Eli peered at him through the slits of his swollen eyes. "Harder."
Quinn's fist sunk high into Eli's stomach. He folded over at the waist, heaving over the wood, desperately sucking at the air as the mob screeched with bloodlust. Their chants hammered in his ears.
"Kill him, kill him, kill him."
Eli squinted at the crowd. People pumped their fists in the air in triumph, their black mouths stretched wide. He smiled.
No one was watching the guest house.
Eli hoped Quinn gave Jane his message and that she understood it. Maybe, right at this moment, the girls were racing out the back door and into the woods, away from Grant's Hill and that torturous house. Eli pictured their white-clad figures weaving through the trees.
Quinn thudded across the platform to its edge and raised his arms like a preacher before his congregation. Mouths snapped shut. Chants faded into echoes, the echoes into silence.
"Who here does not harbor blackness in his heart?" he said.
The sea of eyes stared blankly.
"No one! Everyone here is capable of evil. But not everyone commits evil." Quinn spun around and pointed a finger at Eli. "But this man has. Blackness has eaten through his soul, leaving only a violent, cruel shell in its wake."
Quinn pointed at Eli. "This man killed innocent children. Should he walk this Earth alongside you?"
"No!"
"This man shot my wife and daughters right between the eyes. In cold blood. Without a second thought." He gazed into the crowd, locking onto the eyes of a few. "Do you feel safe while he still breathes the air you do?"
Scowling eyes flashed at Eli. Eyes filled with hatred and fear.
"No!" the mob shouted.
"Will this world ever be safe for you and your children if men like this aren't punished?"
"No!"
"Do you want to live in a more perfect world, built on the ashes of the old one?"
Voices swelled and hushed. A few claps erupted and smiles stretched across faces. Behind him, Olive bristled and watched her peasants with a growing scowl. Her control was slipping further from her grasp, their fear weakening with every word Quinn spoke.
They had finally found their voice.
"Yes!" the mob cried.
Quinn dropped his arms and savored the moment. Then he strolled to Eli's side and clutched his shoulder, squeezing it like a vice.
"For my family, for the safety of this community, for the perfection of this broken world, this man must die."
Fists punched the air and the mob began their chant again. "Kill him, kill him, kill him!"
Quinn released Eli's shoulder, stood in front of him, and looked down. Eli stared at the long knife sheathed at his hip, stole one last glance at the guest house, sucked in a long, slow breath, and closed his eyes.
A hush rippled across the crowd. A cold breeze sliced across Eli's cheek. The knife slid across leather as it was drawn out. Eli waited, his heartbeats ticking away the seconds.
A point of sharp pressure jabbed his chest.
The faces of everyone he'd killed encircled him, grim but smiling, their deaths finally about to be avenged.
The little boy and his bright blue eyes.
The frightened woman, made mad by fear, screaming until Eli clasped his hand over her mouth.
Damien, Rick, and Phoebe, who tried to steal his weapons and his food.
Bill. Dr. Ghrist.
Frank. Lily.
In seconds, their haunting faces would vanish. Peace would come and he could stop fighting with himself, his past, and the world around him. It was over.
All he had to do was wait.
"I send you to Hell," Quinn whispered, his voice seething with an almost tangible rage.
The knife point pinched Eli's skin and he had a sudden vision of the blade punching through, sliding between his ribs, cutting through his heart until it stopped beating. Quinn pressed the knife into his skin, carving a small cut. Hot blood ran down Eli's chest. He held his breath as panic seized him.
Quinn wanted Eli to die slowly, to witness every second of agony with a smile. He tried to focus on something outside himself: the birds chirping in distant trees, the whistling wind. He imagined himself flying off the platform, over the crowd, and to the forest beyond the wall.
An earsplitting peal invaded his thoughts. It came from far away and an echo of other voices — shouting, hissing, murmuring — followed. The pressure on Eli's chest lifted, then disappeared. He opened his eyes.
Chapter 42
Quinn stood with his back to Eli, the knife hanging by his side. Beyond his figure, Eli spied two hundred heads facing the guest house.
"Get away from him or she dies!" a voice screamed.
Eli's heart fell. The voice was Jane's.
"If you want to punish someone, punish her!"
Quinn stepped away from Eli, clearing his view. Jane and Martha stood on the front porch of the guest house, Jane with her arm gripped tightly around the other woman's shoulders. With the other hand, she held a long knife to the woman's throat.
"Savior!" Martha shrieked.
Olive gestured orders to a guard Eli couldn't see. Jane stared at Quinn. He raised his hands in peace.
"And why should I punish her?" he called.
Jane grabbed a handful Martha's hair and yanked back her head, pressing the knife into her taut white skin.
"Would you like to confess?" Jane said in Martha's ear.
"The men were weak. The girls set them on the right path."
Jane slid the knife from Martha's throat; a thin, red line bloomed along the white skin. "This woman let Olive's guards come into this house every night and rape your girls. She let Dr. Ghrist drug and molest them. And she did nothing to stop it."
"And that bitch." Jane pointed the blade at Olive, who stood silent and frozen on the platform. "It was all her idea."
Quinn glanced over his shoulder at Olive and she shrank inside her furs. On the steps, Jane grinned.
"Or did you not know?" she hollered.
Martha sobbed, rivulets of blood trailing down her neck to stain her white collar red. Eli watched the scene unfold helplessly. Jane would be punished for this, either by Quinn or Olive. This wasn't the plan.
"Mr. Percy, you can't believe —" Olive began.
Quinn's hand shot up and Olive's lips snapped shut. He walked to the edge of the platform, heavy footsteps thudding loudly in the quiet.
Jane shoved Martha and the stout woman toppled down the steps. She sucked in a deep breath and held her throat with a shaking hand, then disappeared behind the fringe of the crowd.
"She's all yours," Jane yelled.
"Savior!" Martha's bodiless voice screeched. "Forgive me!"
Quinn jumped off the platform. Bodies parted and a path cleaved the crowd in two. At the end of this avenue lay Martha, crumbled on the ground and weeping. Quinn strolled between the bodies toward the woman.
"She's lying, Savior!" Martha threw herself at Quinn's boots. "I didn't know! Forgive me!"
Quinn knelt down and placed a large hand on Martha's wet cheek. She leaned into it, fresh tears falling into his palm, and he whispered in her ear. She nodded. Slowly, he palmed her arms and drew her up to her feet, then stood before her.
The crowd held its breath. "They were yours to protect." Quinn's voice grumbled in the silence. "You failed. And that's unforgivable."
His arm flinched and Martha grunted.
A gasp shuddered through the crowd. Quinn backed away. Martha's eyes widened with shock and she clutched her stomach, a dark red stain spreading beneath her hand across her white dress. With the other she reached out to Quinn and fell, limp, to the ground.
Quinn spun on his heel and walked back through the crowd with his head down and the knife still in hand, now bloodied, a red flush crawling up his neck to his cheeks. A vein throbbed in Quinn's forehead and gusts of angry breath puffed from his flared nostrils like a bull ready to charge.
He climbed back up to the p
latform, ignoring Eli. Instead he charged at Olive; a dozen guards leapt onto the platform and locked together in a line before her, their boots thundering across the wood.
Olive grinned shakily as guns, cudgels, and knives shot into the air around her. Quinn dropped his knife. With the flick of his finger, a dozen of his men peeled off from the crowd, leapt onto the platform, and lined up beside him. Another dozen encircled the platform from the ground.
The crowd was silent. Wind whistled through bare branches, buildings creaked, birds chirped. Rows of tense faces and sharpened eyes bored into each other, fists tightening over weapons, muscles tense and ready to spring. Nothing moved but a breath of wind.
Chaos would be their opportunity. Eli tried to peer between the crush of bodies, but he couldn't see the guest house or Jane anymore.
"We had an agreement," Quinn barked.
"I didn't break it, Mr. Percy," Olive said, her regal face peering between her guards' shoulders. "I agreed to provide manpower, to feed and shelter your girls, and keep them healthy. I did that."
"You did more than that. How could you?"
The crowd began to grumble, their scowling faces now focused on Olive. Her blue eyes wobbled between them, Quinn and his men, and back again. Fear fractured her usually calm mask. Suspicion was one thing, truth another. She turned her nose upward and fixed her ice-chip eyes on Quinn, her fear melting into stoic calm. When she spoke, her voice was firm and loud.
"Survival, Mr. Percy," she said in her sweet, breathy voice. "I did what I had to do."
The simmering grumble in the crowd erupted into angry shouts. Bodies began to shuffle, restless, and fingers fidgeted over weapons. Olive's slender arm slid between her guards' shoulders and pushed them aside. She stepped in front of her protectors, cocked her head, and ordered, "Kill him."
A guard whipped a gun from its holster with a swish and aimed it at Quinn. He ducked. Two of his men sprung forward and stood in front of him. The gun exploded. The bullet ripped a red hole through a shoulder. Eli dove and belly-crawled away from the scene.
A wave undulated through the crowd. Dozens of voices yelled with fear, anger, defiance, excitement. Bodies began to peel off from the mob and race down the road. Others leapt into battle. Olive vanished. Quinn stood in the middle of the platform with the fight swirling around him, knife whipping maniacally through the air.
"Bring her to me!" he screamed.
All around Eli, the two sides crashed together, flesh against flesh, bone against bone. Blades flashed and cudgels whipped through the air. Bodies slammed onto the wood with crashing thuds and tumbled over the side of the platform.
Eli peered down the road — its shoulder was choked with people, its muddy streets filling with scampering shapes. He clambered to his feet with his hands still tied and moved along the platform, searching the brawl for Jane. With a lurch of his heart, he spied a small figure running down the hill toward the platform. Something hit his legs and his feet left the ground.
Ground and sky flipped. The sounds of battle churned in his ears. The ground struck Eli's back, knocking the breath painfully from his lungs. He sucked at the air desperately and sat up, dazed. Around him, men growled, fists sank into bodies and cracked jaws. Blades clanged, gunshots split the air, and dozens of feet hammered the earth. He saw men fall to the ground, lifeless.
A voice rasped in his ear, "Move your ass."
Calloused fingers pushed his hands apart. A blade sliced through the rope, freeing Eli's hands. A hand grasped his shoulder. And there was Jane's face, inches from his: sweating and scowling, cheeks flushed red, green eyes afire.
"Get up! Now!" Jane's fingers dug into his elbow.
"W-what —" Eli stuttered.
"No time for bullshit," she said. Eli rose, wobbly on his feet. "This is our chance."
They scampered around the platform. Cabins sprawled on the left and Olive's yard stretched on the right, now filled with men fighting, groaning, screaming, or lying still on the ground. Eli and Jane ran hand in hand between the battle and the cabins, toward the guest house.
A pulse of nerves stabbed at Eli's fingertips, the pit of his stomach. Then a sharp screech echoed over the sounds of battle, freezing his muscles. His heels dug into the soft ground and Jane's sweaty fingers slipped from his grip. Eli looked behind him.
Olive knelt on the ground, alone, her white fur askew and splattered with blood. Quinn stood over her with a cudgel raised over his head.
"Please!" Olive squealed.
Jane's hand yanked his. "Move!"
She pulled him up the steps and to the front door and reached for the doorknob. But Eli was seized by panic and rage, sudden as a thunderclap. He grabbed Jane's wrist.
"Why did you do that?"
Jane wrenched herself from Eli's grip. "Save your ass, you mean?"
"I didn't want to be saved," he whispered.
The truth was that the prospect of dying had given him peace, and now that peace was gone. Struggle and suffering and fear awaited him now. He'd been robbed.
Jane grabbed a fistful of Eli's shirt. Her green eyes stabbed him, their mossy green blurry with tears and flashing with anger, relief, and sadness in mere seconds.
"Tough shit." She twisted the fabric. "You're not getting off that easy."
"But —"
"Enough." Jane released him and thrust a finger into his face. "I know you. And you don't leave people behind. Not anymore." It wasn't an order, but a plea. Jane's brows arched. Don't disappoint me again, the expression said.
Her hand shot to the doorknob and she turned it with a creak. The door popped open. Beyond was a cozy darkness, the scent of flowers and soap, and the calm cadence of piano music.
Eli stepped into dim light. White figures scuttled around him, like mice in the dark. Placid faces peeped from every corner, all watching.
And in the middle, looking harried and glum, his hand clutching the skinny arm of a girl with a blond mane of hair, was the last person Eli expected to see.
Simon.
Worry knotted his brow and he dropped the girl's arm. He glanced at Eli with a flash of fear and spoke to Jane.
"They won't leave."
Chapter 43
A volley of whispers circulated the dimly lit room, then hushed. Eli sensed dozens of bodies scurrying through the house, like a herd of little animals crouched in the dark.
Eli's eyes slowly adjusted as he and Jane crept into the high-ceilinged room. A group of white-clad girls crowded an expansive living room with gleaming wood floors and a crackling fireplace. They leaned against or sat in leather furniture, all of them watching the new arrivals warily, placidly.
No one spoke.
Eli stared at Simon, anger rising like bile up his throat. "What's he doing here?"
"He's here to help." Jane pressed her warm hand against his chest, leaned in, and whispered, "I don't completely trust him yet, either."
"Helping?"
Simon raised his arms in a defensive posture. Eli advanced and Jane's hand dug harder into his chest.
"Eli," she said, "the distraction was his idea. He's been trying to get the girls out for months." Jane's face was calm, placating. "Trust me," she said, tapping his chest with her fingers. Eli's anger receded as something white moved to his left.
Girls filled a staircase, a mahogany railing encircling an open second floor, connecting to another staircase on the other side. They emerged from dark bedrooms, a cavernous kitchen, hallways snaking off the main room. Eli had seen some of them hanging laundry outside, weeding the garden, or carrying water. But there were dozens of unfamiliar faces, peering around corners with fear haunting their faraway eyes. They stood in the shadows, skinny bodies protectively hunched, skin pale, cheeks sunken.
They were the secret girls, the ones no one saw.
Anger prickled across Eli's skull, shot down his spine to his fingertips. He hoped Quinn and Olive killed each other and knew that's what Jane intended. Either way, he had to get them out — all fifty
or more of them.
A gunshot cracked outside and men shouted. Some of the girls shrieked and hid.
There were too many of them. How could he secret fifty girls out a back door and across a dangerous wilderness to safety? Dozens of frightened eyes stared back at him.
No one else was coming to save them, just him and Jane. Impossible didn't matter. He forgot his panic and anger.
Jane's firm voice cut through his thoughts. "What do you mean they don't want to leave?"
"A few have left already," Simon answered. "The rest …"
Eli stared at the young man's tender neck and the fading bruises. He wanted to squeeze it again but swallowed the urge. He walked past them and into the kitchen, found a back door open to the walled passageway. The sounds of battle persisted outside. Their pursuers were distracted—this was their only chance. Eli returned to the living room.
"A few?" Jane propped her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow. "I told you to get them packed and on their way, Simon."
"And I told you it wouldn't be as easy as that." Simon peered fearfully at Eli. "I told the ones who've left to meet us at a cave on Payne Mountain. They hadn't been indoctrinated, though. We could convince a few more, but the others —"
"How many?" Eli cut in.
"Four," he said quickly.
A few more gunshots barked outside, closer this time. Someone wailed, glass shattered.
"We're wasting time," Jane said in a shaky voice.
She placed a hand on her sweaty brow, searching the crowded house and its dozens of faces.
Eli grasped her shoulder and squeezed.
"Then let's go." He clapped his hands and dozens of faces flipped to him. "Everyone! Pack food, supplies, weapons, warm clothes. We leave in five minutes in groups of six, two minutes apart. Fan out. We'll meet up in two days at —"
Eli's orders were drowned out with questions, punctuated by shrill shushing.
"Where are we going?" a bodiless voice called from the second floor.
"Will you take us home?"
"Is the Savior hurt?
"Is he coming to see us?"
"Where's Martha?"
A finger was thrust over the second-floor railing, pointing down at Jane. "She got her killed!"
A New America Trilogy (Book 1): The Human Wilderness Page 31
