Cody and the sheriff go up to the buffet several times and end up eating three plates of food apiece. The rest of us nibble halfheartedly on our crackers and fruit. I’m itching to leave. Being in the same room as the others and their bald heads is too much. Eventually the sheriff notices and starts looking for our waiter so he can ask for the bill.
The Community starts to leave before us. I watch as they mill around the front door and pull on their coats. Jonathan walks over to the cash register and grabs a mint from the bowl beside it. His hand is still thickly wrapped. The bandage is brown in spots and wet in others. I can’t tell if they’re food stains or seepage from his wounds. Either way it’s gross. If the owl scratched him or bit him somehow and it isn’t a burn, could it be infected? I wish I could find a way to get close enough to him to pull the bandage down and check the skin underneath. Then I think about him up at the buffet, his injured hand grazing spoons and food, spreading germs, and I almost gag.
“You should change those,” I call out as he heads for the door. I watch his face to see if my noticing his wounds again rattles him at all. I need to know for sure if he’s the one who hurt the owl. Maybe if I can be certain I won’t be so scared, won’t keep feeling like it could still be Pioneer.
He raises an eyebrow at me. He’s sweating. A lot. I can see beads of it on his upper lip and forehead. He’s either sick or nervous or both.
The sheriff looks at Jonathan, who shudders visibly. “You should get that checked out, son.” The sheriff has the same look on his face that he had the day he questioned me in the hospital. Jonathan has just earned a larger spot on his radar.
Mr. Brown puts his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and glares at the sheriff. “You want him to go to one of your hospitals so you can try to wheedle information out of him like you did her? I don’t think so. This time there’s nothing you can do to prevent what’s coming.” He pushes Jonathan toward the door.
The sheriff’s jaw clenches, but he keeps his cool. I’ve never seen him lose control, especially when he’s working things out about something or someone in his head, but I can see it in his eyes: he has the same fear that I do. Bad things really are headed our way.
Our fears are confirmed just a few hours later when he and Cody get violently ill.
That’s what attracts people. He’s completely happy. Gentle. He dances, he sings, he looks beautiful … this draws a lot of people just like people are drawn to little babies.
—Sandra Good, member of the Manson Family, speaking about Charles Manson
TWENTY
The sounds of Cody and his dad throwing up are awful. It’s almost like they’re screaming into the toilet. I feel like the whole house shudders every time. They’re in two different bathrooms, curled up across the throw rugs in painful comma shapes, hands clutching their stomachs.
Cody’s mom, Taylor, and I run from bathroom to bathroom, handing them wet cloths to wipe their mouths with. I hold my nose and try not to gag, but the smell is awful. It’s like the worst case of flu that I’ve ever seen times ten. It has them moaning and writhing and glassy-eyed. The worst of it was when Cody didn’t make it to the bathroom in time and we had to mop up the sick while he yelled at me not to look. At least now they’re both sequestered close to a toilet.
It goes on for hours until both Cody and his dad are retching up bile and nothing else. Their eyes are sunken in and they’ve started running for the sink to guzzle water straight from the faucet, only to lunge for the toilet and start throwing it back up again. There’s desperation in their eyes now and their skin … it’s so, so pale. I feel panicked, every bit as much as and maybe even more so than on the night of the false alarm at Mandrodage Meadows.
“They’re dehydrating—we have to get them over to the hospital.” Cody’s mom starts throwing blankets at us. “Wrap them in these and I’ll get some buckets to take in the car.”
The ride to the hospital is terrible. I can barely look at Cody. His face is gray and there’s a sheen of perspiration on it. Every time I try to look at him, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. I force myself to stare straight ahead, at the triangles of road that the headlights illuminate, and try to hold the bucket steady so he can dry-heave into it. Every time he spits weakly into the bucket after another bout, I wince. Taylor sits between her parents doing the same thing for her dad, but she’s crying loudly the entire time.
“What’s wrong with them?” she wails.
Her mom’s head bobs slightly. “I … I’m not sure,” she answers, her voice tight. She presses the gas pedal down a little harder and we rocket forward in spite of the wet roads and swirls of snow curling in front of the headlights.
I stay perfectly still in the backseat, holding Cody’s bucket with one hand and clapping the other over my mouth so that I don’t say what I’m thinking, so I don’t parrot my mom’s words to them. Bad things are coming. You are all going to be punished. If I say them out loud, I’m afraid it will make it true. And if it is true, I have no one to blame but myself. If Pioneer’s been right and I’ve been wrong all of this time, then this is only the tip of the trouble that’s about to come, and the fact that Cody and the sheriff are being targeted in particular is all my fault.
When we get to the hospital, the emergency room is full to bursting. The creepiest part? Practically every single person there was at the courtroom earlier today. All of them are pale and clutching their stomachs. Many have buckets or small trash cans lined with garbage bags in their laps. I’m afraid it’ll take hours for Cody or the sheriff to be seen, but then Cody goes unconscious, slumping over so quietly and quickly that we barely have time to grab his shoulders and push him back in his seat so he doesn’t fall headfirst onto the floor.
Everything happens very quickly then. Nurses rush over with a gurney and hoist him on it so fast that I can only stand back and watch, horrified. They’re talking to themselves and to the doctor who’s barreled through the double doors and into the waiting room to help them.
“The mother confirmed that he was at that restaurant. They all were,” one of the nurses says, her lips pursed. “Dr. Harris saw the first few patients. He seemed to think that it might be a salmonella outbreak. Widespread too. Happened just after that Pioneer guy had his arraignment.” She looks at the doctor meaningfully. He shakes his head and shushes her, eyeballing Taylor and me as he does. She goes quiet and they practically run Cody back through the doors that they just came through.
“What was she talking about?” I ask out loud.
A man sitting close to us leans forward in his chair and grimaces a bit, places his hand on his stomach like he’s trying to hold it in place. “People are getting sick all over town. You heard the nurse. They’re pretty sure it’s salmonella poisoning. Someone put it in the food at the restaurant close to the courthouse. We all ate there.”
The sliding doors that lead out to the parking lot whir open and one of the reporters that sat at the table next to us shuffles in, her face wiped free of makeup, except for a swipe of black mascara under one eye. She goes right to the nurses’ station to check in, then collapses into a chair nearby. The man who was talking before waves a hand at her to get her attention. “Hey, have you heard anything about what’s going on?”
The reporter shifts in the seat sideways as if sitting straight is unbearable. “Nothing concrete. Yet. But I’d bet that this was some kind of bioterrorist act. When someone’s determined for Armageddon to happen, nine times out of ten they take it upon themselves to help it along, know what I mean?”
The hair on my arm goes up on end and I can feel my scalp tingling. Pioneer couldn’t have done this. He’s locked up … it’s impossible … but the Community … could have. My parents, Brian, Mr. Brown, Jonathan were all there. And they didn’t eat a thing.
That’s why Mr. Brown, Brian, and Jonathan went up for food. That’s why Jonathan looked so nervous. They put something in the food. And the others knew. That’s why they wouldn’t look at me. My own parents sat th
ere and watched us all eat and never tried to warn me. They were willing to let me get sick. If I’d actually eaten anything other than crackers … if Taylor or her mom had … would we all still be at the house, too weak to get to the hospital? I go cold when I think of just how much worse tonight might have been, of how little I really know about anyone in the Community anymore and what they’re capable of.
I walk over to Taylor, try to find the right words to tell her how sorry I am that this happened, but she holds a hand up between us, blocking my face from hers. The amount of anger in that one gesture surprises me.
“Don’t, okay? Just don’t.” Taylor’s face crumples up and tears start to roll down her cheeks. “Dad and Cody are in danger because of you. Again. Maybe they’re okay with putting your safety before theirs all the time, but I’m not, not anymore. I don’t want to lose them. I just … I wish you’d never come to live with us.” The way the words come out, in a rush like they’ve been pent up inside her for a long time, is a crushing blow, and I sway as if they actually have the power to knock me off my feet. I thought Taylor and I were getting close, close like Marie and I were. Tears gather in my eyes.
The emergency room doors slide open again and Taylor stops talking. We both look to see who else has gotten sick. But instead of another victim, Mrs. Dickerson appears in the doorway with a crowd of other townspeople close at her heels. She walks into the center of the waiting room, her eyes wild. “You see? I told you this would happen. I knew. I knew, but no one listened and now Melody and Brad’s son is upstairs in intensive care. All because of them.” She’s speaking to everyone, her voice loud and angry, the tone of it the same as Taylor’s a moment ago, only stronger.
I try to move away from Taylor and her mom and hide behind one of the columns, but I’m not fast enough and she sees me. “You. You don’t look sick. Why? Why aren’t you sick? If you’re not one of them, how could you be there and not get sick? Why isn’t she sick?” She’s not asking me anymore. She’s asking the crowd. “She’s still one of them. Has to be. She knew what they were going to do.”
Without warning, she lunges at me, tries to grab hold of my sleeve. The people behind her begin to surround me. I look over at Cody’s mom for help, but she’s turned away, holding the sheriff’s shoulders to keep him steady while he heaves into the bucket in his lap. Mrs. Dickerson’s hands slide over my coat, almost grab hold of my arm. What is she going to do with me once she has me? I don’t want to wait around and find out, so I back up, slip through the narrow space behind the column and the wall, and then run down the hospital hallway.
I barely avoid knocking over a doctor as I pound down one corridor after the other until I finally find another exit. I burst through the door and rush headlong into the parking lot beyond, toward the road that leads away from the hospital.
My breath steams into the cold night air. I have to get away. They think I’m still with the Community, and I have no idea how to convince them that I’m not, and I’m scared of what they’ll do if they catch up to me.
I’m not sure where I’m headed, I’m just moving until I can’t run anymore. They think it’s my fault that this happened. Even Taylor. What if Cody and the sheriff decide to blame me too? If not for the poisoning, then for putting them in danger? They’ve done nothing but try to help me the past few months, and now they’re in the hospital because of it. In my head I keep seeing Cody being wheeled away by the doctor, his face almost gray. What if he dies? What if all the sick people do?
A few cars rush past on the street, kicking up a slushy mix of sleet and snow as they pass. I can’t go back to Cody’s house after tonight. I can’t face Taylor and her mom when they come home. I can’t keep putting them in danger. Besides, Taylor wants me gone. I don’t want her to have to tell me so again. Once was enough.
I stare up at the sky—still spitting snow down on me—before pushing my hands deep into my coat pockets and walking on. I’m on Main Street, right next to the diner Jack took me to just the other day. The sidewalk is empty and the diner’s lights are off, the CLOSED sign up in the window.
I look around at all of the darkened shops. Despite all of the Christmas decorations and white lights, every building downtown still feels creepy, deserted. I haven’t seen a car drive by once. What if Mrs. Dickerson and the others come looking for me? There won’t be anyone to help me. I feel a growing sense of panic grip me and I start walking again … but the farther I walk, the more I realize that I’m heading toward darker streets, out of the most populated section of town. What do I do now? Even if I make it through the next few hours without a problem, there’s always tomorrow night and the next and the next. I can’t stay out here indefinitely.
There’s only one place for me to go.
Back to the Community.
Pioneer told them to take me in no matter what. They want me back home. If I go, they won’t have to break into Cody’s house anymore to scare me. They’ll leave Cody and his family alone. And maybe once I’m there, I can find proof that they poisoned the food at the restaurant before they have a chance to get rid of it. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that this is what I have to do. Besides, Pioneer said that more than one bad thing was coming. He said signs and wonders. Plural. Whatever happened at the restaurant was just the start. I need to figure out what’s happening next and stop it if I can before it’s too late. With the sheriff and most of his other deputies sick, I might be the only one who can. I can’t just hide away at Cody’s and hope that it all goes away. I can’t run from Pioneer, the Community, or my past—not anymore.
It’s a few miles’ walk at most to the trailer park. If I jog, I could get there in under an hour. I look at the road that leads in that direction. It’s darker than most of the other roads. It’s mostly fields, farmhouses, and trees the entire way. I shake my head and gather my courage. I take one step and then another away from the well-lit town and into the dark.
If this was a scary movie and I was the main character in it, this would be the point where the ominous music would start playing, where the audience would probably cringe and yell at me to stop. But even if I agree with them, that this is possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had, I have no choice but to go.
We are all our own prisons, we are all our own wardens, and we do our own time. Prison’s in your mind. Can’t you see that I’m free?
—Charles Manson
TWENTY-ONE
I stop just shy of the trailer park. It must have been later than I thought when I left the hospital, because the first fingers of daylight are clawing their way across the fields. I hesitate, unsure of what to do. Should I head straight for my parents’ door and knock right now or wait a little until I’m sure that they’re awake?
It’ll be at least another hour before people start to emerge from their trailers. I’m so cold that I can’t feel my feet or my fingers. I stare up at the barn. I could go in there to wait. It has to be at least a little warmer than outside. Nothing about this plan makes me feel good, but I go with it anyway. If I stay out here any longer, I’ll get frostbite.
I go to the barn’s front door. There’s no lock, only a rusty latch. I slip inside. It’s dark, darker than outside, but I can see patches of sky from holes in the roof and it lights things enough so that I can make my way without tripping on the few scattered folding chairs in the center of the room. There’s snow on the floor, piles of it just beneath the holes. The back of the barn, underneath the hayloft, is smothered in shadows, but I head for it anyway because it’s the only part of the barn that seems to be completely intact and free of drafts.
I put my hands out in front of me and feel my way to the far wall, then over to the left-hand side of the barn. I get a splinter lodged in my finger from the rough wood and have to lean my shoulder against the wall and use it to guide me instead.
There are a few horse stalls back here; I can’t see them, but I can feel where the wall disappears above my chest. Every time it happens, I panic. I have this awful
feeling that Pioneer’s hiding inside one of them the way he did the day of the raid, grinning into the darkness, reaching out to grab me as I pass by. I move as quickly as I can, almost falling twice in the process.
My nerves are thrumming, like live electrical wires traveling through every inch of me. When I finally reach a door, I’m so unnerved that I can barely manage to grasp the knob and open it. The room beyond it is lit up because the back wall is missing several planks of wood. Something rushes out of the scattered hay in front of me, something furry and small. It pushes its way through one of the gaps in the wall and I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my scream. I sag against the wall, my breath ripping in and out of me hard enough to make my chest hurt.
The room is empty. There’s not much in it except for an old workbench topped with pipe lengths, nails, duct tape, bolts, and a hot plate, its cord twisted out across the ground like a snake. I notice some rusted tools hanging on the far wall, which is blackened in places as if there was a fire—recently, since it still smells faintly like a campfire. Jonathan’s bandaged hand flashes through my mind. Was he trying to put out a fire? Is that how he hurt his hand, and not with the owl? But what are all the materials on the bench for? What was he doing in here that required such random stuff? I need to find a way to ask my parents about this room and what might have happened here … in a subtle way so that I don’t make it obvious that I came back to snoop. I shudder when I think of how happy my mom will be when she thinks I’m home for good.
I walk over to the scorched wall and the tools—run a finger over one—a long scissors-type tool. Sheep shears, maybe? They’re rusty but clean. For some reason touching them reminds me of Cody’s monster model at Bo’s restaurant in the bowling alley—the one that had something similar to these for hands.
Astray (Gated Sequel) Page 18
