Infestation

by Timothy J. Bradley

  For Kayellen and Ryan

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE NEW MEXICO SUMMER MORNING dawned hot and bright, the sun blasting the barren landscape. By afternoon, temperatures would hit over one hundred degrees, causing creatures to hide in the shade, sleeping away the hottest hours of the day.

  High above the rapidly heating dirt, rock, and scrubby brush, a vulture circled, riding the heated air that rose from the earth. Occasionally, the large bird skimmed close to the ground, searching for the gases released by an animal carcass.

  The vulture’s keen eyesight spotted a lizard carcass on a flat rock. It swooped in low and flapped to a clumsy landing, hopping a few steps to stop its momentum.

  It looked around for signs of any movement as it hopped closer to the carcass. A Gila monster had been killed and ripped apart. Bits of beaded, scaly skin had been peeled back from its skeleton and now littered the rock. Its rib cage had been cracked open, its bones splintered and broken.

  The turkey vulture cocked its head to get a better look. There wasn’t much left worth eating, but it would do until it was cool enough to hunt again.

  It had just dipped its featherless head down to tear at some gristle when it heard a buzzing, chirping sound. It looked around, wings half spread to bolt for the safety of the sky if necessary.

  Nothing.

  As it went back to its breakfast, a blur of motion flashed over the rock.

  In a flurry of razor-sharp, chitinous claws, the vulture was gone. A few stray feathers spinning in the hot breeze and warm blood spattered on the rocks were all that was left of the unlucky bird.

  FIVE HOURS INTO THE DRIVE THROUGH the desolate New Mexico wasteland, twelve-year-old Andy Greenwood was convinced that nothing could survive here. The only moving thing he’d spotted so far was a dust devil swirling across the cracked highway.

  The tired old bus that carried Andy and ten other boys was struggling to keep the temperature inside bearable. The air was clammy and lukewarm, but better than the heat Andy could feel radiating through the scratched, cloudy bus window when he placed his palm against it.

  Andy sat near the back of the bus. As he turned from the window and looked forward, he could see that most of the other boys were sleeping. A couple of them were staring, unseeing, out the hazy windows, or at the floor.

  A high chain-link fence came into view, running beside the road. After driving along it for a few minutes, the bus turned off the broken blacktop highway onto a darker paved road that led away from the highway. Andy could see what looked like a building at the end of the road.

  A large sign was mounted on the fence. It had been painted bright white. Black letters spelled out THE RECLAMATION SCHOOL FOR BOYS, INC. Underneath was written: WE PUT BOYS BACK ON THE RIGHT TRACK! There was more, but they passed the sign before Andy was able to read what it said.

  A group of low buildings came into view. They were windowless cement blocks painted gray. The paint had faded and chipped from being exposed to the harsh conditions. The place looked less like a school than an abandoned factory where atomic bombs had been constructed.

  The bus pulled into a seamed and patched circular drive in front of a building marked 1A, and creaked to a stop. The driver opened the doors and exited the bus without a word.

  A big man climbed up into the bus. He was holding a clipboard and was dressed in a dark blue polo shirt and baseball cap, both embroidered with the logo of the school, a cheerful sun shining down on a road. The man flipped through a couple of sheets of paper and looked at the eleven kids on the bus.

  “Welcome to the Reclamation School. My name is Maxwell. I’m in charge of security. You all know why you’re on this bus, but I’ll just take a minute to remind you fine, upstanding young men. You are here because the traditional state and local programs weren’t effective in your particular cases. They don’t know what to do with you. We do. A word of advice: If you screw up here, the next step is juvenile hall. Jail for kids. Do what you’re told, and we’ll all get along just fine.

  “All right, everyone off the bus, and I’ll get you checked in.”

  The boys stood up and shuffled off the bus, giving their names and paperwork to Maxwell. He led them to a large entrance and held the metal door open as he watched the boys file inside.

  They walked down a corridor that had once been painted a bright yellow. It was warm and humid inside the hallway. Large posters of happy boys playing baseball, studying, and posing with pleasant-looking moms and dads lined the hallway. Each poster had some kind of caption: The Right Track Means a Bright Future. Be a Productive Citizen — Stay on the Right Track! All had the Reclamation School for Boys, Inc. logo printed at the bottom. Many of the posters were starting to curl from the humidity, their edges moldy and discolored.

  The boy next to Andy snorted. Another muttered, “You gotta be kidding,” under his breath.

  A sharp whack made the boys jump. Maxwell slammed the clipboard against the wall again. Something fell to the floor. It was some kind of bug, its legs kicking feebly.

  “You little …” Maxwell muttered. The bug crunched under his shoe. He looked back. “Let’s continue, ladies.”

  Maxwell led them into a classroom-sized area, empty except for several rows of plastic chairs.

  He gestured and said, “Have a seat. You’ll each have a brief meeting with the headmaster before going to your rooms. Abercrombie, you’re up first.”

  The boy who had snorted at the posters in the hallway followed Maxwell out of the room.

  The rest of the boys sat down and slumped in their seats, alone with their thoughts once again. Andy sat in a chair against the wall, giving him a view of the rest of the room, and the doorway. The warm, sticky air sucked all the energy out of him, and his mind drifted.

  Andy had been sentenced to spend three months at the Reclamation School for running away from the four foster homes he’d been sent to over the last eighteen months. At the last one, in Arizona, the drunken foster father had hit the mother a couple of times. Andy had tried to stop it once, and the guy backhanded him, knocking Andy (and one of his teeth) to the floor. Andy wanted more than anything to take a swing at him, but he was just too small; the guy was taller and outweighed Andy by about one hundred pounds, most of it carried in his beer gut.

  Andy, furious, swore to himself that he would even the score. His mouth throbbed where his tooth had been knocked out. As he rubbed it absently, his mind started to piece together a plan.

  The next night, around three a.m., Andy snuck out to the ramshackle garage attached to the sagging single-story house. Chazz, the foster father, liked working on cars. He was restoring a 1969 Pontiac LeMans and an old Harley he tooled around town with. Andy tiptoed through the darkened house and took the keys to both from the kitchen hook once he was sure that Chazz had passed out, snoring, on the living room floor in front of the television. Andy peered around the kitchen corner into the living room. Wanda Sue had retreated back to their bedroom, most likely reading one of her trashy romance novels.

  Andy didn’t turn on the lights in the garage, but used a little flashlight that was always on the kitchen counter (necessary because Chazz and his wife, Wanda Sue, frequently got behind on the electric bill). He switched it on an
d made his way carefully around. Toolboxes and mechanical junk made the garage into a maze. He checked out the Harley first. He inserted the key into the ignition with shaking hands and turned it until the accessory lights blinked on. It looked like it had a half tank of gas. The fury he’d felt the night before had burned away, leaving only a sick certainty that Chazz would kill him if he didn’t get moving.

  He opened the garage door slowly. It creaked as it started moving and almost lifted him off the ground as it swung upward. It was quiet outside. The only sound was the leaves gently rustling in the cool night breeze.

  The LeMans was a faded gold, with a huge hood scoop and a big spoiler mounted on the trunk. Chazz loved this car, and he spent almost all his spare time working on it. When it was finished, it would be an impressive car to show off to the other guys living on the dead-end street.

  Andy grabbed an empty plastic container and an adjustable wrench, and slid underneath the car, using the flashlight to locate the oil-pan plug. He pulled the plastic bucket right underneath the oil pan and unscrewed the plug, grunting with the effort to loosen it. Thick motor oil started to pour out, like blood from a severed artery. Once the oil stopped dripping, he scrambled out from under the car, carefully pulling the container filled with oil after him. Don’t want to waste a drop, he thought crazily.

  He opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment. It was a shame. It really was a nice car. When he turned the ignition key, the engine cranked over and started up smoothly. Andy gunned the engine a couple of times to get it warmed up as quickly as he could.

  Running with no oil would be fatal for it. The engine would melt into a useless block of metal.

  He climbed out, leaving the door open, and went over to the nearby motorcycle. He turned the key and it chugged to life. Andy picked up his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder.

  He hesitated for a moment. Up to this point, he could stop. Turn off the engine and go back to bed, no harm done.

  His throbbing jaw reminded him of Chazz’s drunken rage, and Andy upended the bucket into the car. Oil splashed over everything, staining the beige leather bucket seats with the thick, sticky fluid.

  He tossed the empty container into the car and jumped on the motorcycle. He wanted to put some distance between himself and this place before his retaliation was discovered. He eased the clutch out and turned the throttle enough to get the bike moving. The kickstand popped up, and he scooted down the driveway, almost losing control as he turned onto the street. This motorcycle was bigger than the dirt bikes he’d been riding for years, but if he was careful, he would stay in control.

  He picked up speed as he drove through the darkened Arizona night. He would need to ditch the bike and hitch a ride somewhere before it got too hot. But right now, he didn’t want to think. His mood was lifted by the night breeze. The empty highway stretched out before him into the dark. Anything could be out there.

  The police caught up with him about two hours later. His destruction of the LeMans’s engine had been discovered and phoned in. It wasn’t too difficult to track him down. When he was pulled over, he kicked the motorcycle down the embankment on the side of the highway before the highway patrol officer could reach him.

  Thanks for the ride, Chazz, he thought as he watched the heavy bike roll and bump down the embankment. The cloud of dust it raised turned blue and red from the police cruiser’s lights.

  “Greenwood … Greenwood.”

  Andy looked up. He had been lost in thought. He raised his hand a little bit to indicate that he’d heard.

  “Let’s go,” Maxwell rumbled.

  Andy stood and followed, his sweaty T-shirt sticking to his back. He looked around the room as he left and realized that most of the boys had been processed already. He was one of the last ones left.

  He followed Maxwell down several corridors and ended up in a small sitting area with a receptionist’s desk. Just beyond were a set of large wooden doors with that Reclamation School, Inc. logo displayed in stained glass as if it were some kind of holy design.

  A severe-looking old lady sat at the desk. Her hair was wilting because of the heat. Maxwell said, “Okay, Mrs. Frost, here’s Greenwood for the headmaster.”

  Mrs. Frost nodded, and touched a key on an intercom. The large doors buzzed for a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Maxwell. Master Greenwood may go in.” She looked at Andy briefly, as if he were an interesting species of bug.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? The headmaster is a busy man. Get moving,” Maxwell said.

  Andy walked slowly to the doors, and pushed them open. He thought, Three months will go by fast. Three months will go by fast. Three months will go by fast.

  IT’S FREEZING IN HERE! ANDY THOUGHT to himself. A large air-conditioning unit blasted out a constant chilly breeze from a corner window. He shivered slightly.

  The headmaster’s office was clean and very neat: no clutter on the desk, save for a couple of manila folders and an old lamp with a stained-glass lampshade. Dragonflies made out of colored glass shards decorated the shade. There was an old computer monitor on the desk, as well as a chunky phone. A can of bug spray was sitting at the edge of the desk, looking out of place. The black, segmented chair behind the desk looked to Andy like the shell of a huge beetle. The walls were freshly painted battleship gray.

  Hanging on the walls were awards and diplomas, along with some of those Reclamation School, Inc. motivational posters. Everything was faded from the constant sunlight beaming through the windows.

  “Sit down, Master Greenwood.” A voice came from behind him. Andy turned and saw a small, thin man, who had to be at least sixty. He wore a dark suit with a dark red tie. A pair of frameless glasses magnified his eyes. The man was completely bald, with blue veins under his pink, paper-thin skin. There were some nasty-looking red bites or welts on the top of his head.

  He took a seat as Maxwell left the room. The man sat down behind his desk and tapped at the computer for a moment. He studied the monitor and turned to Andy with a chilly smile.

  “Welcome to the Reclamation School, Master Greenwood. I am Joseph Switch, the headmaster of this facility, which is the first of its kind.

  “The Reclamation School is an experiment started about four years ago by myself, to address a growing need. More and more young people every year are leaving the educational system in this country. Some leave voluntarily, some are expelled. My approach is to combine a private school and correctional facility to see if my methods for getting boys ‘back on track’ are effective. So far, the results have been astounding. I’m very keen to expand, and very protective of how things are run here.

  “The building itself is also interesting. Before we took ownership of it, it was some sort of a government defense laboratory.” Switch pronounced it lah-BORE-ah-tree.

  “We still have a good bit of work to do to the buildings, but they are adequate for the moment. For now, most of the classrooms are empty, and locked.”

  He glanced again at the computer monitor, scratching absentmindedly at a red welt on his neck, just above his shirt collar.

  “I’ve only looked at your file briefly: parents killed two years ago … no other close family, sent to four foster homes. You ran away from all four, the last after vandalizing a car and stealing a motorcycle. Your caseworker contacted us regarding your case. The judge at your juvenile hearing recommended three months here. We’ll see. We have a very … flexible approach to a boy’s stay here at Reclamation. If you spend your time here wisely, are diligent in your studies, and stay out of trouble, your stay may be shortened. If not, your stay will be longer. Possibly much, much longer. Our relationship with the court system allows us to decide when one of our boys is ready to either reenter society or be remanded to juvenile detention.”

  Andy kept his face expressionless, but as if he were reading Andy’s thoughts, Switch said, “You may be thinking that you will be able to run away from here as easily as you did your foster homes. That may be true, al
though I like to think that the security measures here are adequate. However, let’s assume that you were able to leave the Reclamation School complex. Where would you go? We are sitting several hours by car from the nearest town. Without several days’ supply of food and, more important, water, you wouldn’t last long in this heat. I’ve heard that dying of thirst is extremely unpleasant. Our first year in this facility, several boys did just that. Unfortunately, we were not able to locate them in time.” He shook his head sadly. “A shame.” One side of the headmaster’s mouth twisted up in a smirk, but his eyes remained cold and hard behind his thick eyeglasses.

  Andy gulped.

  Switch stood up, and pressed a button on his desk. The office door opened, and Maxwell gestured him out.

  As Andy left the office, Switch said, “I’m sure you’ll do just fine here, Master Greenwood. Just fine.”

  He gave Andy a yellow-toothed smile that sent a nervous shiver down Andy’s spine.

  After a quick dinner served in a small, windowless room, Maxwell took Andy and the rest of the group of boys he came in with to a storeroom, where they all received blankets, some extra T-shirts, and bright yellow baseball caps. Everything had the Reclamation School logo stitched or printed on it.

  “Greenwood. You’re in here,” Maxwell said. They had stopped in front of Room 073. Maxwell opened the door onto one of the small rooms. “Porter! You have a new roommate.”

  Something shifted in the top bunk bed along the wall. A blond head with huge eyes looked over the top of the pillow warily.

  Maxwell nudged Andy into the room and said, “Lights out in thirty minutes. Porter, show Greenwood where the bathroom is, and where he can stow his stuff.” He closed the door, leaving the two boys in an uneasy silence.