by B. C. Tweedt
“Go.” The word came out angry, like a growl. He turned. “Just go!”
Liam’s demeanor melted into fear. Sydney scrunched her face as her arms shot out in frustration. This was absurd. Why would he want to abandon them like this? It didn’t make any sense!
But it was making sense to Nick. Slowly, pieces started fitting together in his mind. He studied Greyson’s face as he turned around once more, resting his arms on the counter – facing his anger alone. Greyson’s face was angry, yes, but more. He was thinking. And he was sad.
A wave of understanding passed through Nick and he took a step closer to Greyson. He whispered indiscernible to all but Greyson. “’Until he gets what he wants’. You’re going to…”
And that was all he needed. Greyson turned just enough for their eyes to meet, and there was a look of mutual understanding – of a certain brotherhood. Nick had to let him do it. He’d made up his mind, and there was nothing he could do except take the torch Greyson had passed to him silently with his eyes.
“Sapere Aude,” Nick said, sharing one last look with Greyson.
Greyson turned and whispered. “Audeāmus.”
Then, Nick turned boldly. “We have to go. And now.”
The others looked at him. Sammy looked at him and the ceiling tiles.
Not hearing their footsteps, the pressure inside Greyson reached a tipping point. He had to get them out, no matter the cost. “GO!” Greyson turned and lunged for the bloody knife. Sydney gasped and Jarryd dashed for the backdoor, leading to the parking lot. Liam followed, pulling at Sydney as he went.
“What? What are you doing?” Shielding herself from the knife, Sydney backed away, her eyes alarmed and confused beyond measure.
Greyson swung the knife in the air, backing them all toward the door. Nick was the last one out, putting his body between the knife and Sydney.
And suddenly they were out; the door slammed, locking their noises out with a dull echo in the empty kitchen. From pandemonium to the gentle humming of the refrigerator in an instant. Their scared faces were still seared in Greyson’s mind – their frightened voices reverberating in his ears. But they were gone. Away from the terrorists.
A rush of relief washed over him. He’d saved them. Right? Well, who had he saved? Their parents – who knew? The hundreds of fairgoers? Sam? Kip? No. But he had this. He’d saved Sydney, Jarryd, Liam, and Nick. Four. And next, his father.
It had taken a knife and betrayal to do so, but he’d done it.
He set the knife down and rested his face in his arms on the counter. The tears came on suddenly and he pulled the shirt to his face, relishing the soft feel of the cloth against his wind-burned face. But the feeling was only momentary.
The door opened with a rush and he knew who it was.
Chapter 27
“I heard shouting. Where’d everybody go?”
He’d been wrong. It was just Pastor Whitfield with a small book in his hand. Scanning the kitchen, the man’s concerned eyes settled on Greyson; he frowned.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
Greyson realized that he was shirtless, crying, and next to a bloody knife. He probably thought I killed my friends!
What would Jarryd do? What would Jarryd do? Think of a story…
“Uh…I’m fine…I was just – well…”
“Is that a knife? Is it bloody?”
Greyson stammered, “Well, yeah…they…they had to cut something off of me…”
He turned and showed the Band-Aid. He had to make it believable.
“What did they cut off of you?”
Greyson reached for his shirt and slid it on, buying himself time to think. “It was a bee’s stinger…I mean a tick!” Tick sounded more likely. If it were a bee, he’d just have pulled a stinger out.
“Oh…a bumble tick. Those hurt,” the man said, tongue-in-cheek.
Greyson laughed nervously and ran the knife under the faucet, cleaning it with his hand. Having something to do always made conversations more endurable. And the less eye contact, the better.
“So, then they just left you?”
The Pastor was persistent; he had leaned against one of the islands, listening intently.
“Well, yeah. I told them to leave. I – I wanted to talk to you.”
The Pastor nodded and took the washed knife from Greyson. He put it on top of the counter. “Might have to disinfect this guy before we use it.”
Greyson nodded and wiped at his nose.
Pastor Whitfield handed him the towel. “Here. Wash your face. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but you’re awfully dirty.”
And he felt dirty. Dirtier than he’d ever felt, inside and out. The guilt was weighing on him, gnawing at his insides and making him nauseous – as if someone’s fist was pressing into his stomach, forcing his stomach acid up his throat. But I have to. I have to give Sam up. It’s the only way to stop Emory from hurting us. And the only way to find Dad. This whole crazy game he and Emory had played, he’d done it for those he loved. And everything done for love was fair game. But why do I still feel awful?
He leaned over the running faucet, and after taking several deep drinks from his cupped hands, he splashed his face and rubbed it clean, pressing tenderly against his bruised cheekbones. Orion punching him seemed so long ago. Has it only been an hour? Suddenly his other pains made themselves heard, as if his adrenaline, his natural pain reliever, had run dry. His knees were scraped and bloody, his elbows bruised, his head aching, and his arms weak from pulling his slingshot back. He needed a massage – and a bath.
“Feel better?”
Greyson dried his face and lied. “Yeah, thanks.”
“So you said you wanted to talk to me? Want to go somewhere comfortable to sit?”
“Um…no thanks, sir. I don’t know how much time I have left.”
The pastor had a brief thought of concern at the way he said it, but brushed it off as a curfew his parents had set. “Okay. Then shoot.”
Greyson pushed himself up to sit on the counter, looking into his lap and at his shoes. “So, my friend didn’t know the answer, but I promised him I’d ask the first pastor or priest I saw.”
“And that’s me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m honored. I’ll give it my best shot.”
He took in a deep breath. “Where do we go when we die?”
The Pastor’s eyes drew away as he thought to himself. He didn’t smile or compliment the question as if talking to a child, but his brow furrowed in concern, watching the way Greyson avoided eye contact.
“That is a question I’ve wrestled with for many years. But my deep longing to know really didn’t start until I was 32 when my mother passed away.” Greyson met eyes with him for a moment, but he returned to his shoes. “May I ask what makes you wrestle with the question now?”
Greyson licked his lips, searching the tile floor for an answer. “Well, I…I just want to know. Like, if someone were to do something really bad before they died, would they go to hell?” Greyson put his hands in his pockets, feeling the tracker which would bring the terrorists right to him – to bring them to him so that he could help them.
The poor kid’s done something he regrets and fears hell, the Pastor thought. Perhaps someone has scared him out of his wits. “It depends…”
“If they lied…” Greyson started.
“Well,” the Pastor replied with a little smile. The kid had been caught in a lie. “That’s something we all…”
“…and betrayed a friend…”
The Pastor’s smile flinched.
“…and killed people?”
For a moment the pastor let his face register his surprise.
Greyson caught the look. It confirmed what he had thought. I’m beyond saving.
“Well,” the old man started, clearing his throat and collecting himself. “What’s your name?”
“Greyson,” he said. Nolan had died with Kip.
“Greyson, you’re as
king me for answers. But I have to tell you – every answer that I will give is straight from this book.” He held up the small book he’d brought in with him.
Greyson eyed it. “The Bible?”
“You got it.”
“It’s so small.”
The Pastor smiled. “Well, this one is. It looks like it was made to fit in your pack there.”
They looked at his fanny pack together and shared a short laugh.
“Here, take it. I was going to give it to your freckled friend before he left, but I guess God meant it for you.”
Greyson took it from him. “Fate,” he said with a laugh.
“God.”
Greyson shrugged. “Thanks.”
“It has the answers. You want to know what is good and true – it’s in there. There’s probably nothing better than it to keep with you at all times. It’s gotten me out of a lot of messes – including hell.”
He laughed at himself and smiled as Greyson tucked it away, still solemn.
“But about your question. There’s bad news and good news. The bad news is that there is a hell, and some people, when they die, will eventually go there. Even worse, we’re all destined to go there. You mentioned lying, betrayal and murder – those are symptoms of a bigger disease. An infection every human is born with.”
Infection? Memories of the legend Governor Reckhemmer had shared lurked in his mind. They were all infected. And he had escaped, just like in the story. Was it going to end like the story did? Was he going to infect others? Were others going to pay because of what he did? Had they already?
“The infection drives us to do all sorts of bad things. And it’s rooted deep into our hearts and our brains, crawling around in there, causing all sorts of pains and symptoms – some we aren’t even aware of, because they can’t be seen. They’re spiritual. And it’s so bad, it’s as if our spirit is already dead, and our body has just yet to catch up.”
Greyson shook his head, trying to focus his thoughts. The word spirit had thrown him, but there was that first word that he couldn’t shake. “So…I’m infected?”
The pastor nodded gravely, like a doctor diagnosing him with cancer. “When you mentioned murder, I thought of something Jesus said. He said anyone who hates someone else is as guilty as a murderer.”
Greyson thought of Emory. “Then I’m murdering someone right now.”
The pastor stifled a nervous laugh and pushed the knife a little further from the boy. “What he was saying was that we are all infected with the same disease. We can look at the open wounds on others’ faces or judge them for their other symptoms, but when we examine ourselves – we’re all just as doomed.”
Nodding, trying to follow the man, Greyson began examining himself. He was sick. There was no doubt about it. And his dad had been right. Though what he had done had left no visible marks – he had gaping, puss-filled sores and rashes and yellowing skin and whatever other invisible symptoms he could think of. There’s no boy sicker than I am.
“But then the good news.”
“There’s a cure?” Greyson asked.
“There’s a cure.”
Just then, the door burst open, snapping from its hinges and slamming to the floor.
Chapter 28
Two policemen stomped over the door, brandishing automatic weapons and wicked smirks. The same two he’d seen pulling the poster stunt with Orion. The same two who had shot Kip.
The Pastor backed toward Greyson, who had leapt down from the counter, standing tall. With a free hand, Greyson twisted his hat around, facing it forward. He wanted a peace-talk, not a fight.
Behind the two terrorists, another policeman entered who was no policeman at all. Emory.
“Greyson Gray.”
The Pastor put his hand against Greyson’s chest as if to protect him. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”
Greyson ducked from under the Pastor’s hand and pushed himself in front of the man just as the two policemen raised their weapons.
“Let him go,” Greyson demanded. “I haven’t told him anything. He doesn’t even know what happened today. Please.”
The pastor watched as the men slowly lowered their guns at Emory’s silent command. Smirking, Emory stepped toward Greyson, holding his hands on the side of his belt like police officers do. His handgun holster shone as if it had just been polished – or had never been worn before. “Please? Please?” he mocked. “Do you think you’re in the position to ask for anything?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, are you?”
“I know where Sam is. You can still get what you want out of this day, just like our deal. You get what you want if you let him go and you tell me where my father is. A deal’s a deal.”
He felt the Pastor’s large hands hold his shoulders. He could only imagine what the Pastor was thinking about him now.
“Ah, ‘a deal’s a deal’? Then certainly you must remember that I said if you told one soul about this, then my mercy is rescinded? And that I would kill you and your family and friends?”
Greyson gulped down a lump in his throat as the Pastor squeezed his shoulders.
“So if a deal’s a deal…then I must keep my word.”
“I had to tell them to get them out of the fair! It wasn’t my fault your guys took Sydney!” He tried to calm himself down. “I had to get her back. Taking Sam was an accident that I’m trying to make up for.”
Emory smiled and glanced over his shoulder at his two henchmen who shared a laugh with him. “Aren’t you a little politician? Excellent. Excellent.”
He leaned down to Greyson’s level. Greyson was thankful for the bill of his hat, which kept him from getting even closer. “I understand. You and me – very similar. We fight for what is right.”
Though they both had killed people today, and though the pastor said they were all infected the same, Greyson knew that Emory was on a whole different level of sick. Flashes of the terror he’d seen popped back into his head.
“You’re wrong. We aren’t the same at all. I’m trying my best not to kill, but you forced me to.”
Emory jerked back. “Don’t press your luck with me. I’m about to give you what you want.”
“I’m about to give you what you want. So don’t insult me.”
Emory leaned back, flushed with anger, his fingers twisting around his belt. Slowly he reined in his anger and leaned back down. “Tell me where he is and I will spare your family and friends. My mercy extends as far as east is from west.” He winked at the Pastor.
“Pastor Whitfield’s my friend, too.”
“He will be bound and gagged, and I may spare his life. I mean, we are in a church for God’s sake!”
“And the boy?” Pastor Whitfield asked, squeezing Greyson’s shoulders.
Emory studied their faces. “He’ll get what he deserves.”
The Pastor turned suddenly to Greyson, astonished. The whites of his eyes glistened with moisture and his lips trembled. As if he knew his time was short, he stared into Greyson’s eyes and let loose with a whispered flurry. “If you are suffering in a manner that pleases God, keep on doing what is right…”
SMACK! Pastor Whitfield was sent sprawling to the floor with Emory’s punch. Stunned, he gingerly touched his bleeding lip. Emory stood over him, ready to attack, but the pastor whispered even louder, eyes still on Greyson.
“…and trust your life to the God who created you, for He will never fail you.”
Emory shook his head and spat on the old man. “Shut him up and get him out of here.” The two policemen lunged forward and grabbed the scared and helpless pastor. Greyson leaned in to help, but held himself back.
The pastor shook as the gag covered his mouth, preventing him from saying more. His eyes dropped to Greyson’s pack just before he was dragged away, leaving Greyson alone with Emory. For a moment no one spoke, listening to the pastor’s groans as they trailed away down the hall.
“Gibberish. The old fool.”
G
reyson chose not to reply. His heart was breaking for the old man. And again, it had been his fault. He’d known the terrorists were coming, yet he insisted on getting answers. He had thought answers were more important than the pastor’s safety. Did his sickness know no bounds?
“We are running short on time. Where’s the boy?”
His conscience was screaming. The old man’s words were burning in his mind, warning him, and encouraging him. But his infection had blinded him. He was delirious with single-minded devotion. A cold, non-existent voice whispered in his ear. Your father. I know where your father is.
“He’s in a house a block away, toward the fair. ‘For Sale’ sign out front.”
“Excellent.”
Like a hoarse prisoner, he issued his last words. “Tell him you’ve come to make a trade. That way he won’t run.”
Emory’s lips spread, red and devilish. “Thank you for all your help.”
“Now tell me! Where’s my dad?”
Emory laughed. “Not yet. You’re coming with me. Once we have the boy safely where we want him – then. Then I will tell you. Come.” He ushered him to the door and walked with him through the church’s hall.
Greyson marched as if a prisoner being led to the electric chair – a punishment he deserved. His mind altered between the good he had done and the bad, arguing which he had performed more. But there was no way of knowing which outweighed the other. How many good deeds would he need to do to erase a murder? And did it even matter? If he was infected, he would die, no matter how many symptoms he showed. It was just a matter of when.
As the knot in his stomach grew tighter, he longed to be with his friends and hoped they were safe – far away by now.
They’re yours now Nick. Keep them safe.
-------------------
Nick held up his hand and the group strode to a stop at the crest of the hill. They’d been walking for twenty minutes without a stop, and Jarryd was panting for breath with his hands on his knees. “What I wouldn’t give…to have Oscar back.”
