The Dead Boy (9 page)

           
Is
this what they've done to you?
she thought.

            They're
going to. The boys you see - they're all 'gifted'. The man who burns, Mr.
O'Dell? He says they're important, so he's looking after them. But he's not.
He's a liar.

           
On the other
side of the window there were fourteen boys. Their ages ranged from little kids
who could probably barely speak...probably hadn't even understood where they
were or what had been done to them. Some of the other kids were older. They
would have seen it coming and known.

            She
could barely imagine such fear.

           
Who
would do this? Who could?

            The
children were unsupervised - they weren't going anywhere. Everyone of them was
in a wheelchair. They drooled, covered in old food from the untended tubes that
fed them through some kind of automatic dispensers. Their eyes were blank and
blind. Their necks were broken - surgically, no doubt. But their heads were
caved and cut, too. Portions of their brain matter taken away. Whatever was
left was no doubt pure mind, no function remaining but thought. They would
drift until what was left of them simply gave in, and faded away.

            Maybe,
until then, they lived in a nightmare land, or some kind of beautiful fantasy.

            Francis
hoped it was the later. God, she hoped so.

            A
room full of humans forgotten, like a workman's tools left to rust in the rain.
What a terrible price to pay for a 'gift' most of these kids probably hadn't
even known they possessed.

           
This
is what they're going to do to me,
said the kid, and that was the startling
reality.
That
was the cost.

           
We'll
get you out,
she thought at the voice in her head.
We'll do it, or die
trying
.            Ben gripped her shoulder.

            'Come
on,' he said.

            She
nodded.

           
Can
you tell us where to go?

            Yes,
said
the voice in her head. She followed the voice.

            'What's
going on, Francis?'

            'What's
going on is we're burning this fucking place to the ground,' she said. That was
as much as she knew for sure. Everything else would either make sense later, or
not matter at all, because they'd all be dead. But then, if something could be
worth dying for, then some things, some
abominations
, must be worth
killing for.

            'Might
have to do that alone,' he said. He coughed, blood and phlegm hitting the floor
at their feet.

            'I'm
not giving up yet,' she said. She shifted his weight, his arm, higher across
her shoulders and his eyes drifted down. His weight fell entirely on her. She
staggered, sweating and short of breath.

            Again,
she considered leaving him behind. Her back hurt, her neck. He was dragging her
down.

           
Don't
be a bitch.

            But
the fact remained. She wasn't helping him any longer
- she was carrying him.

*

The woman was
Francis
. The man with her was
Ben
. George could
'see' through Francis' eyes like he could others - the same way he saw the
soldiers' movements. He saw their thoughts and their actions a fraction ahead
of their conscious minds.

            But
Francis was different. He could talk to her.
With
her. He'd never done
that before.

            To
George, it felt as though the two of them were somewhere dark, at night,
whispering dangerous secrets, like kids after bedtime or spies behind enemy
lines. George was eight, but the later, he knew, was right. He wasn't playing.

            Through
O'Dell's eyes, he'd seen his future. Through Francis' eyes he'd seen just how
that looked, just how it felt.

            He'd
felt blood, too. Felt her revulsion, or at least understood it.

            At
the time, he'd felt the same.

            After
seeing the other boys like him, and what O'Dell had done...the revulsion was
turned to the man with fire in his eyes, inward no longer.

            The
Mill was that man's playground, jail, hospital...it was large enough to be many
things. But Francis and Ben were not out in the further reaches of the place.

           
Soon.

            George
hoped the keys from the dead soldiers would fit the lock to his cell. He didn't
know, nor could he, because the soldiers hadn't known.

            Blood
poured from George's nose, just as it did Francis. Bright red blood mixed with
the darker blood that had dried since he left his body behind to travel with
nothing but his mind. He searched for 'dead spots' while he spoke to Francis,
the effort burning up both their bodies. He couldn't know the effects of
something he'd never done before.

            Dead
spots were what he wanted.

            Where
there were no thoughts, there were no people.

           
Turn
here
, he would say, or,
stop now.

            Once,
he had Francis drag Ben into a toilet to hide from two passing soldiers. She
was tired from carrying him. He could feel her fatigue. He understood that for
them to live, others might have to be hurt. Worse, some might die.

            But
he wouldn't kill them if they didn't have to.

            The
soldiers passed, Francis moved on, up a flight of stairs rather than the
elevator. When they reached his level, he saw Ben was hardly breathing and
Francis was pale, her breath ragged from the effort.

            The
connection became easier, closer now, until finally, he told her to stop.

           
Here,
he told her.
Here. I'm in here.

            He
felt his and her desperation. Neither couldn't help that. His fear amplified
hers, hers strengthened his.

           
Can
you open it? Hurry.

            He
saw the key in her hand. Felt the thought, the concentration, as she moved the
key to the door and it turned.

            But
not to happiness, or freedom. Only to silence.

           
Shit
,
thought the woman and then she was gone.

            Her
mind, thoughts, presence...
soul
. Like she'd died. The man, Ben, gone too.

           
I
felt it, he thought. I felt it! A dead spot.

            But...

            George's
eyes flickered in his cell, his body forgotten and his mind working with his
thoughts and reason and his power, too.

            The
dead spot had been...

           
Huge.

            It
was huge. It wasn't the absence of thought at all, but the absence of humanity.
It was the feeling Mr. O'Dell carried inside.

            George
panicked and
pushed
with his mind.

            He
could push all he liked. He couldn't save himself, or Francis, or Ben. He
understood that, at least - because just as there was no handle on the door,
there was no handle in this dead spot, either.

*

O'Dell
grinned, as always.

            'You...I
saw you.' said Francis. 'At the supermarket.'

            'I
know,' said O'Dell. 'I
wanted
you to.'

            'Just
let us have the kid,' she said. The gun taken from a dead guard weighed heavy
in her fist, but stayed by her side. The other side, she held Ben.

            O'Dell's
face, his eyes, everything became entirely blank, for only a second. A tiny
amount of blood dripped from his nose.

           
Shoot
him. Shoot him now.

           
But as quick as
the thought itself, that blank state was gone and his crazed eyes were back,
all his focus bearing down on her.
Into
her.

            'Of
course you can have him. I wanted you to have him all along. The Mill is...how
would you say? Mutton dressed as lamb?'

           
Something
happened...and he doesn't know.

            She
expected the boy to answer, in her head, but the kid was silent. No one to
guide her, no one to tell her what to do.

            She
couldn't beat this man, with his black eyes that seemed full of fire and all
those clenched yellow teeth.

            It
didn't matter. No sense in trying.

           
Just
give him what he wants,
she thought.

            'Mutton?'
said the man, thinking out loud.

            Still,
Francis couldn't lift that gun.

           
I'm
weak. Too weak. I know nothing
.

            Somewhere
deeper, though, she did. She knew perfectly well he was insane. Yes, she
understood that.

            That
fucking grin, stuck on his face. He jittered, too - his left hand flapped at
his side, a fish on a riverbank. Nothing wrong with his right hand, though.
Steady as a rock, gun in his old, narrow fist.

            The
gun was on Francis. He ignored Ben.

            'Past
the sell-by-date may be a more appropriate expression? Doesn't matter,' the
crazy man continued, seemingly ignorant of the blood pouring from his nose and
dripping from his top lip. 'Take the boy. Get out of here. Burn the place down,
if you wish. The Mill has served its purpose.'

            He
had perfect teeth, if slightly yellowed with age. He would have looked almost
like a normal older gentleman...if not for that crazed rigour mortis-grin and
that puckered scar on his forehead.

            Francis
didn't reply. Having a gun in her face with a maniac at the end of it dried up all
her words. He was mad enough to shoot them just for fun, no matter the words
that came from his mouth.

            But
instead he flipped the gun and held it out to Francis.

            He
grinned at her confusion. It was the only expression he had, really.

            'Go
on. Take it. A goodwill gesture, young lady. Francis...Drew Sutton. You'll have
two guns. I'll have none. The door is open. Have a nice day,' he said.

            For
a second, she honestly believed she was going to live. For a second.

            Then
he winked.

            'Only...you
know...no sense in carry around dead weight.'

            She
helped Ben rest against the corridor wall.

            'He's
not dead,' she said, though she wasn't sure. He stayed where she put him. Other
than that, he might as well have been.

            'If
you say so,' said the man.

            He
still held the gun out for her. She moved as fast as she could and snatched it,
expecting the man to whip it up and away and simply kill them both. But he didn't
flinch.

            Now
Francis had a gun in each hand.

            'Finish
the job, then,' said the old man.

            'I
have no fucking idea what you're talking about,' she said.

            The
grinning man's eyes seemed to drift into her. A moment later blood gushed from
Francis nose, but her ears, too. She cried out and fell to her knees.

            '
Now
you know what to do,' said O'Dell.

            Francis
did. She knew exactly what she needed to know. All she had to do was point and
pull the trigger.

            O'Dell
turned away as if she merely held water pistols and it was a hot day anyway.

           
Shoot
him, for fuck's sake!

            But
the guns were heavy. She could barely hold them, let alone lift one. The one in
her left hand dropped with a heavy thud to the floor. The one in her right fist
hurt her fingers, pulled at her shoulder.

           
God...it's
so heavy. I can't hold it. I can't...

            But
Francis fought. It was something deep inside, a core truth. While some give in,
Francis would always,
always
fight.

            'Fuck
you!' she roared it out, dragged the gun up. She squeezed her eyes shut against
at the sudden fire and the deafening sound of the shot and found the man was
gone and that she'd shot Ben North through the heart instead.

*