Road to Eugenica (Eugenica Chronicles)

by A. M. Rose

  I jog the opposite way to the far end of the bleachers and around the corner of the old concession stand, squeezing between it and a metal utility locker used for the field equipment. For a moment, I pause and peek back around. Maddox walks up the stairs I just came down. Shit. I pull my phone from my back pocket to text him.

  In the distance, large black boots come down the far set of bleacher stairs. It has to be the Green-eyed man. I duck back around the corner, click my phone to silent, and shove it in my pocket. I lean back, and the cold metal from the utility locker soaks through my sweatshirt as I consider my options for escape.

  A huge chain-link fence surrounds the field, and the only gate is toward the Green-eyed man. My mind flashes, and as soon as the crowd roars, I scale the fence, propel myself over, and land solid on the ground. Without looking back, I run behind the gym and out of the lights that illuminate the sidewalk.

  I creep along the back of the building toward the school, pulling my hoodie over my head. The damp grass from the evening sprinklers sloshes against my shoes.

  My fingers scratch along the rough cement of the building as I dig them into the corner to peek around. A few lights shine from the empty school, but it seems clear. More cheers erupt from the field as I make my way toward the front of the gym.

  I’m not even sure where I’m going. Maybe to hide in the back of Dylan’s Jeep. I just know I have to get out of here. So I continue toward the parking lot and pause when I reach the corner of the gym. I crouch low to the ground and peek around.

  The same boots that came down the bleacher stairs are standing on the other side of a parked car. My back pocket vibrates and I jump—stupid phone. I stay frozen until it stops, my heart pounding in my ears. It has to be Maddox, but I don’t dare take it out. I throw myself back behind the corner of the building.

  Come on Drea, you need to pull it together. You can figure this out. In. Out. In. Out. I scratch the palm of my hand and focus on that sensation, pushing the Green-eyed man from my thoughts. You can do this. You just climbed that fence like a boss.

  An aerial picture of the school comes into my head. If I can get through the campus out to the back side, I can run to my house from there. I’ve gone home from school that way hundreds of times before. That’s it.

  Staying low to the ground, I watch over my shoulder. The sound of heavy boots echoes from the parking lot. The Green-eyed man steps out from behind a car just as I duck back behind the gym. Shit.

  There’s a walkway between the school and the gym with a curving pathway lined by a few trees. As soon as I cross it, I’ll have two choices. I could cut across campus and get out behind the language building. Or I could run along the back side of the science building. There’re more chances to be seen if I cut through campus, but there are also more options of escape if I’m followed. The only thing behind the science building is a ten-foot chain-link fence separating the school from a deep, wooded ravine. But at least it’s darker.

  “A failure to plan is a plan to fail.” Dad’s voice rings in my head. He’s right. Cutting across campus is my best choice.

  It’s now or never. I pull in a deep breath and sprint across the grass at top speed. I’m light on my feet, barely making a sound as they hit the ground. Blood roars through my ears. I’m so close—the building is right in front of me. Ten feet. Five. I can do this. My feet dig in harder and I push forward, looking toward the parking lot as I clear the building. The Green-eyed man is staring right at me from behind a parked car.

  Double shit.

  My hands tremble as I dash through the campus. I might not be able to outrun him, but what if I can outsmart him? What’s the last thing he would expect me to do? That’s when it hits me. I race toward a bronze sculpture of our founding principal standing next to the one-story arts building. A flash comes across my mind, and my body takes over as I run at full speed toward the statue. I jump onto the pedestal before using my feet to parkour off the side of the building, landing on the propped-up knee of the sculpture. I push off, hitting the wall with one foot and using my other on the shoulder of the sculpture to propel myself to the top of the building. My feet slide against the rock and gravel roof, and I drop down on my stomach, lying flat. He’d never expect me to just stop running.

  A scream is sealed inside my lips as I wait. I can’t move. I can’t even breathe too loud. Or it will ruin everything. Seconds pass like minutes, and minutes pass like hours. Periodically cheers erupt in the distance. I wish I were sitting in the stands right now, instead of my face being pressed into a gravel roof with dirt in my eyes. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done. The Green-eyed man wouldn’t do anything to me if I was surrounded by people. Would he? And here, I’m alone…

  I pick gravel from under my nails as a cool breeze rushes by. Staying in the stadium might not have been a good idea either. In movies, the bad guy presses a gun to their victim’s back even in large crowds, so I guess either way I’m screwed. And now I’m here so I have to live with my decision. Follow through with my plan.

  Footsteps echo across the quad. I resist the urge to get up and run. Now isn’t the time to flee. I must stay and fight, or actually pray it doesn’t come to that. Because that thought alone—me face-to-face with the Green-eyed man—has my nerves skyrocketing. He isn’t just a big scary guy with a knife. No. This is the man who’s haunted my nightmares for years. The one thing—one person—I’m most terrified of. I can’t. I’m not ready. I need to get out of here. A buzz sends my hand flying to my back pocket to quiet the sound, but it isn’t my phone.

  “Sir,” the Green-eyed man says. I’d know his voice anywhere, even though I can’t see him. It’s the same as it sounds in my nightmares, dark and raspy. And it makes me feel like I’m being stabbed with a thousand knifes all at once.

  “She was not there. I was positioned where I was instructed,” he says.

  He doesn’t talk again. But he didn’t walk away, either. And I need a distraction. Something that can help me get out of here. I reach for the biggest rock, throw it hard toward the parking lot, and prop my head up a little. Not enough to see him, but that’s when I notice someone, with the hood of their sweatshirt flopping behind them as they run toward their car. Nadia. I hold my breath. From here she almost looks like me. I chew on my lip and silently beg, Please let him think it’s me and leave. But don’t hurt her.

  “Wait, I think I see her.” The Green-eyed man’s heavy footsteps hit the ground as he runs off toward the person in the parking lot. I let out the breath, cringe, and twitch, watching, waiting. What am I doing? I can’t stay here. I’m wasting time. Once he gets close enough, he’ll realize it isn’t me and come back. I have to go.

  I clench my fists, jog across the roof, leap off into the grass on the other side of the building, and do a forward roll. Ducking through the hole in the fence behind the language building, I sprint toward my house.

  The side streets take me a lot longer, since I weave through them just in case someone is trying to follow me. But I’m not willing to risk it. I don’t stop until I run through my kitchen door. Keeping the lights off, I only pause for a moment to listen for any sounds and lock up before I race upstairs to my room and shut the door.

  My heart slams inside my chest and it isn’t from running. I’m scared shitless. This is real. This is happening. The man everyone convinced me was a figment of my imagination was at Dylan’s game. He came after me. Chased me. No one is ever going to convince me it didn’t happen. But what to do now? I can’t think straight.

  I focus on my wall and try to wrap my head around my options when the kitchen door slams into the counter. Shit. I locked it. I did. Did I twist it all the way? Why didn’t I check it to be sure?

  It couldn’t possibly be Mom; she dropped me off at the game before work and she’ll be there all night.

  I’m frozen as footsteps come across the wood floors through the living room, and then the stairs creak. I search for a place to hide or a weapon. Right now I wish I played sof
tball or some sort of sport with a big, heavy stick. My head is coming up with nothing. Maybe because I’m too scared. This is my worst nightmare come true—the Green-eyed man in my house. But I can fight; I know that. Even if my head isn’t cooperating right now, I have to believe it will happen when I need it. At the very least, I could poke him in his damn green eyes with one of my paintbrushes. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. So I grab the biggest one and stare at my bedroom door.

  My heart lodges itself in my throat as the doorknob turns.

  Come and get me. I’m ready.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The door slowly creaks open. My mind flashes, and my body tells me to get low, so I crouch down and prepare myself to spring up at any moment. I clench my hand tighter around my pathetic weapon. The pen is mightier than the sword, right? Well, let’s see what a paintbrush can do. I take one last breath as a shoe appears, but it isn’t a big heavy black boot. It’s a cleat. One I’d recognize anywhere. I sigh in relief as Dylan walks in, still wearing his lacrosse uniform. He must’ve used his key to get in.

  My paintbrush drops from my hand, and I throw my arms around him, holding him tight. But my body doesn’t stop shaking.

  “Hey, it’s okay, it’s only me.” He can’t hide the concern in his voice.

  “Why aren’t you at the game?” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. He’s here. He’s really here. I’m safe.

  “It’s already over.”

  Over? It can’t be. I must’ve lost track of time. The clock on my nightstand confirms it. After 8:30 p.m. It hasn’t felt like that much time had passed at all.

  “I got worried when I didn’t see you there. When it was over I tried texting and calling. And when Maddox stopped me after and asked if I’d seen you, I knew something was wrong. So I came right here.” He walks me over to the bed, flips on my bedside lamp, and sits me down. “What’s going on?” His eyes are soft and he brushes his sweaty hair away from his face.

  Everything, the whole story of what’s happened, comes pouring out of me. And the weird dream I had with Maddox, all the bits and pieces that still don’t make sense, about how it felt like being in two places at the same time. Even about how I keep picturing wind turbines. Dylan sits and listens, his eyes never leaving mine, not even for a second. When I’m finished, he stands up and paces around my room. My heart thrums against my ribs, but other than that I’m numb. And living it all over again is too much.

  Dylan checks his phone, then walks into my closet, banging around for a few minutes. “You’re staying with me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone. And if this guy knows where you always sit at my games, I bet he knows where you live, too.” He comes out of my closet with a bag already half packed. “And we’ll deal with this Maddox thing later.”

  I grab my duvet and pull it around me. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “And tell them what? That some guy you’ve dreamed about is chasing you? Oh, and you think you might’ve time traveled or gone to some alternate dimension or something. You know how crazy we’d sound, right? No, the best thing for you to do is to come stay with me. Then we can figure it out from there.” His voice is calm, but his actions are quick and deliberate as he shoves things from my drawers into the bag.

  I pull the blanket around me tighter, but it doesn’t stop me from shaking. I hadn’t thought about it, but he’s right. I’d sound like a lunatic. But the thing that has me scared is what Dylan said about the Green-eyed man knowing where I live. It makes sense. Those eyes looking through my window—it’s more than possible I didn’t imagine that. And maybe he’s already been inside. Right here in my room, touching all my things. The time I heard the door close when I got home from the bookstore, that could’ve been him. I shook it off as nothing, but maybe it wasn’t. What if he was here?

  I drop the blanket and force myself to stand. Is anything different or out of place? My desk looks like it always does with my laptop sitting closed on a stack of books, paintbrushes scattered from the last time I used them. I walk over to my gallery wall and stare at my pictures. Even now, with my adrenaline racing, these photos make me smile. Dylan and me in the car, eating ice cream cones. Dylan and me at the beach with a sandcastle we made. Dylan catching a pass during one of his lacrosse games, his hair all windblown and his cheeks burning red— Wait.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  This is what I saw when I was sick. I brushed it all off as a hallucination, but the proof has been here the whole time. Staring at me day after day.

  I rip the lacrosse picture off the wall. There in the stands, behind Dylan, is the Green-eyed man. My blood races. The picture becomes nothing but shreds. My hands shake as I grab another one, the sandcastle one. Behind us, wading in the surf—it’s him. I’d know those eyes anywhere. In our car shot, again, there he is in the background, standing beside a mailbox. His eyes pierce through each photograph. I can’t believe I didn’t see him before. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I throw them on the ground and grab another picture and then another.

  Tears rolls down my cheeks when Dylan stops me. His hands are firm around my trembling arms. “Drea, I’m not going to let anything happen to you, you know that, right? Why are you ripping up all your pictures?” He sounds scared.

  So am I.

  “Because he’s there. He’s in them,” I barely whisper. It’s like the wind’s been knocked out of me. I gasp just to get some air. “Why is this happening?”

  Dylan picks up one of the photos and studies it.

  “He’s right there.” I point, careful not to let my finger touch his face.

  Dylan shakes his head and meets my eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before.”

  I can’t do anything more than nod.

  “We’re going to grab some of your things and you’re coming to my house. You know your mom won’t think anything of it, and my mom loves you so she won’t say anything, either. You’ll be safe there. Okay?” His voice is steady and it helps calm me.

  Thank God I can always count on Dylan. Like when I fell off my bike, he was there to pick me up and bandage my knee. Or the time Justin Murphy threw gum in my hair in the second grade, he took me to his mom and she used peanut butter to get it out. Dylan never said what he did to Justin, but he never bothered me again.

  Dylan rubs my arms and cleans up the mess of pictures. I’m able to compose myself enough to unplug my laptop and shove it in the bag Dylan packed for me.

  He checks his phone as I grab my camera. I need something normal to hold on to in the middle of all this craziness.

  He picks up the bag from my bed and heads toward the door. “We have to go.” He stretches his hand toward me.

  I take one last look around my room and grab his hand.

  …

  “Hey, Mom. I’m home. Drea’s with me,” Dylan yells as we walk through his front door. “She was getting freaked out being alone so she’s going to stay the night. Okay?”

  I follow him into the living room. And thankfully, just like my room, nothing looks different. It’s still neat and tidy, with a purpose for everything and everything in its place. The same brown couch that used to protect us from the evil lava monster who lives under the hardwood floors sits in the middle of the room. And where there should normally be a TV is the same giant bookshelf stuffed with books, the shelves sagging under their weight.

  “Of course, of course. I’m just finishing up dinner. I hope you two are hungry.” Dylan’s mom comes out from the kitchen. Her smile brightens when she sees me. “Drea, sweetie, it’s so good to see you. What a nice surprise.” She pulls me into a big mama bear hug. Her silver hair brushes against my cheek.

  “Hey, Mrs. A.” I breathe in her usual scent of peppermint and patchouli. I still remember when she told me that the peppermint’s because she’s getting old and the patchouli’s because she’s still young at heart. I close my eyes and lean deeper into he
r. Being here feels so right, and the Green-eyed man seems so far away. Here, I’m safe.

  “You go get cleaned up.” She shoos Dylan away, and then pulls me into the kitchen. “So how was the game?”

  I shove my hands into my back pockets. I hate lying to her as much as I hate lying to Dylan, but I can’t exactly say I didn’t watch it. That’ll lead to questions I can’t answer. “Well, I can say it was exciting.” Which is true. Probably more exciting than I want to think about. And I can’t think about it now, so I busy myself and fall into place in their kitchen, cutting fruit she has out to go with dinner.

  “I wish I could’ve been there. But this new volunteer project is going to be fun. We’re raising money to help improve local parks. It’s great.” Mrs. A is always getting involved in something. Even though she retired a long time ago, she keeps herself busy.

  “Sounds really cool.”

  “I think so, too.” She walks over to their farmhouse-style sink and fills a tea kettle full of water. I’ve always loved their kitchen; it’s so much warmer than mine at home. With blue distressed cabinets and floral wallpaper on the walls, it almost feels like we’re somewhere else. A simpler time and place. Probably because the house is considered historical and Mrs. A kept a lot of the original features. “So Dylan said you were getting a little anxious about being home alone.” She sets the kettle on the stove. It’s also an antique, more of a turquoise green than blue, but still matches the soul of the room. “I used to feel that way too when Dylan was little. A friend of mine at the gym recommended I start drinking this tea mixture to calm my nerves. I was a tad skeptical at first, but I thought it was worth a try.” She pulls out a large canister of dried tea leaves.

  I smile. Tea is always her answer to life’s toughest moments. Like the day I fell off my bike. She made me a big cup that smelled like flowers with these crunchy little cookies. Mom would’ve scribbled out a prescription, but not Mrs. A.