One of Us

by Craig DiLouie

  Hate flowed inside him now, adding skin and muscle to his ragged spirit until it became whole again.

  Brain, a voice boomed across the swamp. Brain, where are you?

  Tiny splashed across the water, a terrifying sight to the normals whose standard of beauty required large eyes, symmetrical proportions, clean skin. To the normals, asymmetrical features were ugly because they reflected bad genes. Bad skin because it reminded them of disease. Bestial features because they awakened ancestral memories of primeval predators. All because of procreation, the viability of offspring. All because of survival. On a genetic level, the plague generation forced the rest of humanity to gaze deeply upon life and death.

  The giant boy stopped, a cloud of gnats forming around his horns like an angry thought. “Dog is dead.”

  A lance of pain in Brain’s heart. He was fragile inside as well. “How did it happen?”

  “Mr. Rucker said he hanged himself in jail.”

  Brain took a ragged breath. The swamp’s never-ending soundtrack washed over him. Bullfrogs belched in their hiding places. Mallards honked from cattails fringing the lake. Dog was dead, and all the boy’s hopes for a just world had died with him.

  Sorry, friend, he thought.

  “You said they would push us until we did something about it,” Tiny said.

  Brain nodded. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. “I’m ready now.”

  Tiny grinned and smashed his open palm with his fist. “About time.”

  “But we ain’t ready.”

  “You taught me patience,” Tiny growled. “You taught me the revolution.”

  “That we could all do it together and create a fair world. Yes.”

  “I still believe in the revolution. I am running short on patience.”

  “A third of us ain’t ready to fight,” Brain said.

  “But the rest have spirit. Right now, it’s bent far as it can go. If the normals break it, nobody will ever be ready.”

  “It ain’t time.”

  “I could have gone to Special Facility. I could be in high cotton. We all kept our secret because we believe in you.”

  “I’m sorry, Atticus.”

  “It’s time,” the boy insisted.

  “No. Soon. Very soon. But not now.”

  Tiny glared at Brain, who stared back.

  The giant boy roared and punched the nearest cypress, muscles rippling along his spiky arm. The old tree groaned, roots cracking, and toppled with a crash.

  “Soon,” the boy snarled.

  “Yes.”

  “Soon, it will come.”

  “Soon,” Brain said.

  Tiny turned and splashed away, crossing the swamp in great strides. Brain looked down at the spot where the great tree once stood, now filling with water. The water was the color of black tea, rich with tannic acid from rotting plants and peat.

  In the future, a big storm would come and lash this place with rain. The swamp would flood until it spread and consumed everything in its path.

  Soon.

  Brain sat on his bed of moss.

  “Dog,” he sobbed.

  At last, his tears came like the flood.

  Thirty-Six

  Dave Gaines drove the rutted dirt track to the Home for the last time. He parked and looked around at the vast decaying mansion, outbuildings, weedy yard, trees draped with Spanish moss.

  Nobody in sight. This time of day, the kids sat in the mess hall having their breakfast. He could hear their roaring babble from here. The windows had been boarded up with cardboard taped in place. Buckshot scarred the walls.

  He’d spent five years of his life here watching creepers grow up. He’d felt chained to it. A heavy, rotting ghost that owned him. Now that he was quitting, it had lost its hold, its spell broken. The trees were just trees. The house just an old house. Like looking at photos, already in the past. No responsibility here, not anymore, leaving his spirit light as a feather. He could let go of it all, the tragedy and sadness, but now that he was free he gazed upon it all with mounting nostalgia.

  Gaines wondered if convicts felt the same way when they left prison, whether they looked upon their barred cells as home after too long.

  He walked into the house, taking his time. His body was still recovering. The drive had put a fierce ache in his arm and shoulder. Doc Odom said he’d have ugly scars the rest of his life. Enoch might be dead, but he’d left a permanent mark on him.

  Gaines went down the hall and entered the principal’s office. The old man looked up from his desk and motioned him to grab a chair.

  “Good to see you back on your feet,” Willard said.

  “Morning, sir. Thank you.”

  “You feeling better?”

  “Fine and dandy, Colonel.”

  “When do you see yourself coming back to work?”

  “Well, sir, that’s the thing,” Gaines said. “I got offered a better job.”

  The principal pierced him with his stare. “I see.”

  “Bill Faherty said I could work for him. He owns the 76 out by Route 19. Filling, oil changes, tune-ups, and some body work.”

  “That sounds like a good employment opportunity.”

  “Bill says he’s thinking of adding a car wash in the next year.” Gaines frowned. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about that, telling people Bill’s business. Don’t tell anybody I told you.”

  Willard held up his hand to express he understood and didn’t care what Bill did. “I am glad to see things looking up for you.”

  Gaines’s nostalgia slipped away as this truth hit him. Everything was in fact looking up. A new job, women showing interest. His boy socking it to the preacher’s kid like a man. Enoch was dead, and the sheriff had backed off his personal crusade to see him in jail. For the first time in many long years, Gaines had far more to look forward to than look back on. This heady knowledge left him uneasy and excited.

  On top of it all, the old man seemed happy for him, and no hard feelings. Gaines could walk away from this place and leave it forever.

  “I’m sorry to lose you,” Willard added. “I’m breaking in a new man to assist in Discipline, but it isn’t the same.”

  “Have they been acting unruly?”

  “All the recent fuss has made it a precarious time.”

  “I’m sorry to leave you shorthanded and all,” Gaines said.

  “We’ll manage. We always do. Now that the Bryant boy is dead, I expect things will settle down over the next month or so.”

  “In four years, it’ll all be over anyhow. The Homes will be out of business.”

  “I’d like you to keep in touch,” the principal said. “I know some good men who see things clearly. They see the future and are preparing for it.”

  “Contingency plans,” Gaines guessed.

  “When the children reach maturity, they will be more difficult to control. The result will be the first war fought on American soil since 1865.”

  “You really think so, sir?”

  “I know it.”

  “So this, uh, club or whatever. What is it doing to prepare?”

  “Training,” Willard said. “One weekend a month.”

  “They’re lucky to have you helping them, Colonel. A man of your experience.”

  “Back in ’Nam, we ripped that country apart a thousand times over. Dropped the equivalent of six hundred Hiroshima bombs on it. And still we never knew if we had won. The gooks all looked alike to us, see. We never knew who the enemy was and wasn’t, so we killed them all and let God sort the wheat and chaff. My boys had terrific body counts. It felt like we were winning, but we never knew. The plague children aren’t like the VC. They’re easy to spot. When they finally make their move, we’ll be ready. We’ll be merciless. And we’ll know we won.”

  Gaines scratched at his itching arm. “I might be interested in that.”

  “We can’t rely on the sheriff to protect us. When the time comes, we must be ready to fight for our homes and families
.”

  The training seemed like fun and a great way to meet friends and make contacts. Another way to move up in the world. It all sounded fine to Gaines, and he said so. “I just have to check with Bill,” he added. “Make sure he don’t need me at the shop those weekends. Otherwise, count me in.”

  “Before I formally invite you, I just want to make sure you finding another line of work isn’t because of the attack. That it left a mark on you the doctors can’t fix.”

  “I ain’t afraid of them kids,” Gaines said.

  “Good. Then it’s settled.”

  They shook hands, another sign of respect in his new life.

  Gaines went back outside and found the yard chock full of milling creepers and red-faced teachers shouting them into the pickups. He gazed upon the familiar scene feeling a little left out but mostly elated this ritual no longer had anything to do with him. He spotted George, Mary, and Edward and watched them with a tinge of regret. He decided to mosey over and say goodbye to his cuckoos.

  They froze at the sight of him. George stared, his eyes full of sass as usual. Big red welts crisscrossed his face.

  “Lord, boy,” Gaines said. “You lose a brick fight or something? You know you ain’t no good at fighting.”

  The kid didn’t answer.

  “I told the principal I’m leaving for good. I just wanted to say goodbye. All y’all are a good bunch of kids, and I think I’ll miss y’all a bitty bit.”

  George said, “Enoch is dead, Mr. Gaines.”

  He scowled. Here he was trying to do the right thing, and the kid had to ruin it with this talk. George just couldn’t help himself, always the uppity one. The boy could argue with a fence post.

  “I heard about that,” he said. “You ask me, it weren’t fair, what happened to him.”

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean Reggie shouldn’t have done what he did.”

  Atticus stomped over to stand behind George. The big kid had always made him nervous. The Colonel had worked him over good when it was his turn in Discipline, and the creeper hadn’t made a sound.

  “I was just saying Enoch should have had his day in court,” Gaines offered.

  He was sweating now. He didn’t know when to keep his big mouth shut. As always, trying to ingratiate himself only dug him deeper.

  Damn you kids, he thought. I’m glad to be leaving. I gave you five years of my life, and you can’t even show enough gratitude to say a proper goodbye.

  More creepers gathered around to eyeball him.

  Pa Albod killed Dog, they whispered among themselves.

  “I didn’t say that,” Gaines told them.

  “But it’s true,” Brain said.

  Gaines looked over the children’s misshapen heads and spotted the teachers still yelling at their charges to move their asses. Willard was in the big house. Everything was fine.

  “Well, maybe that boy had it coming.” He pointed at his shoulder. “For land’s sake, I’m the injured party here. He killed Mr. Bowie. He killed Miss Sally and tore me up. He went wild.”

  “We was told Enoch hanged himself in jail,” George said.

  “Well,” Gaines said.

  He hadn’t known that. The air thickened. The atmosphere was pregnant with anticipation. More kids gathered around as the news spread.

  “Has Mr. Albod been arrested for murder?” George said.

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know. The boy killed Sally and almost killed me, that’s all I know about it. Listen, I wasted enough time. I got to be getting along.”

  He flinched as George thrust out his hand.

  “So long, Mr. Gaines,” the gorilla said. “Good luck to you.”

  Gaines shook it, feeling the small bones in his grip. A little squeeze and he could make this biggity kid cry. He could crush his hand if he wanted. He was normal, and they were nothing. He had an angle. He was a respected man now.

  “Well, kids,” he said. “So long.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Gaines,” Atticus said. “I just wanted to say thanks. You made a big difference in our education.”

  The creeper thrust out his massive paw, and Gaines shook it. This was more like it. Respect.

  “I’m glad I could help,” he said.

  The big hand gripped his like a vise. Gaines winced and tried to jerk his hand away, but the kid wouldn’t let go.

  Slow crush. Pain shot up his arm.

  “Hey,” he gasped. “What are you—”

  His hand exploded with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted from the creeper’s fist. Then the kid let go as the others roared their surprise. The teachers didn’t see it. They yelled at the kids to stop horsing around.

  Gaines staggered backward, wheeled, and stumbled a few steps away. He fell to his knees gaping at the soggy red balloon dangling from his wrist. The creepers mobbed around to look as he let out a shrill scream.

  Colorful sparks danced in his vision. Darkness crept around the edges. He tried to speak but his breath caught. A surge of bile burned his gullet. He gripped his wrist, shivering with shock.

  He looked up, his eyes pleading for help, mercy, salvation. George gazed back with eyes like black coals.

  “What’s going on over there?” Mr. Barnes was shouting. “What are you kids doing?”

  The kids quieted, waiting.

  “Kill the teachers,” George said.

  The crowd seethed and thinned as half the kids stayed put and the rest surged toward their teachers. Men cursed and screamed. Brain watched Mr. Barnes flail at the kids as he went down in a swirl of teeth and claws. Mr. Byrd ran for the house with a winged Quasimodo on his shoulders. His legs shot out from under him as Lizzie’s tail snagged his ankle and yanked him back into the crowd.

  Brain gripped Mr. Gaines’s hair and wrenched his face toward the sky. “Tell the truth. You set up Dog. I know that. What I don’t know is why.”

  “I loved her,” the man gasped.

  A shotgun roared. Mr. Powell racked another round in a cloud of gun smoke and fired again. Beaver pitched onto the grass and lay twitching.

  Tiny bounded past with booming footsteps and leaped. Another blast. The giant kid landed in front of him and punched. Mr. Powell disappeared, flung into the distance. Screams and gunshots filled the air.

  Brain looked down at Mr. Gaines, who was gibbering and praying. No time to get the truth. The only truth that mattered now was freedom and the battle to keep it. He felt along the man’s neck bones, learning their layout. Then he gripped the man’s head and gave it a violent twist.

  The body flopped to the ground. He braced himself for crushing remorse. A terrible thing to take a life, however necessary. He worried more he might feel good about it. Instead, he felt nothing.

  Taking Mr. Gaines’s life had been like crushing a horsefly. A horsefly feeding on his blood.

  “Bad,” Wallee said behind him. “You did bad.”

  “Go and tell on me then,” Brain said. “Tell the sheriff.”

  “Sher-iff?”

  “Tell him we’re coming for him.”

  “Sher-iff.” Wallee smiled and lumbered off on his roots.

  The children milled about the yard, smashing the trucks and looking for more teachers to kill. The mess hall was on fire, billowing black clouds.

  “The big house,” Brain cried. “Take the house.”

  The kids charged. They shattered the doors and poured inside to kill anything that moved. A lifetime of abuse boiling over as blind rage. Guns banged and fell silent. Mrs. Williams cursed and swung a baseball bat as the children tore her to pieces. Mr. Rucker shoved his revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Brain walked straight past these scenes to the office, where Principal Willard waited behind his desk.

  As always, the old man wore a three-piece suit with the gold chain of a pocket watch dangling over his abdomen. As kids poured into the room, the principal stood and slid his hands into his pockets, as if he’d planned this meeting.

  “Are you the one in
charge?”

  “Nobody is in charge,” said Brain.

  “Somebody is always in charge.”

  “You’re right. At this moment, we are in charge.”

  “I always knew this day would come,” the principal said.

  “So did we.”

  “Now there’s nothing to stop us from killing you all.”

  Brain shrugged. “Then we got nothing to lose.”

  “Didn’t you hear, son? You can lose your life.”

  “What life is that? The life of a slave? Funny how you think it’s worth so much.”

  “Your life is worth something to you.”

  “You are right. You will certainly kill some of us. But we will kill most of you. Your children will serve us. You will worship us again as you once did.”

  “That fantasy is about as believable as those old stories.”

  “Then let us educate you, sir. Take him to Discipline, boys.”

  The principal’s face morphed into panic. “No, wait—”

  “Tie him to his torture chair and leave the house. All of you.”

  The kids seized hold of the man’s arms and dragged him toward the red basement door.

  “So that’s what you wanted all along,” the principal said. “To be the one doing the hurting. Now you know why you were treated like you were.”

  “Wait,” Brain told the kids.

  “I’m a valuable hostage. I’m no use to you if I’m dead.”

  “We ain’t gonna torture you like you did us, sir. And we won’t kill you.”

  “Now you’re talking sense. That’s why I asked if you were in charge. You can save some, maybe most of these kids’ lives. I’m ready to negotiate—”

  “This house you built on slavery, this house where you revived it, this house will kill you,” Brain said. “You will watch it burn down all around you. And you will burn with it.”

  The kids hauled him howling off to Discipline. Lizzie gave Brain a notebook, which he tucked under his arm. He went back outside and called for Quasimodo, Chick, Roach, Batboy, and the other children who could fly.

  He unfolded a map and opened the notebook. He showed them the locations of Homes in the region. Then he ordered them to fly. Find the Homes and tell the children the revolution has begun. Tell them Stark County, Georgia, is in open revolt. Tell them all the teachers are dead. Tell them we will stop at nothing until the plague generation gains its inheritance. If we rise up together, we will win. If not, we will all die. The normals will kill all of us, every single one.