Dead Americans by Ben Peek Read Free Book Online Page A

the mud and grass, Twain approached the figures and found them to be man-like, and moments later, to be men. They wore armour that covered their torso and head, and which was made from ugly black metal: it was dented, and poorly shaped, and the helmet looked like an upended tin, with a slit cut across for the eyes.
    The armour was crude and laughable, but Twain could not bring himself to acknowledge the fact. Instead, he watched the figures load their pistols and rifles and step from the porch in heavy, awkward footfalls, the silver rain washing over their dark bodies.
    “Symbols,” Cadi repeated, and stepped before the figures. They paused, and he ran his bony fingers across the black armour. “A symbol to defy the English, that is what this is.”
    “There’s certainly something in it,” Twain replied quietly, shivering, but not from the cold.
    “It would have been pure in Sydney.” Cadi turned and raised his right arm, pointing behind Twain.
    He gazed through the rain, at the graveyard of fallen branches and trees that littered the ground around the inn. At first, Twain could not see anything. But then, like ghosts emerging in the darkness, outlined by the rain, he saw them: Police Officers. The representation of English authority, scattered throughout the branches and trees, easily fifty in number, each with a rifle or pistol aimed at the four men.
    “Here, it is an act of stupidity,” Cadi said.
    “Stop them!” Twain cried, spinning on him. “This doesn’t need to happen!”
    “It already has. All my Irishman had to do was ride into Sydney and walk down the streets, his guns drawn, dressed in this armour, demanding the release of his mother, and the heart of the nation would have gone to him. But he did not understand that, and instead, he took my revolution and wasted it here, where no one would understand.”
    Twain curled his hands into fists and fought back the urge to scream out a warning to the black armoured men. Instead, trying to hide his distaste in the situation, he said, “And what exactly happened to these youngsters who didn’t go to Sydney?”
    The Aborigine’s voice was faint, and touched with sadness, “Like all Australian folk legends, they died at the hands of authority.”
    There was a loud crack from behind him, and, with a violent shiver, Twain felt a bullet pass through him. He clutched his chest, horrified, terrified, ready to scream out; but there was no injury, only the disconcerting echo of pain.
It’s a fantasy! Nothing more than a cheap trick!
The thought, rather than calming Twain, made him angry. Around him, more guns fired, the bullets fat silver streaks in the air, and the four black armoured men raised their arms and returned fire before falling back into the hotel. As they did, the windows shattered and screaming from men and women inside the inn tore out and ignited the night.
    “What is the meaning of this?” Twain demanded angrily. “Why show me this tragedy? Let me go—I’ve no interest in this!”
    “You must understand the need for revolution,” Cadi replied, the sockets of his skull gazing intently at him. “You must understand why the heart of Sydney needs to be replaced.”
    “I don’t care!” Twain hollered. “This isn’t my country, this isn’t government! This isn’t my goddamned concern!”
    “No, not now. But it will be.”
    Cadi thrust his bony hand into the mud. There was a faint crack, and he straightened, lifting a smooth hatch from the ground. Inside was a tightly wound spiral staircase made from wood and iron railings.
    “Come, Mark Twain, and I will show you more.”
    “Where’re you taking me?” Twain asked, his feet moving without his consent. He struggled against them, but realized the futility quickly.
    “Into the Spirit World,” Cadi replied without emotion. “Where one step can be a day or a year or a lifetime. At the end of the stairs, you will understand the importance of this event, and why the death of an Irishman