“Therefore do not fear them. For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed and hidden that will not be known. Whatever I tell you in the dark, speak in the light; and what you hear in the ear, preach on the housetops.
“And… (Jesus Christ…)— And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”
Otis clapped the book shut with a cracking finality and let it drop to his side, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. He stared at Amanda, wondering what the hell had just happened, but then she was by his side taking the Bible away from him, tugging him gently away from the head of the graves so that others could come forward and speak.
Fred had approached first, leaning on his shovel as he began to remember his lost friends, but Otis did not hear him. He was still staring at Amanda.
“What the hell’d you jus’ have me do?” he hissed.
“It’s okay,” she said. “There’s enough in there about obedience that I can spin it if Clay asks questions.”
“Questions? You tryin’ to send him a message?”
“No, the meaning of the words could have been anything. I just picked a thing that covered the topic of death and could have been interpreted different ways,” she lied. “The important thing was to set a precedence. An expectation.”
“An expectation?” He was becoming even more agitated. “Jus’ what the hell of?”
“Calm down. We’ll get together later; they’ll have to let us out of our homes at some point. I’ll catch up with you and explain then.” It was on the tip of her tongue to explain right there, but she had no code she could efficiently use to express her idea; didn’t have the kind of shared experiences in common with Otis that she did with Jake. If Jake had been there, she just would have said she was letting Clay know she favored Knights over the Queen and that would have been enough. There was no such shorthand shared between her and Otis.
She leaned in close and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, taking the opportunity to whisper into his ear: “Patience. There’s a reason. We just need some time.”
He didn’t try to look at her; only stared ahead, looking through Fred’s shoulders and seeing the edges of Jake’s cabin beyond. He wondered what that man on the porch was thinking right now.
They were given what Clay determined to be a “respectably sensible period of time” to bury their friends—about an hour, not counting the act of digging—after which a contingent of his men drew near to quietly inform them they would need to wrap things up. Then they were collected together and reinstalled to their homes, their jailors taking up position outside each front door. The timing worked out fairly well; it had taken a collection of Houdini’s guys about that long to collect Ralph from the mountainside and haul him back in along with Charlie and Perry at the GMC. One of Houdini’s guys, Esparza, brought them all down together in the back of an older model Chevy, their arms, legs, and boots knocking around against the rusted-out metal walls of the bed as the truck’s sprung suspension rocked over the ruts of the uneven ground like an old mason hitching along on arthritic joints.
He parked north of the compound off the dried-out riverbed and well beyond the boundary of all the Connex homes. Then he turned off the engine and sat quietly in the cab a while, reconciling (or trying to reconcile) the loss of Ralph. Esparza hadn’t really known the other two—didn’t have much of an opinion on them—but Ralph had been a good guy. Maybe not the most competent of fellows, which was a significant factor in O.B. insisting that Ralph be his shadow—not wanting the younger man’s inexperience to endanger him or others… a sad irony now, all things considered. But the worth of a man, his intrinsic value, wasn’t always reducible to his skills alone. Things in the world now being what they were, it was perhaps even more important that certain qualities be sought out… cultivated. An easy smile, a free ear, a well-regulated yet healthy appetite for a good drink—these had been the hallmarks of Ralph’s personality that initially drew Esparza in. Everyone else was always so goddamned busy running around all the time, going after their own needs or hustling for work duty. Ralph operated in stark contrast to that behavior, always ready to slow down and listen when a friend was needful of such attention.
And for Esparza—an intensely lonely introvert in the best of times—Ralph’s easy manner and relaxed attitude toward other people had been… well, refreshing was the word he used, not wanting to sound like a desperate, lost pup. And yet if the man was forced to be honest, if only with himself, Esparza had to admit he’d been drawn to Ralph from the start; found himself looking forward to the ends of his days so he could search his buddy out and relax.
Except he wouldn’t be doing that anymore. His buddy was now trussed up in the back of a truck, the edges of a tarp pinned under his body as well as the others next to him to keep the crows off. Here he was again, preparing to bury more of his friends; friends being all he buried anymore. He’d buried the last of his family a long time ago.
Esparza exited the truck, approached the rear, and dropped the tailgate with a booming clang. He stood motionless a moment, eyeing the misshapen blue expanse of poly tarp bundled up like the cast-off clothing of a cyclopean monster, and sighed. Then he grabbed an edge of the crackling fabric, yanked the bodies to the ground where they piled like sandbags, retrieved a pick from the backseat, and began to dig.

Around midafternoon, Clay emerged from the main cabin with a coffee cup in hand to lean against the awning post at the top of the porch steps. He gave the signal to have their new friends retrieved from their homes and deposited on the commons at his feet. He noted their expressions carefully as they stepped out into the open; hunched and furtive like survivors of some horrible atrocity brought out into the light from some dank cave, wincing under the sun’s painful rays. He didn’t know how to feel about this; didn’t know if their demeanor was a good or bad thing. Strictly speaking, Clay wasn’t in the subjugation business—his interests aligned strictly with maintenance of the system and controlled growth (Jesus, if there had to be growth, please God let it be controlled…). But above all, his chief interest was quiet. Just good, old-fashioned, blissfully calm peace and quiet. Looking at these strangers as they shuffled tentatively over to meet him, seeing their downcast expressions, and especially noting that they uttered no protest when they noticed his men off in the distance working to pitch tents out in the grassy clearing, Clay figured he could live with a little docility. He would have preferred a throwing-in with his own interests—a setting of shoulders against shared goals and trials—but he could work with this. A cowed demeanor was, at the very least, a place to start.
“ One thing at a time… ” he whispered to himself as they gathered.
Houdini’s men had nearly completed putting the tents up by the time the people of the valley (The Recruits, as Clay had begun to think of them) had come to a stop before the porch. Their attention seemed to be torn between Clay and Pap, who stood on the porch next to his Baws , and the muted sounds of an efficiently constructed camp as it was set up out by the small ring of trucks. Clay watched as they in turn watched, no doubt counting off the number of tents as well as the men who bustled through the area hauling boxes, building cook fires, and setting up chairs. He let them continue to watch a while longer, hoping they were taking the hint that it was his men setting up in tents while they would continue to enjoy the homes they’d made, before finally losing his patience and clearing his throat. His new little batch of recruits turned back to look at him, eyes downcast. Resentful.
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