The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen

by R. T. Lowe

  Lucas still looked unconvinced. But he was wavering.

  “What else could it be?” Felix said as he picked up his phone.

  Lucas said nothing. If he was thinking about offering an alternate explanation he didn’t show any sign of it. “Did you hear where they found the Faceman?”

  Felix nodded. All afternoon, he’d been obsessively refreshing his “Faceman found dead” Internet search. When he saw the article that Quinn Traynor had rented the house in no-man’s-land, he’d nearly choked on a protein bar.

  “Crazy, huh?” Lucas sat down on his desk, tearing open a small bag of kettle-cooked potato chips. A Nerf football rolled off the desk, tumbling across the floor until a pile of gym clothes and a rain coat stopped its progress. Lucas didn’t even notice. He looked serious, focused. “It’s funny how Traynor goes missing the same day we see him. Don’t you think that’s kind of a strange coincidence?”

  Felix shrugged. “I guess.”

  “So I was thinking about it. I have a theory. Wanna hear it?”

  “A theory about what?” Felix asked distractedly, fiddling with his phone.

  “About what happened to the Faceman.”

  “He died,” Felix said with a mouthful of apple, attempting to look relaxed. He swallowed. “Everyone knows what happened to him. It’s all over the Internet.”

  Lucas was studying him carefully, skeptically. “So I have this crazy idea. I was trying to figure out if there was some kind of connection between the Faceman, Traynor, and all of us.” He aimed his gaze at Felix and added: “I know what it is.”

  Felix twisted his mouth and gave his head a shake as if to say I have no idea where you’re going with this.

  “The Faceman killed teenagers,” Lucas continued, undeterred. “He didn’t kill older people. And Quinn Traynor was like twenty-seven. He was old.”

  “So?”

  “Traynor followed me—followed us—around for a long time, right? And ‘cause of his age, I don’t think the Faceman was after him. I think he was after one of us. Probably you, Caitlin or Allison. You guys are only children.”

  “What?” Felix exclaimed, doing his best to sound surprised. “Get outta here!” He’d been thinking about the connection as well and had drawn the exact same conclusion.

  Lucas plowed on. “So this is what happened: The Faceman’s following us, and he notices we’re being followed by someone else. Traynor. So the Faceman goes to Traynor’s house to find out what he’s doing. And then he kills him. He went missing ten days ago, right? That dude’s a goner. No way they’re finding him alive. And then the Faceman somehow convinces you that I’m at Traynor’s house. So you go there. That’s how your face gets busted up. He tells you I’m dead, that he killed me. And then you kill him.” He raised his hand, pointing a finger at Felix. “You killed the Faceman.”

  “You think I killed the Faceman?” Felix burst out, making a face like Lucas was spewing the most ridiculous nonsensical bullshit ever spewed in the history of humankind. Then to add insult to injury, he started laughing hysterically.

  “Yeah,” Lucas said defensively. “I do.”

  Felix laughed even harder. “You think I killed the Faceman? You’re crazy. How could I have done that? That guy’s a monster. He was like eight feet tall.”

  “I don’t know.” Lucas tossed the bag of chips on his desk and folded his arms. “But a homeless dude goin’ all Rafael Nadal on your face is… weird.”

  Still laughing, hugging his midsection, Felix said, “You think that’s weirder than me killing the Faceman? C’mon! The girls are gonna love this. Where are they? I gotta tell ‘em.” He tapped on the screen of his cell phone like he was making a call.

  Lucas frowned, and ever so slowly, bit by bit, the first indication of doubt began to creep across his face. “But there was that thing with Traynor at the Old Campus. And you thought I was dead. And now the Faceman’s dead. And then your nose. And you were… you know… and…” He gave Felix a chagrined smile. “Shit. Maybe I’m losin’ it. You keep waking me up, ya know. This is exactly what happens when I don’t get enough sleep.” He let out a heavy snorting sigh. “Sorry. Some theory, huh? I’m not doing drugs. I swear.”

  Felix wiped the tears from his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone. Not even the girls. So where were you last night, anyway?” He was overwhelmingly relieved that Lucas believed him. He was also overwhelmingly feeling like shit for lying to him. But he didn’t have a choice. There was no other way.

  “I met this chick at the library on my way out. Jessica Cherry.”

  “Jessica Cherry? Stripper?”

  Lucas laughed. “No. Nice stripper name though, right? She’s a junior. Lives off campus. Hot. Clingy. I made a run for it when she was in the bathroom.”

  “The girls still in the caf?” Felix asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Wanna get ‘em and go to Woodrow’s? I’ve got two finals a week from Friday.” He yawned. “We should hit the Hut first. I could use some coffee.”

  “You could use some sleep, dude,” Lucas suggested. “Have you thought about maybe talking to somebody about those dreams? You know, you could maybe, um… talk to someone… at the counseling center?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Felix agreed. “Maybe after finals.”

  Chapter 49

  The Presser

  Felix sank into a sofa in Downey’s common room, letting his backpack fall to the floor between his knees. His last final, Biology, had concluded just twenty minutes ago—his first semester of college was officially in the books.

  Heading into finals, his goal had been modest: pass (and maybe improve on his midterm grades). But the nightmares hadn’t cooperated, only intensifying over the past week and a half. As he sat for the exams, absolutely fried and barely coherent enough to focus for more than a few minutes at a time, his brain was more impermeable rock than absorbent sponge. How was he supposed to retain anything he’d learned, and put it down on paper, when the smell of his own cooking flesh was fresh in his nostrils?

  He stared numbly at the TV, still wearing his winter coat (he was too tired to take it off and couldn’t remember if he’d buttoned or zipped it). He blinked from the bright light streaming in from the tall windows peeking out onto the Freshman Yard. The sunshine wasn’t a mid-December illusion, though it did mask the nearly freezing conditions outside. And according to the weather report he was half-watching, it looked like a nasty winter storm was moving in late tonight; the computer simulations showed the clouds—dark portentous shades of red—covering the entire western half of the state.

  There were quite a few kids in the common room, but Felix didn’t look around to see if he knew anyone. He didn’t want to get caught up in some mindless idle chitchat. He was wiped out. Body-slammed. His eyes burned like someone had used them to put out their cigarettes.

  Felix felt the sofa shudder as someone sat next to him.

  “Did it start yet?” A girl’s voice.

  Felix didn’t answer.

  “Twelve, right?” the girl asked him. She sounded excited.

  “Huh?” Dimly, he glanced to his right. It was Caitlin. Now he remembered why he was here, and why he hadn’t gone straight to his room. He wondered, vaguely, how long he’d been sitting here. It must have been a while, because now the air was heavy with pungent, unfamiliar spices—Indian food?—drifting out from the cafeteria. And the room was filling up fast. Kids were now crammed into the sofas and chairs, sitting on the coffee tables and floor and standing along the wall in the back of the room. And it had gotten really loud. Everyone was talking a few decibels higher than normal, like they were all at a club trying to hear each other over the pounding music.

  “The press conference.” Caitlin looked at Felix as though she was wondering if he had a pulse. “It starts at twelve, right?” Caitlin checked her watch as Allison squeezed onto the sofa between Caitlin and a guy wearing a knitted scarf looped loosely around his neck. Scarf guy frowned at Allison, annoyed that he had no choic
e but to scoot over.

  “I can’t wait to hear what he says,” Allison said. “This should be pure gold. Instant classic.”

  “Wazzup?” a voice said from behind the sofa. Felix recognized it. He turned his head and said, “Hey Lucas.” Harper was standing next to him.

  “Hey,” Harper said, putting her hand on Felix’s shoulder for just a second, more of a tap really, a quick meaningless gesture.

  “Hey.” Felix hadn’t had any alone time with Harper since they’d met at the Caffeine Hut and made plans to get together after finals. He was starting to wonder if everything they’d talked about over lukewarm coffees wasn’t going to pan out; maybe it was like getting wasted and hooking up, then waking up the next day and pretending that nothing had happened. Probably. So much for Harper being into him.

  “Can somebody turn that up?” Lucas shouted. “Who’s got the remote?”

  “Me,” said a plump-faced girl squeezed into a skinny high-backed armchair with two other kids. The girl wasn’t blessed in the beauty department. Her short blonde hair looked like a Supercuts trainee had hacked it up on her first day at work. She smiled at Lucas and turned up the volume. Lucas smiled back and she blushed.

  “What time is it?” Harper asked.

  A freckly, red-haired kid sitting next to Felix—he hadn’t even noticed him until now—looked up at Harper and mumbled shyly, “News over press after con… con… conference. Eleven fif… fifty-seven.” Felix felt sorry for the hapless kid. Harper had a way of making guys babble incoherently.

  The local news was just finishing up. The volume was still too low for Felix to catch everything the pretty newscaster with the glow-in-the-dark teeth was talking about, but it had something to do with a community center. The color patterns on the TV blinked in and out for a moment and then the scene changed from the studio to a ribbon-cutting ceremony where a group of finely dressed men in dark overcoats and colorful scarves stood laughing in front of a sparkling new building. A caption at the bottom read: Lofton Ashfield Donates $35 Million To Youth Center—Set to Open December 19.

  “That’s a lot of cash,” Lucas said. “Thirty-five mil. Geez.”

  “Not for him,” Harper replied. “He keeps that in his change drawer.”

  Felix watched as Lofton, with a small mob of local dignitaries surrounding him, snipped the shiny red ribbon with cartoonishly oversized scissors.

  “Weird!” Caitlin said, looking back and forth between Felix and the TV. “Lofton Ashfield looks just like you.”

  Felix snorted.

  Lofton was speaking into a reporter’s microphone, saying something about the importance of giving youth every opportunity to achieve their potential.

  And if they don’t show any potential, Felix thought, then you just have one of your testers shoot them in the face.

  “He does kinda look like you, dude,” Lucas agreed.

  “You think?” Felix tried to make a joke of it: “Maybe we’re related.”

  “How cool would that be?” Caitlin said with a sideways glance at him.

  “Pretty cool,” Felix replied thickly.

  On the ninety-inch TV screen, Lofton was shaking hands with the mayor, a senator, the chief of police, and some other people acting like they were quite important; all of them were beaming at Lofton like he’d just handed them winning Powerball tickets.

  It wasn’t the shared resemblance, though obvious, that bothered Felix. When he studied images of Lofton—there were thousands online—what rankled him was that his perception, his takeaway, was the same as everyone else’s: Lofton was a pillar of the community, a billionaire titan of industry with a philanthropic streak and a penchant for frequenting the city’s finest restaurants with twenty-something models. The guy was Bruce Wayne, but richer and less reclusive.

  But he was more than that—much more than that. Lofton had everyone fooled. And no one could see it. Not even Felix. And that’s what bothered him. Shouldn’t he sense something? In the presence of the Faceman, Felix had felt his pure primordial hate and malice, his desire to kill for the thrill of it, for the sheer pleasure of taking another’s life. Yet the Faceman was just an insect compared to Lofton, a dutiful worker bee carrying out his appointed tasks. Lofton had everyone—the politicians and business leaders on TV, the kids in the common room—completely enthralled. But Felix wasn’t like everyone else. So shouldn’t he be able to see through his sheep’s clothing? See him for who he really was? Beneath Lofton’s tanned, smiling countenance, shouldn’t he be able to perceive the face of evil? Shouldn’t there be some hint of his true identity? Perhaps a certain look in his eye, or a bearing, maybe an expression that would betray his true nature. But Lofton evidenced none of these characteristics. For a man destined to slaughter and enslave (nations will burn, armies will fall at his feet, and all who refuse to succumb to his rule will be slaughtered like sheep), he personified respectability and authority. Lofton didn’t come across as evil; he came across as remarkable, enviable and charismatic.

  The cameras switched over to a different location, abruptly cutting short Felix’s troubling thoughts: Two men sat behind a table covered in a rich royal blue cloth embroidered along the fringes like a tapestry with a gold crown insignia in the center. The men appeared to have evolved from completely different gene pools. One was tall and handsome, the lucky recipient of striking the genetic lottery. The other was blessed, presumably, with less surface oriented traits. He was small with an unfortunately premature horseshoe shaped head of hair. But they did have one thing in common: each had a microphone and a glass filled with water.

  “Here we go!” somebody yelled excitedly from the back of the room. “Turn it up!”

  The homely girl with the remote maxed out the volume, scowling at whoever had yelled at her.

  The small man on the TV began to speak. The ambient noise drowned him out.

  “Shut up!” somebody on the cafeteria side of the room shouted, a guy with a deep voice.

  “You shut up!” a girl shouted back, standing just off the foyer.

  “Quiet!” a third person—a guy who sounded like Bennett, the second floor RA—screamed a little hysterically, like he was losing it. “Both of you shut up!”

  “…and I would like to begin,” the small man was saying, “by letting the members of the press know that Dirk will not be answering any questions today.”

  “That’s David,” Lucas said in a low voice. “My agent.”

  “Thanks for the wine,” Caitlin said softly, giggling.

  “Dirk will make a statement,” David continued. “At the conclusion of the statement, if you have any questions, please direct them to me. So at this time, I would like to welcome Dirk Rathman.” David clapped enthusiastically, nodding at the press, inviting them to join in.

  There was a smattering of applause at the press conference and some sporadic shouts, whistling and catcalls in the common room.

  Dirk smiled and pulled the microphone closer to him.

  “That man’s absolutely delicious,” a girl standing behind Felix said. He couldn’t tell who it was and didn’t bother to find out. Every girl at PC seemed obsessed with him.

  The anticipation in Downey’s common room was electric. When word of Dirk’s press conference was leaked a week ago, it had caused an immediate uproar in the media. The story was so big it even supplanted the shocking news of a British royal spotted purchasing a pack of gum and a bottle of water at a discount pharmacy, inciting talk, and surprise among many, that the royals apparently chew gum and consume liquids just like everyone else. For the past week, the tabloids and celebrity news programs had been featuring an endless supply of opinions on a media event that was expected to double the ratings of the Diane Sawyer interview of Bruce Jenner’s transgender announcement.

  “In early September of this year,” Dirk began, “I had an epiphany. Unfortunately, my epiphany resulted in some property damage at one of my favorite restaurants. And of course, an even more unfortunate occurrence involving… fi
sh.”

  There was laughter among the reporters.

  “I’m happy to say I made amends with Mr. Takamoto, the owner of Blue Toro. He’s even invited me back.”

  More laughter.

  “I know many of you are wondering what happened to me. I’ve read some of the stories out there, and while many are entertaining, I can assure you none of them are true. I was not in rehab. I was not abducted by aliens.”

  A few chuckles.

  “The truth is, even after so much career success, my life felt empty. It felt meaningless. I spent my life hiding. I hid from my responsibilities as an American and as a citizen of this world. I now realize there can be no true meaning in our lives if we don’t participate in something that’s greater than ourselves.”

  He took a sip of water from his crystal glass. “So after my epiphany at Blue Toro, I made a vow. I made a vow to myself, and I made a vow to everyone who joins my cause. Today, I am introducing myself to all of you for the first time, not as Dirk Rathman the actor, but as Dirk Rathman the chief spokesperson of the Evolution Revolution Army.”

  Dirk slid his chair back from the table, rolled up his sleeve and raised his arm above his head, revealing a glorious, brightly-inked tiger tattoo coiled around his forearm like a snake. The cameras zoomed in on the tiger’s ruby eyes, curved ivory fangs and flashing hard-edged black and orange stripes.

  There was a lot of gasping and oohing and aahing—at the press conference and in the common room.

  “Get outta here!” Lucas said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Allison put her hands to her mouth in surprise.

  “I can’t say I’m shocked by your response,” Dirk said, once his agent had restored order with the press corps. “I imagine you weren’t expecting that. But if you’re asking yourselves why I decided to join the ERA, and why I decided to humbly accept my position within the movement, just look at the world around us. We’re literally killing ourselves so a few rich men can get richer. As a society, we’re capable of so much more. But our leaders and our politicians are afraid, they’re afraid to do what’s right. They’re focused on the here. They’re focused on the now. And look at where that has brought us.