by Susan Vaught
Roland’s got our radio, and we’ve been instructed how to use it to summon help if we find anything an evidence team might need to evaluate. Or if we find Sunshine.
We’re going to find her. Or some sign of her. I’m going to hope for the best, no matter what.
We’ve also got our cells for backup, in case something goes wrong with the radio, and a central number to call.
We listen to more instructions, about staying a relatively straight course, and how often to call out, and stopping to listen for responses. We get reminded not to disturb or touch anything suspicious we find. Mom and Dad and Drip’s mom all tell us to do exactly what the coordinators have instructed. Drip’s mom adds a few threats to that, involving grounding, no computer games for a month, and wishing not to have been born.
Drip dances in place. I’m jiggling around, too. We need to go. It’s time to go find Sunshine. I know I shouldn’t get hopeful all over again. That’s really stupid, but I can’t help it because we’ve really got a lot of people and the daylight’s trying to hammer through the metal sky and everything will be bright and obvious and maybe, just maybe somebody will find what we need to figure out what’s happened to her.
Maybe we’ll find her.
Some part of me knows that’s not likely, but I shove that completely out of my mind.
We’re going to find her.
The coordinator has us set our watches together, and gives us a time to report back to the coordination center here at the VFW. Then the search party surges outward, an orange squall line across the parking lot and the lawns, spreading up and down and backward and forward, everywhere I look.
“Sunshine!” I hear from dozens of places at once. “Sunshine?”
Men’s voices. Women’s voices. Young voices. Old voices. We’re moving. Everyone’s moving and calling, a whole orange storm of people.
“We’re going to find her,” I whisper, but Drip and Roland and Linden don’t seem to hear me. They’re looking down and around, kicking branches and rocks as we go, staring this way, then that way. Even Roland’s calling out now and then, and he’s using her name. None of that “pretty girl” crap.
Mom and her group pull away from us some, like Dad and his group. Still within eyesight and earshot, at least until Roland hangs back examining a branch near the park. My heart does a big thump when I see what he’s doing, and I crouch beside him, staring at the same spot while Linden and Drip stand over us.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly breathless, but also frustrated, because I don’t see anything but dirt and branch and leaves. What’s here? Is it some sign of her? “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, you stupid ass,” Roland whispers, sounding exactly like an alphabet voice. “Just getting a little separation so this will work.”
My eyes jerk to Drip, then I turn my head to glance behind me toward the VFW, where Agent Mercer and most of the FBI agents have stayed behind to be available if a team gets lost or in trouble or calls in for support.
“Don’t do that,” Linden tells me, kicking a spray of dirt in my face.
I blink as specks of mud and rock bounce off my eyes and cheeks and mouth, but I stop looking at the VFW. I wipe away the mud as I turn my attention back to the spot Roland’s pretending to examine.
Mom and her group move farther away from us. I can barely see Dad’s group now, and Drip’s brothers went ahead of us into the trees. I watch the disappearing orange for a few seconds, and then I ask Roland, “Why are you helping us?”
He shrugs and stands. “Because I think maybe you can find her. You know her better than anybody else.”
He walks ahead, through the park, toward the woods in the distance. Linden follows him like he’s on a leash, and Drip and I trot along behind, looking pretty much the same as Linden. Confusion ties knots in my brain as I try to reconcile the Roland and Linden I’ve always known with two guys who would give DNA without much griping, and who would help a couple of lesser alphabets they consider prey. Help us outsmart FBI agents, no less?
What’s wrong with this picture?
Just about everything.
But then in the last twelve hours, Sunshine vanished, my dad turned out to be one of the people who think I’m a psycho killer, and my teacher proved to be a convicted pedophile. Now the school thugs are trying to morph into hero material? If I wasn’t already crazy, this might push me in that direction.
Don’t go with them. You can’t trust them. Don’t be such a pathetic, stupid freak. Stupid is as stupid does. Stupid does as stupid is. Maybe you are stupid. Maybe you’re not.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whisper to Drip when he draws even with me.
I get a shrug from him, too, though he doesn’t look relaxed or casual or sarcastic like Roland did when he twitched his muscled shoulders.
“Didn’t have any better options,” Drip says.
I don’t exactly find a lot of comfort in that answer.
A few minutes later, as we get close to the trees, Drip says, “Get ready. Whatever they say or do, go with it, and then we’re supposed to head on into the woods, this same direction, until the VFW people and the other searchers can’t see us anymore.”
“What do you mean—” I start, but right then, Roland stops, whirls toward me, and raises his fist.
I duck on instinct, but he doesn’t swing.
“I should have known better than this,” he says loudly. “I’m not listening to this crazy crap. Screw you, Freak. Stay out of my rearview.”
Linden waits a beat, then adds a loud “Yeah.”
“We’re doing this my way,” Roland says, still loud. “You head over there,” he tells Linden, pointing over Drip’s head. “I’ll cover this side. Let the two wittle babies go straight down the middle like they’re supposed to do. When we find her, they can watch as we get our medals.”
“Hey, come on,” Drip says, loud as Roland. “It’s better if we—”
“Nothing’s better with you.” Roland pauses, laughs, and then stalks off, veering away from us into the trees. Linden heads in the other direction as instructed. I spare a quick glance at the VFW, and notice a couple of agents ghosting off as if to follow them.
Of course. The FBI would be expecting the bad guy to do something unusual, maybe give himself away. They’ve got a few agents assigned to watching or even tailing some of the searchers—like us. But Roland and Linden just divided them and pulled the focus off of me and Drip.
Smooth. Leave it to Drip to put together something decent on a second’s notice. I wish I could plan like that.
I wish, for once, I’d make a difference.
And yet…
And yet something’s bothering me. Everything about this situation still seems off.
Maybe a little too quickly, Drip and I head into the woods, straight-lining forward like the search coordinator told us to do, looking around and calling for Sunshine. In between shouting her name, taking a breath, and listening for an answer, I tell Drip, “This feels weird to me.”
“Everything feels weird to you, Freak.” He calls for Sunshine. Stops. Waits. He looks left, then right, and he says, “Come on. Nobody can see us. We just need to avoid the other search teams.”
My heart squeezes in panic, but I don’t know what I’m scared of. I look around me, half expecting evil trees, but it’s daylight now, almost completely, and nothing looks that evil.
They’re coming to get you. You know they’re coming to get you. You can’t hide from them forever. Farkness Biters. Biters, kiters, siters. They’ll see you and get you and eat you. You don’t want to be eaten, do you?
Drip and I dart forward, barely make a clump of trees, and stand behind them while a group passes far to our right, calling for Sunshine. Way off in the distance, I hear Mom, and sometimes Dad, and Drip’s mom and brothers, also calling. Drip calls for Sunshine, then we dash to a bunch of bushes.
This will never work. Somebody’s going to see us. “What if Sunshine’s actually in
our grid and there’s nobody to look for her?”
“Roland and Linden are covering it.” Drip sounds annoyed. “Soon as they’re sure the Feds are following them and not us.”
We call for Sunshine. We stop. We listen.
“I don’t see them,” I tell Drip. “I don’t hear them.”
“They’re covering it. It’s how we planned it.” Yeah, he’s definitely getting annoyed. We’re both standing against the trunks of trees, trying to blend in even though we’re wearing neon-orange search vests. How stupid is that?
“Why do you think Roland and Linden will do what they said, Drip?”
“I don’t know, okay? If you’re that worried about it, we’ll come back here after we search our place.”
We run from the bushes to another group of trees. I see whispers of orange weaving through distant leaves. What if somebody has binoculars and sees us acting idiotic like this? “Maybe we should just walk like we went off course.”
Drip glares, and I shut up. This is his plan. I’m not supposed to screw it up. That’s what Sunshine would tell me. She’d say that and—
Everybody wants to be good at something Jason you have to let Derrick do what he’s good at and you have to do what you’re good at and when I rest against the big rock wall under the tall rock roof at our private place and tell her I’m not good at anything that’s when she leans forward so fast her locket hits my neck and for the first time ever she touches her lips to mine and I don’t close my eyes and I don’t blink and I’m surprised because her lips taste like softness and peanut butter and grape juice and I always thought she’d taste like stars and moonlight and maybe toothpaste but really how do you know how somebody’s lips will taste when you’re in sixth grade and practicing kissing the back of your own hand and when she pulls back she smiles at me and she says see I think you’re pretty good at that and
—We stumble into the brambles lining the path to our place and Drip grabs me to keep me from falling. “Watch where you’re going, okay?”
Thorns jab at my already-scratched ankle. The sting brings me back to the cool gray morning and I nod at Drip and he lets me go. “We’re getting there,” he says. “Don’t call out anymore. Don’t screw it up. I don’t even know who’s got this grid, so we should hurry.”
My heart races and races as we plow forward, trying to go fast and not be too obvious never mind the orange stuff screaming look-here-at-us. We’re doing the right thing but it feels wrong and I don’t get that and Drip’s not listening and I see darkness moving from the corner of my eyes and squeeze them shut. We don’t have time for my stupid crazy brain right now. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing—
Something hits me in the gut so hard I wheeze and pee all at the same time. My eyes pop open, feel like they’ll pop out as pain riots through my middle and explodes out my neck and my face and shoulders and no breath comes and all I can do is pitch forward, falling toward the ground only I don’t hit it because a foot whizzes up and catches my gut again, harder.
Stuff inside me cracks.
You’re dying you’re gonna die this is it you’re dead Freak, dead dead dead and you can’t do anything about dead.
My knees bash into the dirt and thorns and I puke a big bitter wad of the nothing in my smashed belly. Air. Need to breathe. Can’t breathe. My chest is broken. My guts must be broken. My arms fold around my ribs and I’m trying to see who, to see what, but I’m seeing spots and stars and hearing a muffled mmm-mmmm-mmmmmm sound a lot like Drip trying to yell when somebody’s got a hand over his mouth and—
“Did you think it would be that easy, you frigging freak?”
A kick lands on my ass, launching me forward, face to the dirt right next to thorns, oh God thorns almost in my eyes and I wad up and keep my arms wrapped around my ribs because that voice—
That was Roland’s voice.
“What the hell was that, back at the VFW, jumping me in front of my mom?” He’s talking like a sad, sarcastic teacher, giving a lesson. “You dissed me in front of people. Did you think I’d let you get away with that?”
He kicks my back so hard and it hurts so bad I don’t know how I’ll ever move again and I can’t see anything but dark because I can’t can’t can’t breathe and I’m thinking how in books and movies bullies always cave when you stand up to them but those are bullies maybe just normal bullies not alphabet bullies with flat, dead eyes and flat, dead souls and he kicks me again and he kicks me again and I don’t try to fight back because I think I’m dying but I don’t want to die and it won’t help. I’m prey, not a predator. I don’t kick. I get kicked and Roland’s saying, “Go on, Freak. Squeal. Cry like a baby. But if you tell anybody about this, I’ll kill you.”
Kick.
I barely feel it now because there’s just too much pain so there can’t be any more and I am crying but at least I’m not squealing so that’s got to count for something and he’s laughing at me but I really don’t care about that because he’s not kicking me again he’s telling Drip that Drip’ll die if he squeaks a single word. “You’ll die,” Roland says. “You know I’ll do it. The two of you—it would be like sticking pins in bugs.”
I hear the sound of fist hitting gut, only this time it’s not mine and then Drip’s in the dirt next to me, holding his belly and moaning and Linden shoves him over so he falls in the thorns.
He’s got his face turned away from me but I can tell he’s hurting and he’s crying like me but he’s not squealing either even though thorns are poking into him everywhere and he’s bleeding.
“Losers,” Roland growls, and he sounds exactly like Bastard because maybe he is Bastard. Maybe all these years I’ve had Roland in my head. “Don’t ever talk to me again unless I talk to you first—and don’t ever touch me again. I’ll beat your head in.”
I don’t move. I squeeze my eyes shut. The tears I can’t do anything about. The wheezing I can’t do anything about. I think I’m lying in my own vomit but that’s okay because hey that’s what losers, do, right?
Drip’s not moving, either. We both know better. If we start yelling for help they’ll beat us worse before anybody gets here—or they’ll run away and wait and beat the hell out of us later. That’s how it goes. That’s how it is. They didn’t leave any marks on our faces. They’ll act innocent. They’ll say we fell. Everybody knows how clumsy Drip can be. Or maybe he and that freak got in a fight and beat on each other. We weren’t even with them, officer, come on. We fought with them and went our own way before they ever went into the woods. Everybody saw that, right?
Stupid freak. Such a pathetic freak. No hope for losers like you. Losers are losers are losers forever. Don’t you wish you could be a winner just once a winner but can freaks ever really win anything after all?
Underbrush crumples and cracks as Roland and Linden head off, maybe to go back to the VFW, maybe to search, maybe to hide and wait for us somewhere else and finish the killing job. I keep still until I can’t hear them anymore.
Sunshine…
Sunshine…
Sunshine…
Her name echoes in the distance, from dozens of different voices, in my head and out of my head and real sunlight touches my cheeks and heats my tears and I keep lying still because I’m scared and I’m a loser and I don’t know what to do. Why does everybody but me know what to do?
THIRTEEN HOURS
I know sometimes it gets bad because it gets really bad for me but we can’t let that stop us we can’t let that kill us right because even though we’re alphabets we’ve got a right to live we’ve got a right to be happy and I think we can be happy Jason if we try if we want to I think we can all be happy together and
“Freak.” Drip sounds bad. Really shaky. “Can you move?”
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to stop thinking about Sunshine and seeing her in my mind and if I died right here that would be mostly okay because I’d be seeing her like this. I don’t move because of that, and because I’
m scared and a big coward and a huge baby and everything hurts and I’m lying in the dirt in a bunch of bile I puked and I’m afraid if I move somehow something will get worse.
“Seriously,” Drip says. “Can you move or should I go get help?”
“No help,” I mutter, and the air moving up through my chest and throat to make my words—that hurts. “They’ll kill us. You heard them.”
Drip goes quiet. Then he starts to cry. Then he starts to sob. Then I know I have to move, so I do and when I straighten on the ground to try to stand, stuff in my chest and middle crunches and I want to scream but I can’t scream so I don’t.
It hurts. I can’t do this. But I have to do this.
Loser, loser, loser, loser, loser, loser, freak, freak, FREAK…
I manage to sit up and realize I’m sitting right next to Drip, who’s crawled himself out of the thorns and his arms are bleeding and his fingers and his hands and he’s covering his face and he’s crying. His skinny shoulders shake from the force of it.
“My fault,” he blubbers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Freak. I thought—”
My teeth grind against the pain as I lift my arm and get it around him to interrupt him. “Stop it. It’s not. You can’t help that they’re mean.”
“Shouldn’t have trusted them.” More sobs. “Should have listened to you.”
“Yeah, well, mine’s the alphabet nobody listens to, so that’s not your fault, either—kind of like you’re the alphabet nobody’ll trust to carry their fine china.”
His shoulders shake under my arm. Then they stop. He takes a breath. I wish I could get a full one but I can’t and I’m still seeing stars and tasting bile and there’s kind of a whistling in my ears.
“Fine china?” he murmurs. He glances at me, his eyes bloodshot. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?”