The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(58)

Then, with the sound of an explosion, the world is muted.

In the Quiet, running is easier due to the lack of any wind. I’m also emboldened by the fact that whatever damage the branches inflict on me here will be undone when I phase out.

It takes me a few minutes at this pace to reach the clearing surrounding the Temple. I’ve acquired half a dozen scrapes and splinters, but I forget about these minor injuries as soon as I look out toward the Temple.

People—lots of people—are doing something they shouldn’t be doing.

I have to get closer before I can let myself believe what’s happening. In my frenzied state, I don’t even register my sprint across the clearing.

The closer I get, the more my fears turn into stark reality.

A full-fledged battle is underway, with violence and death permeating the most serene of places.

At first, I don’t even recognize the area. Gorgeous arbors and intricate giant shrubs used to mark the entrance to the Temple’s grounds. Most of them are now in shambles, and one gazebo has been blown to smithereens—possibly in the explosion I heard earlier. Bits of what’s left of the gazebo crunch under my feet as I look around.

To my left, five cops are frozen in the process of shooting at the orange-clad monks. Some monks have serene, determined expressions on their faces, though most look uncharacteristically frightened. One monk looks absolutely terrified, as anyone in his situation would. A bullet is frozen in the process of entering his forehead.

To my right, an older monk is choking a deputy in a strange, kung-fu-inspired grip. Another monk is holding another deputy’s arm in an unnatural position, leading me to believe that the limb has been broken.

I check the guns on the ground. As I thought, the monks took advantage of the moment when the cops ran out of bullets.

Farther in, a young monk is fighting an older one. Not ready to think about it, I file this away as a mystery. This monk-on-monk violence and the shootouts aren’t what give my surroundings a particularly hellish feel.

That honor belongs to Kate.

She’s standing there with blood covering her black outfit and soaking into the ground around her. Her sword is embedded in a monk’s chest. Heads and limbs of other monks surround Kate in a gory mess, like a scene from a slasher movie.

I look away. Though I’ve never thrown up in the Quiet, right now, while looking at the disemboweled and dismembered bodies of the monks, I feel like I just might. As a kid, after watching The Three Musketeers and Star Wars, I had a glamorized view of sword fighting. I thought it was cool. Now, and for the rest of my life, I will think of getting killed by a sword as one of the most barbaric and gruesome ways to die.

Unfortunately, looking away doesn’t make the horrors go away—not when my gaze falls on George, who’s frozen in the process of reloading a shotgun. In front of him are piles of shot-up monks. Their wounds have turned their orange robes crimson.

I run again, for no other reason than to get away from the carnage.

But the carnage follows me. Slightly farther in, near the incongruently peaceful rock garden, I find Eleanor holding a bloodied monk above her head, and I do mean above her head, with her arms almost straight. She looks like a wrestler who’s about to break someone’s back.

I can’t take any more of this, but short of closing my eyes, I can’t escape it.

When I do close my eyes and find a second to think, a terrible anxiety hits me. Somewhere in this Temple are Thomas and Mira. After seeing so much death, it’s all too easy to picture the worst.

I open my eyes, my heart beating frantically.

I have to get to the Temple.

As I run toward the building, I see more cops and monks locked in deadly embraces near the bonsai trees.

Passing them, I see frozen James raining death on the monks with an automatic rifle, right next to the serene cherry blossom trees. He looks like a grizzly bear standing in a river during salmon mating season.

The fighting gets sparser as I get closer to the giant Temple doors. I see a bunch of bullet-riddled cops on the ground, as well as some cops with knife wounds, and the reason quickly becomes clear.

Two large men are frozen in the midst of an epic fight. Or more accurately, at this point in the fight, one is murdering the other.

It only takes me a moment to recognize the victim as John, the ‘sick lion’ part of Kate’s deadly circus troop. His features are twisted in fury and fear, and I know all too well the person doing the killing. He’s probably the cause behind the shot-up and cut-up cops as well. That he’s fighting against John and not under the Super Pusher’s influence is actually surprising, but not something I’m ready to think about.

Looking at his stern face, I feel a sense of camaraderie. For what feels like the first time, I’m happy to see Caleb, and I’m cheering for him.

Of course, Caleb doesn’t need my moral support. His hands are around John’s throat, and his frozen knuckles are marble white from exertion. Caleb’s grip must be devastatingly strong. The result is something I didn’t even think was possible. The tips of Caleb’s fingers are inside his opponent’s neck. I’m not a doctor, but I think Caleb is in the process of ripping out John’s Adam’s apple.

John also has a knife wound in his belly. Caleb’s signature knife is lying a foot away, covered in blood.

Out of all of Kate’s people, Richard—the scorpion—is the only one missing.