The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (22 page)

He turns milky eyes toward me, his mouth moving in silent prayer. I stare at the rippling water. What would it feel like to die slowly from the inside out?

He lifts the bowl. “Drink.”

I shake my head. “No.”

The crowd murmurs. Andrew takes a step forward, his palm on the gun.

The Messiah offers the bowl again. “Drink.”

I reach up for the bowl, my hands trembling. I look over at my mama, my baby brother. If I drink, will they let them go? Could they leave even if I died?

I slam my hands into the bowl and splash the water onto the Messiah. He stumbles back and bangs into a carousel horse.

Andrew grabs my arm. He yanks the gun from his hip, points it at my head, and begins to thumb down the trigger.

Clay shoves between us. His chest is inches away from Andrew's gun barrel. The awful black eye of the pistol hovers near Clay's heart. He keeps his eyes on Andrew. “Put the gun down and no one has to get hurt.”

They stare each other down. My heart's pounding into my ears. Please don't let him shoot Clay. Please.

Andrew swivels and aims at Mama on the other side of the platform. “Riley drinks,” he says, “or her mom takes the bullet.” He walks over and presses the muzzle of the gun into my mother's temple. My blood sizzles like fire.

“Don't touch her!” I yell, stepping around Clay. His hand slips over my wrist, but I shake it off.

“I'll drink!” I shout, my chest heaving. “I'll drink your poison, if they don't have to.” I point to my family. I drop my heavy arm as the weight of my words sink over me. “I'll drink if you'll let them go.”

Brushing wet hair off his forehead, the Messiah steps up. His white gown clings to his chest, revealing dozens of sores underneath. “The water isn't poisoned,” he says, folding his hands.

“Ha!” I turn to the crowd. “I know you plan on killing everyone.”

Someone in the crowd gasps. A little child begins to sniffle.

The Messiah looks shocked as if he has no idea what I'm talking about. “Why would I kill my people?”

“Because the Gods told you to. You believe time is up. But what kind of Gods would want that kind of sacrifice?”

A tiny smile reaches the corners of his lips before he can pull it down. Apparently
his
Gods want that kind of sacrifice. “I'll prove it.” He turns to the crowd, arms wide. “I'll prove the water isn't poisoned.” He takes the silver bowl from the carousel floor, dips it in the barrel, and raises the rippling liquid to his lips.

No one breathes. We watch, stunned, as he slowly, slowly he drains the whole bowl.

Someone shouts, “See?” Another shouts, “Make her drink.”

Was I wrong? Or is he willing to be the first to die to carry out his insane plan?

He fills the bowl and turns toward me.

Heart pounding, I take it in my hands. The clear liquid looks so much like water, but yet, there's a smell I don't like. Chemical, like the water in the underground lake. I look over at my poor mother, the gun at her temple reddening the skin. She stares at me, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. I feel the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes on me as I lift the bowl to my mouth.

There's movement behind me. Clay dives for Andrew. Andrew turns, but it's too late. Clay's body rams into Andrew's, sending them both flying into the horses. They rock the platform and the bowl falls from my hand and crashes to the floor. There's a scramble of arms and legs. Clay slams his elbow into the side of Andrew's head with a sickening crack. Andrew's fingers claw for Clay's eyes sockets.

Where is the gun? I search the floor. If only I could grab it.

Clay jumps up, the gun in his hands. He presses the black revolver to Andrew's skull.

“I should pull the goddamn trigger now,” he says through gritted teeth, pressing the barrel harder into Andrew's temple. “After what you done to my girl, I should paint this stage with yer brains.” He digs the barrel into Andrew's head until the bastard cries out.

“Stop!” the Messiah yells, striding up. “Any violence against my men and you will never be allowed to leave.”

Clay pushes up, leaving Andrew cowering on the floor. He turns and aims the gun at the Messiah. The crowd gasps.

“Step back or I'll shoot!” Clay yells. The Brotherhood obey, but their eyes could kill.

Hands raised in surrender, the Messiah shakes his head. “I thought you were one of us, Clay.”

Clay shakes his head. “My allegiance is to her,” he nods my way. “Always to her.”

The Messiah lifts a sad smile. “I understand. Now, put down the gun, and we'll let you walk out of here.”

Clay shakes his head, flashing his teeth. “Not so easy. You'll come with for insurance. Then, when we're a mile or two down the trail, we'll drop you off and yer boys can come pick you up.”

The Messiah shakes his head. He takes another step forward, until there's only a foot between him and the gun barrel. My breath comes in shallow, strangling grasps. I flick my eyes between Clay and the Messiah. Does Clay really think we can take the Messiah hostage?

“Back up or I'll shoot.” Clay's eyes are cold steel. He means every word.

The Messiah's face remains unchanged, though he's a foot away from a lead death. He takes a deep breath. “It's time to go,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Clay. He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Not my will, but Yours.”
“Hell yeah, my will.” Clay wiggles the gun to the left. “Let's go, magic man. We need a truck,” Clay looks at Andrew. “Best get that ready.”

The Messiah drags his eyes from the ceiling and centers them on Clay. His sore-pocked face has taken on a sadness I don't understand. Everyone member of his Brotherhood looks like he wants to rip Clay's head off, yet the Messiah looks like he's just…disappointed. The Messiah takes a step forward, his gown swishing around his ankles. “If the Gods have willed it, so it shall be.”

Clay nods, but a raw feeling of dread has been spreading in my heart. Something's wrong. I place my hand on Clay's arm. “Let's just go.”

“Yes,” the Messiah says, his voice faraway and robotic. “Time to go home.”

With one step, he closes the gap between himself and the gun. His hand shoots out, wrapping around Clay's hand. Clay's mouth drops open in surprise. What is he—

His finger curls over Clay's on the trigger. Before Clay can pull away, the gun fires, a flash of light and a puff of smoke. The bang rings in my ears. Blood sprays from the right half of the Messiah's head, so red in the setting sunlight streaming between the boards above. Hot liquid dots my face. The Messiah falls like a stone onto the carousel platform. It rocks beneath me and the floorboards vibrate. My eyes lock on his body: the white gown growing red, the bloody scalp, his brown hair clumping in red tangles. And the blood. Oh the blood, it gushes like a hose all over the wooden boards. It spills through the cracks and patters on the floor beneath the carousel.

The Messiah is dead.

Clay’s face is white, his hand slack. His eyes are glued to the body. The gun sags to his side and droops as if it weighs a hundred pounds.

The crowd stirs. “He killed the Messiah!” a voice yells. “Papa!” calls another. It must be Mage, though I can't see her.

Clay's eyes flash toward the voices. It doesn't matter that the lunatic killed himself. Some of the crowd didn't see clearly and the rest will be easily swayed. Only those of us close enough to see know the truth. It'll be the perfect way to get rid of us, a mob frenzy fueled by hatred. They'll draw and quarter Clay. They'll let the buzzards peck at his bowels while he watches.

I grab his arm and yank. “Run!” I shout. “Run!”

His eyes find mine, fear replacing shock.

Andrew falls out of his trance. “Get them!”

The men come out of their stupor and charge up the steps. I grab Mama's arm, pulling her along with me. Clay scoops up Ethan and limp-runs beside me. Rayburn skitters up behind. The platform jiggles as we jump off. The Brotherhood is steps behind.

Clay reaches back and shoots. The gun cracks and sends a bullet slicing through the crowd. I look over my shoulder, expecting blood, but Clay shot to scare, not to wound.

“Then next bullet won't be a warning!” he shouts as he runs beside me. Already his breath comes in raged gasps. His leg. How will we make it out? It doesn't matter. We must. To stay is death.

When I don't hear stomping footsteps behind us, I turn. Half of the men are heading off down another hallway while a group keeps a boiling crowd at bay. I look into Clay's face, hopeful. He shakes his head.

“They're gonna get the guns. The Messiah didn't allow 'em, but now that he's dead it'll be open season. Soon's they return, they'll mow us down like a combine through a field. We gotta get somewhere safe and pronto.” He wrinkles his brow, flicks the revolver's chamber out, and does a quick-count on bullets. Four bullets. He frowns and shakes his head at our meager firepower. My heart sinks like a boulder into my stomach. Beside me, Mama labors just to keep jogging. We won't get far. We'll be gunned down in the hallway.

I shake my head. We don't give up. Not ever.

We stumble into the unlit hallway leading to the hole. No exits. The only thing here is the deep dark crevasse.

“We have to go down,” I sputter, wishing I could think of anything else.

“Go down?” Ethan slips out of Clay's arms and drops to the ground. He points to the dark, yawning hole. “Go down
there
?”

“Riley, no.” Clay shakes his head. He opens up the revolver and examines his bullets like if he looked harder there'd be more than four.

Footsteps pound behind us. They're coming. This time they have guns.

“Go,” I say, shoving them forward. “Go!”

They stumble to the incline. I take the lead and slip down the dark spiral, one hand on the wall to keep me from falling. Behind me, their shuffling steps let me know they've followed.

“This way,” I say over my shoulder, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. The truth is my heart's doing jumping jacks in my chest. I hate this hole. Sensations from the last time trail over my skin: rancid breath on my face, wispy hair on my shoulder. Whatever lived down here saved me, but the fear still clings to my skin. I fight my panic and keep my feet moving forward. One hand on the rough stone, I walk down the circular incline for what feels like forever. Each step is terrifying in the dark. I keep picturing myself falling off the incline and dropping to my death.

My foot strikes something and I stumble, my hands skidding over the concrete. When I sit up, there's an ache in my shoulder, but I think I've reach the bottom. I stand, hold my hand out and call to them. “This way.” A hand fumbles into mine and a yelp escapes whoever just bumped into me.

“It's me,” I whisper. “Rayburn?”

“Yeah,” he says, his body pressing close in the dark. Then he rocks forward and there's an
umph
behind him. “We're stopping,” he says to those behind him.

“Riley?” It's Mama. She sounds scared.

“Yeah. I'm here. Is everyone okay?”

Four yeses echo in the dark.

“So, what's the plan?” It's Clay's voice. His hand fumbles for me and then slips around my arm.

“I don't know.” I try to pick out any shape in the blackness and come up empty.

“You down there!” a voice calls from above.

I jump. Clay's hand twitches on my arm.

The voice above echoes down. “We're posting guards! If you come up, we'll shoot. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay down there and starve to death.”

I squeeze Clay's hand to tell him not to bother to answer. Nothing we say will make a difference. They're not coming after us. It's great news and yet, somehow I don't get it.

“Why wouldn't they just run down and kill us?” I whisper.

“Maybe they don't have guns after all,” Clay muses.

“Or m-m-maybe there's monsters in here that will, uh, eat us and save them the t-t-trouble.” Rayburn's voice shakes.

“That's enough of that.” It's Mama's voice. “There's no such thing as monsters.”

I think of whatever freed me and say nothing. Better not to scare them yet. First, we need light. “Anyone hiding a flashlight in their pocket?” I ask.

“Anyone have m-m-matches? A lighter?” Rayburn asks.

Matches! I dig out the matchbook and find the little green Bible in my pocket beside them. I pull the book and the matches out. “Hold this,” I say to Clay, pressing the book into his palms. “Open it to the middle and hold it out for me.” He does as I ask. Then I pull a match out and strike it, holding my breath.

There's a hiss. A little orange flame dances on the end of my match, barely lighting the thick darkness. It's enough to see Clay and the Bible cupped in his palm. I set the little match tenderly on the pages.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. Who am I apologizing to? The book? The gods that supposedly inhabit it? The Messiah whose blood has dried on my face?

The little book catches flame, the first pages coiling and crinkling. Clay looks at me with wide eyes.
“Set the book on the ground,” I say. “We need to look around before the flame goes out. Anything else to burn?”

Rayburn offers his T-shirt and it gives us a little more time. We shuffle outward, circling the walls of the crevasse. The stone is rough and useless. I find the spot where I was chained and skirt around it, the fear creeping up my neck. A child's shoe is overturned in one corner and it reminds me of Mage. How is she doing with her dad's death? Will I see her again? I drop the shoe into the flame. Clay produces a very old newspaper, which burns up, smelling foul. Ethan runs up triumphantly, a huge smile on his face. In his hands he holds a lantern.

I reach for him. “Where did you find this?”

“Hanging on the wall over there.” He points.

“Just hanging there?” It's a little electric lantern like the one I used when I came down after Clay. I look down at the black toggle switch on the front. “They must store one down here for emergencies.”

Ethan nods, his face beaming.

“Don't get too excited. It might not have batteries,” I say. When I flick the switch from off to on, a beam of yellow light joins the orange of the sputtering fire. I kiss Ethan on his head and swing the light around the cave.