“Ryan?”
The word sounded so far away.
The dizziness swept over him like a great wave of nausea, bringing him again to his knees.
“Come on, Ryan.”
He couldn’t form the words of a reply.
“Ryan Cawdor?”
His mouth was dust dry, and when he tried to speak, there was no sound, not even the faint mewing of a drowning, newborn kitten.
Doom.
The single word pounded in his brain, like the beating of a slack-skinned drum, heard shimmering through the heat haze of a luxurious summer meadow.
“Ryan!”
It was louder, meaning that he was going to have to open his eye again, which didn’t seem like the best idea in the world. It would be uncomfortable and painful.
Better by far to sleep and die.
“Give…drink…”
Cool liquid flowed into his mouth, over his swollen tongue and into his parched throat.
“Good,” he mumbled.
The other voice said, “What’d he say?”
Another man, whose voice was vaguely familiar, replied, “Said it was good, Brother. Shall I give him more?”
“No. Sit him up. Slap his face if he won’t come around. Need him awake.”
A blow jolted Ryan’s cheek, making the vertigo worse.
“Open your eye, Ryan.”
“Soon.”
“Not soon. Now.”
“Others are coming around. Except old man and the albino kid. Both flaked out.”
“Kid had two helpings of the soup, and the old-timer’s got Sierra flu. Drug was bound to work a deal harder on him than on the others.”
Ryan knew that he was learning something important, something that he somehow already knew. “Odd flavor,” he said.
The men laughed. “Bet it did, Brother Cawdor. Not odd enough to stop you pigging at it.”
“Drugged.” That was it. That was the missing shape in the puzzle.
“Did he say something about the soup being drugged?” There was more laughter. Ryan felt his whole body moving, as though someone were rocking the bed he lay on.
“Drugged me.” He heard his own voice, now louder and much clearer.
“Right. Now it’s time you got yourself up and walking good, Brother Cawdor.”
The words came from Joshua Wolfe, leader of the ville. Ryan took a deep breath, allowing his right hand to wander under the pillow, feeling for the familiar butt of the SIG-Sauer, ready to wipe away the smiles and laughter.
“Don’t think so, outlander.” Jim Owsley sneered at him.
Wolfe spoke again, insistent. “We’ve waited enough. Open your eye and get up. There’s much to talk about before you and your colleagues entertain us at the testing.”
Ryan opened his eye, feeling an instant tsunami of sickness washing around his skull.
All he knew was that they’d been tricked by the Children of the Rock. All of their weapons had been stolen, and there was this repeated talk of the testing.
It was time to fight back against the drugs they’d been given. Now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The tiny flickering digital numerals showed Ryan that it was seven minutes from noon.
He was sitting cross-legged on his own bed, holding his aching head in his hands. Sunlight shone through the narrow gap where the door of their hut stood ajar. The air was heavily scented with the fragrance of the surrounding pines, freshened by the heavy rain of the previous night.
To his right, Krysty was also sitting up, her hands laid flat on her thighs. Her emerald eyes were closed, and her sentient red hair was coiled protectively about her nape. She was meditating, calling silently on the powers of the Earth Mother to help them out of this deep, deep hole.
J.B. stood, looking out of the window of the cabin, Mildred at his side, running her fingers through her beaded hair. Neither of them had spoken much in the past hour or so, locked into their own thoughts.
Ryan noticed that Mildred was holding J.B.’s hand.
Jak rested on the floor in a corner of the room, staring at the hewed logs of the wall.
Dean sat on his bed, quietly staring at the ceiling, completely still.
Doc lay on his back, blankets pulled up to his stubbled chin, eyes closed. He was breathing slowly and heavily, with a faint, whispering croak at the end of each intake. From where he was sitting, Ryan could make out the sheen of perspiration that dappled the old man’s pallid forehead.