The Eleventh Plague

by Jeff Hirsch

  “Your parents …?”

  “Dad voted to send them away. He didn’t want to but … I mean, the guy was dangerous, right? What choice did he have? Let the whole town get destroyed? Get us thrown out too?”

  “What about your mom?”

  Jackson’s eyes went unfocused as he drew his fingertip aimlessly through the dirt. “She was … sick, I think. Didn’t make the vote that day.”

  “What happened to them? The Krycheks?”

  Jackson didn’t look up. He shrugged. “Dad and some others insisted they at least give them some supplies but … it was the middle of January.”

  He didn’t need to say any more. Middle of the winter and the dad a drunk and dragging along a nine-year-old. Only one thing could have happened. I looked down at the remains of my sandwich but wasn’t hungry anymore. I could see that family clear as anything, huddled together and snow-blind, making their slow way out of town. A sick shudder went right through me.

  I jumped as the bell rang and everyone started packing up their lunch things and heading inside.

  “Let’s go!” Derrick shouted, throwing up his arms. “It’s time to learn, people!”

  Jackson lingered by the door. “You coming?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Just a second. I’ll catch up.” The doors slammed behind them and the yard was quiet and empty.

  Just me and Jenny.

  Jackson’s story hung with me. Now more than ever I had to be careful. If Jenny was going to be a threat to me, I needed to deal with it. I looked around, making sure I was alone before stalking up the hill. Jenny didn’t notice me as I drew near, too busy sketching the landscape in front of her. The trees looked almost alive on her paper, caught in mid-sway against the gray clouds, the horizon ominous in the distance.

  “You’re different,” she said without turning. “Your clothes and hair and stuff.”

  I froze. Jenny looked me up and down over her shoulder. Her dark eyes made me feel like I was a fish wriggling on the end of a spear.

  “It was, uh … Violet. She gave me some clothes.”

  “Figures,” Jenny smirked. “You look like one of them now. You come up here for a reason?”

  I cleared my throat and tried to force myself back to business. “The note.”

  “Which note?” she asked innocently. “A? B? C major?”

  “Your note.”

  “Oh, my note!”

  “Jenny, whatever you think you saw —”

  “Oh please,” Jenny said with a flirtatious lilt. “Let’s not play games that aren’t any fun.”

  I felt my legs go weak. My mind was wiped clear like Tuttle’s blackboard. Jenny chuckled.

  “I need to know what you want,” I said, trying to find the steel in my voice that was always in Grandpa’s, but only managed what sounded like a strained squeak. For a second I thought Jenny would laugh, but she didn’t. She dropped her pencil and shifted around, looking up at me like she was awaiting a lecture.

  “Have you always been a scavenger?” she asked.

  “I’m not —”

  “Salvager. Whatever. You go north to south, right? To those trade gatherings?”

  “Jenny, the note. I —”

  “Do you take the same route every time or do you mix it up?”

  One time Dad told me about how when they were building the railroads way back when, there would sometimes be a mountain in their way and they’d have to decide whether to load it up with dynamite and blow it up or just go around. I had the feeling that this was one of those times and I was pretty sure I didn’t have anywhere near enough dynamite for the first option. If I wanted the information, it looked like I was going to have to play along.

  “It changes.”

  “Why?”

  “If you keep to one path, people can predict it. Set ambushes.”

  “Smart. How close do you get to the coast?”

  “Not close.”

  “Why? Is it dangerous?”

  “Some. Mostly it’s just rubble.”

  “What about the West Coast? What have you heard about it?”

  “Nobody goes there anymore,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I gave her a look like it was obvious.

  “What? Because that’s where my scary Chinese brothers and sisters are?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Jenny —”

  “You ever seen them?”

  “No.”

  “So what are they doing out there?”

  Jenny chewed on the end of her pencil, squinting a little in the sun.

  “You like your life, Quinn?” she asked, throwing me off base with the sudden change in tack. “Wandering about this war-torn land of ours?”

  No one had ever asked me anything like that before. Did I like my life? What kind of question was that? “It’s just … it’s my life.”

  “Well, it’s not a rock. You can have an opinion about it.”

  “You like yours?”

  “I like parts of it.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The parts where I get to break things.”

  “Why? Because that makes you feel like you’re in control of something?”

  For the very first time, I stopped her cold. It took everything in me not to throw my arms into the air in celebration. Jenny looked up at me blank-eyed, wriggling on a spear of her own. Slowly a smile grew at the corners of her lips.

  “Oh Stephen,” she said. “You are a pistol.”

  “What do you want, Jenny?”

  Jenny’s eyes glinted in the sunlight.

  “I want a lot of things, Quinn. I’m just trying to decide which of them you can provide.” She flicked her eyes to our left. “Uh-oh. Feel like a tussle?”

  “Huh?” I turned and there was Will Henry, the redheaded giant, and one of the slug twins barreling our way.

  “Come on,” I said, backing away down the hill. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “No, seriously, Jenny. They’re trying to get me thrown —” But Jenny wasn’t listening. She jumped up and ran right at them. Will stormed on ahead.

  “This isn’t about you, Jenny,” he said.

  “Is it about the uses of symbolism in Melville’s Moby-Dick?”

  “What?”

  As Will stopped to figure that one out, Jenny punched him in the face. A hard right, slamming into his jaw. It rocked him, but he came right back at her. Jenny laughed and danced away.

  I edged back down the hill toward school. If Jenny wanted to fight, that was her business. I needed to play it safe, for me and Dad. For the Greens.

  “This is my town,” Will spat. “People like you and the spy aren’t welcome, Chink.”

  Will planted both hands on Jenny’s chest and shoved her to the ground. She landed with a dull thump.

  I didn’t even think. I just launched myself at him, slipping a fist past him and landing it in his stomach. He made a satisfying oof sound but recovered fast, throwing a punch that connected squarely with my jaw and spun me around. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground with a mouth full of grass. My head was ringing. I rolled over and all I could see was a wide expanse of cloudy sky cut in half by the dark shadow of Will Henry towering over me.

  “You. Don’t. Belong. Here,” he growled.

  Something behind me roared and Jenny flew past me, throwing herself at Will, her fingers stretched out like claws. He tried to shrink out of the way, but she got her arms around his neck and forced him to the ground. My vision was still a little hazy, but I could make out the two guys who were behind Will stepping forward and reaching for Jenny. I forced myself up, taking a fistful of dirt and grass with me. I threw the clump in Big Red’s face and threw myself at the other one, using my body like a battering ram. I hit the slug twin full in the chest with my shoulder and he went down. Once we were on the ground, I brought my knee up between his legs. He howled, then curled up on his side, moaning.

  I pulled myself on top of h
im, cocked my fist, and gave him a good one right on the nose. There was a sick crunch and blood spurted out between us. I reared back again, but someone’s hands were on my shoulders, pulling me up and away from him.

  It was the big redhead. He was strong but slow. I wriggled out of his grasp and got to my feet, backing away and getting my hands up in front of my face. I could hear another fight going on to my left. I wanted to look and see how Jenny was doing, to see if she needed help, but I had troubles of my own. Big Red was sizing me up, deciding on his next move. It was probably the dumbest thing he could have done. While he was thinking, I was moving.

  I threw myself at him headfirst, right into his stomach. Even though I was pretty sure I knocked the wind out of him, he didn’t go down. I kept pushing forward, hoping to get him off balance, but he grabbed my shoulders and used my momentum to toss me down instead. I hit with a thud, my head slamming into the dirt. I reeled again and a wave of nausea hit me. I reached for my knife, realizing too late that it was sitting on Jenny’s floor guarding a pile of old clothes.

  I tried to get up, but my arms felt like jelly, and before I could do anything else, Big Red was down on one knee beside me. He pulled his fist back, blocking out everything else in my vision. It was a pale comet hurtling toward me.

  But then a look of surprise came over his face and his whole body shot back away from me, like he’d been grabbed up by an angel. There was shouting and a commotion, but my head was too swimmy to make it all out.

  Someone grabbed my shoulder and tried to push me up, but it was no use. I was like a rag doll filled with lead.

  There was a voice in my ear, close and rushed. “Come on, get up. We have to get out of here.”

  The world snapped into focus. Jenny was leaning over me. Her bottom lip was split and trailing blood down her chin and neck, soaking the top of her T-shirt. Her right eye was surrounded by a red and black bruise and nearly swollen shut.

  “Did we win?”

  “Ha! You are a pistol, Stephen,” she said as she pulled me up. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  “Jenny Tan!”

  “Oh crap.”

  Tuttle stormed up the hill toward us, clutching his wooden ruler like a sword. He was being led by the second of the slug twins. I saw the plan immediately: Will starts a fight, then sends one of them to get Tuttle, no doubt blaming it on me and Jenny. Idiot, I cursed myself.

  He was followed by a group of students, all excited to see what was going on. In the middle of the pack were Derrick, Martin, and, finally, Jackson. As soon as Jackson saw Jenny and me together, he stopped cold. The group broke around him, but he didn’t move.

  He was staring at my hands.

  They were covered in dirt and bruises and blood. The new clothes Violet had given me just that morning were torn and stained. Jackson looked from me to Jenny and back again, his body rigid with anger, his hands knotted into fists. I knew what was going through his head. The last straw. A calm day was smashed to pieces and maybe this time it would lead to a vote that would turn his world upside down. I wanted to say something, tell Jackson it wasn’t my fault, that it was Jenny, that it was Will, that everything would be okay, but before I could do anything, Tuttle barked, “Enough. Detention for both of you.”

  “But what about them?” Jenny asked.

  Tuttle ignored her. He whirled around, sending the mass of kids behind him scurrying back toward the school. Jackson didn’t move at first, but then Martin tapped him on the shoulder, whispered something, and pulled him away.

  “You’re done,” Will said as he passed me, flashing that easy wolfish grin. He and his friends strolled down the hill in Tuttle’s wake.

  My hand curled into a fist so tight I nearly broke a bone.

  “Easy, tiger,” Jenny said. She laid her hand on my shoulder, but I jerked away.

  “Get away from me.”

  “Oh come on. We’ll get ours.”

  “Our what?”

  Jenny’s lips brushed my ear as she whispered, “Revenge, Stephen. We’ll get our revenge.”

  “I don’t want revenge,” I said, pushing away from her down the hill. “I just want you to leave me alone.”

  SEVENTEEN

  When the classroom was empty except for me and Jenny, Tuttle regarded us over the rim of his steel glasses. “American History,” he said. “Chapters one through three.”

  “Read them?” I asked.

  “Copy them.”

  I opened the book and flipped through the pages. Chapters one through three were about twenty densely worded pages. My bruised knuckles ached at the thought of it. Tuttle leaned over a stack of papers, making quick little check and X marks down the length of them. I couldn’t concentrate. Every time I tried, I saw Jackson’s face growing more and more angry as he looked from me to Jenny after the fight. I had tried to explain, tried to pass him a note even, but he’d ignored me, that hard fury like a wall between us. Stupid, I thought, over and over. Why didn’t I just walk away?

  What made it worse was Jenny, twirling a pencil in her bruised fingers, totally unconcerned.

  Tuttle cleared his throat and I leaned over my paper. I swallowed the anger as best I could and started to write. I only had two pages done before something bumped against the side of my boot. When I looked down there was a folded piece of paper lying on the floor. I checked on Tuttle, then leaned down and picked it up, unfolding it onto my notebook.

  How are the war wounds, tough guy?

  Jenny had her head down in her book, copying away, the slightest shadow of a smile on her bruised face. I refolded the paper and went back to work, ignoring her. Minutes later another piece of paper knocked against my foot.

  Awww, what’s wrong, pal? Mad at me?

  Leave me alone, I scrawled across the paper in heavy black letters before kicking it back to her.

  Oh come on, Stephen, she wrote back. You’ve been dying to hit somebody since the night you got here.

  Well, thanks, I wrote. Now I’m in detention. Everybody hates me, and your whole family, my dad, and I are all one step closer to getting thrown out of here.

  She answered: The sky’s not going to fall because of one little fight! No one’s going to throw you out. Jackson and his band of doofuses will get over it.

  I made sure Tuttle was still busy grading before writing back, And if they don’t?

  I could feel Jenny shaking her head as she read it. When the paper returned it was nearly torn through.

  Food for thought. If someone can’t handle seeing who you are — are they really your friends?

  She was wrong, of course. Jackson and the others were my friends, and fighting those guys was not who I was. Jenny hadn’t been there at the game or the quarry. She didn’t know.

  What would you know about who I really am? I wrote back.

  Jenny wrote something immediately, then quickly erased it. Almost an hour passed before she kicked the paper back.

  Sometimes I can’t sleep, she wrote, her messy scrawl replaced by small deliberate letters. Because it’s like I can feel the whole world spinning so fast beneath me, and I’m thinking, what am I doing here? Is this where I belong? Do I belong anywhere? Some nights it gets so loud in my head that I want to break something, anything, everything, just to make it stop.

  I didn’t move for several minutes. I just stared down at the words, the letters so tight, so precise and dark, they looked like they might rupture at any moment and tear the page to pieces. My pencil was near my fingers, and in one strange moment I thought, Did I write that, or did she?

  I checked on Tuttle, then looked back at Jenny, but she was slipping out of her chair and heading toward the door.

  “Miss Green,” Tuttle called out, but she ignored him, didn’t even correct him. “Miss Green, come back here!”

  I wanted to stop her too, but the double doors behind me flew open and slammed shut. Tuttle settled into his chair, and I was surprised to see a strange look on his face, almost concerned. Maybe even a little bit s
ad.

  “This does not mean that you are excused, Mr. Quinn,” he said when he caught me looking at him. “Get back to work.”

  I read Jenny’s note twice more before I did, lingering over each word. Tuttle cleared his throat pointedly, and I folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket so I could finish my work. About an hour later, I finished the assignment and, my hand cramped into a claw, I set it on Tuttle’s desk before turning to leave.

  “A moment, Mr. Quinn.”

  I returned to my desk and slumped down while Tuttle took his time making a neat stack of graded papers and sliding it into a leather folder. The waiting was driving me crazy.

  “Mr. Tuttle, we were just defending our —”

  Tuttle held up his hand to silence me. He slipped a paper out of his folder, then crossed the room and dropped it on my desk. It was my Great Expectations quiz. Down one side of the paper was a long column of check marks and a single X. A large A was written at the top of the page.

  “The question you must ask yourself, Mr. Quinn,” Tuttle intoned, towering above me, “is this: Are you a boy or a man? Human being or savage?”

  Tuttle’s cool blue eyes were on me, unwavering.

  “Obviously you’ve never had to make that choice before. Running around the ruins of this world as your sort of people do, you acted on instinct and self-preservation — an animal — no doubt quivering before rainstorms and amazed by fire and shiny objects. But you’re here now, Mr. Quinn, and this is civilization, so now you do have a choice. So, what do you want to be?”

  Tuttle waited for an answer.

  “The fact that you pause does not fill me with confidence.”

  “Look, as soon as my dad is better, we’re leaving, so you don’t have to bother.”

  Tuttle surprised me by folding his long body down into the cramped desk in front of me. He twisted around to face me, his knees nearly pressing into his chest. “Do you like to learn?” he asked.

  “I like to read.”

  Tuttle’s thin lips curled into a tight smile. “Yes. So do I. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like the world has much use for people like us, does it? No, most of the world only has time for people who can build or break things. It won’t always be that way, I think. A time will come when society, as it always has, will turn for its salvation to the learned. Now, to my surprise, you appear to be intellectually capable, but the question remains: Do you want to be one of them?”