my first question—who the hell are you?”
“My name would mean nothing to you…but if you must call me something, you may call me Esau.”
Grant inhaled a deep breath, held it, then released it slowly. “What are you?”
“I believe you have already guessed.”
When Grant declined to respond, he heard a shuffle of movement and a small figure stepped out from behind Shuma. At first Grant thought it was a crippled child, leaning as it did on a pair of crutches. But when the figure lurched closer he knew with a rise of nausea he was vastly mistaken.
Esau stood a little more than four feet tall, his emaciated body lost in a baggy flannel shirt and pants several sizes too large for him. An old extension cord cinched the waistband tight. The frayed cuffs of the trousers dragged on the floor, but Grant couldn’t see any sign of feet.
Esau’s face was dominated by a thick shelf of bone bulging above his huge eyes. The forehead rose like a marble wall, angling upward to join with the flat crown of his skull. A mat of thin gray hair covered it.
Grant struggled to keep his expression neutral, to disguise the fear swelling within him.
Esau’s small mouth twitched in a parody of a smile. “I revolt you more than Shuma, do I not?”
Grant didn’t respond for a few seconds, visually examining the blue-and-red mapwork of broken blood vessels spreading over Esau’s forehead. “Not exactly. I’ve come across your type a time or two.”
Esau’s smile widened in mock ingenuousness. “And what type is that, Mr. Grant?”
“Doomies,” he retorted matter-of-factly. “You’re a doomseer. I didn’t think there were many of you left.”
In the Outlands, people with enhanced psionic abilities were called doomseers or doomies, their mutant precognitive abilities feared and hated.
Most of the mutant strains spawned after the nuclear holocaust were extinct, either dying because of their twisted biologies, or hunted and exterminated during the early years of the unification program. Doomseers weren’t necessarily mutants, but norms with true telepathic abilities were rare in current times.
Extrasensory and precognitive perceptions were the most typical abilities possessed by mutants who appeared otherwise normal.
Esau uttered a scoffing, contemptuous laugh. “Hardly a doomseer. I can’t foretell the future any more accurately than you can.”
“Then what do you call yourself?”
Casting a sideways glance up at Shuma, Esau answered confidently, “A mastermind. I call myself a mastermind.”
Grant cocked his head in puzzlement. “A what?”
“I can master minds not my own…like Shuma’s here.”
His gaze narrowed, Grant asked, “How can you do that?”
Esau’s shoulders jerked in what appeared to be a nervous tic but was an attempt to emulate a shrug. “By a variety of measures. The drugs help, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But I have the ability to stimulate certain parts of his brain so I can flood his nervous system with endorphins.” Esau paused for a handful of thoughtful seconds, then asked, “Do you know what those are?”
Grant nodded. “I do.”
“Then you know that when the nervous system is exposed to endorphins, a biochemical reaction takes place. The reasoning parts of the brain are inhibited.”
“And therefore easy to control,” Grant interjected.
Esau’s smile widened. “It doesn’t work the same for everybody. It helps if you’re a self-indulgent voluptuary in the first place, like Shuma.”
“I gathered that,” Grant replied dryly. “So you’re really the boss and Shuma is just the front man?”
“Something like that. Clever, wouldn’t you say?”
Grant nodded in grudging agreement. “I suppose so…Roamers would never take orders from a crippled little pissant like you.”
Esau’s lips tightened and he stepped closer to Grant, staring at him unblinkingly, as if challenging him to look away. Grant did not. “Are there any further questions?”
“Plenty of them, but first, where is the Wright woman?”
Esau’s brow acquired a line of concentration. “Oh, I do apologize. I should have reunited you much sooner. She can actually answer most of your other questions.”
“You don’t even know what they are.”
In a voice barely above a whisper, Esau stated, “You would ask me to reconsider leading the Survivalist Outland Brigade and join with Cerberus in an alliance against these so-called overlords…whatever they are.”
Grant stirred uneasily. “How do you know that?”
“Because that is what the Wright woman asked.”
“And what did you tell her?”
Esau turned toward Shuma. On the right side of his massive head, a thick vein pulsed. Shuma lumbered forward, grasped the back of Grant’s chair and lifted it clear of the floor without apparent effort. He turned it and set it down at a different angle.
Peering through the gloom, Grant saw heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Four chains dangled from a block-and-tackle assembly attached to the rafters. The ends of the chains were tipped with sharp meat hooks of the type used in slaughterhouses.
From two of the hooks hung a naked body, gutted like the carcass of a pig he had seen once since in a butcher’s shop. One of the big hooks had been inserted through the underside of the chin, and the tip of another pierced the left armpit.
Through the fog of horror clouding his vision, Grant looked into the glassy, dead eyes of Wright.
Teeth clenched, a wordless snarl of rage vibrating in his throat, Grant hurled himself against his bonds, rocking the chair back and forth, hoping to tip it over on Esau. Shuma’s huge hands fell onto his shoulders, pressing him down, holding him motionless.
Esau lurched into view on his crutches, staring levelly into Grant’s eyes. “She told me quite a bit, but not everything. You’ll do that for me, Mr. Grant.”
“Goddamn you to Hell, you little mutie piece of shit.” His voice was so guttural with fury it sounded more like the growl of an animal.
Esau leaned forward, stroking the side of Grant’s face with tiny baby fingers. “God has done enough to me already, Mr. Grant. I do the damning to Hell here.”
His unnaturally large eyes suddenly seemed to increase in size, as if they were squirming from their sockets. Tiny red flames flickered within the pupils. Grant sensed rather than heard a multitude of tiny voices, all chittering like faraway crickets. The sound slid along the edges
