Pain blossomed around my ribs as I spun to the ground. I rolled to my hands and knees, but he landed a swift kick to my gut. I lifted a foot off the ground, flipped, and landed on my back on the curb. I was still trying to figure out what was going on when he loomed over me, shadowed by the streetlight overhead, two by four propped lazily against his shoulder.
“And what do we have here?” he said.
I wheezed a response that didn’t include any actual words. Just a grunt and moan. I wondered where the invisible elephant came from as it eased onto my chest.
“When I saw you moving, I actually got kinda scared. Thought you might actually be a match for me.” He barked a laugh, glancing back at his moaning partners in crime. His dark shoulders shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.”
He raised the board and brought it down straight at my face. I rolled to my side just in time to avoid the blow. The two by four hit the pavement sending a shower of splinters sprinkling the back of my neck between my collar and the bottom of the ski mask. I kept rolling, pushing myself to my feet in the same motion. I backed into the street to put some distance between us, glad there was no traffic to flatten me like a tortilla.
Mr. Carpenter leisurely stepped off the curb, a smile on his face. I took another step back, wiping sweat from my eyes through the holes in the mask. I shook my head, blinking rapidly, and took another step back.
“You gonna run?” he asked, his steps toward me slow.
“Thinkin’ about it,” I muttered. I dropped my head, my eyes burning with sweat.
He saw that as an opportunity. He covered the pavement between us in two quick steps, board raised and midsection exposed.
I rushed him, burying my shoulder into his stomach. The impact lifted him off his feet, and I carried him to the sidewalk where I slammed his back into a streetlight pole. I pulled away from him, straightened, and delivered a quick right, followed by an even quicker left.
He blinked, dazed. I buried a foot in his gut, causing him to lean over with a grunt. I brought my knee up to meet his face. His head snapped back and hit the pole again. He twisted around it and fell to the ground, two by four laying near his unconscious body.
I staggered and bent over, hands on my knees. My breath came in gasps. Somewhere, I heard police sirens begin to whine again. I had heard them off and on throughout the night. Chief Bouwman’s promise of more police on duty wasn’t enough. They were still overwhelmed.
The four thugs were down for the count. A couple of them squirmed on the sidewalk but showed no sign of getting up anytime soon. I took a tentative breath, drawing it in as deep as my painful ribs would allow before I stood up straight and turned to walk down the street.
I yanked the ski mask off and used my shirt to wipe my eyes. The sweat in my eyes had been more than just a trick to lure the dude into a false sense of advantage. My eyes burned like crazy. Tears ran down my cheeks, though I don’t think I could honestly say it was entirely from the sweat.
3:01 a.m.
A third-floor fire escape of a five story brick building offered some solitude. I would have gone higher up, but that was about as high as my ribs would let me. Where the dude had kicked me in the stomach didn’t hurt that much, but my side felt like a rabid badger was trying to use it as a scratching post.
I sat on the metal platform and hissed as I lifted my shirt to survey the damage. A wide swath of skin pulsed red and a welt rose angrily six inches from my arm pit where the board had connected. I dropped the shirt back into place and lowered my arm.
Was that just a lucky shot? I should have been able to avoid that board. Easily. “I’m just tired,” I reasoned, pulling my knees up and leaning my head back.
I closed my eyes and listened to the distant wailing of sirens. In the past, I had always associated the sound with somebody being pulled over because they were speeding through rush hour traffic like they were invincible in their tiny European car. That was just about the extent of the need for police.
Sure, the city had its share of crime, but it wasn’t like Salt Lake was known for crime. Nothing like the past few nights. Things were definitely out of control. Those sirens meant something entirely new now.
Questions bumped around in my tired head, slamming around my skull like a mosh pit until they became a headache. I tried to pull one out to concentrate on, but they slipped through my mental fingers.
Something metal clattered on the ground below and I opened my eyes in time to see a blue post office mail drop box flying directly at me. I launched myself to the side as the mail box crashed into the fire escape. Momentum carried me into the railing on the other side.
I ignored the fresh wave of pain. “What the—”
I dropped just in time to avoid a cheap, plastic hubcap trying to play Frisbee with my face. I crawled across the platform and squirmed under the bottom railing, letting myself drop from it. I flipped in mid-air to land on my feet. Well, I tried, anyway. I didn’t quite make it all the way down.
About a foot from the ground, I stopped. Yeah, stopped. The jarring impact of landing on the sidewalk never came. I floated on air. Just as I was starting to wonder if flying was some unknown ability I had, I flipped backward like I just had a rug pulled out from under me and finished my fall with an awkward landing on the pavement.
I rolled to my hands and knees and cried out when a second hubcap ricocheted off my right cheek. The one on my butt, not my face. I’m not ashamed to admit it stung.
I pushed myself to my knees and turned. A third hubcap spun right at my face. I snatched it out of the air and scanned the area for a fourth cap—a logical assumption I think, seeing as how cars tend to have four wheels, not three. All I found was a kid standing on the other side of the street, his hands in his jean pockets and a smirk on his face.
“You throw these?” I called out.
He shrugged.
“Then this belongs to you.” I hurled the hubcap back at him discus-style.
It flew right at him until the last minute when it veered off to the side, hitting the building behind him and falling to the sidewalk with a dull clatter. I’m not a discus thrower or anything, but I was relatively sure my aim was true. How had it managed to go so far off course? It was kind of embarrassing, actually.
I stalked across the street, intent on saving some face by teaching the kid not to throw stuff at people. The hubcap picked itself up and threw itself at me. Or, something like that. All I could say was it lifted off the ground and spun at me. I heard it buzz over my head as I ducked. I glanced back across the street. The dude still stood there with his hands buried in his pockets.
“I don’t know how you’re doing that, but you just earned yourself one beatdown. Free of charge.” I marched across the street towards him.
Yeah, maybe I should have taken a minute to figure out what in the world was going on. Things were definitely screwy, but I never claimed an abundance of common sense. Stir in a little overconfidence and we have a recipe for getting my rear kicked and still willing to rush into an unknown situation less than a half hour later.
Turned out to be a bad move. Surprise, surprise.
I made it about seven feet from him before I came to a near stop. Not that I wanted to or anything. It just became difficult to move, like trying to walk along the bottom of a pool filled with Jell-O. I pushed on, confused but determined while the dude just smirked at me. Every step, every movement became more difficult than the last. My muscles strained and I started to sweat again. I could only shift my foot an inch at a time.
The dude stood, nonchalant, his thin shoulders hunched and that nasty little smile on his lips. Bad move. I had no idea how he was doing it, but I wasn’t about to let the smug little jerk attack me like that and get away with it. I pushed harder. I kept my eyes on him as my muscles bunched and strained.
His left eye twitched and the smile faded from his lips just a bit. He narrowed his brown eyes in concentration. I pushed on, sliding one foot across the pavement, then the other.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. I pushed even harder and his face turned red. He pulled his hands from his pockets. His shoulders didn’t slump in such a casual way anymore.
As I neared him, he took a step back, but it was too late. I forced my stubborn arms up, my fists wrapping around the front of his shirt. Whatever he was doing made moving forward hard, but it didn’t stop me from pulling him toward me. Which I did. I yanked him forward, doing the only thing I could think of.
Headbutts are never a good idea—both the headbutter and headbuttee usually ended up with a sore face—but I did it, anyway. I dipped my head, pulling his face into my forehead. He went limp and I stumbled forward, able to move again.
I dropped him to the sidewalk and staggered. With that particular danger eliminated, weariness elbowed its way into my body like a 300-pound football player. My mind went all fuzzy, but the scream of a police siren only a few blocks away cut through the fog. I turned and took off at a slow jog.
Home was my singular thought.
Chapter 11
7:20 a.m.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I had crawled through my window sometime between being attacked by flying cheap hubcaps and the sun peeking its shiny, bright face over the mountains to the east. I wanted nothing more than to pass out for about a month but couldn’t. With the wide array of bruises, getting comfortable proved as hard as convincing a pissed off skunk not to spray an overly playful dog barking at it.
I had climbed in bed after moving the bundle of pillows that represented me in case Mom checked in on me. I hadn’t really thought it would fool her, but luckily, it appeared she hadn’t slipped into my room sometime in the night to make sure I was still there.
Sleep eluded me, though. My brain worked overtime. I couldn’t wrap my head around the guy with a two by four and the kid who tossed hubcaps around with his mind. I had thought I was something with my fancy abilities. Mr. TwobyFour was equally as strong and fast. A few punks had been able to land a blow or two, but I barely felt them. The pain under my left armpit told me something was different about him.
And, Mr. Hubcap-Tosser? Well, I didn’t even want to attempt to figure out what happened there. My muscles were still sore from straining to reach him.
After a night of no sleep, I sighed and pushed myself to a sitting position. I could hear the twin dorks running around the house, so I knew I had to get up before my mom came for me. I stood and tried to roll my shoulders, wincing at the pain that circled my ribs. I kicked my shoes off and opened my bedroom door.
A pale, shaggy-headed streak ran down the hall. “Move it, loser!”
I was too tired to try to figure out which twin was running around the house in his tighty-whities. I stepped across the hall to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Even though the twins and I were the only ones who used this bathroom, it was decorated in cheery pastel colors with flowers scattered here and there. It hurt my eyes.
I peeled my shirt off and looked at myself in the mirror. My torso was decorated with enough colors to make a Christmas tree jealous. Light pink. Purple. Green. You name it. They all formed a broad band of color under my arm where I took the board to the ribs. I lifted my arm to get a better look, immediately regretting the move. Sure, it hurt, but the worst part was I smelled like an overripe onion that sat out for a few days in the sun. In 100 degree heat. So much for my quick healing making sure I didn’t stink too much.
There was no way I could go another day without a shower, so I stripped and climbed in. The warm water bit and nibbled at every little wound. I clenched my teeth as I let it run over me until it started to sooth instead of sting.
I wanted to stay in there for the rest of the day but figured that I needed to get out when I heard Mom yelling for Mitchell to get dressed or he was going to miss the bus. Once he was properly clothed for school, I knew I’d be her next target. After a sniff test on my pits, a quick wash, and another test, I climbed out and went to my room with a towel wrapped around my waist.
A few minutes later, I shuffled into the living room. Harris sat on the couch, fully dressed. Mitchell sat in the recliner, not so much dressed. He had upgraded his tighty-whities to a pair of shorts two sizes too small and one sock.
“What’s up, Spitmunch?” Mitchell intoned, his be-socked foot propped up on the coffee table.
I looked him over and raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he said. “Don’t be hatin’.” He waved his hands down his body like Vanna White presenting a puzzle. “I make this look good.”
I shook my head and flopped on the couch at the opposite end from Harris. I was shocked to find news on the T.V. instead of cartoons. Ms. Spray-on-Tan-Reporter mutely spoke at the camera, all seriousness and stuff. I turned to comment on their choice in T.V. but they both had their faces buried in their cellphones, thumbs blazing across the touchscreens. Mystery solved. I grabbed the remote.
“Mitchell Josh Ferguson!”
I nearly jumped out of my own pants at Mom’s cry right behind me.
“If you don’t get some real clothes on…”
“These are real clothes,” he said over her.
“…I’ll make you go to school in your underwear!” she finished.
Mitchell’s face brightened. “Really?”
“Nobody wants to see that, Bro,” Harris said, fingers still hopping across his cell.
“You’re just jealous that I look better than you,” Mitchell said.
“You’re identical twins,” I put in.
Both brothers stopped what they were doing to turn and look at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re a real genius,” Harris said. “You look like crap, too.”
“Mitchell, if you don’t get some clothes on, I swear I’ll—” Mom started.
“Okay, okay! Don’t get all bunched up.” He got up and huffed out of the room.
Mom made sure she leveled her glare on him until he disappeared down the hall before turning to tap me on the shoulder. “What’s she saying?”
It took a moment for me to realize she was talking about SLC’s favorite plastic reporter standing outside a random building downtown. Her bright red lipstick clashed with her burgundy suit jacket. I grabbed the remote control to turn up the volume.
“…and with crime up even more than the past few nights, Chief Bouwman has yet to release a statement. In the meantime, concerns are at an all-time high.”
The video cut to a previously recorded interview. A man with hair that rose from one side of his head and crashed down the other side like an ocean wave stood on the sidewalk, twitching and fidgeting. He kept glancing from the camera to the reporter, off camera, like he wasn’t sure where he should be looking.
“Man, it’s all crazy here at night,” he said. “I know, you know, ‘cuz I live up that way.” He pointed down the street. “And I hear all this stuff outside my window. And here I am trying to sleep,” he pressed his hands together and placed them against his head like he was miming sleep, “and all the sudden, you know, all this racket like Tom Cruise is filming a movie right outside my window. And I say to myself, I say, this is crazy. Tom Cruise ain’t filming nothing in Utah, know what I’m sayin’?” He laughed a nervous sound that reminded me of a chattering squirrel.
“So, I gets up and look out the window and there, just as plain as day—except, it was night, you know—plain as day, must have been like fifteen kids walkin’ down the street and bashing in car windows and what-not. And I thought to myself, you know, where’s the cops?” He raised his hands in an incredulous gesture.
The video cut back to the live feed of the reporter. She cocked a pencil-thin eyebrow at the camera. “Where, indeed? Bruce,” she said, addressing the anchor back in the studio, “this was only one example of the fears and concerns we’ve heard from citizens out this morn—”
A blur crossed the screen and the reporter disappeared. The cameraman jerked his camera to the right, up, and then down to the left whi
le he took a few steps back. The reporter laid on the sidewalk, a man standing over her. She tried to curl away, but he landed a kick on her right hip. Several people around them shouted before the feed cut back to Bruce in the studio. It looked like he felt equal parts wanting to hide under his desk and puking.
“Um…” he stammered. “We seem to be having…um, technical difficulties?” He blinked once as he realized everybody saw what had happened and it was definitely not technical difficulties. “We’ll be right back, um, after this.” He paused a moment before looking off camera. “What the—” The screen cut to a used car commercial.
“Oh, my…” I looked up at my mom. She stared wide-eyed at the T.V. with her hand over her mouth. “Did that just happen?”
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