"We don't have any guns in this house," Dad said, his voice soft and deadly.
"How did you know?" Barton's voice wobbled as he blinked at Dad in confusion.
"I know a damn sight more than you," Dad said. "We'll both go with Justin to his bedroom. He's seventeen and is not considered an adult yet. At least in the eyes of the law."
"All right," Barton held up a hand, as if he were attempting to fend off my dad. "We'll all go."
My hand shook when I lifted my phone and entered the security code. I had three voice messages from Mack. All three were practically the same, except the last one, at the end.
"Dude," Mack shouted into the phone, his fear-filled voice creating the crackle of a bad connection. "I can't get through to nine-one-one. Those things are eating people. Send help. Please!" A growl sounded shortly after, and the message cut off.
I wanted to shout at Mack to run.
It was much too late for that.
Somehow, he'd gotten away when most of the others hadn't, and the police arrested him for it. Guilt ate at me, too. If I hadn't gone to a worthless movie the night before, I'd have heard Mack's call for help. Surely, somebody could have helped him.
I just didn't know who.
"This puts a new spin on things," Officer Barton sighed after listening to the message a second time. I slumped on the side of my freshly made bed and covered my face with my hands.
Officer Barton's radio blurted a message.
"Inmate attacked at county jail," the woman's voice said. "All available officers respond."
"I have to go," Officer Barton said and ran from the room, taking my cell phone with him.
"Adam?" Mom appeared in my doorway. I looked up—the sound of her voice was strange. Like she was terrified. She was as pale as paper, too, and I had no idea why.
"What is it?" Dad asked, his voice betraying concern.
"We have to get to the hospital. Mack's on the way. Adam, they tried to kill him."
* * *
I'll never forget the next three hours as long as I live. Mom and Dad ran out of the house, leaving me behind. Joey showed up ten minutes later, offering me a ride to the hospital.
I couldn't ask if Joey knew anything. At that moment, I fully understood Schrödinger in a way I never had before.
If I didn't ask, then Mack was alive.
If I asked, he could be dead.
I hung in limbo, too afraid to know the truth.
* * *
Adam's Journal
We had to leave Justin behind. Kiarra folded space to the hospital—there wasn't much time left for Mack.
I managed to clear the room where they'd taken him—whoever had beaten him didn't intend for the boy to live.
"I don't think I can save him—his injuries are too extensive," Kiarra wiped tears away. "I can't let this happen," she added, before saying a name that sent a chill down my spine.
"Pheligar."
He appeared without bothering to disguise himself. My wife is the only one who can call the tall, blue Larentii Liaison without raising his ire.
"Kiarra?" he asked, meeting her eyes briefly before going to the boy. Mack's bloodied and broken body lay on the gurney—there wasn't anything the doctors could do except watch him die.
Kiarra was extremely talented as a healer, but even she couldn't reverse the damage done to Mack's body.
"Will you help me?" Kiarra begged Pheligar, her blue eyes filling with fresh tears.
All of our race know that Larentii are the finest healers—if they choose to heal, that is. Generally, they do not interfere, preferring to observe only. The boy wasn't connected to our race, therefore the Larentii wasn't obligated to do anything for him.
Pheligar gazed steadily at Kiarra for only a moment. "I will," he said, his voice deep, his words measured, "if you will return the favor, someday. I will not ask you for anything you cannot give, and my request will not break the rules or any laws. You must promise to do this."
"I will do what you ask," she replied with a brief nod. "My word is law."
I stiffened. For her to say those last four words meant she was committed, no matter what Pheligar asked. I knew she loved Mack as if he were her own, but this—I had no idea what a Larentii might ask in return for a healing.
"Good," Pheligar said. "I will begin."
If I hadn't placed a shield about us, the brightness of the light might have blinded everyone in nearby rooms. Nearly an hour it took, too—Pheligar placed the body in stasis so it wouldn't die before he could make necessary repairs.
I knew my son sat in the waiting room with Joey, terrified for his friend. I cared for Mack—almost as much as Kiarra and Justin did. I wasn't about to argue with her decision, although I worried for her. I knew, too, when Martin Walters arrived at the hospital, ready to explode. That's when I left my shield in place and went to him.
I knew what he was.
He knew what I was—or as much as he was allowed to know. He never worried if Mack spent time at our home, because he knew his son would be protected.
My shoes squeaked as I ran down tiled floors, bent on stopping Martin before he stormed into Mack's emergency room cubicle. He didn't need to see what was going on there. I caught him before he entered the hall leading to the room.
"Martin, I think he'll be all right," I gripped his arms to keep him from tearing into the doctors and nurses following him. They hadn't caused the damage to his child—careless and vindictive employees at the county jail had done that. We also didn't need hospital security to intervene—Martin was angry enough to take someone down after his son was injured.
That, of course, would have to be dealt with and Martin needed to stay out of it. If he didn't, he could also be arrested.
"But the detective said," Martin growled.
"Look, he's receiving the best care anyone can hope for. Give it a few minutes, all right? I think you can see him after that."
"Dad?" Justin's voice wavered as he appeared behind Martin Walters.
"Son, Mack will be all right, I think. We just have to wait a little longer."
"He is fine."
I knew the physician who'd walked up to us was the Larentii in disguise, but I wasn't about to let anyone else know. "You may see him, now." Pheligar, wearing a human disguise as well as unneeded spectacles, nodded to Martin and me before walking away.
"Come on," Justin grabbed my arm and pulled me after Martin, who'd taken off in a near-run.
* * *
Justin's Journal
"Mack?" I said his name tentatively, still worried that he might not be awake, much less whole.
"Dude?" His voice croaked, like it was hard to talk.
"He needs some water."
How did Mom get here ahead of us? It didn't matter; she held a glass to Mack's lips and helped him drink. I couldn't figure out why she looked exhausted; Uncle Joey led her out of the room after Mack got his water.
"Thanks, that's better," Mack sighed. "Man, I'm tired," he added.
"Son, you're covered in blood," Martin said, stepping toward the bed and taking Mack's hand.
"Yeah. Most of it's mine. That wasn't fun," he said.
"You'll need an attorney, Martin," Dad said, giving Mack's dad a nod. "I believe you'll find that Mack was placed in a cell with that evil bastard on purpose."
"What?" Mack and I said at the same time.
* * *
I'd have stayed with Mack at the hospital if they'd let me. Instead, his dad, his sister and a couple of his dad's friends intended to take shifts. The funny thing? The emergency room doctors were calling Mack's recovery a miracle.
Yeah, he still had a bunch of bruises and some cuts, but no broken bones. That was sort of weird, too, because at least two doctors swore he had multiple fractures when he was brought in. At least one of them mentioned massive internal injuries, too. I guess they were wrong.
Didn't matter; Mack was alive and that's all I cared about.
We watched the late news together, that night—M
om, Dad and I. The reporters were now saying it looked as if those kids at the party had been attacked by wild animals of some sort, but couldn't say for sure what sort of animals.
I also learned that four students who'd attended the party were missing, although there was evidence at the scene that indicated their bodies had been dragged away—toward the north. Mack had run south—in the opposite direction.
Mack's messages from my cell phone were played, too, on both local and national news. I got sick of hearing them after a while. At least Mack was no longer considered a suspect. The other thing that happened was this—a police officer was suspended for putting Mack in the wrong cell with a violent offender—nobody was supposed to be locked up with that guy.
The trouble was—I recognized the officer's name. Mack and I went to school with his son—Randall Pierce. If Officer Pierce were anything like Randall, it didn't surprise me that he'd deliberately put Mack where he had.
Randall was a bully, in every sense of the word. He didn't bother me, because I was taller and outweighed him. That didn't stop him from taunting Mack every chance he got, though.
"When will Mack come home?" I asked.
"In a day or two, I think," Mom said. "I hope this doesn't traumatize him too much. He went through a terrible ordeal—not only at the party but in that jail cell, too."
"Yeah." I shook my head—Mack's mom lived in Colorado with her second husband. She'd left Mr. Walters when Mack was eight; that was traumatic enough for him to deal with.
"What do you think attacked those kids?" The rest of them began to weigh on my conscience—I hadn't really thought about all the classmates who'd died, or the others still in the hospital with injuries—I'd only thought about my best friend at first.
"Son, we can't say for certain," Dad said. "Don't worry about it—I'm sure someone is on their trail. I only hope they can do something about it when the monsters are found."
"I'm going to bed," I announced. "Mom, how long will the police keep my cell phone?"
"I don't know. It's evidence and that means they may hold onto it. You can borrow mine if you want—I seldom use it—until we can get another one for you."
"Okay."
"I'm more concerned about Mack's phone," Dad said. "I don't believe the investigators looked hard enough for it before arresting him and stuffing him in a cell with a repeat offender."
"I could go look for it," I offered.
"You will not go looking for it," Dad said. He used the voice that accepted no argument, too.
"Honey, we don't know whether the monsters are still out there," Mom said. "It's too dangerous."
"Yeah. Well, maybe the police will look again. In their next life."
I stomped toward my bedroom, angry about the many things I couldn't resolve or define.
* * *
Sunday's news broadcasts were filled with names of the dead. Warren James, Matt Brown, Brett Brinkley and Travis Duncan were on the list—all starters on the football team. I considered them friends, although we didn't hang out together much.
Trace Linn and Clay Holder's names only ramped up my anger—Mack and I played video games with them. They'd been to the house plenty of times. Clay loved Mom's brownies.
"I know, baby," Mom sat beside me in the media room while I watched names of classmates crawl past on the bottom of the screen. I'd tuned out the reporter after a while—he was only spouting what everybody else was about Mack's brush with a criminal, when he shouldn't have been in jail in the first place.
Six survivors were listed, too—two of the initial eight died during the night. Marilee Short's name was on the survivor list. Yeah, I sort of blamed her. She'd had a party at her parents' cabin while they were out of town and didn't know. They were refusing interviews or to make statements to the press.
Well, I'd be mad, too, if something like that happened on my property without my knowing.
"Do we know how bad the six survivors are?" I turned to Mom, then.
"Honey, I can't say," she said, but there was worry in her eyes. That worried me in return. "They're under medical care at the moment, but none of them are speaking."
"They're not talking? That doesn't sound like Marilee," I huffed. "She never shuts up."
"We'll find out eventually," Mom said, rising from the sofa we occupied. "Want breakfast? I think we can see Mack this afternoon at the hospital if you want."
"Of course I want to," I said, hunching my shoulders. "How did he get away?"
"Honey, Mack's special. We both know that. Come on, I'll make biscuits and gravy for you."
"With bacon?"
"With bacon."
I followed her into the kitchen to help.
* * *
"Dude," I said, handing an iPod to Mack, who took it eagerly. I could tell he wanted out of that hospital bed—bad.
"Thanks, man," Mack said, fiddling with the attached earphones. "Hi, Mrs. G, Mr. G." He took a moment to grin at my parents.
"Mack, hon, are you all right?" Mom went to the side of the bed and brushed dark hair back from his forehead.
"Yeah. I guess." Mack lowered his eyes and the smile disappeared. That's when I knew all the crap that happened to him in two-and-a-half days had taken a big toll.
"Stop worrying about it," Mom soothed, stroking his hair. Mack let out a breath when she did that, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders.
"Thanks, Mom," he sighed and closed his eyes.
Yeah, Mack sometimes calls her Mom. I wasn't about to argue with that. His Mom was hundreds of miles away, and I didn't see her standing in his hospital room, taking care of her son.
My mom was.
"I brought something for you, too," Mom said when Mack opened his eyes again.
"What?"
She pulled a cold bottle of Dr. Pepper out of her purse.
"Thanks." He had the cap off and was drinking when his older sister walked in. Mom doesn't let us drink soda at the house very often. She says it should be an infrequent treat instead of a several-a-day habit.
She knows Mack loves Dr. Pepper. She'd brought him one. Mack's sister, Beth, grinned as he emptied the bottle, then smacked his lips. "Good vintage," Mack said. It sounded so normal, I laughed.
"The doctor says he'll be released tomorrow, if he continues to improve," Martin Walters walked in and shook hands with Dad.
"Awesome," I breathed.
* * *
School was canceled for three days; Mack came home on Monday afternoon. His dad had already replaced his lost cell phone, so he called me the minute he could.
"Dude, we need to talk," Mack said.
"Okay," I hedged.
"Really. We need to talk."
"I said okay."
"Can you come over?"
"Yeah. I think so. I'll tell Mom."
Ten minutes later, I was on my way to Mack's house. His dad does specialty cabinetwork and sometimes my dad hires him when a job requires the fancy stuff. Martin Walters is an artist—according to Dad, and Dad would know—he's an architect.
Mack met me at the door, so I followed him to his bedroom. It always looked rumpled, but his dad makes him clean up at least once a week.
"You okay, man?" I asked the minute he shut the bedroom door behind us.
"Yeah. For the most part. I just wanted to talk about a few things with you, first. I think they're hallucinations, mostly, but," he shrugged.
"What hallucinations? After that guy almost killed you?"
"Some of it," he said. "Look, sit down. This may take a while."
I sat. Mack didn't say anything for a while; he just leaned against his headboard and stared out the window.
"Those—things," he began, "they looked half-lizard and half-human."
"Huh?" I stared—I know I did. "Which half was human?"
"No. That's not it—they looked like grayish-brown humans with scales and nasty teeth," he said. "Geez, maybe it was all a hallucination."
"Dude, I've never seen you do that. Keep
talking. There has to be an explanation for this."
"They just walked out of the trees. A bunch of them. Most of the football team was already drunk, but when one of those things jumped Matt and bit him, the rest of the team jumped on the thing. That's when all of the things went nuts. Blood started to fly. When they started eating people, that's when half of us were either taking pictures with cell phones or calling nine-one-one."
"What were the other half doing?"
"The ones that weren't being eaten? Running. They didn't get far. I guess the monsters figured the rest of us were too stupid to run, and they didn't want anybody getting away. They were too fast for just about everybody."
"Who were they not fast enough for?" I thought to ask after blinking at Mack for several seconds.
"Me. They weren't fast enough to catch me," Mack whispered. "Dude, I can't explain that either—because I have a memory of running on all fours."
"That can't be," I shook my head at him. "Nobody runs that fast on their hands and knees."
"I don't remember hands and knees."
"Have you talked to your dad about that?"
"Would you?" Mack sounded terrified at the idea—as if somebody, somewhere, was waiting to lock him up again because they thought he might be crazy.
"I guess you're right—that does sound kinda weird," I acknowledged. "Maybe it was because of the circumstances that you're making something up—some reason for you to get away when most of the others didn't."
"Yeah. Dude, I don't think they'll find anybody else alive," Mack said softly. "Those things—monsters—were just too vicious."
"Then you are one lucky dude," I said.
"You think I don't feel guilty about that?" His words surprised me.
"Yeah. I guess you would," I sighed. "You can't let this rule your life, man. Out of all the people who could have gotten away, I'm really glad it turned out to be you."
"Do you think it's weird that I want to hunt those things down and kill all of them, now?" he asked.
"I think that's normal," I said. "If it were possible, I'd help."
"I'm not sure either of us would live over it if we did. That doesn't mean I don't want to, anyway."
"I feel guilty, too," I confessed. "I should have been there with you and I wasn't."
"Look, if you'd died, I'd feel worse than I do, now."
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