Twig

by wildbow

  The maneuver had other uses. If our opposition here was less graceful, they might well get themselves into trouble, just to follow me or keep an eye on me. Simply paying attention to see who acted and reacted after I got myself into trouble could reveal a great deal.

  But my answer to Gordon was a, “Not just yet.”

  “No?”

  “Still waiting to see what happens after my brawl with Ed.”

  Jamie, trailing a bit behind us, snickered audibly.

  Gordon openly scoffed. “Brawl. You got beat, Sy. I was talking to some of the others, and Ed actually got worried when someone suggested that you might be a real scrapper, growing up in the orphanage. I nearly split something, trying not to laugh.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, without humor.

  We reached the end of the dining room, and the girls were filtering in through the door on the far side. It was nice, very spacious, all long tables of dark wood, benches, with the two sides separated by a buffet style table.

  The kitchen was visible, a recessed area, with the chefs busy at work over various stoves. Students aged twelve to sixteen were wearing aprons, carrying food out. Racks of bread, bowls of salad and empty glasses were placed on the table, while larger pots of food were placed on the buffet table, beside stacks of plates. Stew, soups, and portions of meat.

  From the smell in the kitchen, they were already working on dessert.

  I took it all in, studying it. The system.

  Gordon leaned close, murmuring, “Put yourself into their shoes. How many ways can you see, to poison someone?”

  “Pre-assigned seats?” I asked.

  “No, but they’ll call us together by homeroom for a roll call soon,” Jamie said.

  “Make sure all the students are present and accounted for,” Gordon elaborated.

  Dust the glasses with something, poison the silverware, deliver the poison while serving water, refresh the bread bowl or salad, drop something in the food while we go from the buffet to our seats, or simply take advantage of the bumps and shoves that come with being in a crowd of hungry students to stick us with a needle.

  “Seven off the top of my head.”

  “Lillian and I counted out twelve ways they could’ve gotten me, looking back in retrospect,” Gordon murmured. “Jamie and Helen added one each once they got back from the Academy.”

  “Kind of takes the joy out of eating for the first time in a week,” I murmured.

  “You shouldn’t eat too much on an empty stomach anyway,” Jamie said.

  I made a face, but I didn’t take my eyes off the crowd. I saw Helen and Lillian on the other side. Helen had a bevvy of girls around her, and she was playing it up. Lillian stood off to one side, talking to a teacher.

  Oddly in her element, in a very not-the-way-she-acts-at-home way.

  “Incidentally,” I said, still looking over the crowd for a glimpse of the boys I’d seen through the window. I didn’t see any telltale signs, and I certainly didn’t see them together as a group. “What do we do if I happen to spot a possible culprit?”

  “Signal me and Helen. We’ll go after him.”

  I nodded. “Easier if you’re together.”

  “We’ll sit together as a group.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Sure enough, we were called to specific tables by our homeroom teachers. They read our names off of lists, and then gave the official go-ahead to get food.

  I held back out of the way while everyone stampeded for the buffet table, or ran over to reunite with friends. Nobody returned to the seats they’d been in for the nightly attendance, and the teachers didn’t enforce anything. There were striations by year and groupings of cliques, but no divisions beyond that.

  Helen approached with a group of her friends, while Gordon went to go talk to his clique. The teenagers had all gathered around the buffet table and were screening out the kids, claiming first pick, but Gordon’s group looked set to take up the first gap that formed.

  I appreciated that he going out of his way to stay in our line of sight, allowing us to watch his back.

  “Sy, was it?” one of Helen’s older friends asked. An attractive brunette with her hair in a short bob. She’d hiked up her skirt just a fraction beneath her uniform top, so the bottom of the skirt was higher, revealing more of her very nice looking legs.

  I realized I’d been caught looking, and met her eyes without a trace of shame or guilt, “You can call me whatever you want, so long as you give me your name first, and maybe the number of your dorm room.”

  She smiled, amid some ‘oohs’ from other girls in the group, then gave me a pat on the head. “That was a good try, and it might have worked, but you’re a little too young for me, and I like the idea of a man who can stand up for me.”

  “You saw my duel with Ed,” I spoke my realization aloud.

  “I did,” she said. “I’d offer some comforting words, but the less that’s said, the better.”

  “I could say I let him win,” I said.

  “Did you?” another girl chimed in, interest piqued. Blonde, like Helen, but more pixieish in many respects. Helen could have been an actress or a model, but this girl made me imagine a ballerina, in build and how she was more expressive in general movement.

  “No. But I could say I did,” I said.

  “Whatever convinced you to pick a fight with Ed Willard?” the brunette asked.

  “Some people are born to be the hero of a story,” I said. “I was born to be the villain. I see the charming, good looking, obnoxiously noble type of guy and I feel compelled to start a battle I’m doomed to lose.”

  “Does that include monologues while you’re winning and standing over the bloody hero?” another girl asked, a smile on her face, suggesting she was well versed in that sort of thing. Not many girls read the books and dime novels meant for boys.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “You saw my poor showing earlier. I haven’t gotten that far.”

  I heard a few chuckles and smiles, and belatedly realized that I’d effectively and accidentally drawn the attention of Helen’s entire clique. Heads at other tables and the buffet line were turning, looking at me as some of the more attractive girls in our grade were grouped around me.

  “Okay, wait, I have to poke a hole in your story,” a girl closer to Helen’s and my age declared. She was a brunette too, but wore her hair longer, with white ribbons that complemented her school uniform. “You say you don’t get along with good guys, but you get along with Helen’s friend Gordon, don’t you? If anyone’s noble, it’s him.”

  “Oh, Gordon’s a villain at heart,” I said. “I don’t know if he knows it yet, but there’s a scoundrel in there just screaming for an excuse.”

  “How would you know that?” she asked.

  “Because when I was showing these guys around, I saw them with all sorts of people, sometimes in the rougher parts of town. I’ve seen Gordon here, all nice and ordinary, and I’ve seen him go toe to toe with people you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and they walked away respecting him.”

  A half dozen pairs of eyes turned Gordon’s way. He caught sight of a crowd of girls giving him serious looks and looked about as bewildered as if I’d drawn a gun on him.

  Miss Ribbons wasn’t looking though. She was focused on me, her right eyebrow raised. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Pixie-blonde chimed in, turning from Gordon to Ribbons, and then to me. She put her hands on her hips. “Are you being a good friend and trying to get us interested in your fellow over there?”

  “Maybe,” I said, smiling.

  “It’s good if you’ve given up on making yourself look good, because that ship sailed hours ago,” Miss Ribbons commented.

  “That’s cruel,” another girl said. “I quite like Sy, here, and it’s noble of this little villain to play up his friend.”

  With the words ‘I quite like Sy’, she put her arms around me, giving me a hug. I very nearly ducked out of her grip, but a quick g
lance at each of her hands suggested that they were empty, with no weapon or needle in evidence. Given the difference in stature, the girl being three years my senior, it pulled the side of my head right into her bosom.

  A nearby teacher loudly cleared his throat, and my new friend pulled her arms away, raising her hands as if she were being held up.

  “Believe it or not,” Helen said, still smiling, acting very much the young coquette, “Sy isn’t lying. For once. What he said about Gordon was true.”

  That line spawned more conversation, but my focus was on Gordon. He navigated his way through eager young students, holding four plates in two hands. He looked a little wary of joining the group, with so many eyes on him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, once he was close enough to ask.

  “Just talking,” Helen said.

  “Healthy lad,” the girl who’d hugged me said, indicating Gordon’s plates.

  “For my friends,” Gordon said.

  Lingering paranoia made me study her expression for any hint of danger. Had she powdered her shirtfront with a poison that could be inhaled?

  Gordon handed us our individual plates, one for me, Helen, Lillian and Jamie, then asked, “Is anyone in dire need of a meal? I was going to go back to serve myself, but I can get more plates.”

  The short-haired brunette raised her hand, smiling way too much at Gordon.

  “That’s one,” he said.

  “I’m getting waved over,” Miss Ribbons said. “I need to take over for a friend and start serving. She’s been in the kitchen all day.”

  “Good girl. Talk to you later,” Helen said.

  “Enjoy your meals,” Miss Ribbons said, before dashing off.

  I watched her retreat, zig-zagging through the crowd on the way to the kitchen, hair and skirt bouncing before she reunited with the friend she’d mentioned.

  She glanced back, looking at me.

  “I do think Mary likes Sy,” Pixie-blonde said.

  “Does Sy like Mary?” another girl asked.

  “I’m going to sit,” Helen said. “Come sit with us, Sy. I don’t think these girls are going to let you go, like this. They’ve got their claws in you, and I don’t think they’ll let you go.”

  “Claws?” a girl asked, archly.

  Helen, doing her part to keep us together in a very natural seeming way.

  It took time before everyone had a plate and food. My focus was on the crowd, keeping only enough attention on the conversation to keep up with it. Where were the dynamics? What were the possible approaches for attack?

  I was exceedingly aware of the state of my food. On such an empty stomach, I couldn’t afford to get poisoned. We already knew our enemies were aware of us, so I didn’t mind being a little guarded. One girl commented on it, even, and I explained it away as a casualty of being from the orphanage. That, in itself, spawned more discussion.

  Jamie and Lillian seemed content to be in the background. Jamie was taking it all in. If something happened, he’d be able to tell us who was where.

  Had I been familiar with the dynamic and the situation, I might have been more on point, aware of when it all started to go wrong. It tied into what Jamie had said about the prey instinct. Taking in the subconscious details, things that one’s mind and attention weren’t picking up on.

  Changes in volume, shifts in tone. The behavior of people at the fringes and in the background.

  Little boys who were hunched over their plates.

  It only clicked when I saw that dessert was being served, and that the cooks and serving girls were looking a little nonplussed. I paid attention to what they were sensing with their own prey’s instinct.

  That dessert was being placed on the table, and very few students seemed inclined to go get it.

  Looking around, I saw expressions of pain. People squirming. Not a lot, but as I watched, I saw it was getting worse.

  I dropped my knife and fork.

  “Don’t eat,” I said.

  Helen, Gordon, Lillian, and Jamie dropped their utensils.

  They didn’t settle for poisoning us.

  They poisoned everyone.

  Why?

  “Oh,” Erma, the pixie-haired blonde said. “I thought I felt full, but now—”

  She raised a hand to her mouth.

  “Just nausea?” Lillian asked. She got a nod. “Feverish? Does it hurt?”

  Whatever she was feeling, I didn’t experience it. My friends didn’t either.

  Maybe a handful of people had escaped it, whatever it was.

  My mind was going a mile a minute as I took it in, tried to figure out the approach.

  What was the goal, the plan?

  They’d hit everyone, but missed us. Was it an accident, luck on our part, Gordon being safe?

  “The teachers are affected too,” Gordon said.

  “It doesn’t seem to be serious,” Lillian said. “It’ll get explained away as a stomach thing. Something improperly cooked, perhaps.”

  As if to answer her statement, someone threw up. It seemed to set off a chain reaction. People were rising from their seats, hurrying out of the dining hall.

  “The entire school is going to be shut down,” I said. “Everyone in their beds for at least the next few hours, if not the next day.”

  Everyone. It’s not a frame, or they would have left the teachers alone, done more to set us up. Again, I have to wonder… why?

  My eye fell on Miss Ribbons.

  I felt the uneasiness, watching her. I saw the look in her eyes. Just the same as the boys had been.

  I jerked my head, and the others looked, following my gaze. Miss Ribbons was already making a hasty exit, pulling off her apron. If anyone asked, I bet she’d say she was going to the nurse.

  “Nobody to look after us, or keep us out of trouble,” I commented.

  Locking down the school. They were largely free to roam, or to feign being sick until our backs were turned, but I suspected it wouldn’t be so easy or safe for us.

  They’re making a play, and we’re still completely in the dark about what they are and what they’re doing.

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  Taking Root 1.6

  With the people starting to vomit or rising from their seats to run for the nearest toilet, it was pretty clear that something was wrong. Students were getting distressed, and students were getting scared. The teachers weren’t in great shape either.

  Our opposition was smart. Whatever was going on, they were capable of making plans with multiple phases or steps. Knowing we’d already served ourselves, they’d tainted the food, affecting most of the other students and teachers. Probably. It fit with Miss Ribbons’ actions and the general timeline.

  Mary. Helen’s friends had called her Mary.

  Our seats at the table were arranged with intent. It wasn’t anything we’d blatantly coordinated or organized, but we’d simply accepted it as an approach. At the table furthest from the kitchen, Jamie, Lillian and I sat on the bench with the wall right behind us, Helen and a share of Gordon’s friends on either side. Helen and Gordon themselves were opposite Jamie and I, their backs to the rest of the dining room.

  The position meant that Jamie and I could observe the room, and getting to us was rather more difficult. Gordon and Helen could look after themselves, for the most part, if someone happened to approach from behind.

  I leaned over to Jamie, and I took advantage of the general noise, bustle, and distraction of the other students to murmur in his ear. “The other students are too smart to reveal themselves in the midst of this. Watch the teachers.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I met Gordon and Helen’s eyes. This was an awkward situation, because we couldn’t coordinate by speech without cluing the others in. If we left, we ran the risk of being blindsided. When our enemies were in the shadows and we were in plain sight, the chaos here worked very much against us. While everyone else was distracted or incapacitated, they were free to attack us from any number of angle
s. If we happened to die, well, even minor food poisoning could kill.

  That in itself was dangerous, but I was willing to bet there were more layers to this attack. A specific reason they’d done it this way.

  “Helen,” Gordon said. He put a hand on Helen’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Helen shook her head. She was already leaning over slightly, one hand to her collarbone.

  She very briefly met my eye.

  Good. Play along.

  “Do you need help?” Lillian asked.

  “Just walk me to our room?” Helen asked. There was a tension in her voice, as if she were suddenly trying very hard not to puke.

  “Lillian isn’t that strong,” Gordon said. “I’ll help.”

  “Boys aren’t allowed on the girl’s side,” was the protest from Erma the pixie-blonde. She looked visibly green around the gills.

  “Special circumstances,” Gordon said.

  “You’re really not allowed,” Erma protested, again.

  “I really don’t care,” Gordon said, firm.

  “We’ll come,” I said.

  “Groups of—” Erma started, then bit the sentence short as she fought a wave of nausea.

  “Erma,” I said. “Let us be gentlemen, okay? We’re mostly okay, I think. We can walk you to your rooms.”

  She didn’t look happy with that idea, but she wasn’t able to talk, either.

  Gordon began to stand, helping Helen out of her seat. He offered a hand to Erma.

  “The teachers,” Jamie said, alerting us.

  My head turned. One of the teachers was standing. He wore slightly old fashioned clothes. His pants clung to his legs, disappearing into boots, while he wore a bright red jacket over a button-up shirt without a tie. He had a strong build, with a prominent barrel chest, and the clothing had a way of making his legs look far too small while his upper body was made to look larger. His hair was the same way, wavy hair across a head that was already very triangular, with a prominent upper brow and pointed chin.

  The red jacket was unfortunate, not because it was a sad attempt at acting a member of the upper crust, but because his skin was now very flushed, matching the jacket. He was sweating, in obvious discomfort.