The Grateful Boys

by Françoise DuMaurier

  “Dude, check her out,” a boy said as he wrapped his arms around the shoulders of Mason and Alex and nodding toward to a high school girl. This was Sebastian Cortez, a spry, generally joke-a-minute boy with an accent that fluctuated between Southern and Mexican. He was, of course, no more foul-mouthed than any kid his aged who wanted to appear more mature than his golden thirteen years.

  “Club meeting tonight?” Sebastian asked.

  “Seb, it’s Monday,” Alex told him.

  Sebastian shrugged, “I thought we were flexible.”

  He was referring to the regular club meetings they had on a regular basis each week in the basement of Mason’s house. In fact, the ability to provide comfortable lodging allotted Mason a set of new friends as soon as he moved to Corpus. Everyone else lived in a double wide or a tiny home with no room for a group of teenage boys to gather.

  “Maybe we could pull something together,” Mason suggested as the three of them sat at a cafeteria table, each with a breakfast tray.

  “But even when we don’t meet, we meet,” Alex said.

  He wasn’t far off. The entirety of club meetings generally consisted of video games on some random night and horror movies on Saturday nights. Of course, flexibility meant they might also toss in a Thursday night and a Sunday night. Or as Sebastian now wanted, a Monday night.

  “Now wait a minute,” Sebastian said. “I propose we vote on it. Isn’t that the point of a club?”

  “But there’s only three of us here,” Mason said. “But five of us total.”

  “That’s the majority!” Sebastian argued while he ate.

  “I don’t know,” Alex said.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Can’t you count? Three out of five is the majority.”

  “I mean I don’t know if we should vote without the others, fool!”

  “Who you calling a fool, fool!” Sebastian retorted just as expected. “Perhaps the CKHLC needs to vote on whether or not we can vote without every member present.”

  “CKHLC sounds ridiculous. I thought we were just the Horror Club for short,” Mason said.

  “I’m with Mace,” Alex nodded. “CKHLC is a mouthful.”

  The initials stood for the Cool Kids Horror Lover’s Club and the name had that small-town throwback ring to it that you’d expect from a group of boys in Corpus with not much else to do.

  Moments later they were joined at breakfast by a boy named Matthew Meyers.

  “What’s up guys,” Matthew said as he sat and fist bumped each of the three boys around him.

  Matthew wasn’t like the other boys in the Horror Club. For starters – or perhaps most of all, Matthew wasn’t thirteen. Matthew wasn’t even in middle school. Sixteen-year-old Matthew – in his patch covered jean jacket – was the lone high school kid who sat at breakfast with a set of middle school boys each morning. This endeared him tremendously to the middle school set but earned the ire of his peers – not that he particularly cared.

  An outcast was perhaps the best word to describe Matthew. But labels be damned, he was going to hang out with whomever he pleased.

  “We’re thinking about another meeting,” Mason told him.

  “When?” Matthew asked.

  “Tonight!” Sebastian answered.

  “I guess I could make tonight,” Matthew nodded.

  “That makes four of us,” Sebastian said.

  “So,” Mason began. “That’s a yes from Matthew our Vice President of Acquisitions. And Sebastian our Treasurer.”

  “And me,” Alex chimed in.

  “And Alex,” Mason said, “our Club Secretary.”

  “And what’s Ben?” Sebastian asked, referring to the fifth member who wasn’t present.

  “Ben’s our Vince President of Enrollment,” Mason answered. “And I’m Prez ’cause we meet at my house. And ’cause I started it.”

  “I’m Treasurer,” Sebastian said, “but I never handle any funds.”

  “And I’m Secretary,” Alex told him. “Hell, I don’t even know what a club secretary is supposed to do. It’s just a title so you feel important.”

  A sudden laughter erupted among each of them. Perhaps from knowing how true that statement was.

  Breakfast passed and Matthew made his way down the West Wing while the other boys left him for the rustic East Wing that made up their middle school.

  The boys stopped by their lockers. Sebastian left them for a Language Arts class while Mason and Alex made their way into an eighth-grade history class.

  Many of the boys shared the same classes. This was expected and unsurprising in a school as small as Corpus Middle & High.

  What did surprise Mason was the age of the teachers at his new school. The majority of them were had taught for forty or more years. A fresh-faced young teacher was a true rarity and, in Corpus, could be counted on a single hand with multiple severed fingers.

  They took their seats in Mr Cason’s History class. The teacher was no younger than seventy. He was the old-school tweed suit type who lectured the entire class; typically espousing the way things worked “back in his day.”

  The average kid understood classes taught by a seventy-year-old teacher to mean ‘talk quietly to my friends, pass notes, and text innocuously to no end.’

  Moments before the bell ring, thirteen-year-old Benjamin Gordon rushed into the classroom and took a seat toward the back. He positioned himself near Mason and Alex.

  Ben was a little overweight but not enormously so. And his size never stopped him from outrunning bullies or stray dogs. The former being more frequent than the latter.

  “Vice President of Enrollment reporting,” Ben whispered as class began.

  Mr. Cason’s hearing aid rarely picked up on the low chatter these boys typically engaged in.

  “Here!” they each said as their named was called on the roll.

  “So Sebastian wanted a meeting tonight,” Mason whispered.

  “Why?” Ben asked.

  “To play video games, I guess,” Alex said, extending his head out across the aisle.

  “But we play video games together over headset like every night,” Ben whispered.

  “Meeting at Mace’s place is always more fun,” Alex said.

  “I won’t argue that,” Ben whispered.

  “Then I guess we’re on for tonight,” Mason shrugged.

  ***

  Outside of school across town, police tape stretched across Old Mill’s Road. A full fleet of police cruisers was stationed across the main road and the dirt path nearby. Several yards to the right was a house and a barn. Several yards to the left was a Volvo with a broken passenger window, a dent upon the roof and a bloodstained hood.

  In charge of the investigation was Sheriff Antwan Zeddman. Sheriff Zeddman was the town’s first African-American elected official. The job itself was well earned. His reputation preceded him, having once personally tracked down and nabbed a serial killer in a neighboring area some twenty-odd years ago. Zeddman was fifty years old and had since seen it all in his twenty-five years on the police force. He had risen from the ranks of Deputy to Detective to Lieutenant to finally sheriff of the entire county he grew up in.

  Perhaps working in Corpus had allowed him to rest on his laurels for the past few years. Given the area, the sheriff had become somewhat easy going. Easy going to the point of never expecting a set of hideous murders in Corpus.

  He raised the police tape, stepped under it, and joined a set of detectives and deputies near the Volvo.

  “Two bodies were discovered nearby,” a detective told him.

  “And they came from this here car?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This here was no accident I’m assuming,” Zeddman said, tilting the wide brim of his sheriff’s hat.

  “There’s more,” an approaching deputy told him.

  “Lay it on me, Deputy Coleman” said Sheriff Zeddman.

  “Puncture wounds on the bodies. Both of the corpses were drained.”


  “Drained?” Sheriff Zeddman asked gravely.

  “Drained of blood, sir,” Deputy Coleman gulped.

  “What kind of twisted psycho…” Sheriff Zeddman said before his voice trailed off.

  He looked across the road at the barn and house nearby.

  “Maybe that there farm owner saw somethin’,” Deputy Coleman suggested.

  “Let’s find out,” the Sheriff sighed.

  They made their way to the rickety old house and nearby barn owned by Old Man McIntyre, as everyone called him. The Sheriff rapped on his door about a dozen times before Old Man McIntyre answered several minutes later.

  The farmer was every bit of eighty, with a hearing aid in each ear and hair that’d been silver for at least twenty-five years. He wore a ratty old bathrobe and hadn’t yet put in his false teeth.

  “What’s all this dag-gum racket out here for, Sheriff Zeddman?” Old Man McIntyre asked with his eyes squinted.

  “Hello, Mr. McIntyre,” the Sheriff tipped his hat, “We were wondering if you saw or heard anything strange last night? Or perhaps your wife?”

  “No, sir-ree,” Old Man McIntyre told him. “We take out the hearing aids and head ter bed at eight o’clock sharp. I put them thar blinders on and dun see ‘er hear a gosh darn thing.”

  “And your wife?” Sheriff asked him.

  “Same for her,” he said. He turned his back to the officers and faced the interior of his house. “Honey, come on down ’ere!”

  For several minutes the Sheriff and Deputy exchanged looks while Old Man McIntyre tried his darndest to look over their shoulders, attempting to peer at the site of the crime in front of his farm. Finally his wife, just as old with gigantic curlers and matching hearing aids, straddled surreptitiously to the front door.

  “Yes, officers?” she whispered in a whistle.

  “Ma’am, did you see or hear anything strange or unusual last night?” Sheriff Zeddman asked her with an understanding that this conversation was going nowhere fast.

  “No, I dun recall seeing ’er hearin’ a thing, Sheriff,” she whistled lowly. “But what’s goin’ on out ’ere.”

  “Crime scene, ma’am,” Deputy Coleman told her.

  “Well that much is obvious, my boy,” Old Man McIntyre chuckled.

  “A couple was killed along the road leading to your farm last,” Sheriff Zeddman told him matter-of-factly. “A real tragedy.”

  “Killed!?” Old Man McIntyre nearly jumped back in shock.

  “The investigation has only just begun,” Sheriff Zeddman told him, “But if you do recall anything at any point, please come on down to my office or give us a call.”

  “Will do,” Old Man McIntyre said. “What a cryin’ shame. This ’ere town used ter be some place. I says now that them thar city folk are pushin’ brainwashin’ technologies on us, people are showin’ up dead. Even in Corpus, Jo-ja.”

  “I’m not sure technology can be blamed for this here disaster,” Sheriff Zeddman said, knowing full well this was not a battle he could win against Old Man McIntyre.

  “Oh but it is!” Old Man McIntyre said. “The young folks are losing control. We’re headin’ down a dark ‘n treacherous path, I says. The youth of today leave me shakin’ mah head. But I says I tell yer whut, I’mma keep mah shotgun close by. Right near mah teef at night. I’ll load mah shotgun and that’ll keep me safe. I says praise the lort and pass the ammunition, my father used ter say. Now have a nice day gentlemen and keep yer racket ‘n blue lights down while I tend to mah cattle. I tell ya, nothin’ like this would have happened with any of our other sheriffs here. But things just gotta change, don’t they? Progress for the sake of progress.”

  “Just what do you mean, the ‘other’ sheriffs?” Zeddman asked.

  “The ones before you. The more traditional sheriffs,” Old Man McIntyre scoffed.

  The Sheriff peered at him wildly, preferring not to argue. He and the Deputy bid them good day and returned across the police tape to the other side of the road.

  “Well that didn’t go far,” Deputy Coleman said.

  “As far as a dead rat in a dog race,” Sheriff Zeddman snickered. “I may be sheriff by popular vote but you can be sure there’s a whole host of people who don’t think Corpus should have a black guy in charge of anything.”

  “Oh, don’t let that bother you, Sheriff,” Deputy Coleman suggested. “They’ll come around. You’re just the person this town needs.”

  “Now just to convince them of that,” said Zeddman.

  Another detective approached them.

  “We’ve got blood samples from the hood. But there’s something else. Something interesting was also found along the hood,” the detective said.

  “And what’s that?” Sheriff asked.

  “Fur.”

  “What?” Sheriff repeated.

  “Black fur. Animal fur,” the Detective said. “We can have forensics take a look at it.”

  “You’re telling me an animal may have done this?” Sheriff asked.

  “It’s possible,” the detective answered with a shrug.

  “I ain’t ever heard,” Deputy Coleman chimed in, “of an animal that drains blood.”

  ***

  On the West Wing of Corpus High, Hailey was leaving her Bio class when Madison joined her.

  “These classes are gonna make me rip my hair out,” Hailey told her as they approached their lockers to switch books.

  “I know, right,” Madison said. “I swear the minutes we spend in the hall swapping out books and hanging out next to our lockers are more productive than an hour in any of these classes.”

  “Gag me,” Hailey said as she rolled her eyes. “Actually, you’re totally right. Everyone knows the time spent in the hallway is where all the action happens. Like for real, nothing ever important happens in a classroom.”

  “I’ve been saying that for years,” Madison laughed.

  “Okay, here’s the strange thing,” Hailey said. “None of the cute guys are in any of my classes. They’re all in the halls. Do cute boys not take classes? Maybe they just hang out in the halls all day.”

  “Not with the principal roaming around,” Madison scoffed.

  Hailey looked over her friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t the principal she saw. No. Time itself seemed to slow down. A faint gust of cool air overtook the halls when Hailey spotted them. THEM.

  Madison turned around to get a glimpse of whatever had overtaken Hailey’s attention.

  “Whoa,” Hailey said. She wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling… Interest? Attraction? Bewilderment? Disgust?

  At the turn of the hallway were five slender boys. All tall and lithe. Their skin – translucent and pale. They walked side by side, taking up the entirety of the hall. Each gracefully step taking them closer toward to Hailey and her friend.

  The two on the left had long black hair and pointed chins. One’s face was narrow, the other rounder. The one on the far right had blond hair and sunken eyes but a mesmerizing transfixed stare – they each had it. Walking next to him was a boy just as tall with his hair in an audacious mohawk – the first of its kind that Hailey had seen in Corpus. And in the center was a boy with jet-black mid-length hair, a pronounced jawline, and dark shadows encircling his eyes. He was lithe yet toned, and his posture – graceful. Hailey thought he had the body of a classical dancer.

  It was more than just the translucent pale skin and indomitable hair styles that set them apart. It was what they were wearing. Black. All black. Shawls, jackets, leather that hugged their bodies, pointed tipped shoes, and more than a couple of black painted nails. Surely there was not another set of teenagers in all of Corpus that looked anything like these boys.

  The boy in the middle had a set of golden eyes that flickered and sharply met Hailey. She felt almost weak just meeting his eyes— of a hue she’d never seen before. He smirked as the five of them whispered amongst one another and walked past the girls.

  The air grew colder the closer they got. They slo
w steps matched the pace of Hailey’s breath. And when they got as close as they would get on this day, Hailey remembered just who the one in the center looked like. That old movie star who died young. The one her mother had talked about. He was a gothic James Dean that hadn’t seen the sun.

  Just what are they? Hailey thought. Goth? Emo? Punk?

  She turned around to glimpse them from behind as they walked passed her. Seconds before turning the corner, Hailey saw the gothic James Dean turn his head. She was sure he briefly winked in her direction. It lasted less than a second but she’d replay the moment in her head for the rest of the day.

  “And who are they?” Hailey asked.

  “I’ve heard other people talking about them,” Madison answered. “You’ve been here for like two months now. Haven’t you seen them before?”

  “Them?” Hailey said, shaking her head. “Never.”

  “I recall seeing them a few times last year. But I’m pretty sure they’re a year above us. That’s why we never have a class with any of them. Are you interested?”

  “Interested?” Hailey scoffed. “No. They’re not even my type. But the one in the middle was… well, I’m just intrigued by them. That’s all.”

  “Can’t argue with you there, Hailey. There’s not too many boys like that in Corpus. I heard someone once call them the Grateful Boys.”

  “Why the Grateful Boys?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure. But they don’t really talk to anyone who isn’t in their clique. So that leaves just about everyone in the school off their radar.”

  “I’ve got to find out who they are,” Hailey said, still absolutely transfixed by their very presence.

  It wasn’t the all black leather that truly stood out. It was the gaze in their eyes that told Hailey these weren’t ordinary schoolboys.

  Chapter 2

  The final class bell rang for high school. It was always was twenty minutes earlier than the final bell for the adjoining middle school.

  Upon the last ringing of the bell, kids rushed out of rooms and darted through hallways. Some walked home with friends, others biked, and still some made their way to the car line. But every kid was happy to see that final minute of class tick by.