August glared at Skid, cursing the back of his head, thinking he'd turn eventually. He’d turn and August would see whatever truth it was Skid was trying to hide from him. But Skid kept facing the window.

  “Skid, does he trust anyone?”

  Skid shrugged, then he altogether slumped. Shoulders, head, spine. When he turned toward August, his face scrolled forth an encyclopedia worth of regrets.

  “Can you leave?” August whispered. They were all trapped here, by one thing or another. But he wasn't sure why. Next chance, even if he got shot in the ass, he was outta there. But what was keeping Skid with Mara Murda and the iron fist of Redstoke?

  Skid reached down, hooked his fingers around the edge of his shirt hem and lifted it up his torso. “We've so few pleasures here,” he said. August jolted to hyper awareness. “We do what Red says and enjoy ourselves however we can.” The shirt was off and on the floor. Skid presented his body with not necessarily pride, but not censure either. Here he was, take him or leave him. “August, I'll be honest. You're exceptionally fine.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “You must know that. And I like sex.”

  August looked Skid over: the belly, the crooked teeth, his rounded cheeks, and hopeful gaze. It'd been too long since his last lay and the residual lust from his mango still tickled the base of his balls. Plus, Skid didn't seem like a bad sort, all things considered.

  “I know you don't do casual. But while you’re still here, maybe you wouldn't mind a friend with benefits… for however long you want.”

  It'd been an awfully long time. And having an ally on his side might mean something when August needed to make a break.

  The decision was quick and once it was made, August didn't reassess it. He stripped off his own shirt, enjoying the way Skid's gaze tracked over his body.

  “I've only one condom.” He dug through his wallet for the square package. It was a lie, he actually had one more, but this was just one itch that needed scratching, not a relationship.

  ~~~

  For the most part, August was bored as the days slipped by at the lodge. He read whatever books he could find, played some chess, and got to know the other men. Some weren't so bad. Most were so brainwashed that they had very little color left to them, or their madness gave them more than enough spark for August to keep them at arm's length. Too many asked him why he was vegan, like that was relevant in their criminal world.

  Wednesday morning, breakfast consisted of oatmeal with raisins. August feared the oats were GMO and the raisins riddled with pesticides. Of course they didn't have any rice milk, but they did have some generic brand margarine, so he made do with that. He missed not having any walnuts for the oatmeal. Tracy gave him several pounds every year. He wondered if his staff thought about him.

  He'd taped a note, “August's”, to one mango and put it in the bottom crisper drawer. For emergencies. When he got back to Portman, he would hit the Red and Black Cafe and scarf down their Dragon Noodle Bowl. When he'd agreed to this adventure of crime, he'd never stopped to think about food options and starvation.

  He yawned. His brain churned like a hangover; his throat hurt. He poured a cup of coffee: black, like his mindset.

  “Morning, August,” said Art, an old guy who was generally welcoming but with whom August hadn't talked much. Most of the men here he'd exchanged no more than a handful of words with. Hadn't found any almond Tracer, either.

  “Morning. Oatmeal?” August offered up the rest of the pot.

  “Sure. Thanks.” Art dished up. August sat down to his melty margarine oatmeal and raisins, scooping it into his mouth with determination. A few minutes later, Skid slid into the seat across from him, a plate covered in two eggs, some bacon, and hash browns. Cooked in butter. August scrunched his nose and went back to eating his oatmeal.

  “So,” Skid said, casual as could be. August worried about which non-casual thing the man wanted to discuss. “Today we've got some work. Part of your initiation.”

  August swallowed some coffee, felt the scorching heat burn down his throat. “What do I have to do now?” A few other men passed through the dining hall. Some chatting, some stumbling at the early morning. It was almost like summer camp.

  “Well, we're going to liberate some money from a bank in central Washington.”

  With kingly effort, August did not spit his coffee all over Skid. Instead, he leaned across the table and grabbed a handful of the pasty bastard's shirt, enjoying his eyes widening. Fear. “You want me to rob a bank?”

  A collection of gazes snapped to them. The cultists chuckled, aggravating August more. He felt blind to some very important fact. Everyone was in on some joke that he'd missed out on, like there was a Kick Me sign on his back. August was not a man people joked about.

  “Finish eating so we can get ready.” Skid’s continued attempted at casual failed horribly.

  August held his eyes one more second, then let go of his shirt and slowly sat back into the chair. “What's there to get ready? I'm not doing it.”

  Skid reached out and touched August's hand. August glared at him until he killed the man's hopeful gaze with his spite. “You have to do something to help out,” Skid said, voice lowered. “To earn their trust.”

  “I don't need anyone's fucking trust. I'm here to do business. If Gould and Redstoke didn't trust me to do business, they should have let me be.” Oh, for the love of God he was so screwed. August knew he was being naive. This entire clusterfuck had been mapped out the minute he'd found that body.

  Had it been put there on purpose?

  “Maybe true, but you're here now, and damn it, August, I'm trying to help you. You just have to do two more hits and then they'll trust you. It's not such a big deal. You have thirty minutes.” Skid stood and limped out of the dining room. August watched, pissed. Hopefully Bethany Wolfe-Martin would come soon.

  ~~~

  Locked mid-act in grabbing their guns, two night guards could only watch as the Mara Murda cultists infiltrated the bank to the sounds of an old time squeaky bike horn and the cawing of a crow. August wondered who the two freezers were; he still wasn't privy to what most of the others could Wield. Art and Zeke wrapped the guys up in duct tape and stuffed them into the restroom. Once the guards were contained, one cultist dropped to the floor, screaming. One of the freezers. Immediate Taint reaction. August knew it well.

  A female guard, a bender, was battling it out with Brian. Garbage cans, chairs, and pens hurtled through the air. A bang cracked through the chaos. August jumped and ducked, the two contrary reactions nearly sending him to the ground. Someone had shot her in the thigh. The guard slammed to the linoleum floor and her body jerked again and again as Brian pounded her with the Nerve. Ammonia flashed through the air. No, not ammonia, the scent was too close to a chicken coop. Shitty and earthy and … ammonia like. More scents. Bangs and pops and a symphony of sounds. Goosebumps pricked over his flesh. The air was overflowing.

  Rod Redstoke led a group back to the bank vault. August wondered if Tim was going to do his thing and cause them all to itch.

  August didn't even have two fucks of an idea why he was there. Like last time, he was stationed by the door with Skid. He had a black hood on and his requisite dark glasses. Streams of sweat were slicking up his palms. Jesus H. Christ, when were the police going to get there? Wolfe-Martin owed him, big time. He should have free rein to do any business he wanted after this.

  Silent as an owl on the wing, three police cars spun around the corner.

  “Cops!” Skid bellowed.

  Chaos roared around him as the cultists ran for the truck, tossing themselves into the back like penguins off an ice sheet.

  “Pushers, you're on!” a man cried out.

  Here it was, August's assignment. He didn't like this plan. Truly, he hated it. A few men stood by his side while others faced another set of cruisers, Brian and Redstoke amongst them. The air erupted in a miasma of clashing scents. August sent out his mental fingers and plucked the Nerve, hit the right vibration, and yanked the car's wheel, sending the police cruiser into a spin. Another car hit a wall of force; its rear end hopped into the air. Someone shot at the police, the loud bangs nearly losing themselves in the cacophony. A crack through the air announced another shot, this one from the police. August ducked.

  Hunched over, Skid was rushing for the truck, his arms grasping a large sack. “Drop it and run!” August commanded. A cop raised his sidearm and aimed. August reached out and plucked again, sending the gun up and away, a home run. Mango saturated the air; bile churned within August's stomach. Engine oil and bacon fat and … almonds. August smelled almonds. Another officer struggled to bring her weapon around, but August pushed back, his stomach churning as his need began to take on its own force.

  Skid made it to the truck, followed by a few other stragglers. August released the gun. His skin prickled; saliva soaked his mouth. He dove for the truck, his shoulder smacking into the steel floor and men's legs, and he scrambled for his bag. The roller door clanged shut as the truck lurched forward. August's brain cut out everything but his bag. A man groaned, clutching onto his arm; blood streaked down his shirt. His foot ground into August's bag. August shouldered the man over, ripped open his bag. His hands landed on a mango, slightly squished, and he bit into it. Someone was singing a Barbara Streisand song at the top of his lungs. Another person was petting August's coarse hair.

  August ate the mango, then the next, trying to ignore his body's instant reaction. He raced to the edge of orgasm and hovered there. His stomach churned. If there was ever anything he could do to remove this Taint, he would. He would do it in a heartbeat.

  His cock pulsed with displeasure, wanting release. August ignored it, but knew how nice it would be to push into a willing body. He scanned the men and noticed Skid close by, watching him with fascination. August bared his teeth. A man on the opposite side of the truck was punching the metal wall, over and over, the sound muffled by thick boxing gloves.

  August lurched to the back near the rollup door, pushed Tim out of the way, and sprayed the corner with bile and chewed up mango.

  Hours later when August, Skid, Brian, and Zeke made it to the safe house, August had sunk into a zone of calm exhaustion.

  “You wanna blow off steam with us?” Zeke asked.

  “Naw, you guys have at it,” August said, feeling a coming headache. He needed some water and to brush his teeth. He'd never Wielded like that, repeatedly and at length. Numbness had slipped into his fingertips.

  Skid followed him to his room. “We'll share. Let them have their privacy.”

  August grunted. “I'm exhausted, Skid.”

  Skid shrugged and began to strip. August showered, rinsed the mango and vomit off his shirt, and hung it over the shower rod. His mind kept returning to one thing: the killer had been at the bank. One of about eight benders, unless the almond force Wielder hadn't joined the defensive line.

  In the bedroom, Skid sprawled out on the mattress in only his white underwear and socks. He had this hopeful look on his face. Though exhausted, August's neglected dick stirred at the thought of sex. He grabbed his wallet and looked for his last condom, but couldn’t find it.

  Had someone swiped his condom?

  Something crossed Skid's face. Guilt? Had Skid rifled through his wallet and taken his rubber? Maybe the guy'd been in a pinch.

  August tossed the wallet down on his jeans and plopped onto the mattress next to the other man, forgetting about sex and Mr. Almond, and let exhaustion claim him.

  Chapter 7

  August tossed the tofu chunks in a mix of soy sauce, miso, and peanut oil, and braised the white skins in a hot pan. Freshly cooked rice steamed in a bowl and sautéed vegetables were kept warm on the six burner stove. He'd insisted on a grocery stop after they returned from podunk Washington and drove through a larger town. His basket had overflowed with vegan staples and mangoes. It was the easiest anxiety he could deal with, to assure he wouldn't starve in the upcoming week. The rest of his worries couldn't be so easily tamed.

  Skid, Tim, and a few others drank wine and beer, waiting for the finished product.

  “You haven't tried nothing 'til you've had my sautéed tofu,” August boasted.

  “Tofu, isn't that for grass chewers?” a mid-twenties booster named Howard asked.

  August turned on Howard and shot him his I'm-a-gunna-slam-your-ass look. Howard wasn't too bad, but his Wielding demanded rabid carnivore habits. “You got something against grass chewers?”

  Howard raised his arms good-naturedly and chuckled. “No, sir, August! Tofu for the win!”

  August scooped a pile of rice, veggies, and braised tofu for each plate, then set them down in front of his diners. “Dig in.”

  Skid pierced a cube and peeled it off the fork with his teeth. After a few chews, he nodded, a smile blossoming on his lips. “Not bad, August. So many useful skills on you.”

  August warmed to the other man. “That I have, that I have.”

  After lunch and a round of applause for his vegan meal, Skid lingered, helping August with the dishes. August didn't complain, but braced himself for another fuck request.

  “Great meal, really,” Skid said.

  August laughed. “I know, but thanks again.”

  He waited, and Skid laughed at himself. How much more awkward could this get? “Well, I was wanting to show you something, down in the basement.”

  August leaned against the kitchen counter. “Oh, what's that?”

  “There's a lab down there, and the Doc is working on medicine to curb and...” he grinned, “eventually end Taint.”

  August's brain filled with those last two words—end Taint, end Taint, end Taint—until his mind caught up and inserted the big questions: what was the catch and why now? He followed Skid to the basement door, a door he'd never before seen open.

  Unlocked, it swung open to a set of wooden plank stairs. Jeremy was climbing up rubbing his upper arm. “Have fun,” he tossed out with a nod as he passed by, shoulder to shoulder. August watched him go until Skid grabbed his shirt sleeve and dragged him into the depths of Mara Murda.

  The laboratory, stocked with beakers, test tubes, and glass faced cabinets full of bottles with black droppers and possible medicines, looked incongruous compared to the generally damp nature of the basement. The white tile and polished chrome made the lab gleam. A mad-looking man with a poof of hair whiter than his pale flesh bared a mouthful of stained teeth, apparently delighted to have people in his underground mad scientist lab.

  “Ooh, ooh, I have more visitors. Hello Mr. Kenrose, Mr. Whalen. Do you want to try out my latest distillation?” August wondered how this cultist knew his name, but new recruits must be rare. Nobody else had arrived since he had at the beginning of the month.

  “Hey Doc,” Skid said with a shake of the man's hand, “you cure Taint yet?”

  “I am closer and closer every time someone lets me guinea pig them, Mr. Kenrose. So, the latest distillation?” He held up a clear liquid in a small vial. “It's a slight variation from the last one that did reduce some of the obsessions in other Wielders.”

  August reached out for the vial. Doc slid it into his hand. “You telling me you’re brewing up Golden Boy here?” Though it didn’t have a golden hue the fabled cure all was reported to have.

  “I wish I had that recipe.” The scientist giggled, the laughter high and tripping over itself. Neither of the other men joined. “Unfortunately, no. We are reduced to trial and error.”

  “But, you can lessen Taint?” August tilted the vial, staring into the liquid. “How much? Why doesn't the BWS know about this? Why aren't they mass producing this shit?”

  Doc scowled, then turned away and began straightening his chrome countertop, putting racks of vials in a tidy row. “You expect the BWS to try to do anything to help men? You are ignorant and a fool. If we want a cure, we have to find it ourselves.”

  In all honestly, August could buy that. “So, how did you get this? Did you make this yourself?”

  The doctor quit fiddling and when he turned back to August, his red-veined eyes shone as brightly as the floor. “We get some from outside sources, but this one, I did make it.” His smile was small but full of pride. “Would you like to try it?”

  “It's worked for others?”

  The scientist nodded and took the vial back from August. “Some, but not all. Everyone is a bit different, so the more people I have try it, the faster I can fine tune it.” He sat down at his computer and pulled up a form. “You interested?”

  August was. He glanced over at Skid, who nodded in encouragement.

  “You going to take some?” August asked, wanting some support in this new crazy path into Oz.

  Skid patted him on the arm. “I don't have Taint, won't help me.”

  The scientist asked him a series of questions about his blood type, ethnic background, medical health, and drug use, plus other questions that didn't seem quite so relevant.

  “Oh, you're vegan. Hmm,” he typed something in a box on the form, “could be important.”

  At the end of the questions, the scientist pulled some ccs into a syringe and brandished the needle. August stared at the sliver of metal. “What are the side effects?”

  “Varies.” The doctor shrugged. “Some men didn't notice anything. One man smelled wet dog for a few days—though that might have been a Tracer, or a dog—others experienced increased blood pressure, upset stomach, tiredness. Like I said, my pool of subjects is small.”

  August rolled up his sleeve, trying not to flex as the needle slipped into his vein. A bitter flavor tickled on the back of his tongue, but other than that it didn't have any immediate effect. “So, what's supposed to happen?”

  “Go twang the Nerve and see how your Taint reacts. Come back and report any changes.” Doc grinned, the smile a little too manic.

  August didn't much like the idea of carelessly Wielding, his Taint was strong, however he nodded anyway. “Sure thing.” He raised his eyebrows at Skid. “Ready?”

 

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