Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

for at least a couple of minutes.

She walked over, picked up the Beretta where it had fallen by Addison’s sobbing form, and pulled the girl to her feet.

‘Listen to me,’ Alexis said. ‘You’re not a monster. You’re not.’

‘Can you do me a favour?’ Addison mumbled between sobs.

Alexis nodded.

Addison said, ‘Kill me. I don’t deserve to live.’

Alexis bowed her head.

She hated Maeve with every fibre of her being.

87

The afterglow made Slater superhuman.

When he finally came down from the high, there was a hint of daylight in the Wyoming sky. It was the same shade at pre-dawn as it was at dusk — a dark royal blue. The aftereffects of the abundance of chemicals made the colours brighter, but they also sharpened his senses. Reality seemed different — clearer, crisper, in focus.

Slater worked his way back up the tree trunk, stood on shaky legs, and re-calibrated.

It took all the effort he could muster.

The night had lasted both minutes and years. Moments dragged on for all eternity, then whole hours passed in the blink of an eye. He’d experienced the full emotional spectrum, turbulence rattling behind his eyes, but he never let it show, despite the fact there was no one around to see. Briefly, when he gained lucidity amidst the haze, he understood that the commune wouldn’t be the same in the morning. Covers would be blown, confrontations would play out, all while he was forced to sit in the dark and grapple with his mind. He wouldn’t be heading back into the same world he’d walked out of.

But now he had control of his motor functions and his reflexes, and he breathed in pure elation as he rolled his wrists and they responded.

Two things happened at once.

The distant wail of a siren startled him, made him jump, and he realised something was very wrong back in the commune.

Then a hand clamped down on his shoulder and pushed him back down to a seated position.

Slater settled his heart rate, then looked up.

Into the eyes of Elias.

He said, ‘Oh. Hey, kid.’

Elias’ gaze bore into him, scrutinising him, studying him for signs of mental destruction. That amount of Bodhi … it had to have crippled Slater permanently. Elias’ hands were rigid and straight, and Slater knew he was trying to charge his ki, his energy.

He could see all of Elias’ demons, all the man’s insecurities and beliefs.

Elias believed unconditionally in the power of Wing Chun.

That’s why he was unarmed.

Slater said, ‘Are you here to kill me?’

Elias said, ‘Took me forever to find you. Dane told me to put you out of your misery. He butchered it last night. Gave you a dose that was a little too heroic. Then he found out who you really were.’

Still seated, knees tucked up, Slater waited for Elias to trail off before he said, ‘Kid, why are you still talking?’

Elias hesitated, then composed himself. ‘Because you’re helpless.’

‘Yeah?’

‘The Bodhi hasn’t worn off yet, so your wires are scrambled. Your brain’s fried. And even if you can put up a fight, you know you can’t possibly match me.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Why don’t you find out for yourself?’

‘Are you charging your ki?’ Slater said. ‘Is that what’s happening?’

He said it with such mocking derision that goosebumps appeared on Elias’ neck. His anger rose to the surface. The kid wasn’t able to suppress it.

His voice shaking, Elias said, ‘You’ve thrown a few punches and kicks and you think you know what combat is?’

Slater said, ‘I’ve been in combat my whole life. I know what works and what doesn’t.’

‘You’re not making this any easier for yourself.’

Slater leapt to his feet, every sense primed, anticipating exactly what was going to happen.

It happened.

Elias, with all his belief and devotion and focus, finished charging his “ki” and threw an open-handed strike at Slater’s neck. It was fast, and decently impressive, and if the side of his hand connected with Slater’s throat it might have done real damage. But Slater implemented an ounce of head movement he’d picked up from boxing, and executed a shoulder roll. He leant back against the tree and took the blow on the meat of his deltoid muscle.

It stung a bit.

That was all.

Elias’ hand darted back like it had been caught in a bear trap, and a look of pure shock crossed over his face. It was either disillusionment at the effectiveness of Wing Chun, or terror at what Slater might be capable of.

Or both.

Slater said, ‘Try again.’

88

King and Violetta hustled all the way down into the centre of the commune, listened hard, and heard nothing.

Through laboured breaths, Violetta said, ‘Should we steal a ride?’

‘They’ll be locked up,’ King said. ‘Let me think.’

A wailing alarm ruptured the early morning quiet.

They nearly jumped out of their skin.

Shouts that were practically war cries emanated from the bunkhouses.

King’s stomach dropped.

Dane emerged from one of the distant buildings, hands behind his back like a monk. Above the piercing alarm, he shouted, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Get Alexis,’ Violetta said in King’s ear. ‘She’s still in her bunk. We need to get Ale—’

Disciples began pouring out of the bunkhouse that contained Violetta and Alexis’ room. They were rabid, barely human, possessed by the hatred and paranoia that Maeve had instilled in them.

In that moment King realised Maeve had succeeded.

The siren song of brutality ran deepest through Mother Libertas in times of crisis. Violetta posed no harm to the movement, but they didn’t understand, nor did they care. The wailing alarm had turned them into savages, reduced them to their primal instincts, instincts that had been expertly shaped by Maeve.

They were all hungry for blood.

They didn’t care where it came from.

Now King recognised why he hadn’t acted sooner. Because of this. Two hundred members could be activated with the touch of a button, the alarm sending them into a frenzy. They didn’t need Bodhi for this. This came from deep in their souls.

They would do whatever the Riordans commanded.

King stood frozen to the spot as Dane plucked useful followers out of the pack with hand gestures.