Ya can’t just cut and run.
Judd’s words had never rung so true. He was running from this as fast as he’d run from everything else. Hell, he’d even kept his smartphone off, avoiding any confrontation with Marisa on the off chance that she called. He had wanted to call her, certainly, but couldn’t bring himself to. The truth was, he didn’t think she’d answer. For the second time in his life, he had broken her heart.
He turned to go in, only to thrust a hand to his chest. A shock rippled through him, and he fell to his knees.
Pistola, his brain screamed. Pistola. Pistola. Pistola.
The rage consumed him. His eyes burned as if acid had been splashed into them. He staggered trying to stay on his knees, only to collapse. The last thing he saw was that hideous reflection in the glass door, the sinister grin of that monstrous face … and the last thing he heard was the chilling sound of his own screams.
~ 137
Marisa’s alarm buzzed at 7:00 a.m. on Monday morning, and she finally dragged herself out of bed after the fourth “snooze.” She had been up most of the night, finally drifting off from fatigue barely an hour before dawn.
Downstairs, she packed Kit’s lunch for school while he ate his cereal.
“You okay, Mom?”
She covered her mouth in a laborious yawn. She could feel the bags under her eyes. “I’m a little tired. Did you sleep okay?”
Kit nodded as he drank his orange juice, but she doubted his response. He looked as worn out as she did. She couldn’t imagine the toll all this was taking on him, not only physically, but emotionally. When he’d come out of his seizure, he had fallen asleep in her arms almost immediately. She’d had to carry him upstairs to his bed. She wondered if he even knew what had happened.
“Finish up,” she said. “We’re running late.”
Kit finished his cereal and rinsed his bowl in the sink. He started washing it.
“You okay, kiddo?”
“I’m good.”
She stood at the counter beside him. “You want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“About yesterday. It was pretty crazy stuff. We nearly got killed by that wacko.”
Kit set the bowl in the dish rack. He fished his glass out of the sink and washed it.
“It’s okay,” Marisa said. “We don’t have to talk about it. But thank you.”
He turned to her. “For what?”
She hugged him. “For being so brave. For fighting for me.” At least he will, she thought.
“You’re my mom. That’s what kiddos do.” He smiled.
She nearly cried right there. “I love you, Kit.”
“I love you, too.”
She saw a flicker in the clouds of his eyes. “You okay?”
He nodded.
She wanted to ask if he’d remembered anything from last night, but it was clear he didn’t want to discuss it. She couldn’t blame him. It had nearly scared her to death, and she could still see him pulling that frightening finger-trigger and dropping to the floor in a heap. She couldn’t begin to guess what was going through his mind.
She tousled his hair. “Go up and brush your teeth, okay? And don’t forget your pill.” For all the good it’ll do, she thought. It seemed nothing could stop the seizures. And what she feared most was that, if they finally did stop, at what cost? His life?
~
Kit got into the front seat while Marisa surveyed the damage to her hatchback. The trunk was crushed in, and one of the taillights was smashed. The bumper was crumpled.
She got in and buckled up.
Kit looked up at her from behind his small telescopes. “Do you think we’ll see Jared again?”
She didn’t know what to say. If Kit ever needed a man in his life, this was the time. “Let’s just get you off to school, okay?”
~
Marisa pulled up in front of the school behind a school bus. The place was bustling. Kids stared at the mangled vehicle, but something more pressing concerned her.
“Kit? What’s wrong?” It was all over his tiny face. Worry.
When he didn’t answer, she followed his gaze. Of course. Like he needed this on top of everything else.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “Okay?”
“… Okay.”
Kit got out and shut the door softly. Marisa’s heart sank as she watched him hurry past Parker Brooks and into the school.
~
Parked at the library, Marisa checked her face in the mirror. She’d rushed with her make-up this morning, but she doubted her usual effort would have made much of a difference. She’d seen more life in some of the walkers in The Walking Dead.
Inside, she stepped quietly, keeping an eye out for Merritt DeWitt. It wasn’t every day you came in to work after having tried to run down your boss.
She went to her cubicle, and just as she sat down to start her day, she looked up and saw Merritt heading her way.
“Merritt,” she said anxiously. “Listen, I’m—”
“Water under the bridge,” Merritt said with a smile.
Marisa sighed in relief. “Wow. Thank you. I never thought—”
“You’re fired.”
~ 138
Kit sat at his desk in room three watching the clock. It was two minutes to noon, and no matter how much he wanted it to, that bright red second hand wouldn’t tick any faster. It seemed to be slowing down, matching the mind-numbing voice of Mr. Patasky as he rambled on about subjects and predicates.
His desk was front row beside the window, giving him a good view of the school playground. He could see the street from here, too, but he wasn’t keen on seeing Mom pull up after classes. Kids had stared at the car when she’d dropped him off, but worse than that, they’d been staring at him all morning.
The buzzer finally rang. He filed out of the classroom, stopping for some water at the fountain near the custodian’s closet. He missed Mr. Fisher. Artie called him Kit, and he called him Artie. Artie always said hi to him, and always had a smile.
Steps away, some of the kids from his class hovered around Amanda Templeton. Most of them had been at the park on the day of Jared’s parade, Amanda included. She had cracked a bone in her left arm during the stampede, and now she had her back against a locker, holding her arm steady so Timmy Buchanan could sign her cast.
Others took their turns, and when the last person signed it, Kit walked up and asked if he could sign it. He felt bad for Amanda. It was all his fault.
“Forget it,” she snorted. “I don’t want it Smudged.”
The group laughed. Everyone but one.
Kit went to his locker and got his lunch box. He passed the main office and took the long way to the library, the way he always took to avoid the looks and the laughter. The gymnasium bypassed the usual crowds, and he made his way past the bleachers until he reached the end of the basketball court. A couple of grade-eighters were shooting hoops, and he hurried through the doors and into the corridor.
He entered the library. Eight round common tables sat near the front, and two groups of study carrels stood on the right near the windows. There were no less than twenty long rows of bookshelves along the back. As he stepped inside he saw the arts teacher, Mrs. Connehey, slicing some papers on Ol’ Choppy. Ol’ Choppy was the big black paper trimmer, and everyone called it that—including Mr. Patasky, who had come to respect it on Valentine’s Day, when Ol’ Choppy took his left pinky up to the second knuckle.
“Hello, Christian,” the arts teacher said warmly. She sliced a thin stack of papers, and Kit shuddered at the sound. It was so … final. He waved to her with a small smile, and she went back to her work.
The rest of the library was empty, as it usually was at this hour. Most of the other students had either gone home for lunch or were in the cafeteria. He weaved his way through the maze of common tables and walked between two bookshelves all the way to the back. A row of desks sat along the wall, and he took the one near the corner.
He
often ate his lunch here, not only for the quiet, but for the safety. The library was the last place Parker Brooks and his creepy friends would hang out. Besides, this desk was one of only two on this row that had a computer terminal—the one that didn’t flicker, luckily—and today he needed one.
He plunked his lunch box onto the desk and turned on the monitor. He logged in, and while he waited for the computer to initialize, he listened to that chilling sound of Ol’ Choppy again. Mrs. Connehey finished and left the library.
What happened last night?
He hadn’t known he’d been sleepwalking again, but when Mom had tucked him back into bed, he’d figured that out. What had gone on during his late-night stroll still mystified him, and the terror in her eyes had only deepened his concern. His mind was mud about most of it, but there was one thing he did remember.
He called up Google Translate and typed in pistola.
Gun slid from his lips.
He sat back with a sigh. He tried to remember, but his brain was awash with a jumble of thoughts. All he really knew was that pistola was another Bad Word. He could hear it rolling around in his head. Could feel the monster thought.
Gun. Jared’s gun. He didn’t know for certain that’s what it meant, but … but maybe that’s exactly what it meant. And if—
A thin sound behind him caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder and listened for Ol’ Choppy.
“Mrs. Connehey?”
His eyes darted right. He would have sworn he heard something. Like someone stepping softly so as not to make a sound. As if they were creeping up on him.
“Mrs. Conn—”
He looked left. Same sound. Different direction.
He got off the chair. All he saw were columns of bookshelves. He leaned left and peered down the aisle between the shelves there. Nothing. He leaned right and checked that row. Nothing.
He took the left aisle and stepped as silently as he could. Halfway along he stopped to peer over a stack of books into the aisle to his left. Again, he saw no one. The aisle to his right revealed no more.
“Hello?” His shrinking voice barely carried. “Is anyone there?”
He took another step and stopped. He heard the muted sound of breathing.
“Who’s there?” He whipped round in fright. “Who’s th—”
A book slid off a shelf and hit the floor. He nearly screamed. Another book fell from the opposite side. A third fell behind him, and he shuddered against a shelf. Another book came, followed by another, then another. Now they were coming faster and faster, flying off the shelves one by one.
“Stop it!” He threw his hands up to his ears to stem the tide of sounds that drowned him. He pleaded again, and suddenly, almost magically, the flying books stopped. His heart was pounding.
Books littered the floor. He wanted to grab his lunch box and high-tail it out of there, but when he took that first step, a gravelly voice held him in its grip. It seemed to come from some dark cavern in a plodding, sinister tone. Like a monster thought.
“Milky eyes, Look like sludge, Here he is, Christian Smudge …”
Another black voice joined in; another. The chant kept on and on, the voices rising slowly with every refrain.
“Milky eyes, Look like sludge, Here he is, Christian Smudge …”
Kit turned and took a step toward the front of the aisle. He turned back and froze. All he saw was a tall dark shape, looming like a monster.
“No—”
The shape took a step toward him. He screamed, bolting in the other direction. He nearly made it to the front of the aisle, only to slip on a book. It slid out from under him, and he landed on his back with a stinging thud.
He rolled over onto his stomach, facing the shape again. The chanting seemed to echo all around him, growing more intense.
And now the shape was coming for him.
~ 139
Kit scrambled to his feet. The shape was halfway along the aisle, stepping slowly through the minefield of library books. It grew larger with every step.
The shape raised its right arm, and Kit squinted as a brilliant flash of light blinded him. More flashes followed in rapid flickers, like those from a strobe light in Mr. Harrison’s science lab.
He tried to shield his eyes by raising a hand to block the light. He turned around and made it to the front of the aisle. When he stepped into the common area, he was bombarded by a double-whammy of flashing lights on both sides. He threw his hands up to block them. He could barely make out the shapes holding the lights, and when he turned away from them, was struck by another series of flashes from the shape in the aisle.
He backed off to the corner near the paper trimmer. The lights followed, growing more intense as the shapes approached. He backed up against the wall, sliding down onto his rear. Shutting his eyes tight was no match for those random flickers.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and panicked. He couldn’t get to his stone fast enough. The lights kept flashing, the rapid flicker dizzying. All he could do was wait for what he knew was coming. He began to count down, whispering every digit. He could feel his heart slowing.
Then the light show stopped.
He counted down all the way to one. Bravely, he slowly opened his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Parker Brooks slipped his iPhone into his pocket. Nelson Kurtz and Darren Philips followed his lead.
“Gotta love that strobe app,” Parker said. He scowled. “Get him up.”
Nelson and Darren grabbed Kit under the arms and pulled him to his feet. Kit squirmed trying to get free, but they were too big, too strong for him.
Parker snatched Kit’s glasses. He slipped them on and tried to see around the room through the telescopes. “This is fucked up, man. Major fucked up.” He tossed the glasses to the floor.
Kit flinched. He kept his head down, embarrassed. He didn’t want them to see his eyes.
“Look at me,” Parker said. When Kit didn’t respond, he set his right shoe over the glasses, threatening to crush them. “Look at me, Smudge.”
Kit refused to look up.
Parker kicked the glasses away. “I said, look at me, Smudge.”
Kit hesitated, then looked up. Parker shook his head in disgust.
“Fuck, Parks, he’s got shit for eyes,” Darren Philips said.
Nelson Kurtz gave Darren a disapproving look.
“Shit for brains, anyway,” Parker said. He poked two fingers at Kit’s eyes, and Kit flinched.
“Pussy,” Parker said. He gave Kit the finger. “How many fingers, Smudge?”
Darren Philips laughed.
“How many?” Parker said again. “You blind, Smudge?”
“Three,” Kit snapped. “One for each of you idiots.”
Parker gripped Kit’s throat. “Think that’s funny? How ’bout I chop off three of your stupid fingers?”
Before Kit knew what was happening, Parker directed his cronies to the table next to them. Kit started to squirm, but Nelson and Darren held him firm. They each had fifty pounds on him, able to shift him about like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth.
Parker grabbed Kit’s left arm and set it onto the cold platform of Ol’ Choppy. He positioned Kit’s hand so his small pinky lay on the cutting edge.
“Please,” Kit pleaded. “No. No. Please … please Parker, no—”
Parker gave him a stinging slap. “Shut it, Smudge.” He placed a hand on the cutting arm handle. “You make one fucking sound and you’ll lose more than a pinky. Got it?”
Kit whimpered. He couldn’t see very well as it was, but staring down at his finger—the finger he was about to lose—he saw it perfectly clear in his mind. And lots of blood.
“Awww, don’t cry, Smudge. You won’t feel a thing.” Parker brought the blade down in a blur, stopping it halfway.
Kit bit back a scream. “Please, please don’t.” Tears welled in his eyes.
“You know why I’m doing this, Smudge?”
Kit shook his head.
“Number one,” Parker said. “You’re a total douche.”
Darren laughed.
“Number two: Your mom’s a whore who hangs out with that writer douche.”
Kit swallowed something thick.
“What’s his story, anyway?” Parker said. “I wasn’t there for that lame-oid parade, but that shit at the park—whoa.”
“What about yesterday?” Darren said. “That shit down at the Conoco. Fuckin’ bodies everywhere, dude.”
Again Parker brought down the blade, stopping it barely an inch from Kit’s finger. Kit could hardly contain the scream that would finish him if he dared let it loose.
“A lotta people are askin’ questions about you and that douche,” Parker said. “Me? I don’t give a fuck. But when my little cousin hurts her arm because of some douche-bag you’re hangin’ with, that’s a whole new reason to kick your epileptic ass.”
Parker set the blade close to Kit’s finger. He pressed it down gently, teasing the skin. Kit winced in anticipation.
“It’ll hurt like hell if I do it slow,” Parker told him. “So I’ll ask you once more. What the fuck is that douche-bag’s story?”
Nelson Kurtz looked at Darren Philips, then back at Parker. “You better do as he says, kid.” He sounded concerned.
Parker pressed down a little more, and Kit began to tremble. The blade carved a thin slit between his pinky knuckles, pricking him. Barely a hint of blood flowed from this superficial wound, but it was more than enough to set him off. His lips quivered as he stifled a cry. And now he felt a warm tingle flow down his leg as his bladder failed him.
Parker flung the blade up and backed off. He stepped away from the urine, which by now had made a small puddle on the carpet. Nelson and Darren released their grip on Kit and moved back.
Kit was sobbing. He knelt down to grab his glasses. As he was about to scoop them up, Parker kicked them away. Kit lost his balance, and his left hand found his puddle. Parker bellowed in laughter.
Kit scurried for his glasses and slipped them on. He got to his feet and tried to bolt around Parker Brooks. The carpet was slick, and he slipped, twisting his ankle. He tumbled forward. His forehead struck the hard edge of a bookshelf, and he fell to the floor, screaming. Blood dribbled down his forehead and slid down his nose.
Gateway Page 33
