365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  And those Crazies who were the most ripped, seemed to wear the least amount of clothing; jeans hung low on their hips, with only a small bone breastplate across their chest, or maybe just a single gold armlet around their biceps.

  There appeared to be no limitations on body decoration, however.

  A lot of the guys wore bones and not just in their breastplates; some had piercings through their chins or along the bridges of their noses, while others wore small bones sticking out of their earlobes. It even appeared that a few of them had—somehow—threaded the tiniest of bones underneath their skin.

  One older kid sitting quietly by himself had what actually seemed to be two finger bones buried along the top of his skull. The end of the bones—the knuckles—poked out of puckering skin, just above his forehead.

  Devil horns.

  It seemed that a lot of the Crazies also took great pride in their hair; some of the styles would have required hours to achieve. Many of the guys had braided feathers and ribbons into their mohawks or plaits. One enterprising kid had even managed to attach a variety of small cars to the five braids that were sticking out all over his head. Another Crazy had the same hairstyle—how embarrassing—except that he was using silver bells as his decorations.

  And—of course—there were the ever-present tattoos.

  As I looked around the stands—using the tattoos as my guideposts—I was able to pick out many of the ‘divisions’ in the tribe.

  Up in the far right corner of the bleachers, there were three Lightning Bolts, while down near the front sat five young guys—none of them more than 12-years old—with black circles tattooed around their eyes, making them look like raccoons.

  The most interesting to me, however, was a group of eight Crazies seated near the stairs. They were all around eighteen or nineteen and they had crosses tattooed onto the right side of their neck. They were quieter than the other guys around them, and I wondered if they were Christians—bravely displaying their faith in direct contradiction to the marks of pure evil all around them.

  I sincerely hoped so.

  * * * *

  There were also quite a few sheeted-girls seated throughout the manic crowd, all of them chained around the neck, attached to a half-naked Crazy sitting next to them. Without exception, the girls stayed silent, unmoving—as if by remaining inert, they would also remain unnoticed.

  One thing I hadn’t expected to see, however, was how many young boys also had chains around their necks; they didn’t wear sheets like the girls, but they were definitely slaves.

  And not one of them appeared to be over ten years of age.

  It broke my heart.

  What gave me a little hope, however, was that a number of the slaves—both boys and girls—were openly wearing cross-necklaces, which meant that they and their owners had to be Stars!

  * * * *

  All told—as I scanned the bleachers—I saw five Star couples, slaves and owners. Quickly, I did a count in my head—adding up my allies.

  Ten people in the stands.

  Plus the Hawaiian and his brother…and didn’t Kimo say he had five others on our side?

  Twenty-one to do battle, then.

  Also, there were the Stars that Alice promised were out there—twenty ‘others’.

  Which would make forty-one fighters.

  And I hadn’t even included the Stars we had met at the safehouse over the time I was there; I’ll add another fifty fighters for that.

  That would add up to maybe 90-95.

  Lastly—Erroll, Nate, and me.

  So, just under 100 potential soldiers to begin a revolution…against 500+ Crazies!

  Easy-peasy, right?

  * * * *

  Speaking of Erroll—he was seated dead center in the stands, in the first row of the bleachers. When he saw us coming up the stairs, he stood immediately and waved. There were Crazies seated on either side of him, so I wondered where he intended for us to sit. The answer became immediately clear when—as we made our way through the crowd toward him—the two Crazies on Erroll’s right stood up and walked off, effectively assigning Nate and me their seats.

  Obviously, the seat holders had been two of Alice’s people—Stars.

  With my legs already beginning to shake from nerves, I was more than grateful to finally sit down, taking my place between Nate and Erroll. For a moment, I was worried about the four big guys seated directly behind us, but—when I chanced looking behind—all four Crazies stretched out their right hands, allowing me to see the small stars tattooed between their fingers.

  If only for the moment—I was apparently surrounded by allies.

  Which meant that I could relax…somewhat.

  * * * *

  Like Chumash Park, all of the green—both real and artificial—had disappeared from the football field; it was just dirt now, covered in footprints—dusty and ugly. I was distressed to see that the cage was still where I’d seen it last, right in the middle of the field.

  However, this time—instead of my friends—the inmates were three skinny guys huddled against the far bars.

  My heart immediately went out to those three boys. I knew exactly what it felt like to be in that cage—shivering against the cold, roasting in the heat, listening to the roar of the blood-thirsty crowd…waiting for the moment of my execution.

  “Oh, damn!” Nate exclaimed, suddenly.

  Erroll and I both turned quickly to see what had caught Nate’s attention.

  Down at the far end of the field, a large cook station was in full operation. Two enormous pots hung over fires, while at a large table nearby, four kids in their mid-teens were hacking away at large slabs of meat. Even as I watched, a fat Asian kid in a ridiculously tall chef’s hat, carried a platter of the meat over to one of the pots and dumped it in.

  “Smells like barbeque,” said Erroll—his belly actually growling loud enough that I could hear. “Or maybe beef stew.”

  There was no response from Nate, however; his attention had suspiciously shifted to something at his feet.

  “Nate?” Erroll nudged him slightly. “Dude?”

  “Sometimes it’s better not to know,” Nate advised us in a quiet voice—still not looking up.

  It took only a moment for Erroll to get it.

  “No way!” He spun around in his seat, leaning forward to get a better look at the end of the field, where the kid in the chef’s hat was now hacking away at a leg of meat.

  A human leg.

  “Ohmigod!” whispered Erroll, horrified. “Like this is totally insane!”

  * * * *

  Without a doubt—there was insanity at Agoura High that day.

  Over the last few weeks, ever since I had come up with ‘my plan’, I had tried so hard to convince myself that I was doing the right thing by challenging Brandon in the Arena.

  The only right thing.

  But sitting in those stands at my old high school—with ‘insanity’ raging all around me, I finally had to admit to what a complete and utter fool I was being.

  How could I possibly have thought that I could…a) defeat Brandon in battle and b) lead these hooting, mohawked, sometime-cannibals back to civility?

  Definite insanity…completely crazy.

  And—ironically—the biggest Crazy in all of it, I had finally come to realize—was me!

  * * * *

  “Jacob, Jay, Jude, Lily, Cherry, Shawnee, Peyton…”

  “What are you mumbling?”

  It took a moment before I understood that Erroll was talking to me. I hadn’t realized that my chanting had become audible.

  “Nothing,” I answered, quickly. “Just humming.”

  He didn’t believe me, however; neither did Nate.

  They both reached out—almost at the same time—taking one of my hands in theirs. I was embarrassed at their touch, because I knew that my palms were cold and clammy—evidence of the rising terror that I was trying so desperately to hide. If Nate and Erroll noticed, however, they didn’t
mention it—allowing me some small semblance of false dignity.

  Feeling slightly calmed by their kindness, I returned to my chanting—only this time, I did it silently. “Jacob, Jay, Jude, Lily, Cherry, Shawnee, Peyton…”

  One-after-another, I named every person I cared about, and when I reached the end of my list—I started all over again.

  Because these were the people who gave me strength.

  And when I went into battle, I was determined that they would fight alongside me—if only in name.

  “Jacob, Jay, Jude, Lily, Cherry, Shawnee, Peyton…”

  * * * *

  The White Shirts came first, marching out of the gate next to the bleachers on the opposite side of the football field. Seated in those stands were the upper echelon-Crazies—the ones most trusted by Brandon and the Foxes. They burst into enthusiastic applause as the White Shirts moved past.

  There were twenty of the psychos, marching into the Arena in two lines—giant machetes clutched in their right fists. Instead of heading onto the actual field, however, they turned to their left, marching along the running track.

  As they did, the White Shirts made a huffing sound—slamming the handle of their machetes against their right legs with each huff, as if accentuating their exhalations.

  Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!

  The Crazies in the bleachers on both sides of the field began to yell their approval. Many of the guys on our side even took up the huffing, screaming it loudly—defiantly.

  Huff! Huff! Huff! HUFF!

  I realized suddenly that it wasn’t just my own palms that were sweaty anymore; Nate and Erroll’s were both feeling increasingly moist. And when I turned and looked at them, there was naked fear on both of their faces.

  “This is going to work,” I promised, squeezing their hands. “I know it.”

  Erroll’s face immediately went blank, as he got his emotions under control. Nate was a little slower, but even he eventually managed to give me a weak smile.

  Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!

  Curving around the far end of the track, the White Shirts started back toward our side of the field. In the stands behind me, the cheers grew even louder. I turned around to look and saw guys jumping up and down, dancing on the risers, shoving their fists high into the air.

  Except...

  Small groups of Crazies here and there remained in their seats. They weren’t raising their fists or huffing or dancing around. If anything, these Crazies seemed unhappy—even disgusted by what they were seeing.

  Intrigued, I began a different count—my eyes traveling across the bleachers once more.

  There…Two African-Americans, up near the back of the stands; their arms were crossed, their faces grim.

  To the left, near the exit…Three older teens, black tattoo-bars across their eyes. Could those boys’ tattoos be their way of expressing solidarity with the Locals? Was it possible that they could even be Locals?!

  Four rows behind me…Five silent Asian kids—all older—with one younger white boy sitting among them. Were those butterfly knives I just saw being surreptitiously passed between their hands?

  And right down in front…Eight big guys—the Crazies with the crosses on their necks. Their anger and resentment was so strong, it was almost visible.

  Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!

  As the White Shirts came steadily closer, I continued my inspection of the bleachers—two possibles here, another six there, with four more right behind them.

  Etc., etc., etc.

  The numbers of the ‘discontented’ were rising steadily.

  * * * *

  I stopped counting in my head when I reached the slave seated next to Ryan. From the curve of the belly under the slave’s sheet, I knew that the hidden girl had to be Reena. She and Ryan were sitting far up in the bleachers, in the second-to-last row, directly behind two large cheering Crazies.

  Even from my location, I could see that Reena was wearing her cross-necklace. It dangled from her neck, dark against the white of her sheet.

  And that made me very angry.

  Because—how dare Ryan put his pregnant wife into such a dangerous situation!

  But then I felt a sudden twitch in my mid-section and my hypocrisy hit me full force. Shame shot through my body and I had to turn around and face forward—feeling sick.

  How dare Ryan...how dare I!

  Because the truth was—I was a pregnant wife, too.

  Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!

  The White Shirts had finally reached our bleachers.

  They quickly fanned out, spacing themselves evenly along the running track in front of us—at attention—facing the field. All through the stands, meanwhile, the Crazies began to quiet down, returning to their seats—waiting.

  Staring at the muscled backs of all those White Shirts in front of us, their deadly machetes dangling from their hands, I began to silently chant once more. “Jacob, Jay, Jude, Lily, Cherry, Shawnee, Peyton…”

  * * * *

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  This time it was seven drummers who had come out from the gate opposite us. They were now making their way around the track—big guys, with large bass drums hanging down from their shoulders. No doubt the instruments had been appropriated from the high school music department. The drummers were all wearing the same outfits—black jeans, boots, and a long bone breastplate that, somehow, also connected to their drums.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Throughout the bleachers—on our side of the field and the ones opposite—Crazies began to once again stomp their feet.

  BoomBoom! BoomBoom!

  The beat picked up speed as the seven big drummers turned at the end of the field and began marching down the track toward us. Mirroring booms! echoed from the Crazies in the stands, speeding up to match the drummers’ rhythm. Meanwhile other Crazies began to huff!—a dedicated counter-beat that fit precisely between each hit of the drum.

  BoomHuff! BoomHuff! BoomHuff!

  I felt Erroll’s hand squeeze mine gently.

  When I turned to look at him, his face was full of worry. He leaned over and spoke just loud enough, so that only I could hear.

  “You don’t have to do this, Kaylee. Please, don’t…please, let me do it instead.”

  BoomHuff! BoomHuff! BoomHuff!

  Directly in front of us, the drummers made a right turn—heading across the football field. Dust spun and whirled with their passing, small eddies that rose to the drummers’ knees, then dissipated into nothingness.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Erroll, squeezing his hand back. “But this is my responsibility.”

  In the middle of the football field, just past the cage with its three unfortunate occupants, the drummers finally came to a halt.

  They continued playing, however, their beat becoming faster and faster.

  BoomBoomBoomBoom! BoomBoomBoomBoom!

  “But it’s not,” Erroll insisted, his voice becoming louder—so as to be heard over the rising huffs and booms. “It’s not your responsibility at all! You’re not the one who did all of this.” He motioned to the chaos around us. “And you’re not the one who needs to fix it. I’m sorry, Kaylee, but you’re just a girl—not an indestructible warrior, not a fallen angel…just a girl!”

  BoomBoomBoom…BOOM!

  The thunderous beat ended suddenly, the drummers lowering their heads.

  In the stands, the Crazies went silent—waiting.

  Erroll squeezed my hand again, trying to get my attention.

  But—I ignored him.

  * * * *

  The cheers began on the other side of the field; the Crazies in the stands there rose to their feet and began clapping and yelling. A moment later, the guys on our side stood as well—their voices adding to the growing racket.

  Meanwhile, a single drummer walked out to join the group of seven in the center of the football field. Instead of a bass drum, however, he was carrying a lighter snare. He began to play—an increasing drum roll obviously announc
ing that something momentous was about to happen.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…

  Beside me, Erroll and Nate stood with the rest of the crowd, pulling me up in the process. All three of us clapped along with everyone else, trying to match our beat to that of the drummer’s.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…

  A handful of Crazies a few rows back began to jump up and down on their risers. It made the whole stand shake and I reached out and placed a hand on Nate’s arm to steady myself.

  He looked over at me, concerned. “You okay?” he mouthed.

  I shrugged my shoulders—hoping that he would catch the movement under my sheet and not ask me any more questions.

  Because—truthfully—I was scared.

  No…more than scared…I was terrified!

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…

  I mean—what the heck had I really been thinking coming here?

  Was this hubris—false pride?

  Did I truly think that I was some kind of unstoppable warrior—a vengeful angel coming to the rescue of the innocent—that I could possibly save these screaming, stomping Crazies from Brandon and the Foxes?

  My eyes flitted nervously around the Arena—then up onto the hills looming over the high school, searching out the giant ‘A’, the bushes, the trees—peering at each of them closely. With a start, I realized that what I was really looking for was Jacob…or Shawnee…or any of the Locals.

  I was looking for anybody who loved and cared about me...and who could save me.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…

  But—there was no one.

  * * * *

  I am ashamed to say that I began to cry—secret tears of fear and humiliation.