One of the children, a tiny curly-headed girl, chased a bright red ball to the edge of the fence. It rolled underneath the strands and stopped at Kanazuchi's feet; he picked up the ball and held it out to her. She looked at him coyly; he made the ball disappear with a deft sleight of hand, then reached through the fence and produced it from behind the girl's ear. She accepted it with a delighted gasp of astonishment and ran off laughing toward the others.
One of the adults inside the fence had noticed their inter action; Kanazuchi raised the dead smile back onto his face waved blandly, and walked away.
A two-story warehouse drew into sight, standing apart from the shanties in a clearing. He waited for the area to empty before crossing to its walls. Barn-style double front doors slightly open; two yawning whiteshirts patrolling with rifles Kanazuchi walked slowly around to the rear, where he found a single door. Tried the handle, twisted quietly with all his strength until it yielded, then slipped inside.
Stacked wooden crates covered with canvas and tied to the ground by rope occupied most of the open floor space. Kanazuchi walked between rows piled as high as his head. Out of sight of the front doors, he cut the rope holding one stack and wedged open the crate. A dozen rifles inside, his estimate, more than a thousand rifles in the room.
A row of irregular shrouded shapes stood across from him; he lifted the canvas. Four round-barreled guns mounted on sturdy tripods. Countless smaller boxes stenciled with the word GATLING and filled with coils of linked ammunition belts piled nearby. He had never seen one before, but he had heard of such weapons: machine guns. He had also heard it said that one man armed with' a machine gun in open ground could kill a hundred in less than a minute.
Sound nearby; a gentle rasp of snoring. He traced it to a white shirt sleeping on the ground three rows away, rifle beside him. An Asian face.
Chinese.
Kanazuchi picked up the rifle, reached down and tickled the man's nose with the tip of the barrel. He woke sluggishly, offering no reaction, even with the gun staring him in his face.
"Why are you sleeping on duty?" asked Kanazuchi in Mandarin.
"Will you report me?" the man answered flatly.
"What if I had been an intruder?"
"Don't talk in that language," the man said in English. "It is against the rules."
"I will report you if you do not answer my questions," said Kanazuchi in English.
"You should report me. I have broken the rules. I should be punished," the man said almost eagerly, the first emotion he'd exhibited. "That is your responsibility."
"Do you know what will happen to you?"
"I will be sent to the Reverend."
"What will the Reverend do to you?"
"I will be punished."
"How?"
"You must tell them what I have done. That is the rule. If you do not tell them, then you have broken the rules...."
Kanazuchi grabbed the man's throat, cutting him off.
"When did you come to this place?" Kanazuchi asked in a whisper.
The man stared at him, not even bothered by the constriction to his breathing.
"How long ago did you come here?" asked Kanazuchi.
"Two years."
"There were men here who worked with explosives, Chinese; did you know them?"
The man nodded.
"They worked for the railroad; did you work for the railroad, too?"
The man nodded again.
"Where are they now?"
"Gone."
"They built something here, a room underground, under that church, do you know where this room is?"
The man shook his head. He told the truth.
"Is the Reverend the man they have built this for?" asked Kanazuchi.
The man nodded again. "Everything is for the Reverend."
"Where is the Reverend now?"
The man shook his head.
"Tell me where he is or I will kill you."
The man shook his head again, a reptilian cold possessing i his eyes.
"You are not one of us ..." the man said.
He tried to cry out; Kanazuchi gripped his throat harder before a sound could escape and crushed his windpipe. The man collapsed like a broken puppet. Kanazuchi dragged the body to the edge of the room, emptied one of the rifle boxes, stuffed the dead man inside, and covered the box with canvas.
No movement from the front; the guards had not seen or heard him. He retraced his steps to the back door and left the warehouse.
His briefcase resting on his lap, Dante sat outside the office door and waited as Frederick had ordered him to do. The men they'd traveled with were elsewhere in the house attending to their wounded comrade, struck by a stray bullet as the last of the posse was going down. They'd ridden hard nearly two hours straight after that, all the way to The New City. Dante was still reeling from all he'd taken in since they arrived.
Through lace curtains, he could look down on Main Street; its clean white simplicity reminded him so much of the home he'd always wanted that he hoped he would never leave. He had nearly given up dreaming that such a nice friendly place could even exist. But this was the House of Hope, wasn't it?
He could smell pies baking in the house, apple and cherry both, his favorites. He wondered if they would give him vanilla ice cream with his pie; yes, probably so. He wondered when they would let him have one of the uncommonly attractive women he had seen in the street. The Voices in his head had never sounded so happy.
We want to eat everything, everything, everything.
He was startled out of his dreamy mood by angry voices coming from the office; the man he had heard them call the Reverend was yelling at Frederick, something about a book that Frederick had brought with them.
"Useless! This is useless!"
The book they'd brought with them came flying through the doorway; its spine cracked as it hit the far wall.
"How could you be so blind? How can I finish my Work without the real book? What do you expect me to use in its place?"
Dante couldn't make out Frederick's response, only the more reasonable tone of his voice.
"Oh, really? Left a trail of crumbs, have you? And how can you be so bloody certain they'll bring the real one with them?" said the Reverend. "How can you be sure they'll even follow you?"
Another smooth reply from Frederick.
"NO!" the Reverend screamed. "You'll not collect one penny until that book is in my hands."
Again Frederick replied in the same soothing manner; over some minutes the Reverend's anger subsided and his voice calmed to Frederick's level. Dante felt relieved; he didn't like the idea of anyone being so angry at Frederick; it made his new world feel as brittle as a hard-boiled egg.
Moments later the door opened; Frederick smiling, waving him inside. Dante entered the office.
The Reverend Day stood in front of his desk, smiling too, anger gone, holding his arms out to welcome Dante.
Frederick walked him across the room, gripped Dante by the hands, rolled up his left sleeve, and showed his brand to the Reverend, who nodded in kind approval.
"Why don't you show the Reverend your new tools, Mr. Scruggs?" Frederick whispered in his ear.
Dante opened his briefcase; he felt a twinge of embarrassment when he realized he hadn't had time to clean off all the blades after they'd finished with the posse. Halfway through, he realized he didn't like working on men nearly as much, remembering with a thrill the chubby blond girl from the train—in a jar in his suitcase he'd saved two choice pieces of her that he hadn't even had time to appreciate yet—but he guessed it was still better than dumb animals or insects. Men were better than nothing.
Somehow when Dante looked into the Reverend's eyes, he felt all of his secrets were understood. No need to explain himself or feel ashamed. This was the man in charge, their general, and he was more bighearted than any soldier could ever hope for. Just as Frederick had said he would be.