by Rob Horner
And each hand was cradling one of those demon-statue action figures against his sides.
Calmly, as though they were the most fragile and priceless things in the world, he sat one of the statues on Michelle's desk, and another on Shawn's. While those two students ooh'd and aah'd over the ugly things, and while every other kid leaned in their direction to get a better look, Mr. Cland returned to the lockers and withdrew two more.
There were only six of us in the class, so it took less than a minute before everyone, including me, had one of the grotesque things sitting in front of them. Mr. Cland returned to the front of the room and took his seat. It was then I noticed something about him which killed any hope he was still normal, and the sudden grief this brought on was as sharp as a scalpel.
Mr. Cland had been an avid runner when he was younger and was one of the coaches of the Cross-Country team until just a year ago. He was the one who talked me into joining after my transfer here. Sometime over the previous summer, he'd suffered a horizontal cleavage tear of the meniscus of his right knee, causing a meniscal cyst. The surgical correction wasn't complicated, but knees take time to heal. Ever since the injury, even after the surgery, Mr. Cland walked with a pronounced limp, and up until this past Christmas, had needed a cane to walk at all.
He wasn't limping this morning.
"Now, I want all of you to please look at the statue in front of you," he began, and everyone but me complied.
"Study it," he said. "Notice its craftsmanship, the attention to detail."
"What is it?" Shawn asked. "Is it some form of German art?"
"No wonder they keep losing wars," Mike whispered from my right.
"You'll see," Mr. Cland answered. Then he added, "In no time at all, you'll understand."
There were a thousand things I wanted to say, perhaps a hundred which should be said, and one or two that needed to be shouted. But I was struck silent by fear and shock. How could he do this to us? Didn't he know what would happen?
Of course, he did. He was one of them now.
"Look at its eyes."
I jumped out of my seat, sending my desk sliding several inches forward, causing the demon statue to wobble precariously before settling back on its base. It couldn't just be me, not just this class. In all the classes in the school right then, mine had to have the fewest students. Wasn't it likely this was going on in every classroom all over the school? That meant the Dave-incident wasn't an outlier. It was a precursor!
Crystal!
"Mr. Wilson," Mr. Cland said, "what are you doing?"
"Don't look at them!" I shouted even as I headed for the door.
Mr. Cland moved the block the way, but I got there first, using the doorframe as a fulcrum to swing myself out into the halls, accelerating into a lurching run that was as fast as my ankle would allow.
Behind me, damning me for leaving, came the first soft sounds of the statues expelling their evil smoke.
Bayside High School was shaped like a huge, angular U when seen from the front of the building. When viewing it from the parking lot, it resembled a lower-case N. My German class was on the left arm of the N, and Crystal's Chemistry class was over on the right. Instead of running the length of the left wing, down the center hall, and then back up the right wing, I headed outside, running (hobbling) across the courtyard, where there was also a much smaller chance of running across any teachers.
I almost slipped coming into the right-hand wing, turning too fast. My left ankle gave a painful twinge, a warning that it wouldn't tolerate much more stress, but it held, and I managed to stay on my feet, rushing up to the door to Crystal's classroom.
Looking through the narrow glass pane in the door was like looking into a scene out of some Communist's wet dream. The students all sat quietly, little angels awaiting indoctrination. Their hands weren't folded demurely on the desktops, but that was the only detail missing from the otherwise perfect picture of 1950s student behavior. The statues had already been passed out and Mrs. Rogers, a sweet, old lady who'd been another of the "good" teachers, was just beginning to talk to them, telling them to examine closely the things sitting on their desks.
The door was unlocked. I burst into the room, hell-bent on grabbing Crystal and getting her out of there before anything could happen. Mrs. Rogers screamed at me to get out of her class, and the spectacle no doubt drew the attention of some of the students away from the monstrosities on their desks. For that, I was glad. It probably didn't save them, but it gave them a chance to see what would happen, and maybe get away. The others were far too interested in examining the statues to be distracted by our little drama.
"Crystal!" I yelled, hoping it wasn't too late.
"Johnny?" She looked up at me, confusion and fear on her face. Her gaze went back to the statue, her features displaying a look of disgust.
"Don't look at it!" I told her, threading my way through the last of the desks and finally reaching her side. "Come on, we've got to leave."
"Leave? Johnny? What're you talking about? We can't just..."
She never got to finish her statement. At that moment at least a dozen puffs of reddish-black, noxious smoke rose all around us. More followed only a few seconds later. Crystal's gaze shifted, looking around me, seeking the source of the strange noises. Her eyes widened in terror. She jumped out of her seat, toppling her desk, and the statue meant for her crashed to the floor. Unlike the one Jerry dropped in the bathroom, it didn't shatter. Of course, that one had already discharged its evil smoke before it fell.
Apparently, they weren't fragile until they were used.
Behind me came the first ripping-popping-gurgling sounds of transformation, and Crystal screamed, a sound so full of primal fear and hopelessness that it tore right into my heart, making me want to hold her, comfort her, and tell her everything would be all right.
Too bad we didn't have the luxury.
Resolutely, I turned around. Before me were at least a dozen demon-things, maybe even as many as twenty. Some of them were still in various stages of change, but the ones that had finished were beginning to eye me, judging me, determining me to be their enemy. Twelve or twenty, it didn't matter.
There were way too many for me to fight, regardless of my new superhero status.
Uncertain of my newfound abilities, unclear as to their limits or even their uses, I turned back to the wall separating the classroom from the outside of the building. The tennis courts were out there, visible through the large, tilt-in windows, though they were currently empty. The gym teacher was probably handing out his demon-statues in the locker rooms.
Hesitantly, fearing what would happen to us if my guess proved to be wrong, but having no other alternative, I squared off on the wall.
You're nothing, just a piece of cardboard, a thin barrier between my fist and the other side. You can't stop me, just as no other piece of cardboard could stop me.
Forgive me my intentional demeaning of the wall. I'm sure it was a good wall that had provided years of safety and security for the thousands of children who'd taken classes here, and I'd hate to think I caused any offense to this wall, or to any of the other walls who might read these words, or be told about them around some classroom-wall water cooler. These were the techniques we were taught before we attempted to break something in Tae Kwon Do. Picture something that can't stop you, and nothing would be able to.
Focusing on a spot on the wall, I pushed off with my right foot and launched a lunging punch at the metal frames separating the fold-in windows.
What happened next went beyond my expectations. The sudden flash of light came on cue--somewhere inside of me Mr. Observant jotted down the fact that it didn't just work on demons--and the whole section of wall, window enclosures included, flew outward, opening a hole more than large enough to allow Crystal and I to escape. The noise was tremendous, bricks and studs, siding and glass, exploding outward, debris scattering across the grass.
Stunned by the scope of the damage, but much too
scared to stop, I grabbed Crystal by her hand, thankful she was already standing because she was little more than a biddable puppet at the moment, and pulled her outside. She ran a little behind me and seemed to have lost her drive. She moved like she'd shut down inside, all her mental capacities in overload and the rest of her body running on autopilot. I could relate. She kept up despite that, following as I limp-sprinted around the outside of the wing, heading for the parking lot.
Behind us came the shrill cries and wails from my waking nightmare.
We reached my car and I hurriedly got the doors open, almost dropping my keys in the process. Seriously, why does something as simple and routine as using a car key to unlock a car door become almost impossible whenever you have to do it right now? I got her seated, gently pushing down on the top of her head so she wouldn't bump it on the doorframe, then hobbled around the front of the car to the driver's side.
Dropping behind the wheel I saw them, tearing around the side of the building we'd come from, racing towards us. Other doors were opening as well, apparently you got a Get Out of School pass for the rest of the day if you accepted demon-status. It was no longer a measurable number. This was a horde racing out of the school, multi-hued, weirdly jointed figures moving in a kind of loping run that ate distance at a crazy speed.
Savagely starting the car, I slammed down the clutch and jerked the gearshift into reverse. My left ankle was a bright fire, surging to nuclear levels every time I had to depress the clutch, but I couldn't let it stop me. Riding out the pain, I got the car pointed in the direction of Haygood Road, and slammed the gearshift into first, peeling rubber as we angled for the street. My traffic check was cursory, and I shifted up into second gear even as we made the left turn.
Behind us at least six other cars started moving, hot in pursuit.
The chase was on.
Chapter 7
I think we're alone now
To any casual observer, we must have appeared quite the convoy, so many cars leaving Bayside High School's parking lot at one time, some trailing rubber like twin oil slicks, others filling the air with clouds of blue exhaust. Horns blared behind us as the trailing vehicles raced out into the street, cutting across lanes of traffic.
For the record, we weren't worried about Global Warming back then. Weaknesses in the ozone layer and an over-reliance on aerosol cans full of chlorofluorocarbons were the current politicized science scares of the day. In fact, we had just gotten over the media-fueled Global Cooling scare of the 1970s. Google it.
We led the way in my Colt, chasing each gear, hoping to get through the stop light at Haygood and Aragona before it changed. Behind us came six cars, Chrissy Patascil's black Thunderbird the easiest to recognize, leading a pack of other less-exotic vehicles whose drivers probably didn't know me from Adam. There was a red Pontiac Grand Am, a blue Mustang, what looked like a gray Volvo, even another Dodge Colt, all changing lanes, vying for the best position in the chase, but forced to admit that second would be the best they could do. The Thunderbird was amazing.
But even with the pursuit fast closing on us, managing to resist the maddening impulse to tramp down on the accelerator and speed down the road was easy. This wasn't really a conscious decision, so don't heap any extra credit points on me. Look, Martha, even in a car chase, he's still socially responsible. This was a reflex born of long experience driving to and from school. The reason for this was Chip.
Chip was the nickname we, the motor-vehicle-equipped students of Bayside, had given to a motorcycle police officer, who stationed himself near this very same stoplight and who, from six a.m. until noon each weekday, stopped each and every driver he caught speeding or racing to beat the red light. To my knowledge, no one had gotten away from him. Once, I watched incredulously as he caught two separate vehicles at the same time--a couple of jocks trying to drag race their low-slung beaters--directing both to pull into the corner 7-11. The dude got mad respect from me.
So that's what held my anxious right foot in check, keeping me hovering at forty-six miles per hour. Thirty yards ahead of me the light turned yellow. I knew this light--I could count out the seconds between yellow and red--and knew that I'd make it through with enough of a margin to keep Chip from coming after me. None of the other cars were close enough to make the same claim, and all of them were going over the speed limit, rapidly catching up to me.
For the first time that day, one of my guesses proved correct. The light changed to red after I passed beneath it. And here came the others, barreling after me, not giving the slightest sign of slowing to check for crossing traffic. A split second after they were through the intersection, the wailing of Chip's siren split the air, and nothing had ever sounded so good, or so sweet.
I watched in my rear-view mirror as Chip raced up, passing all the following cars, making a "pull over" motion to every driver, apparently going for the world record, trying to stop all of them at once. He had his radio handset up to his mouth, probably calling in their license plate numbers between each wave. He didn't swerve or draw a weapon, nothing to make me think he saw anything other than normal human kids behind the wheel.
Who knows, maybe they had to be in human form to operate a car. Those weird joints might make driving impossible.
Amazingly, every vehicle slowed and eased to the right, pulling over. It was unbelievable, but a second glance in my mirror confirmed it. None of the others were behind us anymore.
We had escaped.
But Chip! Oh, God, what about Chip?
What would those things do to him once he went to collect their licenses? It made me feel guilty to think of it, and for a moment I debated turning around to help him, though there wouldn't be much I could offer. But then Crystal moaned, reminding me someone needed my help, needed me to keep her safe. It may sound wrong, even heartless, but a large part of me was more concerned with her than with an armed police officer who, hopefully, could find a way to take care of himself.
She moaned again. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, which was good, and her eyes were moving, roving around the interior of the car. When we'd left the classroom, newly transformed demons in hot pursuit, she'd been as white as a sheet, with an almost deadpan stare, a pretty doll completely checked out from the world around her.
Then she lurched forward in her seat, inhaled sharply, and screamed.
I didn't know what to think, except maybe it was a delayed reaction to what she'd seen. We certainly couldn't stop, not right there in the middle of the road. It was taking most of my willpower just to ignore the agony in my leg as the morning traffic kept me shifting gears. Not knowing if it would help, I reached out to her, taking her hand in mine. She flipped her hand over, palm up, gripping tight to mine, holding it like it might be her lifeline, her last link to sanity. Slowly, the fear faded from her eyes and she seemed to calm down. Her eyes closed and she took several deep breaths, composing herself.
A moment later she opened them again, blue eyes shining in the sunlight, and asked, "Where are we going?"
"I'm not sure," I answered. "Someplace away from the school. That's all I can think of right now."
She was silent for a moment, releasing my hand when I pulled gently, though she seemed reluctant to let it go. I shifted down to second gear, turned right onto Independence Boulevard, then coaxed the car back up to forty-five. I really didn't know where we were headed, though there was a vague idea forming deep in the gray matter.
"What..." she began, then stopped. She drew in a hissing breath, like sucking through clenched teeth, apparently still recovering from her shock. "What were those things back there?" She said it all in a rush, as though she wanted to hurry and get the question out before she lost the nerve to ask it.
"I'm not really sure," I replied, my eyes on the road. "I think they might be...well, I call them...uh...demons."
She was quiet again for a long moment, appearing to taste this answer, perhaps deciding if it agreed with her own perceptions. "What..." she tried to
start another question, but I stopped her.
"Not now. Try to relax right now. We'll talk about it when we stop." She nodded her agreement, the movement visible in my peripheral vision. When I turned my head, she conjured a smile for my benefit.
We followed Independence Boulevard past Virginia Beach Boulevard, and there was the mall from yesterday. It was where we met, where we had such a wonderful day together. Yet it was also where all this craziness started. There was a feeling of recognition as we drove past. It wasn't just that I knew the mall, as one who shopped there often would, but more like there was a feeling of residual evil, like whatever had happened there, in the now-deserted parking lot, had left a greasy film that still gave off dark vibes, which some part of me responded to.
Somehow those carnies and their strange ceremony had been the beginning of something big, life-changing, and completely beyond my understanding. Without understanding, there could be no real answers. The questions would continue to pile up, leading to speculation and conjecture. With no hard evidence, it would be easy to jump to a bad conclusion, or worse, to become so overwhelmed with fear and doubt that giving in would begin to seem reasonable.
We stayed on Independence Boulevard as it veered west, now heading towards Norfolk, though I didn't intend for us to go that far. At the next light we turned left onto Princess Anne Road. My hope was someplace quiet, away from people, might help us sort through our situation. Less than five minutes later we arrived at Princess Anne Park, a beautiful, sprawling example of modern landscaping and home to several of the Cross-Country track meets I'd participated in over the past two years. Technically, the park was closed at this hour of the morning on a school day in Spring, but the caretakers graciously left their gates open for all those healthy people who jogged, power-walked, or roller-bladed their way to better bodies.
The parking lot was almost deserted. Only two vehicles occupied the two spots closest to the park office, a dusty, late-model Ford sedan and a GMC utility truck. Avoiding both vehicles, we parked beneath the generous canopy of a large oak tree, several spots to the left of the sedan. Off to our right were the basketball and tennis courts, a necessary part of any athletic park. But they didn't detract from the inviting quality of the grounds, scattered as they were about the rolling, hilly picnicking areas and winding trails. Ahead of us and to our right were the baseball and softball fields, eight in all, and farther back, on the other side of the park, sat the rodeo corral and assorted stables and bleachers.