by Geoff North
Becky and Abe had made first contact with their prehistoric ancestors—a tribe stricken with plague.
Chapter 8
Sheila would miss her parents. Not as much as she missed losing her brother and best friend, but she would still be sorry to see them go. Maybe the pain wasn’t as bad this time because Sheila was in control. She was sending them off. It was better this way, safer for everyone involved. And she could always bring them back with a single phone call—an email or letter sent through the post wouldn’t work—they would have to hear her voice. But deep down she worried that wouldn’t happen. Her mom and dad were likely going for good.
Andrea Feerce waved out from the passenger window as her husband drove slowly down the lane for the final time. Sheila smiled and waved back. At least they were leaving happy. Their daughter had sat them down at the kitchen table three nights before and instructed them to withdraw all the family savings and book a long trip to the Caribbean.
“What will we do after that?” Her mother had asked. There was no worry of how her daughter would support herself—no concern for leaving a seventeen-year-old girl to live on her own. It wasn’t that her parents didn’t care; it was just a side-effect from the suggestions. No one ever questioned the morality of what they were told to do. They just did it.
Sheila had shrugged and smiled. “Whatever you want to do. I bet you have enough money stored away to see Europe. I want you to go to Europe. I want the two of you to travel and live life.”
Danny had nodded his head and stared into a cup of half-finished coffee. “I’ve always wanted to travel… to see the world. We could do it, honey. We do have the money.”
Sheila wasn’t convinced they had that much money. They did okay from the farm but there wouldn’t be enough to see them through into their golden years. She prayed it wouldn’t come to that. She would bring them back some day. Allan drove up the lane in his father’s Dodge a few minutes after her parents left. “Was it hard?”
“Not as bad as telling them they never had a son… no. It was more of a relief this time. They’ll be better off far away from here. The less people sticking their noses around here, the less people getting in our—” she saw the warning look in his eyes. Don’t say it—don’t even think it— “getting in our business the better.”
Allan reached out and flicked her chin with a knuckle. “That’s my girl,” he whispered. “This place is ours now. We can do whatever we want. We can be together anytime… all the time.”
She could feel the warm tingle of his fingers as they trailed across her cheek. She bit gently at the tip of one. Sheila had to remember it was an all act, but she wasn’t so sure Allan was pretending to be someone else at all anymore. It was getting harder to tell where the act left off and the alien creature’s force of will took control.
He pulled his hand back before they could get too carried away. There was other business to attend to. It was September seventh, the first day of school in their graduating year. Allan and Sheila had no intention of graduating. Today would be the last day of classes either teen would ever attend in their lives.
They got into the Dodge and started for town. They didn’t have any school supplies. They hadn’t even packed a lunch. Why bother?
Allan and Sheila were late for first class so they headed straight into the principal’s office. Murray Paledda was seated behind his desk, his immense gut straining against the edge. He motioned the two to sit while he finished a phone call. Sheila looked around the cluttered room as they waited. In all her years through junior and senior high, she had never been to the principal’s office. Her grades had been good and she had never gotten into trouble. Good thing, she thought, since it reeked of body odor and Brylcreem. Allan on the other hand looked more relaxed. Although he was never considered a trouble student, he had been called to the principal’s office more than once and seemed to know the routine. He leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs spread wide like he owned the place.
Paledda droned on, effectively ignoring them for another two minutes. There was more than just bad smell Sheila didn’t like about the cramped office. His walls were clustered with dusty framed diplomas, certificates, and awards. The bookshelves crammed with thick educational binders and administrative tomes that appeared to have never been cracked open. Why bother with the show, she thought. Why force people to sit in such a confined space and show off accomplishments no one cared about?
She’d had enough. “Hang up the phone.”
Paledda hung it up without saying goodbye. He leaned back in his chair forcing it to squeak in protest and locked his fat fingers together over his stomach. “You two are late for the first day of school. I hope this isn’t going to become a habit.”
Allan was supposed to do all the talking, that’s the way they’d arranged things. But the smell of the room and the man’s overbearing smugness was too much for Sheila to stand any longer. And since he only seemed to be talking to her breasts, she wanted out even faster. “We’re quitting school. You’re going to inform all the teachers and then you’re going to enter it into the records that we received our diplomas over the summer.”
“I understand. Will there be anything else?”
Allan smiled. “Make an announcement during lunch hour. Tell all the kids they can take the afternoon off.”
“This afternoon only?” Paledda looked troubled but they knew he would do as he was told.
“No… every afternoon until the superintendant gets in touch with you. And when he asks you about it… tell him to go to hell.”
The principal was chewing at the inside of his cheek; beads of sweat were forming on his brow. He nodded.
They got up to leave and Sheila paused. “Before all that though, I want you to go home and take a shower. Use more deodorant and quit putting that greasy crap in your hair.”
Paledda squeezed by them and headed down the hallway towards the staff parking lot. They wouldn’t see him for another six months. By then he would be flipping burgers at the diner where they got their free pizza.
“You ready to go home?” Sheila asked.
Allan had spotted the gym teacher coming out of a washroom down the other end of the hallway. “Not yet. I want to say goodbye to Mr. Sarrasin.” He handed her the truck keys. “It might take a little while. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“Don’t do anything bad, Allan. Paledda has whatever’s coming to him, but we shouldn’t hurt everyone around just because we can.”
“Nothing bad, I promise.” He watched her leave the building. Paledda deserved what he got, but guys like Phil Sarrasin had to answer for a lot more. Everyone knew what the principal was—that was plain to see—a pompous, fat jack-ass that couldn’t keep his eyes off girls over the age of fifteen. He had no right or place in any school, but no one ever really considered him a threat. Phil Sarrasin was the just the opposite. He was young and clean-cut. Everyone in town adored him, and nobody gave it a second thought when he had volunteered his spare time as an assistant Boy Scout leader. Allan had been one of the boys under his care during a campout six years earlier. And though he’d never laid a finger on Allan, the same couldn’t be said for some of the other kids, especially poor Kelvin Wolode. The eleven-year-old had been new to town back then. Sarrasin made him share his tent. No one knew Kelvin well enough then to say, but Allan figured the kid was never the same after that campout.
Allan entered the gymnasium and found him in the equipment room. “Hi, Mr. Sarrasin... you got a few minutes?”
“Hey, Allan,” the teacher grinned. “What’s with all that ‘mister’ stuff? You know you can call me Phil when the other teachers aren’t around. How was your summer?”
Some other kids had stories about Feely Phil. It was a secret nickname with two meanings because he liked to talk to young boys about their problems. The more they opened up, the more Phil tried to make them feel at ease with a rub on the arm or a man to man pat on the thigh. Most boys knew to k
eep the hell away from Feely. They never told their parents what they suspected. He was too respected by the adults in town, making it almost impossible for the kids he abused to talk to their moms and dads, or any of the other teachers.
Kelvin Wolode had never talked to his mom or dad about what happened during the camping trip—he never whispered a single word to anyone what took place in that tent after dark. No one in Birdtail had a chance to learn who he was before he’d moved to town, so none of the grown-ups found it unusual when the quiet boy started hanging around with the gym teacher after school and on weekends. Boys Kelvin’s age knew something different. On his fourteenth birthday, Kelvin stepped in front of a Greyhound bus. Everyone praised Sarrasin for the time he’d spent with the troubled boy. Feely was more discreet after that. He still helped needy young boys where and when he could, but the volunteer work ended. He reached who he could from school.
“My summer was filled with… surprises,” Allan answered. “I’m dating Sheila Feerce.”
“Nice one.” Sarrasin held up his arm out and waited for a fist-bump.
Kelvin had taken his own life, and all the boys either molested by Sarrasin or forced to share his secrets, had been left to deal with the guilt of not having done anything about it. That was terribly unfair, Allan thought. It wasn’t his fault that Phil Sarrasin was a pedophile. Allan wasn’t the one to blame for his mother leaving, or his father becoming an alcoholic. So why was he burdened with so much guilt? Why was every adult he had ever known so blameless for all the shit he had to witness?
“Put your hand down, Phil… Put both your hands in your pockets. That way you won’t be tempted to touch me.”
Sarrasin stuck his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Whoa there, Allan… that isn’t a nice way to talk to a teacher… Did something else happen over the summer?”
Even forced to follow Allan’s commands, Feely Phil was still trying to work his magic. “Do you feel any remorse at all for the lives you’ve ruined?” Sarrasin didn’t answer. Allan didn’t expect him to. It was a question, not a command. “What gave you the right to come to this town… to any town, and do what you did? You ask if something went wrong with my summer? What the hell happened in your life to make you what you are?”
More questions. No answers.
“I want you to leave town, Phil.”
“Where do you want me to go?”
Allan hadn’t thought this far ahead. Even though he was totally in control, the idea of being alone with the man made him uneasy. Where did he want him to go? Jail. I want him to spend the rest of his life in prison. Allan could make him confess. There would be a trial, witnesses would take the stand, and young boys turning into young men would be forced to relive it all again. Parents and teachers would feel guilty for not stopping it sooner. Sarrasin would be sent to prison and probably released a few years later. He would leave Birdtail behind and start all over again in some other small town. That isn’t justice. And it won’t bring Kelvin back.
“I want you to start walking.”
Sarrasin did as he was told. Allan directed him towards the north end of school. They left the building and crossed the soccer field where Feely had coached hundreds of boys. They climbed under a fence and went over the road.
They were cutting through someone’s back yard when the gym teacher finally asked, “Where do you want me to walk to? When can I stop?”
“I just want you to walk in a straight line, Phil. It doesn’t matter where you end up.” They were in bushes now. Sarrasin whimpered as branches cut at his cheeks and scratched his legs. He couldn’t slow down, his feet wouldn’t allow it. The bushes ended and they started to trudge across a field of stubble and dirt. Walking would be easy for another mile or two. The crops were all down and the way was relatively flat. But Allan could see the forest ahead. There was a valley beyond that and then a river. The river wouldn’t be deep this time of year and he figured Phil could cross it without drowning. After that, Allan wasn’t sure what the pervert would walk into. The closest town north was over thirty miles away. But the path Allan was forcing Sarrasin to walk would miss it by ten or twelve miles. He might pass through another farmer’s field along the way, but the odds of anyone spotting him were highly unlikely. It was pretty much wild from here on in. And there had been plenty of bear sightings in recent weeks.
“I want you to keep walking. Don’t stop for water or food. Do not stop to rest or sleep. Keep moving. And with each step I want you to remember the kids’ lives you destroyed.”
Sarrasin had started to cry. His hands were still tucked in his pockets because Allan hadn’t given him permission to remove them. “I’m sorry, Allan. I’m so sorry for what I did to those boys… Please… let me go back to town. I’ll make things up with the families. It’s a weakness of mine… a sickness. I’ll get help… I’ll do anything you want.”
“I want you to walk.”
Allan stopped halfway across the field and watched for a time as Feely Phil made his way to the trees. He thought he could hear the man still blubbering as he stumbled into the forest, disappearing from everyone’s life once and for all.
***
Ted Bagara had found an uncracked bottle of whiskey down in the basement. It was one of the best money could buy, aged eighteen years. He must have hidden it years before when his wife was still with them and hounding after him for his bad habits. Ted had been studying the bottle for the last hour sitting on the kitchen table. You think it would be so easy to reach out and unscrew the lid. It would be just as easy to pour three or four stiff shots into the glass sitting next to it. And that part was easy. Ted had done it as soon as he’d sat down. But then came the hard part—raising the glass to his lips and swallowing the contents down. Never had his body and mind demanded he do something so painfully simple. So why did the command his son had given make it impossible? Why couldn’t he force his fingers and his lips and his throat to do what he wanted them to do the most?
Why was it so much easier to pick up the gun resting next to the glass and place the barrel end into his mouth? Surely the choice between drinking the whiskey and pulling the trigger should’ve been obvious. It all came down to will power. If Ted was stronger—if he loved his life and if he loved his son—he would thankfully pour the booze down the kitchen sink and pick up the pieces. There was so much to live for.
But Ted wasn’t a strong man. He had convinced himself the decision to quit drinking should be his, and his alone. Ted Bagara’s son still loved him—even after all the verbal abuse, the beatings, and the excessive drinking—Allan still wanted to help his old man.
Dumb kid… It wasn’t your choice to make.
He almost set the gun back down for a fourth time. He should leave a note—a few words set off to the side explaining why he did it. No. If he wanted to treat his kid better, he should’ve started the day Kathy walked out. It was too late for that now. Cowards left letters behind because they were too weak to say the words in person.
He tightened his grip around the handle and commanded his finger to pull the trigger.
***
When Allan returned home for the last time to retrieve some clothes and found his father in the kitchen, his first thought was, why didn’t he leave a note? Then he saw the almost full bottle lying on its side in the blood, the glass next to it filled with booze. Most kids, you’d expect, would start crying or run from the house screaming. Not Allan. He remained quiet and walked purposefully to the garage for a plastic container filled with gasoline. He returned to the kitchen and sloshed fuel on the floor and poured it down the cupboards. He threw some more on the faded curtains at the window where his mother used to look out of in the mornings. Allan used to wonder what his mother was staring at back then but had never bothered to ask. She would just stand and stare out over the back yard as he ate his breakfast.
He dumped the last bit of gasoline on his father’s back and watched as some of it trickled from his slumped form and mingled with the blood
and brain matter already drying on the table’s surface. He picked the gun up from the wet floor and shoved it in his back pocket. Adults only cared about themselves. Their needs were petty and self-serving. They lied, they cheated, and they disappointed.
Allan had had enough of them. He found a pack of matches in the living room. He lit one and started the rest. He threw it into the kitchen and jumped away. Whumpf. That’s the sound four or five gallons of spread gasoline makes when it’s lit. That’s the sound of a kid’s childhood going up in flames.
Allan hurried outside. He could command anyone to do whatever he wanted, but Allan doubted he had the power to tell a raging fire to keep its distance. He got in his dad’s truck and drove out of town towards his new home. He felt liberated. He felt free.
He would tell Sheila how he felt. He would explain why he did it. And he would convince her that the thing in the woods had given them a wonderful gift. Orange and yellow flickered in the rear view mirror as he sped away.
The world was theirs and they would thrive. Why hadn’t they accepted it earlier?
Chapter 9
They had named the little boy Boo, and the little girl Ann. Boo had a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face at all times, his tiny mouth was always set in an ‘O’ expression, as if trying to whistle. Ann was named after Becky’s grandmother for the simple fact it was easy for the girl to pronounce. Ann’s father—at least they thought he was her father—had died two weeks earlier. Three quarters of the original tribe Becky and Abe had come across after leaving Kilimanjaro were dead.
That left five people—not counting Becky and Abe—Boo and Ann, Boo’s mother, an adolescent boy they’d nicknamed Tangle because his hair was an unruly black mop, and the original elder they had confronted at Kilimanjaro. The others called him Cob, but no one had much to do with him anymore. The disease that inflicted his body weeks before had left a ravaged bloody mess, a corpse on two feet.