“Well, that’s the wibbly wobbly part of it,” he said.

Kieran and I looked at him, expectantly.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Porter shrugged. “Which is exactly what makes it so wibbly wobbly.”

 

* * * *

 

Rhys and Ethan loved having another boy in the house. Especially one like Porter—who came bearing gifts of Oreo cookies and a big bucket of Legos. Within minutes, the three of them were sitting on the living room floor, snapping little bricks together.

Kieran and I left them there, heading into the backyard to set up the grill for a breakfast of bacon and eggs. Sadly—we figured that this would probably be our last meal with meat for a while. We had been storing our food in the freezer out in the garage. The large blocks of frozen food inside had acted like ice when the power went out—keeping everything cool.

But, now, the blocks had finally thawed.

When we placed our hand on the packages in the freezer, there was just the barest hint of coolness left—just enough to let us know that we needed to eat what we could today and throw the rest away.

 

* * * *

 

“This is delicious,” said Porter, shoving the last of the bacon into his mouth. For a skinny guy, he ate an awful lot—ten slices of bacon, four eggs, three pieces of toast with grape jelly.

“We’ll need to go to the store, now that the meat in the freezer is off limits,” I said. “Maybe pick up some of that canned meat.”

“We can go hunting,” suggested Kieran. “We’ve got the guns.”

“Or fishing down at Troutdale,” added Porter. “That place is full of fish.”

Kieran and I looked at each other.

“What?” asked Porter.

(Troutdale is a small, commercial fishing pond. One of those places where kids have their birthday parties, and fathers take their sons to catch their first fish.

It’s also on Kanan-Dume Road.)

“That’s real close to where those guys were,” said Kieran.

“The juvies?”

He nodded. “It would be just our luck that they’d be living there now, eating all the fish.”

“What about Malibu?” Porter asked. “There’s great fishing there—off the Pier or along the beach.”

“And surfing,” Kieran grinned.

Rhys was at the far end of the kitchen table, playing with Ethan—maneuvering a Lego monster through the leftovers on their plates. When Kieran mentioned Malibu, he put down his monster and looked over at us.

“I don’t want to move to Malibu,” he said firmly.

“Nobody said anything about moving to Malibu,” I said.

“If we go to the beach, Mom and Dad might not be able to find us,” he persisted.

I sighed. “We’re not moving to Malibu.”

 

* * * *

 

It was as we were clearing up the dishes that we heard the first gunshot.

We all froze.

“Is that what I think it is?” whispered Porter.

I nodded. “Gunfire!”

“Where’s it coming from?” he asked, worried. “Is it near?”

There was another shot…then another. Then a whole volley of them—bang, bang, bang, bang.

At the end of the table, Rhys began to whimper. Beside him, Ethan pulled his teddy bear off of the floor and stuck its paw into his mouth.

“It’s not real close,” I said, listening. “Maybe down near Ralphs.”

“Guess we’re not going shopping today,” joked Kieran, nervously.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

“Man, they’re really going at it,” said Porter, quietly.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

With his teddy’s paw still in his mouth, Ethan reached up and covered both of his ears with his hands.

Bang, bang!

I looked over at Rhys. There were tears in his eyes.

“You okay, bro?” I asked.

“I don’t want to stay here anymore,” he whispered. “I want to go to Malibu.”

“What about mom and dad?” asked Kieran.

“Let’s write them a note.”

 

* * * *

 

The gunfire had completely unnerved all of us. We had no idea who was shooting, what they were shooting at, how many shooters there were, and—most importantly for us—if they were coming our way.

Rhys was right—it was time to move on.

Even though we had wanted to stay close to our house—ultimately—we realized that it would be smarter to move farther away. If the gunshots had belonged to Mateo and his gang, and they had found our address in my Honda—then it was entirely possible that the juvies were coming to get us.

If this was so, then we had to get out of Agoura Hills…now!

 

* * * *

 

Our first step was to move to a temporary hideout.

Now that there might be armed killers heading our way, even Mrs. Holly’s was too close to our old address for comfort. So—grabbing a few necessities—we raced for Porter’s grandmother’s house on the next block over.

Kieran led the way, his Glock held ready in front of him. In the middle was Porter and Rhys—each holding one of Ethan’s hands. I brought up the rear, ready to use my Sig Sauer at the first sign of trouble.

Once inside of his grandmother’s house, Porter led us into the living room. It was decorated old lady-style, with a flowery couch and lots of little knick-knacks. Ethan and Rhys immediately began exploring.

Leaving them to their fun, Kieran and I moved from window-to-window, making certain that we hadn’t been followed.

“See anything? “I asked.

“No,” Kieran said, shaking his head. “I think we’re good.”

Porter, meanwhile, went into the kitchen and came back with a bag of cookies for the younger boys. Like starving lions, they lunged for the treats.

“Dudes,” laughed Porter, “you just had breakfast!”

Ethan and Rhys completely ignored him, shoveling cookies into their mouths as fast as they could remove them from the bag. Giving up, Porter came over to stand beside Kieran and me at the front window.

“So, what’s our next step?” he asked.

“We need to find out who’s doing the shooting,” I said.

Kieran groaned, unhappy.

“It might not be the juvies,” I suggested.

“It’s still someone shooting guns,” he complained.

“And we need to find out who it is,” I insisted. “What if it’s someone we know?”

“Still shooting.” Kieran wasn’t letting up.

“Look, bro,” I sighed. “If we’re going to leave Agoura Hills, we need to know what’s out there first. It might be Mateo and his boys—it might be someone else. Either way, if we know who it is and where they are—it’ll be easier to figure out a way to get around them. Because—right now, dude—the shooters are between us and Malibu.”

 

 

 

JOURNAL ENTRY #6

 

Kieran and I waited until nightfall. Then we headed out to search for the origin of the gunfire.

Porter stayed behind to take care of Rhys and Ethan. We had given him one of Mrs. Holly’s guns for protection. He didn’t seem happy about handling a weapon and quickly shoved the gun into a dresser drawer.

It was hard leaving Rhys; he was really scared. Ethan was having a difficult time, too—but it was Rhys who was openly crying.

“Please, don’t go,” he begged. “What if you don’t come back?”

“We’re going to come back,” I promised.

“But if they find you,” he cried.

“They’re not going to find us,” I said, “because we’re going to stay hidden. All Kieran and I are doing is finding out who and where they are. The moment we figure that out, we’ll be coming right back here.”

“You promise?” The tears weren’t letting up.

 

* * * *

 

I know that the Bro-Code says that we guys don’t do real hugs.

Last night—sadly—I failed the Code. Because—I pulled my younger brother into my arms, held him tight, and kissed him on top of his head.

Then I quickly and emphatically shoved Rhys away.

“Dude, you reek,” I complained. “Go take a bath!”

I wasn’t kidding.

 

* * * *

 

Kieran and I both dressed all in black—suburban Ninjas.

It was easy to move quickly through the houses in our neighborhood. There was always something to hide behind—a tree, a gardening shed, giant mailboxes at the edge of the sidewalk.

When we reached Kanan Road, however, it became more difficult to hide.

The road was lined with shoulder-high fences on either side—the sidewalks empty and highly visible. Luckily, there were vehicles stopped all along Kanan. We used those cars to hide behind—racing from one to another, straight down the center of the road—moving steadily south toward the shopping center.

 

* * * *

 

About a block away from the mall, we came across our second body.

It was sitting, leaning up against the fence, on the right side of Kanan Road.

Barely visible—almost lost in the shadows.

“Psst!” I hissed at Kieran, trying to get his attention. He was a few feet ahead of me, crouched behind the hood of a Camaro, its trunk crumpled and broken under the yellow school bus perched on top of it.

Kieran turned to look at me. I motioned to the body next to the fence and his eyes went wide.

Up ahead, a gun went off—Bang!

It appeared that we were heading in the right direction.

Slowly, Kieran and I raised our heads above the trunk of the Camaro, searching for movement farther down Kanan.

We saw nothing.

“That definitely sounded like it came from the mall,” whispered Kieran. “It has to be the juvie guys from the probationary camp.”

“I wonder if they killed that guy,” I said, turning to look at the body to my right.

But…

It was gone...disappeared.

 

* * * *

 

“Kieran,” I hissed, urgently. “We need to get out of here…right now!”

Irritated, my younger brother turned toward me—his eyes immediately passing over my right shoulder, to something—or someone—behind me.

“Holy crap!” he gasped.

 

 

 

MEET THE ENFORCER

 

I had never really liked Brandon Keretsky.

From the first moment I met him—during football try-outs—I had found him to be arrogant and mean-spirited. He was the type of guy who didn’t just block you—he aimed just low enough to try and break your ribs.

And—when he brought his helmeted-head up, it was always with just the right amount of force and angle to catch the edge of your chin—hopefully, breaking your teeth.

Coach always referred to him as the Enforcer.

The rest of us—but never to his face—called him the Bully.

 

* * * *

 

Some of the guys on the team were jealous of Brandon.

He might have been a bully, but he was also a big, good-looking guy—with dark, black hair and even darker eyes that, along with his ripped abs, seemed to attract a lot of female attention.

But he had a girlfriend—Traynesha Davis—one of three ‘elite’ girls in our school, who called themselves the ‘Foxes’. (My sort-of-stalker, Peyton Buckingham, was also one of the Foxes, by the way.)

Brandon and Tray kissed openly at school, ignoring the teachers’ warnings. It was even rumored that he and Tray had used a room in the Performing Arts Center to do the deed on more than one occasion.

Tray Davis was one year older than Brandon and, without a doubt—the most beautiful girl in the school—as in, supermodel-beautiful. She was a whip-thin African-American, with light brown skin and amber eyes, who wore her black hair relaxed and long. Because her family was filthy rich, Tray always dressed in the skimpiest of designer clothes that barely covered her perfect legs and perky breasts.

When Tray walked down the school hallway—every boy and most of the girls turned and looked at her.

Only thing was—Tray was mean like Brandon.

In fact, she was a total bitch.

 

* * * *

 

Porter’s mouth was hanging open as we helped Brandon through the front door. Kieran and I were holding him up—not quite unconscious—one of his arms over each of our shoulders.

“He’s been shot,” Kieran explained.

Porter didn’t move, just stood there—frozen.

“What room do we put him in?” I asked. When I didn’t get an answer, I asked again—this time louder. “Porter…where can we put him?!”

His mouth still wide-open, Porter reluctantly pointed to a doorway down the hall. I could see that he had been busy while we had been gone. There were curtains duct-taped over all the windows—making any light we used invisible from the outside—and candles now lined the hallway.

It wasn’t a lot of light—but at least Kieran and I could see well enough to half-drag Brandon into the guest room and lay him down on the bed there.

“Go get the first aid kit,” I ordered Kieran. “It’s in my backpack.”

As he left, I set about making Brandon comfortable. Porter, meanwhile, came to stand at the doorway.

“Where’s Rhys and Ethan?” I asked.

“Down in the basement, sleeping in my bed. They tried to stay awake, but I guess the stress was too much. They were both out five minutes after you guys left.”

“Good. Keep them away from this room for now.”

“No problem.” Porter was frowning down at Brandon. “He stinks of alcohol,” he said, grimacing.

I nodded. “He’s definitely drunk. Probably for the best right now, so that he doesn’t feel as much pain.”

“Where’s he shot?” he asked.

I pointed to the wound on Brandon’s right arm, just above the elbow.

“That’s it?!” scoffed Porter. “That’s just a graze. It didn’t even go through the muscle.”

“He’s been beaten, too,” I said. “You can see the bruises around his head. Looks like those juvies got him good.”

“Is that what he told you?” asked Porter, frowning. The look on his face was one of complete distaste.

It confused me.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” I said. “I just turned around and he was there. Then, he passed out…what’s going on, Porter?”

He sighed. “Look, I can’t speak for the gunshot—but he got those bruises on his face from Jude on Halloween. I know, because I was there when she gave them to him.”

Kieran entered the room, handing me the first aid kit. “Jude-the-Rude?!”

Porter immediately took offense. “Don’t call her that. It’s mean. Her name’s Jude.”

My brother held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, dude…my bad.”

“It’s just that people are always so mean to her,” Porter continued, “and she’s actually a really nice girl.”

I opened the first aid kit and pulled out some antiseptic. Rolling up Brandon’s sleeve, I began to disinfect his wound. Porter was correct. It was just a graze—a bloody indentation along the skin, about three inches long.

It would make for an interesting scar—and story.

“You like her,” teased Kieran. “Porter likes Jude.”

“Shaddup,” said Porter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kieran started making kissing noises. I could see that Porter was becoming distressed by it, so I reached out and punched my brother in the arm.

“You’re being a dick,” I growled.

“Ow!” he yelped, grabbing his arm where I’d punched him.

“Now, you’re being a baby.”

I turned back to Brandon. There was a small amount of blood still seeping from the wound, so I took a bit of gauze and pressed down on it.

“Porter,” I asked, “why did Jude go after Brandon?”

He shrugged.

“Seriously, dude,” I said. “If there’s going to be a problem between you guys, I need to know it now.”

Porter looked down at his shoes; he seemed embarrassed.

Then, he gave a big sigh. “Short story—she was protecting me,” he said, finally. “Brandon came into Vons with Frank and Denny on Halloween. Jude and I were both working. I bumped into Brandon. It was an accident, but he decided to coldcock me anyway. Jude took offense.”

“She hit him?!” I asked, astonished.

Porter looked up, grinning. “Jude beat the crap out of him.”

 

* * * *

 

I gained a new respect for Jude that night.

To take on Brandon Keretsky—that took some balls.

 

* * * *

 

In her own way, Jude was a bit of a bully, too.

She was in the 10th grade, although she was a year older than everyone else. I had thought that she had been held back because she wasn’t all that smart. However, Porter assured me that Jude’s marks were so poor because, in fact, she had dyslexia.

Jude—nicknamed Jude the Rude—was a large, slightly unhygienic girl with dirty blond hair and unfortunate skin. At lunchtimes, you would often see her eating at a table by herself—head down, never looking or talking to anyone else.

I had no idea that she and Porter were close. Personally, I found that fascinating.

Apparently, so did Kieran. “Jude and Porter sitting in a tree…k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” he teased.

Whack—I reached out and smacked Kieran on top of his head.

“Stop it!” I said. “Go and check on Rhys and Ethan. They’re downstairs in Porter’s bedroom.”

Kieran gave me a dirty look. Then, rubbing his head, he rose and left the room in a huff.

I returned my attention to Brandon’s wound—checking under the gauze. The bleeding had finally stopped.

“Looks like he’s going to be okay,” said Porter, still standing at the door.

“Like you said, it was just a graze.”

“But you think it was from the juvies?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought so before—now, I’m not so sure. I guess we’ll have to wait until he wakes up and tells us exactly what happened.”

Taking out a bandage, I opened it up and attached it to Brandon’s wound. He groaned a little, trying to move his arm away—then let out a massive burp.

The reek of alcohol filled the air.

“I’m sorry,” said Porter. “I know he’s your friend and that you play football with him, but Brandon Keretsky is a serious dick.”

No doubt—but I wasn’t going to say that out loud.

Brandon might have been drunk—but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was deaf.

“You never answered me before,” I said, looking at Porter. “But I need to know. Is there going to be a problem between you two?”

Almost reluctantly, Porter shook his head. “Guess it would be stupid to hold a grudge these days. Not a lot of us left, you know what I mean.”

I nodded.

“But you had better be here when he wakes up,” he warned, waggling a finger at me, “because I sure as hell don’t want to be alone with him.”

 

* * * *

 

Brandon snored—like nothing I had ever heard before.

It seemed to start deep in his throat, a growl that somehow snorted out of his nose, then sucked back air—finally ending in a little pfft! The three of us—Kieran, Porter, and I—stood at the guest bedroom door, watching him in amazement.

“You sure you had to bring him back?” asked Porter. “Surely there has to be another dumb jock alive somewhere who would love a new roommate.”

Kieran chuckled. “I’m going to bed,” he said, yawning. “Later.”

He disappeared down the stairs, no doubt to climb into bed with Rhys and Ethan. Porter pointed at me.

“You promised not to leave me alone with him, remember.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, yawning myself. “I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room, so I’ll be there when he wakes.”

I turned and walked down the hallway.

Porter followed me. “We still leaving tomorrow?”

“It will depend on Brandon,” I said. “We need to find out what really happened. Who shot him and why?”

Porter opened a nearby linen closet. He reached in and pulled out a blanket, a sheet, and a pillow, handing them to me.

“Sorry,” he said. “They kind of smell like my gran.”

 

* * * *

 

Porter helped me make up the couch, tucking in the corners of the sheet hospital-style—all neat and tidy. “You know, you’re kind of OCD,” I teased.

“I know,” he answered, smoothing down the blanket that he’d placed carefully over top of the sheet. “Jude says the same thing.”

With a flick of my wrist, I threw the pillow onto the makeshift bed. Porter quickly grabbed it and placed it exactly perpendicular to the edge of the couch.

“Sorry,” he said. “If it doesn’t line up exactly right, it makes me kind of edgy.”

“What happens when I get under the covers? Is that going to bother you?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I just have to make it up right. After that, it doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t ask me why. It’s just the way I’m built.”

I sat down on the bed—carefully—waiting to see what he’d do.

“Seriously,” Porter grinned. “It’s not a problem once it’s made.”

“Okay.” I took off my boots and lined them up to the side of the couch. Then, I laid back and put my hands behind my head.

“You going to sleep, Porter?” I asked.

“You kidding me! I’ve got Brandon Keretsky in my house. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be sleeping tonight.” He started toward the doorway. “Night, Jacob.”

“Porter, wait.”

He turned back.

“Jude?” I asked, quietly. “Really?”

He shrugged. “She’s not who you think she is—she’s—Jude.”

“So, are you dating or what?”

Porter shook his head. “She doesn’t think of me that way. We just work together. And sometimes I tutor her—help her with her dyslexia, you know.”

“And sometimes she beats the crap out of bullies for you,” I teased.

He looked down at the floor, suddenly depressed. “She got fired for it,” Porter murmured. “Beating up Brandon. I tried to tell the Manager that it wasn’t Jude’s fault, but he didn’t believe it.”

“How did she take it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She ran out of the store and I haven’t seen her since. When—this thing—happened, I went to her house to see if she was still alive. But she wasn’t there.” He looked up at me, embarrassed. “I sound stupid, don’t I?”

I shook my head. “You like her. You’re worried about her. I understand that.”

“Because of how you feel about Kaylee?”

What?!

He laughed at my surprised look. “Do you have any idea how many girls are interested in you, Jacob?” he grinned. “Yet, the only girl at school you ever stare at is Kaylee. It’s kind of obvious, dude.”

I groaned—it was my turn to be embarrassed. “Going to bed now,” I said, quickly. “Good-night.”

“For what it’s worth,” Porter said, “Kaylee’s a good girl. I approve.” Then, he turned and walked out of the room.

 

* * * *

 

“Jacob...Jacob!” I felt myself being pulled out of a deep sleep. “He’s going to kill him! Wake up, Jacob!”

My eyes immediately flipped open.

Rhys was leaning over the couch, shaking me. Behind him, Ethan was rocking back and forth on his toes, looking absolutely terrified.

“Get up, Jacob…there’s a guy killing Porter!” Rhys yelled.

I moved so fast, I tumbled to the floor—scrambling on my hands and feet, racing for the doorway.

 

* * * *

 

Skidding around the corner, I was greeted with the sight of Porter, lying on his back on the bedroom floor. Brandon was on top of him, his fist raised. The only thing that was keeping that fist from connecting with Porter’s face was Kieran.

My brother had climbed onto Brandon’s massive back and—reaching in front of him—was literally holding that fist in mid-air, inches away from Porter’s nose.

“Brandon, no!” I yelled.

“Yoosh—sha—dunna,” he grunted, trying to flip Kieran off of him.

I leaned down, putting my face right in front of Brandon’s. His eyes were wild, flicking back and forth in a fury.

How much had this guy drunk last night? Or was it actually steroid-rage—as was the rumor?

“Keretsky!” I yelled. “Seriously, dude…don’t make me hit you, bro!”

Brandon’s eyes stopped flicking. They moved from left to right, searching—finally focusing in on me. “Rikes,” he squinted. “S’at you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. How you doing, Brandon?”

“Shot.”

“Just a flesh wound,” I said. “You’re fine.”

“Head’s banging.”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. I think you must have drunk quite a bit.”

He grinned. “No mimim—no ninnin—no mimmimmim.”

“No minimum age anymore?”

Brandon nodded. “S’everythin’s free.”

“And you’ve been taking advantage of that, I see.” The big guy nodded, grinning. “Any chance you could put your fist away, Brandon? You’re making my brother work an awful lot there.”

Brandon finally relaxed—dropping his fist.

Carefully, Kieran got off of his back. Porter, meanwhile, remained where he was—hands up, protecting his face.

Reaching down, Brandon ruffled Porter’s hair.

“Shorry, dude,” he slurred. “No ’fence tented.”

Underneath his hands, Porter squeaked, “No offence taken.”

 

* * * *

 

It was hours before Brandon was coherent enough to be questioned. We sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating cold Pop-Tarts.

“How does your arm feel?” I asked.

Brandon flexed it, moving his arm in a circle. “I can still toss you on your ass if I need to,” he boasted.

“No doubt.”

Kieran was sitting across from Brandon, staring at him with a kind of fascination. Rhys and Ethan, meanwhile, had gone back to bed, while Porter was sitting on the counter, close to—as he had whispered confidentially to me—the kitchen knives.

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked. “How you got shot?”

“Was it the juvies?” Kieran butted in.

Brandon looked confused. “Juvies?”

“Guys in orange,” said Kieran. “From the probationary camp over in Encinal Canyon. They almost got us down on Kanan. We saw them kill a guy!”

Taking a long swig of his coffee, Brandon put down his cup and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That was them. Bunch of juvies attacked me down at the mall.”

“We saw about ten,” said Kieran. “How many came at you?”

“About the same amount. Yeah—ten.”

Kieran turned to me, his eyes alight with fiery indignation. “It’s them!” he declared. “We should probably get them before they get us.” He tapped at his Glock in its holster.

I shook my head. “What we need to do, is get out of here.”

Brandon looked at me, surprised. “You’re leaving Agoura Hills?”

“Going to Malibu,” I nodded.

“We should stay here and fight!” Kieran almost shouted. “We’ve got the guns. We know the area. If we take them by surprise—”

“You’ve got guns?” asked Brandon, his eyebrows raised in sudden interest.

“We’ve got lots of guns,” said Kieran, proudly. “I’ve got a Glock and Jacob has a Sig Sauer.”

Brandon looked over at Porter, who quickly raised up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve just got my brains. Guns scare me.”

“Can I have a gun?” Brandon asked, turning back to me.

“We need to know where those guys are,” I said, ignoring his request. “Do you think that they’re all at the mall now or were they just passing through?”

Brandon shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably still at the mall. I mean, there’s lots to do there, right? Eat, drink—shoot at things.”

“And you’re sure there were ten of them?”

“Around that. Maybe more, maybe less.”

“Did you see a Hispanic guy, with a scar like this?” I drew a finger from my right ear, across my cheek and down to my chin.

Brandon nodded. “Yeah. That’s the dude that shot me.”

“Mateo!” hissed Kieran. “He’s in charge.”

Again, Brandon nodded. “Yeah, man. Dude was definitely in charge.”

 

* * * *

 

We decided to stay indoors, waiting until night to make our escape. As the others sorted through what to take or caught up on sleep, I pulled Porter out into the backyard to speak to him without anyone overhearing.

“What do you think?” I asked. “About what Brandon said this morning?”

“He’s lying,” Porter said immediately—without any hesitation.

I nodded. “That was my feeling, too.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I’d like to just leave him here,” I admitted. “But I just can’t, you know.”

“It’s hard—living with a conscience—isn’t it?”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed.

“He’ll be hard to control,” warned Porter. “Put a gun in his hand and it will make him even more dangerous.”

“I agree. But if Mateo and his guys are out there, we’ll need Brandon armed.”

Porter sighed. “I wish Jude was here.”

I burst out in laughter.

“You guys talking about me?” We both spun around to find Brandon standing above us, on the porch. I quickly slapped my hand on Porter’s shoulder a couple of times—as if sharing a good joke. Then, I turned and climbed up the stairs, walking past Brandon.

“Dude,” I said. “I can honestly say that we were talking about a girl and you, my friend, don’t look very good in high heels.”

 

* * * *

 

A few minutes later, the screen door slammed.

I was at the sink, getting a glass of water when Brandon came up beside me, hitching himself up onto the counter.

“Listen,” he said, picking absentmindedly at the bandage on his arm, “about that gun.”

Through the window in front of me, I could see Porter outside in the backyard. He was wiping flop sweat off of his forehead.

I turned to Brandon and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, dude. Let’s get you weaponed up.”

The look on Brandon’s face was one of pure delight.

 

* * * *

 

At midnight—or as near as we could make it without a working clock—we put on our backpacks, holstered our weapons, and assembled at the back door. I had sorted everyone into pairs earlier in the day.

Porter was to be with Kieran. Rhys was with Brandon.

I’d be with Ethan.

One armed person in each pair.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “We stay off the streets as much as possible. And under no circumstances, do we go anywhere near Kanan. We’ll head back the way we came, straight over the hill, past the high school, and into the townhouses.”

Our first stop was to be Ethan’s home.

He desperately wanted to check and see if his mom and sister were back. In our hearts we knew that he was ultimately going to be disappointed. But, still, how could we say no?

And truthfully—I had already made a quick trip myself to my own house during the afternoon, while everybody else was napping. As I was expecting, there was no sign of anyone having been there. I entered quickly, picked up a few things—and left a note for my mom and dad.

 

We’re safe. We’re alive. We’re going to where the light is good.

Love you

Jacob, Kieran, and Rhys

 

* * * *

 

With a group as large as ours, it was hard to move silently through the dark.

Footsteps echoed, young boys sniffed, buckles clicked.

Still, we made our way over the hill without any problems.

At one point, we heard a gunshot. As before, it came from the area around the shopping mall. We immediately froze where we were, listening. But no other shots followed and, after a few moments, I motioned everyone forward again.

Ten minutes later we were at the edge of the high school.

I gathered everyone around me, whispering quietly. “We’ll go over the fence and through the buildings. It will be quicker than going along the road. If we get separated, remember that Ethan’s townhouse is straight up the hill, right across from the school’s main office.”

“Section C,” Ethan whispered.

“Okay guys,” I said, quietly. “I’ll lead. Brandon, you bring up the rear.”

Brandon saluted me with his gun. “Stay frosty,” he grinned.

 

* * * *

 

We moved quickly through the high school—darting from the shadows of one dark building to the next. At Driver Street, just outside the school’s Main Office, we stopped to catch our breath.

It was incredibly dark, no stars or moon in the sky, and it was difficult to see each other. Because of this all-consuming black, it took Ethan gasping to make us realize that—we weren’t alone.

 

* * * *

 

In the shadows of a nearby doorway, we could just barely see two white eyes staring back at us. I immediately swung my gun over, aiming into the darkness.

“Come out from there,” I ordered. “Now!”

“Hello…do you have any food, please?” The voice was soft and accented.

Kieran came up beside me, his Glock cocked and ready. Behind him, I could see Brandon moving forward—unaware yet of exactly what was happening.

“Brandon, stay where you are,” I ordered. “Guard our six.”

He immediately moved back into position—watching for anyone coming up behind us. Porter, meanwhile, grabbed Rhys and Ethan, pulling them backward—out of danger.

“We have food,” I said. “But you have to come out where we can see you—slowly.”

 

* * * *

 

Inch-by-inch, he came out from the darkness—a skinny, little African-American boy with a shoulder-length mass of messy dreadlocks. He was wearing ripped jeans and a black hoodie, and he carried a thick branch in one hand.

He was also 8-years old.

I immediately lowered my gun, as did Kieran. “Are you alone?” I asked.

The kid nodded; it was hard to see, but I thought that he might be trying not to cry. I knelt down to make myself closer to his height.

“Hello,” I said, trying to appear friendly. It was obvious the little guy was scared. “My name is Jacob and this is my brother, Kieran. That’s Porter and Rhys over there and that big guy at the back is Brandon. Ethan, come here.”

Ethan ran forward and I placed him in front of me—opposite the kid. They stared at each other—just two little boys—shy and interested.

“This is Ethan.”

Smiling, Ethan gave a little wave. The kid gave a little wave back.

“Now you need to drop that branch, bud,” I said gently. “It’s okay. I promise. You don’t need a weapon with us.”

It took a moment before the kid decided to trust us. Then, kneeling down, he placed the branch on the ground. Immediately, Porter came up and handed me a granola bar.

“Here, you go, bud.” I passed the bar on to the kid. He grabbed it and ripped off the wrapper. Two bites later, it was finished.

“Merci,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” asked Ethan.

“Wester,” he said, shyly.

“Do you live around here, Wester?” I asked.

He shook his head. “In Calabasas…by the freeway.”

“That’s quite a ways away,” I said. “How did you get here?”

“Walked.”

“Why did you come all the way here?” asked Kieran.

The kid’s voice was choked with emotion when he replied. “I’m looking for my big sister. This is where she goes to school. Do you know her?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Cherry.”

 

* * * *

 

Wester had walked for miles—all the way from Calabasas to Agoura High School. He was tired and hungry and dehydrated. To give him a chance to recuperate, we decided to spend the next few nights at Ethan’s townhouse before we continued on to Malibu.

That afternoon, Kieran and I stood at the doorway to the townhouse bedroom, watching the two youngest of our group as they sat on the floor, playing. Wester had fit in quickly. He was a sweet but shy kid, and Ethan absolutely loved him. Together, they had spent the last two hours going through every last one of Ethan’s toys—which were now all over the floor.

“It’s weird,” I said to Kieran, “but I feel like I should tell them to clean up their mess. I guess this is what it’s like being a parent.”

“I can’t believe the kid came all that way by himself,” said Kieran. “Tough little dude.”

“Well, he is Cherry’s brother.”

“Who is Cherry, by the way?” asked my brother. “I’ve heard the name at school, but I’m not sure I know her.”

Brandon came up beside us, chomping away on some jerky. “She’s the chick with the pink hair and the bullshit ring in her nose.”

“The white girl?” asked Kieran, surprised—looking down on a very dark Wester.

“They’re all adopted,” I explained. “Cherry told me once. All the kids in their family are. I think there’s another sister who’s black, too.”

“That’s why he’s got an accent,” said Kieran, looking down at Wester. “I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s Haitian,” I said. “That’s where he was adopted from…Haiti.”

“Hmm—cool.” Kieran turned and walked off.

Brandon, meanwhile, moved over to lean against the door. He spoke to me quietly. “We really taking the little dude with us?”

“Of course,” I said. “What else would we be doing?”

“It’s just that—well, he’s not one of us.”

I was shocked. “You mean, not white?!”

“Dude!” Brandon looked just as shocked. “I meant—he’s not from Agoura Hills.”

Porter came up beside us. “S’up?”

Looking at Brandon directly, I said very pointedly, “Brandon and I were just discussing about how we’re all in this together now. Where one goes—we all go. Right, Brandon?”

With a harrumph, Brandon turned and walked off.

Porter gave me a curious look.

“Same old,” I explained. “Just Brandon being a dick.”

 

* * * *

 

That afternoon, I asked Porter to walk outside with me for a bit. Kieran and Brandon were in the kitchen, cleaning their weapons. Rhys, Ethan, and Wester were doing kid-stuff on the back patio.

It was the perfect moment for a secret mission.

“Where are we going?” asked Porter, as we threaded our way along the townhouse sidewalks.

“You’ll see.”

Five minutes later, we were standing in front of a row of townhouses just across from Chumash Park. “It’s one of these,” I said.

Porter looked up. “Okay…I’ll bite.”

“Kaylee.”

 

* * * *

 

It didn’t take long to find her.

I knew it was her townhouse the moment we entered it.

There was a soccer ball on a shelf in the living room. Around it were placed a number of trophies—Best Kicker, MVP, Top Scorer.

And, of course, there were pictures—from baby Kaylee to little girl Kaylee to the 16-year old girl I knew so well.

“She’s really pretty,” said Porter. “Clean-cut pretty.” He pointed to a picture of Kaylee standing with a man I assumed was her father. “You see that house they’re in front of—that’s on Point Dume in Malibu. I know that house. It’s one of the big ones over on Dume Drive. I used to take piano lessons from a guy who lived a few houses down.”

I peered closer at the picture, studying the large blue mansion in the background. “Wow,” I said. “I had heard rumors that she came from Malibu. Looks like they were true.”

“Who would have thought—Kaylee Michaelson is a rich girl,” mused Porter.

Taking the picture off the wall, I pulled it out of its frame and stuck it in my back pocket. “More like her dad is rich,” I said, looking around at the townhouse. “I guess when the divorce happened, Kaylee got to live with her mom. Doesn’t look like there’s a whole lot of money here, that’s for sure.”

Kaylee’s townhouse was small like Ethan’s, and had the same floor plan. There was a mish-mash of old furniture jammed into the living room, while the kitchen seemed to contain only the bare necessities.

Still, everything was neat and clean.

And it was feminine.

There was a lot of floral everywhere—on the couch pillows, the towels in the downstairs bathroom, the potholders hanging off a hook in the kitchen.

“You going upstairs?” asked Porter, a little bored.

“In a minute,” I said. “I just want to look around down here a bit more.”

“You mind if I go up?”

“Go for it.”

As the sound of Porter’s footsteps diminished on the stairs, I wandered through the bottom level—just looking.

There—on the dining room table—three dinner plates, a little bit of dried spaghetti on each. I immediately felt a stab of jealousy—wondering who ate with Kaylee and her mom on that final night.

Over there—through the patio door—a box of old soccer balls. For a moment, I thought about grabbing one to take back to Ethan, Rhys—and our newest addition—Wester.

And there—on the fridge—a note Kaylee had written to her mother. (Don’t forget I need some new LashBlast. Love you.) Needless to say, I had no idea what LashBlast was, but assumed that it had something to do with makeup.

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

My head snapped up—hopeful.

Porter came around the corner, stopping when he saw the look on my face. “Oh my god! You thought I might be Kaylee.”

I shook my head.

“Yes, you did,” he insisted.

“No, I knew Kaylee wouldn’t be here…I was just—”

“You were hoping.”

I sighed, nodding. “I was hoping.”

 

* * * *

 

“Dude, I need to prepare you for something,” said Porter, very seriously. We were standing just outside the doorway to the smaller bedroom on the second level—the one I knew would be Kaylee’s.

“Sorry, but you should probably know,” he continued. “She’s got a picture of the guy she likes on her bulletin board.”

My stomach dropped.

I shrugged, trying to cover up my disappointment. “No worries…it’s not like we were dating or anything.”

“Maybe we should just turn around and go then,” suggested Porter.

Not a chance.

I didn’t just want—I needed to know who my competition was!

“It’s fine,” I lied. “We’re here…no biggie.”

 

* * * *

 

Her bedroom was a lot more girlie than I would have expected.

Kaylee had a four-poster bed with one of those frilly awnings over top. A net high up in a corner of the room held a collection of stuffies, and an old dollhouse sat on its own shelf underneath. There were schoolbooks on a shabby-looking desk, as well as, a computer covered in Hello Kitty stickers.

Above the desk was a bulletin board, pinned with athletic medals and photos of family and friends. I quickly moved forward to look at the photos.

Porter waited at the doorway. “It looks like she might have had a friend over on Halloween. There’s an empty tub of ice cream on the floor beside the bed and there are two spoons in it.”

“Probably Jay Sitipala. That’s her best friend.”

“I know Jay. She’s a smart kid.”

“Oh my god,” I suddenly whispered.

“You found the photo, huh?”

 

* * * *

 

It was a picture of me.

I was just coming off of the football field—obviously during a practice. She had captured the moment after I had taken off my helmet. My hair was sweaty and sticking to my forehead. I looked absolutely exhausted.

But I was also smiling—happy.

Porter came up behind me, looking over my shoulder. “You didn’t know Kaylee likes you?”

I shook my head. “No idea. She doesn’t even talk to me.”

“That should have been your first clue, dumbass,” he teased. “Kaylee talks to everyone.”

 

* * * *

 

Porter and I walked back to Ethan’s townhouse, just as the sun was starting to sink below the horizon.

“How come you wanted me to come with you?” asked Porter.

“I don’t know. Maybe because of Jude.”

“You thought I’d understand.”

“Well, it’s not like Brandon would,” I joked.

“Oh god, no,” he agreed. “The last thing you’d want is for Brandon to find out. He’d tease you even worse than I’m going to.”

“You might want to rethink that, bro,” I warned. “Considering what I know of you and Jude.”

We were walking along the ridge, just above the high school. The townhouses were on one side of us and—down the hill—was Agoura High. It looked empty and sad—with bits of paper blowing through its buildings, caught up in the Santa Ana winds.

“In regards to Jude,” I began.

“And the jokes already begin,” groaned Porter.

“No jokes,” I said, seriously. “Yet.”

“What then?”

“Just thinking—Kaylee doesn’t know I like her. I didn’t know she liked me. Jude doesn’t know you like her. Well—”

Porter turned bright red.

“It’s just possible, isn’t it?” I continued. “Maybe Jude does like you that way. Maybe you’re just too much of a dumbass like me to realize it.”

He was quiet for a moment—considering—hopeful. Then, suddenly, Porter deflated—becoming sad. “What does it matter…Jude’s gone…Kaylee’s gone. They’re all gone.”

I didn’t agree.

“Dude,” I told him. “It matters.”

 

* * * *

 

The only one awake when we got back to the townhouse was Wester. He was sitting in the living room, staring out of a window. While Porter went upstairs to take a nap, I pulled two Yoo-hoos out of my backpack, handing one of the chocolate drinks to him.

“See anything interesting?”

He shook his head.

I pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. Wester’s dreads were dirty and full of crap. I started picking out little bits of leaves and grains of sand as he drank his Yoo-hoo.

“When’s the last time you had a bath, my friend?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, quietly. “Maybe a week.”

“You need to have a bath today,” I told him. “Trust me—it’s necessary. And you need to clean this hair.”

He nodded, not happy about the idea. “Cherry does my hair best,” he murmured, sad.

“Well, I’ve never done African-American hair before, but I’ll give it a try,” I offered. “Although Porter might be better at it than me. He’s got an attention to detail that might work well here.” Twisting my fingers, I pulled out a three-inch piece of twig from one of his dreads and handed it to him. He rolled it around in his fingers for a moment, playing with it.

“Jacob?” he said, softly.

“What is it, Wester?”

“How come there are no girls?”

“Honestly—I don’t know.”

“Do you think God took them all to heaven?”

“It’s possible.”

“Why wouldn’t God want us boys in heaven then?”

I stopped poking at his hair and turned him to face me. “You listen here,” I said, very seriously. “I have no idea what’s going on. Nobody does. I don’t know if it’s because it’s the End of Days or a bomb going off or a mad experiment by aliens. But what I do know is that—if there is a heaven—it’s for girls and for boys.”

He thought about that for a moment.

“My sister, Cherry, doesn’t believe in God—but my sister, Shawnee, does.”

“Everybody believes different, little man.”

“WESTER!” It was Ethan, yelling from upstairs. He must have woken up and was calling for his new friend.

Wester quickly downed the last of his Yoo-hoo and ran to the stairway. Then—just as quickly—he ran back and gave me a hug. “Merci, Jacob. I was scared and hungry. I’m not so much anymore.”

As Wester ran off again, I wondered how many other scared and hungry little boys were still out there. Bowing my head, I said a little prayer that those boys would meet up with our family.

And not Mateo’s.

 

 

 

JOURNAL ENTRY #7

 

The water stopped when we were in Ethan’s townhouse. There was a massive gurgle in the lines, some clanging, a few pops—then it just stopped.

“Hygiene just got a little more difficult,” said Porter.

Rhys smiled. I pointed a finger at him. “You still have to bathe and brush your teeth.” His smile disappeared.

“Wherever we go, we’ll need to figure out a system for going to the bathroom,” said Porter.

“What system?” Brandon snorted. “You piss and take a dump. Seems pretty simple to me.”

“We need to choose spots for where we go,” insisted Porter. “Otherwise we can contaminate things. Make each other sick.”

“Seems overly-complicated to me,” said Brandon, frowning.

 

* * * *

 

We figured that it would take us a day to reach Malibu—perhaps a day and a half if we had to stay overnight somewhere.

To bypass any ‘watchers’ that Mateo’s people might have had on Kanan-Dume and the other routes through the mountains, we chose to cross the 101 Freeway at night—halfway between the Kanan Road and Cheseboro exits.

It wasn’t easy.

We had to climb over a cement wall and a chain link fence, moving between cars and trucks to pull each other over yet another cement wall in the middle of the road. Then we had to move between more cars and trucks to climb over one more chain link fence, followed by a final cement wall.

Brandon was actually a big asset to our group in crossing the freeway. While Kieran and I stood guard, he boosted our smaller members up and over any and all obstacles.

You have to give the kid credit.

Brandon’s strong.

 

* * * *

 

As we climbed up the hill on the other side of the 101 Freeway, we heard another gunshot.

It was followed by two more—bang…bang!

“What do you think?” asked Kieran, coming up beside me. “Still coming from the mall?”

“It sounds like that to me. I guess they’ve hunkered down there.”

“I wonder what they’re shooting at.”

Brandon walked up, on my other side. “As long as they’re not shooting at me, I don’t care. Getting shot hurts like a bitch.”

“How’s your arm doing?” I asked.

“No worries.” He flexed it, proudly showing off his biceps.

“Then, bro,” I admonished, “you’re supposed to be bringing up the rear. Someone needs to be watching our tail end.”

Brandon groaned. “But the shorties are all so slow,” he complained.

“You’ve only got until we’re over this hill, then Kieran will take over. Come on, Brandon. We all have to do our part.”

Mumbling under his breath, Brandon moved back to his position, letting Rhys, Ethan, and Wester pass by him. The three younger boys were happily chatting away about Minecraft.

I shushed them as they got closer. “You’re too loud! You need to keep it down.”

Rhys opened his mouth to argue, but immediately closed it when—down on the 101 Freeway just below us—there was a volley of gunshots.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

“Get down!” I cried.

Everyone quickly dropped to the ground.

Ethan began to whimper. I turned to comfort him, only to discover that Wester had already beat me to it. He was patting Ethan gently on the back, telling him quietly not to worry—that it was going to be okay.

Did I mention that I really like Wester?

 

* * * *

 

We were completely exposed on the hill.

Luckily, the dark and the distance played in our favor. Even if someone on the freeway below looked up, they would probably only see us as darkened shapes, thinking we were rocks.

“Whatever you do, don’t move!” I whispered urgently to the others. “Not an inch!”

Down below, bright flashes of light marked the firing of guns. There appeared to be at least three guys moving along the 101 Freeway, firing away. What they were shooting at—if anything—we couldn’t tell.

They were definitely coming from Kanan Road, though.

“Are those Mateo’s guys?” Porter asked quietly. He was lying in the dirt beside me.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “It’s too dark to see clearly. Could be, though. He was tall like that one guy there.”

“Wonder what they’re shooting at?”

Suddenly—we heard screaming.

Down below, there was a volley of gunshots…bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

The screaming stopped.

“Damn,” said Porter, quietly.

On the other side of me, Kieran leaned over and whispered in my ear. “We should move.”

I shook my head. “Not until we’re sure they’re gone. We’re only a quarter of the way up this hill and Wester and Ethan can’t move fast enough. If they see us climbing, we’re done.”

Kieran didn’t look happy, but he reluctantly settled down to wait.

 

* * * *

 

It was a good two hours before we felt it was safe enough to begin climbing the hill again. Mateo’s boys—or whoever was down on that freeway—had taken their time with whatever mischief they were accomplishing. There were more gunshots—bright flashes of light—assorted laughter, and dark figures running back and forth.

Then, it finally got quiet—no movement.

 

* * * *

 

We advanced slowly, moving up and over the hill—crawling on our hands and knees. If someone was still on the freeway and looked up, it was my hope that they would think our lowered shapes to be coyotes—and not a group of scared boys.

A few feet from the top, we heard another gunshot. This one was farther away, though—its report faint and echoing.

“I think we’re good,” I whispered, as we began to move down the other side of the hill. “But remember to keep your voices low. We’ll be coming up on Cornell Road soon. If there’s anybody on the road, we don’t want them to know we’re there.”

Our plan was simple—we were going to take Cornell Road down to Mulholland Highway. From there, we would decide to go either left to Malibu Canyon—or right to Kanan-Dume Road. Either canyon was capable of taking us down to Malibu.

The complication was—which route would be the safest?

 

* * * *

 

We expected to be halfway to Malibu by the time the sun rose.

Fate chose otherwise.

Coming down that first hill, Porter twisted his ankle on a rock. He went down hard, his knee smacking against the ground. My first, big fear was that he’d broken it—especially when I heard him groaning in pain.

“You okay?” I asked—fingers crossed—as I helped him up.

He took a tentative step, putting pressure on his right leg. It immediately crumpled beneath him. If I hadn’t been there to catch him, he would have fallen to the ground.

“Damn it!” he muttered.

“Is it broken?” I asked—terrified of the answer.

“I don’t think so.” Porter lifted up his right leg and moved it in a slow circle. “No…not broken,” he said. “Hurts like a son of a bitch—but not broken.”

I breathed a little easier.

If it was just a sprain, we could deal with that. But a broken leg—that would be way beyond our abilities. It made me realize how vulnerable we all were—physically. If one of us got really sick or broke a leg or needed stitches—we were going to be in big trouble.

“Let me take your backpack,” I said to Porter. “It’ll make it easier for you to walk. Kieran will help you down the hill.”

Porter handed me his pack. Lifting it, I suddenly had a good idea of why he had tripped. His backpack was at least double the weight of mine. “What the heck do you have in here?!”

“Just some books.”

“You put books in your backpack?!” I asked, astonished. “I told you to only bring necessities.”

Porter looked at me like I was an idiot. “There’s a “Merck Manual”, a first aid book, and an anatomy text. Jacob, those books are necessities! It’s not like we’re going to be able to Google anything.”

And, of course—he was right.

The world had changed.

Books were a necessity once more.

 

* * * *

 

Even though Porter’s knee wasn’t broken, it was definitely bruised—and swelling up more by the minute. He was trying to be brave and tough, but I could tell that the small amount of walking that we had already done was making his knee much worse.

There was no way that he could walk all the way to Malibu.

I called a halt at Cornell Road and Mulholland Highway. It was still pitch dark and, as we sat on the ground, we could barely see each other’s faces. Overhead, an owl hooted in a tree—chastising us for being out so late.

“We’re going to hole up here,” I said. “Porter needs to rest that knee.”

“I’m okay,” Porter insisted.

“No, you’re not. And you’ve got to be honest about that. We all have to be honest from now on,” I said. “If we’re hurt, we need to let each other know right away. Because there aren’t any doctors anymore, or hospitals. So, we have to take care of everything immediately—before it gets worse.”

“Makes sense,” said Brandon.

Everybody else nodded. I looked at Porter—waiting.

“It is getting worse,” he finally admitted, so quietly that I had to strain to hear him.

“Okay, then,” I said, standing back up and looking around. “First thing is—we need to find a safe place to hide until Porter’s ready to move again.”

 

* * * *

 

The house was enormous—probably around 10,000 square feet. It didn’t have a bowling alley, but it did have a small theater.

With no windows, the theater room was perfect. We could use a hurricane lantern and nobody would be able to see the light from the outside. Plus the massive leather chairs were extremely comfortable and leaned back so Porter could put his leg up.

I left Kieran in charge of settling everybody into the theater room. Meanwhile, Brandon and I checked out the rest of the house.

With the small tea candles we were carrying, Brandon and I couldn’t really see much as we traveled from room-to-room. Mostly, we just wanted to make sure that nobody was there—that we were alone in the house.

That we would be safe.

After assuring ourselves that the house was empty, Brandon and I went into the kitchen. We searched through the cupboards and the pantry, finally returning to the home theater room, our arms full of chips and cookies.

I was expecting that Rhys, Ethan, and Wester would fall upon us the moment we came through the door. But all three of them were fast asleep—curled up in their big, leather recliners.

In his own chair, Porter was also sleeping.

Kieran, however, stepped out from behind the door, startling me. He had been hiding there, his Glock in his hand. “Any sodas?” he asked, pulling a bag of chips from my stack.

“There’s lots of crap,” said Brandon. “This place is loaded.”

“They’ve got a big pantry,” I added. “Sodas, cans of veggies, meat. Bags of rice and potatoes.”

“Looks like you were right to let Wester choose the house,” Kieran said.

It appeared that Wester wasn’t quite asleep after all because—over on his chair—I saw a little black hand raise a few inches and give us a thumbs up. Then, just as quickly, it fell back down again.

I sat down in one of the big chairs and opened up a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. Taking a handful, I began chewing. “How’s Porter doing?”

Kieran shrugged. “Sleeping. Guess he’s okay.”

Brandon headed for the door. “I’m going for some beer. You want some?”

“I do!” said Kieran, brightly.

“No, he doesn’t,” I told Brandon. “He’s too young.”

“That’s not fair,” Kieran said, angrily.

“I’m not having any either,” I said. “I’m too young, too.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Brandon turned and left.

“Great,” said Kieran, irritated. “Now he’s going to think we’re both wusses.”

“Who cares what Brandon thinks?”

Ignoring my question, Kieran stood up and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” I asked, suspicious.

He turned to me, angry. “For a soda. Is that okay with you?”

“Fine.” I held up my hands. “Don’t have a cow.”

Muttering to himself, Kieran walked out of the theater room. As the door closed behind him, Porter lifted his head off his chair, looking at me.

“What?” I said, irritated.

“Nothing.” He put his head down, closing his eyes, and going back to sleep.

 

* * * *

 

We really liked the house.

It’s probably the reason we stayed as long as we did.

Apart from the fact that it was well-stocked with food, the house also had a ‘recreation room’; there was a half-basketball court, a ping-pong table, two foosball games, and a dartboard. Plus, there were board games and exercise equipment scattered throughout the room.

Rhys, Ethan, and Wester spent a lot of their time in the rec room. Porter usually stayed in the theater room at night and one of the downstairs bedrooms during the day—where he could rest his knee and read books (the house also had a large library).

Although I didn’t like it, Kieran seemed to spend most of his time with Brandon. He followed the bigger guy around, talking guns and football and multi-player video games.

There were times when I’d walk in the room and Brandon and Kieran would immediately stop talking—as if I was intruding. And, although I had no proof of it—I had a good suspicion that Kieran was drinking alcohol with Brandon.

It really bothered me.

I just didn’t know what to do about it.

 

* * * *

 

Of course, I was busy with my own secrets.

I didn’t want anybody to worry, but I was going outside during the day and—sometimes—during the night. It wasn’t anything dramatic; I just wanted to check out Mulholland Highway—try and figure out which way we should go—what canyon would be safest.

And I suppose—if I was being truly honest—I was also trying to give us a reason to go down Kanan-Dume. I desperately wanted to go back and find Betsy—and our surfboards.

After all, we were going to Malibu.

We needed those boards!

 

 

 

THE ROAD TO MALIBU

 

On the seventh day of our layover, I finally crossed Kanan at Mulholland Highway—threading slowly through the bushes on the far side of the road. I took my time, wanting to remain invisible from anyone who might be on the hillsides around me.

Slowly, I worked my way through the scrub, toward the spot where my brothers and I had witnessed Mateo’s boys knifing the smaller kid. I was hoping that there wouldn’t be anything there—that somehow we three had been mistaken about what we had seen.

But—a hundred yards away—the odor was unmistakable.

There was a dead body ahead.

I decided to turn back. There was no reason for me to continue.

But then I suddenly heard it.

A growl—coming from the bushes just to the right of me.

I froze immediately.

 

* * * *

 

There were actually two of them—a mother and her cub.

As the mountain lions came out of the bushes, I moved slowly—carefully removing my jacket. Then placing a hand in one of the sleeves, I lifted it up—high over my head—trying to make myself appear larger.

My other hand, meanwhile, went for the gun in the holster at my waist. I pulled it carefully out, cocking it.

With a little rumble in his throat, the baby started walking toward me.

“No,” I whispered. “Please don’t make me do it.”

As if the mother heard, she suddenly made a clicking noise—deep in her throat. Immediately, the baby spun around and returned to her. As he did, I noticed that the mother was wearing a collar with a small metal box on it. She had been tagged.

Her baby, however—was untouched.

I hoped fervently that he would remain that way.

A moment later, both mother and baby melted back into the bush, heading toward where the horrible odor was emanating. Almost immediately, I began to hear snorts and chomping noises. Sickened by what I was hearing, I lowered my jacket, replaced my gun—and retreated back across the road.

 

* * * *

 

“But why can’t we stay here?” asked Kieran, a few days later. He and I were sitting in the theater room, eating some cookies while Porter snacked on a bag of Doritos nearby. “This is an amazing house.”

“Because we had a plan and Porter’s knee is getting better,” I said. “It’s time to go to Malibu.”

“But this is such a great place,” he insisted. “And it’s kind of perfect. Brandon says that we can use it for a base because it’s almost equal distance between everything—the beach, the valley. So, I don’t see why we have to leave.”

Brandon says—figures.

“I’m not discussing this anymore. We had a plan. We’re sticking to it.”

Angry, Kieran got up and stalked over to the door of the theater room. “You know, no matter what you think, you’re not mom and dad!” he raged. “I can do whatever I want now and you can’t stop me!” Then he stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

“Whoo-boy,” murmured Porter, from the chair he was reclining in.

“He’ll be fine,” I said, not wanting to discuss it.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he said, shoving a Dorito into his mouth. “You know why Brandon and Kieran really want to stay here, right?”

I turned and glared at Porter. He put his hands up. “Never mind.”

Sitting down on a chair, I dug into my own bag of chips. “Where are the kids?”

“Rhys took them down to the rec room a while back. I think they’re having a ping pong tournament.”

“It’s getting late,” I said, irritated. “That room has a window. If someone sees the light.”

“The window’s at the back and it faces the courtyard. It’s not even dark, yet. They’ll be fine.”

“What do you know?” I grumbled.

He put his hands up. “Once again—never mind.”

Porter went back to reading his book. I chewed angrily on my chips for a while, then gave up and turned back to him. “Why?” I asked. “Why do Kieran and Brandon really want to stay here?”

Placing a bookmark on the page he had been reading, Porter closed his book and gave me his full attention. “You’ve been gone a lot these last few days.”

“I’ve had to check out Mulholland—make sure whatever route we took was safe.”

“Well, they’ve been busy, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard the gunshots while you were out?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I don’t hear them either when I’m in this room because it’s soundproof” said Porter. “But when I’m in the living room, I can hear them. They’re shooting over in Malibu Creek Park.”

“What…practice shooting?”

Porter shrugged. “Hunting, practice shooting…I don’t know. They go out. I hear shots. They come back.”

“Where are they getting the bullets? We don’t have enough for that. Are you sure it’s them and not Mateo’s boys?”

“Rhys said Brandon found a closet upstairs with guns in it. I guess there are bullets there, too.”

“Nobody told me this,” I said, angry. “I should have been told.”

“I am telling you,” said Porter. “And there’s something else you need to know. When they come back—they stink of alcohol.”

“Just Brandon…or Kieran, too?”

“Both of them.”

 

* * * *

 

“Let’s see it,” I ordered.

Porter lifted up his pant leg. “See…it’s fine.”

I examined his knee, pressing on it here and there. Porter didn’t move, didn’t wince. I had him walk around a bit, do a few jumping jacks.

“Any pain?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” I said. “Looks good.”

“Then we should probably get out of here,” Porter said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Agreed.” I started for the theater’s door. “I’m going to go get the kids and bring them up here. Have them go to bed early. They’ll need to get a good night’s sleep.”

“We’re going to travel in the daytime?” asked Porter, surprised.

I motioned to his knee. “Well, nighttime certainly hasn’t worked well for us. We’ll just have to be careful. Take our time.”

“Kieran and Brandon aren’t going to like it,” Porter warned. “I think this place has become like their own personal playground.”

“Well, they can play in Malibu,” I muttered, irritated. “This house is too darn close to Mateo and his guys.”

“If they’re even around anymore,” mused Porter, quietly. “Pretty coincidental, you ask me. Brandon gets shot and it just happens to be the same guys you met up with on Kanan-Dume. What would be the odds of that, I wonder?”

“You think that was someone else shooting on the 101?” I asked, curious.

Porter shrugged. “If that wasn’t Mateo’s guys, it would mean that Brandon probably lied about who shot him—that’s all I’m saying.”

I thought about this for a moment. It wasn’t like the same thoughts hadn’t been turning in my own head for some time. “Well, no matter what,” I finally sighed, “Brandon’s with us now, so it’s not like we can do anything about it anyways.”

Rising from my chair, I headed toward the door. “I’ll go get the kids.”

“Jacob, wait. There’s one more thing.”

I turned back.

“If we are leaving tomorrow,” Porter said, carefully. “You might not want to tell Kieran and Brandon until just before we go.”

 

* * * *

 

I knew that Porter was simply giving me good advice. Still, I was annoyed that I had to pussy-foot around Brandon and Kieran. Life was tough enough without them being such dumbasses.

But Porter was right.

They didn’t need to know that we were leaving.

Not just yet, anyway.

 

* * * *

 

In a way, it had been my own fault, because I had never truly explored the house. Instead, I had left it to Brandon and Kieran to go through it—room-by-room. I had been too busy outside—searching for signs of Mateo’s people along Mulholland Highway.

It was time now to fix that error.

First, I went into the rec room and ordered Rhys, Ethan, and Wester back to the theater room for a good night’s sleep. I wanted them all well-rested for the hike down to Malibu the next day. Then I moved through the darkening house, carrying a single tea candle.

I took my time—going through every room, every drawer, every cupboard.

With the exception of the room Brandon and Kieran were using.

 

* * * *

 

The gunroom was upstairs, just like Porter had said.

It was long and narrow, like a rich man’s clothes closet. Each side held an assortment of weapons on racks. Underneath were drawers and, when I opened them, I found boxes full of bullets.

There was also a large gun safe at the far end of the room. I wondered what was in it but—since it needed a combination—I was out of luck.

 

* * * *

 

Brandon and Kieran had stopped sleeping in the theater room after the first night. I found them on the second floor—in the master bedroom—at the end of the main hallway. Their voices echoed through the closed door as I crept towards it.

I moved slowly, not wanting to alert them to my presence.

“Fracking straight up, right between the eyes, mofo!”

It took me a moment to realize that it was Kieran who was speaking. His words were muffled, strident—he had been drinking all right.

“Shooting high. Gotta take it down—lilbitta right.” This was Brandon.

“Shooting better’n you, Bran, so shut the frack up!”

There were a bunch of thumps and grunts—the kind you get when two guys are wrestling around, being a complete couple of jackasses. I retreated slowly—moving back through the hallway toward the stairs.

 

* * * *

 

The bar was just off the living room.

I’d been in it the first night we’d arrived, but not since.

There were empty bottles everywhere now—some broken, others thrown into a pile in one corner. The soles of my shoes became sticky with alcohol as I walked around and, when I put my hand down on the bar, it came back wet and smelling of rum.

What a mess!

Luckily, the bar had a door that led directly outside. Over the next twenty minutes, I opened and emptied every bottle of alcohol that I could find in the bar—dumping it out onto the back lawn. Then I carried the empty bottles over to the garbage area and—as ridiculous as it sounds—put them all in the recycling bin.

When I was done, I searched through the house once more.

In an upstairs bedroom, I found another stash of alcohol and a small baggie of what I assumed was marijuana. As before—the alcohol went onto the back lawn and the bottles into recycling. The weed went into the regular garbage.

Finally—exhausted—I went back to the theater room. Climbing into my recliner, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

* * * *

 

When I woke up in the morning, it was to Brandon and Kieran staring down at me. I yawned up at them. “Yes?”

Kieran looked furious, but Brandon was grinning. “Well-played, my man,” he said, “well-played.” Then, Brandon turned and walked out.

Kieran stayed where he was, glaring at me.

“You got something to say, say it,” I told him. “Otherwise take your pissy mug somewhere else.”

“You suck,” he growled. Then he turned and walked out.

“Very mature!” I yelled after him.

No response.

I looked around. The other chairs were empty. There was nobody else in the theater. I wondered what time it was and how long I’d slept.

Suddenly—I sniffed the air.

Was that bacon?!

 

* * * *

 

A few minutes later, I came into the kitchen to discover Porter cooking bacon and eggs on a little hibachi that he had set up on the top of the stove. Rhys, Ethan, and Wester were crowded around a second hibachi, grilling slices of pita bread. Brandon and Kieran, meanwhile, were setting the table in the dining room for breakfast.

“Where on earth did you get bacon?” I asked, astonished.

“It was in the pantry,” said Porter. “Rhys found it behind some rice. It’s non-refrigerated, until you open it.”

“And there are still three more packages that we can take with us,” said Rhys, proudly.

“And the eggs?”

Brandon walked into the kitchen. “I got them over in Malibu Creek Park. One of the rangers living there has some free range chickens. A couple of them are layers.”

Ethan and Wester walked by with a plate of toasted pita for the table.

“Look at you guys,” I said. “This is simply amazing!”

 

* * * *

 

We actually had a great breakfast.

Everybody was on their best behavior.

Brandon was quite funny and charming, and told jokes that were even appropriate for our younger members. Kieran was a little on edge—but not much more than normal. He even joined in when Rhys and Wester decided to have a rap battle. (They all sucked.)

Afterward, I announced that we were heading off after breakfast, expecting some resistance from Brandon and Kieran. I received no comments from either of them, though—just nods of acceptance. When the younger guys left the table for the theater room, Brandon and Kieran simply headed up to their bedroom to pack.

As we cleared the table, Porter began to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“There’s nobody around and you’re having us clean up,” he grinned. “And you call me OCD.”

“We’re not animals,” I said. “This house belongs to somebody. Maybe they’re not coming back. Maybe they are. Either way—we still should do what’s right.”

“I agree.” Then, he motioned toward the second floor. “Not so sure they do, however.”

“They seem fine this morning. Didn’t even say a word when I said that we were going to Malibu today.”

“I know,” nodded Porter. “Kind of odd, don’t you think?”

“You saying they were faking it?”

He grinned. “You think they were being real?!”

 

* * * *

 

When we left that morning, it was pleasant—the sun was behind the clouds and there was dewy moisture in the air. An hour later, however, the clouds had burned off and the sun was beating down hard on all of us.

By the time we reached Mulholland Highway and Kanan-Dume Road—we were all tired, over-heated and cranky. Sitting on the ground—remaining hidden in the bushes—wasn’t helping anybody’s mood either. The guys were restless, irritated that I wasn’t moving them along quicker, instead of stopping every quarter mile to check that we weren’t being followed—or about to walk into a trap.

“Seriously, how long are we going to have to sit here?” complained Rhys. “These bushes probably have ticks!”

“My head hurts,” moaned Kieran. “I need an aspirin!”

“Dude, we should just rush the bastards,” suggested Brandon. “Shoot first, ask questions later.” He was fiddling with something inside of his backpack—no doubt one of the extra guns that he had taken from the mansion’s gun safe.

“Wish we were back playing ping-pong,” whined Ethan.

Irritated, I looked down at Wester, kneeling quietly beside me. “You got anything you want to add, bro?” I asked him.

Wester immediately gave me a thumbs-up.

 

* * * *

 

An hour and a half later, we came across Betsy. There were bullet holes in her side, the trunk was wide-open, and the surfboards were gone.

“They killed her!” cried Rhys, horrified. “They killed Betsy.”

Meanwhile, Kieran was walking around the Honda, counting the bullet holes. “Thirty-six shots,” he eventually announced. “Sorry, bro.”

“Do you think it was Mateo’s gang?” asked Porter.

“Who knows?” I shrugged.

Bending down, I looked inside the vehicle. The glove box had been opened and the registration was missing. When I checked the rear storage area, I also couldn’t find the surf contest applications.

Someone had taken the time to leave me a little present, however—a dried pile of human feces, right in the center of the rear carrier.

“Oh, nice,” I said, frustrated. “Very mature.”

Brandon came up beside me and looked inside the car. He whistled. “Dude was definitely leaving you a message.”

“You think?”

 

* * * *

 

It was eerily quiet, traveling the rest of the way down Kanan-Dume Road to Malibu. We moved slowly, stopping at each curve—studying the road ahead until we were certain that there was no one lying in wait.

This end of Kanan-Dume was sheer cliff—the road winding down and around until it finally hit the Pacific Coast Highway. I had always enjoyed driving this part of the route, taking my foot off of Betsy’s gas pedal and just letting her coast. If I had my windows open and I got the speed exactly right, the Honda would whistle—a low eeeee, as if Betsy was enjoying the drive herself.

Walking an empty and dead Kanan-Dume Road—however—was a completely different experience. At times, rocks skittered and tumbled from the cliff above, startling us, as they came to rest mere inches from our feet. Twice we saw coyotes running across the road, only to disappear into the scant brush on the other side.

Wester, we discovered, was absolutely terrified of the small wild dogs. “They gonna’ eat me!” he cried, latching onto my arm.

“No, they’re not,” I assured him. “Coyotes are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“I don’t like them,” he persisted, shaking his head.

Brandon pulled out his gun and held it up. “Don’t worry, Wester,” he said. “Next coyote that shows his face—I’ll put a bullet right through his furry snout.”

“Put that gun away!” I ordered. “And you’re not going to be shooting at coyotes. That’s the last thing we need—someone hearing your gunshots.”

 

* * * *

 

The last half mile of Kanan-Dume Road was lined with massive houses—small mansions really—belonging to the ever-present rock stars, actors, and record producers of Southern California.

“How many people you think lives there?” asked Wester, as we passed a large Mediterranean villa. It had a long, circular driveway; I could just see the tail lights of a red Ferrari parked at the far end. Beside it was a black Maserati.

“If I had to guess,” I said. “Probably two to four people—a family maybe.”

“Plus a maid and a cook,” added Porter.

“And a pool boy,” said Kieran. “You know they’ve got to have a pool around back.”

“Can we go and look?” asked Rhys, hopefully. “Maybe they’ve even got a bowling alley.”

“I’d rather just get down to the bottom of the canyon first,” I said. “Besides, there’re going to be lots of big homes where we’re going. We can check out those.”

“Where are we going, by the way?” asked Brandon.

“Point Dume,” I said. “Porter knows of a house there that should fit us well. And it’ll be close to Zuma Beach, so it will be easy for us to go surfing.”

“If it’s on Dume, we can also surf Little Dume Beach,” suggested Kieran.

I nodded. “Plus the fishing will be good all around there.”

“And there’s a Pavilions on the Point,” said Brandon. “We can stock up on food there. Sounds like a plan.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I echoed.

A few moments later, Porter sidled up next to me and asked quietly. “I know of a house?”

Making sure the others weren’t looking, I pulled out the photograph of Kaylee’s dad’s house and showed it to him. Porter immediately nodded in quick understanding. “You’re right,” he said, grinning. “I do know of a house.”

 

* * * *

 

Tourists who don’t know the area are always surprised to discover that Malibu is not a well-defined city. Instead, it’s twenty-eight miles of meandering coastline. As part of it, Point Dume juts out from that coastline—a multi-million dollar land bubble of mansions and horse ranches.

This is where stars like Barbra Streisand and Julia Roberts have their homes—where you’re just as likely to bump into Chris Hemsworth shopping at the local Pavilions supermarket as jog next to Emilio Estevez along Dume Drive.

 

* * * *

 

The sun was just beginning to set when we finally reached Point Dume. That suited me fine, because I was worried about who might be living there. Until we knew for sure, I thought it would be better that we arrive in the shadows.

As we turned up Heathercliff Road, there was a long line of dead vehicles stopped in the road, waiting for a turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway that they would never make. “Would you look at that?” I whistled, marking off the cars as we passed. “Mercedes, BMW, Jaguar, another Mercedes, Lexus…” I stopped at the last one, my mouth dropping open.

It was a lemon yellow Dodge Viper.

“This is so unfair,” I groaned. “That’s a 2017 Viper GTS! We’re talking over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of car—with the key in the ignition and we can’t even start it.”

“We can always shoot it.” Brandon pulled out his gun and aimed it at the car.

“Are you crazy?!” I lunged for him. “That’s a frigging Viper!”

“Chill,” he said, putting his gun back. “I was just yanking your chain.”

 

* * * *

 

The Point’s local supermarket—Pavilions—was ahead and on the right. From where we stood, we could see that its parking lot was full of dead cars and idle shopping carts.

Rhys pointed to a cart next to the opened door of a dark green Lexus SUV. “There’s still food in that cart,” he said. “Should we go get it?”

“It’s almost dark,” I told him, shaking my head. “Let’s concentrate on getting to the house right now. We can always come back for the food in the morning.”

“You don’t want to check out Pavilions now?” asked Brandon, looking disappointed.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The beer will still be there in the morning.”

Brandon didn’t even try to deny it. He simply grinned.

 

* * * *

 

The Michelson house was set back from Dume Drive, behind a large brick fence. We could just see the roofline, a series of gables—blue with white trim.

A mansion, really.

I walked up to the front gate and looked through its thick bars. The driveway went back—about 300 yards—ending at the front of an enormous 3-storey home. There were fruit trees all along the driveway on one side and a small vineyard on the other.

“Look at that,” said Porter, coming up beside me. “I’d heard that some of the rich guys grew grapes here on the Point. Apparently, they’re not allowed to, but they do it anyway because—well, because they’re rich and who’s going to stop them?”

“So, why did you choose this house anyway?” asked Kieran.

I didn’t know how to answer that. Porter came to my rescue. He waved his hand toward the property. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “Big fence, fruit trees, vineyard. Easy to defend. Fruit to eat, close to the beach, but not so close as to make us easy to find.”

Beside Porter, Brandon put his meaty hands on the bars and pushed. The heavy gate barely budged. “How do we get in?”

“See,” said Porter. “Anyone comes after us, it won’t be easy for them to get in either.”

Looking around, I saw a large, cement mailbox to one side of the entrance. It took some doing but I managed to climb up on it. Just above—on the fence—I noticed a camera. It was aimed toward the front gate. “Too bad this camera wasn’t working,” I said. “It would be good for security.”

Using the camera to balance myself, I shimmied over the wall. There was a large oak tree on the other side and I grabbed onto the biggest of its branches and—moments later—swung myself down to the ground. I was feeling pretty proud of myself until I walked around to the gate and discovered that Ethan and Wester were already there, waiting for me.

Skinny little guys—they had simply slipped through the bars.

Rhys, Kieran, and Brandon easily made it over the wall. Porter was a different matter, however; the kid simply had no athletic ability. Brandon eventually had to go back over the wall and push him up from behind, one hand on Porter’s butt. On the other side, meanwhile, Kieran and I passed Porter from one-to-another until we finally had him onto the oak tree and from there onto safe ground.

 

* * * *

 

“We seriously need to find another way into this place,” said Porter, as we walked along the driveway to the house.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you a stepladder, grandpa,” teased Brandon, punching him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” said Porter. “Like you seriously don’t know your own strength, dude!”

Brandon grinned. “Pretty sure I do.”

We stopped as we reached the end of the driveway.

“Wow,” I said, looking up at the house. “This place is beautiful.”

A quiet voice spoke from deep in the shadows. “It’s also ours.”

 

* * * *

 

We spun around quickly to find two boys—each around twelve years of age—coming out from the bushes on either side of us.

They were holding shotguns.

“No!” I yelled, as Kieran and Brandon both went for their guns. “You’d never make it!”

Their hands twitched—but they froze.

Porter, meanwhile, took a step forward, his hands in the air. “No harm intended,” he said, calmly. “We were just looking for a safe place to live.”

“Well, this is our home,” said the boy on our right. He was half-Asian, skinny, and had shoulder-length black hair. “You should go.”

The boy on our left—an African-American even skinnier than the first, motioned with his shotgun. “Exit’s that way, bros.”

“This isn’t fair,” whined Rhys behind me. “We walked so far!”

I shushed him. “It’s fine, Rhys. There are lots of houses on this Point. We’ll just find another one.”

“Yeah, well if you do,” said the first kid, “watch out for the Locals.”

The black kid laughed. “Because they’re crazy, man…Locos!”

“Come on, guys,” I said to the others, turning. “Let’s go.” A moment later, however, I turned back—I couldn’t leave without asking. “Listen,” I said, hands up—trying to appear non-threatening. “I know this is probably a stupid question but—is there any chance that Kaylee is still alive and in there?” I motioned to the gabled house in front of us.

The Asian kid immediately lowered his shotgun. “You’re a friend of Kaylee’s?” he asked, surprised. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“You know Kaylee?”

“Yeah, kind of,” he said. “Her dad is married to my aunt. That makes me her second step-cousin or something like that. How do you know Kaylee?”

“I go to school with her. Is she here?”

The kid looked down at his feet. “Sorry, dude.”

 

* * * *

 

Of course, Kaylee wasn’t there.

But she was also everywhere.

As Ian and Andrei showed us around the mansion, I caught remnants of her throughout the house—an old doll sitting on a chair, a soccer ball in the corner, an Agoura High t-shirt hung in the closet.

And then there was her bedroom.

She might have lived with her mother, but she apparently still maintained a room here. Ironically, her bedroom in Malibu was larger than the whole upper floor of her townhouse in Agoura Hills.

There was a large walk-in closet, full of designer clothes, purses, and shoes. Kaylee even had her own attached bathroom—with a Jacuzzi tub and steam shower.

I tried not to think of her in that room but—I was still a 16-year old boy.

Let’s just leave it at that.

 

 

 

JOURNAL ENTRY #8

 

I can see why Kaylee lives with her mom.

There are pictures all through this house of Kaylee’s dad and the woman he married. Her dad has to be in his sixties and his peroxide-blond wife in her twenties. And she’s got massive boobs, the kind that look rock-hard and probably come from silicone—very ‘trophy wife’—very Southern California.

Brandon—of course—thinks she’s ‘way hot’. Personally, she’s the kind of fake woman who doesn’t interest me, but I don’t want to say anything because she’s Ian’s aunt. He’s one of the kids who’s been living in the house here.

Ian’s a nice kid; he’s part Asian, part Jewish. The other kid who’s living here is Andrei; he’s African-American. They’re not related, obviously—just friends.

In fact, Ian isn’t even from around here. He actually lives up in Oregon—a little town called Bend. He was down here with his mom when ‘it’ happened. They were housesitting/vacationing while Kaylee’s dad and step-mom were in Europe for a couple of weeks. Ian said that he just woke up the day after Halloween and—when he went down to breakfast—he couldn’t find his mom anywhere.

Andrei’s story is even weirder.

He lives up at the far end of Malibu, right around Leo Carrillo State Beach. He says that he was running on the beach with his dad and that there were people everywhere. Suddenly, he tripped and when he looked up—everyone was gone.

A beach full of people—disappeared.

 

* * * *

 

I don’t know if it was fate or luck that brought Ian and Andrei together.

Andrei was walking south on Pacific Coast Highway, trying to find somebody—anybody. And Ian was walking down Dume Drive toward the highway.

Eventually, they both met up—two 12-year old boys who’d had their whole worlds and their families ripped away from them.

They’ve been inseparable ever since.

 

* * * *

 

I think that both boys are kind of relieved to have some older guys around. It’s probably been difficult for them, trying to work things out. Ian says that there are other boys on the Point—mostly older—but they’re a gang called the ‘Locals’, and they don’t want anything to do with them.

He says that—sometimes—the Locals run along Dume Drive, breaking into houses and shooting at cars. One time, the boys even saw a couple of the Locals beating up another kid just for coming onto the Point to go fishing on the beach.

Ian and Andrei were hidden behind a trashcan—watching. They said the kid got away, but that the Locals yelled after him that they’d kill him if he ever came back onto the Point. Since then, Andrei and Ian have stayed locked up in the Michelson house—eating from the food in the pantry—afraid to go out.

And afraid that the Locals will come in.

 

* * * *

 

One of the nice things about being in a house this big—is that we can each have our own room if we want. For one ridiculous moment, I thought that maybe I’d sleep in Kaylee’s room, but I quickly realized that would probably be just too weird. Instead, I chose a room up on the third floor.

It’s smaller than most of the others. Ian says that’s because it’s for a maid. Still, I like the room because it’s up high and I can see what’s coming along Dume Drive from the window.

Porter is sleeping almost directly below me. He chose his room because it’s next to the library. Apparently, Kaylee’s dad likes his wives young and his authors old. Porter says that he’s going to start with Aristotle and read his way through to Zola.

Ethan and Wester didn’t want their own rooms. Instead, they are sharing one—two rooms down from Porter’s. They are like two peas in a pod now—racing through the house, always giggling and laughing.

Rhys is in a room that’s directly across from the one that Andrei and Ian are sharing. Because the three of them are so close in age, they’re becoming fast friends. Where one of them goes, I’m usually certain to find the other two close behind.

Truthfully, I’m happy that Rhys has found some new friends. And Andrei and Ian seem to be good normal kids.

But—then there’s Kieran.

He—sadly—has decided to room with Brandon.

And not in the main house. Instead, they’ve taken up residence in the guest house, halfway toward the back end of the wooded property. They’ve each got their own bedroom there, and a small kitchen and bathroom—neither of which are in working condition, of course.

There’s also a basketball court just outside of their guest house. We can hear them playing there—the ball bouncing constantly day and night. I worry that the Locals will hear them, but my brother and Brandon don’t seem too concerned.

Frankly, I also worry when I don’t hear the basketball.

Because, if they’re not in the guest house, if they’re not on the property—then where do they go?

 

* * * *

 

For the most part, we’re all staying close to the house at the moment.

The property is enormous and the younger guys enjoy racing through the trees and the grape vines. There are a few oranges still on the trees—a little sour—but we still eat them. Like the others, I’m looking forward to next spring, when the apples and grapes start growing again. Ian says that there’s even a banana plant here somewhere, but that it doesn’t grow fruit every year.

(Fingers crossed that this coming year we’ll have bananas.)

Meanwhile, Porter is worried about our water situation. Because there’s no irrigation now—no sprinklers. It’s pretty moist here on Point Dume, but Porter thinks that, once next summer hits—the ground will dry up and most of the plants and fruit trees will die.

I’m hoping he’s wrong; I’m worried he isn’t.

We’re lucky here in this house because Mr. Michelson keeps a very full pantry. There are even some boxes of food stored on racks in the garage. I had Porter do a survey of everything that we have and he thinks—if we’re very careful—we have at least six to eight months of food.

Brandon and Kieran, however, still want us to go down to Pavilions and clear out the store. So far I’ve nixed the idea. While I think bringing in more food is always a good idea, I’m also concerned about these Locals that Ian and Andrei talk about. If these guys are really that violent, the last thing we should be doing is taking away their food supply.

Besides—this Point is full of huge houses.

We can always go shopping in them.

 

* * * *

 

Even though Brandon thinks it’s stupid, we’ve created a ‘bathroom area’, out near the far end of the estate. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, having to walk that far—especially at night.

But every time I’m there—and I smell the stink—I realize that Porter (as usual) was right.

You don’t sh*t where you live.

And if you have to—you do it as far away as possible.

 

* * * *

 

Rhys, of course, has been whining about going surfing down at Zuma Beach. I have to admit that I’m jonesing for a day on the waves, too.

I’m itching to try out a board that I found in one of the garages on the property (there’s two—garages, not boards). It’s an ancient longboard that’s made out of wood—like something straight out of Kahanamoku’s days—no fins, nothing.

But I’m worried about the Locals.

If they corner us out on the water, it could get ugly. And it’s not like we could surf with our guns—although Kieran says he’s willing to try.

Being a Malibu-boy, Andrei knows most of the kids in the area. He says that these guys might call themselves the ‘Locals’, but that he hasn’t seen them before—and that most of them are definitely not local surfers.

That’s unfortunate because—if they were—I’d probably know them. All the guys I know who surf the waters around here are pretty normal dudes. They can get a little territorial at times but it’s basically immature-stuff, not real violent.

It makes me wonder where these ‘Locals’ actually come from.

 

 

 

OUR FIRST THANKSGIVING

 

I found Ian sitting in a small alcove, just off the living room. He had a photo album on his lap and he was going through it page-by-page. As he saw me coming, he quickly wiped at his tear-filled eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, bro,” I said, sitting down beside him. “It happens to all of us.” I motioned toward the photo album. “Pictures of your family?”

“My mom,” he said, pointing to a photograph of a pretty dark-haired woman standing next to a Chinese man. “And that’s my dad. He’s dead now.”

“Sorry, bud. How’d he die?”

“It was a long time ago,” said Ian. “When I was just a baby. A car accident. This guy was drinking and driving and he hit my dad’s car.”

“Man, that sucks,” I said. “I hate when people drink and drive. It’s so stupid.”

Ian shrugged. “Not like that’s going to happen anymore.”

“Guess not.”

He turned to the next page.

Now the same dark-haired woman was arm-in-arm with another dark-haired woman of around the same age. They were walking down the street together, laughing.

“Who’s that?”

“My aunt.”

“Kaylee’s step-mom?” I asked, astonished.

“That was before she dyed her hair,” Ian explained. “And before she got her boobies.”

“Did someone say ‘boobies’?!” Brandon plunked down beside Ian and leaned over to take a look. “Show me boobies!” he ordered. “Are we talking pictures of your bodacious auntie?”

Ian quickly closed the photo album, got up, and left.

 

* * * *

 

“Dude,” I said to Brandon, once Ian had disappeared around the corner. “Inappropriate or what?!”

Brandon looked confused. “What? I wasn’t even the one who brought up the boobies.”

“The kid is 12-years old,” I reminded him. “He’s lost everyone, the world has gone crazy, and he doesn’t need you getting a hard-on every time he mentions his aunt.”

“Well, then he shouldn’t have such a smoking-hot auntie, should he?”

I stared at him, annoyed. “Seriously?”

“Fine,” Brandon sighed. “I’ll keep my wet dreams to myself.”

“Good.” I got up to leave.

“Wait, Jacob. Like I’ve been meaning to ask you…Halloween—the night ‘it’ happened. You weren’t at the party—at Peyton’s house. You were supposed to be there.”

“I was invited but I didn’t want to go.”

“How come? I mean, it was the Foxes! They were all there—Peyton, Tray, Orla. And it was a rocking night—booze, beautiful chicks—Peyton’s dad even brought in a DJ.”

(A night with the Foxes…stalker-Peyton, mean-Tray, and the head-bitch of them all—Orla Whelan. And he wondered why I didn’t go.)

I shrugged. “I’d promised to take my brothers surfing. We stayed Halloween night at Leo Carrillo and surfed Zuma in the morning.”

“But it was Peyton,” insisted Brandon. “She’s like almost as hot as Tray. And you know she wants you. Dude, she’d do anything for you. And I mean anything!”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “I’m not interested.”

“Cause of the little blond mouse?”

The hackles at the back of my neck immediately went up. When I turned to look at Brandon, he was leaning against the wall, arms behind his head.

Grinning.

“You got something to say, Brandon?” I asked, irritated.

He shrugged—nonchalant. “You know, I didn’t recognize the little mouse at first,” he finally said. “But there’s this school picture in the hallway over there. Chick in it—I recognize her from the stands at Agoura. She watches sometimes, when we have football practice.”

“So?”

“So, I was just curious, that’s all,” he said. “If she’s the reason that you didn’t go to the party on Halloween?”

“Peyton is the reason that I didn’t go to the party on Halloween. I’m just not into her.”

“Well, then,” Brandon persisted. “Is the little mouse the reason that we’re here then—in this particular house?”

“Number One—little mouse’s name is Kaylee,” I said, quietly. “And Number Two—if you have a problem with being here, feel free to leave.”

Honestly—at that moment—I was hoping that Brandon would go.

Unfortunately—he stayed.

 

* * * *

 

Our first real ‘family’ meal was on Thanksgiving Day.

We found a number of canned hams in the pantry and Kieran and I used one, cutting it into steaks and grilling them on the barbecue. Meanwhile, Porter baked some buns, somehow substituting applesauce for the eggs in the recipe. Rhys, Andrei, and Ian were responsible for the mashed potatoes, and Ethan and Wester set the table.

Even Brandon did his part. He carried in the sodas and slapped them down on the floor in a corner.

For Brandon—that was a monumental effort.

 

* * * *

 

“The only thing missing was the cranberry sauce,” sighed Rhys.

“And the football,” added Brandon. “Especially the football.”

“What’s cranberry sauce?” asked Wester.

We were all lazing around the dining room, our stomachs full, our eyes drooping with fatigue. The remains of our meal was scattered across the table and—in Rhys’ case—on the floor.

“My mom makes this great cranberry sauce,” yawned Andrei. “She puts raisins into it.”

“Our dad just uses the stuff that comes in the can,” said Rhys. “But I love it.”

I nodded, yawning as well. “He heats it up in the oven with the turkey.”

“What’s cranberry sauce?” repeated Wester.

“Duh...sauce made out of cranberries,” said Ethan. “Everybody knows that.”

“Wester’s from Haiti, remember,” I said. “They probably don’t have cranberry sauce with their Thanksgiving dinner there.”

“Do you even have Thanksgiving in Haiti?” asked Porter.

“We had it at the orphanage,” said Wester. “The Sisters made us turkey and corn on the cob. Then, we all had to say what we were thanking God for.”

“My mom and I do that,” Ian piped up. “Every Thanksgiving we say what we’re thankful for. Mom says we do it to remind ourselves how blessed we are.”

Brandon let out a massive burp. “I’m thankful for free booze and guns to shoot,” he crowed. “Now if only some fricking vampires or zombies would come our way, so we could blast the crap out of them, life would be just about perfect!”

“I’m thankful for no school,” Kieran laughed. “Who the hell needs it anymore—booyah!”

He and Brandon exchanged high-fives—Hoot! Hoot!

“My turn,” I said, quickly. “So—I don’t know what’s happened here but—one thing I do know—is that I’m thankful to have you all here with me. Weird as it sounds, you’re all my family now…my brothers.”

Brandon let out another large burp. “Dude,” he snorted, amused, “you sound like you’ve got a vagina.”

 

 

 

JOURNAL ENTRY #9

 

There were lights outside last night.

I could see them from my bedroom window. They were moving up and down about a half a mile away—as if people were walking around and carrying lanterns. Ian and Andrei say that it’s the Locals…that they’re living in one of the houses on the edge of the cliff overlooking Zuma Beach.

Frankly, that pisses me off.

The surf is starting to build and I’m still jonesing to take the board out of the garage and make an early morning run at Zuma—ride a few waves. But if the Locals have set up house over top of it, things could get a little dicey.

If it was just me, I’d probably throw caution to the wind and go for it. Unfortunately, I’ve got a responsibility to everyone else now. If somehow I lead the Locals back to the house and someone got hurt—I’d never forgive myself.

Responsibility sucks!