Page 115 of The Gathering
“That’s precisely what it is,” Quantum agreed.
“It doesn’t speak words,” 8-Bit said, “it forms sounds to mimic the language.”
“And it’s not a language,” Quantum clarified, “it’s just another method for speaking it. Like sign language only with sound.”
“Sound language,” Bullets muttered, liking it to the language of gunfire. Every bullet spoke death, but some spoke it louder, faster, and meaner than others.
“So they get numbers for names?” Lesion wondered.
“For now.”
“Wait, are these the ones gettingwives?” Sinrik asked.
“We’ll see how they perform,” Quantum said. “They may not need them.”
“What can they do?” Bishop wondered, sizing one up.
Quantum regarded the rows of half-skinned machines. “Run sixty miles without slowing. Lift eight hundred pounds without strain. Crack bone with one hand. Tear sheet metal withtwo. Track heat, pulse, sweat, blood sugar, breath pattern, and fear response from fifty yards.”
Various flavors ofholy shitflowed around.
“They don’t feel pain unless I tell them to. They don’t get tired unless I shut them down. They don’t miss unless I do.” He looked right at Bishop. “And if one learns a thing, all twenty-five know it.”
“Hot damn,” Bullets muttered.
“Well,” Bishop said, turning. “Everybody gather so we can go over every step of this mission. We don’t have room for mistakes,” he said. “So lock in.”
****
Bishop checked his mirrors as they made their way under the shadow of darkness toward the rendezvous at the school. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out. “Anvil,” Bishop answered. “What’s up?”
“Good news. Turns out you got eight buses, not five and they all fired up. Moving them into quick exit positions and filling all the gas tanks with enough fuel to make it back. They was bone dry.”
“Well done, brother. We’re enroute on I-49 near Carencro exit.”
“First Opelousas exit is blocked,” he muttered. “You’ll need to take the Crestwell Lane one, ole Baton Rouge. Route was quiet. Like a ghost town.”
“Got it. Call me if anything changes.”
“Oui,” he said. “Gotta go, Hammer’s signaling silence.”
The line clicked.
“Fuck,” Bishop muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Seer asked.
“Maybe trouble where they are.”
His phone buzzed a few minutes later. He handed it to Seer. “It’s a text.”
Seer looked and muttered, “Was acat.”
Thank fuck. “Tell him stay alert, we’re nearly there. Then call the men and tell them to kill the lights. We’re three miles out.”
****
Their nine-truck convoy rolled up quietly at the back of the school where Anvil directed parking with only his flashlight.
