by Nancy Isaak
Making certain that there were no Crazies lurking about within earshot, I turned to face Erroll, who stood quietly—and a little sullenly—using the tip of his boot to dig a small hole in the grimy earth at his feet. “Seriously, Erroll…if you’re carrying, you have to give it up. We can’t take the chance.”
“Tell me what Jacob’s mother said,” he ordered, kicking up little puffs of dust.
“What?”
“Why some people are evil and some people aren’t.”
“Right now?!” I was astounded. “You want to do this right now?!”
He didn’t move, just stared at me.
Nate, meanwhile, began spinning—turning round and round—searching for White Shirts coming down the rows to arrest us.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Look—Jacob’s mom believed that there were men and there were women in the world…and then there were beasts who pretended to be humans. And his mom believed that it was up to all of us to find the beasts and take them down.”
Erroll smiled at the idea. “Brilliant.”
“Now, do you have any weapons on you?” I asked, trying to remain calm and polite. “Erroll…please.”
He nodded—at the same time, speaking over me to Nate. “Get Mother into the Arena, bro. I’ll meet you inside.”
And then Erroll walked behind a tent and disappeared from our sight.
Nate and I stood there—shocked—suddenly uncertain. We could hear cheering coming from the Arena across the street; a few celebratory gunshots sounded, which made the crowd cheer even louder. Behind us, meanwhile, I heard the flaps of a tent being unzipped; then the rustle of fabric, the thump of footsteps as Crazies began moving around a campsite.
“We need to go!” I hissed at Nate.
My voice seemed to startle him and he jumped forward, pulling on my chain. I practically fell onto my knees, my hands grasping at the links around my neck.
“Sorry, sorry!” Nate reached for me.
I quickly slapped his hands away. “Be an asshole! You’re my owner—act like it!”
For a moment, Nate looked hurt.
Then—with a sudden fury—he wrapped my chain around his hand, slowly pulling me toward him. When I was barely a foot away, he leaned in close, snarling. “Talk back to me once more, bitch, and I won’t sell you in the market…I’ll give your worthless ass away for free!”
Even though I had wanted him to take control, Nate’s vicious words shocked me. I was about to say something just as mean back, when laughter suddenly sounded close behind me.
Turning slightly, I discovered two White Shirts pushing their way between the tents; they both had rifles across their backs and long machetes at their waists.
The biggest kid—a towering brown-haired boy with flabby arms and a bit of a pot belly—reached out and pinched my arm as he came close. “She give you too much trouble,” he said to Nate, “you can always stick the bitch in the pot…tender and juicy.”
The second White Shirt pushed at the first one, urging him to keep moving forward. “Ignore this idiot,” he told Nate. “Dude’s gonna’ wind up in the pot himself one day—if he don’t stop taking more than his share!”
“We’re not getting enough protein!” the brown-haired kid complained. “Man’s a carnivore…I need meat!”
“Did you not study Economics?” asked the second White Shirt. “When demand outstrips supply, we all go hungry!”
Ignoring us completely now, the two White Shirts continued on, bizarrely arguing the pros and cons of depleting their human-protein supply.
“Let’s move!” ordered Nate.
He pulled again on my chain—almost as hard as the first time. Walking quickly, we wound our way through the tents. There were a few Crazies here and there—heading toward the entrance gate to the football Arena. Most of the Crazies, however—as evidenced from the volume of noise coming from the high school—were already seated in the stands.
Bang, bang, bang!
This time the gunshots were accompanied by a single scream; high and shrill, it trickled down to a screech, then was cut off with another gunshot.
Bang!
Inside the Arena—the crowd yelled and cheered their approval.
“Oh god,” Nate whispered, under his breath.
He stood frozen on the edge of the sidewalk—staring across the street at the back of the football stands. Dancing along the top railing, high above us, were two sweaty Crazies. They were both half-naked, their muscular bodies covered in tattoos and what looked like war paint.
“Oh god…oh god,” Nate moaned.
There were more cheers from inside the Arena…and another scream.
“It’s their pre-show,” I murmured. “Alice told us there would be…um…other killings…before the big challenge.”
“You don’t know what they’re like in there,” Nate told me—his eyes wide with fear. “They’re fracking savages, Kaylee!”
I could tell that Nate wanted nothing more than to turn around and run away.
Truthfully—I wanted the same thing.
“Not all of them,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Nate, most of those kids up in those stands are simply caught up in something they can’t figure out how to escape from. But we’re going to give them that escape.”
With some effort, Nate shook the fear from his face, replacing it instead with determination. Holding tightly onto my chain, he moved us forward along the sidewalk, heading toward the Arena.
Personally—pretend-confidence aside—it felt like I was going to my own execution.
Dead girl walking.
* * * *
There were at least twenty White Shirts on the other side of the road, running their hands over the Crazies awaiting entrance to the Arena, checking for weapons and other contraband. I noticed that there were also two sheeted-slaves in the line; oddly enough, they were passed through the gate without any inspection at all.
“Ready?” asked Nate, out of the side of his mouth.
I squeezed his hand in response and we started toward the main gate. As we did, I looked to my right—past the now bullet-pocked and rusting Tesla in the middle of the road, to the townhouses farther up Argos Street.
My heart sunk.
Where once I had lived in a pretty suburban 2-storey with my mother, there was now just a blackened hole—courtesy of a fire set by Brandon and the Foxes.
“Spiteful bastards,” I muttered, under my breath.
“Quiet!” Nate hissed. He pulled me closer to his side, grabbing my elbow and forcibly pushing me onto the sidewalk in front of the Arena.
There were White Shirts all around us now.
Nate threaded between them to where two lines of Crazies were moving toward the main gate. We joined the end of one line, waiting not-so-patiently as it inched forward.
With a start, I caught sight of Erroll; he was standing at the front of the second line, about to be frisked.
“Nate!” I whispered.
He squeezed my elbow, urging me to be quiet. “I already know.”
My view of Erroll was momentarily blocked as a White Shirt carrying a whip stopped to question the guy in front of me.
“You partaking today?” the White Shirt asked.
The kid ahead of me shook his head. He was about 15-years old, skinny, and dressed moderately normal compared to everyone else—a black t-shirt, jeans tucked into combat boots, everything neat and almost clean.
“No,” he said, looking down at the ground. “I told you, Allen…I’m not gonna’ do that.”
With a chuckle, the White Shirt leaned in and clapped his hand on the skinny kid’s shoulder. “You wanna’ live forever, dude? Just give it a little lick. Don’t worry, little brother—I won’t tell Mom and Dad.” Then, the White Shirt burst into raucous laughter. “Oh, but that’s right…Mom and Dad aren’t here!”
“Screw you, Allen!” hissed the skinny kid in front of me.
The White Shirt’s arm immediately shot out. He hooked it around the kid
’s neck, pulling him into a chokehold and giving him a noogie. “You show respect, little brother! Or I will pull the heart out of that slave-bitch behind you and shove it down your mouth!”
Nate’s hand tightened on my arm.
Meanwhile, I moved a step back, opening up the space between myself and the White Shirt.
“Stop it!” Twisting himself around, the skinny kid finally managed to extricate himself from the White Shirt’s grip. “You’re like a complete psycho now, Allen!”
This made the White Shirt laugh again. “Little brother,” he cackled. “You have no idea!”
* * * *
When the White Shirt had finally moved on and my view of the other line had been restored, it was to discover that Erroll had disappeared once more. My assumption—or should I say hope—was that he had made it safely through inspection and was presently heading toward the stands.
Because the other option was much too horrible to contemplate.
Meanwhile, Nate and I were slowly making our own way toward the front gate. Our line was moving slower than the one to our left, however, because the White Shirts at our security checkpoint were being more thorough; they took their time with each entrant’s inspection.
“Almost there,” whispered Nate. “Just be cool.”
We were both surprised when the skinny kid in front of us—thinking that Nate had been talking to him—turned and gave us a weak smile. “I’m trying…it’s just that my brother is such a dick, you know.” Then, the kid shocked us even more by placing a hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry for what he said, about what he’d do to you. I swear,” and he leaned over closely, whispering, “I would have killed him before I let him hurt you.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back.
He gave my elbow another squeeze, then let go and turned back around again. When I turned and looked at Nate, he nodded toward his own hands, specifically the webbing between his ring and baby finger.
Nate was telling me that the skinny kid was a Star!
I hadn’t recognized the kid, because he wasn’t one of the guys who had visited Alice’s safehouse during our stay. Which meant that this kid had to be one of the rumored ‘others’—at least twenty other guys whom Alice and Ryan had assured us were out there.
Truthfully—I hadn’t believed them.
Now, I found myself scanning the hands of the other Crazies around us—looking for star tattoos…for allies.
To my surprise, I found another Star within moments—just entering the back of the line next to us—an enormous kid I immediately recognized from the Market. It was the big Hawaiian who had been selling the surfboards that Nate had been salivating over.
The guy nodded to Nate and me, giving us a half-salute, his fingers raised just enough, so that we could see the recently inked star tattoo between his fingers. “Aloha, brah.”
“Um…hi,” stuttered Nate.
“Name’s Kimo, brah.”
“Nate.”
They shook hands, Kimo’s grip strong enough to make Nate wince.
Then, he tapped Nate on the chest with one big sausage-finger. “Your bro—he been back to see me, you know. We had good talk, me and him—real good talk.”
The kid was obviously speaking about Ryan, which meant that—sometime during the last few days—Ryan must have returned to the market and enlisted the big Hawaiian into the Stars.
And the revolution.
“That’s…that’s great,” Nate grinned. “Just great!”
The big kid grinned right back. Then, he turned and waved behind him, yelling, “Sammi, wat doing? Wiki wiki, brah!”
Nate and I both whirled around to see another big guy just crossing Argos Street. This kid—another Hawaiian—joined the back of our line, about five guys back.
“Me and him…we got stuck here, you know,” Kimo told us. “Came stateside for that Invitational down in Malibu. Next thing we know, world’s done ‘cause the Turtle rolled. Only way we’re getting back home now, be paddling the whole damn way.”
Making sure that no one else was listening, Kimo leaned in close, talking quietly. “Sammi, he had a good talk with your boy, too, you know. And we got five others from home, already in their seats, brah—so we all ohana…we all family now, right.”
The Hawaiian held up his fist, knocking it against Nate’s. “Okay, then,” he said, nodding—satisfied. “Time this family takes control.”
Then, Kimo laughed—his whole body shaking with each deep, booming chuckle.
* * * *
It was surprisingly easy to get past security; a White Shirt ran his hands quickly over Nate, while a second White Shirt merely waved me through the gate.
“Well, that was confusing,” I said quietly, as Nate and I walked toward the stands. “How come those White Shirts were so thorough with everyone else and not us? Were they Stars?”
“I don’t know,” Nate answered, just as stumped as me. “I didn’t see any tattoos on their hands.”
A shiver of electricity ran down my back. “Ohmigod! What if those White Shirts already knew who we were? What if they wanted us in here, so that they could capture us?!”
Nate stopped in his tracks; he must have tightened his grip on my chain, because the links suddenly began to cut into my neck. I grabbed at my metal collar—sliding my hand underneath it—to keep from being choked.
The football stands were to the right and slightly in front of us, and I could hear shouts and cries coming from the Crazies seated in the bleachers there. Meanwhile, other Crazies entered through the main gate, moving around us to reach the stairs that led up into the stands.
I was becoming increasingly nervous just standing there, afraid of being discovered. “Nate, we have to move,” I urged. “We need to take our seats…now!”
“But what if you’re right?” Nate asked, worried. “What if this is, like all an elaborate set-up? What if Brandon and the Foxes want us in here…so they can like…torture us in front of everybody?”
Behind Nate, I saw a White Shirt enter through the gate. He was a large African-American, about 18-years old, and he was carrying a wicked-looking machete. Lifting it slightly, he headed straight toward us, the look on his face one of suspicion.
Immediately, I fell to my knees and put my forehead on Nate’s feet. “Sorry!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”
“Wuh…” Nate was completely confused.
Luckily, his back was to the White Shirt, so the Crazy hadn’t seen his reaction.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I cried, louder. “I promise…I’ll move faster!”
I was hoping that the White Shirt would pass us by; instead, he reached down and grabbed me by the nape of the neck, wrenching me off of the ground and pushing me toward Nate.
“Control your bitch and get seated!” he ordered. “Main show’s about to start and we want everyone in their seats by then!”
“Yessir!” stammered a startled Nate.
The White Shirt spun on his heel then and headed back to the gate, passing Kimo who was just entering. For a moment, the big Hawaiian’s eyes met mine—as if working out the situation—before flashing over to the White Shirt, frowning.
“Got a problem?” snarled the White Shirt, pulling up short.
Kimo immediately lifted up both of his hands. “All good, brah.”
“Lotta’ rolls on you, dude,” said the White Shirt; he poked at the Hawaiian’s large belly. “You gotta’ be partaking.”
“No, brah,” said Kimo, shaking his head. “Jus’ plenny’ fat when all this happened. This be leftover, brah.”
“Got something against partaking?” The White Shirt raised his machete even higher, twisting it threateningly in his hands.
The big Hawaiian quickly shook his head. “Jus’ not my religion, brah…sorry.”
“Whatever,” snorted the White Shirt. “You’ll all be partaking when the meat runs out, you’ll see.” He poked Kimo in his gut again. “Eat or be eaten, dude.”
“Makin’ sense,” nodde
d the Hawaiian.
I wanted to hear more of their conversation, but Nate had pulled me off of the ground and was now leading me over to the stairs that headed up into the stands.
“That must be their word for eating humans,” I whispered to him. “Partaking.”
Nate didn’t respond; instead—like a gentleman—he stood to one side, to let me walk up the stairs in front of me. I immediately pulled back, making it look like I’d stumbled.
I fell into him, forcing him to hold me up. “Stop being so fricking polite with me!” I hissed at him. “Get back in the game!”
He pushed me away, so hard that I fell back against the stair railing with a clang! “And you stop being so fricking clumsy,” he yelled at me, “or I swear to god, there’s gonna’ be some partaking tonight!”
There was vicious laughter from the stands above us. A few Crazies even stood up to look over the railing—grinning and smacking their lips.
* * * *
“Move it, bitch!”
Nate pulled me up the stairs, tugging meanly on my chain. I stumbled once more—this time for real—so it was only when I picked myself up at the top of the staircase that I was truly able to see the crowd for the first time.
And it horrified me.
There had to be over three hundred Crazies on this side of the field alone. When I added in the guys in the stands on the other side—the Lightning Bolts and other Crazies from the ‘inner circle’—I knew that I was looking at more than five hundred potential soldiers, at least. That was more than enough to devastate the Point, more than enough to overwhelm the Locals and destroy our tribe.
Where had all these guys come from?
And were they all truly Crazy?
From the noises our side of the field was making, they certainly sounded like it; guys hooted and hollered meaningless words, while others stamped their feet—slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, reaching a feverish pace that would end with a synchronized boom!…only to start all over again.
Most of the Crazies appeared to be wearing some variation of dark jeans and t-shirts, while their footwear ranged from basic sneakers all the way up to knee-high motorcycle boots. A common theme throughout their Crazy-style seemed to be ripped—from the tears in their clothing to the definition in their muscles.