by Kaleb Nation
What followed was a flurry boots, of shouts for me to kneel and place my hands on the back of my head, to lay flat as a startled set of officers rushed to check me for explosives. I lay still as they patted me down, handcuffed me, checked my pockets and under my shirt and around my legs, certain they were overlooking weapons of some sort. When they ran a metal detector wand over me, I expected it to beep when it passed over my hands, but it didn’t.
I was hoisted to stand, pulled by a hastily formed battalion of officers through the back door and toward a cruiser already waiting for me. Somehow the press had gotten wind of my capture. The second the door popped open, a flurry of camera flashes and yelling rushed from gathered reporters. The officers formed a wall around me, struggling to keep the cameras away as I was dragged through the crowd. I tried to show as little emotion as I could; I knew this scene would appear on the evening news. When they showed my picture across all the screens in Arleta, I wanted to look as little like a murderer as I could.
But what was the point, anyway? They’d made their judgments long ago. When I met the fleeting gazes of the reporters, I could see they all feared me, frightened that such a normal-looking teen could have committed such horrible crimes. I knew they’d go back to the office, shaking their heads, saying to themselves, “Of course: all the worst criminals look just like us.”
The officers shoved me into the car and I was driven away with my hands still bound and the bars on the windows blocking out some of the cameras as their lenses scraped my window for a shot. I wondered what my Glimpse was showing at that moment. If I died that day, would I find all these articles about me seventeen years in the future, and get the chance to look back and read myself?
I pushed the thought aside. I had to focus, to plan, to find a way to fix all of this. I would. I always did, in the end.
The line of police cars rocketed off with us in the center, leaving the shouting flood of reporters behind. I tried to settle down into the uncomfortable seat, to calm my nerves with slow and deep breaths. Nothing helped.
At the next station, I was locked in a holding cell by myself. I sat on the hard metal bench against the wall, surrounded on all sides by thick metal bars that offered no privacy from the security camera in the ceiling. My presence had thrown the entire department into disarray, no one knowing for sure who should call who, if the FBI or the CIA were coming, if they should question me or wait. My mother’s death made things worse because I was still a minor and so there was no parent to call. Anytime an officer passed, their eyes would stray to me then dart away again. It was like they kept waiting for me to say something, to make a threat or confession. I just sat wordlessly.
The Guardians already knew I was there. Now, it was a waiting game.
As the hours passed, I lay down on the coarse bench and stared at the fluorescent ceiling panels. The floor of my cage and of the large room outside was made of a dull concrete that echoed sounds through the door and the hall beyond it. The voices of the panicked officers outside were masked by the sounds of the television that hung high in the corner of the room, its old speakers buzzing anytime a commercial got too loud. Its picture was yellowed and had a static line going through the middle.
Surely the Guardians would send someone soon? There was no way everyone in town didn’t know by now.
As if on cue, the commercial that had been blathering away on the television ended and the evening news started. I turned my head to the side to see better. As expected, my face was the first to appear.
“Local terrorist Michael Asher has been captured by Beverly Hills police officers in what has been one of the most dramatic and horrifying cases to sweep Southern California this decade,” the female anchor said, an absolute void of empathy behind her tone. Local terrorist? I pressed my lips together wryly. Now there’s something to add to my resume.
She listed my suspected crimes, which had grown from mere family-murdering and house-burning to an inventory of previously unsolved murders and bomb threats. Again, they pulled up all the necessary sources: kids from school thrilled to talk about that weird Michael Asher kid who read their minds, but was obviously just a clever fraud. Our former next-door neighbor, who said she’d seen me sneak out late at night to practice witchcraft. And finally, Mrs. Milo, wide eyed with her hair all a mess, proclaiming that she couldn’t find her husband anywhere now and that I had surely kidnapped him.
I wasn’t amused by the idiotic report for long. I knew that almost everyone in town was tuning in, believing every lie that was said about me. I couldn’t blame them. If I’d been in their position, I probably would have believed the television too. The news never lied. The news was never biased, or tainted, or controlled by anyone. And certainly not some ridiculous, supernatural secret society. That would have been silly.
I heard a clang from down the hall and pushed myself up to sit. Heavy footsteps pounded against the concrete, the handle on the holding room’s door bobbing. I gripped the edge of the bed, expecting Wyck.
Instead, I was greeted with someone entirely the opposite.
“Spud!” I gasped. He appeared around the corner of the door, turning to the sound of my voice, eyes widening when he saw me behind the bars. His arms hung loosely beside his wide middle, hair still a wild black mess on the top of his head, moustache even more pronounced than the last time I’d seen him. He looked exhausted, but when he saw me his face went cheery.
“Man, how’d you get stuck behind bars before I did?” he burst, spreading his hands out with disbelief. I couldn’t help grinning, jumping from the bed to stand.
Another person appeared behind Spud: a female officer I could never have forgotten. Officer Delaney. I stopped in my tracks. She crossed her arms, keeping the door open with her foot, narrowing her eyes at me. Weaker people might’ve melted beneath the fury of her glare.
“Yeah, I figured I’d see you here soon,” she said grouchily. She glanced at Spud then back to me again.
“I’m staying with you,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’ll give you five—”
“What am I gonna do?” Spud exploded, whirling to face her. “Give him a file to saw his way out? And then what, run? Ha. Me. Run.” He beat his own belly as proof. “I’ll come get you in a minute.”
She didn’t look pleased with this proposal but Spud must have had some influence. With a huff, she turned and left, closing the door behind her. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I think I just got my Christmas present downgraded,” Spud complained, throwing me a fake glare. I wanted to run up and pound him on the back heartily but the closest I could get was to stand near the bars. He looked to where they met the ceiling and the floor, then over to the cameras and the locks.
“I could hack this place’s lock system,” he said with a shrug. Oh boy.
“Don’t start that,” I told him, shaking my head in surrender. He hadn’t changed.
“You wouldn’t welcome my presence back there?” he said, still studying the room for weaknesses. I huffed.
“I probably would,” I said. “But I don’t think that bed would fit the both of us.”
“I call dibs,” he said, grabbing the bars between his hands to test their strength. And like that, Spud—without any effort at all—had taken me back in time. Despite the bars that now stood between us, it was like we were out on another crazy escapade, kicking rocks out of our way on the road, complaining about all the seemingly important woes in our life. He completely ignored the news behind us that continued on about my various misdeeds, showing interviews of more and more so-called “friends” eager for five seconds of airtime to bash me.
The reporters clearly needed to do better research. My only school friend was with me.
When he was finally certain that the bars wouldn’t fall off, he met my eyes.
“So,” he said. “Did you do it?”
Leave it to Spud to never dance around a question. I shook my head.
“Of course not,” I said, voice l
owering to a whisper.
“Then why are you in there?” he asked, matching my tone but trying not to lean in too close, already wary of the ceiling camera. I hesitated. There wasn’t much that I was willing to tell him but I knew he’d see right through me if I avoided the truth.
“Is this because of that guy with the car?” he said. “The guy who tried to kill you?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. He shrugged.
“Figures,” he said. “Someone tries to kill you, you end up in jail. Judicial system logic.”
“It’s not their fault,” I told him. “There’s just…bigger stuff going on.”
He lifted an eyebrow, now wary of the way I was talking and the bits that I was leaving out. Secrets never flew with him; I’d always told him all of mine. I sighed.
“It’s just… stuff,” I told him. “They’re pinning a lot of things on me that I didn’t do, but I can’t tell them that. I need to be here. There’s…bigger stuff going on.”
“Bigger stuff?” he echoed. “You mean… like a conspiracy?”
The last word was spoken with an air of fake mystery, twirling his fingers like a cheap magician. He said this while trying to hold himself back from laughing, so I took a swing at him with my hand through the bars.
“You’ve become one of them!” he chuckled. “You’re a conspiracy theorist now!”
I would have hit his shoulder if the bars hadn’t held me back. He leaned just out of reach to make this fact all the more obvious, taunting me playfully.
“Come on,” he told me. “I’ve known you’re clear since I saw the first news thing on you. So why’re you letting this happen? It’s ridiculous. We gotta get you a lawyer and get you out.”
He looked at me hopefully, suddenly going serious. It caught me off guard.
“I can’t, not yet,” I told him.
“Why?”
“I just can’t.”
He crinkled his brow with frustration, but he knew when to shut up, so he finally—and unwillingly—dropped the subject. He leaned against the bars.
“Do you at least want anything?” he said. “I could try to get you some candy in here. Or air freshener.”
He sniffed. “Wait, that’s you. Maybe you just need a bath.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned against the barred wall beside us. “Yeah, a bath would be nice.”
His offer had made me think of something, though. I considered it a few seconds, wondering if it was worth asking. I glanced to the TV and saw that the report had finally changed, and realized how much time we’d already spent together. At any moment, his aunt would return.
“Actually, there is something,” I said. He straightened up.
“Yes, master,” he said in his greatest evil henchman impression. I glanced up to the camera on the ceiling, trying to lean closer to him without seeming overly conspicuous.
“Remember the blog?” I whispered close to him. He nodded.
“Do me a favor and download it,” I said. “If you can find a way, hack it and save all the files. But at least get everything you can from the pages.”
His gaze met mine, looking confused. He already knew he wasn’t going to get an explanation, though he still looked hopeful for one.
I heard a door open far down the hall, and footsteps approaching us. Was that all the time we were going to get? It seems like it’d passed so quickly.
“Keep it somewhere,” I told him, speaking quicker now. “Just keep all that stuff, and whatever happens to me, don’t get rid of it. Don’t tell anyone you have it.”
“What are you talking about?” he said in alarm, having caught my disturbing choice of words. Whatever happens to me. I knew my situation. If things went wrong, I might need that website again in seventeen years.
He suddenly realized just how serious all this was, and in reaction he pushed himself from the cage and blinked at me. But it was too late for him to ask any more questions because at that moment the door creaked open and his aunt stepped through again.
“You gotta go,” she told him. “They’re coming for Michael and if you’re in here, I’m gonna lose my job.”
Spud, who normally would have protested with something sharp, was now in a fright. He remained staring at me with a paled face, until his aunt came over and took him by the arm.
Spud threw her hand off, jolting back to life.
“Get off me,” he told her, turning around and walking ahead of her to the door. Officer Delaney looked at me suspiciously, though appeared relieved that Spud seemed upset and had turned his back to me. She followed him to the door.
At the last second, while she wasn’t watching, Spud turned. He gave me a small thumbs-up with a nod. For all the support I felt coming from him, it might have been a legion of flags with my face on it.
The door clanged shut behind them and I heard their footsteps disappearing down the hall. But in the midst of those noises was intermingled another set of more shoes, like a mini army coming back in my direction. I licked my lips and sat on the bed again, trying to let my thoughts of Spud go. The rattle of the door proved loud enough to bring me back to the present.
The squeal of boot soles against cement sounded through the room as two guards entered, dressed in black with what appeared to be riot armor. They had rifles held between their hands, rough faces that refused to show me any regard as they approached my cage. Behind them were two others in similarly overdone garb, and finally the most wretched man I’d ever had the misfortune to meet: Wyck, dressed in a business suit, eyes on me immediately.
My fingers became fists the moment I saw him, feeling the pent-up rage breaking the dam inside me. I struggled to keep myself under control, though I’d begun to seethe involuntarily. All I could see was the reflection of my mother’s face in his eyes as he’d slowly let her die at his feet, and my sister’s body as she’d burned alive by his hand.
He regarded me with a depravedly amused expression.
“I didn’t believe it when they told me,” he said, astonished. “And yet here you are. Unless you use very convincing decoys now?”
The first guard had begun to rattle a set of keys against the door, clicking the locks. Wyck studied me up and down with a flick of his eyes as the door swung open.
“Nope, it’s you,” he confirmed with a sniff. “There’s no way to fake that smell of smoke that’s still on your clothes.”
Suddenly, the metal gate had parted and there was a second of a clear path between us. Without even taking time to think, I dove forward, slamming my hand down into his face with all the strength my vengeful rage could muster. I caught his cheek with a massive, echoing slap, amidst wild shouts from the officers who fought to pin me down.
They got me wrestled to the ground, hardly able to breathe from the weight of all the officers piled on top of me. It took the entire group, one for each of my limbs, just to keep me down as I struggled, until they’d knocked me hard enough that I wasn’t screaming and fighting anymore. It took all of my remaining strength to keep my claws hidden. Not yet.
They lifted me from the ground at once, holding my arms at my sides and roughly turning me back around. Wyck was there, wiping his mouth that dribbled a satisfying stream of blood. He spat it out onto the ground, twisting his mouth up to realign his jaw.
“My God,” he told me. “You are quick, Mr. Asher.”
Then, in front of all the officers, he drew his fist back like a backwards-swinging battering ram, and crashed it forward into the side of my face.
WHITE.
BLACK.
WHITE.
No one really sees stars when they’re hit. They see flashes and pops and explosions of color, hear the crack of their own bone in their ears and feel the pounding of their heart as it speeds to compensate. His ring served as a metal cap that hit right against my skin. It was like my head was encased in a drum, and he beat that drum with a mallet.
I felt blood running from my nose but I couldn’t wipe it, my hands bound and held down by the guards
. My eyes were fixed in a wide stare and I felt dizzy, sick, focusing on the wall for a second only for it to go blurry. I would have fallen to the side if they hadn’t held me so tightly.
“How terrible!” I heard Wyck saying with mock sympathy. “Please, officers, keep this disturbed boy from beating himself against the walls.”
We started down the hall with me hanging in the center like a mannequin. I heard some gasps from the police, hushed telephone conversations as I was dragged down steps, across another hall, and out the door. I tasted the blood as it ran into my lips, like salt water.
My vision still swam in front of me so I was not prepared for an entirely new set of lights and flashes and noises. The media was waiting for me outside again, a loud gasp from the gathered crowd at first but even more flash bulbs following. Wyck casually moved so that everyone could get a shot of me: Michael Asher. Bleeding. Dizzy. Blinded. The boy they said killed his own family, unable to walk on his own two feet.
I was lifted through the back door of a waiting vehicle, hearing it clang shut like the sealing of a safe behind me. When the harsh sunlight was covered again, I was finally able to open my eyes weakly. We were inside an armored truck much like the type that carried funds back and forth from banks. Instead of shelves, there were long benches on each wall, the metal so thick that even the calls of the crowd were drowned out.
Wyck sat across from me with a guard on each of his sides. He straightened his suit.
“Let’s go,” he told the driver, tapping the window impatiently. “They got their pictures.”
I heard the heavy engine roar to a start, and we were off.
I was too weak to sit up so I bounced between the unmoving shoulders of the two guards beside me. No one looked at me when I forced myself to glance around, their eyes fixed straight ahead dutifully. Where had Wyck found officers so jaded that they were willing to follow his orders as he beat a teenager? Or maybe they’d been warned about my crafty ways, that even one misstep might give me a chance to escape and then kill their families too.
It made everything worse when I thought about it. The Guardians didn’t need henchmen. When everyone followed orders from someone higher, and those people followed orders from someone higher than them, eventually the pyramid came to a peak of command. When Guardians stood at the top, the police might as well be their personal army.
