,” Brain said. “Keep an eye out for others who are developing theirs. We have to be ready when the time comes.”
“You keep saying. When is that, exactly?”
“We’ll know when the time is right because it will already be happening. When it happens, we won’t be directing it. It will direct itself.”
“It won’t start itself, though,” Tiny said. “Somebody has to make the first move.”
“The normals will start it,” Brain explained. “They’ll start it because they think they’ll win. The revolution has waited for years, and it must wait a little longer. Days, months, years, who knows, but it will happen. And when we rise, we’ll be doing it all together. We’ll be ready. We’ll have nothing to lose, and we won’t stop until we win.”
The kids grinned. Tiny didn’t. He emptied his mug and slammed it down. “I won’t wait forever. I’m sick of talking.”
Brain kept track of the kids who had special powers. Nearly two-thirds of them now, and more every day. He believed these powers were wired into them all somehow, their expression the mutagenic’s version of puberty. The Home’s biggest secret, known only to those who’d gained their powers.
Most of the kids were like him, possessing abilities but not extreme powers. Lesser gods and servants to the gods. Tiny, on the other hand, could destroy this building and everything in it in seconds. And nothing hurt him, not anymore.
Tiny was a god.
Every day, they trained. Not just their powers but their hearts, too. The kids had been broken for so long, some of them found the idea of fighting back horrifying. Tiny taught them strength. Brain taught them about the revolution. He made them believe they were special and deserved to dream their own dreams.
Wallee lumbered up to the table with his tray. Mary meekly trailed him.
“Where Big Brother?” she said.
“Dog is with the normals,” Brain said.
“Special?”
“Special. Yeah.”
“Wor-ried,” Wallee said. “Poor Dog.”
“Get lost,” Tiny growled.
Wallee’s eyes widened. “Lost?”
“As in go someplace else before I put you there.”
Wallee looked to Brain, who nodded and said, “Go on, Wallee. You too, Mary. Go find somewhere else to sit. We’re having a private conversation.”
Brain watched them go. If Wallee was truly a collaborator, he was a problem that would have to be dealt with.
“We should get rid of that kid,” Tiny said. “And then go free Dog.”
“No,” Brain said. “It ain’t the time.”
“Ain’t Dog supposed to be your friend?”
Brain winced. More than a friend. He loved Dog like a brother.
He knew Dog didn’t kill Sally Albod. Gaines probably murdered her and then made it look like Dog did it. There was no malice to him pinning it on Dog. In this particular drama, Dog was just roadkill, which Brain found crueler than anything. How easy it was to sca
pegoat a child simply because he was mutagenic. The normals would try him as an adult and fry him in an electric chair. A revered and intricate procedure with a predetermined outcome, like a ritual sacrifice. Dog would die, and the normals would experience their catharsis. One less, they’d say. Only the mutagenic would cry for Dog, but the tears of slaves didn’t add up to anything. They didn’t matter. They weren’t people. They were animals with a voice.
Dog had naively believed the normals would treat him fairly and had now learned what they really thought of his kind. Though his hopes were misplaced, they came from a good heart. Dog had believed people were good and the world was a good place. Brain often looked at Dog and wanted to say, The revolution is for you because you deserve the world you believe exists. He wanted to help now but couldn’t. He’d hoped Dog would develop his special ability and take part in the uprising, but now that could never happen. No matter what Brain wanted or hoped, the revolution was for all of them, not just one boy. If they made their move now, they might save Dog but lose everything.
“Dog will get justice,” Brain said. “But he may not live to see it.”
Mary froze in the middle of the mess hall. Her tray crashed to the floor.
“Pretty,” she said.
Kids stood at the tables, heads aimed toward the far windows. One by one, they approached the side of the hall to look out. The trickle became a flood. They hooted and pointed. Some cried out in terror and pushed their way back.
“We should take a look,” Brain said.
“I’ll go first,” said Tiny.
The giant stood and shambled into the throng, nudging kids aside. The crowd parted to let him through like an army ushering its champion onto the field. Whatever was out there, Tiny would protect them.
Brain reached the windows and looked out.
“Interesting,” he said.
A twenty-foot-tall Latin cross blazed in the Home’s yard.
In front of it, a line of men stood in belted white robes and conical white masks. Most held shotguns. Some carried ropes.
No teachers in sight.
“Who are they?” Tiny said.
“The Ku Klux Klan,” Brain said.
The men out there weren’t burning the cross so much as lighting it. An arcane ritual, but the message was clear: This holy fire cleanses the world of evil.
Tiny snarled at the insult. “Is this them starting it like you said?”
“Close to it,” Brain said. “This is them trying, learning the way how.”
His eyes swept the other kids pressed against the filmy glass. The ones who didn’t run and hide. The ones who had powers. They growled and roared at the men. If the fiery cross was supposed to intimidate them, it wasn’t working.
This place was a rotting prison, but it was their home. They’d all grown up here. These old buildings, the surrounding woods, and the farms they worked were all they knew of the world.
The plague generation was almost ready to leave that childhood behind.
Soon, Brain promised the men outside.
A white-robed Klansman strode toward the mess hall, raised his shotgun, and fired into the building.
Thirty
Dave Gaines lay in his bed at the clinic surrounded by flowers and get-well cards. He didn’t remember any of it being delivered. Doc Odom had put him on some heavy-duty painkillers and antibiotics the past few days, and the time passed in a feverish dream. He just woke up and cards were everywhere.
Then he remembered butchering Sally Albod.
He licked his dry lips and looked around the room. “What did I do?”
He must have dreamed it. A horrible trick of the mind.
“What did I do? Oh, Lord, WHAT DID I DO?”
Doc Odom entered with his lab coat, disheveled white hair, and hunched bearing. He took in Gaines’s vitals at a glance and laid a gentle hand on his good shoulder. “Be calm, friend. You tear out my stitches, I’ll read you the riot act.”
“Sally,” Gaines said.
The rest dried up in his mouth.
“She’s gone,” the doctor said. “I’m sorry.”
“I killed that poor little girl. It was me.”
“That’s the guilt talking,” Doc Odom said. “Don’t let it weigh you down. What you need to focus on is how you tried to save her.”
Gaines remembered telling Enoch to run for help. The monster lunged at him like something out of a horror movie. Fiery bolts of pain. A calm little voice telling him he was being hurt bad, rising to a scream, He’s killing you, you’re dying.
“It’s true.” He wiped away tears. “I tried. He wouldn’t let me do it.”
“You don’t have to worry about him. The sheriff caught that son of a bitch.”
“What did he say to the sheriff?”
Doc Odom chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. He was spouting all sorts of foolishness.”
“What about my boy? How’s he doing?”
“I checked him out when they brought you in. He’s fine. You should be proud you raised him the way you did. That boy saved your life. He’s a man now.”
“Yeah,” Gaines said with self-loathing.
“And you’re the man of the hour. I’m letting you go today.”
Gaines looked around at the cards and flowers and wanted very much to stay a while longer, maybe forever. He felt safe here. In this room, events had reached a stasis. Once he left, everything would change. He would have to start his life knowing what he’d done and wondering when it would all catch up to him.
“You sure I’m ready, Doc?”
“That’s right. I took fifty percent off my bill on account of your being a hero.”
“Thanks,” he said, dreading the bill anyway.
He saw the truth clear as sky. The world had not dealt him a bad hand. The world wasn’t exactly a friend, but it had given him the same raw chance it gave everybody. No, he was just stupid. He didn’t possess the sense God gave a goose. He could throw himself at the ground and somehow find a way to miss.
Doc Odom helped him get out of bed and dress himself. He gave him a sling and wrote him some prescriptions. He warned against doing any hard physical activity while healing. Lots of water, plenty of rest, no drinking. Doctor’s orders.
“I’ll call a ride for you,” the man said. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”
“That’s all right. I’d like to walk a bit if that’s okay.”
Doc Odom nodded. “Probably do you some good to take some fresh air. Call me if you suffer any trouble.”
“Thanks again.”
“Oh, I almost forgot to say. That boy who murdered Sally. Turns out he also killed Ray Bowie.”
“No kidding,” Gaines said in wonder.
“Remember, take it easy and keep off the bottle. Alice will see you out.”
Gaines walked away from the clinic a free man. He wore his hunting pants, freshly laundered by the skinny nurse, and a white T-shirt the doctor gave him. He checked for his wallet. He leafed through old receipts and counted two twenties.
Enough to get a load on and then some. He walked straight to the Rusty Nail. He opened the door and paused blinking in the sudden gloom. Red neon and smoke in the air. The clink of bottles. Jukebox sitting quiet at the side of the room. Only a few customers, most drinking quietly at the bar. A man in a black leather vest racked the balls at a pool table. The pretty bartender wiped the counter, which made her boobs jiggle in her black AC/DC T-shirt. Bright sunshine outside, but otherwise he had no idea what time it was. It didn’t matter. If they were serving, he was drinking. Gaines had always liked this place. If you brought a mason jar on a Thursday, they filled it from the tap for a dollar.
He staggered light-headed toward the stools in front of the bar. He had an awful need to sit. His torn-up arm felt hot and itchy under the dressing, like a sack of swollen meat in a sling. He’d never asked how many stitches he’d gotten.
The bartender looked up and smiled. “Well, look who it is. If it
ain’t the man of the hour.”
That phrase again, spoken without derision.
He slumped on one of the stools. “Hello.”
She popped the cap on a bottle of Bud and set it foaming on the counter with a wink. “This one is on the house.”
Along the bar, the men stared at him. Weathered faces, beards, caps. He took the bottle, cold and slick with condensation, and considered leaving with it. All he wanted was to be left the hell alone. Nobody eyeballing or talking at him.
He tilted his head back and poured a long swallow down his throat. He gasped as the beer scraped along his gullet. He belched. One of the men sat next to him. Gaines took in his small eyes, bushy yellow beard, and green John Deere cap.
“You’re that feller, ain’t you?”
Gaines wiped his mouth. “What feller would that be?”
“That feller got mauled by one of them monsters, trying to save a little girl.”
“That was me, all right. I just got out the clinic.”
“His next round’s on me, Celia,” the man called to the bartender then thrust his hand out. “Name’s Owen, mister. Owen Miles. Pleased to meet you.”
Gaines shook it with his good hand. “Likewise, Owen. I’m Dave Gaines.”
“Hell, I know your name,” Miles said.
Gaines thought, So this is what it’s like to be respected.
“Heard your boy shot the sumbitch,” the man added.
“My boy Archie. He sure did.”
“He’s a man now, ain’t he.”
Gaines flinched and took another pull on his Bud. “He sure is.”
“You should be proud.”
A man entered the bar. Miles waved him over. “Hey, Bill. Look what I found.”
The man took in Gaines hunched over the counter with his sling. “Damn, boy. What happened to you? Get knocked around by a big ol’ grizzly?”
“A creeper happened to him is what,” Miles said. “This is the man tried to save Reggie Albod’s little girl.”
“Motherogod. You’re the one. I’m Bill Faherty. Can I buy you a drink?”
“His next round’s on me,” Miles said.
“Then I got the one after that. I want to hear his story.”
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