Brave Men Run
A Novel of the Sovereign Era
by
Matthew Wayne Selznick
The Charters Duology, Volume One
Revised and Expanded Edition
Published by
MWS MEDIA
Long Beach, California, USA
Brave Men Run -- A Novel of the Sovereign Era
Revised and Expanded Edition
Published by MWS Media
First publication: April, 2013
ISBN-10: 0976942461
ISBN-13: 978-0-9769424-6-7
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005, 2006, 2008, 2013 Matthew Wayne Selznick
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write the publisher at [email protected] with the subject line "Attention: Permissions Coordinator."
Cover Art and Design: Neal Von Flue
Portions of this work appeared in a slightly different form as the short story "Brenhurst's Tale -- Another View of 'Brave Men Run'" published in chapbook and ebook form by MWS Media.
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Dedication
This is for Carmen, who has the whole of my heart.
Author's Note
This story is largely told through the written journal of Nathan Andrew Charters. I have taken some liberties with the source material in the service of clarity and consistency, but I've endeavored to maintain Nate's voice wherever possible, as this is, after all, his story.
The sections presented from the point of view of Doctor Lester Brenhurst are an extrapolation based on interviews, court documents and transcriptions, and the public record, and should be considered a storytelling construction.
-- Matthew Wayne Selznick
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – One
I was used to eating alone.
I mean, I preferred it. When I’m hungry, I need a lot of food. I really put it away, and it’s easier if I can just concentrate on getting fuel in me without paying attention to my friends.
Not that there are whole lot of friends to distract me in the first place. We’re talking, like, count-on-one-hand quantities, here. We’re the misfits rejected by all the other cliques at Abbeque Valley High, too weird for the rest, and even in my little band, I stand out.
So it’s just as well that Abbeque Valley High School’s become so crowded over the last few years they have two lunch periods, and my friends happen to have the other one. I can concentrate on eating.
On the eighteenth of April, 1985, I sat down in my usual spot in the indoor commons, against the brick wall under Ms. Elp’s office window, and got to it.
Yes, it was that day. It was a Thursday, kind of on the cool side. Do you remember where you were and what you were doing?
Anyway, I liked to eat lunch under Ms. Elp's window because she spent her lunch keeping her eye on activity out in the commons. She’s the discipline advisor – if you’re going to get busted, you’ll deal with her. For a freak like me, having her literally at my back provided a little insurance I might be able to eat my lunch in peace.
It’s not always enough.
My hearing is very, very sensitive. Even with the racket of a few hundred kids yammering away while they eat their lunches, I can pick out certain things that might be important to my well-being. It’s part of what makes me different, same as needing to eat so much and so often.
I was halfway through my second salami sandwich when I heard the distinctive, sloshing, whoosh a partially open carton of milk makes as it flies through the air. It’s a sound I’ve heard before, and I’ve learned from the past.
I grabbed my lunch bag in one hand, my backpack in the other, and stood up. I shuffled a few feet to the left of where I'd been sitting.
The milk bomb burst against the wall. Pretty good shot; right where my back had been a few seconds before.
I looked along the arc of the milk bomb’s trajectory, across the commons. I was not surprised to see Byron Teslowski standing over in the jocks’ corner, holding court with his Wingmen. I was a target for a lot of jerks, but I'd had Teslowski’s special attention since sixth grade.
What did have me wondering was the look I saw on Teslowski’s face. He didn’t sport the grinning sneer I expected.
He looked disappointed, and confused, sure, but there was something else there I couldn’t figure out. We locked eyes for a second before Terrance Felder knocked him on his arm and got his attention, and that was that.
I sighed. Milk dripped down the wall and pooled at my feet. I was still hungry. Ms. Elp, who somehow missed the whole thing, caught my eye through the window and gave me a curt smile. I could see myself in the dim reflection of the window: short brown hair that shed just enough to never really get any longer; too-broad cheeks to support green eyes that were way too big for the rest of my head.
I looked away.
A pack of girls strolled by. The alpha bimbette, Gaby Samson, had been wearing spandex tops and leggings every day since “Flashdance” came out. I tried not to notice how puberty's blessings had provided her with gifts she hadn't had when we were in junior high. She took a second to look me up and down, lingering on the dirty white pool trickling around my feet.
“Nice puddle,” she said. Her friends all laughed, musically, obviously thrilled with themselves.
Just about your normal day for Nate Charters, boy freak.
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Two
I managed to get through the next three periods without incident. Seventh period, last of the day, was a study hall for me. I don’t know if anyone with last period study hall actually ever spent that time studying. The ones old enough to drive usually just went home. Abbeque Valley High was a closed campus, but even Ms. Elp looked the other way when it came to some things.
I was a sophomore, not quite sixteen, and, like my best friend Mel Wilson, still dependent on the school bus. Seventh period was when we debriefed one another on the mishaps of the day. He met me on the stairs that led down to the athletic field.
“Anything to report, Mr. Charters?”
“Byron Teslowski tried to milk-bomb me at lunch.”
Mel stroked the few dark whiskers that he’d coaxed out of his chin since winter break. “Testosteronski ought to know better by now, I'd think.”
We started down the stairs. “He does.” I thought about the odd look on Teslowski’s face. “I know he does…”
Teslowski had been harassing me so long, I knew he was familiar with the fringe benefits of my wacky metabolism and Japanese-cartoon c
haracter facial features. He should have known I would hear the milk bomb, just like I could smell his crappy cologne from fifty paces. Just like I could totally out-run and out-jump any kid in school, if I wanted to.
Never stopped him from hassling me. I guess it never stopped me from letting him, either.
“So what’s the point,” Mel said.
“I don’t know. Sport?” I frowned. I was missing something, I knew it, but I wasn't getting anywhere thinking about it. “What about you?”
“Claire’s got an Open Door, if we want to go hang out.”
Mel’s friend Claire was a Drama class geek who lived in the tract homes just beyond the fence at the far edge of the athletic field. Since a lot of us had seventh period free, she let us hang out at her place until the buses came. Open Door. It beat sticking around at school.
“Who’s gonna be there?”
“I think Jason, and of course Greg Fonseca. Some friend of Claire’s I don’t know – Rita or Lita or something.”
Jason Talbot was part of our little misfit band. Greg Fonseca, who wanted to have sex with Claire, was a rare neutral social element. “Okay.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs. To the left, unfortunates with seventh period Physical Education class did calisthenics on the blacktop under Coach Zick’s narrow gaze. To the right were the pre-fab classrooms and the upper parking lot. Straight ahead: the athletic field, and the little hole in the fence that led to Claire’s neighborhood.
I sighed and adjusted the shoulder strap of my backpack. It would be a long walk, out in the open, exposed to enemy eyes. Mel and I exchanged tight-lipped glances.
“Once more into the breach,” he said.
We headed out at a rapid clip, eyes front. The farther we got from the main school building, the more I felt like I was being pushed between the shoulders by the threat of discovery. We both knew Ms. Elp could appear at the top the stairs at any time, spot us, and haul us back to her office. Every step across the short grass of the athletic field increased our chances of a clean escape.
Unfortunately, every step also decreased the odds we would avoid notice by the kids doing P.E.
Mel and I were used to their taunts, but when the “faggots,” and “gay-boys” came, we picked up our pace. I don’t know why every other guy in school could have a best friend – any friend, for that matter – but if I did, I must be gay.
I knew I could lay some of the blame for my negative rep on Teslowski’s years of badgering. One day I’d thank him.
I kept my eyes on the fence. We were nearly there when Mel looked over his shoulder.
“Oop!” He looked back quickly.
“What?”
“Ms. Elp is looking at us.”
I risked a glance. My eyesight’s as good as my hearing. I saw Ms. Elp at the top of the stairs. I could make out every color in the tartan pattern on her long skirt, but I knew we wouldn't be anything other than unidentifiable blobs to her.
“We’re cool,” I said. “Too far away.”
“What if she asks us where we were, tomorrow?”
I shrugged. “Think of something. Plausible deniability, you know?”
“Hm.”
We made it to the fence and slipped through the hole in the chain link. Emerging on the quiet late afternoon street felt like casting off irons. I shifted my backpack again and tilted my head.
“Claire’s already got things started, sounds like.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can hear her stereo.”
Mel grinned. “Let me guess. Berlin?”
“Nice try, but no… it’s...” I gave it a second and really concentrated, filtering out other sounds as much as I could. “It’s Duran Duran.”
“I was gonna say Duran Duran..!”
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Three
At Claire’s, everyone was in the living room. If I knew Jason Talbot, Duran Duran wouldn’t be blasting from Claire’s parents’ big speakers much longer. He looked up from a box of records when Mel and I let ourselves in.
“Dude! She’s got, like, all three “Synchronicity” covers!”
Greg Fonseca, slouched on the couch like he didn’t care about anything, least of all Claire, muttered, “There’s five covers.”
Jason slid the vinyl from one of them. “Well, she’s got three.” He stood up to switch records and nodded a greeting to us. “What’s up, dudes?”
“Nada,” I said. Mel and Jason clasped hands, their arms making a “w.”
Claire came out from the back of the house. Fonseca sat up straight and smiled at her.
“Hey, guys!” She bounced with enthusiasm when she wasn’t putting on a button-lipped Molly Ringwald pout.
My super-sensitive sniffer caught the new scent while we all said our hellos. Baby powder and new sweat, plus the mysterious undertone of female pheromones. It absolutely wasn’t Claire. She had never, ever smelled like this. I looked around, confused and enthralled.
Then, the source came walking down the hall toward the living room. She was tall, with a shock of blonde hair done short and curly on top of her head, more Madonna than New Romantic. She had hazel eyes and a wide, smiling mouth, and the smell of her made me dizzy.
Claire said. “Everybody, this is my friend Lina. Lina, everybody.”
I don’t know what else was going on in the room.
I only know that Lina walked directly up to me, stuck out her hand, and said, ″You have the most beautiful eyes.”
I don’t remember taking her offered hand. I was too caught up in the way her own eyes sparkled; the way she managed to never lose her smile the whole time she looked at my weird face.
And she kept looking at me.
I’m used to the uncomfortable, curious stares people send my way. I’m noticeable. I'm different. I know it. This wasn’t that kind of look.
No one had ever looked at me the way she did.
I finally became aware of the lack of conversation around us. The only sound was from the stereo: Sting’s hollow tenor crooned “Walking in Your Footsteps,” again and again.
Claire finally spoke.
“Yeah… um, okay, then. Lina, this is Nate.”
“No one’s ever told me that before.” I silently thanked God my voice didn’t crack. I think I smiled. My lips felt like someone threw wet pasta on my face.
“That makes me special,” she said. “I’m Lina Porter.”
“Nate Charters.” I noticed we were shaking hands, very proper. We laughed about it at the same time, let go, and the moment passed.
My friends moved in.
“I’m Jason.” Lina nodded at him and smiled.
“Claire’s friend from O’Neil High!” Mel tipped an imaginary hat. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise. But I'm not so much at O'Neil now.” She gave Claire a celebratory wink. “I'm doing independent home study, as of last month.”
Claire said, “So lucky!”
Fonseca gave Lina a quick nod and turned his attention to Claire. “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night, anyway?”
Claire cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “I’ll think of something,” she said with a laugh. She grabbed Lina by the arm and steered her back down the hall. “C’mere, you!”
They giggled their way to Claire’s bedroom and disappeared behind the closed door. I took a few steps down the hall. If I could put just a little distance between me and the stereo speakers, I might be able to hear their conversation. I didn't make a habit of spying on people, but I had to know if they were talking about me.
My friends had other ideas.
“Dude, score!” Jason punched me on the arm.
I rubbed my arm, just for show. Jason would have to try pretty hard to hurt me, but over the years I’d learned to downplay my unusual natural strength and other so-called gifts. I always hated calling attention to myself. The fewer opportunities people had to single me out as different, the better.
“It would seem you have
a new friend, Nathan,” Mel put in.
“What? You think so? Why?”
On the couch, Fonseca shook his head.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Dude, she was, totally, like, staring at you!”
“And in a good way.” Mel smiled slyly. “Probably why you didn’t realize it.”
I tried to frown at him, but it didn’t get through the goofy grin on my face. “You think?”
Fonseca huffed. “Dude, whatever!”
“’S’matter, Greg,” Jason jabbed, “don’t like someone else getting the attention?”
“Seriously,” Mel said. “At least it’s not Claire giving Nate the eye!”
Fonseca finally got off the couch. “Whatever,” he mumbled. We looked at him. Now that he was up, he had to do something. He dived for Claire’s record box and conspicuously focused on picking one out and putting it on the turntable.
The chiming keyboards and “Hey, hey, hey, heys” of Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget About Me” rang forth. Claire burst back into the living room.
“I love this song! I can’t hear it enough!”
We would all hear it more than enough in the months that followed, but right then, it was fresh and different.
Lina came up behind her. She looked at me quickly and a smile flashed on her face. “Isn’t it from that movie?”
“The Breakfast Club.” Claire bopped her head in time to the trotting bass line.
Mel inspected the album cover. “Right – a bunch of kids get detention together.” He smiled wickedly at Jason. “Hey, it’s your life story, Jase!”
“Nyuk, nyuk.”
Fonseca worked his way next to Claire. “Hey, maybe you’d wanna go see it on Friday?”
Next to me, intoxicating and close, Lina just barely whispered, “Oh, please.”
I tilted my head and said quietly to her, “He doesn't know when to give up.”
She turned to me, eyes wide, that toothy smile back on her face. “You weren’t supposed to hear that!”
“I’ve got really good ears,” I said.
“I’m gonna have to remember that.”
The Sovereign Era (Book 1): Brave Men Run Page 1
