Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  Next to him on his left, Andy Phillips tapped him lightly on the arm and pointed towards Mark Howell. “Hey. Tony, there he is,” Andy whispered urgently. “We gonna take him or what?”

  Tony closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to remember that Andy was a little slow and that he should have patience with him. The fact that Andy was also five inches taller and over forty pounds heavier than he was made the job much easier.

  Tony glared at his best friend and whispered back urgently. “No shit, Andy. Now shut the fuck up, before he hears you.” Snickers from the rest of the merry little band filled the air behind him. Most of them were assholes, but a town the size of Summitville didn’t permit you to be too picky when it came to your friends. Jerry Sanders and Rob Blake, like Pete, Tony and Andy, were riding high on whatever the hell it was Patrick Wilson, Summitville’s only connection to the world of chemical fun and games, sold them this time. Pete Larson was the worst of the lot, he was giggling quietly and it looked like he was in pain. Any second now, he was going to start laughing out loud unless Tony did something.

  Tony looked over at the new kid. He’d almost made it to the woods. “You shouldn’t have gotten me in trouble, fuck-nuts, now I’m going to hurt you.” By hurt, Tony meant he was going to blacken both eyes and maybe bruise a few ribs, nothing permanent. Tony was a bastard, even by his own standards, but he wasn’t really a vicious bastard. Pete was a vicious bastard, maybe even Jerry, but not Tony. The others were starting to do just what Tony had feared; they were starting to laugh instead of giggle. Tony rolled his eyes towards the Heavens and prayed for patience. Then the chemical stupor hit him as well and he started snickering too.

  In the distance, maybe fifty yards away now, the new kid looked over towards the laughter and his eyes grew wide in his fat face. Just looking at the kid made Tony angry, he had a pretty-boy face and Tony wanted to smash it into the ground. In the back of his mind he heard his own voice warning him not to cause the kid any real harm, a throwback to his days in the private Catholic School his dad forced him to attend in the elementary school years. The voice simply made him angrier than ever, everything was making him angrier right now and he couldn’t help wondering if the drugs were responsible. He hoped so, because then he’d have an excuse he could live with. Suddenly he wanted to do a great deal more than just hurt the fat kid; he wanted to kill him. He wanted to cream the fat fuck into the ground and make him bleed and scream. He wanted to destroy the little prick. The rage filling Tony was apparently contagious, because he could hear the others starting to growl deep in their throats as the butterball made it into the woods.

  “Get him!” the words were barely audible, hidden in a throaty snarl that jolted Tony and his friends into action. In the distance, Mark Howell ran even faster, faster than Tony would have thought possible. And that too made Tony angrier. The pack took off like all the demons of Hell were right on their asses, with Tony leading the way. A feral grin spread across his face, showing bared teeth and red gums as he covered the grassy hillocks in leaps and bounds.

  He could hear the sound of the fat boy’s wheezing, gasping breaths within a matter of seconds. He could hear the tub o’ lard’s whining little noises as he closed in. Behind him one of the others started to howl like a wolf on the hunt; Tony liked the sound so much he joined in.

  With a whoop of savage joy, Pete passed him on the right, heading for the jiggling backside of the new kid. As Pete prepared to land on the squealing little piglet, Tony heard a new sound among all the others. It was a sound that he would have never expected from the woods: the sound of laughter and applause as if someone, or a group of someones, was watching a truly fabulous show and it was just getting to the good part. For just a second, he almost stopped what he was doing. Then Pete took fatso down hard, hard enough to draw blood. The sight of the crimson stain on the rock took all self-control from Tony. The beating began in earnest. Somewhere, deep in the back of his head, the rational and caring part of Tony Scarrabelli closed its eyes and covered its ears. Some things are best not remembered. By tomorrow, he wouldn’t even remember the incident at all. Later, he would wish that it had been the drugs. Later, he’d have reason to.

  3

  The day was bright, the air was cold and crisp and, in the autumn woods, Mark Howell was running for dear life. Tony Scarrabelli and Pete Larson ran after Mark Howell with blood in their eyes. Again. For some reason that was just the fate of the perpetual new kid in Summitville.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that Tony and Pete were gaining on him; not rapidly, but they were gaining just the same. Tony and Pete; where were the others? The thought made him run all the faster, what if the others were waiting somewhere, ready to pounce? Two to one was bad enough, but if Jerry Sanders, Rob Blake and Andy Phillips joined in, he would be a dead man for certain. That was the thought running through his mind when Pete crashed into him. For the second time that day, he fell to the ground, his hands, neck and face catching the brunt of the fall. The mulchy autumn leaves covering the forest’s floor slid freely away, revealing the rocks and burrs waiting eagerly to sink into Mark’s flesh. Certainly, not all of the rocks connected, but it sure as hell felt that way. Sharp pain ripped into his right cheek and then into his neck and chest, as he slid to a stop with Pete riding his back as if he were a sled in the wintertime.

  Mark was too stunned to look up or try to fight as the fists started to fall. Around him the Aspen trees were silent, stark skeletons reaching for the sky and ignoring his pain. He simply lay still, feeling agony upon agony and counting the number of feet around him. Seven…Eight…Nine…Ten. Well, whaddaya know…the rest of the Asshole Patrol had shown up after all. The beating seemed to last forever, blast after blast of numbing pain tore through his entire body, before the shoes disappeared, one pair at a time. He was fairly certain that he heard names and words and he was guessed they were directed at him, but none of them made sense.

  For a minute or more, the world faded away, bringing memories of how the fight started:

  The fight started as Mark’s fights always started these days, with Tyler opening his mouth and Mark stepping in against his better judgment. The other boy just couldn’t help it; Tony practically begged to be verbally cut apart. Mark had learned only one solid lesson since his family had moved to Summitville: Stay away from Tony Scarrabelli. He had been in Summitville and at Charles S. Westphalen High School, for just over one month and on every day he attended, Tony, Pete and the rest of their little gang, started in on the fat jokes. Most of the time, he ignored them.

  Today, Tyler’s mouth opened wide and the battle of wits started in earnest. This time, it went a little too far. This time, Tony meant to hurt him. Not just a little, Tony meant to make him bleed.

  It was right after lunch, and Mark was talking excitedly with Tyler Wilson, possibly the only kid in the school with a worse reputation. Tyler was thin, not really skinny, with coke bottle glasses that made him look down right owlish. But that wasn’t what made Tyler’s life miserable, even with the thick glasses he could almost be called handsome in an impish way. No, Tyler suffered from a near terminal case of Foot-in-Mouth disease. His tongue was simply too sharp and his mental reflexes too quick, for him to have a great life expectancy. So, naturally, when Tony and four of his friends stepped in front of Mark, Tyler immediately prepared for battle.

  And just as naturally, Tony was less than prepared. Tony stepped directly into Mark’s path, crossing arms just slightly thinner than Arnold Schwartzenegger’s and grinned good-naturedly “Hey, fag-boy, I mean fat-boy, what’s new?” he asked with enthusiasm.

  Mark shifted on his feet, prepared to walk around the bully, but Tony was having none of it. Neither was Tyler. With the eagerness of a prizefighter, Tyler started with the verbal assault. “Gee, Tony, it’s so good to see you again. Is it true you finally learned to breathe with your mouth closed?” Tony responded with silence, and a puzzled expression. “I mean, seeing you always makes me realize that D
arwin was right on the ball.” Seeing Tony’s perplexed look, Tyler moved in for the killing stroke. “Y’know, Darwin. No? Well, he’s the guy who figured men evolved from apes like you.”

  Mark could have almost laughed at the amount of time it took Tony to realize he’d been insulted. Almost. When understanding sank through his, no doubt, chemically induced stupor, Tony lashed out with truly phenomenal speed and started lifting Tyler off of the ground by his hair. Even realizing that Tyler barely passed the one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound mark on weight, it was an impressive sight. Tyler immediately started out with a high pitched keening sound as he was lifted off his feet. His perpetual grin was gone, replaced by a pained baring of his even white teeth. Tony was grinning, though. Tyler had just given him another excuse to impress all of his friends with a show of his physical prowess. Oh my, how Tony was grinning and so were all of his buddies.

  Mark looked at the smaller, paler, version of The Incredible Hulk, standing before him, holding the only person he could call a friend in the entire damned school by his hair and laughing, and something inside snapped. Were Mark a stronger or more violent person, he would have used his fists, something Tony could have understood. But Mark, like Tyler, was more experienced with his brain than his brawn. Before he could stop himself, he opened his mouth. “Posing for your fag boyfriends, Tony?” he asked, horrified by what he had just said and simultaneously exhilarated by the thought of another good staring match.

  But, when Tony turned his tanned, dark-haired head towards him, the excitement was replaced by cold, hard, terror. It seemed to take forever for Tony’s columnar neck to finish turning. And, after that slow neck-crank finished, time stopped. Dark, fearsome eyes narrowed and Tony smiled again, viciously. “What,” Tony started with a frighteningly-sweet voice, “the fuck did you just say?” Tony dropped Tyler to the ground, turning the rest of his powerful frame to face Mark. The hideous grin grew larger and more imposing. His grin promised whole new worlds of pain just for Mark. “Did you just call me a fag?”

  Inwardly mortified, Mark smiled too, in an effort to match the feral expression on Tony’s face. He knew that he couldn’t hope to make amends; he knew that one more word would seal his fate, but his mouth didn’t seem to care. Even Tyler—the mouth that roared—was shaking his head at Mark, silently begging him to stop before it was too late. Mark already understood that there was no stopping now. “No, I called your friends fags. Calling you a fag would assume that you’re human and male. I figure they keep you around to scare off any women who might want to get near them.”

  His mind reeled in abject horror as Mark realized that he had brought in the whole herd of Tony’s friends. He knew he couldn’t take Tony, but at least if it was only one guy, he could HURT that guy, before he went down. Looking around at the five Neanderthals before him, his mind went into automatic over-drive. With no connection to his body’s actions, he watched his left fist swing hard and connect with deadly precision, against Tony’s granite jaw.

  Tony’s head snapped around and the impact ran all the way up to Mark’s elbow. His mind howled victoriously, even as Tony was turning towards him, with honest shock in his eyes. Then his traitorous mouth spewed out words, even as the shock in Tony’s eyes was replaced by a seething rage. He sneered at Tony and spat out, “Why don’t you try that shit with someone your own size, Scarrabelli? Only pussies take on kids fifty pounds lighter.”

  Somebody yelled “Fight!” at the top of their lungs and Mark turned, realizing they had drawn a crowd. Along with this realization, came the knowledge that he had just turned his back on the biggest, meanest sub-human he had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Tony took full advantage of the fact and drove his fist directly into the back of Mark’s head.

  Mark’s whole world exploded with light as he staggered forward. If Mark had been anywhere but in the hallway known school wide as the skating rink, he might have managed to stay on his feet. These were the floors that Otis the janitor waxed to a glassy sheen every day and even after three periods the floors were as smooth and slippery as ice. He flailed his arms, frantically, as he fell to the floor. The linoleum was filthy and tasted like a thousand tennis shoes. He barely had time to notice the flavor before Tony landed on his back. The air erupted from his lungs and he felt his body flare with a desperate hunger for oxygen as Tony struck him in the head again. He supposed he would have been beaten to death then and there if it hadn’t been for Coach Malloy. Andrew Malloy stood just over five foot eight and seemed to be just as wide, but from Mark’s point of view, he was a towering god. Even as he turned his head and torso, fully prepared for another sledge-hammer to smash into his skull, he saw Tony’s hand stopped on its descent by the blocking hand of his savior. Tony looked up, perplexed by the interference, as Malloy hauled him off his victim.

  Tony hit the wall with enough force to stun him and Malloy grabbed a fistful of his jacket, in a hand slightly too large for the rest of his body. The next few minutes were a blur, he didn’t really remember being hauled down to the principal’s office and he didn’t really remember the acid stares of his adversary, but his mind made up reasonable facsimiles. He remembered the principal’s look of astonishment, as he told his side of the story and he remembered Tony’s smile of satisfaction, when the overweight man informed them that they both had two weeks of detention. Detention meant walking home every day. Alone. With only Tony to keep him company. The thought sent tiny tremors through his body, similar to the ones just before the real beating began, but much smaller. After all, then it was only a possibility. Now, it was a past event.

  It was almost an hour later, with his clothes torn and dirtied, his skin scraped and bloodied, that he finally stood up. He staggered home, reaching that special destination some twenty minutes later. He noticed the stunned stupid look on his mother’s face as he walked in, remembering to wipe his feet off, a big point of pride that. And then he kissed linoleum, in the kitchen this time. It tasted like Pledge and dust balls.

  4

  It went better than he had expected. Although she was obviously horrified by his condition, his mother explained that she under-stood about him defending his friend and even though she didn’t say it, he got the impression that she was even a little proud of him. His Stepfather, Joe (never Dad), even treated him decently, a rarity indeed, he normally looked at his son with barely hidden contempt. Or at least, it seemed that way. No parent ever seemed to understand their child’s thoughts and the opposite was certainly true. He suspected it was worse when the kid was fat, plain and not your own. Joe was a good friend of Principal Samuel Watkins—that friendship being one of the reasons for moving to Summitville—and a brief phone call ended the detention. Hell, the man even apologized to Mark, an act that had never before occurred in the history of Westphalen High.

  Right after that, a trip to the Summitville Emergency Clinic was necessary. After a thirty-minute wait, through which Joe grumbled continuously, seventeen stitches were placed in his face. Mark still didn’t understand the logic of calling old man Watkins before the trip to the clinic, but he wasn’t about to make waves. He may be stupid upon occasion, but why ask for another argument?

  He slept the rest of the day and most of the night. When he woke up it was six-thirty. It just wasn’t worth the effort to try to get back to sleep. Instead, he tried to prepare himself for the hellish day at school, fully prepared for more humiliation. He winced at the thought and immediately regretted it, the damn stitches HURT. With a sigh, he settled in and painstakingly placed his contact lenses to his eyes. He told himself the tears were only there because his eyes were sensitive. He almost believed it, too.

  He’d been outside for forty-five minutes when the school bus arrived. He couldn’t hold back a rueful grin when Tyler looked at his face. “Shit, Howie, what the hell happened to you?” Tyler looked positively sick. “Cut yourself shaving with a pickax?”

  Sitting down beside him, Mark looked over and shook his head. “No, that prick, Scarrabelli
and his good buddies, decided to thank me for yesterday. I’m bound to impress the girls now, huh?” He spoke in a whisper; Tony Scarrabelli had too many friends for him to speak loudly. Not that he really had to worry. They were just leaving the third stop on the bus’s trip to school and the two other passengers, both being females, had little that they would talk to Scarrabelli about. They weren’t the types of girl he’d bother with; they weren’t good looking enough for the bastard to even consider.

  As Mark closed his eyes for a moment, Tyler looked at him with a great deal of regret and more than a small amount of admiration. The last thing he’d wanted was for Mark to pay the price when he opened his damned mouth again. In reflection, he realized that Mark was simply too damn nice for his own good.

  If Mark wasn’t so damned shy, he’d likely have a girlfriend by now. Mark wasn’t like Tyler, Mark looked human. Oh sure, he was a little pudgy, but only a little. Anyone with half a brain would realize that nature had been more than generous to Mark when it came to natural muscle-tone. That easily explained why Tony and his butt-buddies chose to tackle him en masse. None of them was quite brave enough to try it on their own.

  Tyler looked over at Mark’s pale face and studied the line of stitches that ran glaringly, across its surface. Ouch. That had to have hurt. That was another thing about Mark, he very seldom complained about anything, but he was always more than willing to listen to Tyler’s bitching about life in general. Tyler had him pretty well pegged. He was willing to give it five years, before Mark climbed into a bell tower and started shooting. He snorted to himself, appalled by his own cynicism.