He pulled his arms in through the sleeves, then rotated the shirt around his torso so he wouldn’t have to take it off in front of her. She seemed amused by his shyness.
“So…” Michael said to break the silence. “Is William your brother?”
“He’s my son. I had him when I was—”
Her voice was cut off by the roar of motorcycle engines. Peter and the other boys had clustered at the end of their driveway down the street.
Michael tensed. They were watching him.
Ian sat on his bike, parked next to Peter. Together, they stared at Michael and Charlotte for a few seconds before trading a few words and driving away, Eli following along.
“I can walk with you if you want,” Charlotte said. She quickly added, “I normally ride my bike, but it’s a nice day for walking.”
“What about William?”
“Oh, him.” She dropped her eyes to the pavement as if calculating something. When she looked back up at Michael, she was wincing slightly. “I usually bring him back food. He can’t walk or ride very well because of his condition. I’m sure you noticed—”
“He has a clubfoot.”
She shrugged. “So, what do you say? Lunch?”
They spoke little during the half-hour walk, mostly about the weather in the mountains and some of the local gossip. Michael spent most of the time brooding over his new place in Gulch. He tried to ignore the way his blood seemed to warm whenever Charlotte strayed close to him on the sidewalk. It wasn’t like any attraction he’d ever felt toward the waitresses at his parents’ restaurant. She frightened him.
The Cold War Café—Atomic Coffee and Pastries, read the sign—was a nondescript building standing shoulder to shoulder with several others of the same design. It would have blended in completely except someone had painted the facade in orange and brown. The colors, along with the stenciled sign of the same colors in front, gave it an air of prewar nostalgia.
“This place is unreal,” Michael said, gazing through the building’s windows. “It’s like a dream from the past.”
Charlotte winced. “I wouldn’t say weird stuff like that around here.”
“Why is that weird?”
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Come on.”
He followed her into the shady café. It was a single room, much longer than it was wide, and at the other end, beyond a series of booths and a few round tables in the center, was a bar with half-a-dozen empty stools lining it. A colorful but ancient-looking jukebox sat against the nearest booth.
Two booths near the back were filled with people. In one, Michael recognized Peter, Eli, and Ian. The other was full of men he’d not yet encountered. Otherwise, the place was empty.
The back door swept open into the room. A blonde girl entered, carrying a plate in each hand. Michael caught the smell of roasted vegetables with herbs and a type of meat he couldn’t identify. He salivated. Meat. He hadn’t eaten real meat in years and practically jumped into a booth, so eager was he to be served a plate of greasy, steaming meat. He didn’t care if it came from rats.
Michael was sure the boys had seen him come in, especially Peter, who sat facing the front door. Charlotte met the blonde girl halfway across the room, then took the plates away from her.
“Hey,” Peter said. “We’ve been waiting for those.”
“We have a guest,” Charlotte said.
The blonde girl, hearing the word “guest,” peered in Michael’s direction. The light spilling through the front windows must have silhouetted him, because the girl studied him for a second longer than felt comfortable. He took the opportunity to study her as well. Pretty but skinny, the girl was dressed in sandals, denim shorts, and a yellow T-shirt on which a cartoon nuclear missile with arms, legs, and a smiling face was frozen in a wave. A ribbon in her hair matched the shirt, adding a child-like quality to her appearance. She appeared to be about the same age as Michael, maybe a year younger.
Charlotte came over to Michael’s booth, setting the plates on the table. The meat was grilled in thin strips, and Michael had to swallow pooled saliva before he could stuff one of the morsels into his mouth. The greasiness, the charcoal flavor, and the soft, slippery texture of the fat caused tiny explosions of ecstasy all along his tongue. He let out a soft groan.
“Meat,” he said.
Charlotte frowned. Michael tried to explain.
“We don’t, um…” He chewed vigorously before swallowing. “We don’t get a whole lot of meat where I’m from.”
He forced himself to eat at a steady pace. Across from him, Charlotte picked at her food. She seemed uncomfortable around the blonde girl.
“Is that your sister?” Michael asked to break the silence.
She nodded. “That’s Arielle. You’ll get to know her eventually. Everybody does.”
Arielle came to the table, lips slightly downturned as she studied Michael. Her eyes, like her sister’s, were large and attractive, but they were a bright color—blue or green, he couldn’t tell—instead of brown. Her pert and pretty face radiated an emotional openness missing from her sister’s. Even while frowning, Arielle seemed to be on the verge of smiling.
“Hi,” she said. “Are you new here?”
Charlotte let out a cynical chuckle. “It’s not like he’s been hiding in the Hollows this entire time, Arielle. Obviously, he’s new.”
Arielle eased into a smile, her nose crinkling like a rabbit’s. “I see you two have become fast friends.”
Charlotte glared at her sister. Michael swallowed what food was in his mouth before sticking his hand out.
“My name’s Michael,” he said.
Arielle took his hand, swinging it up and down in an awkward shake.
“I’m Arielle. Pleased to meetcha.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. Arielle lost the smile, then glanced at Michael’s empty plate and said, “Seconds?”
Vigorously, Michael nodded. “Please.”
A second helping of food? These people were rich!
“Comin’ right up.” Arielle grinned, grabbed his plate, and spun toward the back doors. Then she twirled around and gave him a serious look. “Let me know if there’s anything else, okay? I rely on peoples’ comments to improve this place. There’s a suggestion box by the front door if you don’t feel comfortable telling me face to face, so—anyway, be right back.”
“You own this place?” he asked before she could leave.
With another quick smile, she nodded. “Uh-huh. Do you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s great!”
Happily, she beamed at him again. Michael’s face warmed. Arielle disappeared through the doors, leaving only the sound of their flapping as they came to rest.
“Wow,” he said, addressing Charlotte. “She’s really nice.”
Scowling, Charlotte crossed her arms.
“What’s wrong?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. She’s young and dumb as a rock. Don’t tell me you go for girls like that.”
“Why would you say that? She’s your sister. Plus, she started her own business. Dumb people don’t do that.”
With a heavy sigh, Charlotte slid out of the booth, stormed across the café, and burst through the doors after her sister.
A moment later, the four men Michael hadn’t yet met slid out of their booth. Sporting ragged beards, dressed in jeans and faded T-shirts with sweat stains under their arms, Michael guessed them to be in their late-twenties and early thirties, much older than Peter, Eli, and Ian. They gave Michael looks of distrust.
He cast his gaze downward until they passed his table. Arielle appeared, carrying a smaller plate of bacon and potatoes, along with a wooden cup she was careful not to spill.
“Hey, blondie, here’s a song for ya,” one of the men called out.
Michael heard the clink of a coin entering the jukebox. A song began to play, one he recognized from his homemade radios back home. It was “A Kiss to Build a Dream On” by Louis Armstrong. Michael kne
w the words by heart.
“Thanks,” Arielle said half-heartedly as the men left the café. She let out a scoff of disgust as she banged the plate down. “They’re such pigs. They don’t even tip.”
“Hey,” Peter called from his booth. “We don’t tip either.”
“And you boys know what you are.”
Eli let out a guffaw of laughter. “We’ll see how much the Westerner leaves you. Maybe you’ll get a ration card.”
The other boys roared with laughter. Michael didn’t find it funny. He made a mental note to give Arielle a tip as soon as he got some money of his own.
“I think it’s great that you own this place,” he told her.
Arielle inclined her head, then set the cup down and slid into the seat across from him, where Charlotte had sat earlier.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said with a light shrug. “It’s not easy, though. The mayor won’t let me set my own prices. He says it’s for the good of the community. There are a bunch of other rules I have to follow and taxes I have to pay, but I don’t mind so much.”
Michael nodded in understanding. Harris Kole’s speeches in the People’s Republic had been full of the same reasons. Everything had to be done for the good of the masses, so everyone could suffer while the Kole family and his political party prospered. It was a load of bullshit.
“What’s wrong?” Arielle said, catching him off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mind”—she winced as if at a sudden ache—“it’s heavy.”
Michael grimaced. Strange as it was, he understood what she meant.
“My brother and my parents died,” he said. “They were killed by men who worked for the FSD. That’s the Fatherland Security Department back in—in…”
He lost the ability to speak. All he could think about was the blood all over his brother’s face, and how Welcher and Boyd had looked after Michael had told them to…
Open your throat with the bottle, he’d told Boyd, and the man had spilled so much blood.
“Oh God,” Arielle said, horrified. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue.
“Can you read my mind?” Michael asked abruptly, suddenly terrified she’d know all the destruction he’d caused.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. A slender hand rose to cover her mouth. She seemed to drift off into thought for a moment before suddenly fixing her gaze on him. “I’m an empath,” she said. “I can help with that, you know.”
“Help with what?”
She gave him a sympathetic look.
“Your sadness.”
Chapter 5
Come back for lunch tomorrow, she’d instructed him. Stick around until everyone has left, then we’ll talk.
With Arielle’s word repeating in his mind, Michael walked back to the house alone. He felt unusually light and carefree. With the entire day ahead of him, and no plans on how to spend it, he almost felt like time had stopped. A wonderful feeling.
Having received no other instructions from Dominic or Blake, Michael settled into his cot for an afternoon nap. He awoke twenty minutes later with a sick feeling in his stomach. The rest of the day was spent in the bathroom, voiding his bowels of that heavy, greasy bacon. He should have known better than to eat it so fast.
Instructions finally arrived.
Peter came up to the attic that night while Michael was reading an old science fiction novel about a trip to Mars. There was no electricity in Gulch at this hour, but he was already used to that from home. He liked reading by candlelight.
“What’s up?” Michael said.
Peter shrugged, expression bored. “You’re supposed to come with me to Blake’s office.”
They walked all the way there, Peter obviously uncomfortable with the idea of riding double on the motorcycle. Michael could tell by the way he’d glanced longingly at the bike on their way out of the garage.
Insects chirped in the night. The humid air coated Michael’s face, smelling like tree bark and wet stone. They didn’t talk during the first half of the trip—then, for whatever reason, Peter began rattling off advice about living in Gulch.
“Another thing you have to remember is to stay away from those guys you saw at the café. They’re local thugs. They work for Meacham as security and who knows what else. They hate our kind.”
“What do you mean, our kind?”
Furtively, Peter shifted his eyes at Michael. “Telepaths.”
Their shoes shuffled against loose bits of stone. The town was dark and quiet, the buildings like massive walls with nothing on the other side—as if this were a stage, and Michael was pretending to be someone else. He could no longer stand the silence.
“How many telepaths are there in Gulch, anyway?”
Peter counted using his fingers. “About twenty. Most of them are Type IIIs. Me, Eli, Ian, Arielle, Charlotte, and Blake are the only Type IIs. Oh yeah, and Dominic.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Glad you asked,” Peter said, his shoulders puffing up. “Let’s see.” Bending, he picked up a small stone. “Type IIIs, the weakest, are also called ‘sensors.’ Their ability is limited to sensing lies, emotional shifts, stuff like that. If this rock were a Type III telepath, its power would be about this strong.”
He dropped the stone. It bounced a few times before settling on the pavement. He picked it up again. At this point, they had stopped walking.
“Type IIs are sometimes called ‘senders.’ They can do pretty much everything a Type III can do—sensing, hypnosis, stuff like that—except they can also send thoughts, images, and sometimes illusions and visions into another person’s mind. Or if they’re an empath like Arielle, they can manipulate a person’s emotional state. Dominic can mess with your perception of time, which is how he pulls off his agility trick. That takes years of practice.”
Peter showed Michael the stone. “Type II telepathy looks like this.” Lashing his arm outward, he sent it skipping up the street.
With a gathering sense of excitement, Michael followed Peter to the stone and watched him pick it up.
“Type I’s,” Peter said, tossing up the stone and catching it, “are called ‘Ascendants,’ or ‘mental dominants.’ They can take over a person’s mind, make him do things he otherwise wouldn’t do. Rumor has it they can even kill a person with only a single thought.”
“Huh,” Michael said, recalling Boyd’s horrified expression as he’d sliced open his own throat in the basement of Lanza’s.
“If this rock,” Peter said, “were a Type I telepath—”
Michael could only react in stunned silence as Peter whipped the rock at the nearest window, shattering it.
They reached an intersection with five roads branching away from a small community park. Michael only saw it by dim moonlight, but he could tell it was a beautiful spot full of greenery. A granite fountain sat in the center, surrounded by stone walkways. Around the park, the buildings were all abandoned. Most had holes where windows and doors should have been, probably because the wood and glass had been scavenged.
Trash had piled up in the gutters along the streets. The outer walls of the buildings were stained and pitted. Rusted shells of old cars sat motionless in the dark, stripped of their wheels and doors.
“This is the Hollows,” Peter said. “No one lives here, though people talk about restoring it. But who has the money for that?”
They came to an abandoned movie theater called The Matinee. As Michael studied the building’s garish face, with the unlit display shelf jutting over the entrance and the ticket booths covered in chipped red paint, he sensed the shadow of a distant past where late-night traffic hummed in the street and couples arrived arm in arm to watch the double feature.
The thought died as a rat scurried across the sidewalk before entering a hole in the building’s front.
“You’ll get used to them,” Peter said. “They’re everywhere. Eli thinks we should open up a restaurant and make hamburgers out o
f them. Put the Cold War Café out of business.”
“I’ve eaten rat before,” Michael said.
“Really?”
“Yup. Lots of protein, same as any kind of meat. You have to get your protein.”
Peter grimaced. “Uh…right. I think Eli was just kidding, but…yeah.”
They went around to a side door in an alley. Peter yanked it open to reveal a flight of wooden stairs leading up.
“You ready?”
At the top, a dusty, low-wattage bulb hung from the ceiling by a cord, its sickly light barely reaching them.
“No way,” Michael said, backing up. “I’m not going up some shady set of stairs in an abandoned building just because you said I should.”
“Quit being paranoid. Blake’s office is up there.”
“Oh yeah? If Blake’s such a big shot, why is his office out here in the Hollows? Explain that.”
Peter shook his head. “I told him this was a bad idea.”
“How do I know there aren’t a bunch of guys up there just waiting to jump me? Huh?” Michael spoke in a harsh whisper. “Where are Eli and Ian? You sure they’re not up there waiting for me? I can see Eli cracking up right now.”
Michael was taking short, shallow breaths. He tried to relax, but this place just felt so foreign to him with its lack of street prostitutes, drug dealers, and patrolling FSD vans. It was just so quiet. Anything could happen to him, and no one would ever know.
Smirking, Peter chuckled before it became an all-out belly laugh, his whole body shaking. “Look at you, all scared.” In between bursts of laughter, he said, “Damn, I wish the others could see this… Oh man, this is too much.”
Crossing his arms, Michael waited. Peter wiped his eyes, sighing in amusement. “Gulch is the most boring place this side of the mountains. You’d be lucky to get your ass kicked, ‘cause then you’d have a story to tell.”
“I’ve got lots of stories,” Michael said without mirth.
“Really? That’s great.” Peter lost the smile. “Now get up those stairs or I’ll kick your ass.”
Ascendant- Nation of Nowhere Page 3
