Phoenix Island, page 10
“Hey, Carl.”
Carl turned. It was Octavia.
“Hey,” he said.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure,” Carl said.
“I’ll see you inside,” Ross said, and headed for the barracks.
Carl and Octavia stood several feet apart. She looked at him with those beautiful gray eyes and said, “Campbell’s really gone then, huh?”
“Going,” Carl said.
They looked at each other for a second. Even here, even now, with everything going on, his heart gave a little jump as they stood face-to-face, close enough for either one of them to reach out and touch the other.
“Carl, I’m no good at this stuff,” she said.
“What—”
“Carl, don’t. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend, okay?”
“All right,” he said. “Octavia, there’s something you need to know.”
“Are you finally going to tell me why you’ve been acting so weird?”
“What?” Then he realized she meant the way he’d been avoiding her. So much had changed since he’d found the journal, all that other stuff seemed trivial now. “Oh—no . . . it’s something big, about this place. I found this journal—”
She shook her head. “Wait. I’m not listening to anything until you explain yourself. What’s been up with you?”
“Nothing,” he said, and it even sounded lame to him. But he couldn’t deal with all that now—he had to tell her the truth about this place.
“Just say it, Carl. I’m sick of this game, whatever it is. You’ve been acting weird for days, avoiding me.”
“Really, it’s nothing. I just have a lot going on.”
“Yeah, right. And you didn’t before? I didn’t think you’d be like this—that’s what I liked about you. You seemed like you were above all this stupid stuff and all the games. You seemed different. Shows what I know.”
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t leave. I’ll tell you. But then you have to listen to this other thing, okay?”
Octavia just looked at him.
He said, “Look, I’m the book man, right? And I was filing stuff, and I saw this thing in your file, something about—” And suddenly, he found he couldn’t say it.
“What? What did you see?” Her eyes flashed with anger.
“A newspaper story,” he said, staring at his feet. “Forget it.”
“No, Carl. I won’t forget it. What did it say? Man up and tell me what you think you saw.”
Carl looked her in the eyes and hated the fury he saw there. “It said you set a fire and killed somebody.”
She spread her hands wide. “It’s true. Happy?”
“No. I . . .”
She crossed her arms, her gray eyes dark as storm clouds. “Did you read the whole thing, Carl? Did you bother to get the whole story before going all high and mighty on me? Did you ever think of asking me about it before passing judgment and getting all weird?”
“Octavia, look . . . I didn’t want to cause some big problem. That’s why I didn’t say anything about it. I thought maybe over time—”
“Over time what, Carl? You’d find it in your heart to forgive me?” She laughed dismissively. “That’s very big of you. You’re a really amazing person to consider hanging out with scum like me.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He reached out.
She batted his hand away. “Oh, shut up. I thought you were a nice guy, Carl, but it turns out you’re just as bad as the rest of them. You snoop through my files, see one thing, assume the worst, and then you don’t even have the nerve to ask me about it. You play this stupid game, make me chase you. I really didn’t think you were like this.”
“I’m not.”
“Whatever. Do me a favor, and leave me alone, okay? Just stay away from me. I wouldn’t want to contaminate the perfection that is Carl Freeman.” She started to walk off, her hands balled into fists.
“Octavia.”
She turned, and for a mistaken moment Carl was relieved. “And next time you snoop around somebody’s personal stuff, get the whole story, genius. That guy who died in the fire? Yeah, well he killed my mom, okay? And he molested me for years. But of course you didn’t bother to figure any of that out, did you, Hollywood?”
With that, she stalked away. This time, she didn’t turn back.
THE BARRACKS RANG WITH SHOUTING and laughter, everybody going nuts over free time.
Carl trudged upstairs, feeling like his head might explode. Campbell was gone. Rivera was gone. Now Octavia was good as gone, too. He still had to warn her about this place, but it didn’t seem like she would ever talk to him again. He wanted to be angry at her for being mad at him, but all he felt was empty. It was horrible, the whole thing, and he felt awful about what she’d gone through with her mother and stepfather. . . .
Ross stopped him as he reached the bay. “Wait,” Ross said. “Don’t overreact.”
“What?” He walked around him into the bay.
His locker was open. His stuff lay all over.
“Great. Another tornado.” While the platoon was out, the drill sergeants would come in and mess up their gear, their beds, everything. One time they’d piled everyone’s boots in the middle of the hall. That had taken forever to sort out. “It doesn’t look so bad this time.”
“Yeah,” Ross said. “Um . . . look down.”
Scraps of glossy paper lay sprinkled like confetti on the floor. Carl glanced up and saw the bare surface where his photographs had hung. “No . . .”
He crouched in the destruction and with shaking hands picked up a thin strip that held half of his mother’s smile. He stared at the teeth, the eye above them. Who would do something so cruel?
Parker.
He let the torn photo fall to the floor. His throat started to tighten, but he tightened his fists instead. Better to shed blood than tears.
Ross said, “Carl—wait! Don’t do anything stupid.”
Carl strode down the hall. Taking his medal was one thing, but destroying his pictures? They were all he’d had left of his parents. And now they were gone. Forever . . .
He pounded on the closed door of the drill sergeants’ office.
Nothing.
He tried the handle. It was locked.
“They already scribbled out his face,” Ross said, pointing at the platoon photo hanging on the door. Ink masked Campbell’s face. “That’s going to be your face, too, if you don’t settle down. Can’t you see that you’re playing right into Parker’s plans?”
“Leave me alone,” Carl said, and started back down the hall. Maybe Parker was in the bays.
Ross followed, trying to talk.
“Not now,” Carl said.
Kids crowded the entrance to the second bay. Carl saw their bright eyes and nervous smiles, and his anger burned higher. Parker . . .
Laughter roared like a monster from the bay.
Laughter and cruelty, always laughter and cruelty . . . no matter where he went, there they were, waiting for him.
His fists ached with the old pain.
“Wait,” Ross said. “I’m begging you.”
Carl ignored the smaller, weaker boy. Since coming to Phoenix Island, he’d avoided situations he would have confronted in the past, fearing trouble, yearning for a clean record and a normal future—and every time he’d turned away he’d hated himself for doing it.
“Stop it!” a high-pitched voice cried in the bay.
One of the kids standing in the doorway laughed nervously.
Carl pushed past him and saw Medicaid on the floor, sobbing.
Parker wasn’t in there. It was Decker, the redneck with weird eyes, and his toadies who stood over the redhead, laughing.
Carl started for them.
“Stay out of it,” Ross said. “This is just what Parker wants.”
Carl hesitated, gritting his teeth. Some part of his mind—a faint whisper toward the back—said Ross was right. He couldn’t fight. Not now, with the threats implied by the journal. Everything was on the line: his freedom, his whole life, that magical word, expunged . . .
Decker pushed Medicaid with his boot. “Now do a car.”
“Vroom,” Medicaid said through his tears.
Decker reached down and yanked Medicaid’s underwear in a hard wedgie. “Brake pedal!”
Medicaid squealed and fell flat.
The bullies roared with laughter, and Carl understood: they were pushing Medicaid to the breaking point. They didn’t care how he felt. They only wanted pain. Pain and power.
Some power, Carl thought, breaking a kid who was already broken when he came here. He hated them.
Medicaid struggled weakly. “Stop! Please stop!”
More laughter.
“Do a dog,” Decker said.
Medicaid let out a strangled bark.
“Louder,” Decker said.
“You get free time, this is how you spend it?” Carl shouted.
Decker looked up, his icy blue eyes twinkling.
Carl said, “Leave him alone.”
Decker smiled. “What’s wrong, Hollywood?” He was short and thick, maybe ten pounds heavier than Carl, fifteen at the most, with muscles that suggested he’d spent most of his childhood lifting engine blocks. He just stared, amusement and fury burning in his eyes, waiting for Carl to make a move.
Carl glanced at the others, gauging them. The other three would jump in, but it would boil down to Carl and Decker. If this was going to happen, Carl knew he had to show them all. This had to be decisive. Otherwise Decker would become a slow bleed in his life. This was it.
“We’re trying to motivate him,” one of the kids said.
Somebody laughed. Decker just kept staring, a terrible amusement playing across his face. It was a cold humor Carl had seen in other bullies. The toughest ones. The ones with real confidence. Counselors and teachers told you bullies were insecure and cowardly, and, sure, some were. But guys like Decker, guys who got that look in their eyes, were neither insecure nor cowardly, and they weren’t just acting out for attention. Guys like Decker were confident and tough and mean to the core, and they hurt people because they liked causing pain. He’d been pushing Carl for weeks, trying to get something out of him, but Carl hadn’t fallen for it. Now this. Decker’s eyes shone with interest.
Meanwhile, Medicaid looked at Carl with pleading eyes. His mouth twisted into weird shapes, and his face was red and wet with tears. A natural target. Carl didn’t like the kid, had no reason to like him, but he couldn’t just let these guys ruin him like this.
Decker grinned. “What do you care, anyway? You don’t like him, either. I can see it in your eyes.”
Decker wasn’t stupid. He was just mean. “Look,” Carl said. “We’re all in this together. They’re trying to break us. We don’t need to work on each other.”
Decker straightened. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to step up.” He gestured toward Medicaid. “Come on over and have some fun. Medicaid’s gonna imitate a monkey.” He took a step in Carl’s direction.
Carl stepped back. Decker was a wrestler—Carl had seen him pin guys in the back bay—so Carl wanted to keep his back to the open space, wanted plenty of room to move. He didn’t want Decker to get ahold of him.
Decker smiled. “Easy there, Hollywood. Little jumpy, aren’t you?”
Kids laughed, gathering around. Davis and his buddies came into the room, hooting with their eyes sharp. Ross stood nearer, shaking his head.
Decker turned to his friends. “Ever see somebody so jumpy?”
One of Decker’s toadies, Stroud, started walking toward Carl.
Carl put out a hand. “Hold up, Stroud.”
“Here, let’s shake on it,” Decker said. He took a step closer and stretched out a thick arm, the hand looking boxy and strong.
“No thanks,” Carl said. If he shook Decker’s hand, he’d be on the floor in about half a second. He’d seen this routine with wrestlers before, and it didn’t play to his strengths. “Just leave the kid alone. And leave me out of it.”
“Ooooo,” someone said.
“And leave me out of it,” Stroud mocked, making his voice go all high.
Carl ignored him, keeping his eyes on Decker. “Look, you know I’m right. If we fight, the sergeants will flip. They wait for something like this, then crucify everybody.” Carl gave the rest of the barracks a quick glance. Then, to Decker, he said, “You and me, we’ll get it bad. They’ll turn us into examples. But everybody else will get it, too. Parker will smoke us all, take away our privileges, keep us in Red Phase. You know I’m right. If you want to do this, let’s do it later, just the two of us, someplace where everybody else won’t get in trouble. I don’t—”
“You talk too much,” Decker said. “I think you’re all talk.” He nodded, and a hand grabbed Carl’s arm, and Carl reacted instinctively. He dipped low, stepping back, and snapped his arm free.
Stroud lunged.
Carl sidestepped and flicked out a jab, caught the kid on the point of the chin, and spun his head around. Then, instead of drilling Stroud with a right hand, he stiff-armed him in the chest and tossed him into Decker, who was coming for him at last.
Low to the ground and moving fast, Decker blasted through Stroud like a nose guard gunning for a quarterback. He flashed his eyes up to Carl and clapped his hands high, a kind of feint, and shot low, reaching for his legs, meaning to take him to the floor.
Carl jumped.
Decker whooshed underneath him.
Carl turned, and the side of his head exploded. Instinctively he got his hands up, drove his shoulder in, and buried a right hook into the gut of his attacker. Stroud oofed and folded.
Another fight had broken out a few feet away. Ross was down on the ground, wrestling with one of them; another bully hovered, looking to kick him.
Carl started for them, but then someone had him by the legs. A high-pitched voice squealed, “I got him! I got Hollywood for you!”
It was Medicaid. Medicaid of all people. . . .
Ross yelled, “Look out!” and Carl was lifted off his feet.
It was a hard tackle. He jarred to the floor, most of the wind leaving him, and before he could roll away, Decker wrapped one arm around Carl’s legs, controlling them, and then proceeded to climb up him, clamping his strong arms around Carl as he went, like a boa constrictor wrapping its prey.
The crowd howled with delight.
Decker said something Carl couldn’t make out. Carl propped onto one elbow, and Decker lurched into the air over him, his big fist drawn back. Carl didn’t even try to block the punch, and he didn’t bother throwing one of his own.
Instead, as Decker’s fist came crashing down, Carl tightened his stomach muscles, yanked his upper body upward, and snapped his head forward as hard as he could.
The punch grazed his ear.
The top of his head slammed square into Decker’s face, nailing him like a ball-peen hammer right between the eyes.
The head butt stunned Decker and opened a cut on the bridge of his nose. Carl lurched the rest of the way up and twisted the bully to the floor, reversing the position. He longed to drill punches into Decker’s stupid face, but he didn’t want to cut or break his knuckles, so instead he grabbed him by the ears and slammed his head into the tile floor, hard, once, twice, three times. It was too late to stay out of trouble. All he could do now was to teach them, make them understand. It was all he had.
The crowd yelled on, cheering for blood.
“I told you to let it go,” Carl said, and he picked up Decker’s head again. This time, instead of slamming it back down, he held it by the ears and blasted it with another head butt. Decker’s eyes rolled back in his head. His nose was a fan of blood.
Rage consumed Carl. He got to his feet and lifted Decker off the floor. Decker reeled, barely conscious.
Carl shook him. “Still think I’m all talk, you stupid redneck?”
Decker raised a fist.
“Ha!” Carl shouted. “You’re going to punch me?” He turned his whole body with an uppercut that snapped Decker’s head back and launched him over the nearby cot. Decker fell on the other side, his feet up on the bed, and lay still.
The crowd stopped yelling.
Carl turned to face them, vaguely aware of Stroud running off, shouting.
Carl had to work fast, then, had to leave his mark, had to show everyone. It was too late for anything else. The remaining two toadies—Funk and Chilson—backed away, hands high. Carl saw Davis watching with keen interest, smiling. The rest of the crowd watched with wide eyes, backing away themselves.
Squaring himself with the toadies, Carl yelled at them, “Why do you always have to push?” He brought his left arm around with blistering speed and blasted through Funk’s pitiful guard. This time, Carl left his hand open, and his palm cracked loudly off the kid’s face. Funk cried out and stumbled. “How do you like it?” Carl threw three rapid-fire, hooking slaps with his left, wap-wap-wap, then slapped so hard with the right that Funk dropped.
Carl’s palms burned. He grinned at the pain.
Chilson ran. Ross threw himself low underneath him, and the bully tripped, sprawling onto the ground. Carl jumped over Ross, lifted Chilson by the back of his shirt and his pants and rammed his head into a footlocker with a loud crash. He drove a kick into his gut, and Chilson gave a high-pitched squeal.
Carl faced the rest of the platoon. “Any of you want to bully somebody,” he said, and he was breathing hard now, not from fatigue but from rage, “you bully me. Got it? If I catch you bullying anybody, I’m going to beat you worse than this.”
He searched out Davis and stared him in the eyes. “We have anything to settle, you and me?”
Davis shook his head and displayed a wry grin. “We’re cool, baby.”
Carl turned and pointed at Medicaid, who was crying again. “And you. You’re a pitiful piece of crap, that’s what you are. Grabbing hold of me when I was trying to help you? I ought to shove all your teeth down your throat. But you’re not worth it. No heart. Just a punk, punking out for the bullies.”
Then a deep voice thundered, “What’s going on in my barracks!” Drill Sergeant Parker stepped into the bay, carrying something that looked like a woman’s curling iron. He glanced at the kids on the floor, then at Carl. Stroud was behind him, talking rapidly.
