The Night Children

by Kit Reed

  Oh, he went back to school with a new wig, but it got harder and harder. Wherever he went, kids from his school, kids he didn’t know, even kids from other towns made fun of him. He was bitter, but he was tough. Then one day in sixth grade, Amos went to his locker.

  It looked the same but nothing was the same.

  Without explanation and without warning, he was alone in the hall. Where did everybody go? Better hurry, he thought. The Galts’ chauffeur will be mad. He yanked open the locker and a wasps’ nest fell out, smack! on his head. It was terrible. Thousands poured out, stinging him relentlessly. He whirled in the storm of stinging insects and fell. He lay there helpless on the polished linoleum. Somewhere inside Amos, there was a crack! It wasn’t his heart breaking. It was his brain.

  After he healed they transferred him to a special hospital. He stayed there for a long, long time.

  The Galt family paid wads of money to make Mama Zozz and Amos and all of their problems go away.

  Meanwhile, in the state hospital for the mentally deranged, where he stayed after the knots of pain all over his head and body went down enough so he could move again, Amos seethed.

  Children are animals. No, monsters. Children did this to him!

  When the ambulance came that day and they rolled Amos out of the schoolhouse, he heard them. Heartless children like heartless witches and warlocks, cackling. Amos Zozz rolled out of the schoolhouse flailing and helpless for the last time in his life. For the last time in his life, he heard them laughing at him.

  Well, he’ll show them.

  Brooding over his banks of monitors, tracking them through his MegaMall, Amos Zozz still hears their laughter. It won’t stop until he does what he has to, and gets what he wants. Revenge.

  And when he does, when he has them all trapped and begging for mercy, then it will be his turn to laugh.

  In the state mental hospital, waiting for his lumps to go down so he could pretend to smile and convince them he was cured, Amos made three vows.

  I will take control of my life and I will never lose it again.

  On the typewriter in the hospital dayroom, Amos made a list of instructions for his mother. He wrote all the letters, but Mama made the calls. The lawyer they hired thought he was working for Mama Zozz, not a twelve-year-old boy. They sued the Galts for damages and in the end, Amos took half of everything they had. He bought a little house where he lived with Mama Zozz until she died. The rest of the money, he banked. He taught himself about the stock market and began buying and selling stocks and bonds.

  He never went back to school.

  And his second vow? I will rule the world.

  He’s working on it! Over the years, the old man has watched his millions make more millions. He is worth several billion, billion dollars now.

  That leaves the third. The children will suffer for what they did to me. All children. I’ll make them pay.

  And soon, he thinks, watching Dingos scurrying like ants on one of his video screens. Alone in the empty room, the old man feels his pale, lumpy face ripping wide open. It is an unfamiliar sensation. The last time he felt it was when he read in the newspapers that the evil Galt twins had gone bankrupt.

  Now his raw face is ripping open that same way.

  Only his mother would know that Amos is smiling.

  He is close to carrying out his diabolical scheme.

  A voice comes crackling into the room, interrupting his reverie. The face of his chief of Security pops up on every screen. “There are children in the mall, Sir. Wild children.” He is angry and puffing. Rattling the doorknob outside the booth. “We almost caught one.”

  Amos has a choice here: put on one of the masks he wears to meet the public, or do what he does. “I told you never to bother me here.”

  “This is urgent. Let me in.”

  “If it’s that urgent, you can file a report. Now, go.”

  “But Sir! There are kids infesting the MegaMall.” The Security chief is outraged. “My men saw them. They’re running like rats in the galleries. Dozens of them.”

  “No,” Amos says. “Hundreds.”

  “Trashing and pillaging, we have to . . . What?”

  “No.” If he allowed anybody but family inside this office, the chief of Security would see Amos wringing his hands like a mantis studying its prey. “More.”

  “Sir!”

  He’s not sure how many, he only knows that feral children have filtered into several widely separated sectors of his MegaMall and he has been watching them. Oh, he’s been watching them. The place is so big that as far as he knows, none of them know who the others are. Well, he thinks, soon enough the whole world will know. “Maybe thousands.”

  “Sir, you’re not hearing me. The place is overrun by children. They’re running wild and we have to . . .”

  Coldly, Amos says, “I know.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing, until I give the word.”

  On the screen, his Security chief’s face is like a pink balloon getting bigger and bigger. “But,” he blusters. “But . . .”

  Tenting his fingers, Amos sits back. “Nothing.”

  His angry chief is too angry to recognize his tone. “But they’ll ruin everything! I can’t just let them . . .”

  The old man’s voice turns to steel as he says ominously, “Do as I say. Understand.” Amos pauses, weighting every word of the threat that follows like a lead sinker. “You wouldn’t be the first Security chief I’ve fired.”

  TEN

  MAG CRIES, “THEY ALMOST got us!”

  Loyal to the end, Tidgewell says, “It’s that guy Tick Stiles’s fault.”

  “Stiles and his stupid Crazies.” Barlow punches the wall.

  “I’ll get you. I. Will. Get. You,” Burt Arno spits, but he isn’t so sure.

  Around him, his ragtag Dingos repeat, “Get you. Yeah!” With their black headbands and stripes of black paint on their pale, pearly faces, Burt Arno’s tribe is a shabby, disgruntled mess.

  Shaken by their brush with Security, the Dingos have regrouped at their hideout in an abandoned back alley that connects the Romanesque Sector to the amusement plaza. One minute they were on the march with their captive in tow and the next, they had guards thundering down on them. All right, they were squealing like scared pigs when they scattered and fled. Embarrassing? Yes. This is the worst.

  More than anything he can think of, getting embarrassed makes Burt Arno roaring, tearing mad. He is also confused. Frustrated, because he thought he had a plan.

  And the girl they caught in Dingo territory?

  Disappeared. Totally gone.

  There is no finding her now.

  “Rotten Crazies.” Burt spits out a string of threats. “I’m going to get you crummy . . .”

  His messy minions echo. “Crummy . . .”

  “. . . Scummy . . .”

  “Scummy . . .”

  “Stupid Castertown Crazies,” Burt explodes. “Bringing down Security on us Dingos,” he rages. “Well, curse you all.”

  Everybody goes, “Curse you all!”

  “I will hunt you down . . .”

  The Dingos mutter, “Hunt you down . . .”

  “And I will find you . . .”

  “Find you . . .” They are still panting from the chase. Two dozen rough boys and one tough redheaded girl squat in a grim little circle around their leader, waiting.

  After considerable thought Burt says, “And when I do . . .”

  “And when he does . . .” Warlike in shredded denim and studded jackets and T-shirts with the names of defunct rock bands picked out in glitter, the Dingos wait for Burt to complete the plan.

  Burt is beyond speech.

  The Dingos have never seen him madder. In spite of the chase and the humiliation, in spite of having to hide in the garbage behind the Grecian Food Court, holding their noses while Security tramped past, the Dingos have made it safely back to the lair. They are Burt Arno’s people. They have been hi
s people ever since they got in trouble at school back in Castertown and the Town Council put them away in the State Orphans’ Home.

  Burt’s not a bad guy, he just needs a good gang around him to make him feel strong. As long as he has the toughest gang in the territory, he’s OK.

  He collected this gang in the State Home, where he founded the Dingo Tribe. In the State Home, they ruled. Then Burt broke them out and brought them here to the MegaMall, and it all changed. He didn’t know how to get around. Stiles did, and Burt hates him for it.

  A kid with a gang to protect knows you have to get in good with the Man, whoever that is, right? In this place, it’s Amos Zozz. Nobody’s ever seen him but everybody’s afraid of him; Burt knows. And to get friends with the power, you bring them a present, right? Like, a great big Sacrifice. He had the idea that delivering that girl Jule to the Dark Hall would somehow get him in good with Amos Zozz, and when it did? Watch out, Tick Stiles.

  Burt’s new best friend Amos would drive out the Castertown Crazies, and Burt and his Dingos would rule the MegaMall.

  He’d . . .

  Well, look how that turned out.

  Instead of getting in good with the man in charge, he has crossed the powerful Amos Zozz. He can’t let on to the Dingos, but he’s scared. Burt is their main man, but right now, Burt is not exactly himself.

  He and his Dingos are holed up in the shell of an abandoned souvenir store, sitting in the nest of grimy quilts and rugs and stained bedding that passes for home. Burt has been silent for too long. The Dingos shift on their haunches, waiting for him to make the next threat.

  They’re getting anxious and Burt knows it. He blusters, “I. Will. Make. You. Pay.”

  Two dozen Dingos let out their breath at once. “How?”

  He spins, considering. When nothing comes, he blurts: “Revenge!”

  Only Kirk can get away with asking the next question. Burt’s second in command says, “OK, what kind of revenge?”

  “I just told you,” Burt says weakly. “Terrible revenge.” The truth is, he doesn’t know

  But the Dingos are staring. Burt, where did you just go in your head? He growls, “Revenge!”

  “Like . . .” Puzzled, Kirk repeats. “Like what?”

  “Don’t ask!” He can forget about Amos. That mess with Security just blew that plan away. It’s kids against grownups in this tremendous, scary place and right now Burt needs all the help he can get, just to survive. The rock-bottom truth is that Burt’s been hanging in here in the Romanesque Sector instead of moving on not because he wants to take over, but because he doesn’t know what to do. He needs Tick Stiles.

  Burt would never admit it but Tick’s smarter than he, and he can’t go far until he knows at least half of what Tick knows about getting around and staying safe. Burt Arno needs to get friends with the guy so he’ll help them, but he can’t let on. He has to keep his people together so he roars, “Horrible revenge!”

  Barlow and Tidgewell raise their fists, shouting like Burt, “Awful revenge!”

  Two dozen Dingos raise their fists. “Bloody revenge.”

  “Revenge,” redheaded Mag Sullivan bellows, louder than the rest. Mag, who lost their captive, thinks maybe if she yells loud enough, they’ll forget. She jogs Burt’s elbow. Like, she’s pushing him into something he isn’t ready to do. “Right, Burt?”

  Like—that, Burt wheels on her. Her best friend—no, her only friend here lashes out: “It’s all your fault!”

  “It wasn’t me, it . . .” It isn’t fair! One minute she had the prisoner, she did! Mag gripped that girl so hard that her fingers froze, with the right ones clamped on her shoulder and the left knotted in her hair. The next, she was empty-handed. The girl from town was gone and Mag was on the run.

  “You’re the one who let go!” Kirk jabs his finger into her. “Admit it. It was you.”

  Barlow and Tidgewell wheel, pointing at Mag. “You let her go.”

  “Burt, tell them it wasn’t my . . .”

  “It was so your fault,” Burt says, because he has to blame somebody for the mess they’re in. “Now you have to pay.”

  It is like a slap in the face.

  Kirk rakes her with a mean grin. “. . . have to pay.”

  Barlow and Tidgewell repeat on the same note, “. . . to pay.”

  “Pay,” the Dingos mutter, and the echo goes around the circle. “. . . pay.”

  The silence that follows is awful. They are all staring.

  “OK,” Mag says. “If you want to hit me or something, get it over with.”

  “After the sit-down,” Burt says.

  “But I don’t need a . . .”

  “Sit-down.” Barlow shoves her off balance.

  “I don’t want . . .”

  “Sit-down!” Tidgewell shoves from the other side.

  “Sit-down.” The surly group buzzes like a bunch of wasps.

  Mag’s heart goes thudding into her socks. “Please don’t. Let go!”

  Kirk wrestles her into the center of the circle. “Think fast, girl. What are you going to say?”

  When a Dingo messes up, Burt Arno calls a sit-down. It isn’t a trial, exactly, but it is. Whatever went wrong, that person gets exactly three sentences to explain. Then Burt calls for a vote and no matter what the facts are, his Dingos vote to kick that person out of the tribe. Mag doesn’t know what this means, exactly, as in, what happens to that person after Burt takes away the jacket and strips off the headband, but she knows it’s bad. Once a Dingo gets kicked out of the tribe, you never see that Dingo again.

  What am I going to say? she wonders, thinking fast. What would I do if they kicked me out? Where would I go? For as long as she’s lived here in the MegaMall, Mag has eaten and slept and run with the Dingos. Before she came here Mag Sullivan lived with a whole string of foster parents. The last ones were so bad that she ran away. Burt found her sobbing in the State Home where the cops had dumped her, and she’s been a Dingo ever since. For Mag Sullivan, this is the best home she’s ever had. Face it, it’s the only home, but now . . .

  Burt is saying, “Let’s hear it, Mag. Three sentences.”

  She can’t find even one!

  I didn’t do it won’t cut it. She has to explain!

  Burt says, “So?”

  Two dozen Dingos hiss. “So?”

  Perched on a crate in the center of the circle, Mag can’t figure out what to say. Look, Burt. What was I supposed to do? No good, Mag. Think again.

  They were OK until the Castertown Crazies popped up on the balcony with their nutty little display. And then Stiles and his gang of lost kids had the nerve to disappear!

  Naturally Security forces swarmed down on the Dingos instead. They came on in formation, swinging nets and chains. In all Mag’s life in the MegaMall, it was the scariest thing she’s ever seen. They were coming down on her with raised bats and studded maces, and the sinister end men were swinging weighted nets that could bring you down if they hooked your feet or settled over your head. One wrong move and Mag would have been the prisoner, not that girl. She thinks, Who wouldn’t drop everything and run? Besides, she thinks, that girl wasn’t doing anything to us, not really.

  She’s afraid to tell Burt what she is thinking: You’re just scared she’ll turn you in.

  There. Three sentences. The wrong ones. She covers her mouth.

  Burt says, “Are you going to talk or what?”

  This is awful. She can’t. No, she won’t.

  “Well?” Burt stands.

  Mag stands.

  “What? What!” Burt’s face is like a clenched fist. They are standing toe to toe. Tough, redheaded Mag Sullivan and Burt Arno face off. He glowers. “What do you have to say?”

  Think, Mag Sullivan. Think fast. She says, low, so the others won’t hear, “I thought you were my friend.”

  And just like that, Burt throws their friendship out the window, bellowing, “After what you did?”

  Mag says carefully, “Your friend is your friend no
matter what, Burt.” She is coming to a decision here.

  But Burt is too angry to see that Mag Sullivan is changing. “Not today, Mag. We lost our prisoner. Somebody has to pay.”

  Speechless, she shrugs.

  Burt chokes. “If nothing else, apologize!”

  As one the tribe turns—not accusing, exactly, but waiting. The word hangs in the air between them.

  Apologize.

  This is bad. They are waiting for her to grovel.

  What she says next surprises even Mag. “Never,” she says defiantly. Younger than he is, beholden to him, really, she defies Burt Arno. Just like that.

  Burt is silent for much too long. Then his eyes rip across her face like twin lasers. “What did you say?”

  Mag won’t bother to answer. Turning, she nudges aside several of the smallest, scruffiest Dingos with her toe and threads her way out of the circle. Before Burt even guesses that she is turning her back on him, probably forever, Mag Sullivan walks out of the Dingo tribe.

  “Wait!” Burt roars after her. “What did you say?”

  Pausing at the exit, she coughs up the words like a hairball. “I said, goodbye.”

  Then she runs.

  ELEVEN

  WHEN THE TROUBLE STARTED Tick saw the girl jerk free of her captors; she ran with her head high and her hair flying. From his hiding place on the balcony, he saw that brave girl duck and roll behind a trash barrel. Before he could think of a way to save her she disappeared. Where is she now?

  He only saw her for a minute, but he can’t get her out of his head.

  He should have jumped down and grabbed her, but he couldn’t blow his cover. He had to wait until Security chased the Dingos into the courtyard and around the fountain and on to the next sector, where great glass sliding doors whooshed open and then shut, sealing off the Dingos’ squeals and the thunder of the guards’ footsteps and their angry shouts.

  Then he had to see to his Crazies; it’s his job to keep them safe. At Tick’s signal the night children melted away, as planned. They fanned out in twos and threes, with each group taking a different route to the new hideout. Tick’s people left so quickly and silently that it took him a minute to realize they were gone.