Take Your Turn, Teddy

  The guy took another step forward, and Teddy could see he was alone. His first instinct was to charge at him using his new knife, but the shadow was right. They needed to move.

  “What the hell is going on?” the man in the itty-bitty shorts said. The flames grew toward the sky, and Teddy imagined one of the houses had caught fire.

  A piercing scream followed an enormous puff of smoke, and the man took off toward the commotion. Teddy grinned. If they were lucky, still being so close to the killing field, the shadow would get to feed on the energy of that man’s death too.

  The shadow’s bright white eyes mirrored the moon as it broke through the leaves toward the end of the row of trees. Teddy stopped, nearly tripping over himself when it appeared as though the shadow’s eyes had fallen to the ground.

  He turned and found the shadow’s white eyes still beaming behind him. Teddy reached down and used his thumb to wipe the dirt from the round, white rock. He continued through the edge of the woods with his find in hand when he stumbled on another. And then another. And then a whole pile of the white rocks.

  Another scream split through the trees and then a chorus of them. The sirens made the growing tragedy sound theatrical.

  Teddy picked up each of the rocks he found and stuffed them in his pockets.

  Do they mean something to you, Teddy?

  They reached the woods’ edge and stood on top of a hill, looking over an ill-lit curved road. Teddy pointed to the tattered welcome sign, which read “Welcome to Pricetown” with the sharp end of his bread knife.

  With hungry eyes fixed on the town, Teddy said to the shadow, “The rocks don’t mean anything to me, but soon, they will to them.”

  Part 4

  Counting Casualties

  1

  Strode jumped when he heard what he could only imagine was a nurse’s supply cart slamming into his door. He had no idea how long he was out, but the pain in his head had died down. He wished he could say the same for his throat. The previously exposed inner flesh still felt raw and seared, as though he’d swallowed a shot of bleach.

  He sat up in his bed and was relieved that he could do that too.

  The voices outside grew louder with panic in them. They spoke in frantic commands, and he heard one phone ringing, answered only by another ring further down the hall. The yellow lights in the hall were flashing in a tense series, suggesting panic from patients calling on their nurses to explain.

  Radios flicked on in the nurse’s station and migrated down the hall with a speed that felt as manic as everything else. Strode only caught every few words from the broadcaster, “Fire... smoke... Warren Woods... missing... dead.”

  The kid. Teddy.

  Strode climbed from his bed, tugging the clear tube from his forearm, and nearly fell to the floor.

  The pounding in his head returned.

  Strode allowed his knees to fall to the cold tile floor and felt his hospital gown flare open in the back. He hoped he was wearing underwear; otherwise, he was guaranteeing anyone who walked in a good look at a full moon.

  On all fours, Strode crawled to the radiator. He tapped the white-painted iron to make sure it wasn’t going to burn the shit out of his hands and add to his injuries. It was warm, so he pressed on it, waiting for the heat to intensify. It didn’t. Strode wrapped his hands around the radiator, and the grooves dug into his palms.

  Strode lifted himself to the window and twisted the rod to open the blinds. The sight below took his breath away. Above the trees in the distance was a haunting, orange haze. Was Warren Woods on fire? The smoke seemed to emerge from the further side of the trees.

  Trying to make each of his steps calculated but quick, he scrambled to his clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed, held his jeans in both hands, and shimmied them over his thin legs. Strode managed to get them just under his thighs and flexed his legs to hold them in place while he threw his cotton tee over his head.

  He flinched at the shock of his soreness but kept going. Gritting his teeth, he looped his fingers in his belt loops and did a small leap into his jeans. He almost didn’t stick the landing, but he caught himself on the edge of the bed.

  Pausing only a moment to regain his stability, he grabbed the pain pills on his nightstand and hurried out of his room.

  The frenzy outside reminded Strode of his high school after the news of President Kennedy’s assassination. Only half the people running around looked like Strode feared he did when climbing on the radiator with flowy gown in the front and bare ass in the back.

  Nurses were trying to calm patients while others were hysteric, listening to the broadcast. Strode used the chaos to blend in. He wasn’t sure how far he was from his car, but he would figure that out. First, he just had to make it out unseen. He pulled his shirt up, attempting to conceal the bandage on his neck. A nurse ran past him in a hurry and did a double-take before moving on. He remembered he had a large chunk of gauze on his head.

  He peeked into a room where the door was wide open. An old woman sprawled on the bed, an array of cards on the nightstand behind her. He had a feeling that if she didn’t wake up to all of this screaming, she wouldn’t at all.

  The nurse’s station was at the end of the hall, just before the front door. Strode moved quickly through the commotion, knocking over trays full of little cups of pills. He saw a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton balls and stuffed them in his pocket. He could feel his body telling him that he was moving too fast, too soon. But he had to get out there. He had to see what was going on because, in his gut, Strode knew it had something to do with Teddy Blackwood.

  A nurse spoke on the phone at the nurse’s station. She was young, maybe a little younger than Strode, and her dark hair was tucked neatly under her nurse’s cap. As she placed her hand over her bright, red lips, Strode saw her fingernail polish matched. She screamed into the phone and then let it dangle by the spiral cord. He could hear a muffled voice on the other side.

  Another nurse rushed to the screaming nurse’s aide. “What’s happened, Susan? What’s the matter?”

  The woman with the matching red nails and lips pointed past Strode, and he raised his eyebrows.

  Then Susan shouted, “Charles! Charles is dead! He…” She heaved in and out as her lip quivered in panic and sorrow. “He was running in the woods. He saw the smoke.”

  Susan fell into the other nurse’s chest and sobbed. “He’s dead, Saundra! He’s gone!”

  Strode watched Susan’s body shake and felt a tingling disturbance in his face. At first, it was sympathy. Strode’s first thought was, Maggie would’ve done the same thing. Maggie would’ve gone to see what had happened and try to help if she could. Maggie would’ve left the woods and followed the flames.

  Left the woods.

  The fire wasn’t in the woods. It was past it on the other side, where the Byers boy had come through on his bike before Teddy got him.

  The other side, where Teddy was now collecting casualties.

  Kills to avenge the one Strode had taken from him.

  He had to get over there.

  Above the crying nurses was a cubby with a folded letterman jacket and a red baseball cap. Strode grabbed the hat, stuffed some cotton balls on his wound, and went out the front door, unnoticed.

  He could immediately smell the fumes from the fire. It was far more than the smell of burning wood or even a house fire. This fire reeked, causing a chill to roll through Strode—one that crept into his ear and whispered, “It’s flesh.”

  Strode leaned against a brick column that supported the entry wing’s awning. He shoved one of the pain pills in his mouth and gave himself a moment to stop his head from spinning.

  He traced the lettering on his “borrowed” hat with his fingers. He felt the length of the letter L and the curve of an S.

  Shit. I grabbed a fucking Cardinals hat. I don’t understand Michigan.

  Strode adjust
ed the hat on his head and scoffed. Then he pushed off the bricks and began to follow the haze.

  He could feel his feet stumbling beneath him, wobbling with each step. He wondered if he had taken one too many pills, or if his head was worse than he thought.

  He didn’t care. He kept moving, using whatever he could to keep himself up. He made it to one nurse’s car and then the next before reaching a shitty, splintering bench.

  His head pounded more and more with each step he took.

  Come on. Come on.

  Then a set of headlights sped to the side of the bench. It was a bright, shiny red car, and the passenger cranked the window down.

  An officer with the chubbiest fingers holding a thick cigar poked his head out of the window and said, “You crazy son of a bitch.” He turned to the driver. “Well, you nailed it. He busted out, alright.”

  Finch poked her head around Burklow. “Figured we ought to grab you before we found you facedown somewhere. Get in.”

  Strode opened the back door of his own Ford Pinto, smiling as he obeyed.

  2

  It wasn’t long before the sight of the smoke ahead smothered the lightheartedness in Strode’s Pinto. It filled the car the way ash fills lungs, uninvited but overpowering.

  The closer they got to the backend of Warren Woods and the neighborhood where the Byers boy lived, the thicker the haze became. And the smell. Nauseating didn’t do it justice. It was foul—unsettling in the grimmest of terms—and he knew they were smelling death.

  Police cars and fire trucks blocked the main street of the neighborhood, which was Maple Street. Flames engulfed a house on the left side of the road. The shrubs just off the front porch and around the side of the house were on fire too.

  They got out of the car as another police officer met them at the Pinto. “Stay back! Back!”

  The man came closer and recognized Finch and Burklow. He tipped his hat. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you in this.” He motioned to the red Pinto.

  Burklow nodded.

  Strode and Finch stood beside Burklow, eyeing the scene. Strode pulled his shirt over his nose. The smell of burnt flesh, burnt plastic, and whatever the fuck else was on fire was worse than the bodies they’d found in the woods.

  Charred bodies littered Maple Street. Some of them were burnt right to the bones while others had burns bad enough to kill but stopped before all of the skin was gone.

  Finch pointed to the coils on the ground and Strode followed her finger to the melted, colored vinyl. Several of the yards and driveways had the same melted or blackened colors. Finch grabbed her flashlight from her belt and pointed it to the ends of the drives.

  “Garden hoses,” she said.

  Her light glistened in the water, flashing across a body at the end of the road. The man lay prone with flares of black, pink, and red skin around the side of his face and down his neck.

  Firefighters worked to recover the electric cords and cut off the power source. In the areas cleared of the wiring, men in thick black gloves, maybe anti-shock Strode thought, collected the bodies. Strode counted at least seven victims.

  The fire in the house to the left of them climbed through the home.

  Two firefighters cleared the cords from the bottom drive and hosed right into the front siding.

  Burklow asked the other officer, “Is everyone out of there?”

  The officer shrugged. “I’m not sure. One of the neighbors said a retired couple lives there. Their kids weren’t home. They don’t live there anymore.”

  “Is the car in the garage?” Strode asked.

  “I’m not sure. My job is to keep people back. One wrong step and you’re fried chicken.”

  Finch pointed to a man sitting on the ground on the other side of the street. He sat at the far end of a yard, one that was fortunate not to catch fire or be damaged by the fallen lines. A medic wrapped a blanket around him.

  Finch looked at Strode, and he knew she was asking if they wanted to check it out. His throat still sore as hell, Strode nodded.

  “Burklow, we’re going to talk to a survivor.”

  Burklow nodded, watching the flames with helpless, solemn eyes.

  Strode had been standing too long. His feet were wobbly, and his head felt as though it would do anything to detach from his body.

  Finch turned and said, “You really should be resting. You know?”

  He responded with a sarcastic smile, and as though he’d argued back, Finch said, “I know. I know. You couldn’t miss all of this.”

  When they got to the other side of Maple Street, Finch snapped her fingers at the intersection and pointed to the ground. Strode began to sit across from the trembling man, and Finch sat next to him.

  The smoke was thick, and Strode felt as though its hands were tightening around his throat.

  Finch’s eyes were red as she studied the man, who didn’t even seem to notice two officers sitting in a circle with him.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Finch said.

  The man’s irritated eyes blinked multiple times, pulling himself from a far-off gaze. He looked at Finch. “I’m sorry. Yes?”

  The man looked unscathed, aside from the trauma all over his face. That, Strode was afraid, would last far longer than a burn.

  Finch straightened up. “My name is Officer Finch.” She motioned to Strode. “And this is Officer Strode.”

  The man nodded, returning his gaze beyond the circle, beyond the fire. “Jason.”

  Finch looked at Strode with careful eyes. “Hi, Jason. First, are you alright? I saw a medic with you, but is there anything else we can get you?”

  The man shook his head and pulled the tribal-patterned blanket closer to his shoulders. Ironically, Strode thought those kinds of blankets were the ones he used in high school at bonfires.

  “Okay, then,” Finch continued. “My partner and I are investigating what happened here tonight. Can you tell me what you remember?”

  Jason’s eyes stared straight ahead as he spoke the most monotone monologue Strode had ever heard. “I heard the powerline fall. I heard it crash into the road. The loud slam took my breath away before I even opened my eyes. Then I heard a scream.”

  Finch nodded, “Yes. I’m sure that must’ve been awful hearing that as your neigh—”

  “No,” Jason said. He turned to Finch, and Strode could see his hair was far longer than it seemed sitting across from him. He had a dark ponytail, suspended with a dark red rubber band. Subtle traces of silver served as soft highlights throughout his hair. Maggie might’ve called this guy, “A silver fox.” She had a thing for guys with ponytails. Plus, Jason seemed to be the artsy type. His shirt had an old forgotten painting on the front of it that Strode just barely recognized, and the sleeves had an array of pastels, blended like watercolors.

  Finch waited for the man to elaborate. When he didn’t, she asked, “You didn’t hear your neighbors screaming?”

  Jason nodded. “Of course, I did. I think I’ll remember that for the rest of my life. But a different scream came before theirs. Their screams were instant cries of pain and shock. They didn’t shout words. They screamed in agony. But the first scream that came just after the powerlines fell cried for help.”

  Finch turned to Strode, and he knew they were thinking the same thing. He gave her a quick, impatient wave that said, Ask already.

  “Jason, could you tell what age this person was? The one who cried for help?”

  Jason finally brought his eyes to the horror of the scene. They still hadn’t gathered all of the bodies. Four men stood in the front yard of the burning home, watching as the house’s frame began to give out.

  “All of them…” Jason stopped, swallowed, and started again, “All of them were so uneasy after what happened to the Byers boy and what happened to his sister and the others. So, when they heard a kid cry for help, they all ran to help.”

  Jason dro
pped his chin to his chest, and a wet string dangled from his nose. He used the blanket to wipe it away. “And they paid for it.”

  Strode’s eyes were full of determination. It was as he thought.

  Strode pushed on his throat with three fingers, “Di… Did anyo—”

  Strode shook his head in frustration. His voice still wasn’t ready, but he and Finch seemed to have their antenna pointed at the same station.

  “Did anyone see the kid?” Finch asked.

  “No, but it was a boy. I’m sure of it,” Jason said.

  So was Strode.

  He rose to his feet and heard Finch thank Jason.

  They huddled a few feet away as they put the pieces together. Strode pointed to the flooded street, though they had cleared the body blocking the storm drain.

  “Right,” Finch said. “He set up the hoses to try and flood the streets. Or even just wet them, I suppose is all it would take. But the powerlines? How does a kid do that? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Finch stepped closer to one fallen just inside the scene. She looked at the poles and saw split wood near one’s base. The other, near its center. At the end of the road, one was still intact, with only the cords missing.

  Strode couldn’t explain the golden eyes he saw with Teddy. Nor could he remember if those were an illusion or reality. It could’ve been a fear-created manifestation—something his mind conjured as the realization of what Teddy Blackwood had become sank in.

  For now, Strode only nodded, as though Finch were reviewing the facts rather than working with him to piece them together.

  Finch was forgetting one other thing. The pain in Strode’s throat and the ache in his head reminded him.

  But just as he thought it, Finch said it, “How could he do this with a gunshot wound?”

  Strode nodded, thinking again of the golden eyes. It had to be some kind of source. He had been down and out with an injury to his head and throat, but Finch had shot Teddy in the shoulder. He imagined the kid would need immediate attention, hell, emergency surgery.