by Alan Janney
“Coach, for real, though. For real, I hate you,” Jesse said.
“Come on, Salt,” Samantha Gear said and smacked Jesse on the butt so hard his eyes teared up. “Not scared, are you? I say we scrimmage them.”
We didn’t scrimmage them, but we did stare at them a lot through one of the stadium’s entrances. About twenty Dragons, including Tank, came on a school bus to work on football drills. Tank was going to be ranked as the best high school football player in the nation next year, and our guys kept sneaking peaks at him. He was a man among boys and we all knew it. The Dragon’s coach brought in former college players to help him practice and he was already better than them. After twenty minutes of practice he laid down, put a towel over his head, and started massaging his temples.
I knew that feeling.
Samantha walked up and said, “I could punt a ball over the bleachers and land it right on his face.” She indicated Tank with her chin. I was spinning a football in my hands and didn’t realize I’d been staring at him through a gap in the seats.
“Probably not a great idea,” I said.
“Plus she couldn’t get close, anyway,” Andy Babington said. He was nearby, working on timing routes with senior receivers. “No way.”
“I can kick farther than you can throw, second-string,” she said casually.
He shot at her, “No. You can’t.”
“Jon!” Samantha Geared called. One of the receivers looked over at her. “Jon, Andy and I just made a bet. Help us out, handsome. Run up to the top of the bleachers and tell us who gets the ball closer to the the big ugly guy laying down over there.”
“Maybe you should just try hitting the far goal post,” I suggested. “Instead of the angry freak of nature?”
“Too late. This is happening,” Samantha said.
Andy looked like he’d been caught in a bluff. He couldn’t throw the ball all the way to Tank, and he knew it. Unfortunately for him, the challenge attracted interest and a small crowd gathered to watch.
Samantha went first. She lined up and glared at her target for a few heartbeats, running calculations in her mind. She took a step, dropped the ball and punted with that beautiful strong motion of hers. It was a powerful blast and the ball sailed smoothly up and over the high stadium wall into the blue sky.
The football thumped down on the practice field behind the stadium, about ten harmless yards from Tank’s prone body. We couldn’t see it land, but Jon delivered the news. Her kick probably traveled fifty-five yards, an absurd length for that height.
Andy’s turn. He shook his arm loose, took two steps and threw the ball on a line to the top of the seats where it bounced against the back retaining wall. He didn’t even clear the stadium. Jon threw it back while everyone chuckled uncomfortably. Andy fumed.
“Nice try, kiddo,” Samantha laughed. “You lose. Thanks for playing. Okay Chase. Your turn.”
Andy said, “Hah. Yeah right. My little buddy has a good arm, but he can’t throw farther than me.”
I hated when he called me that. Plus, secretly I was itching to try the throw. I could clear the stadium easily, but I wasn’t sure how close I could land it. This wasn’t a good idea. But…
“Toss me the ball,” I said. Samantha grinned.
Like always, I spun the football in my hand, and I rolled my shoulder twice while everyone watched. I stared down my target, gathered, and shot a high tight spiral up and over the wall. I watched it disappeared beyond the seats and then I dropped my eyes to Tank. This was going to be close. The trajectory looked perfect… I was going to hit him!
Through the stadium seating, we could all clearly see Tank’s hand punch up and snatch the football out of the air before it connected with his face. His fingers pierced the football’s hide, deflating it within his fist.
He crushed it like a grape and we all scrambled back to our drills before he could look up and identify the culprit.
After practice Lee and I studied math at his house. I finally drove home at 9:30pm, exhausted, head pounding. I kept thinking about that throw, the one that almost hit Tank. Just how far can I throw it? And how hard? Carter had thrown quarters straight into the cement.
Just outside my neighborhood, I braked next to a new home construction site. I’d wanted to try something for weeks, and tonight would finally be the night.
I stepped over the orange tape and approached the house. The night was quiet and still and my footsteps sounded alien. I rooted in the dirt until I uncovered a handful of heavy nuts and bolts. About ten total. I juggled them in my hand, intentionally dropping a couple, until they felt comfortable. Three sheets of plywood were leaning against a tree near the back of the site. The plywood sheets had been spray-painted and cut up and were clearly waiting to be tossed into the trash dumpster.
I set my feet ten paces from the upright sheets of plywood and shifted the metal in my hand. The evening was silent and the house loomed over me. Taking a deep breath, I went into a pitcher’s throwing motion and hurled the scrap metal into the wood.
CRASH!
All three sheets of wood splintered, buckled, and collapsed as the metal ripped holes through them. The sound of destruction was preposterously loud. The echoes bounced around the stark walls of the vacant house. The plywood had disintegrated.
“Wow,” I breathed. That would’ve killed a person. My arm was lethal. If Carter tried to kill me again, I would have a weapon of my own.
I scanned Craigslist that night, looking for any posts from Beans. The Outlaw had received a lot of messages but none that interested me. None from Beans.
Before going to sleep I powered on the disposable phone. Two voice mails from Isaac Anderson, the FBI guy. No way. I turned it off. Then I checked the Outlaw’s phone. I had a text message. From Lee.
>> Outlaw!! I made you something! TWO things!!! Come try them out! -Lee
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday, February 9. 2018
The Dragons returned on Thursday. The previous three days had been pleasant and stress free, other than Hannah Walker’s advances, and now the Dragons were back to ruin everything.
Tank and I stood on opposite sides of the field, glaring at each other while our coaches arranged a scrimmage. He and I were living in such a strange existence. We knew each other’s secrets. We hated each other. We were fighting over the same girl, both in the news for various reasons, and both very sick. And yet we were both just teenagers living at home with our families. He had the world fooled and he would kill me if he could do it cleanly. But I didn’t know what to do about him, and he knew it. Our cold war continued.
We forewent pads and helmets during our ‘friendly’ scrimmage because there would be no hard hitting. Yeah, right. During the second play a Dragon creamed Josh Magee, almost knocked his head off. Josh limped off and the Dragon received a scolding from his coach. The rest of his team congratulated him.
Cory was the only Eagle capable of even partially blocking Tank, and so Tank never lined up near him. Tank chased me on every passing play, knocking blockers aside. I ran for my life and threw the ball early every play before he could maim me. One of the Dragons knocked me down and stomped on my hand while the coaches were distracted. He walked off laughing, and I sat there steaming, thankful I didn’t have access to any nuts and bolts.
Our punting unit came on the field. Samantha Gear was trying out to be the punter too, and as she trotted past she said, “I see why you hate these guys.”
“Real classy, aren’t they?” I asked wryly.
“Watch this,” she said and winked.
Uh oh. Samantha was trouble. This was going to be… inflammatory.
The ball was hiked to her. The play should have been a routine punt. The Dragons didn’t attempt blocking the kick because she was a girl and they were astonished by this. She took a step and punted the ball straight into the face of the nearest Dragon defender. Boom! She crushed him! Her kick rebounded twenty yards off his face. He snapped backwards, his feet flying over h
is head before he landed on his neck.
The Eagles laughed until tears streamed down our faces. We could barely stand. The Dragons appeared to be suffering from a mixture of outrage and mirth. Did the new girl do that on purpose?? The injured Dragon’s nose was busted and his coach helped him stagger off the field. He might have a concussion.
“Kick it again,” Coach Garrett ordered. “Everyone else, put on helmets.”
“You got it, Coach!” Samantha Gear chirped.
Oh no. She was going to do it again.
Another kick. Even though they were wary of her now she still managed to knock one down with a solid blow to the helmet. He stumbled backwards and fell over.
A fight erupted instantly, like a starter’s pistol had been fired. The indignant Dragons were furious and the proud Eagles were defensive and all forty guys jumped on each other. Immediate mayhem! Punches and kicks and face mask grabbing and dog piles as the coaches blew their whistles and tried to drag us apart. Cory stood in the middle, a boulder in the storm, tossing Eagles and Dragons apart.
Tank came snarling, his dark face a mask of malice. I could outrun him but I couldn’t outfight him, not without drawing unnecessary attention. He closed the distance and I dove, putting my shoulders into his shins. He somersaulted over and landed in a howling heap.
Wump! Wump! Samantha Gear found a hopper of footballs and she was blasting rockets one by one into the Dragons. Wump! Solid punt, Dragon destroyed. Wump! Another Dragon sprawling. Wump! She wasn’t missing!
I admired her too long. Mistake. Tank gained his feet and smashed my skull with an enormous fist. Pow! The lights dimmed and I hit the turf hard. I should’ve worn a helmet! My head swam. Tank towered over me and raised a foot. He was about to crush my sternum when his face slackened. He had enough time to grab his temples before he collapsed. He just fell over, like his power had been cut. I yanked my foot out from under his dead weight. He didn’t respond.
“Hey. The hell happened to Tank?” someone shouted.
“Tank! Is he okay? Yo Tank!”
The fight ended as quickly as it began. Tank wasn’t moving and I was on the ground, holding my head, which felt like it was about to split open. A crowd gathered.
“Is Tank breathing?”
“What happened? What’s wrong with Chase?”
“I think they killed each other, yo.”
“I’m okay,” I said through clenched teeth. “I think. Tank might need an ambulance.”
“What’d you do to him?”
“Nothing,” I barked. “I think he had an aneurysm.”
Cory helped me up and guided me towards the locker room. I kept my eyes closed against the awful light. My lip was split and my cheek was swelling. As we walked indoors an ambulance began wailing nearby. Wow, that was fast! Maybe Tank had a chance.
Somehow, someway, the fight made the six o’clock local news. I didn’t see it, but Lee texted me afterwards. The anchor announced two local football stars got into a fight during a scrimmage and both suffered injuries. No word on their condition. Pictures and videos had been taken with phone cameras, Lee said.
Great. I’m sure the Patrick Henry Dragons all blamed me. There’d be an outrage if Tank died. Nooooo, I’ll tell them. It wasn’t me. He was suffering from a Super Hero Virus that gave him all those muscles and then killed him. I’m sure they’ll understand.
My headache was NOT going away. I felt as bad and as ragged as I had in weeks, a miserable shell of my former self. None of my painkillers were effective.
I watched the news at eleven to distract myself. The anchor began by warning us the lead story contained a graphic video and viewer discretion was advised. She was right. It was the worst thing I’d ever seen.
Multiple people had used their phones to film a man going insane. He was running around Gardena (about ten miles from here) without a shirt on. He was screaming. Two police officers attempted subduing him but their mace had no effect, and he tossed them aside like they were children. A minute into the video, the poor dude actually flipped over a Nissan! He was a short, skinny white guy with no business over-turning a car. He was about my age. Finally he ran into the street, grabbed his eyes, and fell down.
The news anchor said that he was taken to a hospital and pronounced dead. Police suspected his erratic behavior was due to an over-dose of illegal bath salts.
Bath salts. Maybe, but I doubted it. The strength, the insanity, the aneurysm…I bet he was Infected.
I got up and started pacing the room. My own head was throbbing. Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap. I really don't want to lose my sanity. How long do I have?
I grabbed the Outlaw’s phone and texted PuckDaddy, Did you see the video of crazy man in Gardena today?
>>affirmative
Think he was Infected?
>>probably got no intel on him tho
What are the odds of three guys being Infected in Los Angeles at the same time?
>>ZERO who is the 3rd guy?
You don’t know?
>>i know about the third guy. PuckDaddy knows all. Im just surprised u know about him
So…what’s going on? Why are there three of us?
>>no idea my man u stay chill stay calm stay alive
I wanted to keep texting but I could no longer concentrate. My stomach was churning. Stars were flashing in my vision. This was bad. This was scary.
What I needed was a way to relax. So I grabbed my helmet with shaking fingers and navigated to my motorcycle through squinting eyes.
Somehow I safely and slowly wobbled all the way to Holy Angels Catholic Church. I love this place. I started to unclench immediately as I shouldered through the heavy wooden doors. I dropped to my knees on the rear pew’s kneeling bench and tried to pray the virus out of my pores. This church was the best. Were all churches this great? I especially loved the candles and the smell. However, the aroma was faint. I need more than intermittent wafts.
I moved deeper into the mostly vacant sanctuary. A handful of other pilgrims sat alone in their own pews. Soft recorded worship music drifted down from above. The closer I approached the alter the closer I came to the candles and to the incense and to peace, so I didn’t stop until I reached the front row.
This is what heaven must be like. Peace. No pain. No worries. No stress. I was about to drift off when someone sat down beside me.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Jackson.” It was one of my football coaches, Todd Keith. He worked at this church, and he helped break up the fight today. “You’re here late.”
“So are you. But I don’t blame you. This place is the best.”
“Oh yeah?” he chuckled quietly. “I’ve found you sleeping here twice, you know. Everything okay at home?
“Yes sir. No problems at home. My life has been wild, and this church…I don’t know, Coach. It’s keeping me sane. Keeping me alive. God’s the best.”
His eyes widened and he laughed. Everyone frowned at him. I frowned too and said, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Chase. Kids your age don’t usually think God is the best because of a church.” He wiped tears out of his eyes. “You caught me off guard.”
“Other kids don’t value peace as much as I do. They don’t realize how precious it is, you know?” I said, staring at the flickering candle flames. “You know how teenagers have all these hormones that make us feel and act weird? I have that too. More than most guys, and it sucks, and this place calms me down. Isn’t that what church is for? That’s why God invented them?”
“Sure, partly,” he nodded.
“I should probably come more often.”
“Your face doesn't look so bad,” he noticed, indicating my bruises. “I thought you’d be black and blue for a week.”
“I heal quickly. How’s Tank, do you know?”
He shook his head and said, “No. You two sure seem to hate each other.”
“It’s so bad, Coach,” I sighed. “It’s so much worse than people know. I wish I knew how to make i
t stop. He despises me. He would truly kill me if he could.”
“Wow. That part of the reason your life has been so wild?”
“Yeah.”
“The last time we talked here,” he said and he screwed up his eyes trying to remember our conversation last fall. “You were struggling with dual identities. You are the real Chase Jackson but also someone else. You still feel that way?”
“Absolutely.”
“You feel pressure to live up to people’s standards? To be the star quarterback and the perfect student and everything else?”
“Yes. Definitely everything else,” I said.
“I know the feeling,” he said. He was sitting sideways on the pew with his hand resting on the seat back near my shoulder. “That’s a good way to be lonely.”
“You get lonely?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s part of the human condition.”
“Explain.”
“All the things we humans have in common,” he waved his hand to indicate the people in the big sanctuary. “We all love. We all get lonely. We make mistakes. We sin. We all will die.”
“What’s going to happen to me when I die?”
“Well,” he took a deep breath and thought about his answer. “No one knows for sure. But the New Testament tells us that God’s children will go be with Him. And the rest… won’t.”
“I like the New Testament. It seems to be right about everything. And here in this church? I don’t hurt at all right now,” I realized.
“Are you often in some kind of pain?”
“A lot of the time. There’s just so much stuff going on. And things like today’s fight don’t help.”
“I bet.”
“And the secrets,” I groaned. “So many secrets.”
“Is there a chance that keeping your secrets bottled up is contributing to your pain?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. We probably all need an outlet, right? I used to be able to tell things to my friend, Katie. But…you know, things change.”
