by B. C. Tweedt
“What stinks?” Sydney asked, joining the group out of the shadows.
“That would be me,” Jarryd said before Greyson could claim credit.
“Deep fried Twinkie. Or bacon-wrapped rib. I’d need another whiff to tell for sure…”
Greyson rubbed his hands on a pile of sawdust to rid them of the brown, but the sawdust just stuck to his fingers.
“Well, what is that thing?” Sydney asked, pointing at the spear-like object made of a material like a woven basket. It was almost five-feet tall with a thick wick protruding from its cylindrical fuel canister on its top.
“A tiki-torch,” Nick explained. “They are used for light and to keep bugs away. Must be for a parade or a party is my guess.”
“The Plurb kid was with them,” Jarryd reported. “Must be a Pube party.”
Greyson’s gaze shot up from his hands and he wiped futilely at his shirt as he suddenly started down the aisle.
Nick glared at his brother. “Wow, Jarryd. Pluribus. Get it right.”
“Fine. Pubius.”
Liam finally emerged from another pen, further down the aisle, smiling wide. “I-I was c-c-cuddling with a m-miniature h-horsey.”
“Come on!” Greyson whispered, already shuffling down the aisle. “Stop screwing around. We got to follow them!”
“Ah, let’s just go back,” Jarryd complained.
“What?” Greyson stopped in his tracks. “No. This is what we’ve been waiting for. We can’t stop now.”
Sydney nodded vigorously. “He’s right. This Plurb kid’s just not right. I’m with ya.”
Greyson gave her a brief smile and continued on his way.
The boys and Sydney jerked into action and followed closely. Soon they had caught up to the group outside the barn where, for several minutes, the group’s process didn’t change. One after another, eight more torches were spaced evenly apart over a stretch of a quarter mile on both sides of the street.
Observing the “volunteers”, Greyson still couldn’t make sense of it. Why are these kids decorating for a parade at 2:30 in the morning? And do the fair authorities know one of them is with Pluribus? Something was not adding up. But they still had nothing to go on. Kip would never be convinced. There was nothing wrong with decorating for a parade. And maybe there’s nothing wrong about being a Plurb, as long as you didn’t blow stuff up…
“Hold up.” Greyson held up his hand and the group gathered by him outside of a vendor hut. He eyed the group of teenaged volunteers halfway through a park, placing more torches by the winding sidewalk. “Maybe these aren’t just torches.”
Greyson rubbed his hand over the woven shaft of the one dug into the grass next to them, checking it for who knew what, but not finding anything abnormal.
“What could it be? Like a bomb?” Sydney asked, not expecting an answer.
“Or maybe it’s full of a highly infectious disease,” Jarryd gulped.
“Bio warfare…” Nick added, still examining the torch.
Greyson shrugged and continued feeling the fuel canister. “Maybe it’s both.”
The others backed away.
“Hey,” Sydney whispered as Greyson reached in his pack. “Be careful.”
His hand emerged with a lighter and he flicked it on.
Sydney gasped as the flame lit Greyson’s face in an orange hue. “What are you doing? I said be careful!”
Greyson held the flame in front of him and took a gulp of saliva. Be daring. Be daring. “If it’s a tiki-torch, it won’t blow up.”
Nick slapped his forehead and Sydney was struck speechless. Liam’s eyes were locked on the flame.
“When I light it, we run and watch.”
“I’m not waiting!” Jarryd bolted away and Nick and Liam followed. After shaking her head at Greyson, Sydney escaped as well, leaving Greyson alone with the flame.
Don’t be afraid. Kids aren’t supposed to be afraid of death. They’re supposed to think they’re invincible. Why can’t I? Besides, death will only bring me to Dad. Hopefully.
Stop thinking. Just do it!
He pushed the flame over the wick.
-----------------
The assassin picked out the flame as it flickered in the distance. He had never trusted the others to watch the perimeter, and this incursion would only prove his skepticism. He had wanted armed guards at every entrance, but the boss had thought a low profile would discourage any infiltration.
Well, now, he thought. Something hadn’t been convinced. Perhaps these things would have to be convinced with another method. His method.
-------------------
It had taken awhile to light the wick. He kept burning his fingers when he tipped the lighter toward the wick, and for a moment he thought the wick must be fake, but finally it had taken. When it did, he sprinted toward the shadowed alley where his friends were watching. Watching their faces, he was waiting for the telltale signs of his impending doom – mouths agape, wide-eyes, the drawing of air into the lungs for a full-blown scream – but none came.
Just when he thought he was safe, powerful arms suddenly latched on his arms and jerked him away. He couldn’t breathe, his mind raced, and his hands scrambled for his slingshot.
But the man’s hands grabbed his wrists and whirled him into the alley, pressing him against the brick wall. He was helpless.
“What are you doing here?” the man shouted.
It was Kip. Greyson was struck speechless and his eyes bounced to the flaming wick and back again. It was going to explode any second.
“Speak!”
How’d he find me? “Uh…I…we’re making sure the fair is safe. It’s the torches! We’re afraid – “
A sneer wiped along his angry face. “Oh, yeah? Is that your job? No. But it is my job to keep you safe.”
“Uh…” Greyson glanced at Sydney and a sudden surge of confidence boiled inside of him. “Whatever. I’ve saved people before; why can’t I try it again?”
The words had sounded less arrogant in his head. Now, his friends and Kip stared at him, a kind of disappointment or sadness in their faces. Sydney eyed the ground and Greyson formed more words in his head but chose to keep them to himself. Instead, he eyed the flame again, inwardly hoping it would explode. That would show Kip.
Shaking his head, Kip paused before he spoke to quell his anger. “You are twelve years old, Nolan. And not our savior. Right now you’re just your mother’s son and my responsibility. And the rest of you…” He turned to chastise them. “You know what kind of danger he’s in, and you let him do this? You’re supposed to be his friends.”
They exchanged looks, watched their shoes, and glanced at the flickering flame, expecting at any moment to witness an explosion. They fidgeted helplessly, praying the explosion wouldn’t have any infectious gases.
“We’re going home. And you are never getting out of my sight again.”
“Home home?” Greyson asked, the beginning of a lump in his throat threatening to come up with tears.
Kip released his wrists and pushed them all through the alley in the direction of the campgrounds. “We’ll see. For now, you’re all going to bed. And you’re going to try to explain to me what exactly you were thinking…after taking a shower. Ugh…”
Walking away, Greyson shot a look back at the torch in the distance. “The torches,” he started. “We were just making sure they’re not something else.”
Kip matched his look but didn’t slow his pace. The flame was still flickering. There was no explosion, no gas release – nothing.
It was just a torch.
Kip turned back, plugging his nose at Greyson’s smell and shaking his head.
As soon as the group had turned a corner, leaving the torch out of view, another man emerged from the shadows and stepped into the flashing light of the tiny flame. His skin, as if already burned, dropped crusty flakes toward the wick. With two dry fingers, he pinched out the flame with a short hiss.
Chapter 11
T
hursday Morning
“PAAAAAPEEEER!”
“Agh!” Greyson shot up from his sleep and instantly banged his head on the empty bunk bed above. “Ooow! Geez!”
He rubbed vigorously at his scalp until the pain died down.
“Paaaaaapeeeeer!”
The paperboy had already passed. He must have slept through a few of his calls, so deep into his dream that he couldn’t hear the annoying voice until it was right outside.
Again, it’d been the bridge. Of all that had happened to him yesterday, of all the material for bad dreams – it was the same bridge. Why hadn’t there been a giant boar or ostrich? A crushing tractor wheel? An exploding torch or a snake-skin-lipped cowboy? Or even infected corpses filling mass graves?
He rubbed at his legs. They’d been almost useless in the dream and now he understood why. They were tight and sore from the run yesterday morning, the chase in the afternoon, and all the walking back and forth from camp to the fair. He must have put in more than eight miles in one day.
Peeking around the crowded camper, he could see that his mom had fallen asleep in the same manner as yesterday, but this time she had kept a small pillow with her. She still held on to hope – despite the dead-ends, the delays, and the obvious. He’s gone. Would it be cruel to convince her that it was useless? To ask her to come back to the land of the living instead of dwelling in the past?
A stab of guilt pinched his side, reminding him of his morning sit-ups that would help rid him of the thought. He immediately swung into the routine.
Up, down, up, down.
He loved this alone time in the morning. There were much fewer worries when there was no one around. Usually. But today his mind wandered to the Pluribus boy and the torches. What were they being used for? And why would these kids help put them up at 2AM?
Up, down, up, down, up, down.
Had Pluribus really bombed places? Kidnapped people? Why hadn’t Kip told me this was happening?
Up, down, up, down, up, down.
Why is Kip letting me stay at camp? His verbal thrashing last night had lasted all the way back to the RV, but he had decided to let him stay – as long as he stayed in sight. Why? But then again, why argue?
Up, down, up, down, up, down.
Does Sydney really like Sam? Or does she like me? She did compliment me last night. My humility.
Up, down, up, down.
Humility? Of all things – she likes that about me?
Up, down, up, down.
Way to be arrogant last night. Bet that won her over.
Up, down, up, down.
Why does she like Sam so much?
Up, down, up. Because of his dancing.
Down, up. And his stupid face.
Down, up, down, up, down, up.
At least he had a mole.
Down, up. Down, up.
But his mole is probably cute. Girls like small furry things.
Down, up, down, up.
He began to sweat, but he was just getting started. He would sweat out all his aggression. All his worries and fears. Sweat them out. The fact that Sydney thought his sweat was gross. The fact that he’d lost the white-shirted boy – again. The fact that his dad was dead. Sweat it out.
Down, up, down, up, down, up.
---------------------------
The morning dragged. The adults were weary after staying up late with the Reckhemmers, the kids were still wounded from Kip’s verbal thrashing and the lack of sleep, and Greyson was massaging his sore feet. They were all grumpy, save Sydney, who was making last minute adjustments to the day’s schedule. Of all the kids, she had been the happiest when Kip had pulled them to the side and decided to let them stay on the condition of no more daring and Greyson staying in his sight at all times.
For some reason, he hadn’t even told their parents. When Greyson’s mother had woken up, she had greeted him with a loving kiss on the forehead before going back to her work. They had even said their goodbyes before he left the camper. She was too absorbed in whatever was going on to even leave the RV. He had made it a good one with an extra squeeze to his hug – just in case Kip decided to tell her later.
“So, there’s a pie-eating contest we’ll all go to first,” Sydney reported with an annoying perkiness to her morning voice. “Then the parents wanted to take me to the art exhibits – photography, dollhouses, portraits and stuff – so I’ll spare you from that and go to that next. But the boys said they’d like to go to the stunt show with you at eleven. You guys can meet up with us for lunch. And then we’ve got a few hours to kill before the speech.”
“The speech?”
“Yeah. The governor invited us backstage.”
“Will Sam be there?” Greyson asked, rubbing his arches.
Sydney gave him a look, but he was too engrossed in his foot rub to notice. “Yeah. I think.”
“Cool. He’s a cool kid,” Greyson said as sincerely as he could manage. Without daring, he had to try a different tact. “I hope some of his coolness rubs off on me.”
The silence was long enough to crack a few of his toes.
“Yeah,” she said, trying to read his face. He kept his eyes on his toes.
Humility. Nailed it.
--------------------
“Seriously, Greyson. Look at this frickin’ thing!” Jarryd lifted up his shirt in the middle of the crowd, pointing toward the deep, red welt on his sternum. “It’s bigger than my other two!”
Greyson and Liam pulled at his shirt, trying to save his embarrassment as the line of people behind them pressed up against them, waiting to see the butter cow. They’d been standing in line for several minutes and had passed by many nice displays of the history of the butter cow, and had even seen a butter sculpture of Michael Jackson, but no cow yet.
“People should wait in line to see this!”
“No, put it away!” Greyson laughed. “And my name’s Nolan.”
“P-p-put it away!” Liam exclaimed.
Jarryd finally lowered his shirt, grinning and pumping his chin at the middle-aged moms behind them.
“Yeah, they see these abs. They stick out even more after that pie.”
Jarryd patted his engorged belly. The eating contest had pitted him against twenty others in his age group. Jarryd and Sammy had slammed themselves face-first into a blueberry pie on the table in front of them, Greyson and the others cheering them on from the stands with Kip supervising. It had been close. It came down to the last few slurps on the tin pan, but Sammy had taken the victory. Jarryd nearly lunged for Sammy again, but had decided against it when a blueberry burp almost become a blueberry barf.
“Ugh. Is this even worth it?” Greyson asked Nick, who despite already seeing the cow, was back for another round.
“Definitely. Just think of the history of it. The tradition. Over one-hundred years. Imagine the group of people you are joining in saying you have seen it.”
“But is it cool-looking?”
“Kinda.”
Greyson shook his head in frustration, but he would wait.
“Hey, Nick. You see that girl?” Jarryd pointed out the teenaged girl walking the opposite direction wearing a tiara and a white sash. Greyson figured she must have been some sort of pageant winner.
“Her sash said, ‘Pork Queen’! Haha! Is it because she looks most like a pig or because she’s the most delicious looking?”
Nick rolled his eyes. “She helps promote the pork industry of Iowa.”
“Hmm. Delicious.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Ah, come on. You gotta look around little brother. This is the perfect place to go shopping. Look at all the groceries!”
Greyson and Nick exchanged a look as the line moved forward another foot.
“How about you, Greys – uh, Nolan? Shopping around?”
“Shopping? Are you saying you have to pay a girl for her to like you?”
“No.”
“And that you use her?”
“Well…�
��
“And then you get rid of her when you think she’s rotten?”
Jarryd walked through the process in his mind, acting out the gestures. “Yeah. But you say it like it’s wrong.”
“Uh…duh?”
“Uh…duh what?” Jarryd began to explain, but the butter cow finally slipped into view. “Holy cow!”
“Haha! Nice one,” Greyson said sarcastically.
“I know. I know. But it’s true. That’s one holy cow.”
Greyson scanned the nearly life-size, yellow cow that was so intricately sculpted he could see the blood vessels on its milk sack. Finding no evidence it was holy, he scrunched his face. “Why do you say that?”
Jarryd elbowed him and pointed toward the cow’s lower parts. “Dude. It has four things…”
“Udders?”
It took a moment for Jarryd to understand. “Oh. I thought…haha. Nevermind. I was thinking it was one lucky cow.”
“You’re a moron,” Nick chided. “We don’t drink cow urine.”
“Oh…” Jarryd muttered to himself, a smile slowing dawning on him. “That makes more sense now.”
After a few more glances, they gladly exited the line, excited to head to the stunt show before joining the rest of the group for lunch. They walked down the sunny main concourse, all four scouring the crowds for different reasons. Jarryd was shopping, Nick was giving second glances to each one of the tiki-torches lining the streets, Liam was eyeing the deep-fried candy bars, and Greyson was looking for someone – one person in particular. He was trying to recall his face, because his white shirt was no longer a valuable clue. He had short brown hair, broad shoulders, and eyes that he couldn’t describe – but could certainly look sinister.
“So you’re not a fan of shopping, Greyson?” Jarryd asked. “Nolan – whatever your frickin’ name is.”
“Nah. I just want the one. No returns.”
Jarryd laughed. “Good one. But how do you know if she’s the right one until you date her? Pick her up, check the label. Maybe sample her lips?”
Greyson peeked around the adults in front of them and then checked behind. He caught a glimpse of Kip carrying a giant empty cup of soda, trying to blend in. “Definitely. But girls aren’t groceries. They get to choose, too.”
