“I want you to pick up that stick,” William said, glowering at Aidan, pointing the blade at him like he wanted to carve him up, “and toss it to me. Then pick up another one and fight me. I’m gonna show you what it feels like to hurt.”
Blinking stupidly, Aidan stared back at him. His jaw hung off to one side in confusion, like he wanted to speak but had forgotten how. The whistling sound in William’s ears intensified.
“Now,” William said.
“A-All right,” Aidan said, and at that moment, William understood. The whistling sound was the power—Michael’s power.
Aidan tossed William a stick and then picked up one of his own. William put away the knife and got ready. By then the whistling sound had dimmed. He was losing it. He was losing the power.
Aidan bared his teeth in anger before whipping the stick at William’s face. The sensation of having it strike him reminded William of times his mother had spanked him for being bad. It was an invasive feeling, and it made him angry. The whistle rose to a peak.
That was it; the secret to Michael’s power was anger.
Aidan approached him, stick held horizontally in both hands. They were surrounded by Aidan’s friends, all of whom were clapping or cheering or both. They leaned inward aggressively, like they all wanted a piece of William.
The whistling in his ears wavered. He tried to hold back a pitiful moan. This was new to him. He had no idea how to keep the whistle going, how to let it fill him like gasoline filling the tank of a motorcycle. That was how it felt when the whistle rose; a filling sensation. That was how he would win.
If only he could control it.
“I’ll kill you,” William said. His mouth was dry. Dust crunched between his teeth. He tightened his grip on the stick. “I’ll kill your spiteful ass.”
He went to jab the stick at Aidan, who easily countered it.
Aidan sent William spinning, then whipped him across the back, sending him down to his knees. The whistle grew sharp in William’s ears.
Yes. Like this.
William rose and swung the stick. He did so slowly, half-heartedly, not surprised when Aidan blocked him as easily as if he were brushing back his sandy-blond hair.
“Is that the best you can do, cripple?”
William smiled at him, head filling with the whistling warning alarm of an oncoming wind storm.
The next blow sent William toppling face-first to the ground. While he was down there, Aidan slapped the stick across his back. The pain was like shattered ice slipping into his shirt. Shattered ice mixed with bee stings, dozens of them all happening at once.
That was against the rules. You aren’t supposed to hit your opponent when he’s on the ground. Aidan wanted him to suffer, but William was going to make Aidan suffer instead.
With an angry shout, William grabbed his stick and swung hard, catching Aidan in the jaw. He felt the bone give way, actually felt it shift from one side of his face to the other.
Aidan’s knees went weak, and he fell like a wilting flower, one hand rising up to his quivering jaw. He managed to prop himself up with his other arm for a moment before the pain flattened him against the ground. A moment later he was squealing.
“What’d you do that for?” one of Aidan’s friends shouted, making fists out of his hands. The boy had red patches on his face, and his hair was cut short and tight on an egg-shaped head. He shuffled toward William. The others followed, and soon they were all throwing punches.
The whistling became a roaring rush. The storm approached. William squeezed his eyes shut and let waves of hatred pour over him—hatred toward these boys, his mother, his bad foot. If he couldn’t be normal like the others, then he could hate everything that was normal, everything and everyone that wasn’t broken like him.
“Kick his crippled ass,” one of the boys shouted.
Their voices grew distant. The storm was drowning them out. Even the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. But the hatred—it grew.
“Step on his foot. The bad one.”
They were trying to hurt his devil’s foot, and if it was true that his foot had come from the devil, maybe a part of his mind had come from the devil as well.
William sucked in a breath that was mostly dust and heat, and then he shouted, in the loudest voice he had: “Get back.”
They scattered like leaves in the wind. William got up, grabbed the stick, and began to strike with all his might. He went for their faces, fingers, groins.
When Aidan and his friends were all bloodied and sobbing like little girls, William dropped the stick and began to laugh at them.
“Who’s crippled now? Huh? Who’s crippled now, you stupid jerks?”
Midas Ford tried patiently to listen, though it was difficult to avoid his latest conviction that the world was going to Hell, and that there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.
“He broke Aidan’s jaw, Doc,” Archibald Frugin shouted across the table. One of the town’s richest farmers, as well as Aidan’s uncle, Archibald leaned his bony torso inward to seem more intimidating. “Even you can’t fix his face right. You don’t have the wires you need, isn’t that what you said? We’ll have to get someone to drive down to Lansing and trade for a whole bunch of medical supplies, just for this one incident.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Midas said, sitting at the other end of the table with his fingers forming a steeple in front of his mouth. “Young boys get into fights all the time. Injuries are bound to happen. Might as well be prepared.”
“The boys ganged up on William,” Louis Blake said. “That’s the end of it.”
Archibald’s jaw visibly clenched, a sign he was about to lose his temper. “You listen to me, now. That crippled boy is a psychopath just like his daddy was before him. I seen it in his eyes. After what his mother done, I see no reason to let either of them stay.”
“I didn’t know you were a psychologist,” Blake said.
Archibald’s face deepened in color. He glared hotly at Blake like he wanted to kill him.
“Eli and Ian have volunteered to head down to Lansing to trade for the necessary supplies,” Midas said. “We’ll fix Aidan up in the clinic so he can be taken care of properly, and then we’ll have all our children take a class on bullying. Arielle has already volunteered to teach it.”
Archibald gave Midas a disbelieving look. “You made all these decisions without even consulting us?”
“Us?” Blake said. “Who’s us? Farmers?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Louis. I’m the richest man in this town. I got money tied up in practically everything you lay eyes on. So don’t think you can just—”
“Archibald, that’s enough,” Midas said, shooting out of his chair, his hands balled into fists. “You aren’t on the council, and you won’t be so long as I’m Overseer.”
Archibald was stunned. He took a step back, gave Midas a sideways look, and held up both hands like he wanted the world to just slow down a bit.
“I didn’t mean no offense,” he said, almost bowing a little. “I just feel it’s my right to express my opinion.”
“And you’ve done it,” Midas said, crossing the room and opening the door. “Now let me take care of things my way. I’ll call on you if I need you.”
Blake raised an eyebrow at Archibald, who responded with an angry huff before storming out of the room.
Midas shook his head as he closed the door. He looked back at Blake to find him grinning that annoying grin of his. These days, Blake didn’t seem to take anything seriously. It annoyed the hell out of Midas and reinforced his notion that everything in this town was going to Hell.
“Iron fist,” Blake said and winked at him. “I like it.”
William walked into the living room to find his mother sitting on the couch with her head in her hands. She lifted her face to reveal pink, swollen eyes and motioned for him to sit on her lap. He complied, even though he knew boys his age were too old for this sort of thing. He was her shield; she needed him,
and that made him feel better, stronger, almost like a grown boy. A man, even.
“My little blocker,” she said. “My Type I.”
“What does that mean?” William said, perking up a little. Wasn’t a Type I better than a Type II? Didn’t being a Type I mean…
“It means you have the same abilities as Michael,” she said. “I think so, anyway. Aren’t you excited?”
William frowned. Now she was trying to make him feel better out of pity. No one was like Michael; even William’s friends knew that. Why would she lie to him?
“How do you know that?” he said, hoping for an explanation that would convince him.
“Because I heard what happened when you fought Aidan. I know what you did. It felt good, didn’t it?”
William nodded, cautiously. He was glad to admit the truth. It had felt so good to make those boys cry and run off to their mothers. Finally, they knew how it felt. They understood his pain.
“I’ll protect you, Mom,” he said. “Forever. Even when you’re old.”
His mother smiled at him. “I’m not the only one you’ll be protecting.”
William frowned. He pictured his Aunt Arielle. Maybe that was what his mother was saying; that he would have to protect her and his aunt. But Aunt Arielle had been fighting against them. She wasn’t a good person anymore. So who exactly—
“Come here,” his mother said, motioning for him to extend his right hand. He did, and his mother placed his hand on her belly.
He looked up at his mother. “Mom?”
“You’re going to have a baby sister or brother,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes. “Someone to look after and protect. Aren’t you happy?”
William pulled back as he thought he felt something move inside his mother’s belly. Maybe it was his imagination, maybe not. He envisioned a tiny, pink foot kicking at him.
A brother or sister. Finally William would have a friend; someone who would look up to him and never make fun of his devil’s foot.
Smiling, he said, “I’m happy, Mom. And I’ll always protect both of you, I promise.”
His mother took his hand and led him into the kitchen, where she cooked his favorite meal: French fries and honey. Things were going to be better from now on.
Arielle ran to the bathroom of the Cold War Café, clutching her belly with one hand and sealing her mouth with the other. It was just past seven in the morning. As soon as she was on her knees in front of the toilet, she released what was in her stomach with a loud cough.
The vomit was acidic and grainy, the result of a hastily eaten meal of whole-grain bread and sliced tomato. When she was finished, she sat back against the wall and looked up at the dead electric bulb in the ceiling. She really had to get that fixed. There were so many things that needed fixing in her little café, but lately she’d been feeling so tired.
She put her right hand over her belly and groaned. Under her skin was a firmness she hadn’t noticed before. Her period hadn’t come since Michael’s departure. Before then, the stupid thing had been like clockwork: every twenty-eight days. Is this really what she had wanted that night with him in the lake? A baby? And what if he never came back at all?
“Oh, boy,” she said, as another wave of nausea forced her back on her knees.
He’d better come back. So many things needed fixing in this place.
Chapter 6
A hundred and fifty four days since Michael left, Reggie counted up in the guard tower at the edge of town, perched behind his rifle. Five whole months. The wait was grinding on all of their nerves—especially Dominic, who had been spending his days following Arielle around, keeping an eye on her, but mostly annoying her to no end.
It was on everyone’s mind; the same questions: Where had Michael gone? And why hadn’t he shared his big plan?
Movement at the canyon’s mouth. Reggie held his breath as he looked through the scope.
Could it be raiders? At this time of year?
Four men were waving a white flag, the universal sign of peace. They looked dirty. Escaped slaves, maybe, seeking safe haven. He took a closer look; the men were bone-thin, ragged and brown from being out in the sun. But there was something about the way they stood, spines perfectly erect, chins raised, that reminded him of soldiers.
“Do you see ’em?” Reggie shouted.
No answer from the other tower. Simon, the other guard on shift, must have fallen asleep again.
Reggie sighed. “You awake?”
Simon’s voice came out reed-thin; he’d been napping, for sure. Reggie would have to chew him out later.
“Yeah, I see ’em, Reggie. Don’t look like raiders to me, though.”
Reggie scanned the rest of the canyon’s mouth, looking for signs of any others. When his view swept back over the four men with the white flags, he noticed something strange. One of the men had put away the flag and had stepped forward. With both hands, index fingers extended, he repeated a movement Reggie had never seen before; a movement that sent a chill trickling through him.
He was touching the tips of his fingers to his eyes and sliding them down, mimicking the path tears travel as they slide down a face.
“They’re with Michael,” Reggie shouted. “I’m going down there.”
With a wide, happy grin, he tossed the rifle aside and made for the ladder.
It had been a long five months, for sure.
Dietrich Werner had spent the days since Michael’s departure sneaking around the outskirts of Gulch with and without Warren, gathering intel and avoiding sentries.
From a supply shed, Dietrich was able to steal four plastic flashlights, a case of batteries, and a set of binoculars (he had his own, but now Warren had a pair, too; hopefully that would shut him up). They also took food from the farms, but not enough to raise suspicions. The occasional misplaced toy or carefully laid footprint from a boy’s shoe was enough to make it look like a pack of kids had been stealing for the fun of it.
Most importantly, in those weeks they managed to recruit another member to their cause.
“When is your whore coming back?” Dietrich asked Warren upon arriving back to their makeshift camp outside of Gulch.
Warren’s face twisted into a scowl. The punch he tried to throw wasn’t quick enough to catch Dietrich off his guard.
“Arrrrgh, damn it,” Warren said through clenched teeth as Dietrich caught him in a hold that involved twisting his arm behind his back. “Let go of me, you ment son of a bitch!”
Dietrich released him. In his rage, Warren kicked apart the pyramid of twigs and sticks he’d been about to light on fire.
“Go ahead,” Dietrich said, “ruin our camp, act like a child.”
Warren clicked his tongue in frustration and went to sit on a log. He dug through his pack and came up with a vial of Selarix.
“Go easy on that stuff,” Dietrich said. “We don’t have much left.”
“How come she can always find us?” Warren said. He was right; Charlotte always seemed to know where they were set up even when they didn’t warn her beforehand. It was unnerving. “Don’t that worry you, Dietrich? Huh? You got an answer to that?”
“She’s different.”
“That’s all you got?” Warren said.
“Just shut up, you redneck.”
Just then a woman melted out of the forest and took form next to them. Warren startled so fiercely that the bottle flew out of his hand. Charlotte lashed her right arm outward and caught it.
“Beautiful,” Dietrich said, smiling. “Almost as beautiful as you, my dear.”
She studied the two men with a grimace. “You both look like shit.”
It was an understatement; Dietrich and Warren looked even worse than that. Dressed in filthy brown outfits made for the mountains, they had leaves in their beards and smelled like they’d been bathing in a dead animal carcass.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt that billowed around her jeans, and hiking boots that made her
feet seem as big as a man’s. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She looked positively ravishing—strong and determined unlike the whores back in Praetoria. How a slob like Warren had managed to get a woman like her, Dietrich would never understand.
“Have anything for us?” Dietrich said, peering at her.
Ignoring him, Charlotte gave Warren a dismissive wave. “Clean a spot for me to sit.”
Warren grumbled, though he immediately set about wiping dirt and leaves off a fallen tree trunk. Charlotte sat in a lady-like manner and gave Warren a dirty look when he sat right next to her. He had to slide away a few inches before she was satisfied.
“Four men came to Gulch today with news about Michael,” she said simply.
The men leaned toward her in rapt attention.
“Tell us,” Warren said.
Dietrich nodded, excited.
“There’s nothing to tell just yet. But I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll have something. You boys just let me do my thing.”
It was all men in the Cold War Café, except for Arielle, who walked between the tables with plates of food, crinkling her nose at their stink.
The newcomers ate a large meal of roasted pork, bread, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables. It was clear from their steady, uniform manner of eating that they had once served together as soldiers. Louis Blake, Midas Ford, Reggie, Dominic, Eli, and Ian sat squeezed into a pair of booths nearby and picked at their food, not really hungry.
Arielle knew why: they were eager to know about Michael, but the newcomers had insisted on a hot meal and some time to relax first.
“At least we know he’s alive,” Ian said.
“Alive and well, that little punk.” This was Dominic. He grinned as he spoke.
Eli spoke around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “How much telepathy you think he’s been using?”
Blake shrugged and sipped his coffee. “As much as he needs, I’m sure.” He hadn’t touched his food, and it was getting cold.
“If you’re not going to eat that,” Eli said. Blake pushed his plate across the table and Eli dug in.
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