Grownups Must Die

by D. F. Noble

  Dean and Jake had even gone far enough as to sneak black powder into school. They lined the bottom of the ash trays with almost an inch of it in the teacher’s lounge. Unless compressed, black powder doesn’t really tend to explode, but it does go off in a fiery green-white flame when you put a cigarette out in it. Somehow they had gotten away with this one. Dean was sure it was because there wasn’t supposed to be any smoking on school property, and how would the teachers explain that to anyone?

  They’d snuck into the high school greenhouse and planted a handful of marijuana seeds amongst the tomato plants. Fox news and CNN had even showed up for that one. Dean and Jake had just put Hopp's Hollow on the map. And since that was a prank at the high school, Dean hadn’t been suspected or questioned since he was an 8th grader at the time. They figured it was one of the high school stoners, and Dean and Jake had squeaked by, once again unnoticed. They swore a blood oath on that one. Not one word, to anyone—not even Alex—and much to Dean’s surprise, they had actually kept that one. A lot of that was due to the fact that the cops were involved.

  But the one that had gotten Dean a year-round internment in Mr. Ottoman’s class was a devastating prank which ruined a high school prom. Dean had snuck in and placed folded ketchup packages underneath the toilet seats in the girl’s bathroom. It was the hardest mission he had so far, and he would’ve gotten away with it if he’d been able to keep his mouth shut. See, several girls had stopped to go freshen up. They hiked up their dresses, sat down on those toilet seats, and their weight, of course, exploded the ketchup packages in a mess of red that stained their fancy clothes.

  To be able to sneak in, Dean had to hide in a locker that had a faulty lock. This kid Tommy—who was a freshman—had mentioned that he had to change lockers because his wouldn’t lock, and since this was Hopp's Hollow, things moved a bit slower. It took a while for anything to get done. And so after visiting Tommy at school and learning what locker he used to have, Dean wriggled his frame into that locker before the dance that Friday and waited almost four hours there (Dean was very dedicated to his craft…he would spare no expense or pain to accomplish a job he’d set out to do).

  So here he found himself, staring at Jessica Carver’s ample behind just ahead and to the right of him, inside Mr. Ottoman’s detention-hour fun-room. Mr. Ottoman was the History teacher during the day, and for an hour every day after school, he was the official school Nazi. There was no talking in detention. There were no bathroom breaks. There was only school work and Mr. Ottoman’s little radio playing classical music.

  This was Dean’s second home; a little bit of peace before making that dreadful trek back home to his douche of a stepfather. This was normal, this was routine. It gave Dean time to formulate new plans, new pranks. And at first he hated Beethoven and Mozart and the other guys he couldn’t pronounce, but he adapted, imagining the music as the soundtrack to his prank mind-movie.

  Then the radio blurted static, harsh and sharp. The hairs rose up on Dean’s neck. He looked up towards it and noticed several other kids in the room do the same. Mr. Ottoman shot a disgruntled look at the radio and reached out for it.

  But Mr. Ottoman’s face contorted and his hand snapped back as if the radio were a snake about to bite him. A low rumble of a groan came from the old man, and then he clenched his fist and hammer-punched the table once, then twice.

  A nervous laugh came from somewhere in the room. Caleb, a pre-stoner wannabe, blurted out, “Fuck’s wrong with him?”

  Mr. Ottoman shot up on his feet and jerked at the collar of his shirt. He tugged himself around in a circle and grunted like an ape. There came even more nervous laughter from the students as Mr. Ottoman did… whatever he was doing.

  “There’s spiders all over me,” Dean joked out loud, imitating Ottoman, which caused a few good belly laughs. “Spiders all over me!”

  And then Mr. Ottoman stopped in his tracks and transfixed his bloodshot eyes to the ceiling. He then let loose a scream that sounded no more human than a chainsaw does. The kids were all getting up from their seats then, their eyes locked onto the teacher. Dean noticed oddly that the scream Mr. Ottoman let out was harmonizing with the static from the radio.

  What the fuck?

  Jessica Carver—the short blonde with the nice rump ahead of Dean—looked back at the class, “I think he’s having a seizure!”

  Mark Schultz, a short redheaded kid (also a chronic masturbator) frantically cried out, “What do we do!?”

  “We gotta get help,” Jessica yelled and sprinted for the door. She found it locked, of course—Mr. Ottoman didn’t like deserters. And still, throughout that few seconds, Mr. Ottoman’s screams went on unwavering. When the old man reached up and dug his fingers into his eyes, the students screamed with him.

  Even Dean.

  Mr. Ottoman squished his eyeballs in his hands and stretched out the optical nerves till they lay there on his cheeks like two oily slick umbilical cords. His eyeballs audibly popped in his palms, and Dean felt his stomach churn when pink and gray mush the consistency of cottage cheese oozed between the fingers of his clenched fists. Dean was frozen in place. He wasn’t screaming anymore, but the rest of the class was. Jessica had slid down the door, a total animal-like panic etched across her face. Her pitch was high enough to break glass, but still not enough to unlock the heavy classroom door that barred their escape.

  Mr. Ottoman had seemed to calm down once his eyes were out of his face. Dean watched, as if this were a movie and he was watching from a million miles away as the old man sucked the eyeball goo off his fingers like a fat kid would do if his ice cream cone had melted down over his chubby hands.

  “I’m putting this on YouTube,” said Caleb across the room, and Dean noticed the crazy bastard was trying to film the whole thing with his smart phone; from the look on Caleb's face, he wasn't having much luck. That absurdity broke Dean’s trance and he began to step back. He had a terrible feeling things were about to get a lot worse.

  A shiver ran through Mr. Ottoman’s body. His head snapped around violently, first towards Jessica’s screams, then to Mark the redheaded kid’s. Mr. Ottoman stepped forward awkwardly, as if he had just borrowed his body for the weekend and was learning how to use it. Dean noticed the old fucker was smiling when he reached for Jessica.

  “Jessica,” Dean yelled. “Run!”

  But she couldn’t pull her eyes from Ottoman, she held her face as if it was falling apart. Ottoman grabbed a handful of her hair at the top of her head and lifted her to her feet. Dean had seen this dozens of times, but that was wrestling on TV, not in real life in a class room. Memories of his mother flashed through Dean’s mind; his stepdad smacking her, dragging her through the house by her hair. Suddenly Dean found himself moving forward. His momentum built up speed, and as he closed in on Mr. Ottoman, he picked up a student’s desk and rushed forward with it like a four-pronged spear.

  Dean was almost there, about to smash against Ottoman with all his might, but he watched in horror as the old man slammed Jessica’s face with such ferocity into the chalk board that the board cracked and splintered. It sounded as if someone had just cracked a home run or split a chunk of wood. Jessica’s screams stopped instantly. Her body went limp. And Mr. Ottoman bent over, reaching down with both of his hands to wrap around her neck.

  Two more big steps and Dean collided with him. The desk was an awkward weapon, and while it knocked Mr. Ottoman off balance and against the wall, it also bit into Dean’s hip. The legs of the desk scraped through the crazy bastard’s button-up shirt, and one must have sliced him because there was blood now, seeping from some unseen wound. Dean used his weight to try to pin Ottoman against the wall, but the teacher thrashed about like an animal and Dean knew he couldn’t hold him much longer.

  Dean jerked his head back to the other two kids in the room, Mark and Caleb. Mark was standing there, just pointing with a trembling finger, a wet stain on his crotch, and Caleb was still fucking filming the whole thing. “Goddammit!
” Dean roared. “Help me!”

  Beneath the desk, Mr. Ottoman tried to swipe at Dean’s face, and Dean flinched just enough that he could see a ragged bloody fingernail just barely miss his eye.

  “Help me,” cried Dean. “Help me stop him, you fucking pussies!”

  Dean’s plea for help must’ve startled something in one of them, for he heard soft footsteps coming up from behind. When he looked to his right, Mark was standing there, fidgeting something out of his too-tight jeans. Mark produced a pocket knife, fumbled trying to open it.

  “Here,” Mark said, “take it.”

  Ottoman seemed to know what was coming. He snarled, and it sounded like the radio static was coming from his mouth. He kicked and thrashed at Dean and the desk. Dean groaned, straining all his muscles and weight to keep him pinned. Beside them, Jessica lay face-first, crumpled on the tile floor. Blood pooled out from her head. It was so dark. So much blood.

  Dean yelled, keeping his eyes locked on the eyeless monster beneath him, “I can’t let go of this desk!”

  “I can’t…” Mark whimpered. “I can’t stab him!”

  And then something pounded the classroom door, again and again, startling them even more. A bloodcurdling inhuman shriek came with it, and when Dean turned to look, another eyeless face peered through the small porthole window in the door. It was the bloody, shredded face of the janitor Harry.

  Then Mr. Ottoman’s fist connected with Dean’s temple. It wasn’t so much painful as it was stunning and Dean staggered back, his brain like a pea in a tin can. Dean lost his footing and spilled over a desk. The world swirled; the damn radio buzzing with static; Mr. Ottoman tossing the desk aside and crawling to his feet while Harry, the eyeless janitor, pounded the door from out in the hallway; Mark, standing there, a knife in his shaking hands; Caleb, giggling insanely while filming…just filming.

  Was Jessica dead? She wasn’t moving. Why would Mr. Ottoman attack her? Why did he rip his goddamn eyes out? That static… that static coming from the radio…

  Of all the times when you actually need a fucking gun in school, Dean thought and got to his feet.

  “Mark,” Dean yelled, “do it now!”

  Mark turned to Dean’s voice, but Dean knew then the kid wasn’t going to budge. The eyeless Mr. Ottoman shot forward and struck the redheaded kid with a ferocious and wild haymaker that knocked Mark flat on his back. Dean cringed with the sound of the hit—like a steak being dropped from a skyscraper onto a sidewalk below—but his eyes followed the pocket knife that Mark had held. The blade skittered across the floor and came to rest between Dean and the monstrous Mr. Ottoman.

  Dean didn’t have much time to think. He simply grabbed a desk beside him, lifted it up to his chest and chucked it forward towards the old man’s legs in a feeble attempt to hobble him for a moment. It worked. As Ottoman lurched forward, the desk hit his shins and he fell headfirst. It gave Dean enough time to shoot forward and snatch the knife.

  Oh fuck me, Dean thought as he rushed forward with the blade, am I really doing this? Mr. Ottoman was on his hands and knees before Dean, and Dean’s eyes focused on the back of his teacher’s neck. As Dean stabbed down with the small four-inch blade, Mr. Ottoman’s hand grabbed at his shirt. The blade came down and sunk to the hilt between the vertebrae there at the nape of Ottoman’s neck. Mr. Ottoman howled and pushed Dean away, but it was weak; one last little exertion before his body went limp.

  Breathing heavy, Dean watched the body of his teacher fidget. The knife twitched in Ottoman’s neck while thick, dark blood oozed out slowly. It wasn’t like the movies…there was no geyser of crimson. He waited for Ottoman to get up and pull the knife from his neck like some unstoppable monster from a slasher movie, but the old man only lay there and convulsed.

  Paralyzed, Dean thought, I got lucky. He wiped his forehead and took a breath. The world swirled again, this time with adrenaline. The radio buzzed with static there on the desk. Harry the insane janitor still pounded at the door with a cacophony of fists. Dean looked towards Mark, who lay unconscious on the ground. Dean sighed with relief to see Mark’s chest rise and fall. The kid took a killer hit, but he was alive. Jessica, however…

  Then from behind Dean, Caleb laughed. “That was fucking tits, man,” Caleb snorted. “You fucking just gimp-shanked Mr. Ottoman. I got it all on camera!”

  Dean felt his face contort in rage. He took two big steps towards Caleb—who’s face went from a grin to an oh shit—and backhanded him as hard as he could. The cell phone flew from Caleb’s hand as he stumbled from the blow. Dean followed it immediately with a front kick to Caleb’s balls. Oof gasped Caleb as he sunk to his knees. But Dean wasn’t done, not yet. He was pissed. Dean grabbed two handfuls of Caleb’s long greasy hair and drove his knee into the kid’s face. The resulting crunch was both sickly and satisfying, and he knew that he’d just crushed Caleb’s nose.

  Dean stepped back, watched the dazed and pained look on Caleb’s face without a shred of mercy. He watched the blood gush like a faucet with a sense of justice. “You fucking bitch,” Dean yelled. “You just fucking stood there!”

  Caleb’s hands covered his face as he pulled his body into a ball. The boy sobbed, “S-s-sorry. I’m s-s-sorry.”

  “You bet your ass you’re sorry!”

  Dean looked about the room and spied a large manual paper cutter, the kind with a big steel handle and a sharpened edge to slice the edges of paper. The thing had to be almost forty pounds and three times as old as Dean, made in the days when everything was built heavy with steel and iron. Dean tromped over and pulled the thing to the floor. With a grunt and considerable effort, Dean placed his foot on the flat tray and bent the handle, leveraging against it with his weight, till the screw stripped clear and the heavy handle came free. Dean looked it over, shifted its weight around. It was nose-heavy and somewhat awkward, but it would have to do.

  Something big was happening, and Dean knew it. If it was just Mr. Ottoman that had gone batshit, that would have been one thing. But the janitor was still out there in the hall, howling and beating the door, eyeless just like his now-crippled teacher. There’s something in that static, Dean thought and walked towards the radio, and it made the adults go crazy.

  With two hands, Dean brought his weapon up above his head. He brought it down with a gust of air from his lungs that sent plastic and batteries flying as well as splinters of wood from the desk. The radio was dead, but somehow the sound still swirled around the room. The telecom, Dean thought and then turned to the twitching body of Mr. Ottoman. It’s not a head, thought Dean, raising the wedged steel up, it’s just a watermelon…

  …a watermelon full of ketchup and hamburger meat.

  Dean’s makeshift weapon sunk into the back of Mr. Ottoman’s head no harder than it was to crack a boiled egg with a butter knife. The problem was pulling it back out; not that it was incredibly hard, but the sight of brains and blood and the terrible slurping sound that followed made Dean toss his cookies in a four-foot arc across the classroom.

  “Ugh,” Dean moaned and wiped his mouth. “Fucking yuck.”

  Then, from across the room, the small square glass porthole in the classroom door shattered. Harry the janitor (who actually used to be a pretty cool guy, except when one of Dean’s pranks made a mess that Harry had to clean up, and then he could kind of be a dick) had managed to punch through the glass. Of course, someone can’t punch through glass that thick without fucking themselves up, which Harry had did quite well. Harry had his arm snaked through the door, reaching for Dean, and Dean could see the white of bone sticking through the bloody mess that was Harry’s hand.

  Stalking forward, Dean said to the janitor, “Dude, Harry, if you can hear me, pull your arm out of there or I am so going to chop it off.”

  Harry greeted Dean only with a snarl of static.

  “Harry,” Dean said, “last chance. Seriously going to chop your arm off. Swear to god. Totally not in the mood for this shit.”

  Across the r
oom, Caleb was getting to his feet, holding his bloody nose. “He’th crathee… ape-thit like Ottoman.”

  It took Dean a moment to realize what Caleb was saying. Ah yeah, I broke his nose, now he’s got a lisp or something. Somehow Dean managed to stifle an insane laugh. “Okay,” Dean said, “Harry, you’re forcing me to do this. Gonna be real hard to sweep the halls with one arm, man. Gonna count to three, and then I’m just going to assume you’re a psycho and whack that shit right off.”

  “One,” Dean counted, and took a stance as if he were about to swing a bat. “Two… Dammit Harry, I thought we were cool… Three!”

  The arm didn’t come off clean like Dean thought it would. The heavy wedged handle of the paper slicer delivered more of a crunch. It was brutal, and effective. It split the skin easily and demolished the bones in Harry’s forearm with a sound that was much like snapping a branch. On the other side of the door, Harry howled and withdrew his arm. Dean almost figured Harry would run off (you know, like a sane person would) and go lick his wounds. But no, Harry wasn’t Harry anymore. He wasn’t sane in the least. He was nuts. The crazy bastard, instead of taking flight, roared with anger and shoved his other working arm through the small door window and reached for Dean.

  “Goddammit, Harry,” Dean blurted and reared his weapon back. Dean swung, and this time caught Harry’s wrist. The momentum snapped the wrist back, shattered it, pulled the elbow back in a direction it wasn’t supposed to bend and broke it with a sickly crunch. Dean stepped away and watched as Harry’s bicep tried to operate the rest of the arm. It was disgusting but somehow comical, watching the broken arm flop about like a fish out of water. A crazy chuckle tried to escape Dean.

  I’m going to fucking lose it. This can’t be happening.