by Ben Farthing
"They won't have to wait long," said Loretta.
The atmosphere pulsed with power. The hairs on Everard's arms rose, pulled toward the wired barrel.
"How far back do we need to get?" Loretta asked.
"I don't know," said Everard. "Just don't fight the urge to get away."
They backed away, except Brian, who peered down at Santa Muerte. He muttered something to her that sounded like a spiteful gloat. Everard didn't like hearing such a hateful tone from such a nice kid. He grabbed Brian's shirt to guide him twenty feet back with Loretta and Bermuda.
"She should be tried for her crimes," said Bermuda. "You don't have the right to be executioner."
"I was hired to keep Everard's friends safe. The Burgesses don't have the right to stop me from doing that."
Everard imagined the pain he'd felt in the Junk Shoals. Santa Muerte hung her head. He couldn't let anyone suffer like that. He started back for her.
"You're fired, Loretta."
The energy buzzing in the air stilled.
Santa Muerte looked up, hatred for Everard in her sneer. "Watch me. See what will happen to your Abby."
Everard ran towards her, reaching for his knife to cut the zip-ties.
The boom went off.
Everard clutched at his ears as they rung. The noise was tremendously loud, far beyond the boom in the Perforated Woman's workshop.
Santa Muerte screamed inaudibly.
The boom faded, leaving a tinny whine behind. Everard flipped open his knife.
The urge to get away overcame him. His intent to fight it and rescue someone from that terrible pain shrunk beneath his own fear of it. He let the urge take over.
He dashed away from the barrel.
Brian and Bermuda were backing away. Loretta gritted her teeth and watched Santa Muerte.
The urge faded as Everard reached Brian. He forced himself to turn and watch what he'd unwittingly hired Loretta to do.
Santa Muerte screamed, yanked with both arms against her restraints. The barrel held. She tried to pull her arms over the barrel, but the tangle of wires held her. She twitched, doubled over. The skull mask fell back over her face in her frantic yanking and muffled her cries.
Everard palmed his stomach.
Erratic twitches progressed to convulsions. Her head lolled to the side, her body hung back limp from the barrel.
Loretta gestured to Bermuda to join her in approaching the dead woman. Everard followed.
Santa Muerte's eyes were open behind the mask. Red sludge dripped out from beneath it.
Loretta removed the mask.
Blood thick with pulped viscera dribbled from the dead woman's mouth and nose.
"What do you think?" Loretta asked Bermuda.
The Burgess wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "I think Everard was right about the effect of the booms."
Not his noblest "I told you so" moment. Everard tried not to think of Abby's face like that. "I thought you said they were targeting certain people. That affected all of us."
"Not them." Loretta pointed to V Street. Pedestrians walked by, unaware of the corpses and bloody Denizens in the parking lot. "Only Denizens?"
Bermuda shook his head. "Inserting an idea into someone's head takes an insane amount of power. We're talking a few hundred batteries' eight-hour-shifts."
"How much is that?" asked Everard.
"A nuclear power plant running for four hours. And that's just for a handful of people."
"What's your point?" Loretta checked her watch. "We need to be gone before Bowman brings reinforcements, and I'm suddenly at war with Inc."
"My point is that the cable feeding power to that setup is a quarter-inch zinc alloy wire. That small of a gauge could only transfer enough power to force a desire like that into maybe fifteen people. Twenty, if the people are especially weak willed."
"It's that exact of a science?" asked Everard.
"Not what you reality benters do, or even what he does," Bermuda pointed to Brian, who'd turned on music on his phone. "But creating bent-touched objects is delicate work."
"You're saying this setup couldn't be targeting more than a couple dozen people," said Loretta, pulling them back on topic. "Shadow's cats have seen at least three more setups like this."
Everard noticed his phone at Santa Muerte's side. He picked it up. Scratched, but still functional.
"At close distances, it's obviously indiscriminate in who it targets," said Bermuda. "But to know if it's targeting specific individuals or groups, I'd need more time to study it."
"We're out of time."
"I'll come back."
"It'd be guarded."
"We still want proof that Inc is involved."
Everard opened up recent videos and pushed play. He scrolled quickly through the video. He had everything up until Santa Muerte picked it up. "Is Bowman giving orders to the Narco Saints proof enough?"
Loretta and Bermuda exchanged a glance.
"That'll do it," said Loretta. She checked her watch again. "Time to go. Now."
She lead them up V Street around the corner back to the SUV. A car honked at the rush hour traffic. The heat of the passing cars added to the summer evening humidity.
"Everard, send that video to Bermuda to report to Mr. President. And back it up in at least ten different places."
Bermuda's hands shook with excitement as he put his number into Everard's phone. "Once people see this, Inc's political days are over."
Brian got into the driver's seat, still quiet.
"I'll meet you back at the Hall of Burgesses," said Bermuda. "My truck is down the street."
Everard took his phone back and sent Bermuda the video.
"Don't wait for us," said Loretta. "We've got a stop to make first."
Bermuda held up his phone. "Happy to show this off, myself." He started to leave.
"Wait. I'm not done with that." Everard pointed to the flintlock Bermuda had holstered. His bent was still too sporadic to not carry an actual weapon.
"This fired the shot heard 'round the world. It's priceless."
"It's good at breaking things," said Everard.
"Give him the pistol," said Loretta. "Unless you brought something else. I don't want him watching my back unarmed. Besides, he just sent you something you can hold over Mr. President's head for years."
Bermuda begrudgingly handed Everard the flintlock, then jogged off.
Everard and Loretta got into the SUV, and Brian joined traffic.
"Where are we going?" asked Everard.
"Proving Inc is involved won't stop the machines from killing people. If we want to shut it down, we need more intel on the booms. I want to know where that power cable goes."
"How do we find that out?" Everard was more interested in striking another blow at Inc, this one hopefully large enough to scare them off so he could go home. But saving the lives of dozens of people sounded important, too. If no one else was going to do it.
"Inc's Chief Technical Officer should know."
"I'm not breaking back into 12 Corcoran," said Everard.
"We don't have to. I heard there's a fancy soiree tonight where all of the D.C. faction high society will be toasting with the Periphery's favorite recluse."
"You mean Shadow's crazy brother who wants to kill me?"
"Exactly. Did his invitation include a plus one?"
Everard ran his finger along the barrel of the flintlock. All the D.C. faction leaders would be there. Everyone who respected Inc the most. Sounded like a great place to share some home videos. "I think he'll let us all in if I ask politely."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
INTERLUDE
The mourning ruler of the blue hills, lurches from a mountaintop to a paved valley, from a child's nursery to the folds of a thundercloud, seeking the threatening booms.
It is the path of a being banished to a lesser reality, trailing remnants of its home.
The pulsing threats from the northeast continue, the hubristic bully moving to claim what
they both had agreed off-limits.
The bully's encroachment will not be tolerated. The offender will understand what it is to grieve.
Ahead, the runt outcast of its species senses a trap. Bait set for another, a creature even weaker than the hubristic bully of the northeast.
But days have passed since the mourning ruler has shared its grief, and it gnaws from within.
Ascending, it springs the trap.
Powerlines snap, whip around to contain it. Their energy screams off-kilter, closes the limitless avenues traveled by the runt outcast.
A burst of panic.
For miles in every direction, children shriek, jolted awake from sudden night terrors.
Panic subsides. The powerlines are easily cast off, realities opened.
The owners of the trap arrive in force. A veritable militia armed with gunpowder and religious trinkets.
The oft-glimpsed sad god welcomes them, delivers its mournful sermon.
Satisfied, it leaves broken minds and bodies to draw ever nearer to the booming threats of the hubristic encroacher.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Everard used his hands as blinders, blocking out everything but the blue and red air conditioner knob. He tried to deny that it was turned to cold.
His mind couldn't pierce the weight around it.
The sun was still up, but out of sight behind buildings and trees. The colors of the city were muted at dusk.
He needed to figure this out before they got to the Ailuromancer's party. Thoughts of Santa Muerte and Abby kept interrupting his pondering.
Brian inched the SUV through traffic. His music played through the stereo, some amalgam of techno, hip-hop, and that sound a trash truck makes when it crushes the garbage.
Loretta sat in the front seat, talking to Jose on her phone. Then he either passed her to one of their kids, or Loretta sternly explained to her husband why he needed to eat his carrots.
That was the woman who had just murdered someone.
Murdered someone on Everard's behalf.
She finished her call. Her lips pursed and her jaw tightened.
Back to work. No more smiling.
"Will you explain to me," asked Everard, focusing again on the AC, "why I'm not allowed to kill a parasite, but you tortured a woman to death?"
"No," said Loretta.
Brian whistled through a broken front tooth. He gingerly touched the bruise on his cheek. "They say it's politics, but it's really just mutually assured destruction. You reality benters agree not to kill each other. You don't care about the rest of us."
Everard gave up practicing his bent. That was the most negative thing Brian had said since they'd met.
Loretta squeezed the armrest. "I didn't kill Santa Muerte because she's not a reality benter. She's a murderer. She made the Periphery more dangerous. She deserved it. I'd kill Bowman right this second if it wouldn't get my family killed, and start a war."
"A minute ago you only mentioned a war," said Everard.
"Why would I expect you to care about my family when you don't care about your own?"
"Who? Ryker? A woman I've never met? I got Bill Bill to work on getting her free, didn't I?" Everard dropped his tone. "I would have stopped if you'd told me Inc would come after your family. I'm impressed you're keeping it together like you are."
Impressed enough that he wanted to ask for advice. But he'd dumped Abby. There was nothing to ask about now.
"Thanks," said Loretta, after a moment.
Everard checked his phone, but Abby hadn't texted. Of course she hadn't—it was over. He was just used to hearing from her throughout the day. Even during this hellish day, a five-minute lull had him thinking about her.
Which he had to stop. Santa Muerte was further proof of it. If Periphery thugs would threaten people he cared about, then didn't that mean they had authority over him? He'd never deny Bill Bill's limp, and he'd be stuck in the Periphery forever.
Frustration flared up that he was stuck here at all. He should be relaxing at home, his feet kicked up with the 'Nats game on the TV. His recliner would be a lot more comfortable than this SUV back seat.
Until the Perforated Woman came knocking.
Everard focused on the AC knob again. He denied it. This time, his will stabbed through the heavy fog. The AC cut off. The fallout grew a mushroom on the knob.
"There. I did it. Why couldn't I before?"
"You took out their guns, didn't you" said Brian.
"But I couldn't do anything else. I'm trying it the same way, but it only randomly works."
"You must still have some kind of authority over you," said Brian.
"Let him figure it out on his own," said Loretta. She turned up the radio.
Everard reached forward between the seats to turn the radio back down. "I've got a gang of skinned freaks, some demon-worshipping businessmen, and now the super villains of West Side Story who all either want me dead or mutilated. I don't have time to figure it out on my own."
Loretta didn't look up from her phone. "Are you sure you actually want to cast off all authority?"
"If that's what'll help me get back to my normal life."
"That's what you're after?" asked Brian. "Everything going back to normal? You're not real concerned about the Perforated Woman's machines murdering a couple hundred people?"
That wasn't his responsibility. All he had to do was scare Inc enough to leave him alone. If that lined up with saving the day, then sure, he was happy to help out with it. But Loretta was the one actually capable of going toe-to-toe with Inc. He was kidding himself if he thought he was really the one who would save those people.
"What's it matter what I want?" he said. "I still haven't denied Bill Bill's limp. I'm here. I'm helping. You might as well tell me how to be useful."
"Okay," said Loretta. "I'll tell you what to do. But it won't make sense out of context. Wait until you need your bent again, and do what I say."
"I thought I wasn't supposed to take orders."
"It's not an order if you trust me."
It sounded like a cop-out on her part, but it's not like he had another idea. "Okay. Fine."
Between the flintlock and his limited abilities, he'd probably be okay.
Brian pulled them onto the Beltway, which by some miracle was actually moving at half the speed limit.
Trying to change the subject, Everard asked, "why are you doing this?"
"Because the Burgesses are paying me," said Loretta.
"Is that all?"
"I don't like the idea of Inc taking over. So I'm going to stop it."
"Why you?"
"Because I can."
"Aren't there others who could?"
"A couple." Loretta set her phone on her lap. "But they're not. So here I am."
"Why the tough guy act?"
"I don't think it's an act," said Brian.
"Fair enough," said Everard. "But it's not just the bad guys afraid of you. Why's everyone afraid of you?"
"Because they see what I do when someone threatens my family. Now drop it." She turned off the radio.
The car stalled. "Hey," said Brian. "I was using that."
"You don't build a reputation like yours on accident," said Everard.
"I said drop it!"
Everard sat back in his seat.
"I'm turning the radio back on," said Brian. "Or we can stop for gas."
Loretta rubbed her brow with her thumb and forefinger.
"I'll just leave it real quiet." Music filled the car again, something electronic with heavy drums.
Everard toyed with the flintlock.
"I want them to be afraid of me," said Loretta. "Everyone."
"But why?" asked Brian. "People would like you if they got to know you."
"Because when Undone Duncan threatens a neighborhood, he's not this overwhelming, invincible force. When Inc blackmails a business, they're not the worst thing that could come after someone. I am. And I don't come after the good guys. It
's easier for people to keep up hope if there's someone scarier than the bad guys."
It all sounded noble, but Everard would still prefer to just be left alone. Everyone's hope for the future was their own responsibility.
"You're not an evil person," said Brian. His tone had become gentle.
"No. My evil is just different from Undone Duncan's or Inc's or the NSA's. Not as violent." She checked her phone.
"Hey, what about the NSA?" asked Everard. "Shouldn't a government agency be trying to stop this disaster? Don't they have spies who know what's going on with the Periphery?"
"Watchers," said Loretta. "Benters they've arrested and forced to work for them."
"A lot of people do it willingly," said Brian.
"I'm sure they're investigating on their own," said Loretta. "They ignore crime in the Periphery until it disrupts the Central Nook. Their track record isn't great, though. They end up picking up the pieces more often than stopping the disaster."
"How do you know they're not in on it?" asked Everard.
"You mean you don't trust Uncle Sam?" Loretta feigned surprise.
"Nope. I prefer things the way I have them, with Uncle Sam not even realizing I'm his nephew."
"Wait, what?" said Brian, and then the highway exploded.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
As the car flipped, Everard had the dull presence of mind to double check his seatbelt, as if the fact he stayed attached to his upside-down seat wasn't proof enough it was buckled. The roar of the explosion rang in his ears.
The butt of the flintlock hit Everard in the temple on its downward path to the ceiling.
The SUV landed on its roof, jolting him against the tight seatbelt, then screeching forward along the pavement.
Someone slammed into them from behind, and Brian jerked the wheel. Impossibly, the car swerved into the next lane, continuing forward. Brian blasted the music—an Americana band with equal parts banjo and kick drum—and jammed out, his unkempt hair flopping around to his head-banging. He was keeping the car going with his bent. After everything he'd seen in the last day, that might have been what impressed Everard the most.
The trees lining 495 blurred past the windows upside-down, but slowed. Everard made eye contact with a teenage driver who dropped her cell phone when she saw them pass.
