He jerked the car to the right, out onto the shoulder, and slammed the gas. The Corvette growled in appreciation and blasted forward. Soon the other cars on the highway were little more than blurry colors speeding by as the Corvette raced down the edge of the road at well over one hundred miles an hour.
Julie clung to her seat as they edged dangerously close to the cement barrier on her side. ‘‘Where did you learn to drive like this?’’ she shouted.
‘‘I didn’t! Is he still behind us?’’ Grant said, not daring to look anywhere but straight ahead.
She turned in her seat. ‘‘Yes, but he’s further back than before.’’
‘‘How far back?’’
‘‘Maybe three hundred feet. And getting further away.’’
Grant let up on the gas, slightly, and they began to slow.
‘‘What are you doing!’’ Julie shouted as if he were crazy.
‘‘Make sure your belt is tight,’’ Grant replied, glancing into the rear mirror.
The black motorcycle inched closer and closer, but Grant waited.
Waited until he knew the other man would be ready to make his move to try and come up beside them again.
The motorcycle was less than thirty feet behind them now, with nothing between the two vehicles.
‘‘What are you going to do?’’ Julie cried, watching the motorcycle and shivering with the wild motions of the car.
‘‘Stop turning around!’’ Grant shouted. ‘‘And brace yourself!’’
She faced forward, clenching the armrests again.
Grant never took his eyes off of the mirror. The motorcycle drew closer, and Grant watched the handlebars, waiting to see them begin to turn.
They turned.
Grant slammed on the car’s brakes with both feet, rising up from his seat, and a violent squeal came from the tire assembly that drowned out all other noise on the busy highway.
The motorcycle had just begun to turn left, and now swung around to slam sideways into the rear of the car. The man in the mask flew forward, landing on top of the car.
When the car finally came to a halt several hundred feet away, smoke was rising from all four tires, and the smell of hot rubber permeated the air. Cars, trucks, and SUVs continued speeding by, mere inches from them.
Grant returned to his seat, out of breath, and Julie was trying to catch hers as well. They both looked up, slowly, at the same time, to see the edge of the other man’s head, visible at the very top of the windshield. He looked rattled, but he was alive. His eyes blinked open and he shook his head, trying to clear it. Then he stopped, and his eyes focused on the two of them inside the car.
‘‘Um,’’ Julie said a little louder than usual, ‘‘he looks angry.’’
Grant punched the gas pedal again, and in the rear-view, he watched as the man rolled off of the car and continued rolling until he came to a stop on the ground far behind them.
Grant merged back into traffic, and picked up speed. Julie, meanwhile, tore a strip off of her shirt around the bottom.
‘‘Put this around your arm before you bleed to death,’’ she said.
His phone rang in his pocket. He reached inside and tossed it to Julie, while he clumsily worked at tying off the cloth around the three gashes in his arm with one hand and his teeth.
‘‘Hello?’’ she answered the ringing phone, leaning back in her chair, worn out. She closed her eyes.
‘‘It’s Morgan,’’ she said, handing him the phone back. Grant took it, his thoughts still focused on putting as much distance as possible between them and the Thresher.
‘‘Grant, are you all right?’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Daniel just telephoned.’’
‘‘How is he?’’
‘‘Lisa’s there with him now. They’re okay. Listen, I think you should make for the asylum,’’ Morgan said.
‘‘What?! I’m not leading a dangerous sociopath to your front door!’’
‘‘He’s one of us,’’ she replied. ‘‘Perhaps we can find a way to reason with him.’’
‘‘Forget it,’’ Grant said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
‘‘Very well,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘But there’s one other thing you should keep in mind: This man is mentioned on the tablet, just as you are. This man is connected to your destiny, Grant. Your friend Daniel told you something was coming, and that whatever it is, you would be all that stands between it and humanity. This Thresher may very well be a precursor to whatever it is. He could even be the thing that’s coming, himself.’’
Grant’s head began to hurt. ‘‘Okay . . . one step at a time. Why don’t you take a picture of the tablet and email it to Daniel? It would probably be a good idea to put your heads together—’’
‘‘Something’s happening!’’ Morgan suddenly shouted. Grant could hear screaming through the phone, distant, and then a boom that thundered so loud that he pulled the phone away from his ear in pain. Even Julie reacted to the sound.
‘‘Morgan?’’ Grant yelled into the phone.
No one replied but he could hear breathing. Quick, panting breaths.
Another thundering boom echoed into the phone, followed by crashing of what sounded like glass and plywood.
‘‘Morgan, talk to me!’’ Grant cried.
‘‘They’re here!’’ Morgan whispered, ‘‘Grant, come quickly! Here they come, I have to—’’
As the line disconnected, the horror of comprehension hit Grant square in the face. In his mind’s eye, he could see all of it.
All of them. And what was happening to them.
No . . .
NO!!
43
Morgan huddled quietly with the others she’d grabbed on her way into the underground cave. She pressed an ear to the door.
The hidden basement room, where the tablet fragments were stored, was thankfully still hidden. They were using it as a refuge. But the asylum itself was a different story.
Outside, the world had gone insane.
Some residents were screaming as they ran. A few had refused to run and tried going toe-to-toe with the invaders. Sounds of struggle— grunting, striking, yelling—were soon replaced with silence. Heavy footfalls could be heard all around, along with the crash of windows being destroyed and furniture being overturned.
She forced herself to suppress the urge to open the door and try to gather more inside. They would only be surrendering all of their lives.
Grant . . . we need you.
Come quickly!
She had no idea if Grant could hear her or not—if his newfound ‘‘feeling’’ of them, as he called it, would alert him to their danger.
But she knew he was their only hope.
Morgan had her suspicions about who was behind this raid, but she had no doubts whatsoever about what they were after. They wanted the tablet.
Or rather, he did.
Almost in answer to her thoughts, a voice rang out.
‘‘Oh, Morga-a-an! Come out and pla-a-ay!’’ a squeaky, male voice shouted from some distance away.
‘‘Quiet!’’ she whispered to the few others that had entered the room with her, and were now cowering at the bottom of the stairs.
She pushed the swiveling door open a hair’s breadth, and looked out. The Common Room was clear, aside from a few unconscious residents scattered about. He wasn’t out there—he was somewhere further away.
The asylum couldn’t have been easy to break into, she knew. The few windows there were had bars, and she herself had seen to the installation of a fairly advanced security system. Still, if it was who she thought it was, she knew it was only a matter of time before the secret room would be found.
Her people had probably put up a good struggle, she knew. There were no fighters here, but some of the Loci had more esoteric abilities that could come in handy to keep them hidden or help them elude an attacker. They would be scattered throughout the building, panicked, alone.
The assault had come so fast. Out of nowhere.
Another scream rang out, much closer, and the people inside the hidden room had to stifle screams of their own. Morgan listened closely through the door and thought she heard crying. Whoever it was, they were close.
She risked cracking the door open a little more. Across the Common Room stretched over the double-doorway’s threshold, she could see a boy—the seventeen-year-old, Thomas, she thought it was—on his hands and knees. He sniffled, tears in his eyes, but those eyes were angry and bloodshot. Someone from behind put a foot into the small of his back, forcing him facedown onto the ground. Morgan couldn’t see who it was; they were on the other side of the door.
She didn’t need to see who it was. She already knew.
‘‘Morgan! If you’re not standing in front of me in ten seconds, this one gets to eat from a straw for the rest of his life!’’
Without hesitating, Morgan opened the door just far enough to squeeze out, closed it, and snuck across the outer wall of the Common Room, so the hidden chamber would remain hidden.
When she was far enough away to consider it safe, she stepped in and leveled a gaze at their attacker.
There he stood. Dirty trench coat in place, too-wide tie lying lopsided across his ample belly. And he was grinning. As usual.
‘‘What do you want, Drexel?’’
‘‘Do you really have to ask?’’
Drexel stepped off of the boy’s back and grabbed the back of his T-shirt, pulling him up off the ground. He turned the corner and took a few steps into the Common Room, facing Morgan and holding Thomas around the neck, gun pointed at his head.
Morgan matched his steps, backing away carefully, but not too far.
The boy beneath Drexel’s arm was squirming but trying not to, as he was leaning back painfully under Drexel’s powerful grip, off-balance and unsure how to stay upright. His cheeks were wet.
‘‘How did you find us?’’ Morgan asked calmly.
‘‘Got me a stool pigeon,’’ he gamely replied, then called behind him. ‘‘C’mon in here, Judas!’’
A young woman wearing handcuffs in front walked into the room and looked at Drexel like he was the most revolting thing she’d ever seen.
It’s that barefoot girl . . .
Alex.
Morgan stared at her in open shock. ‘‘You sold us out?’’
‘‘Oh yeah, she was only too eager to give up her secrets.’’ Drexel grinned.
The barefoot girl looked at him angrily and opened her mouth to respond, but Drexel reached out and whacked her in the back of the head with the side of his pistol.
‘‘Now, now,’’ he said. ‘‘Remember our agreement, little girl. Every word you say equals one bullet I put in one of the freaks here.’’
Alex clamped her lips shut, refusing to look at Morgan. Instead, she took a seat near Drexel. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking at nothing, as if she was trying to reason her way through something.
‘‘Didn’t you know?’’ Drexel went on, turning back to Morgan. ‘‘She spends all of her time watching you people. If you need to find out something about any of you, there’s only one person you need to see.’’ He winked at Alex, then he gestured to Morgan in mock courtesy. ‘‘Let’s talk. Take a seat, please.’’
She sat on a couch facing him, and he stepped closer, still clutching the boy under his grip.
‘‘Here’s the deal,’’ Drexel began. ‘‘We both know why I’m here. I’m not going to bother threatening you, because we both know you’d sooner let me shoot you in the face than tell me anything about where to find the stone tablet. So I’m going to kill them, instead.’’ He nodded at the unconscious people lying around the room. Some were bleeding. All were bruised.
Morgan’s mind raced, sifting through the trillions of pieces of information she could call up at will, trying to think of something, anything she could do to stall. Thomas’ ability—a highly advanced aptitude for physics—would be of no use in this situation.
‘‘I’m guessing,’’ Drexel continued, ‘‘that seeing your precious followers lined up and killed, one by one, would be the strongest possible motivator for you. So we’ll start with this one.’’ He looked down at Thomas, whom he had in a powerful vice around the neck. The boy began turning red.
‘‘You wouldn’t know how to read it,’’ Morgan said quietly. ‘‘You couldn’t possibly have any idea—’’
‘‘Don’t try distracting me with that all that extra gray matter of yours,’’ Drexel interjected. ‘‘This really couldn’t be simpler. Give me what I want, or this one gets a bullet in the head. Three seconds.’’
Morgan stood from the couch and took a step closer to him. She looked at Thomas struggling to breathe under Drexel’s powerful arm. He wouldn’t last.
She looked Drexel in the eye. He was awaiting her response.
‘‘Time’s up,’’ he said, smiling again. He cocked the safety back and pressed the pistol so hard into Thomas’ temple she thought he might break the boy’s skin.
So young . . . Thomas had barely begun living.
He had so much yet to experience . . .
Morgan glanced at Thomas and then looked back up at Drexel.
‘‘Shoot him,’’ she said.
Infuriated, Drexel backhanded her across the face with the pistol, and she fell to the floor. But she turned over quickly, resting on her elbows, ignoring the blood oozing from her forehead, and looked at him again.
‘‘I will never help you,’’ Morgan said with icy steel. ‘‘You can kill every last one of us—my people know what’s at stake. But you will never get the tablet!’’
A roar of rage escaped Drexel’s lips and he threw Thomas to the ground next to her. He leveled the gun on Morgan and pulled the trigger.
Working his horn as heavily as his gas pedal, Grant sped up as he exited the highway and turned onto the surface road where Morgan’s facility was located, a few miles outside of just about everything. Neither he nor Julie bothered to speak; their mutual sweat and heart rates were enough to indicate that they were both thinking the exact same thing.
Grant’s eyes shifted to the rearview mirror just in time to see something impossible.
The black motorcycle was right behind them again, but the rider wasn’t sitting on the seat. He was standing on it.
And just as Grant looked up, the man leaped from the seat and flew forward in the air toward them.
There was no time. No time to react, no time to shout a warning, to swerve or duck . . .
The Corvette’s fabric top was shredded as the sword slashed vertically down through it.
The sword kept going until it met Grant’s right shoulder and pierced his flesh down to the bone.
Grant screamed.
Julie screamed.
He slammed on the brakes, but this time the attacker was ready, bracing himself on his perch atop the car.
Julie wasn’t so lucky, her body slamming hard into her seatbelt.
The impact and the sudden appearance of the sword were too much of a shock, and she passed out.
Clutching his shoulder, Grant opened the door and let himself spill out onto the empty road. He backed away on his hands and knees.
The attacker jumped from the roof of the car and landed before him on the ground, perfectly balanced. Grant stopped as the sword was pointed at him again. His shoulder ached agonizingly, but he tried to ignore it.
The masked man walked forward until the sword was inches from Grant’s face.
‘‘Good chase,’’ he said. ‘‘Not good enough.’’
Grant’s hand came up lightning fast and clutched the end of the blade. He focused all his thoughts on the sword. In that split second, the weapon jumped out of the Thresher’s hand high into the air and stuck itself in the grassy soil at the edge of the road.
And for that one, brief, glorious second, Grant saw the other man’s eyes go wide. Grant didn’t know if it was wonder or fear that he saw, and he didn’t care. Even if it was only momentary, he’d sco
red a point.
He didn’t waste it. In that same moment, Grant wrapped his legs around the Thresher’s, and then straightened them, scissoring the man violently to the ground.
He lunged onto the Thresher, delivering a powerful blow to the head, but his attacker recovered fast and in less than an instant, everything was reversed, and he was on top of Grant. It had happened so fast that Grant couldn’t stop it.
Punches fell upon Grant’s head and stomach, each one coming faster and faster than the one before. Too fast to block. His head turned to the side and he caught sight of a loosely hanging tree limb, on one of the many trees surrounding them aside the lonely road.
As the Thresher continued to strike at him, he focused with all his might on that limb. It broke free and speared through the air, impaling his attacker’s arm.
Grant brought both feet up and kicked hard against the man, sending him flying backward.
But he hadn’t realized what direction he was facing when he kicked, and he sent the other man sailing toward his sword, still stuck into the ground on the side of the road.
Both men got to their feet at the same time, but the Thresher had his hand around the hilt of his sword before Grant could reach him. By the time Grant was fully standing, he felt a stinging sensation in his stomach and looked down to see a long, straight line of blood stretching across his gut. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it stung, and he’d never even seen the swing of the blade.
In the next moment, he was on the ground, his head aching from a strong blow to his jaw.
As the world came into focus around him, he was barely aware of the blade that was once again resting against his throat. Only this time, his attacker stood over him, triumphant.
‘‘I was almost impressed.’’
He lifted the sword.
‘‘Almost.’’
44
Gunfire.
Someone was shooting.
Grant’s attacker heard it as well, pausing his final strike.
And then, to Grant’s great astonishment, the Thresher pulled away, mounted his bike, and roared away. Grant could only lay there in shock, wondering why this man would simply leave on the cusp of victory. He was obviously no coward.
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