by David Estes
What if…
No.
With barely a whisper, I ask, “How many people died?” I already know the answer before the question leaves my mouth. Do I really want to hear it out loud?
Mr. Jackson purses his lips. Pauses, as if considering whether to tell me the truth. “Millions,” he says. The word is like a hammer to my chest. Millions dead is world wars. The Black Plague. Genocide.
“No,” I say, not because I don’t believe him, but because millions could mean that they’re dead, too. Xave and Beth.
“I’m sorry, Rhett,” Mr. Jackson says, which makes me look at him sharply. Hearing my name on the lips of the man I’ve barely spoken to in the five years I’ve been living on this street, the man who saved my life, sounds surreal.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, sitting up quickly. I try to stand, but my head is spinning and I lose my balance, collapsing onto the couch. Mr. Jackson is at my side before I can try again, holding me down firmly. “You need to rest a little longer,” he says, and although I try to argue I can’t find the words, because the world is fading fading fading into dark oblivion.
~~~
I wake up smiling and reaching for my phone to see if I have any texts from Xave or Beth.
All I get is a handful of empty air. There’s no bedside table. No cell phone. Just me and a couch and a thin line of sunlight tracing a path across the worn gray carpet in Mr. Jackson’s living room.
Xave and Beth. Beth and Xave. I have to find them. Have to know if they survived the attack.
I throw off the blanket and sit up, fighting off the dizziness and the fear and the sadness that coat me like a black tar.
“You can’t just leave,” Mr. Jackson says, startling me once again.
“Will you stop doing that?” I say. Before he can answer, I add, “What—am I your prisoner?”
“No,” he says.
“Then I’m leaving.”
“You’ll be dead in five minutes.”
“So you say.”
“So I say.”
My chest heaving, I take a few deep breaths. “It’s that bad?”
“They’re still killing anyone they find,” he says. A fresh wave of fear rolls over me. Not for me. For my friends.
“I have to find my friends,” I say. “If they’re alive…”
“Beth and Xave,” he says. Not a question.
“How do you…”
“I keep my eyes open,” he says. When I frown, he explains. “I’m not some creepy stalker, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I raise my eyebrows because that’s exactly what I was thinking. “I’m ex-CIA. It’s always been my job to pay attention. Old habits and all that.”
“Oh,” is all I can think of to say, when inside I’m wondering how I didn’t know there was a spy living in our neighborhood.
“Do you think my friends are alive?” I ask. He won’t look me in the eyes, which is all the answer I need. “I have to be sure.”
“I know, son. Just let me check out the neighborhood, see if there’s any witch activity. Then we’ll look for your friends together. Is that fair?”
I shrug. Do I have a choice? “Okay,” I say.
He grabs his sword and gives me a dark look. “Why a sword?” I ask. “Wouldn’t a gun be more effective?”
His eyes go to the blade and he runs a finger along the metal, almost tenderly. “There are many ways to fight witches. And this isn’t a normal sword. It’s made by witches from cursed steel. I’ve managed to collect a few of them along the way.”
Before I can ask how he obtained a cursed sword, he’s gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Five
Mr. Jackson exits through the back door, taking his long sword with him. Funny how you can know a man living a few doors down for a long time and not really know him at all. He doesn’t even look middle-aged anymore, as if the years have been exfoliated away like dry skin.
I pass the time pulling individual hairs out of the skin on the back of my hand.
When he returns an hour later, he has my journal and a thin smile. “Not all is lost, son,” he says.
“What did you do, search my house?” I say, but I accept the book like a sack of gold.
“Ex-CIA, remember?” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, surprised when no tears well up. “Did you…?” I let the thought disappear like dew in direct sunlight.
He shakes his head. “They were gone,” he says.
I don’t ask who would remove the dead bodies of my family from an abandoned house because I don’t want to know.
“Is it safe?” I ask.
“It might never be safe again,” he says. I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “But if we’re smart and careful it’s safe enough for us to try to find your friends.”
“When?” I say.
“Tomorrow at first light,” he says.
It’s not soon enough for me, but I don’t argue with the man with the sword.
For an hour I watch Mr. Jackson try to get news from the rest of the country. Although TV and the internet are officially “broken,” he has a shortwave radio and a lot of patience, which is more than most people. From the snippets of chatter we pick up, it’s clear that no one was unaffected by the attacks. Those who survived are hiding or on the run. People are even saying some humans have joined the…I have to swallow hard even to think it…witches, helping to track down any humans who have escaped. Which is seriously messed up stuff that doesn’t surprise me in the least.
And there’s a rumor that the President of the United States is dead.
“This is so screwed up,” I say aloud. At least a thousand times worse than Todd Logue and his constant bullying. And a hundred times worse than the abuse Xave and I took from Big Hank back in the day.
I stare at the wall for the next hour, while Mr. Jackson sharpens his sword, the sound growing more and more hypnotic, until my eyelids are heavier than anchors.
When I wake up, Mr. Jackson is fiddling with the radio again. But I don’t care about the news anymore. Not when all I can think about is Beth and Xave.
“I have to find them,” I say.
“Soon,” Mr. Jackson says. And then, “You know, we’re going to need strong people to fight against the witches.”
I stare at him. Fight? The witches? “You mean me?”
“You’re strong,” he says.
“Not in that way,” I say.
“You might surprise yourself.”
“No,” I say. “I won’t. Let me try to explain this to you. Do you know what a book blog is?”
“I know what a blog is, so I can take a guess.”
“That’s what I do. I read books and I write about them. Yeah, I play football, but only because I’m good at it and I need a scholarship. And I don’t even hit anyone. I just catch passes and run like hell. I’m not a fighter. Okay?”
“Not okay,” Mr. Jackson says.
I let out a heavy sigh, exasperated. “Look, I just want to find my friends and get the hell away from the witches. That’s all. I don’t want to fight anyone.”
“Hmm” is Mr. Jackson’s only response.
Eventually the artificial darkness of the room becomes real as the sun sets over Atlanta. We eat something meaningless, and I fall into a fitful sleep that’s thankfully ended when Mr. Jackson looms over me.
“It’s time to find your friends,” he says.
I feel a flutter in my chest, both because I desperately want to find them and because I’m scared of what I might find. I don’t respond, just stuff my feet in my old sneakers.
“Stay close,” he says before opening the back door, stepping out into a dark pre-sunrise morning.
For the next hour or so, I guide him step by step across town, to the street where Beth and Xavier live next door to each other. The streets are eerily quiet and deserted. Abandoned parked cars stand like exhibits in a museum, frozen in time.
We don’t see any bodies, but there are bloodstains e
verywhere. On the streets, on the sidewalks, on fences and cars and crusted on the sides of mailboxes. My heart pounds like cannon blasts and blood rushes in my head. Where are the dead?
Did most of them die in their own homes? Because Salem’s Revenge came at midnight, west coast time, it’s likely most people in North America were inside when it happened. The unlucky ones who were out would’ve been the first to go.
Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I try not to look at the crimson smears leading from the houses we pass.
When we reach the right street, I take a deep breath and hold it, only exhaling when Mr. Jackson puts a finger to his lips and leads me through the side gate and around the back of Beth’s house. The backyard, once pruned and manicured by Beth’s green-thumb mom, is in disarray, the turf muddy and chewed up, several bushes just piles of ash, like our rosebush. The witches were here, I think, a pit forming in my gut.
The backdoor is cracked in half and lying unhinged on the patio, shreds of peeling blue paint curling around its edges.
And inside: carnage.
The kitchen looks as if a tornado passed through it, pots and pans and spatulas and chopping boards strewn about on the floor and countertops. Shards from shattered glasses and mugs look like fallen ice chips.
My heart pounds. My stomach hurts. No one could have survived something like this. Could they?
I stand in the destroyed kitchen, unwilling to move. “Wait here,” Mr. Jackson says.
I close my eyes, willing the world to change back to normal, where Mondays mean school and homework and football practice and lying in the grass with Beth and Xavier and a good book, and writing a blog post called “Weekend Reads” to help my 889 blog followers decide which book to read next.
When I open my eyes, I’m still in Beth’s ransacked kitchen, and I know the old world is gone forever. A trembling shiver runs up my spine.
“In here,” Mr. Jackson shouts from the next room, and I hate all the things those two simple words could possibly mean.
But still I go, one foot at a time, crunching glass and broken uncooked spaghetti noodles under my trod. By the fireplace, Mr. Jackson crouches like a gargoyle, inspecting something. Not a body. That’s all I care about as I whistle through my teeth.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A message,” he replies without looking up.
I squat next to him, taking it all in. A nail pounded into the edge of the white-painted wooden mantle. A silver ring hanging from the head of the nail, the very piece of jewelry I gave Beth a month earlier for our one year anniversary of becoming an official couple. Three small, turquoise stones, shaped like hearts. And beneath it, a message, written in red ink:
The ones with the black hoods took X.
The final diagonal line of the “X” runs away like a bloody slash in the wood, as if the writer lost all strength at that point. And that’s when I realize the truth: It’s not red ink, it’s blood; and I would recognize the handwriting anywhere.
“Oh, Beth,” I whisper.
Mr. Jackson catches me as I fall back and lays my head gently on the carpet. I want to pass out, to close my eyes and sleep forever and ever and ever, but I can’t do it, no matter how hard I try.
Mr. Jackson looks down at me and says, “Do you want to find your friend?”
I can’t speak, can’t answer him, can’t not notice that he didn’t use the plural word. Try to swallow. Can’t. Try again. Find my breath, my words. “Friends,” I correct.
A grim expression hovers overhead. “Let me teach you how to fight witches,” he says.
~~~
I can’t say no to Mr. Jackson’s offer, even though the thought of facing a witch like the one that killed the Smiths raises goose bumps on the back of my neck. Not when there’s still a chance my friends are alive.
The first class is Witches 101.
Mr. Jackson hands me a mug of hot coffee prepared on his propane grill.
“What’s the difference between witches, warlocks and wizards, Mr. Jackson?” I ask, cupping my hands, which are suddenly cold, around the mug. “Witches are female, right?”
“Correct,” he says, drawing on one of the white walls in his living room with a black permanent marker. You know things have taken a turn for the worse when a retired ex-CIA guy would graffiti his own house. He writes “Witches” and “Warlocks” on one side of the wall. “Witches and warlocks are the same, but referred to by different names based on gender. They are the magic-born, typically with at least one magical parent, although sometimes the magic gene can skip a generation.”
“And wizards?” I ask.
Mr. Jackson adds “Wizards” to the other side of the wall, apart from Witches and Warlocks. “Wizards are…different,” he says slowly, as if trying to formulate his thoughts. “No one really knows where they come from. They’re not born, and when they appear they have no recollection of their own creation. Some believe that they’re a byproduct of powerful spells performed by dark sorcerers, but no one knows for sure.”
“But they have magic, too?” I ask, thinking immediately of Harry Potter flicking his wand and muttering spells.
Mr. Jacksons nods. “Powerful magic. One wizard would be a good match for three or four full-grown witches or warlocks.”
“How do you know any of this?” I ask. “And don’t give me that ex-CIA crap.”
Mr. Jackson squints at me. “It doesn’t matter how I know. Just that I do.”
Evasive much? In typical fashion, I continue firing away. “So if magic can skip a generation, then a witch and a wizard’s kid might not be one?”
Mr. Jackson scratches his head, as if wondering why he signed up to teach me. “Right.”
“So you could theoretically have witchy parents and not be a warlock yourself?”
He motions to himself, as if to say Me? “I’m not a warlock,” he says.
“I didn’t say you were. If you were, you would have helped that witch kill me, rather than fighting her off with your sword.” A bead of sweat runs down his forehead. Are my questions striking a nerve?
“So why the questions then?” he asks, turning away to draw a line under the three types of magical beings he’s listed.
I smile. “Because I bet you know all this stuff because one or both of your parents has magic.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But we won’t be talking about that anytime soon.” I consider responding, but he walks off before I can even start to pull the right words together.
When roses are ash,
And violets are dust,
And words turn to blood,
It’s Mr. Jackson I trust.
Mr. Jackson, Rhett Carter
Chapter Six
The days blur together almost immediately. Has it been three days since the attack, or four? It feels weird that I don’t know. Sometimes what Mr. Jackson calls Salem’s Revenge seems like something from the distant past, blurry and fuzzy and full of holes. A broken thing. Even putting pen to paper feels full of smoke and ash, like the very words I write might catch on fire or turn to blood in remembrance of the millions lost in a single night, the vast majority in less than an hour. But still, writing in my journal gives me much-needed comfort.
In between Mr. Jackson’s lectures on witches and warlocks, I spend my time on his couch in a ball under an old blanket. Not speaking. Barely eating. He mostly leaves me alone, as if he knows I’m too shattered to touch.
Because Beth and Xave are gone. Which Mr. Jackson keeps telling me means they’re probably dead. Some of our biggest discussions, like the one we’re engaged in now, are directly related to this topic.
“Wouldn’t the witches have left her if she was dead?” I argue, immediately remembering that my family’s dead bodies were taken, too. Who would do such a thing?
“You don’t know everything, Mr. Carter,” he says.
“That’s because you insist on explaining what you know at the pace of snail,” I retort. “And not a fast one,” I add.
> “What do you want me to tell you?” he says. “You’re a kid. A broken kid with no place to go and if I dump everything I know on you in one lump I’m afraid you might never come out from that blanket you keep hiding under!” I’ve never seen Mr. Jackson this frustrated before, and I take a step back.
I put my hands out. “Look, I’m sorry. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. Taking me in, teaching me…you didn’t have to do any of that. But I feel like I know nothing, even after you explained where baby witches come from.”
Mr. Jackson folds his thick forearms across his chest.
“I’m ready,” I say. “I won’t crawl under the blanket. I won’t bawl and wet my pants. Give me the truth. All of it.”
He chews on his lip thoughtfully, raising one hand to stroke his graying beard.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Sit down and pay attention.”
I sit on the couch, shoving the blanket under a pillow and out of sight.
Mr. Jackson sits backwards on a chair in front of me. “Witches and warlocks tend to form groups,” he starts.
“Covens?”
“They don’t really call them that anymore. The word gang gets used sometimes.”
“Is it based on extended families?”
“Geez, son, can I just take you through it without a million questions?” Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows.
I nod.
“The gangs aren’t based on familial relationships. What matters to magic-born are skills and powers. Not every witch or warlock is created equal. Some have a knack for spellcasting, and others have the ability to summon demons.”
An image of acid-drooling hellhounds snapping and snarling as they rip apart a group of fleeing survivors flashes in my head. Maybe I’m not ready for this. I grit my teeth because I have to be ready for it. Beth and Xave are counting on me. I say, “Go on.”
“Some skills are very common, like creating and controlling fire or electricity—we call these witches Pyros and Volts, respectively—and other powers occur less frequently, those that are violent and laced with dark magic.”
