by Jason Parent
Slowly, he pushed up from the pavement, orienting himself. He crawled toward the light. The brightness grew as rubble over him shifted and toppled to the ground. The weight on his back lessened. He worked his way into daylight.
Behind him, splintered segments of wall and plaster coated the ground. Obliterated into unmatchable puzzle pieces, the rubble didn’t look like it had ever comprised a building. What had been atop him was thin and sparse like fence slats and art canvas. It was strewn about in every direction.
He looked down at his hands, dusted over with black specks of embedded gravel and tiny rivulets of blood. “Sam?” he called out, how loudly he couldn’t know. He only heard the word as if projected from somewhere inside his head, fighting to be heard over that vicious finger-stuck-on-the-dial blare a phone made. He shoved a pinky into his ear and wiggled it around before he could think better of it with all the filth coating him.
And not just his hands. His jeans and T-shirt were dusted with what looked like asbestos or anthrax. Michael was sure he wasn’t breathing in anything good. Then, very faintly, he heard something. He strained his ears.
Sirens. All at once, the gravity of his situation returned to him. The cops! He looked around for Sam but instead saw plenty of other people, a crowd gathered a safe distance away as if he were contaminated and the building was about to explode a second time—gawkers, most likely. But Michael couldn’t be sure. Any one of them could be a brainwashed zombie just waiting for the chance to open fire on Michael. His heart thumped faster. I need to get out of here!
His neck swiveled left then right as he sucked in his breath. He couldn’t wait for the cops. The cops were the ones shooting at him. Bruce had been right all along. There must be a mole, maybe two or more of them, and they were willing to shoot at him in broad daylight, in front of plenty of witnesses, while running the risk of being flattened by an enormous wrecking ball. They could still be here. He looked around again, praying he’d find Sam, but saw no one he knew. Which meant she’d either left him there, had been recaptured, or worse.
He cursed at the sky, the skin in his neck tightening around his veins. Everyone was staring at him then—people with their judging eyes, fearful gapes, and closed hands, not one of them offering help, and maybe some of them wanting worse for him. For a split second, he wished they’d all been in the building when it had been speedily renovated. Then he hung his head, berating himself for the thought.
Sam’s voice—or was it his lizard brain—was screaming at him to run, but he forced himself to think it out. Run, or search for Sam, which meant going to the other side of the building where the shooters had been. She would want him to get somewhere safe, out of the way, and not make circumstances worse like when he’d tried to fight and ended up with that doctor’s gun to his head. Without him in the way, she could do what she needed.
He hoped it was logic and not fear that had made him draw that conclusion, but the growing crowd only fed his need for flight. He didn’t trust the crowd. He didn’t trust the cops. He took in his surroundings and took stock of where he was—not far from the financial district, if he could call a few banks and the government center that. Charlton wasn’t far off to the east, the high school to his north, and a police station much closer than them both.
But the choice for him was simple. It worked when I had to hide from Masterson. Without deliberation, he headed toward the high school, the place where he’d once been bullied his only option for safety. School was no longer in session, though all of the sports teams and afterschool clubs would be meeting. Plenty of students would be there if he needed help, plus security guards, metal detectors, and plenty of phones he could use to discreetly search for Sam. Maybe he could get Principal Duluth, if he were still in his office, or the Athletic Director to make the calls for him. He would explain to them the importance of not revealing his location to anyone but Sam. Sure, if Wainwright’s people got the call, they could trace it or perhaps just look at their caller ID, but Michael didn’t have to stick around once the calls were made. Watch from afar. Run at the first sign of trouble.
He had already run almost the entire mile or so to the high school. Aside from the need to cough out some debris particles when he’d stopped, his legs and lungs hardly felt used. With all the running he’d been doing lately, his body was finally getting used to it.
Standing stoically on the hill in front of him, Carnegie High School loomed like a prison complex minus the barbed wire. It was a sprawling, multi-winged building with four adjacent sports fields and a track and football field surrounded by stadium seating. The shriek of whistles and the bangs, slams, and grunts of team activity carried over to Michael.
On the left side of the main building were the parking lots, tennis courts, basketball courts, planetarium, and even a small amphitheater, which was the one building in Fall River where the taxpayers’ money hadn’t been misapplied or misappropriated. Amid the crime and drugs, one could still find good parents who wanted the best for their children. Michael didn’t have two good parents to turn to, and at that moment, he wasn’t even sure if he still had one.
He jogged toward the front entrance, screening the nearly empty street for vehicles and his police escort. He saw neither, and his police detail likely had been dismissed as soon as Michael had been placed in the not-so-safe safe house. In what was probably the easiest thing he’d done all week, he walked up to the door, pulled it open, then stepped inside.
There, he was greeted by the quizzical look of a security guard as he folded the paper he was reading. Michael wasn’t sure of the time, but he guessed classes had ended at least a half hour ago. The halls were nearly empty except for the security guard and a boy getting a drink from the water fountain. And although the guard might have been well within his rights to question where Michael was coming from and why he wished to enter the school so late in the day looking like he must have, he instead passed Michael through the metal detector and sent him on his lovely way.
The restrooms were straight ahead, the principal’s office down the hall to the west wing and around a corner toward the faculty entrance. Already feeling much safer and guessing he didn’t make a very pretty sight, he headed into the men’s room to clean up as best he could. He checked his appearance in the mirror over the sink. Dirt, dust, and grime covered his skin and clothes where sweat hadn’t washed it off. He looked like a mime who’d been trying to escape a glass box for hours in hundred-degree weather. The back of his T-shirt had a long gash in it, and blood stained the back of his jeans in a small dark patch just under his butt. His hair was tousled and speckled with filth. Even his teeth had caught a layer of film as if they were coated in crap.
As Michael took all of this in, an uproarious laugh shot up from his belly and escaped his mouth. He didn’t know why he was laughing but was powerless to stop himself. As it petered out, he turned on the cold water, cupped his hands, then bent over to splash it on his face.
After wiping the cool, clean water from his eyes, he once again looked in the mirror. A small cry escaped his lips as he gripped the sides of the sink. Dylan stood directly behind him.
“I thought that was you I saw come in,” Dylan said as he finished a text message. He looked up from his phone and smiled, something green and leafy stuck in his braces. “I didn’t know you were back.”
Michael slowly turned, keeping his back to the sink as he did. Of all the students to appear out of thin air, Dylan showing up after all that had just happened raised the hairs on his neck. After all, the boy was tied to Brentworth, whether he and his father had been cleared of any wrongdoing or not. “I’m not back, technically. Just here to, you know, pick up some things and talk to the principal for a sec... if he’s still here.”
“Well, it’s good to see you, Badass!” Dylan beamed. “Everyone here is talking about you. You’re like a local hero now. Everyone knows how you helped those people get out of Brentworth.” He blushed and scratched the back of his head. “I, uh, may have hel
ped embellish that story a bit too. It’s all over school. Now everyone knows what I always knew about you—that you’re a badass.”
“That’s... good.” Michael glanced to his right, at the only exit, then back at Dylan. Had he had more time, he might’ve stopped to think about whether any form of fame or notoriety was good at all, but at that moment, all he cared about was why Dylan was crouched over his backpack, reaching inside.
“I guess I should give this to you now.” Dylan pulled a notebook from his bag and ripped out a sheet of paper. “We have a couple of essays to write on Moby Dick. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
“Thanks.” Michael took the sheet of paper, folded it up without looking at it or taking his eyes off Dylan then jammed it into his pocket.”
Dylan frowned. “Are you okay? You look stressed. I can’t imagine all you’ve been through.” He hung his head. “If not for that FBI guy, I would have been right in there with you. I’m sorry I wasn’t. I should’ve let you go first on the zip line. If I had... It’s not fair—”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Michael eased off the sink and relaxed his shoulders. If Dylan wasn’t being genuine, then the school play had just found its new lead. Still, the timing remained... peculiar? It kept Michael slightly wary. “Why are you still here, anyway?”
“I was waiting for that officer to show up to give him your homework. Robbie was waiting, too, but he had to go to practice. I said I’d hang out a little longer and was about to give up when look who comes strolling into the high school.”
“Duh!” Dylan slapped his head. “That reminds me—Robbie says you’re supposed to read chapter three in your math book and complete the exercises at the end of it.” He snickered. “Exercises. I’m pretty sure he was quoting the teacher word for word there.”
“Thanks.” Michael tried on a grin. “I wonder if that’s really my assignment or his.”
“Beats me. I’m just the messenger.” Dylan laughed and shrugged. “You’re going down to see Duluth? I’ll walk with you. With Brentworth shut down, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“Okay.” Michael waved his arm toward the door. “After you.”
He followed Dylan out of the bathroom. Side by side, they walked down the solemn, empty halls of the high school, Michael keeping an arm’s length between them despite the assurances of Sam’s department—a compromised department—and the reasonableness of Dylan’s excuse for being there. Their heavy footsteps clomped with such gravity that Michael imagined himself a death-row prisoner taking his last walk.
How stupid... Michael stopped then tapped Dylan on the arm. “Your phone! Can I borrow it?”
Dylan hesitated a half second then smiled. “Of course.” He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over.
Michael stared at the screen. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know Sam’s number.” He ground his teeth as he stared pensively at the screen. “I don’t know anyone’s number.”
He ground his teeth as he stared pensively at the screen. They couldn’t have gotten to the 911 operators, could they? He groaned. “Screw it.”
If Sam could be listening to dispatch, she would be. She has to be. Michael set his jaw. Every fiber of his being believed that Sam was alive and okay, which made it all the harder to understand why she hadn’t found him yet. His gift hadn’t given him much foresight beyond what he could gather through contact, though he’d met others who could use their gifts more broadly. Still, he felt it in his bones that she was out there and searching for him. I’ll just have to pray she finds me first.
At that moment, the phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down at the screen. Without thinking, he handed the phone back to Dylan, who grabbed it and answered.
“Hello?” A row of lines appeared across Dylan’s forehead.
Michael watched as his friend’s face slackened. Slowly, Dylan let his backpack slide off his shoulder and plop onto the floor. Still holding the phone to his ear with one hand, he crouched and unzipped the bag with his other, using his knees to hold it in place.
Unblinking, he said something under his breath, his lips moving like a fish out of water, gulping for air. He reached into the backpack’s front pocket, muttering something incoherently. The phone fell from his other hand and clattered to the floor. Michael bent to pick it up as Dylan slowly rose to his full height, holding what appeared to be a stick with a pointy tip, its base much too thick to be a pencil.
“One little Indian living all alone,” he said, wearing a blank expression.
Michael froze.
“I killed him, and then there were none.” Dylan thrust the sharp point outward.
Michael reversed direction with reflexes so quick they surprised him. But he hadn’t been able to grab the phone, instead keeping back to dodge the blow and assume a defensive stance. Dylan held the mini spear out in front of him like some evil wand reject from the Harry Potter films. Michael’s fears had been realized—though just a victim of Wainwright and Horvat, Dylan was brainwashed and dangerous. Michael was beginning to feel like the whole world was against him. And with Sam’s whereabouts yet unknown, he was on his own.
His heart thumping, he followed Dylan’s eyes, awaiting his next move. He didn’t wait long. Dylan shot out his arm, the point aimed at Michael’s stomach. As the strike came, Michael sidestepped it and slapped Dylan’s arm aside. Dylan’s shoulder turned, taking his whole body with it, and Michael took the opportunity to dart past him. He sprinted down the hall, back toward the door he’d entered to the security guard—
Where’s the security guard? Michael gasped. Of all the times to take a piss break! He ran through the checkpoint and out the double doors, feet slapping tile right behind him.
“Help!” Michael shouted but saw no one who could answer him. Skirting along the front of the school, he hurried over to the track area where he knew there would be a ton of people. No way all of them could be brainwashed. And even if he died there, at least there would be plenty of witnesses to tell Sam who’d done it.
His fear made him angry. He growled. “Can’t I just have one normal friend?”
Dylan didn’t answer. Still, Michael knew he was following, his breaths coming out rhythmically and controlled.
Pumping his legs so hard they burned, Michael bounded through a group of students in shorts and T-shirts as they stretched on the track, ignoring their funny looks. When he got through the crowd, he glanced back over his shoulder. Dylan was nearly close enough to grab him as they both trampled onto the football field.
“Help!” Michael shouted, racing across the short grass.
At the other end of the field, the football team was running drills. “Hey, you!” Coach Pelletier yelled. “Get off the field, you nitwits!”
“Help!” Michael screamed, his lungs scorching as he inhaled. Nobody moved. He sprinted toward the team, then by it, Dylan hot on his trail.
A rattling of pads and a tremendous thump behind him was followed by a chorus of “ohhhhs” from the team. Still running, Michael turned to see no one chasing him. He slowed to a jog then stopped, resting his hands on his knees as he saw a large football player rising from the ground. When the player turned his head, Michael could see Robbie Wilkins’s eyes peering out from his face mask. He dusted off his hands as he stood. Only then did Michael see the much smaller boy he had flattened.
“What kind of crap have you gotten yourself into now?” the star athlete asked as he approached.
Michael kept his eyes fixed on Dylan, who wasn’t moving. “Same crap. Different day,” he managed to say as he caught his breath.
“Well, I hope I didn’t just level that kid for no reason.”
“No... he was chasing me. Brainwashed.” Seeing the confused look on Robbie’s face, he added, “It’s a long story.”
Behind Robbie, Dylan began to rise. He massaged his temples and was slow to his feet, unsteady when he finally reached them. His hands were empty. Assumi
ng Robbie hadn’t noticed Dylan’s sharpened stick, Michael searched the field for the makeshift weapon and spotted it only ten feet away from Dylan.
“Unless you boys want to serve as tackling dummies, you mind getting the hell off my field?” the coach said with a snarl. He made no effort to assist Dylan. “Wilkins, get your ass back on that line!”
Robbie leaned in. “You good?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“I’ll be right there” —he cocked his head to the left—“watching. I’m not sure what’s going on, but if you need me to call the cops—”
“No!” Michael blurted much too loudly. “I mean, thanks, Robbie. I’m not sure that’s... you hit him pretty good by the sound of it.”
“I laid him the hell out.” Robbie laughed.
“Wilkins!” the coach snapped. “Get those kids off our field and get back over here! You want to do laps all afternoon?”
Robbie ignored him a moment longer. “Okay, but like I said, I’m right over there.” He snapped back on his chin guard and hustled back to the rest of the team while some of his teammates jeered.
“What? Where?” Dylan blinked rapidly, his eyes taking in his surroundings as if he were moving in slow motion. He turned toward Michael. “Mike?”
Michael walked closer to his friend, studying him for any sign of deceit. “Are you okay?”
“Okay?” Dylan spread out his palms. “How’d the heck we get out here? And why do I feel like I got run over by a freight train?”
“I think you were brainwashed like those others. You were chanting that nursery rhyme or whatever it is, like those people that attacked us. Who called you a minute ago?”
“Call? Brainwashed? I...” Dylan’s forehead creased, and he frowned. “I don’t remember a call or anybody doing anything to me.” His gaze rose to meet Michael’s eyes, and he gulped. “I-I-I didn’t attack you, did I? Oh, God, Michael, I’m so sorry. I—”