Read Online Dream Chasers (Dystopian Scifi Series Book 1) by Logan Stark - Free Book Online Page A

Homeless while
keeping his gaze locked. ‘What we do with him doesn’t concern you.’ They began
escorting Homeless again.
    ‘Wait!’ Peter yelled. He knew
he was playing with danger, but a part of him believed that he had some
leverage over these men, especially after Midori had said something about him
being property of the Yaramati. Peter was going to play his trump card: ‘If you
kill him, I won’t do shit for you, and – and I mean that.’
    For the first time Peter saw
concern break over Midori’s face, which didn’t last long. Midori stood up. The
metal chair whined. He gently laid the black case on the chair, and that’s when
his whole body jerked with movement. He made his way to Homeless, ripped him
from the escorts, and pulled the pistol from his waist. He pressed the tip of
the steel against Homeless’s neck. This was not the Midori from a moment ago.
Peter saw a vague image in his mind, an image of Midori’s dragon tattoo coming
alive, smoke drifting around his arm.
    ‘Here is your first lesson
about the Yaramati.’ Midori pushed Homeless away, hard enough for Homeless to
stumble over his feet and fall to the ground.
    A part of Homeless must’ve
known, a deep part inside. ‘Wait – my name’s Noni Makaratzi. I can help with the—’
Midori fired his pistol three times: clap! clap! clap! Three bullets
spilled into Noni’s forehead. One went all the way through his skull – spilling
blood and cracked bone away from his head. The other two bullets stayed in his
skull. Noni’s head fell on the ground. A snap. Breaking parts. It didn’t take
long for blood to paint the floor in a wave.
    The men standing behind
Midori’s stretched arm were finding this hilarious. They were chanting: Ma
name is – they waved their hands around like scared girls – Ma name is
Already Dead . Midori, however, the man who had shot someone without
flinching an eyebrow, smiled humbly. He lowered his arm, got out a napkin, and
wiped the gun’s nose and trigger.
    Peter had the urge to retaliate
with words, but what was the point? He could scream all he want, protest, tell
Midori what he’d done was cruel, but what the fuck was the point? He was bound
against the Dream Infiltrator, unable to move his arms and legs. Screaming
would only waste energy. Peter took a deep breath, let it swirl around his
stomach, let it cool the hurtful emotions, and released the air through his
nose, a long and frustrated exhale. ‘Why did you kill him? What was the point?’
    Midori waved his two fingers in
the air. The men behind trickled away, some leaving the building, some going to
the hoops to play a round of basketball. When it was just the three of them,
one being the dead Noni Makaratzi (his face barely recognizable, glazed in
blood), Midori reached for the three-legged chair and screeched forward.
    ‘There’s a saying,’ Midori
said. ‘Action speaks louder than words. I just showed you an action. The
Yaramati shows, don’t tell. Words are hallow trunks invested with woodworms.
And I hope, truly hope, that you understand me when I say—’
    Peter knew it was a mistake but
did it anyway. He spat – a slimy, warm yellow that came from deep inside his
throat – on Midori’s face. Peter wasn’t a spitting person, had never done
something like this before.
    There’s a first time for
everything , a voice cackled in his head, which sounded
like an old dying woman.
    Midori fished the napkin from
his back pocket, the same one he had used to clean the gun. While wiping the
dripping gunk from his cheek, his right eye twitched like one of those angry
characters in a cartoon show. Peter saw that some of his saliva (more mucus
than water) had landed on the side of Midori’s lips. In fact, now that he was
looking a little closer, he could see that a lot of his saliva had landed everywhere
like a shrapnel bomb.
    ‘That’s for killing my friend
and the homeless man,’ Peter said, trying to act overconfident, because