from, Michael Faris?”
“The office. We slept there.”
“Play no games,” the priest said. “Before that, boy.”
“We . . . came from Route 82.” Michael motioned toward the edge of Coalmount with his head.
“Before that,” said the priest.
“Before . . . ?”
“Beefooore!” hissed the priest. His neck popped in cords. “Before before!”
Michael did not dare look away from the priest, but he swore that he could almost feel Patrick’s reaction ping across the air to him, asking why a man in The Game was so mean. Patrick, getting more and more scared . . .
From the woods: “Beeee—fooo—beeeeeffooorrrreeee!”
Calm again, as if comforted by the roars, the priest said:
“Confess, child. In the night. You killed the Chosen.”
The crowd murmured agreement. Did they sound closer than before?
Michael’s groin filled with ice. “The what?”
“God’s Chosen, Michael Faris.”
“Well . . . I’m not exactly sure what you mean by ‘God’s Chosen.’”
But with blossoming dread, Michael thought he did know why Rulon called the Bellow he’d killed “the Chosen.”
The way the Bellow was bound to the altar in the church. The way other “God-Blessed” Bellows were buried in front of the meeting hall: sealed and untouchable, as if they were being protected.
They . . . oh God. Oh effing no. Do these people worship the Bellows?
“You think this is your victory, don’t you, child?” said the priest.
Michael blinked. “I . . . victory?”
“But you are the victor of nothing. You destroyed our First, but ohhh, more of the Chosen pass through these hills around our town and come to us every day, don’t they? Your friends may have tried to force us from our homes, but we’re back, now, aren’t we? And you cannot keep us out of your shelter forever. This is not your victory, no, child. Tell me: Why did the others send you?”
Michael stood stone-faced, refusing to betray his emotions. But something strong and good roared in his chest. There are others. Nearby. Others, who this a-hole hates.
Which means, probably, they’re awesome.
Others, as in the Safe Zone?
He didn’t know; doubted it, actually.
But he could not help but picture the ending he’d been fighting to reach since Halloween: he pictured walking into the Safe Zone, holding Patrick’s hand. And he pictured Mom, the little birthmark on her left cheek twitching, like it always did when she saw him and was about to smile; he pictured her pride in him, her happiness.
Ringed by the crowd, the madman’s rifle zeroed over his heart, Michael mentally calculated how long it would take to dive back into the car, find the keys, and plow an escape through these lunatics.
Way too long.
Michael looked into the priest’s eyes. And what he saw inside them—the certainty and fury—made him . . . calm.
You can’t outrun him. So outplay him.
Yeah, the Game Master never told you about fighting a psycho priest, but outplay him—just do this one last thing—and maybe The Game can be over. Just like the Game Master promised.
Outplay him how?
Michael’s senses searched for his pulse. . . .
He opened his heart to the fear, and the danger beat through his veins, enlivening him, amplifying all instincts, the terror fusing all his focus down to a powerfully bright, pulsing bead.
He looked into the man’s eyes and took the measure of his rage, and fear. He saw who the priest was, behind that rifle, behind those eyes. Michael understood him.
Like Ron.
You outplay him like you do with Ron, how you always keep yourself—and Bub—safe whenever he’s around.
You lie.
And Michael smiled—yes-yes—the crazy exhilaration of knowing what to do outweighing any dread.
He took a step forward, let it become a trot, and offered the priest his hand.
The priest’s finger tensed on the trigger. The crowd didn’t gasp: they seemed to become a gasp, going taut and drawing back.
“Stop,” the priest said.
“Sure thing,” Michael said.
He stopped but leaned in, ignored the gasping crowd, said seriously, “You’re right, though. The man in charge sent me. And if you hurt me, sir, I think he’s gonna be . . . upset.”
The priest’s beetle eyes narrowed with suspicion. “But why would he send a child?”
Who’s ‘he’? Doesn’t matter. Keep going.
“Hey, Coalmount, how ya doing?” Michael greeted the crowd.
One time, the governor had come to talk to his high school; as he’d walked to the auditorium stage, he shook everybody’s hand. Michael imitated that now, the politician’s winky-winky, grabbing limp fingers. “Everyone eating okay? Need any food? Anybody need clean undies? Besides me.”
Michael felt the air shift on his neck, knew what was coming, and had to fight not