by Ren Hamilton
Kelinda rolled to the side, landing hard on the ground. Climbing gingerly to her feet, she appeared to be in pain, her strength waning, but she made to attack Robin again. Robin readied herself, but then Kelinda paused and looked around. Several of the followers were walking away. “Hey! Where are you going?” she shouted. “We’ll get it back! Why are you leaving?” They ignored her as they meandered off in all directions. “No! Don’t leave!”
Several of the followers dropped their wine bottles and shuffled off like zombies. Kelinda fell to the ground. She sobbed into the earth, clawing at the grass and mumbling.
The followers that had Patrick pinned down let go of him. Slowly, they walked toward Joey where he hung on the tree, sniffing his palm and sniffing the wine stains splattered on the neighboring tree. Others retreated into the woods. Some cried.
Patrick pushed his way through the shambling crowd. He and Father Carbone worked to untie the ropes that held Joey. Robin found the knife Kelinda dropped and handed it to Patrick, who sawed the ropes until finally they let go. They eased Joey to the ground. He immediately curled up into fetal position and wept. Robin knelt at his side, stroking his back. “Joey? Can you hear me?”
Joey looked up at her with a grimace. “What did you do to me, Robin?”
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” she said.
“Pain!” he screamed. “I feel pain, and guilt! Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong. Shepherd! Shepherd, help me!” he screamed into the night.
Patrick put a hand on his arm. “Easy, Joey. Just take it easy.”
“Shepherd!” he screamed again. “Help me!”
“Stop it Joey. Just calm down,” Patrick urged. “I’m here. You don’t need Shep.”
“I do. Oh God, please. I need him. Please find him. I need help.”
“You don’t need him,” Robin said. “We’ve got you.”
“I want to die. Please let me die.” He curled into a ball again.
“Joey, you’re safe now,” Patrick said. “It’s going to be all right.”
Joey trembled, weeping. “It’s not all right,” he said. “Not all right. Not all right. Not all right,” he chanted as he rocked back and forth.
Patrick looked at Robin. “I want you to take him up to the house. Take Father Carbone and Copie with you. I’ll be there shortly.”
“What if Shep and the brothers are up there?” Copie asked fearfully.
“I don’t believe they are. I’d guess they’ve gone over to the guest house by now to try and protect the crop. I’m going to find Agent Litner, that is if it’s not too late. I think something has gone terribly wrong here.”
“Why?” Copie asked.
Patrick looked off in the distance and the rest of them followed his gaze. “Because burning that house down was not part of the plan.” They all stared at the blazing house up on the hill.
“Shepherd!” Joey called out again.
Robin stroked his hair. “Forget about Shep for now, Joey.”
Joey’s breath stuttered, like he was starting to hyperventilate. “Oh no. Oh no. He killed them. Shep killed them.”
A chill ran through Patrick’s body. “Who did Shep kill?”
Joey looked up at Patrick, his eyes wet with tears. “My family. My mother. My father. Jeffrey. He killed them all. He needed their blood to get the brothers out. It’s my fault! Oh God, it’s my fault.” Joey sobbed loudly.
Patrick and Robin exchanged a quick shattered stare. Robin looked down at the sobbing Joey, then leaned in and hugged him. “It wasn’t your fault, Joey. It wasn’t your fault.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, then moaned, a horrible grief-stricken sound. “I gave him permission, Robin. He killed my family, and I gave him permission. I gave him permission!” Joey pressed his face into the grass, whimpering. “You don’t know what he is,” he said softly.
Father Carbone placed a hand on Joey’s shoulder. “We do know what he is, Joey.” Carbone looked at Patrick. “We’ll take care of him. You go ahead and find Litner. Be careful, Patrick.”
They carried Joey off to the house. Patrick watched them grow smaller with distance until he saw them climb up onto the back deck and go into the house through the sliding door.
Two gunshots rang out in the night, only this time they were close by. Patrick turned with a start. The few remaining followers in the field went scrambling off in all directions. Another shot rang out. The shots were coming from the direction of the guesthouse. Patrick took a deep breath and headed across the field.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Three of Agent Litner’s men were wounded and they’d barely seen what attacked them. A glimpse of blond curls here, a fleeting shape there. The brothers were hidden in the trees somewhere. They were all around them, circling like phantom wolves, taking little bites out of the team, wearing them down gradually.
Litner looked down at the three melted guns on the ground, then over at the three agents sitting on the edge of the truck with their bandaged hands, all of them wincing in pain. One of the men saw something in the trees, so Litner sent them to check it out. When they returned, they were screaming.
Agent Rourke came scurrying over now. The big blond was dressed in full fatigues with a variety of weapons strapped to his body. “We finished setting the charges. All of the trucks are wired, along with the rest of the barrels inside the guesthouse. The detonator is here.”
Litner took the small flat device from Agent Rourke. He surveyed the area. The few followers still hanging around had given up the guesthouse without a fight. Most of them didn’t even seem to care that the raid was happening.
His team had begun loading the crop into their own trucks, but with the brothers stalking them, the task had nearly come to a stop. They’d only succeeded in transporting about a quarter of the stuff. The rest was still in the guest house and locked in the Arcania Foods trucks. He hoped they wouldn’t have to blow the lot of it, but things weren’t looking good. He stuffed the detonator into his coat pocket.
He and the remaining unharmed agents sat huddled, boxed in alongside the guesthouse, surrounded by their own trucks. Litner looked back at Agent Coleman, who was trying hard not to cry despite the pain in his burned hands. They’d had to peel the melted metal off where it had fused to his skin, and Litner wanted to scream. He knew it was possible some of his team members would be harmed, but this? This was madness.
He looked again at the ruined weapons, each melted like wax until it was nothing more than a distorted glob. If this continued, Litner wouldn’t have enough men functioning to transport the crop once they finished loading it. He supposed that was the whole idea.
Crouched down on one knee, he scanned the perimeter with his gun out. Half the team stood guard with him, while the other half resumed loading the crop as fast as they could. He glanced over at the blazing house up on the hill next door. So Shep had outsmarted him again. Litner only hoped Walsh hadn’t gotten trapped inside the burning house. Walsh had not returned, or texted, so chances were the worst had happened. He couldn’t dwell on that now. “Where are those night vision goggles?” Litner asked Rourke.
Rourke handed them over and Litner put them on and scanned the edge of the woods and the surrounding fields. “Why can’t I see them?”
“I don’t know, but we haven’t even made a dent in the guest house supply. I’m a little skeptical we’re gonna get this stuff out of here before they attack again. Our guys are good, but they’re not superhuman.”
“No,” Litner said. “Only our opponents are superhuman.”
A twig snapped behind him and he and Rourke both spun around with weapons up. Patrick Obrien stood there with his hands over his head. “Don’t shoot. It’s me.”
Litner let out a sigh and lowered his gun. “How did you get out here?”
“I walked. Why?”
Litner waved him over. “Come on. Come in close to me and stay down. Did you see Father Carbone and Copie? Are they dead? Did Juris kill them?”
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Patrick walked over and crouched down alongside Litner. “No, I was just with them. They’re okay. Nice goggles.”
“This is no time for jokes. We’re under attack.”
Patrick looked over at the agents systematically loading barrels of crop into two black trucks. His eyes caught the agents with the bandaged hands, and he frowned. “What happened?”
Litner gave him a humorless smile. “Tell me something, Patrick. Shep’s brothers, can they also…melt objects with their minds?”
Patrick shifted uneasily. “Well, um, maybe. I guess. Wesley said Shep melted his shoes when he was a kid, remember? Why?”
“Because they’re melting our fucking guns!” In a rare show of emotion, Litner kicked the pile of melted guns on the ground.
“Whoa, take it easy.”
“Take it easy? I’m down to thirteen men. Agent Walsh has probably been barbecued, and our weapons…” Litner picked up one of the melted guns, then dropped it at Patrick’s feet. “Our weapons are apparently useless!”
“Excuse me please? Hello?”
At the sound of the voice, Litner and Rourke whirled around, guns out. Patrick’s eyes widened when he saw Klee standing there. “Wait, don’t shoot!” Patrick said, placing a hand on Litner’s arm.
“Why the fuck not?” Litner said.
“It’s one of them,” Rourke said.
“Do not shoot me, I need help, please,” Klee said, his platinum curls blowing in the breeze. His lower lip curled into a pout, and tears filled his eyes. “I do not want to be in war. I am frightened. Take me with you, please?”
“Get down on the ground,” Litner shouted. “Hands on your head.”
Klee lowered himself to one knee and raised his hands. Patrick saw the change come over him in an instant, his wide eyes narrowing in concentration, the façade of innocence switching to an expression of pure malice. “Klee, wait, don’t!” Patrick shouted.
Agent Rourke’s forehead exploded in a spray of blood, and the big blond man dropped to the ground.
Litner fired his gun but was not quick enough, as Klee dove through the air, soared fifteen feet then hit the ground in a summersault. When Litner shifted to fire again, Klee was gone, sprinted lightning-fast off into the darkness.
“Fuck!” Litner yelled, tossing his goggles onto the ground. He leaned down and examined Agent Rourke’s body, grimacing at his ruined head, a mess of gore within his long yellow hair.
Patrick turned away, dizziness making him stumble. He took deep breaths so he wouldn’t vomit. “I’m sorry, Litner. Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“You made me hesitate,” Litner said through clenched teeth.
“I know.” Patrick stifled a sob. “I’m sorry about Rourke. I’m sorry.”
“Have you ever fired a gun before?”
Patrick turned to Litner. “Back in high school at a shooting range.”
“Good.” Litner ripped the gun out of Agent Rourke’s dead hands and thrust it at Patrick. Patrick took it reluctantly. “What size jacket do you wear?”
Patrick looked down. “I, uh, I’m not sure.”
“Extra-large? I just happen to have something in your size.” Litner maneuvered Agent Rourke’s body, pulling the camouflage jacket off his dead bulk. He brushed a couple flecks of blood off the jacket and handed it to Patrick. “Put this on.”
Patrick complied, though he was reasonably sure Litner was losing his mind. But Patrick was riddled with guilt and horror. He knew that Agent Rourke’s death was his fault for telling them not to shoot Klee. Whatever Litner asked of him now, he would do without question. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re not going to sit here and wait for another attack. We’re going out into those woods and we’re going to find those freaks. When we find them, we’re going to kill them. All of them, including Shep. Do you have a problem with that, Obrien?”
“But—”
“But what? What now? Don’t want to kill Klee because he’s cute?” Litner looked down at Rourke’s body. “Did you know that Agent Rourke has a three-year-old daughter? She’s cute too.”
“I’m sorry. Tell me what to do.”
Litner got down on his elbows and began to crawl outside the line of trucks, into the shadows, heading toward the woods. “Stay low and keep to the shadows. Head for the tree line. Let’s go.”
Patrick crouched down and followed, trying to imitate Litner’s motions. It was awkward with the gun. “This is a bad idea,” Patrick whispered.
They’d only crawled twenty yards across the field when Shep came walking out of the woods with his hands over his head, like a phantom in the moonlight. Wind whipped his curls and tugged at his clothing. No. This is too easy. Shep give himself up? Never.
Litner stopped crawling and stood up. Pointing the gun at Shep, he yelled, “Stop where you are!”
Shep stopped walking. Patrick stood and poised his weapon. He felt like puking. The shock of watching Rourke die, and now pointing a gun at his former best friend…it was too much and he had to fight a dizzy spell, fearing he’d pass out. Litner inched slowly forward and Patrick followed. Shep smiled, hands over his head in a surrender that they all knew was false. Patrick looked around uneasily at the empty darkness.
“Where are the rest of them?” Litner asked.
“The rest of who?”
“You know damn well who. Your brothers. Where are they?”
Shep shrugged. “Gee, I just don’t know. I must have gotten separated from them.”
Patrick scoffed. “Sort of the way Jeffrey Duvaine got separated from his friends on that hunting trip?”
Shep’s brow furrowed in exaggerated confusion. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah right.”
“Turn around slowly,” Litner said. “Give me your back, hands on your head.”
Shep complied, giving his back to Litner. Litner moved in and frisked him, patting down his jeans and up under his arms. He pulled the purple tie-dye tank top out and his eyes lingered on Shep’s horseshoe scar.
“So, this is Agent Steven Litner,” Shep said. “Your record is quite impressive. Obrien, you didn’t tell me he was so handsome.”
Litner froze, then released Shep’s tee shirt. It seemed now that he had him, he wasn’t sure what to do with him. Or maybe he was simply overwhelmed. Litner seemed unbreakable to Patrick, but then he'd just witnessed his close friend’s head explode. Patrick hoped he wasn’t in shock.
“Maybe you should handcuff him,” Patrick said, trying to shake Litner out of it.
Litner nodded. “Right.”
Shep held his hands out behind his back politely, and Litner cuffed his wrists. “Okay, turn around. Walk back toward the trucks. Slowly.”
“Whatever you say, Steven.” Shep headed toward the guesthouse. “You’re in charge.”
“I mean it,” Litner said as he walked behind Shep. “I’ve got a gun to the back of your head and I won’t mind killing you.”
“I’ll give you no trouble,” Shep said. “Even I know when I’m beaten, Agent Litner.”
Patrick could sense something was wrong as soon as they rounded the side of the guesthouse. It was too quiet. Then he saw why. Nearby sat the rest of Litner’s team members, twelve men. They were tied together, back-to-back in a human circle, and they’d all been gagged.
Litner stared at them, jaw tightening. Then he and Patrick felt guns against their backs.
“Put your weapons down please.” It was Margol’s voice. Litner lowered his weapon and Juris snatched it out of his hand.
It was Klee who took Patrick’s. “I do not want to hurt you, Patrick.”
Patrick looked at him. Klee’s pretty, innocent eyes had turned cold. “But you will. Won’t you Klee?”
“Yes. If I have to.”
Shep came around and stood before Litner. He turned his back for Litner to see, then snapped the cuffs apart effortlessly. Doing a little spin, he grinned. “Now I get to frisk you, Steven. What fun.”
&n
bsp; Scowling deeply, Litner held his hands over his head while Shep went through his pockets and felt up along his pant legs. Patrick looked on, amazed as Shep pulled out weapon after weapon. Patrick couldn’t believe the amount of hardware Litner had concealed on his body. There were three more guns, four knives, and a grenade. The last thing Shep pulled out was a small black square, half the size of a cellphone. “Well. What do we have here?”
In a swift movement, Agent Litner kicked his leg out and his foot connected with the device Shep held. It flew through the air, back over his head and Patrick caught it. He almost dropped it, until Litner yelled, “Patrick, it’s the detonator! Don’t let them take it!”
Shep looked over at Margol. “Kill this meddling fuck.”
“I wouldn’t do that Shep,” Patrick said, waving the little device.
“Hold on, Margol,” Shep said. “Obrien, hand it over.”
“Blow it, Patrick!” Litner yelled. Margol gut-punched Agent Litner and he fell to the ground.
Shep grabbed Litner’s handgun off the ground and approached Patrick, his lips pursed in angry determination. He pointed the gun at his forehead. “Give me that detonator.”
Patrick held it over his head. “No, stay back or I’ll blow up the crop.”
“Not before I shoot you.”
“You can shoot me, Shep. But not before I can blow up the crop.”
Shep braced the gun firmly with his second hand. “I mean it, Obrien. I will shoot you.”
“Go ahead. Do it.”
Patrick wasn’t feeling brave exactly. He was feeling exhausted. Wrung out. It wasn’t that he was sure Shep wouldn’t kill him—he wasn’t. But if he could stop Shep’s plan, or at the very least delay it, then all this bullshit and death would at least count for something. And there was a certain, prideful element to it as well. Shep had made Patrick his biggest fool, and it wasn’t easy acknowledging that ten full years of his life had been, to a large degree, not real. Perhaps he himself was in shock, having lost his sense of self-preservation. But at least he could stand up to Shep now, in the end, and show him he was no longer his puppet.