Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (115 page)

“First, you’ll be blindfolded for the trip. I can’t have you taking others back to the location.”

I glanced at Thatcher, who nodded. “Okay, agreed. The other?”

“You’ll have to leave your phones and coms here.”

That condition I didn’t like as much. “I can agree to leave our communication devices behind if I can send one message first.”

“What kind of message?”

“I want to tell Trance to not worry or look for us, and that I’ll be in contact when I can.”

Landon considered the request with a sour expression. “Fine. But I want to read the text before you send it.”

“Okay.”

I took out my phone and typed the message just as I’d said it, then showed the phone to Landon. After he hit send, he gave the phone a mighty toss toward the road. It cracked when it hit the ground. Our coms followed. Landon sent a haze of static electricity over each of us, probably checking for any other kind of trackers on our persons. He took my gun, too. He electrified the Sport and destroyed the tracker he found under the fender.

The kid’s too smart for his own good.

From the rear compartment of the Sport, he produced a spare blanket and used his telekinesis to tear it into wide strips, which he folded twice. Blindfolds. He had four strips, though, which meant—

“You aren’t tying us up,” I said with a fierceness that startled Landon. “No arm restraints. Blindfolds only.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it. Nodded. Good, because if he’d insisted, I would have called the whole damned thing off. No one tied me up, not ever again. The pretzel job that Specter had done on me back in January had taken nearly a month to heal, and those long nights hopped up on muscle relaxants had brought back old nightmares. Nightmares of being tied up and tortured by people who were supposed to love me.

Never again, goddammit.

I ignored Thatcher’s speculative look as we both climbed into the backseat. Since Landon seemed to have no qualms about leaving his motorcycle behind, I assumed it was stolen, too, and I added motorcycle thief to his list of crimes. The kid was certainly filling out his rap sheet. And he seemed to like showing off, because instead of just using his hands, he used his powers to tie on Thatcher’s blindfold.

My stomach flipped when the swatch of fabric hovered toward my own eyes. I didn’t like this, being driven blindly to an unknown destination by someone whose mental state I didn’t quite trust. Landon said he wasn’t a killer, but his actions at the warehouse early Saturday morning said he wasn’t above getting violent.

I didn’t have a choice.

The gray cotton descended over my eyes. Phantom fingers cinched it tight and tied a knot, casting the world into darkness.

Nine

The River

E
ven with the radio on and tuned to a classic rock station, the trip seemed interminable. I couldn’t guess how long we were actually on the road. At least three or four hours, though, because eventually I became aware of the need to pee. We moved straight, up, down, around, and in every other direction it was possible for a Sport to go except backward. I kept my eyes shut against the scratchiness of the blindfold’s cloth, and the rocking of the vehicle nearly sent me to sleep a few times.

Eventually the ride became slower, the turns more hairpin. Our elevation had changed, because my ears popped twice. At some point I got restless and began squirming in my seat, trying to wake up my sore butt and ward off the growing need to ask for a pit stop.

“Landon?” Thatcher asked, breaking the complete silence among the three of us that had existed for hours. “Any chance we can stop for a minute?”

“Why?”

“I need to water a tree.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Or I’m going to be watering the seat.”

Thatcher made a noise that might have been a chuckle.

“Fine, I’ll find a place to stop,” Landon said.

He kept driving until I was tempted to ask if he’d forgotten that we had to pee, and then the Sport slowed. Turned. Gravel crunched under the tires, and we hit a few ruts that spiraled out my equilibrium. I hated not being able to see. He stopped, shifted, turned off the engine.

“Blindfolds stay on.”

“Are you nuts?” I said. “How the hell do I know we’re not in the middle of a parking lot of people?”

“We’re in the mountains at the head of an old hiking trail. I haven’t passed another car in over thirty minutes. I will take you down a ways so you aren’t visible from the road, and then I promise I’ll give you privacy.”

I actively hated the idea. “And if I take off the blindfold anyway?”

“All I have to do is put pressure on your carotid artery and you’ll sleep until we get where we’re going. I honestly don’t care if you piss on the seat.”

Thatcher grunted.

“Fine,” I said.

Thus occurred one of the most humiliating experiences of my life—being led blindly down an uneven hiking trail, my hand on Landon’s shoulder and Thatcher’s hand on mine. Oh, did I forget to mention we had to pee together? Blindfolded or not, I was furious at being forced to do something so private in front of a near-stranger. And Landon seemed entirely too pleased with himself for our humiliation.

During the walk, I tried to use my other senses to figure out where we were. A few birds tweeted nearby. Thanks to my foster parents, I could identify most North American bird species by both sight and sound. Two particular calls stood out—the whistling song of a yellow warbler and the raspy mew of a gray catbird. Not super helpful, since neither were local to any specific state or region. The only thing I could guess from those birds was that we hadn’t gone too far south, since they tended to stay north at this time of year.

The scents of wet earth and pine also hinted at north or west, maybe Pennsylvania or West Virginia, possibly southwestern New York. Something else was in the air, an unfamiliar scent both metallic and oily that I couldn’t pin down.

After about thirty paces, Landon stopped. “The trail is pretty wide here. No plants or anything, so don’t worry about poison ivy. You have two minutes.”

He pulled away, and I stood there in the dark as his footsteps moved back in the direction we’d come. Thatcher’s hand stayed on my shoulder another few seconds, and then pulled away.

“I’ll back up a few steps and give you some space,” he said.

“Your son is an asshole.”

He didn’t disagree.

The final leg of the drive didn’t last nearly as long as the first, but it was significantly more twisty. Twice, sharp turns sent me sideways into Thatcher’s shoulder, and he hit me once. I was about to complain about Landon’s lack of driving skills when the road changed from pavement to gravel. The gravel turned into a thump-thump-thump, as if we’d just crossed a wooden bridge, and then became gravel again. Landon slowed to a near-crawl.

“You can remove the blindfolds,” he said. “We’re here.”

I yanked off the offending strip of fabric and blinked hard against the sunshine. My eyeballs ached from the bright assault, and I squinted out the window at our mysterious destination.

We were in a valley somewhere in the mountains, which rose up all around us in peaks of green and brown. A town right out of a history book sprawled out in the valley, a postapocalyptic blend of Old West mining town and Great Depression shantytown. Wooden buildings at least a hundred and fifty years old stood next to newly constructed shacks. The vehicles parked in driveways and along the roads were old, patched, most of them sport utilities, pickup trucks, or work vans of some nature. Everything seemed to be covered in a fine mist of gray.

Curious faces peeked out of windows, and a few folks stepped onto porches to observe the new vehicle rumbling down what appeared to be their Main Street (such as it was). No one tried to stop us, but no one seemed eager to come up and say hello. Landon kept driving at his snail’s pace, past more homes and business fronts converted into homes. I saw no restaurants, no stores, no churches or communal gathering places—until we got to what looked like a park. It was filled with mismatched picnic tables, a few charcoal grills, and a planted garden that reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of the garden in Manhattan. On the edge of the park was a small brick building. The word
M
UNICIPAL
had been crossed out and
S
TORE
painted over it.

“This is one of the towns we deliver to,” Landon said. He parked near the store and turned off the engine. “The town leaders do their best to get legitimate food deliveries up here, but without us, the eleven hundred people who live here would have starved to death a long time ago.”

He climbed out. Thatcher and I glanced at each other before we followed. We met him by the bumper of the Sport. The air here was cooler and had a nose-tingling sharpness to it that made me want to sneeze. I squeezed the bridge of my nose and that only made my eyes water.

“Twenty years ago, this was one of the last thriving mining towns in this part of the state. Clean energy regulations had shut down half a dozen other mines, so those families moved here looking for work. And then this mine was shut down and no one had jobs. Some folks moved away, but others were sixth-generation miners. They didn’t want to leave, not even when other businesses closed and the chains refused to put a store in any closer than forty miles away.

“State and local governments were so busy with the Meta War they didn’t have time for saving these small towns. They still don’t. They want everyone in cities where they can control what they eat, where they work, and how they live their lives. It’s why people like Bethany and me do what we do.”

A small crowd had gathered in Main Street, watching us from a distance. I didn’t sense any hostility from them, despite the fact that we were strangers (and I was probably the first blue person they’d ever seen). More than anything, the mix of faces seemed curious—not to mention happy to see Landon. They gradually inched forward, like a nervous crowd unsure how to welcome home a returning hero because he’d brought back an unexpected companion. Or two.

“Everything here is shared,” Landon continued. “Labor, clothing, supplies, food, it’s all communal. They take turns working in the garden. Some folks hunt and fish, others gather edibles from the mountains. No one hoards. No one steals.”

“Who enforces that?” Thatcher asked.

“There is a five-person council that changes every six months. Names are drawn from a lottery of everyone over the age of twenty-five. There’s an official town charter that establishes certain rules, but the council doles out punishments when necessary.”

Something cold raked down my spine. “Punishments?” I asked.

Landon nodded. “Rule breakers aren’t given a slap on the wrist and community service, Flex. The only way a community like this can survive is if everyone follows the rules. Punishments are rare because they are effective deterrents.”

The crowd was still out of earshot, but they continued moving closer and growing in number.

“So what happens if someone steals a loaf of bread?”

“The last time that happened was about a year ago.”

“And?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “They broke both of her hands.”

My insides twisted up tight, and I balled my own hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Are you serious?”

“Completely serious. What do you think they should have done? Fine her? No one here has any money. And no one else has tried to steal a single scrap of food since.”

“Hell, why didn’t they just stone her in the town square?”

Landon looked at me like I was nuts, and I kind of wanted to punch him in the mouth. Actually, I’d wanted to punch him for hours now and the urge continued to grow. “How old was she?”

“Fifteen.”

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes as I was assaulted by mental images of a teenage girl having her hands broken by people in authority, people in a position to help or harm as they saw fit. I wanted to cry and scream and stamp my feet in protest of the horrible thing done to her.
Over a fucking loaf of bread! This is insane!

Were all small, cut-off communities like this? Were they all led by people willing to harm children in order to protect what they saw as the status quo? Ever since my rescue by the Rangers, I’d lived in cities and sprawling suburban areas. My foster parents had lived in a lovely community with access to so many wonderful people, and it had never felt insulated. Not like this little mining town, and not like the compound I’d grown up in.

Someone’s hand closed around the back of my neck, a gentle and warm touch. I didn’t look, but I knew it was Thatcher, and I didn’t pull away.

“Landon?”

The stranger’s voice made my head snap up. Thatcher’s hand fell away, but he stayed close. A tall, thin woman with graying hair approached us. Her sharp face was chiseled by hardship and lined by worry, but she carried herself with the confidence of royalty. A man shadowed her, shorter but just as thin, his advanced age impossible to guess. They both eyeballed me and Thatcher like we’d just cut wind and forgot to excuse ourselves.

Landon shook both of their hands. “This is Renee Duvall and Derek Thatcher,” he said. Then to us, “Darlene Woods and Artie Cavendish, two of the town’s council members.”

We all exchanged polite handshakes.

“I’ve heard of you,” Darlene said to me. “You were one of those Ranger children.”

“That’s right,” I replied, not sure if my notoriety was a plus or a minus.

“We heard about what your people did during the earthquake relief. Well done.”

I stumbled on my words, taken aback by the praise. “I . . . thank you.”

“Landon,” Artie said, his voice as creased and aged as his face, “does this have something to do with the man your Bethany came in with last night?”

Last night. Ethan was here somewhere. I glanced around, as if he were standing right behind me waiting to be noticed.

“It does,” Landon replied.

“And they’re both Meta?”

I bit back a snide remark. My Meta status might be obvious to the world, but Thatcher could pass for perfectly normal.

“Yes, they are,” Landon said.

“Then they are welcome here,” Artie said. He grinned at us and showed off a mouthful of small, yellowed teeth. “Landon and Bethany have been a blessing to this community, and any friends of theirs are friends of ours.”

“Thank you,” Thatcher said. The tightness in his voice told me he was thinking about just how we’d been dragged into this little community.

“So the man Bethany came in with,” I said to Artie. “Do you know where he is?”

“I’ll take you to him,” Landon said. I didn’t miss the furious look he flashed my way.

“Will you both be staying for the evening meal?” Darlene asked. “If so, you may dine with my family. I’ll request guest rations.”

Guest rations.

“I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying,” I replied. “But thank you for the offer.”

“It’s an open offer, Ms. Duvall.”

Thatcher and I followed Landon across the quiet park, to the far side (west, guessing from the position of the sun) where a handful of barnlike buildings stood. The doors were pulled shut, so I hadn’t a clue what was stored inside. Past the barns we picked up the road again. It twisted up into the trees and the mountainside, and a weathered road sign said, in simple black letters,
M
INE
A
HEAD.

Between the barns and the road, however, was a wooden platform in the center of an open patch of grass. The platform was raised about five feet off the ground, reminding me a bit of hanging gallows in an old western movie. This one didn’t have a gallows, but it did have a single thick post of wood right in the center, about three feet high, with a steel ring on top like something you would attach a chain to. We passed close enough to see dark stains on the unfinished wood and the center post. A set of wooden stairs led up to the platform.

“What is this?” I stopped walking and stared, aware of an encroaching sense of horror.

Landon turned long enough to give the platform a dismissive glance. “It’s where the council performs punishments.”

“What?”

“In public?” Thatcher asked.

“Of course in public,” Landon said. “How is it a deterrent if it’s done in private?”

Ice water surged in my veins, and my vision tunneled in on the platform. I saw it as clearly as if it were happening all over again: a jeering crowd spewing profanities and urging the leaders on; a girl helpless to defend herself, crying for her parents to save her; the stone-cold faces of her torturers, uncaring of the agony they were inflicting on a child.

I felt the sun on my face. I felt the wood at my back and ropes against my naked skin. Smoke rose up and choked me, leached into my nose and mouth and skin. Flames licked higher, closer, searing heat eager to taste my newly blue flesh. Flesh that ached to bend and twist, to help me escape, only they’d tied me too tight, bound me too well. Fear and despair and hatred held me captive as securely as the priest’s ropes. As securely as the revulsion in my parents’ eyes as they watched from the crowd.