by J. D. Barker
“He’s right, you shouldn’t move.”
I sat up anyway.
Dunk put a hand on my chest. “I think your leg is broken bad. You probably don’t want to see it.”
I did want to see it, so I leaned forward. The world went white for a second as the blood rushed from my head, and then my vision cleared. My right leg was twisted at the strangest angle, an angle it most definitely should not. I was sitting on my foot. I studied my twisted body as if watching a program on television, distant, removed. “Weird. It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Maybe you’re in shock?”
“I don’t think I’m…”
“No, don’t!”
With my arms at my side and using my left leg for leverage, I pushed myself to a stand. Dunk tried to stop me, but I think he was surprised I was able to move at all. When my twisted right leg unfolded and dropped into its usual support position, he nearly fell over.
“I need my shoe.”
Dunk broke his stare, then peered to the rain. “It’s over there, hold on—”
I watched him run about a hundred feet down the side of the road. He pulled my tennis shoe from the drainage ditch, shook the water out, and brought it back.
“Here.”
The sole of my Nike was torn loose, flapping. I held onto Dunk’s shoulder, carefully raised my right foot, and put it on, then lowered my leg again, testing with a little pressure. “I don’t think it’s broken,” I said. I put a little weight on it, then some more. “It feels okay.” Slowly, I lifted my right leg off the ground, standing only on my left, and extended the right out in front of me, then bent it at the knee, then back again, slow at first, then again, faster. “It feels fine.”
I took a few steps, then a couple more. I walked about ten feet down the road, splashing in the puddled water around me, turned, then walked back to where Dunk stood. His mouth hung open. “I saw them hit you. I thought they killed you. You flew like a thousand feet.”
The entire right side of my body was slick with mud, my jeans had a six-inch tear in them, but when I pulled the material open, I couldn’t find any damage to my skin. My jacket was a mess, too. I took it off, and Dunk examined my arm and back, then the right side of my head. “You’re one dirty son-of-a-bitch, but I don’t see a single scrape. You’re probably bruised, but that kind of thing might not show up for a few hours.”
I heard about half of what he said.
My eyes had found what was left of my bike. The frame was twisted into an unrecognizable shape, the rear wheel somehow mashed into the front. Neither the handlebars or seat were remotely close to the factory-recommended position. The chain was missing. I wascertain this bike would not ride again. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” Dunk said. “Holy shit.”
We didn’t wait for Willy to come back with help. Although shaken, there was nothing physically wrong with me. If Willy appeared with an ambulance or worse, the police, we’d need to explain what happened. That would lead into what we were doing, why we were out there in the first place, and neither of us were prepared to talk about that.
We dragged the remains of my bike into the woods between Nobles Lane and the cemetery, then climbed on Dunk’s bike (me on the handlebars). Dunk pedaled on pure adrenaline, and we got back to our apartment building in less than ten minutes. We went to Dunk’s. I knew Auntie Jo would probably be at the diner, but on the off chance she wasn’t, I didn’t want to risk her seeing me in my current state.
Dunk called out when we entered, but nobody was home there, either. He had no idea where his dad might be.
Once inside, I went to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and climbed into the shower. I expected to find the start of some nasty bruises, but there was nothing, not a single scratch, cut, or inflammation.
Shower done, I put on the clothes Dunk had left out for me—a pair of jeans one size too big and a Bobby McFerrin tee-shirt with Don’t worry, be happy stamped across the front under a large, yellow winking smiley face.
I found Dunk in the kitchen drinking a beer.
Willy sat beside him at the table, a beer in his hand, too. “What the fuck, Thatch?”
I took a Coke from the fridge, popped the top, and dropped down into one of the empty chairs. The green vinyl top blew out some air from a hole in the side.
“Maybe you should have a beer, too,” Dunk said. “I think you’ve earned a beer. You’re going to be hurting once the shock wears off. A beer will help.”
When had Dunk started drinking beer? “I feel fine, really. I think my bike took the worst of it and I got lucky—the ground is damp and mushy. It cushioned my fall.”
Dunk leaned forward in his chair. “You didn’t fall, you flew. That SUV launched you like a retarded Superman, your arms flailing all around…” He waved and flapped his arms in the air and made this crooked face, I couldn’t help but laugh.
Dunk got up, went to the refrigerator, retrieved a beer, popped the top, then set it in front of me before returning to his chair. The kitchen smelled like mildew. Dishes piled high in the sink. An empty jar of peanut butter sat on the counter, a fly feasting on the rim.
“I really don’t want a beer.”
“You will.” He reached to the center of the table, to a copy of Boy’s Life, and slid it aside. His dad’s gun was sitting under it.
I glanced from Dunk to Willy, then back again. As far as I knew, he never showed the gun to anyone but me. “What’s that for?”
“We need a new plan,” Dunk said.
“We don’t need a gun.”
“They tried to kill you.”
“They tried to scare me.”
“If they wanted to scare you, they would have driven close to you, maybe even forced you off the road,” Dunk said. “Instead, they sped up behind you, with the pedal to the floor, and nailed the back of your bike. The impact destroyed your ride and would have killed you if you weren’t such a lucky bastard. I’m surprised they didn’t throw it in reverse and back up over you to finish the job. I bet they would have if you didn’t go cartwheeling over the guardrail.”
“They were only trying to scare me,” I insisted.
Dunk leaned closer. “Whoever was driving didn’t even tap the brake pedal. They rode the gas. After they hit you, they sped up and drove off, didn’t even slow down. Even if you hit someone on accident, you slow down, at the very least just to be sure your car didn’t get all fucked up. Not a single tap on the brakes, not one. They tried to kill you.”
Willy took a sip of his beer. It made his eyes water. “You saw your bike, right?”
I nodded.
“You saw how mangled it was? When I rode up, that’s what you looked like—a twisted, mangled, mess. I thought for sure you were dead.”
Dunk drank some of his beer, and his eyes did not water. “Willy here flagged down a station wagon on Brownsville and convinced some old lady that his buddy got shredded in a hit and run and needed help. When he didn’t find us where he left us, he spent the next ten minutes trying to convince her that maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought.”
Willy nodded. “She wanted to call the cops. I had to talk her down. At first she thought some half-dead kid was pushing his bike home. When we couldn’t find the half-dead kid, she got angry and figured I was pranking her—then she really wanted to call the cops. She grabbed my shirt and tried to get me in her car. I busted loose, got on my bike, and rode off into the woods, cut through the cemetery to lose her. That woman could scream. I heard her shouting for half the ride back here. I guessed you guys would come back here.”
My mind was churning. “They knew something was wrong. I don’t know how, but they must have figured out I wasn’t alone. They didn’t get out of the SUVs. It was like they came by just to tell me they knew I was up to something fishy, then left. When they realized I was trying to follow them, they stopped me. Like I broke the rules or something.”
“We don’t know the rules,” Willy said.
“That’s why we need a new plan,” Dunk
said.
I nodded at Willy, then turned back to Dunk. “How much did you tell him?”
Dunk shrugged and took another sip of his beer. “I told him everything when you were in the shower. We need him, and he can’t be in the dark.”
I didn’t know Willy that well and had no idea if I could trust him. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.” He crossed his heart. “Nobody would believe me, anyway.”
I took a sip of my Coke, the full beer can beginning to sweat beside it.
“How did they know something was different?” Dunk asked. “What tipped them off?”
“Maybe they saw us on our bikes,” Willy offered.
Dunk shook his head. “Kids on bikes does not a tip-off make.”
“I think it was the radios,” I said.
Dunk frowned. “Did they see your radio?”
“No, I think they heard it. Every time those SUVs get close, something screwy happens with whatever radio I have with me. In the past, I noticed the signal on my Walkman boost when they got close. Today, we all lost contact even though we were well within range. Almost like something with a stronger signal interfered.”
“What? Like a transmitter in one of the SUVs?”
I twisted the Coke can in my hand. “I don’t know. Transmitter, receiver, some kind of radio something.”
“So next year, we don’t use radios,” Willy said.
I met his eyes. “Next year, I think I need to go alone again. Otherwise, they’ll know.”
“I agree, and that’s why you need this,” Dunk slid the .38 toward me.
“I’m not gonna shoot anyone.”
“For protection,” Dunk continued. “You keep it on you in case they try to finish what they started today. You put it in your pocket, and wait for them on the bench.” He took another sip of his beer. “If you have to, you pull the gun on Stella. This time, you get answers. You don’t let them leave. You control the situation.”
“They’ve got guns, too, much bigger guns.”
“Won’t matter. If you point a gun at Stella, they won’t risk shooting you.” Dunk finished his beer and crushed the can. He tossed it at the overflowing wastebasket in the corner of the kitchen. “This time, you’re getting answers for sure.”
I stared at the gun for a long time. Then I reached for my beer. The bubbles burned my nose. I didn’t like the taste one bit. At least, not that first time.
August 8, 1989
Thirteen Years Old
Log 08/08/1989—
Subject “D” within expected parameters.
Audio/video recording.
“What time is it?”
“Ahh, twelve after three.”
“Is the kid sleeping?”
Warren lowered his copy of Rolling Stone magazine. “Did you know Madonna doesn’t shave her arm pits?”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re a hairy fucking monkey. She’s hot. Seems weird when a woman doesn’t shave.”
“They don’t in Europe.”
“That’s why I live in the good ol' U.S. of A.”
“Seems like a double standard to me.”
Warren returned to the magazine. “Wonder if she shaves her legs.”
“I’m sure she shaves her legs. We live in a civilized society. If Madonna doesn’t shave her legs, we might as well go back to sleeping in caves and beating buffalos with sticks to get our dinner.”
Warren lowered the magazine again. “Now I’m hungry.”
“Is the kid sleeping?” Carl asked again.
“Can’t tell. Too dark in there. Why?”
“Want to see something scary?” Carl reached across the control board and flicked the delay switch to the off position.
Warren dropped the magazine and nearly fell out of his chair as he jumped and smacked the switch back on. “What the fuck, Carl!?”
“Doesn’t matter. Not if he’s sleeping.”
“I don’t care if he’s hog-tied, duct-taped, cuffed, and wearing that mask of his—don’t ever fuck with the switch!”
Carl reached over and flicked the switch off again.
Warren slammed it back. “I will beat you if you do that one more time!”
Carl held up both his hands. “Okay! Okay! I surrender. Just trying to liven things up. I’m bored to death over here.”
“Maybe zero in on a hobby that doesn’t involve the two of us dying.”
“If that switch broke, do you think anyone would notice?”
“I’m sure they test it,” Warren said.
“Like all the other safety protocols we never see? Yeah, I’m sure someone tests it. I’ll bet someone is all over that.”
Warren had turned to the thick glass window. “I can’t see him in there. Can you?”
“That’s why I asked you if he was sleeping. I don’t think he’s on his bed.”
“It’s too fucking dark in there. They need to switch that red night-light thing back on.”
“The kid told the doctor he couldn’t sleep well with that little light on. She had it removed.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s in his bed.”
“Maybe he’s in the shitter.”
“Maybe. I don’t see him on the infrared, either.”
“Well, he didn’t get out and go for a walk. Turn the light on for a second.”
“No way. I’m not getting written up.”
Carl frowned. “They won’t write us up for checking on him. If they don’t want us to turn the light on to do our job, they should have fought the doc on the night-light. We’ll just flick the light on for a second, figure out what he’s doing, then shut it down again. No harm done.”
Warren let out a breath. “Okay, but fast. If he’s sleeping, we don’t want to wake him.”
Carl reached back to the control board and flicked on the lights.
Warren leaned over the board, close to the observation window. “I don’t see him, do you?”
Carl stood, leaned forward, looked too.
“Do you see him?”
Carl shook his head and pressed microphone button. “Hey, kid, where are you?”
Warren smacked his hand off the button. “Don’t do that!”
David jumped up from beneath the window and slapped both hands against the glass. The motion was soundless, hampered by the thick glass, but that didn’t keep both men from jumping back.
Carl’s leg snared on his chair, and he fell to the floor in a twisted mess.
“What the fuck!” Warren shouted.
David grinned back at them both from the other side of the window. He laughed silently while Warren found the light switch and plunged the room back into black.
—Charter Observation Team – 309
1
I did take the gun and on August 8, 1989, the year I officially became a teenager, I planted my butt firmly upon the bench in the cemetery and waited. The weather was particularly warm that day, and I felt like an idiot sitting there with a jacket on, but that was the only way I could properly conceal the weapon. I tried sticking the gun down the waistband of my jeans (both in front and in back) like they do in the movies, but the gun toppled out and fell to the ground after only a few steps. There was also the odd bulge in my pants that would have to be explained—even with a tee-shirt pulled down over it, the gun was plainly visible. I grew that year—from four-nine to five-three in just the past nine months. I only weighed one hundred and two pounds, though. I looked like a telephone pole dressed up in last year’s long-forgotten fashion. My scrawny body simply wasn’t meant to hide a gun—that’s something that wouldn’t feel right for a few more years.
Dunk’s dad owned an ankle holster, but my leg was a little too small and the gun a little too big for that, too, that left only my jacket. Mr. Krendal gave it to me, a brown leather bomber jacket that had belonged to his son. I later learned he was lost in the war. The jacket had two pockets on the inside, and the gun rested comfortably in either. Because the jacket was large and bul
ky on me, the shape of the gun was lost in the folds, creases, and assorted bumps my body had yet to fill in.
The jacket was perfect, aside from the heat.
Eighty-six degrees when I left Dunk’s apartment, and no sign of cooling until the sun took leave.
I didn’t want to take the gun, but Dunk made a good case for it, and he had made that same case almost every day for the past year. When I finally agreed, he looked relieved.
“It’s a Rossi 352 two-inch .38 special. Five shot capacity—” He jerked his wrist, and the cylinder popped out, revealing the heads of five gold casings. He gave the cylinder a quick spin, then slammed it back into place with the palm of his hand. “You can pull back the hammer with your thumb if you want to scare them, but the gun will still shoot if you don’t, the trigger pull will just be a little longer.” He did all of this with the skill of a veteran. His dad felt it was better his son be familiar with the weapon, understand the dangers, and know how to use it. “The sites are fixed,” Dunk went on. “All you have to do is line up the one in the front to the one in the back and pull the trigger. If you do pull the trigger, exhale before or just hold your breath. If you breathe while shooting, the movement can screw with your aim.” He pointed at the bottom of the gun. “This here is the trigger guard. Always keep your finger on the trigger guard until you’re ready to shoot. If you put your finger on the trigger, there’s a chance you might fire the gun by accident and shoot yourself in the foot or something.”
Dunk held the gun out to me, barrel down. “Put it in your pocket and don’t take it out unless you think you’ll need to use it. Pop always says you can’t pull a gun unless you’re ready to kill someone. Once you reveal a gun, there’s no going back. You ready?”
I reached out and took the gun from him. It was heavier than I remembered—it didn’t have bullets when we were practicing. I was shaking, but Dunk didn’t say anything about that. I slipped the gun into my jacket pocket.
Dunk smoothed out the leather, then ruffled the jacket back up. “Are you sure you don’t want us there?”
Willy should have been there by now, but he was running late. Earlier that summer, he started a job at Magic Mike’s Car Wash on Valladium Drive, and on days like today they tended to keep everyone for overtime.