Going Gray
Page 15
“We got ways of dealing with outsiders,” Jeter added.
Emily’s father twitched and then shook his head. Please don’t move, Emily begged in her mind. He pulled his arms in, pushing up, trying to get onto his feet. Jeter snapped his knobby fingers. The first tree trunk sent a balled fist down onto the middle of her father’s back. Air exploded out of him, flattening him to the floor. Emily covered him—more an instinct than bravery—shielding her father.
She splayed her hands against the mall’s floor, gripping the cold tile. A groan like she’d never heard before poured from her father’s lips. The trees cast their shadows in front of her. The bigger trunk—the one attacking—raised his hand again, reeling it back. Emily winced, and braced herself.
A blast of commotion flew over her head; the rush lifting her hair as it passed. Peter was gone from Mr. Halcomb’s side, and from behind her the commotion turned into the stressed sounds of men fighting.
Peter gripped the first tree trunk, holding him down on the floor. But the pinned man only laughed at Peter’s vain attempt. His fist was a blur, connecting with Peter’s face, snapping his head awkwardly to one side. The hit sent Peter flying onto his back, landing with a hollow thud. Oh, Peter, she thought solemnly. His eyes blinked desperately as though suddenly blinded by the sight above him. When his stare faded to an absent daze, he stopped moving.
“Please, no more!” Emily begged.
“Stop this now,” she heard Ms. Parks scream. “This is no —”
But Emily never heard the rest of what Ms. Parks said. A thousand pounds suddenly crushed her on the inside. Emily felt her eyes bulge and she clutched at her chest, choking, suffocating. Ms. Parks’ lips continued moving, her hands swinging at the men. Mr. Halcomb was screaming too, but Emily heard nothing. Another hit came, stronger than the first, but she had no more air to give. The men wanted her father, and they were going to go through her to get to him.
Blackness crept up on her, drenching her mind like the rain outside. Emily felt the familiar sway that came before blacking out. Ms. Parks and Mr. Halcomb rushed to her side, yelling, screaming, but she only heard the uneven tempo of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears. The ache in her lungs turned to fire and for a moment she was certain that her heart had stopped. Tree-trunk broke something: she was sure of it.
The men standing over her turned fuzzy and warped, and she understood now that this was the new normal. The days of lawyering and trials and judges had gone. In the new world, it was the strong who would police and pass judgment. Emily pushed her hand across the floor, her fingers crawling and finding her father’s hand. She gripped his fingers. But there was no protecting him. The new judges had her father, and in this new world, punishment would be swift.
Emily felt her father’s fingers slip out of her hand. They had him. Grainy starlights erupted in front of her. Emily narrowed her eyes, and saw the men pummeling her father’s body like jackhammers on concrete. She tried to call out. She tried to beg. And then she tried to cry.
Inside Out
BOOK III
XV
RAIN
Sand drifted between her toes: dry and powdery. Smooth. No flip-flops or sandals to hide in, just the touch of her bare feet on the beach. She loved that.
A breeze.
She opened her arms. Inviting. Sea air swept through her hair and rushed over her skin, touching every part of her. The smell of the ocean would stay with her the rest of the day now. Smiling. She loved that, too.
Behind her, the moon’s evening watch was nearly over, its pocked face fading into the morning sky.
Another step.
The retreating surf felt cold under her feet.
A shiver.
A bloom of orange and red filled the eastern skies, blowing her a kiss: a promise to chase away the chill.
The blurred silhouette of a seabird passed her, flying along the shallows. It called out a warning before diving and cut the still water with the tip of its wing. Sunlight skipped atop the surface, bouncing in the ripples and stirred a fish to jump.
The sun climbed the horizon and brushed the lip of the ocean, stretching rays over the bends of the earth to reach her. She breathed in the yellow daylight, satisfied by the warmth.
A gunshot.
Another.
A thousand midnight stars rolled in the surf: bright and sparkly, racing to wet her toes. The foamy waters rushed onto her feet, and then retreated, enticing her as the sand became soft and washed away. But then she felt a bite: a sinister nip that turned the moment.
The sound of lightning pierced her ears, searing the sky. She waited for a rumble that never came.
More bites. Razor sharp. She winced, trying to move, but her legs had become glass—smoky stains below her knees—buried like pillars in the sand.
Her legs split, fracturing, and pain suddenly radiated through her. She tried to scream but spat broken glass instead, spilling like bloody charms.
Her legs cracked and shifted, and began to slide apart.
Agony.
The sun vanished behind a sea of glass, and wave after wave—some as tall as buildings—crashed on top of her. She tumbled; her legs breaking apart into a million pieces, throwing her about mercilessly. Another wave rolled her, and glassy stones filled her mouth and nose and ears, suffocating her. I’m going to drown! And as the rest of her body broke apart, she realized that she’d been made of glass all along.
Emily stirred, peering narrowly at one of the giant walls of glass. A hole near its center opened into a crater, turning the window into a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces bound together, holding back the rain. But in a blink, the window disintegrated, pouring down—pieces skidding across the floor and spilling over her. The sound jolted her while the first of the storm’s winds touched the inside of the mall.
Her father lay on his side, lifeless. Blood spread in a gory puddle around him. Smeared footprints and scuffed boot marks circled his body from the men stepping around him, taking turns to beat on him.
“Dad?” she called out, but her heart told her that it was a pointless call. He couldn’t have survived a beating like that. “Dad, please!”
“Em,” he grunted, and her heart leapt with hope. Her father stirred again, pushing himself onto his back. “Tunnel!”
“The service tunnel,” she answered. “Yes… Dad!” But he’d gone quiet again, slipping back to wherever it was the men put him.
“Still moving?” Jeter spat. “Again!”
Another gunshot.
But Emily wasn’t dreaming this time. Her ears began to ring, and the smell of spent fireworks wafted beneath her nose. The gunfire was real.
“I said that’s enough!” Mr. Halcomb screamed. The old men and their tree trunk sons backed away from her father. “I’ll use it on them Jeter—on you! I swear it; I will!”
Emily saw the gun. She hadn’t seen it until now: rigid metal dangling like a loose pendant from the end of Mr. Halcomb’s hand. White smoke drifted from the end of the barrel, and his hand trembled nervously. The end of the gun wavered in front of him so much that she was sure he was going to drop it if startled.
The nightmare sunrise stayed fresh in her mind, helping to piece together what had happened. Mr. Halcomb must have fired a warning short, ending the threat on her father’s life. But the bullet hit one of the glass walls, destroying it. Two long window panes remained, and she could see the tropical rains pelting against the glass, running down in slender wet stretches. But the third window, the tallest of three, the one in the middle, lay in a glistening pile of broken glass.
Emily struggled to get to her knees, stretching the ache in her back, but then flinched with the suddenness of a dense pain. The injury from the car crash spoke up, telling her to sit back down. She held back her breathing to a mere sip of air, afraid the pain would knife her insides. Emily tried not to cry out, but couldn’t stop. Balling her hands into fists, she bit down on her lip, taking in a long breath past the injury.
Her father stirred, waking and reaching to take her hand. His face had started to bruise, swelling beneath his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. He gasped, spitting up onto the floor and tried to speak, clearing his throat.
“Get to the tunnels,” he said, repeating himself.
“Man’s guilty,” Jeter said. The old man’s tone remained accusatory, but his eyes stayed fixed on Mr. Halcomb’s gun. “Guilty as them other ones. Someone’s gotta pay. He can’t be here with us; he’s an outsider and needs to go.”
“Emily,” her father said. He yanked on her arm and motioned to the broken glass. “Get away from the window. All of you, get away from the rain!”
A tropical gust blew up, sending a torrent downfall inside the mall, catching one of Jeter’s sons. Emily felt a sense of gratification when seeing which of the tree trunks had been hit by the rain. It was a small satisfaction—a few blisters would be a good start. But the feelings soon disappeared when she saw what was happening to him.
“Dad?” her voice wavered like the gun, which Mr. Halcomb had dropped to his side. “Dad, what’s happening to him?”
“Move!” her father yelled, and by now Peter groaned, rolling onto his hands and knees. “Get away from the windows!”
It’s just rain; she tried to convince herself as wisps of smoke began to rise from the man’s head. Next, it was his shoulders that turned smoky, clouding his face and sending a stench into the air that made the other tree trunk brother retch.
“Help me!” Tree-trunk screamed, turning to Jeter and his brother. “IT BURNS!” But the men stepped back, afraid to touch him, leaving him alone.
Tree-trunk grimaced, anguish in his face and torture in his eyes. He swung his arms, trying desperately to swipe at the back of his head. But from his closed hands, he dropped handfuls of hair held together by patches of his scalp. Bloody clumps fell to the floor like wet rags. Tree-trunk circled around screaming like a house-cat with its tail caught in a trap. Emily gasped when she saw what the rainwater was doing to the rest of him.
She pulled on her father, reaching beneath his arms to slide him away from the windows. Peter followed, as did the others. They gathered by the carousel, taking cover beneath the canopy. Another gush of rain came into the open window, dousing the man. He screamed, rearing up, clutching at the air for mercy as if the rain had been a thousand whips, peeling away his skin.
“Move!” Emily screamed at Tree-trunk, but his tortured eyes couldn’t register anything anymore, he was lost in the suffering and the torture of what was happening to him. “You have to move away!”
Peter shook his head, clearing his senses and was up on his feet when the horrific sight registered. He ran around Tree-trunk, trying to find any way to put out a fire that he couldn’t see. Another wash from the storm blew through the open window. A few drops hit Peter’s arm, burning him at once, covering his arm in a smoky sleeve. He screamed, swiping at the small drops before returning to the carousel.
Emily dragged herself toward Peter, and was thankful to see the smoke thin and disappear. Burns the size of silver dollars dimpled his skin. Peter tore at his shirt, wrapping the open wounds.
Tree-trunk screamed as more smoke blew up around him. The rain scorched the back of his head and neck, and he spun around again, trying to bat at the fire. His arms flailed aimlessly, striking and beating himself.
Blisters grew out of his back, but they were far worse than the blisters she’d had on her arms. Tall silvery boils covered all of Tree-trunk, bursting open and pouring out a steamy liquid that plopped melted remains onto the floor. It was a sound that she’d never forget. His screaming had turned into something else then—a growling cry that rose and fell with each new blister. His skin bubbled like water coming to a boil.
Emily tried to turn away but was struck by the sight of Tree-trunk melting to death. She was screaming. Her father tried to cover her eyes, but she pushed his hand away. And there were others screaming, too. Jeter, and his uncle and brother, screaming at Tree-trunk, telling him to drop down and roll. But this wasn’t like a fire drill at school. Tree-trunk dropped to his knees, and large caving holes took the place of the blisters, opening his flesh and spilling his insides.
Jeter raised his hands, waving them above his head, and then turned his back, forfeiting, unable to stand the sight of what was happening to his son.
The man plopped onto his chest, squirming forward blindly. His screams drowned in a hoarse watery rattle that set deep in his throat; it was a sound that Emily immediately recognized. Not long now, she thought. So strong and fast. Very fast. She recalled what her father had said that first morning. He’d spoken of how strong the poison was, and how fast it worked. Did they ever consider a tropical storm? Could they?
“Please!” Jeter begged, turning to Mr. Halcomb, pointing at the gun and then to his son. “Do it man. Please!”
Mr. Halcomb’s face had gone pale—ghostly white—he shook his head, and then looked at the gun. Emily could see the disbelief in his face, questioning what Jeter had asked him to do.
Ms. Parks stepped forward, stooped down, and took hold of the gun. Mr. Halcomb said nothing, but instead raised his hands, stepping further back into the safety of the carousel. Ms. Parks lifted the gun and pointed it at the howling man. The gun looked clunky and surreal in her hands, and Emily wondered if her old teacher had ever held a gun before. Ms. Parks closed one eye, squinting with the other, and lined up the barrel. Aiming, she squeezed the trigger. Emily’s father tried again to cover her eyes, but she pushed his hand down, impatiently. He doesn’t get to do that anymore, she thought, and considered everything that had happened over the last days. The gun’s hammer leaned back but then stopped. Ms. Parks groaned, and the man howled louder as rain lashed at his open flesh. Emily cringed at the horrid sound, and told herself to turn away.
“Please!” Jeter screamed. “Don’t let him suffer!”
“I’m trying!” Ms. Parks yelled. The gun shook in her hand, and the hammer nudged back, only to fall forward, settling.
“Pull the hammer back with your thumb!” Mr. Halcomb yelled. “Pull it until it clicks.” Ms. Parks gave a short nod and cocked the gun.
“Don’t hit the other window—” her father added.
But his words were lost in the sound of the gun firing. The bullet hit the floor in front of the man, throwing sparks up into the air before disappearing with a whizzing sound. Before anyone could say another word, Ms. Parks took the second shot, sending a bullet into the man’s brain. His head bucked up, spraying a cloud of red behind him, and then dropped down.
Ms. Parks’ shoulders slumped, and she lowered the gun, sighing. A grim satisfaction stole the concentrated expression on her face. Emily wondered if the man had already died before the bullet ever touched him. And though the dead don’t bleed, she saw that the rain water continued to feed on the man, eating away at his skin, melting him until she thought nothing would remain except a puddle of gore.
“Okay,” Jeter said.
Everything suddenly became quiet as if the horror of what had just happened somehow stopped time. Emily listened to her father breathing, and then passed a glance to Peter, and felt grateful that they were both going to be fine.
“You have to go!” Peter yelled, ending the quiet. He’d covered his arm, tending to his burns, but puffed out his chest, intent on being heard. “You’re the outsiders. Understand me!”
“Now hold on a min—” Jeter’s brother began, but then stopped and raised his arms.
“No! You hold on,” Ms. Parks answered. She held the gun—steady, strong—as if she’d been handling guns for years. “You be
at this man and hit this child. There’s no room for you here!”
Emily’s mind roared, cringing at the ache they left on her. She wanted to yell at them too, but held her words. Her father moaned and pushed up onto his knees. She’d expected him to say something, but he only looked at Ms. Parks and the gun, and stayed quiet. The gun is like the talking stick, she thought, remembering the summer camp where they could only speak when they had the talking stick.
“No more!” Ms. Parks continued. “I don’t care where you go, as long as you’re far from here.”
“The service tunnels,” her father said. His voice sounded mumbly as he tried to talk. His lips bounced with his words, pouching out in a painful droop. “We all need to go!”
Jeter flicked a glance toward them, stabbing her father with his eyes.
“We’ll go,” Jeter said, keeping his eyes on her father. “We’ll take the service tunnel you all found. The mall ain’t the only place. But mind me when I say that someone’s gotta pay. Ain’t free what he’s done. Gotta pay the fine.”
A large crash came then—the first of many, Emily was sure.
“Can you walk?” Emily asked, pulling up on her father’s arm. He stood with her, rising slowly, pushing his weight onto her shoulder.
“I can walk,” he answered, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Seeing her father’s beaten face, Emily suddenly broke down and cried. “Em, I’ll be fine. Just a few bruises and broken stuff.”
“I know, but scared me is all,” she said, tucking her face into his shirt, and folding her arms around him. She felt him flinch, and she relaxed her hands, apologizing.
“The rain?” she mumbled. “It’s going to pull the mall apart. Isn’t it?”
A second crash, heavier and denser, shaking the floor, reminding her of their garage the moments before it was destroyed. The memory was fresh—the sounds, the smell—yet it felt like a lifetime ago when it happened. She pulled back from their hug, searching for an answer.