Until he was face-to-face with this thing they called The Master, that is.
At which point he would be on his own.
Chad looked at the machete in his hand and gripped it a little tighter. The hand holding it tingled strangely, as if being charged with a mild electric current. He tried to still the trembling in his arm, but it was difficult. He didn’t feel like a demon killer. These people were looking to him to be a hero, but he didn’t feel the slightest bit heroic. He just felt afraid and anxious, like a heart patient about to go under the knife.
The shooting stopped. Chad released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and some of the tension drained from his body. Then he realized the battle wasn’t really over. He could still hear gunfire, but it was intermittent and far away, and he imagined a building-to-building fight deeper into the community.
Footsteps pounded down the steps and Shaft reemerged into the tent. His eyes gleamed and his muscles twitched. Chad was sure he’d never seen a more highly adrenalized countenance in his life. “It’s on! We took some hits, lost some of our guards, but our side’s element of surprise was too much for the fuckers. They’re in full retreat now, and our people are hunting them through the village.”
Wanda’s eyes shone with tears. “We’re really doing it. I can’t believe it. Oh my God …”
Todd threw an arm around her and drew her close. “Yes, we’re really doing it.” His voice was charged with excitement. “But we’re not done yet.”
Chad swallowed another lump in his throat. “So … what now?”
Shaft said, “We get up on stage.”
He disappeared through the stage entrance again and the others followed him. Chad girded himself with another deep breath, then followed them into the semidarkness. Ten steps took him up through a sliver of light to the stage. He hadn’t been on a stage of any sort since junior high, a memorably unnerving performance of a class play. He’d known then he wasn’t cut out to be an actor or any other kind of performer. He didn’t like all that attention focused on him. He didn’t like crowds of people. Hell, to be honest, he didn’t like people in general. But that was an impersonal dislike. He’d always been able to hate the bulk of people around him because he didn’t know them. He didn’t know these people, either, but he experienced a profound empathy for them that surprised him. The stricken looks on their horrified faces touched a long-dormant part of him, a part he realized Cindy had reawakened.
The perimeter of the square was littered with bullet-riddled bodies. Most of them were fallen guards, but a few were those of unlucky citizens who happened to be caught in the cross fire. Guards without helmets lined the front of the stage and patrolled the perimeter. Chad saw discarded visorhelmets here and there around the square, and he realized now how the movement’s guards distinguished themselves from those still loyal to The Master-by ripping their helmets off and casting them aside.
Chad studied the faces of the guards close to the stage. Their features were grim, intent, the faces of noble men charged with a sacred duty they were determined to see through. It no longer mattered that these same men had done some awful things during their time Below. Somewhere in each of them lurked the remains of a true human heart, a soul capable of empathy and compassion, and somehow Jack Paradise had sought them out, tempting them with the promise of redemption.
Looking at them boosted Chad’s morale considerably.
The square itself was still congested with milling slaves and emancipateds. Chad sensed the volatile energy of the crowd. They looked like they were waiting for something else to happen, for the proverbial next shoe to drop, and they remained wary of the helmetless guards. But the prevailing mood of agitation seemed dangerous. Chad feared what might happen if that agitation wasn’t properly channeled.
Shaft gripped him by the shoulder and pointed to a nearby building. “You think these people are worked up now, keep your eye on that door.”
Chad squinted and saw an open doorway flanked by guards. The door was a dark rectangle, but he thought he detected a hint of movement somewhere in the darkness. Then he saw Paradise, G.I. Joe, and Lazarus emerge into the artificial twilight. The guards fell in behind them and escorted them to the stage. The crowd was slow to notice the approach of the old singer’s entourage, but when they did spot him they seemed to turn as one to observe their arrival.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Chad noted looks of confusion, incredulity, astonishment, and joy. Some of these people simply couldn’t believe what they were seeing. A few of these had witnessed the old man’s assassination. The word “miracle” spread through the crowd like an aural ripple on a human sea.
The singer’s escort arrived at the side of the platform, where the old man ascended a few steps to the stage. He strolled to the podium with his head held high, his face the triumphant mask of a returning conqueror. He shook hands with Jake Barnes, who leaned over the microphone to utter a parting remark: “People of Below… I give you resurrection.”
Then Lazarus stood alone at the podium, gripping its sides and studying them with the mute confidence of a god. Some of the long-suffering slaves dropped to their knees. The crowd grew quiet, awaiting the old man’s first public words in years.
There was utter stillness.
No more murmurs.
Barely a breath.
Lazarus smiled. “Friends …”
A susurration of reverent joy rippled through the crowd.
It really was him.
There could be no mistaking that voice.
A look of humility crossed the old singer’s face. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to stand before you here today. It is a miracle.” He paused to clear his throat. “I have returned to lead you home.”
The outburst of joy the remark triggered sent a tingle down Chad’s spine.
Then he heard an approaching rumble and turned his head to the left. A transport truck emerged from a side street and rolled up to the front of the stage. The diesel blast of its engine pierced the square’s atmosphere like a giant’s belch. Jake Barnes clapped a hand on Chad’s shoulder. “That’s your ride out of here, boy”
Lazarus resumed speaking. “I do not promise an easy exodus. The tunnels will be an ordeal. The shapeshifters rule that realm, and the danger they present is considerable. Some of us will die on the path to freedom.”
He sighed.
His face was a study in solemnity.
“Friends, I ask you-are you willing to pay the ultimate price for the chance to be free again?”
The cheer this time was a roar of affirmation.
Lazarus, whose big voice critics had once ascribed god-like qualities to, bellowed loud enough to be heard above the crowd: “THEN FREE YOU SHALL BE!”
This time the crowd’s response was like a battle cry.
Fierce and determined, a voice of collective yearning.
Chad realized he was shaking again.
But it wasn’t fear causing the trembling.
It was battle fever.
The machete’s handle thrummed in his hand.
And then hands were on his back, urging him to the side of the stage-toward the stairs.
Toward the transport truck.
Toward, yes, destiny.
The Master emerged from the meditative trance he entered when he wanted to commune with the gods. For centuries this had been an effortless process, a thing he did with the unthinking ease of an opera maestro going through vocal warm-ups.
That had changed.
Oh, he could still enter the meditative state instantly, but what was different now was his relationship with the death spirits. Often they seemed reluctant to commune with him. There had been times in recent weeks when he’d feared they didn’t wish to communicate with him at all. He was afraid they were abandoning him, a possibility
