Death's Academy

by Bast, Michael

  “Night, it’s me. You and I’ve known each other for practically our whole lives. You don’t need to make up any stories to impress me.”

  Hearing Mal parrot what the reporters said earlier makes me want to shout some unmentionable words and phrases, but I take the high road.

  “Mal, you’re right. You and I have known each other for a long time.” I grab both of her shoulders this time and look directly into her eyes. “I’m not lying. This isn’t a story. They killed Roger, and they’re coming for something in the Lock.”

  Mal opens her mouth to speak, but I press on.

  “I need you to go to Larkspur Park and hide somewhere. Be my eyes and ears. I would bet my life they’re coming tonight. When you see the unicorns, sound the hoodie alarm. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth. I swear.”

  Mal knocks my arm away and heads for the window. She swings one leg out and turns back toward me. “It doesn’t sound crazy, Night. It is crazy. There are no such things as unicorns anymore. Everyone knows that.”

  She swings her other leg over the windowsill and begins to climb down the trellis.

  “Mal, I held him,” I say.

  She stops and looks back at me, her eyes just peeking over the edge.

  “I held Roger in my arms right before he died. They killed him, and they took him. I wouldn’t make that up.”

  She waits for what seems like several minutes, her eyes studying mine.

  “I’ll go down there until midnight. That’s it,” she says and dips out of sight.

  I rush over to the window and see her drop the final few feet to the ground.

  “Mal.”

  She looks back up at me.

  “Will you come back here after you leave the park? I want to make sure you’re okay,” I say.

  She sighs. “Will you be awake?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  She gives me a curt nod and turns to leave.

  “Hold on a second,” I say, reaching into my pocket. I tug my house key out and toss it to her. “Just come in.”

  She catches the key, tucks it into her back pocket, and runs off.

  I watch as she disappears around the corner. I glance up and down the street of my neighborhood. One of my shorty neighbors is mowing his lawn. A few houses down, a young boy teeters back and forth on his training wheels as he pedals his bike down the sidewalk. Seeing my neighborhood like this almost makes it feel impossible to believe what I saw at Larkspur Park. But I know what I saw, and I know they are coming … soon.

  Seventeen

  I yawn so wide I feel like an anaconda swallowing a giant turtle shell. I rub my jaw and slap my face a couple of times. I rub my watering eyes and peer over to the digital display on the clock. 9:47 p.m.

  “It’s got to be later than that!”

  I’ve been flipping back and forth between the shorty channels and the Hoodie Network all day. I don’t know what has been the low point today, watching reruns of “Pimp My Crypt” or actually sitting through three episodes of “Death Comes Gently,” a soap opera designed for people just like my mom.

  I flip the channel to a shorty station, and a football game pops on. I yawn again. What a joke. Those shorties think they’re so tough wearing their cute little helmets and pads. If any of those guys got onto the field during a professional skull ball game, they would soil their skintight pants and run home to their mamas.

  I flip the channel back to the Hoodie Network and static fills the screen. I flip to another channel on the network, but it’s the same story.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I say and pull myself from the couch. I walk over to the TV and give it a couple of shakes, but nothing.

  “Figures.”

  My dad probably forgot to pay the bill, and we got shut off. I jab the remote at the TV a couple more times, but all I get are the shorty stations coming through. Boring!

  My stomach grumbles. I’m hungry. I make my way into the kitchen and throw open the refrigerator door. There’s a ton of food, but nothing looks good.

  “I wonder what kind of gross dinners my mom freeze-dried,” I say, walking into the pantry. There are twenty plastic bags lying across one of the shelves. Each one of them is labeled with “lunch” or “dinner” and a day. I grab one of them to examine the contents when I notice an envelope flutter to the ground.

  I swipe it off the floor and see my name scratched across the front in my dad’s handwriting. It suddenly dawns on me that this is what he had been talking about earlier. This is what he left me!

  My heart starts to thunder in my chest. I rip the envelope open and slide the paper out. It’s folded into thirds. I glide my fingers across it, almost afraid of what’s inside. I bet it’s the explanation of the Queen Suzanne incident. I bet it’s the in-depth account of how it wasn’t really his fault. Maybe it’s even a quest. Maybe my dad needs me to solve the mystery of what really happened on the Queen Suzanne, and it’s up to me to find the proof that it wasn’t his fault.

  I gently open the letter and peer at the handwritten words.

  Dear Night,

  I know it’s hard to be the only one that believes your story. It is one of the loneliest feelings in the world. Remember your mom and I will always love you. Be good this week.

  Love,

  Dad

  P.S. You’ll always have a believer in me. Remember, if things get bleak, “Death is a beginning, not an ending.”

  I read the letter in silence two or three more times to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. Have you ever let go of a balloon before you tie its end and it sputters and figure-eights through the air before flopping pitifully onto the ground? That’s what just happened to my hopes. Instead of letting me in on the great secret or prodding me to help him clear our family name, he writes that sappy love stuff. He even ends it with that silly saying that is supposed to be over the entrance into Death’s Academy. I crumple up the letter and toss it at the kitchen trash can. It hits the rim and ricochets off, landing in the middle of the floor. I shrug, grab a dark chocolate bar, and head back for the front room.

  I flop back down onto the couch and click the TV off. I swipe a copy of my dad’s magazine Outdoor Hoodie and start flipping through the pages. I yawn a third time, and before long the words on the page start to wave in and out of focus. I lay the magazine on my chest.

  “I’ll just close my eyes for a second.”

  I can see Roger at the end of a long corridor. A heavy iron door with rusted bolts is creeping shut between us. I race forward, calling to him. I’m running as fast as I can, but I can’t seem to get any closer. The door scrapes shut with a clunk and everything goes black. I stop running and reach out my hands for the walls of the corridor. I feel their cool surface against my fingertips and move forward, letting them guide me.

  Clop! Clop! I can hear the sound of hooves against concrete scuttling behind me. I glance over my shoulder and two gleaming eyes peer back at me. I scream.

  My eyes flicker open, and I catch my breath. I feel my couch’s familiar fabric against my face. I push myself up and blink, trying to acclimatize my eyes to the light. I jerk my head around looking for the clock.

  “What time is it?”

  Across the room, the clock glows 2:38 a.m. I jump from the couch and scurry toward the clock to make sure. I wasn’t mistaken. It says 2:38 a.m.

  I look around wildly, half expecting to see Mal somewhere in the front room, but I’m alone. I run over to the window and throw it open. I look one way and then another down the street, but everything is dead silent. I’m about to close the window when I notice a faint discoloration in the night sky above my neighbor’s tree. There is a distant plume of smoke rising to the heavens, coming from downtown.

  “Wow, that’s got to be a big fire,” I say.

  My stomach lurches. The Lock is downtown.

  I sprint back to the couch and grab the remote control and flip the TV onto the Hoodie Network. A pulse screeches from the TV and words f
lash across the screen. “Emergency Hoodie Network: This is not a test.” I switch the channel and it’s the same ear-piercing pulse and the same message.

  “They’re here! Mal!”

  I race for the front door and just barely catch myself before I cross the threshold. The moderator is still on my ankle. I was mere inches from becoming a statue. I scream out in frustration and slam the front door.

  Something must have happened to Mal. She would have sounded the alarm and then come here, I know it. I reach down at the moderator and tug on it with all my might, but it doesn’t budge.

  “Maybe I can cut it off,” I say and rush to the kitchen. I throw open the drawers until I find the biggest kitchen knife I can. I carefully begin slicing at the moderator, but instead of cutting through it, the knife’s edge actually starts to peel away like an orange’s skin coiling into a corkscrew with each slice.

  “What is this thing made of?” I grab another knife and try with that one, but I get the same result. I throw it down in disgust. It bounces off the floor and lands next to my dad’s worthless letter. I sneer.

  “Yeah, Dad, that really helped! Like usual, you’re an absolute waste of space!” I kick the crumpled up letter against the kitchen wall. “Guess what, Dad? Things are pretty bleak! But, oh, don’t you worry. I won’t forget, ‘Death is a beginning, not an ending!’ ” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

  Suddenly, there’s a jolt on my ankle and I hear a metal clank onto the kitchen floor. I look down at my ankle. The moderator has fallen off and is lying next to my foot, the red light no longer blinking.

  I stare at it for several seconds in disbelief.

  “Death is a beginning, not an ending,” I whisper. “That was the release code … Mal!”

  Eighteen

  I dash out the front door and down the street. I get a few blocks when my lungs and legs remind me that the park is five miles away and the Lock, ten. I’m in pretty extraordinary shape, if I do say so myself, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to sprint five miles. An idea pops into my head and I make a sharp left. I scale a couple of fences, dodge a lawn chair or two, and arrive at Mal’s street. I need her Hound-ariot.

  I reach Mal’s house and pound on her front door for good measure, but I’m not surprised that it remains dark. Her parents are at the Reapless and Mal is a hostage or …

  I yank open the shed and pull out the Hound-ariot. I point the tip of the arrowhead-shaped board toward the front of the house and thrust the iron handle into place. I pry the hellhound whistle from the handle and give it two quick blows. No audible sound comes from the whistle, but it only takes a few moments to realize it has worked. The same wiener dog and poodle that came last time arrive at my feet.

  I tug the hoops off the Hound-ariot’s handle. The thin steel chain extends from the handle to the hoops. I lasso the hoops around their necks. I jump onto the board. I’ve wanted to ride this thing since Mal zipped around the house on it. I wish I was riding it under different circumstances, but I’m still a bit stoked.

  I grip the handle and say, “Larkspur Park!”

  The poodle sneezes twice and the wiener dog flops onto his back haunches.

  “Larkspur Park!” I yell with more force. The wiener dog yawns and scratches his ear.

  “Come on! What’s going on?”

  The poodle glances back at me and gives me a “you can’t be that dumb” look. I know those looks; I get them all the time from Mal. I smack the side of my head in frustration.

  “The whistle, doofus.”

  I lift the whistle close to my lips and with a commanding and regal voice, I say, “Larkspur Park.” I blow the whistle, and the wiener dog springs from his backside, and the two hounds take off.

  The Hound-ariot leaps forward. I nearly tumble backward off the red platform but am able to grasp the handle at the last second. We blister around the edge of Mal’s yard and are out into the street. I can’t believe how fast we are going. My eyes start watering from the rushing air.

  Thankfully, it’s the middle of the night. If any of you shorties were to see me, I’m sure I would be quite a sight to see. To your eyes it would look like I was being dragged on a scooter behind a fat wiener dog with its tongue hanging out of its mouth and a nimble poodle with cotton ball puffs for fur.

  It only takes about ten minutes before we reach Larkspur Park. The towering trees and long shadows send shivers down my spine.

  “Stop!” I command, blowing the whistle.

  The Hound-ariot stops instantly. I curse as I fly horizontally over the top of the two hounds. As the ground quickly approaches, I realize I should have said “slow down” first. I crash headfirst and slide for much longer than I would like to. The whistle tumbles from my hand.

  I peel myself off the road and give the two hounds a dirty look. I swear the poodle is chuckling at me. I dust my clothes off and pick up the whistle. Just ahead of me, tree trunks are splintered and bent like a herd of elephants have crashed through them. Deep tracks cut through the muddy earth, and many of the red brick pathways are cracked or shattered.

  “Unicorns,” I whisper.

  I dash for the intersection and the crossing signal button. I jab the button. Dash, dash, hold, dash, hold, dash, dash, hold, hold. Nothing happens. No flashing lights, no voice, nothing. I use the code again … nothing. Something is terribly wrong.

  I turn to the two hounds, who are watching me uninterestedly. “We’ve got to go to the Lock.”

  I untangle the steel chains and set the red handlebars upright on the Hound-ariot. I give the command and blow the whistle. Street names fly by as we gallop toward downtown. The skyscrapers that encircle the Lock are bathed in smoke. A flickering glow reflects off of their windows. The Lock is on fire.

  We take another corner, and between the cracks of two buildings I catch my first glimpse of distant flames dancing atop the Lock’s roof. My hands begin to sweat and my heart starts to race.

  “This is bad. Slow down slowly!” I say and blow the whistle.

  I can tell that the wiener dog and poodle are disappointed that they can’t stop on a dime and send me hurtling through the air again, but they do as they are told and gradually slow down to a trot.

  Just ahead of us, there’s an opening to a shadowed alley.

  “Turn right at the alley!” I command and blow the whistle.

  We swerve and plunge into the darkness. We zigzag through alleys and back roads between buildings until we are only a few blocks from the Lock.

  “Stop,” I whisper and blow the whistle. We glide to a stop next to a foul-smelling dumpster. The two hounds can hardly contain themselves; they’re yipping and jumping at the chance to plunge themselves into the garbage.

  “Be quiet and lie down,” I say and sound the whistle.

  The two hounds flop onto their bellies, but their tails are whipping back and forth like windshield wipers in a hurricane.

  “Stay here.”

  I peer up and down the gloomy alley. Pools of light cast by yellowed lamps dot the narrow road ahead of me. I scurry forward and press myself up against one of the brick-walled buildings. I creep along the wall, dodging the pools of light, sticking to the darkness. There’s a distant collision of sound, a jumbled mixture of crackling fire, voices, and unicorn hooves hammering against the pavement. The noise grows with each step I take.

  I reach a fork in the alleyway, an intersection that shorty garbage trucks use to maneuver through the maze of buildings. I drop to my stomach and crawl to the edge of the wall. I look both ways, but there isn’t a soul to be seen.

  Above me, the fire illuminates the tops of the buildings. I wait a few more seconds, not only to make sure there aren’t any unicorns but also to build up the courage to move my legs.

  “Come on, move,” I whisper. “You gotta keep going.”

  My entire body feels as if it has been dipped in hardening cement. A thought flickers across my mind. A wonderful thought, one that my entire essence agrees with.
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  You’re not even a shrouded hoodie yet. Just go home and let the professionals handle this.

  Trailing only moments behind this thought, an image of Mal flashes in my memory.

  You sent her to the park.

  The stinging accusation pricks my conscience, and I force my muscles to move. I get to my feet and slide around the corner. I dart across the narrow road and press my body up against the other building. I follow it for another thirty yards until I reach another intersection. I extend my neck out, allowing just my left eye to peek down the road. Nothing.

  I take a measured step around the corner. Whack! Two hooves have driven into my back just above my shoulder blades. I plunge forward, crashing into an aluminum trash can. The clang echoes down the alley as it bounces and skips across the pavement. I groan in pain and scurry to my feet.

  Before I’m able to focus, something stark white leaps forward, catches hold of the iron fire escape scaffolding above, and swings its legs toward me. It lets go of the scaffolding and launches its stubby body in my direction. Its hooves catch me in the center of the chest. All the oxygen evacuates out of my lungs in a raspy whistle, and I’m flung backward onto the earth.

  I do a complete reverse somersault and end up facedown on the pavement. I crumple up and grasp my throat—all my wind has been knocked from me. Slowly the air reaches my lungs, and I swallow it up.

  A shallow laugh reverberates off the building walls, and a clack, clack, clack drums in my ears like a nimble tap dancer walking across a wooden floor. I dare to lift my head.

  A three-foot-tall unicorn stares down at me. Two pudgy legs hold up his narrow torso. His swishing tail drags slightly against the road. He has a glimmering white mane that drapes across his back and the front of his face like a bad case of junior high bangs. A row of rose-colored bows highlight his mane down his back. If I wasn’t in so much pain, I would have a nice long laugh at his expense.

  “Get up, little hoodie. Get up. It’s time to play,” he says.

  I push myself into a sitting position and massage my chest. I give him a long appraising look.