with his overly tanned skin, bald crown, and white hair starting partway down his skull. Finally, I look over photos of his platinum blonde sister, Steph, and his bald brother, Craig. The latter is rumored to have OD’d in Chicago years ago, but I want to be ready for anything.
Steph is definitely in the Village. According to Fairuza, the “balloon-breasted” woman would frequently read aloud from mystery books as if the ideas were her own. The Volkshalberd were expected to gasp at the big moments and clap at the end.
“Some of the brainless toadies cried,” Pixie said, rolling her eyes.
I have to believe more than a few of the seventy-plus people still in the Village must know the Marks family is bad news. But they were raised to think a life without suffering led to impure bloodlines. Starving to death probably feels like a gift to some of them.
I’m afraid to tell Pixie I’m leaving. She reads me too well. If I look worried, she’ll know this club job isn’t like those from the last few nights. Pixie’s anxiety will feed mine, and I need to remain calm.
Yet, I really want the feel of her on my lips and against my skin before I face possible death. Her comfort or mine? I fight my natural selfish tendency to put myself first.
I peek out at Pixie, who plays in Bronco’s backyard. Earlier, she learned about washable chalk. Now, Pixie is obsessed with drawing flowers on the back patio.
“We can create a new garden after each rain,” she told me earlier, wide-eyed and breathless with excitement.
As Pixie plays with Bronco’s girls and her siblings in the backyard, I sneak out of the house with my club brothers.
Tonight, my main task is to keep Bronco alive rather than kill anyone. He’s wanted to end John Marks for decades. No doubt, Bronco will kill Steph, too. In a perfect world, he’ll end their bloodline before dawn.
Bronco, Lowell, Drummer, Akron, and I slip through a broken spot in the fencing around the Village. This is the same location Pixie used to sneak out. She also told us about another weak spot near the crops. Conor and his group will enter from that direction.
The darkness hides our movements but also our path. We wear night goggles to see well enough to move through the thorny woods. If the Killing Joes wanted to set up traps, they’d do it closer to where they were hiding. Out here would be wasted effort.
As we arrive near the center of the Village, singing fills the air along with the sound of trash can lids turned into makeshift drums. The celebratory sounds hide our approach but do little to disguise the Volkshalberd’s suffering. Under the racket echo the cries of starving people.
Crouched in the brush, I catch sight of a whimpering woman carrying her limp child. These people won’t last much longer. In fact, the young Volkshalberd hungry for war likely spend much of their days digging graves for their dead elders.
My mind shifts away from the starving people. I don’t think of the assholes needing to die. I only see Bronco in front of me. Even my other club brothers are background noise.
When I used to get high, the world dropped away. Nothing mattered except chasing the dragon for hours. I could be sitting in a burning house without noticing a damn thing.
Tonight, I use a similar single-minded focus. If Bronco goes low, I do, too. If he moves faster, I keep pace. If someone fires at him, my body will shield him. Focused only on keeping him alive, I see nothing else.
“Our bloodlines are strong and pure!” yells a male voice over the racket made by the starving masses. “We are the Volkshalberd! Swords of war! We will not falter!”
Is John Marks rallying his people? When I take off my night goggles to study the well-lit outdoor meeting area, I spot a man not much older than Pixie. He stands facing less than a dozen young men who stare in awe. These are John Marks’s true believers.
“We wallowed in the shadows until he came and restored our honor!” the young man hollers, wearing an unhinged yet joyful smile.
The men cheer with psychotic zeal. They’re pumped for battle. The cries of their fellow Volkshalberd mean nothing. Their mothers, fathers, and siblings are viewed as weak sheep while these psychos see themselves as the wolves. What does that make the Executioners?
Killing them won’t bother me one fucking bit. And letting them