Gary stepped forward, approaching the two men. They seemed a lot less threatening, a lot less intimidating, encircled by the group of armed students. This was the allure of the gang, of the mob, and it was both dangerous and intoxicating.
The crowd parted before him.
Seconds before, he’d thought that the shabbily dressed men seemed pathetic and sad. But this close, they seemed creepy. He could see that there was something wrong with each of them: Ape Arms’ long limbs were genuinely freakish, a physical deformity, and the shorter man’s face bore a blank, dull expression that made him appear not quite human. Both of them had odd, identical hairstyles.
Gary was very glad he was not alone.
The shorter one was indeed holding a gag, undoubtedly laced with whatever pacifying drug had been administered to him before, and Gary pointed to the cloth. “Drop it,” he ordered.
The man looked at his partner, who said something in that alien language.
The blank-faced man held on to the gag.
Without prompting, Dror stepped forward and quickly yanked the cloth out of the man’s hand. The man tried to strike back, but Dror pushed him into his friend and wielded the bat threateningly.
“Be careful,” Gary said. “That gag’s laced with a drug. It’s the same kind they used on me before. Don’t touch your face or anyone else,” he told Dror. “Make sure you wash your hands before you do.”
Grimacing, Dror dropped the cloth on the ground, wiping his hands on his pants.
Gary turned back to the two Outsiders. “Why are you here?” he asked, moving closer. He had no weapon in his hand, but there was a pocketknife in his front pocket, and he took it out, opening it. “And where is Joan Daniels? What have you done with her?”
The short one started to say something, but Ape Arms cut him off, barking an order in that alien language.
“What do you Outsiders want?” Gary demanded.
“Outsider? I’m not an Outsider!” the short one cried. His voice was high-pitched and strange. “You’re the Outsiders! All of you!”
That didn’t make any sense, and Gary glanced quizzically at Reyn, who shot him a confused look in return. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising to hear their captives lie. Indeed, it was to be expected. But the vehemence of the response held the ring of truth, and the deep anguish on the man’s heretofore dull and inexpressive face made Gary think that his protestation was real. The last thing this man wanted was to be confused with an Outsider.
But if he wasn’t an Outsider, who was he?
And what were the Outsiders?
The man started crying.
“You won’t get anything out of him,” Ape Arms said, speaking finally in English and tapping his forehead. “He’s simple.”
Gary shifted his focus and peered into the long-armed man’s face. The man stared back at him defiantly, and the only thing Gary could think of was the very real possibility that the eyes he was looking into right now had watched Joan as she was being tortured. He was filled with a rage unlike anything he had ever experienced, a fury so white-hot and deep that at that moment he could have murdered this man and felt no qualms.
Gary’s voice when it came out was frighteningly flat and low. “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he said. “And you are going to answer them. If you do not, I will use this knife to sever your windpipe. After you are dead, I will torture your friend until he talks.”
The man sensed the truth behind the words. He tried to look brave, but Gary could tell that he was scared.
Good.
Gary leaned forward. “Now, who are you?” he demanded. “Where do you come from? And what do you want with us?”
PART II
Seventeen
Joan awoke back at the Home.
For several seconds, she thought it was just another nightmare, that she was dreaming it, but there was a tactility to her surroundings that was never present in her dreams, and when she saw that the old photo of Father that had graced each of the bedrooms had been replaced by a newer photo showing him with a thick white beard, she knew she was really here. She sat up slowly, feeling her brain pressing outward against the sides of her skull. Her muscles ached, as though she’d been simultaneously lifting weights and running a marathon.
Where was Gary? she wondered. And Reyn and Stacy? And Brian?
Dead.
No. Father wouldn’t allow that.
Then where were they?
Despite the pain in her head, she stood. Aside from the bed, the room had very few furnishings: a hard-backed chair, a small eating table, a freestanding lamp. They were standard issue, and she remembered them from her childhood, but she had lived too long away, was now used to comfort, and her surroundings seemed not just spartan but prisonlike. There was no radio, no television, no computer, no bookshelf. Light came from a fluorescent square in the ceiling. Walking over to the closed curtains, she pulled them open. As she’d expected, as she’d known, there was no window behind the drapes, only a painted scene of green rolling hills, a powder blue sky and a smiling yellow sun.
It seemed like only moments before that she and Gary had been with their friends at Burning Man, sitting around their camp, watching the Man burn and then fall. But how long ago had it really been? Hours? Days?
She had to go to the bathroom, so she tried to open the room’s lone door, but it was locked. She began pounding on it. “Let me out!” she called. “Someone let me out!” There was no answer, no response. She called out again, pressed her ear to the door and listened, but heard nothing. She glanced around.
In the far corner of the room was a metal bedpan.
She remembered this, too.
No, she thought. I can’t. I won’t.
But she could. And did.
The girl who brought her food sometime later was one of the Children. Joan did not know her, but her legs and arms were long and bony, and there was a slackness to her features that Joan recognized from some of the others. The girl carried in not a tray but a canvas bag, from which she withdrew a chicken sandwich wrapped in a dirty piece of reused aluminum foil, a carrot, an apple, and a glass bottle filled with apple juice so thick it was nearly opaque. The girl was accompanied by an older man who stood just inside the doorway and was obviously there to thwart any type of escape attempt. Both were dressed in clothing they had made themselves, the type of simple garments Joan recalled from her childhood. Just looking at it made her flesh crawl, and she knew that soon she would be expected to discard her jeans and shirt and sew herself some new clothes.
More than anything, she wanted to escape, wanted to run past the girl and the man and out the door. But she would not get far in the shape she was in. She would be captured and then she would be punished. Joan knew how things worked in the Home. Her best and only hope right now was to garner trust before she attempted to get away or contact anyone. The slight advantage granted to her by not being under constant suspicion could mean the difference between success and failure.
The girl said nothing, not even when Joan thanked her, and Joan wondered if this was one of the Children who couldn’t speak. She tried to catch the eye of the man at the door, smiling at him in what she hoped was an open, affable manner, but he remained completely stoic. Seconds after the girl finished placing the food on the small table, the two of them left. Joan heard the click of the door’s lock, loud in the stillness.
She was starving. And though she wanted to remain defiant and hated the idea of acquiescing in any way, she needed food, needed sustenance, and she pulled the chair next to the small table and began eating greedily. The food was edible but not very tasty, and the flavor of the apple juice was so odd that she spit back her first swallow and did not take another, in case it was drugged. She considered pounding on the door and letting whoever was out there know that she was finished, but she needed to maintain the illusion of compliance and instead left the remains of her meal on the table.