Frank jerked back away from the edge when he heard a footstep scuff the dirt behind him. He turned slowly; another one of the white shirts, a blond-headed kid, barely out of short pants, patrolling the narrow passage between the rocks below, a rifle in his hands.
A pebble rolled off the boulder and hit the ground near the boy's feet; the boy stopped and kneeled down.
Frank froze; if the kid glances up, he'll be looking right at the soles of my boots. And two seconds later he'll be wearing a footprint on his face.
The boy didn't move.
Frank held his breath. What the hell's he doing? If I was his age, I'd be sneaking a smoke, trying to talk some girl out of her petticoat. The boy crossed himself—he'd been praying—stood up, smiled to himself, and moved along, away from where Frank had tied his horse.
Frank exhaled slowly, then counted to a hundred. Singing and clapping continued from the clearing, the same song, over and over again. No one in a white shirt came looking for him. He slipped off the rock and moved silently back to his horse.
This was too weird.
A strong instinct came up inside him: If you want to head to Mexico, Frankie boy, now's the time.
The wagons had progressed along the main road, level with his position now. Frank moved to the edge of the rocks, less than fifty yards away, rested his arms in a crevice, and trained his glasses on the caravan.
On the long crates in the back of the wagons.
He examined each load carefully as they passed by; yes, each bore the same stenciled stamp on the boxes that he thought he'd find: u.s. army.
Those were Winchester rifles in those crates. Standard military issue.
Hundreds of them.
THE NEW CITY
"Praise God. Hallelujah; isn't it a glorious day?"
"Thank you, Brother Cornelius; it is indeed a glorious day," said the Reverend as he stepped out of his House for the first time that day—it was already hours past noon—and onto the planked sidewalk on Main Street. He squinted against the bright sunlight; hot, dry air blasting his lungs; worrying again where he would find the energy to fulfill this day's obligations.
If only they knew what I wanted from them, thought Reverend Day, wearily looking out at the crowded street. How many would stay? How many would turn and run?
"Tell me, Brother Cornelius, has it been a good day?"
"A glorious day, Reverend. Praise the Lord," said Cornelius Moncrief, who had been waiting for the Reverend without complaint for over two hours, as he did most every day.
"I'm pleased to hear it. Walk with me a while, Brother?"
They fell silently into step together; the enormous hulking man in the long gray duster—The New City's recently appointed Director of Internal Security—slowing to keep pace with the stooped, hunchbacked preacher, his silver spurs jangling to the rhythm of his limp. Citizens in the street smiled and bowed low to Reverend Day, offering devotions as he passed; the Reverend waved kindly to each member of his flock, a blessing never far from his lips.
Terrified of me; keep up the good work.
"The love of our people is a wonder. Truly a gift from God," said the Reverend, as they left Main Street and made the turn toward the tower.
"Most truly, Reverend."
"And have I mentioned to you, Brother Cornelius, how grateful we are for all your hard labor on behalf of our Church?"
"You're too kind, Reverend," said Cornelius, feeling the same swelling in his chest that arose whenever the Reverend spoke kindly to him, as if he was about to bust out laughing or crying and wasn't sure which.
"Brother, you have returned my faith in you a thousandfold; you bring to the hearts of our Christian soldiers a fighting spirit, inspire them to take up arms with joy and great zeal, inarching forward as one, for the protection of our Flock and the destruction of our Enemies."
Tears flowed freely from Cornelius's eyes; he stopped in his tracks, too overcome to look at the Reverend or respond, bowing and nodding his head. Reverend Day watched him weep, patting a compassionate hand on the man's massive shoulder. No matter how many times I sling this line of bullshit at them, they wolf it down like a pack of starving dogs.
"There now, Brother Cornelius," said Reverend Day, chucking him under the chin. "Thy tears are like the gentle rain of Heaven, that give life to this dry and dusty plain; and flowers bloom where once there was a desert."
Cornelius looked at him, a shy little smile breaking through his tears.
Time for a taste of the Sacrament, thought Reverend Day.
The Reverend hooked Cornelius with his look and turned on the juice, pumping a few measured jolts into him; he watched carefully as the Power drilled into the man's core and went to work, warping his thoughts to suit the Reverend's needs.
A dark shudder ran through his nerves; he loved administering the Sacrament, the delicious sensation of reaching inside them, the intimacy of the contact, caressing the nakedness they so obligingly exposed. These moments of private violation through their eyes were the ones he lived for.
When he saw Cornelius's pupils glaze over, the Reverend pulled back the tendrils of the Power, folded them into place like a Murphy bed, and snapped his fingers in the man's face. Cornelius blinked, the connection broken. His eyes rolled in his head like runaway marbles.
After years of trial and error, the Reverend had learned to regulate his congregation's exposure to the Power, entering them with the delicate touch of a surgeon; dose them correctly and they went pliant as rag dolls for days, a drunkard's grin pasted to their skulls. Give them too little and their minds gradually returned; too strong a measure and drooling into a cup became a full-time occupation. There were more than a few of those failures planted in shallow graves outside the City.
He had to walk a razor's edge with Cornelius; the man's will was strong so he required more juice than most to keep him in line, but the Reverend couldn't risk frying his nervous system. He needed this one. Cornelius had in short order transformed an undisciplined bunch of green recruits into an army; no one in town could match his leadership and tactical skill, tempered by such gleeful barbarism.
And it all took so much effort; Lord, he was tired.
Cornelius opened his eyes. Good, the man was back in his body. Now some Scripture to lead him out of the fog:
"Incline your ear and hear the words of the wise," the Reverend whispered.
Cornelius eagerly leaned down close to him.
"Apply your heart to my knowledge; I have instructed you today so that I may make you know the certainty of the Words of Truth. Hear, my son, and be wise; because only through wisdom a house is built and only by understanding is it made to last."
His eyes focusing again, Cornelius nodded slowly; complete devotion and absolutely zero comprehension.
That's right, you muttonhead, thought the Reverend, watching closely. Message received.
"So," said Reverend Day, walking ahead, back to business, "what good news have you for us today, Brother?"
Cornelius wavered a moment, found his balance, and then fell into step like an obedient cur. ' 'That troupe of actors came through the East Gate, right on schedule," said Cornelius, waving a telegram.
"When?"
" 'Bout an hour ago; should be driving into town any time."
"Isn't that wonderful?" said Day, genuinely enthused. "We can look forward to some lively entertainment. Do you realize how long it's been since I've attended the theater?"
Cornelius frowned. "No?"