Armageddon's Children - Terry Brooks [103]
He tries to push such thoughts out of his mind as he stares at the compound and waits for Michael to give the order to attack. But the thoughts will not be banished; the thoughts persist.
“Logan,” Michael says to him suddenly, turning around so that he can see the other’s face. Michael’s expression is chilling, alive with a terrifying wildness. “I want you to lead the assault on the right wing, on the first building. If you can’t handle it, tell me now.”
Logan would never tell him that, and Michael knows it. He nods without speaking.
“Just remember what you’ve been taught. Wilson, you take the left.
Grayling, you stay with me. The center building will be the most heavily guarded. The experiments are carried out there.”
On the children, Logan thinks. On the old and sick and helpless.
There are demons in residence here, two of them at least. But Michael’s information tells them that the demons are absent this night, gone on a hunt that will keep them away until the end of the week. Michael’s information has never been wrong. Logan hopes it is right tonight. Once, he would not have thought to question it. But Michael is not the same, and Logan can no longer be certain that anything he does is well considered.
He feels an unexpected sense of despair. How did this happen? When did Michael lose his way? He understands how it could happen, given the terrible work they do. Live long enough in a madhouse, and you risk going mad yourself.
But he had always believed Michael could rise above it. Michael is the penultimate warrior, hardened to everything, strong enough to withstand the horrors they encountered no matter how often or how terrible. Even losing Fresh shouldn’t have been enough to change him.
Yet something did. Somewhere along the way he failed to recognize that he was slipping away, that an erosion of his soul was taking place.
Logan looks down at the Scattershot he has carried since Michael gave it to him on his first raid. If it can happen to Michael, it can happen to him.
Will he recognize it if it does? Will he know enough to do something about it?
He realizes suddenly that Michael is talking to him, and his gaze shifts quickly. “Boy, are you with us or should I find someone to take your place?”
Michael snaps. “You look like you’ve got your head in the clouds. Pay attention when I am talking to you!”
“I’m listening,” he says quickly.
Michael sneers. “Then there is no need for me to repeat myself, is there?
You know what to do. So be sure and do it. Don’t run from it if things get tough. I hate cowards, Logan.”
He turns away dismissively, and Logan says nothing. A year ago, Michael would never have spoken to him like this. I should have seen it coming, he thinks. I should have done something to stop it. His eyes close, and he vows that as soon as the opportunity presents itself, he will.
“All right, let’s go,” Michael says suddenly, and they are off.
They spread out through the trees toward the waiting vehicles, trucks modified with snowplow rams and thick protective shields to get them safely through the gates. The trucks are modified four-tons, big and heavy, and not even gates as strong as those of Midline Slave Camp will stop them once they gain sufficient momentum. Heavy automatic weapons are mounted on the cabs and in the truck beds, each capable of firing hundreds of rounds in seconds. They are better prepared than they have ever been, and Logan feels a rush of excitement at the prospect of what it will mean to destroy this camp.
He climbs into the cab through the passenger’s door and sits next to Jena.
She is tight-faced and focused, ten years older than he, more experienced and better trained. By rights, she should be the one leading and he the one driving.
But she doesn’t say anything. She just looks straight ahead, waiting for the signal.
When it comes, a flare from the middle truck, she engages the clutch and