There was an argument over the tactics that Brian was vaguely aware of while he practiced the meditation he'd learned, ironically, at Nellis. The containment camp threw Emergents together and a lot of them, Brian included, spent time learning to do sitting and standing meditation, Yoga, Tai Chi, anything that might increase their consciousness of the powers they saw at work in the world. For the most part, it was simply a relaxing pasttime for prisoners when they weren't doing pullups or pushups off something or jogging – anything to say sane, right? – around the perimeter of the camp. 

The meditation was different now, though, it had this flavor of bringing a buzz at the back of his head into greater clarity, and he felt almost a sensation of stretching himself that he'd never experienced before in this sense. They'd talk about Qi, but you didn't see Qi, other people didn't see Qi.

Now, when Brian did it, one saw the effect – the glowing around the eyes became more pronounced as he seemed to draw it in. Was he able to do anything besides make his eyes glow? No.

But it was one of the others, a guy from the Baltimore ghetto that went, “Whut da fuck!?” and suddenly everyone was staring at Brian's eyes.

“Hey, how did you do that?” someone asked him.

“I don't know, I just sort of...well, clear my mind and start to concentrate and bring things...together? I'm not sure how to describe it.” Brian trailed off wistfuly, apparently somewhat frustrated at the inability to articulate how it felt, like he was drawing from a massive current of electricity and he was a battery, storing up the energy for use.

And suddenly, Cutter had a better idea than using Daina and Simon for bait. She was going to use Brian to intimidate.

“You can control that, Brian?” she asked intently.

“I think I can. Anyone got a mirror?” One of the other people in the bus had a compact makeup kit, which was handed to him already opened. He gave it a moment and repeated the steps, finding the next time easier than the last and so forth, though this time, he watched himself in the mirror that was provided.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “I can control it.”

–---

In the end, there was no real option for stealing a bus – too big, too obvious. But there was a used car lot on the outskirts of town, which meant it was a ways from where the cops were. It was off the main roads leading to the highway, which meant that it was remote and not too busy looking. The outskirts of Cedar City were dark, and there was almost no light out there – it was easy to see the stars, in all their incandescent grandeur across the sky, while in the desert, but there were also the sounds of the desert at night – the chittering of insects, the sound of the wind moving sand and the occasional rattle of a snake. By night, the desert was alive, and the Emergents could feel a thrum of power here, something they couldn't quite put their finger on, but it made them edgy.

A closer inspection of the used car dealership yielded a more interesting result – the place had notices posted up regarding bankruptcy despite the full lot of cars. There was a chain link fence, but Brian and some of the others were perfectly capable of climbing that if it came down to that.

It didn't come down to that; the gate was closed, but it was hardly closed and certainly not locked – the bold, black lettering on a slightly curled page taped up on the fence read, “PROPERTY OF FELLS LARGO BANK” and a bunch of legalese in smaller print on the sign.

“We're in luck,” Smalls muttered to Brian, “That means that the bank owns all this shit,” and then he explained, “No one's gonna give a fuck if some big bank loses some vehicles – it might not even get reported for a while if we grab them. We just gotta deal with the night security guy, if there is one. We can be in Cali and ditch the cars before they even are wise to the heist.”

He shrugged uncomfortably, rolling shoulders and a heavy sort of paunchy look – but the guy had lots of small tattoos on his muscular arms, despite the potbelly. The guy had some African-American ancestry, with the kinked hair, but he was light-skinned. In any case, he continued, “I used to boost cars and I did a decade of time in Philly. So yeah, I know what the fuck I'm doing.” He admitted that nervously, because most of the Emergents were not experienced criminals, despite having had recent experience with being put through the system with less than a keen appreciation for due process.

“It's cool man, that means you know what you're doing,” Brian told Smalls, “So what do I do here?”

“Try talking to whoever they got doing night security here – maybe it's someone that works for the car dealership and is gonna lose their job thanks to these banker fucks. Get him on our side, it could be crucial, yo.”

“What about you? I mean, you know how to do this, why don't you talk to the guy, Smalls?” 

“Well shit man, Cutter told you to do it. Don't worry, you're a clean cut white boy, that's the guy you send out to do the talking, especially in these parts, man. Besides, you speak the language – you sound like you're from out here in the West man.”

Brian didn't have a good response to that, except to shrug; he wasn't enamored of the plan.

They didn't bother to conceal their approach at this point, and it turned out the night watchman was an older dude with long hair and a beard, which was a bit of a sign in Utah – the state tended to be very clean cut and Mormon. But this guy wasn't white, like the typical Utah resident either – he was darker skinned with a large nose, and the eyes were large and dark, watching carefully. Hispanic, or perhaps something else, but not a white mormon type, who tended be very rah-rah government and law abiding.

Brian, with his blonde looks and a bit of a tan and a West Texas drawl was, as Smalls pointed out, very all-American. He was college, but not the snooty skinny-jeans wearing kind that put noses out of joint out West; he was a slightly taller-than-average good ole boy with white straight teeth that didn't seem like some ivy league hipster. After all, he attended University of Texas, or did before some Pi Kappa Alpha bros tackled him for glowing.

“Y'all are out pretty late,” the security guy observed – he had a .45 on his hip, the 1911 type with the wooden grips and all steel construction, but he had a flashlight in hand, “this here is private property, so I'd take it kindly if y'all cleared on out of here.”

“Well, we're a bit lost and we're not from around here, sir,” Brian started.

“Yeah, I can see that. But you gotta clear out all the same. This area ain't safe out for folk anyway, of late.” 

“How so?”

“Ancestor spirits of the Paiute, son, they're all over the place, and some animal spirits too. I'm half Paiute and my wife's registered with the tribe, so the spirits ain't touchin' me, but you...well, yeah.”

“That's true,” Brian pointed out, “But here's the facts – we're out of Nevada and we're headed toward California.”

“Took the long way around, didn't you?”

“That's right.”

“I think I know why, son, and if that's the case, I sympathize with what happened, because we've had it happen to us too, but you're the kind of trouble we don't need around here.”

Brian grunted a bit, and some of the others started to shuffle a bit, but it was Brian who spoke, “Well, we're just trying to get the hell out of here. The faster that happens, the better off everyone is.”

“So what's your plan after you get out?”

“Gotta get the government heat off, man. We're getting hunted like fucking animals. You know anything about that?” Brian figured it was a good time to lay the cards on the table.

“Yeah, I know something about it. Things ain't getting better for us now that the entire country is freaking out. It might not happen to us today, but it seems to be coming. So what's your plan?”

“Not sure. But there's power in numbers and there's gotta be a way to do this without turning into a free for all where people just get killed because of the hate in their hearts. I've seen Nellis man, we can't keep doing that.”

The old man cocked his head and peered at him carefully for a moment before nodding, as if a decision were being made, “Well, look, the bank was supposed to come take possession a few weeks ago, but all this hoopla stirred things up, and it seems like it's better for everyone if we get you the hell out. Bad enough with the whites right now that they're blaming every loose spirit on us. If you pop up, we're really in trouble. Just do me a favor...”

“What?”

“I need you to tie me up. My wife is gonna pick me up in the morning, so let's make this convincing, and you'll have all night to drive before anything gets reported.”

"Sure about this?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. No one gives a damn if the bank loses a few cars except the bank, and they put people out of work when they foreclosed on this place. It'll take a while to report anything missing and get anything done about it. Just be careful uh..."

Brian put out his hand, “Deal. Name's Brian Underwood. I want to know yours so I can thank you for this someday when the smoke clears.” There was another undertone – that of a sort of pact being made. This was an alliance, in a fashion, being forged in some backwater Utah used car lot with an old man, but it was at least a start. The Emergents needed all the allies they could get.

“John Bullet. Just don't remember me until -after- the federal government doesn't want you anymore. Got me?” the older man told Brian as they shook hands on the deal.

“I name 'who, what, didn't catch that' my friend. How's that?” responded Brian with a grin.

“That'll do, kid. That'll do,” the old man grinned.

–---

The old Paiute, John Bullet, apparently took a shine to Brian, because Brian and Smalls had the best car of the bunch, an old '73 Pontiac GTO in exquisite condition, though rigged with modern radio and so forth without taking away from the vintage aspect, with the 455-horsepower engine, which meant that it had serious power on the road. Others had different vehicles, but the Pontiac was only large enough for five packed in; Cutter, Smalls, Simon Horns, Brian and Daina.

“Fuck, serious wheels,” muttered Smalls, “Nice fuckin' job. Hope that guy's okay.”

“I hope so too, he's sticking his neck out for us,” Brian said as he hung up a little dream-catcher that the old man insisted on handing Brian – for luck, the dude said, while moving through 'his' country. Brian wasn't sure what to say to that, except to thank the guy.

“Yeah, no shit, but like he said – he's an Indian and they take shit from the US government too. And that guy made it sound like they've got a lot of magic stuff going on up at the reservation. This land is their land, after all.”

“Good catch,” Cutter muttered, as Smalls brought the engine to life – there was a CD player loaded up in the car already, and they had a few old CD's that were left in there, mostly classic rock type shit. Cutter was rummaging them, even as she stopped to hand one to Brian, in the passenger seat.

“Seems appropriate.” Other cars were moving out of the parking lot in the night, headed for wherever the occupants decided to go – the Nellis escapees had to pick their routes themselves now, but Smalls, Cutter, Daina and Brian decided to head for Frisco.

It was Steppenwolf's "Magic Carpet Ride" and it growled on the speakers as Smalls peeled out of the lot and hit the highway, the engine giving a roar of exultation as they put fast miles between them and Nellis, onward to freedom...