Children of the Dark

by Jonathan Janz

  Rebecca frowned. “He’ll act like it’s my fault he lost. And he’ll probably yell at me for talking to you two.”

  “How’s Kurt taking it?” Chris asked Rebecca.

  “What the hell do you care?” a voice snapped.

  We all turned and saw Kurt Fisher stalking toward us with Brad Ralston in tow. Oh hell.

  Both of them sported expensive baseball backpacks, their helmets and bats and gloves jutting out in all directions. Kurt had stowed his hat, so that his square black crew cut glistened in the ballpark lights. Brad wore his green cap backward.

  Both of them looked absolutely murderous.

  “Mom and dad are waiting on you,” Brad said.

  “We were just saying hi,” Rebecca answered.

  Brad jerked a thumb toward the parking lot. “Get your asses in gear.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. “Don’t talk to them like that.”

  “Yeah,” Mia said, her blue eyes glittering. “Don’t talk to us like that.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Kurt asked Rebecca. His eyes were red from crying, but to Rebecca I’m sure it just looked like he was pissed. “You ever heard of loyalty?”

  Rebecca gave him an incredulous look. “Loyalty? Kurt, this isn’t life or death. It’s a baseball game, for God’s sakes.”

  “Coach Aldrich was there,” Kurt nearly shouted, and I was instantly reminded of Kurt’s dad, who’d used almost the same tone of voice, only harsher and deeper, back in the bathroom. Kurt jabbed a finger in Rebecca’s direction. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter!”

  “Hey, look,” I said to Mia. “It’s okay. You guys should probably go.”

  She turned her fierce look on me. “I’ll go when I’m ready.”

  Kurt stepped closer to me. “You think just because you got lucky tonight you can tell our girlfriends what to do?”

  I put my hands up. “I didn’t mean—”

  Kurt shoved me. Hard.

  Though Chris and I had begun to lift weights that winter, Kurt’s muscles were twice the size of ours. I went flying back and only just avoided sprawling in the grass. Rebecca stepped toward Kurt and swatted him on the chest. “Don’t take it out on him.”

  “I’m gonna say this one more time,” Brad said in a low, dangerous voice. “Get. In. The car.”

  Mia stood her ground. “We’re not your property.”

  “It’s because we lost, isn’t it?” Kurt asked. “You’ll chase after anybody as long as they’re on the winning team.”

  Rebecca scowled at him. “That has nothing to do with it, and you know it. Stop being so stupid.”

  Brad pushed Rebecca in the shoulder. Not hard, but harder than any guy should push a girl, even if he is her brother.

  “Now wait a minute,” Chris started, but Kurt headed him off, got right in Chris’s face.

  “Jesus, Watkins. I can’t believe you’re still slumming with Burgess,” Kurt said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be buying your clothes from Goodwill too.”

  “Shut your mouth, Kurt,” Rebecca said, her lips a thin white line. Mia too looked like she was ready to punch Kurt in the nose.

  But Kurt wasn’t to be put off. He gestured at me. “You loan Burgess those shoes, Watkins? I know he’s too poor to afford them on his own.”

  I clenched my fists, my body thrumming with rage.

  Remember Kurt’s dad, I told myself. You’d be in a bad mood too if you’d just been berated by the person who’s supposed to support you the most.

  Brad surveyed me, his eyes deadly cold. “Mad, Burgess? I’d be angry too if I had a drug addict for a mom.”

  I forgot how big Brad was, how strong. I rushed at him.

  But Mia beat me there. She’d buried her hands in Brad’s green baseball jersey, was attempting to shake him, but he was so big, he just laughed at her.

  We all turned at the blat of a car horn.

  Rebecca’s parents. They’d driven up along the road bordering the ballpark, were idling in their white BMW maybe twenty yards away. Rebecca’s mom rolled her window down, called for the girls to come on.

  Mia released Brad, but I could tell it cost an effort. Rebecca looked almost as furious as Mia. She glowered at her brother. “You two need to leave Will and Chris alone.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brad said with mock cheer. “We’re just gonna celebrate their victory with them, aren’t we, Kurt?”

  Kurt shrugged. “Absolutely.”

  The car horn sounded again, three blasts in quick succession.

  “Come on,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want to get grounded.” She looked at Chris. “I’m sorry my brother sucks.”

  She set off, and after a lingering glance at me, Mia followed. Frowning, I watched them motor away into the night.

  Kurt gave Brad a backhanded tap on the chest. “Look at that. Burgess and Watkins need girls to protect them. What are you two gonna do now?”

  “We don’t need anybody—” I started, but then Chris broke in.

  “We’ll fight you right here.”

  I glanced at Chris, suspecting I’d heard him wrong. But he didn’t look scared at all. He looked eager for a brawl.

  “Outstanding,” Brad said, but it was Kurt who strode forward, looking ready to knock Chris’s head off.

  I said, “You don’t have to prove you’re tough.”

  Kurt froze. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

  I took a breath. “I was outside the bathroom.”

  He turned and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “So?”

  “Do you really want me to say it?”

  I could see the doubt in his gaze. “You don’t know anything,” he muttered.

  I opened my mouth, but the memory of his father’s bullying voice stopped me. Kurt was a jerk, but he wasn’t born a jerk. His dad had transformed him into one through years of careful training. I didn’t want to humiliate him, but what could I say to defuse the situation? Like Kurt, Brad looked ready to crush our bones to powder.

  Brad smiled uncertainly at Kurt. “What’s this dickhead talking about?”

  Kurt appraised me in silence. I could feel Chris’s confusion wafting out of him in waves, but I didn’t dare look away now. If I could stare Kurt down, maybe he’d see I really had been privy to the incident with his father. Maybe he’d even realize I felt bad for him.

  All the fury seemed to leave him. His gaze dropped to the dewy grass. I glanced at Brad, who was glaring at his friend in puzzlement.

  Then Brad shrugged off the straps of his backpack and knifed toward me with his fists raised.

  “There you two are!” a woman’s voice called.

  Brad stopped, his cocked fist lowering to his side.

  I turned and saw Chris’s mom approaching from the road, her arms crossed despite the mugginess of the night. Like my best friend, she had straw-colored hair and an infectious smile. I’d never been so happy to see her.

  Brad grunted. “Second time you’ve been saved by someone’s parents.”

  “We don’t need saving,” Chris said.

  “Chris?” his mom asked. “Do I need to get your father?” A nod at Brad and Kurt. “Or one of their dads?”

  Yeah, I thought. Like that’s gonna help.

  “Come on,” Kurt muttered. “I’m tired of Burgess’s stench.”

  Kurt set off without a backward glance.

  Brad lingered another moment, his gaze fixed on me. “I catch you talking to my girlfriend again, I’ll make you hurt a lot worse than you did tonight.”

  As if in answer, I felt a sharp pang in my ribs. Man, Brad could throw hard.

  Chris’s mom raised her eyebrows at Brad. “Do you want me to tell your parents you’re threatening people?”

  Brad made a scoffing sound. “You do what you want, Mrs. Watkins.” He winked at me. “See you soon.”

  And with that, he moved toward the parking lot and Kurt’s red pick-up truck.

  “Poor losers,” Chris’s mom said. She ventured a smi
le. “All right, boys, time to go. Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I said, though I didn’t feel much like celebrating.

  Chris and his mom moved toward the road, where their shiny black Escalade was parked. Chris’s mother stopped and called after me. “Come on, Will. Your mom will want to hear about the game.”

  The hell she will, I thought. She’ll be passed out cold. If Mom had any interest in the game, she would’ve come.

  But I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t say anything at all as Chris’s mom drove me to my house. Looking back, I don’t think any words would have mattered.

  Nearly everyone I talked to that night wound up dead anyway.

  Chapter Two

  Peach, Barley, and the Treehouse

  Peach said, “I don’t want shredded wheat.”

  I didn’t say anything, only poured the milk and carried the bowl over to where my sister sat. This morning she looked even younger than her six years. The way she was slouching, only her eyes were visible above the rim of the bowl.

  I tapped my fingers on the counter. “What do you want?”

  “Nerds.”

  I squinted at her. “The candy?”

  She watched me with big brown eyes.

  “You want candy for breakfast,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Well, you can’t eat candy for breakfast.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s crap.”

  “That’s a bad word.”

  “You’ll be three feet tall for the rest of your life if you eat that stuff.”

  Peach paused, tilted her head. “How tall is that?”

  I held my hand up near my belt.

  “I’m already taller than that,” she said, smiling.

  I grabbed a banana from the counter. “And you’re going to keep growing. So stop arguing and eat your food.”

  “Meanie,” she muttered, but she spooned a chunk of frosted wheat into her mouth.

  I went to the fridge, opened it, and noticed there was hardly anything inside. As usual.

  Sighing, I slid open the meat drawer and discovered a plastic sack of honey ham. Unable to recall when mom had bought the ham, I eyed it suspiciously, then sniffed it.

  It didn’t smell rancid, but I still wasn’t reassured. But it was either that or frosted wheat, and I’d eaten the cereal the last five mornings. I carried my potentially fatal package of honey ham to the table and plopped down across from Peach. I opened the sack and fished out some stringy ham.

  “Barley called this morning,” she said around her mouthful of shredded wheat. “You were asleep.”

  “He didn’t talk about anything scary, did he?”

  Peach’s eyes widened a fraction. “Like what?”

  “Never mind,” I muttered and stuffed some ham into my mouth.

  “How can you eat that by itself?” Peach asked, milk dribbling down her chin.

  “Chew your food.”

  “Mom still asleep?” she asked.

  “I guess. What time did she go to bed?”

  She shrugged. “Seven? It was still light out.”

  I shook my head. “Perfect.”

  “Barley wants to meet at the treehouse.”

  “He say what time?”

  “Uh-uh. He said morning.”

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “What does ‘vague’ mean?”

  “Unclear. Unspecific.”

  “What’s pacific mean?”

  I made a face. The ham tasted like a rubber rain slicker someone had dipped in motor oil.

  I could feel Peach’s gaze on me. “You look like you just ate a worm,” she said.

  Wordlessly, I got up and dropped the rest of the ham in the trash.

  “You can have my banana,” she said.

  “Nice try,” I answered, toweling off my tongue and spitting into the sink.

  “Wiiii-illlll,” she moaned, drawing my name out to about fifteen syllables. “I hate bananas.”

  “You hate anything that isn’t coated in sugar. Your teeth’ll fall out.”

  “You said I’d stop growing.”

  “That too. You’ll be a toothless dwarf.”

  I moved toward the back door.

  “Where’re you going?” she asked quickly.

  I stopped and gazed down at her. I noticed she’d done her own hair. She’d attempted a ponytail that jutted from the top of her head, but the red rubber band had only been looped around her rope of brown hair twice. As a result, it was already coming loose, a good deal of it dangling over her left eye.

  “Hold still,” I said.

  She squirmed a little as I redid the ponytail. As I manipulated the red band, I noticed how greasy her hair was. “When’s the last time you took a bath?”

  She grinned. “Do I stink?”

  “Probably. Take a bath as soon as you’re done eating.”

  “Why?”

  “And put your bowl in the sink.”

  “I can’t turn the water on in the bathtub,” she said, frowning.

  “Come on. It’s not that difficult.”

  “I’m not strong enough.”

  I realized with alarm she had tears in her eyes.

  “Fine,” I breathed. “At least tell me you brushed your teeth before bed last night.”

  In a small voice, she said, “I forgot.”

  I glanced at the clock over the stove. 9:15.

  “Damn it,” I grumbled. Barley might already be at the treehouse. The guy stayed up until three in the morning every night, but somehow he was always awake before anyone else.

  “You shouldn’t say that,” Peach reminded me.

  “Cut me some slack. I had a rough night.”

  She followed me through the kitchen, into the living room, and into the hallway leading to the bathroom.

  The whole trip took about ten paces.

  “You won last night?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Chris struck out that big kid?”

  I gazed down at her. Automatically lowering my voice so as not to wake up Mom, who was snoring on the other side of the bedroom door, I said, “How’d you know about that? Did Chris call this morning too?”

  She shook her head. “Barley told me. His little brother was at the game. Barley’s brother said you hit it really hard and that Chris struck the last guy out.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “How long did you and Barley talk?”

  “Not long.”

  “Then how do you know so much?”

  “Barley talks really fast.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. I twisted on the bath water. I pushed up on the lever to close the drain, then remembered it was broken, like a hundred other things in the house. I went over to the sink and found a washcloth, which I balled up and shoved into the drain for a stopper.

  Peach started to peel off her pajama top. “Will you stay with me?” she asked.

  “Come on, Peach. You’re old enough to take a bath by yourself.”

  “But what if the water’s too hot?”

  “Then turn it down.”

  I moved toward the door.

  “What if I mess it up?”

  I stopped, my back to her. “Mess what up?”

  “The dials.”

  “Peach, the H is for hot and the C is for cold. You know your letters.” I made to leave.

  “Please, Will?”

  Her voice was oddly muffled. I turned back to her and realized her purple pajama top was tangled on her head and her elbow. She looked like a corpse someone had started to mummify but lost interest in before he could finish the job.

  “Seriously?” I said, but I chuckled a little and helped her disentangle herself from her shirt. Then I slumped on the closed toilet lid and found an old Sports Illustrated from the cabinet.

  Peach climbed into the bathtub and began to sing a song from Frozen. I thought of telling her to keep it down, that Mom was still sleeping. Then I decided I didn’t much care if she wo
ke Mom up.

  Soon I was humming along with her.

  ¨

  My walk through the forest served as a kind of therapy for me. While home was a cauldron of bad memories and conflict with my mom, Savage Hollow was a place that reminded me of my friends, Chris most of all. Not only had we built a kickass treehouse in the Hollow with the help of Barley and his dad, we’d also engaged in numerous other activities in these woods: hide-and-seek, mushroom hunting, dirty magazine gazing, even BB gun wars. There were steep hills we pretended were mountains, marshy places we imagined were full of quicksand. On the west side of the Hollow lay the rusting hulk of an abandoned baby blue Studebaker from the 1950s. How it had gotten there we had no idea, but on several occasions Chris and I had sat in the front seat pretending we were racing the Indy 500 or even eluding the cops in a high-speed chase.

  Yes, the Hollow was as happy a place as I could imagine.

  At least, it was happy until everything went to hell.

  When I neared the treehouse I heard a sharp snicking noise emanating from the plywood structure. The forest had greened out over the past few weeks, and I made the mistake of taking my eyes off the path to glance up at the treehouse. Immediately, my legs were besieged by the thwacking of nettles and other plants, some of which might have been poison ivy. I hated poison ivy, somehow managed to get it every damned summer. Already my legs were beginning to itch.

  The snicking sound got louder the closer I got to the treehouse.

  “That you, Barley?” I called.

  The sound ceased for a moment, and I knew right away it was Barley. Chris would have answered me immediately, but not Barley. No, my bespectacled friend had to turn everything into a movie scene. I could imagine him up there listening tensely to my footfalls. He’d be holding his breath, as if his life depended on it, and waiting for me to identify myself. Like we were in a war, or some situation involving espionage.

  Or even better, I reflected as I mounted the first couple wooden rungs we’d hammered into the huge oak tree, he’d be imagining himself in a horror movie. Something involving a killer in a hockey mask, or maybe even a zombie. I loved horror movies—we all three did—but neither me nor Chris took them as seriously as Barley.

  “Who is it?” he asked when I was halfway up the crooked column of rungs.

  “Carl Padgett,” I said. “I’ve come to devour your small intestine.”