RU’S COMPOUND

 

Ian was sick on and off until the first week of March. Porter never knew exactly what he had, but suspected it was probably a virulent version of the flu. Unfortunately—as Ian got better—the other boys became sick.

Andrei was the second boy to take to his bed. One moment he was fine—the next moment he was puking and sweating up a storm.

Wester and Ethan were next. They didn’t puke as much as Andrei, but Porter worried constantly about how high their temperatures kept rising.

Rhys went down on March 6th—ironically, our mother’s birthday.

 

* * * *

 

I knocked on the guest house door, rapping loudly—again and again.

“This is stupid!” I yelled. “I know you’re in there. I saw the curtain move.”

Finally, the front door opened. Kieran came out onto the stoop, closing the door behind him. “Sorry…Brandon doesn’t want to get infected.”

“Right,” I said, frustrated, “because this is all about Brandon.”

Kieran looked down at his feet, ashamed. “What do you want, Jacob?”

“It’s Rhys.”

My brother looked up at me, horrified. “He’s got it?!”

I nodded.

“You coming to see him?” I asked. He immediately looked back at the door to the guest house, worried. “You coming to see him?” I asked again—this time more forcefully.

“Of course,” he said, quickly. “Just give me a sec.”

Kieran turned around and went back inside the guest house. I could hear Brandon and him talking inside, but their voices were too low for me to hear any words. From their tone, it appeared that they were arguing.

A few moments later, the door opened and Kieran exited. He was carrying a small backpack and I could see the butt of a gun sticking out of it.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “I heard you guys fighting.”

“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”

We started walking up to the main house.

“How’s he really doing?” asked Kieran. “Is Rhys going to be okay?”

“Porter and Connor are doing everything they can, but we ran out of antibiotics with Wester and Ethan.”

“I can walk into Malibu,” offered my brother. “Down near Webb Way, they’ve got that pharmacy. It will only take about four hours to get there and back—even quicker if I use a bike. I could look for some antibiotics there.”

“That’s an idea,” I replied. “But first I’m going to try Ru.”

“You going to the Locals?”

I nodded. “I’m hoping that I can interest him in a little trading.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “One of us needs to be here for Rhys—just in case.”

Kieran didn’t look happy about that. But, for once, he didn’t complain like he usually would have—just walked along beside me, frowning.

“If there’s anything you want me to try and trade for with the Locals, let me know in the next few minutes,” I told him. “I want to leave as soon as possible.”

“The only thing I really need right now is a room and a bed for the next little bit.”

I looked over at him, raising my eyebrows in a question. He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “Brandon’s having trouble with all this,” Kieran explained. “He doesn’t like sick people. He’s afraid that I might bring something back.”

“So, he doesn’t want you in the guest house until this is all over?”

“He’s a little weird that way.”

“That’s not being weird,” I grumbled. “That’s just being a selfish prick.”

I noticed that Kieran didn’t disagree with me.

 

* * * *

 

It would have made more sense for Connor to accompany me, but he absolutely refused to go anywhere near the Locals’ camp. I don’t know if it was because he thought Joe might still try to kill him—or because the place was filled with too many bad memories.

Either way—Connor wasn’t going.

Which meant Porter.

Again—not the best choice.

I wanted Porter to remain with the guys, taking care of them, not heading into possible danger with me. But the hardhead insisted that he had to come—to make sure that we got the right medicines.

“What if substitutes have to be made?” he argued. “You wouldn’t have any idea.”

“And you would?” I snorted. “Please—you’re not even sixteen and already you’re acting like one of those doctors who knows everything.”

Porter and I were walking along Dume Drive toward two large mansions about a half-mile down. Ru usually had guys stationed there—guarding a trail that they had created between the estates. The route cut across the two lawns, following the cliff edge on the other side until—ultimately—it met up with the three mansions that the Locals had chosen as their own.

“I don’t have to know everything,” Porter stated, hitching his backpack a little higher on his shoulders. “I’ve got the PDR with me and it knows everything for me.”

“What the heck is a PDR?”

Porter gave me a superior look. “And that, right there,” he said, gloating, “is exactly why I have to come. The PDR is the “Physician’s Desk Reference”. It tells me what I need to know about all the different medicines.”

“How did you get one of those?” I asked, both surprised and a little impressed.

He shrugged. “I gave the guys a challenge, for when they went scavenging. First—to find a doctor’s house. Second—to find a PDR.”

“I can’t believe they managed it.”

Porter looked at me, surprised. “This is Point Dume, Jacob—home to some of the richest people in California. That doesn’t just mean movie stars, you know. That means doctors and lawyers, too. Andrei found the PDR in two days, by the way. Also some antibiotics—but they got used up pretty quick.”

“Is that the doctor?” said a quiet voice.

We both immediately froze.

 

* * * *

 

They came out from behind the bushes on our left—five guys, all between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. Each boy was carrying a weapon—two had rifles, one a gun, two others held machetes hanging loosely from their fists.

Their clothes were filthy—ripped jeans and stained t-shirts. Most of the guys had let their hair grow long, and two had untidy braids that they’d decorated with shells and feathers.

All five of them had tattoos—like Kieran’s—homemade markings of needle and pen ink. These boys’ tattoos, however, were on their faces—chevrons across the cheeks, circles around the eyes, stars in the center of the forehead.

If they had wanted to look fierce, they had succeeded.

Of course—they also looked crazy.

 

* * * *

 

Beside me, Porter started to tremble. He moved a step backward, positioning himself so that I was between him and the Locals.

“Seriously?!” I asked Porter. “You think that’s going to protect you?”

A sixth boy emerged from the bushes.

He had a machete in one hand and what looked to be a submachine gun slung across one shoulder. Like the others, he sported a tattoo on his face—a solid black bar that went from one cheek to the other, straight across the bridge of his nose. His long blond hair was captured in a topknot—similar to those worn by sumo wrestlers or samurai. Unlike the other boys—his clothes appeared to be clean—black jeans and a Genius Bar t-shirt.

“Hey, Ru,” I said, lifting one hand in greeting.

“You didn’t answer the question?” he said. “Is that the doctor?”

“Close as we got.”

He walked up to Porter, giving him the once-over. “You saved Connor?”

“No thanks to you guys,” hissed Porter.

I reached out and gave him a slight punch to his shoulder. “Manners.”

Ru laughed. “I like your doc. What do you want to trade for him?”

 

* * * *

 

“Dude, it was a joke! Nobody was going to trade you.”

“Well, it wasn’t very funny,” said Porter, still angry.

“It kinda’ was,” I chuckled. “If only you had seen your face.”

“Shaddup!”

We were walking along the edge of the cliff, following the trail to Ru’s houses. Two of the Locals were in front of us, three behind. I didn’t know where Ru was—I assumed that he’d gone on ahead.

“How come they don’t talk?” whispered Porter, motioning to the Locals accompanying us.

“They talk,” I said. “Just not to us.”

We reached a gate—its bars solid and stretching high over our heads. On each side a tall, filigreed fence stretched out, all the way along the cliff’s edge, as far as we could see.

“This place must be massive,” Porter speculated. “If this is only its gate, I can just imagine what’s inside.”

A small door was open to the right side of the gate. We were led through it and along a pathway, set back in a row of eucalyptus trees. Every few yards there was a small alcove—composed of rose bushes—with a Grecian statue invariably displayed in the center.

After five minutes of walking, we reached a small, man-made water feature—now dry. There were statues in the middle—giant porpoises and mermaids, intertwined. No doubt, they would have been spouting water had there been any electricity.

To the right, a table had been set up. Ru was already seated there, with four of his guys standing nearby—guns in their hands.

“Come and have a seat, gentlemen,” commanded Ru, waving to two chairs opposite him. There was a pitcher of lemonade in the center of the table, along with a plate of cookies.

As we sat, Ru picked up the pitcher and poured us each a glass of lemonade. Then he pushed the cookies toward us. “Sorry, they’re not homemade,” he apologized. “Do what we can, right?”

“Exactly,” I said, reaching for a chocolate macaroon.

Beside me, Porter grabbed his own macaroon. His head was swiveling this way and that—taking in the massive estate.

“It’s a little gaudy,” Ru told him. “From what we can tell, it was owned by some Middle Eastern prince. There’s this one room on the second floor in the main mansion—filled with pillows and these silk drape-things coming down from the ceiling. Samuel thinks that it was probably for the prince’s harem.”

A few of the Locals chuckled among themselves.

Meanwhile—from between the bushes, a new boy suddenly emerged.

He had short red hair and freckles and he couldn’t have been more than 10-years old. Running up to Ru, he put his arms around the older boy, whispering into his ear.

I took the moment to look around at the ornamental bushes, towering eucalyptus, and roses that seemed to be everywhere. It was like being seated in one of those botanical gardens that my mother always loved to visit.

When the red-haired boy finally finished his whispering, Ru gave him a nod and patted him on the hand. Reassured, the boy turned and raced off, back through the bushes the way he had come.

Ru returned his attention to us. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries” I said, still looking around. “I don’t see the mansion. Is it back there?”

“That’s why we chose it,” Ru explained. “It’s set behind a second wall—impossible to see from the road. I doubt most people on the Point even knew it was here. The houses you guys can see from your rooftop are between the first and the second wall. They’re the guest houses—or maybe the maid’s quarters. We’re not really sure.”

This was news to me—“You can see us on the rooftop?”

“Dude,” he laughed. “I told you before. We keep track of what’s going on here at the Point. Obviously—you do, too.”

“Just trying to stay safe,” I shrugged.

“Aren’t we all?” he agreed, quietly. Then, taking a big breath, he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “So—I’m assuming this isn’t just a neighborly how-do-you-do.”

Porter immediately reached into his backpack and pulled out a large book—obviously his PDR. Turning it around, he showed Ru a page. “We need to find this.”

Another page.

“And this.”

Still, another page.

“And this.”

“I see,” nodded Ru. “You came with a shopping list, did you?”

“Well, you have the pharmacy on your side of the Point,” I said. “If you don’t have the medicines, then we’ll head down to the one near City Hall.”

Ru shook his head. “Wouldn’t do you any good. That one’s been emptied. I doubt you’d be able to find a Q-tip.”

“Who did it?” I asked, surprised.

He shrugged. “We’re not sure. That’s still a long way for my guys to go. Plus, there’s a dude over near Corral Beach who likes to take pot shots at us whenever we pass by, so we don’t make the trip too often.”

“Do you think you might have these medicines in your pharmacy?” asked Porter. “It’s important.”

“You have sick guys?” asked Ru.

Porter and I looked at each other, trying to figure out how much we should say.

“Truth is always best,” said Ru—as if he could read our minds.

I nodded at Porter—tell him.

“We have four sick, one pretty much recovered,” he explained. “But we’re completely out of antibiotics and pain meds.”

“Do you know what they have? Why they’re sick?”

Porter shook his head. “It’s just an educated guess,” he said. “The symptoms match up with the flu, though, according to the “Merck Manual” I have.”

“That’s a medical reference book,” I explained.

“I know what a “Merck” is,” Ru said. “Connor’s mom has one in her kitchen. She calls it her medical bible.”

“The problem is,” continued Porter, “that this flu is bad. They’re running really high fevers and it looks like Wester and Ethan—two of our younger guys—are coming down with bronchitis. My fear is that, if we don’t stop it now—even if they do beat it—their bodies will be so weakened that they’ll be open to other infections.”

“And that could affect everyone,” I said, pointedly.

“So, that’s why we need to get into the pharmacy on your side,” said Porter. “To find the medicines.”

“We’ve brought a list of things we can trade,” I offered. “We’ve found a lot of good stuff on our side.”

I pulled out the list that Porter and I had prepared just before we left this morning and slid it across the table to Ru. He barely looked at it before he pushed it aside. Then, he studied us for a moment, looking from Porter’s face to mine.

Finally, he spoke. “The pharmacy’s already been emptied.”

 

* * * *

 

Ru led the way along a sidewalk.

On one side was a giant river-rock wall—on the other side, apparently, was the ‘prince’s mansion’—although we couldn’t see it. There were wooden doors set in along the wall, but those had no windows and needed keys for entry.

“It’s completely enclosed,” explained Ru. “The wall goes all the way around. From what we can see, there’s a tunnel that comes out near the front gate. That’s how they drove their cars in. Only problem is, there’s one of those heavy metal gates at both ends—electronically operated. If there’s a manual override, we haven’t been able to find it. And, of course, these wooden gates you see here are locked shut.”

“But you’ve got the keys?” I asked.

“We do now,” he nodded. “When we first came, though, we had to go over the wall. That busted our balls for a while until Connor figured out this Jenga-thing—like he put this box here, that thing there, this board leaned that way. A couple of guys just wanted to go find a ladder, but Connor’s all like—just give me a minute, it’ll be quicker this way. And he was right. Got us over the wall a couple of minutes later.”

“It’s that spatial thing of his,” I said.

“Connor told you about that, huh?”

I nodded.

“How’s he doing, by the way? He’s not one of the sick, is he?”

“He’s fine.”

“I figured as much. We’ve seen him moving around in the yard.”

We reached the end of the mansion’s wall. As we turned the corner, I saw the two large houses we could see from our roof. They were set a little farther back, along their own paved road.

Dead center of both houses—was the cage.

 

* * * *

 

There had to have been twenty guys standing around the cage—a few with tattoos and ratty clothes like the ones accompanying us. Most, however, were dressed like the redheaded boy—clean and tidy—just normal kids trying to exist in an abnormal world.

“Wow,” I said, surprised. “I didn’t realize that you had so many guys.”

“Tribe’s growing,” acknowledged Ru. “Those five over there—we found them camping out on Zuma Beach two days ago. That black guy, with the burns on his legs—came down Decker Canyon. Got jumped by a couple of creeps, tried to set him on fire.”

“My god,” whispered Porter beside me, horrified.

“Yeah,” Ru nodded. “It’s getting brutal out there. That’s why we’ve always been so careful here on the Point. Don’t want the riff-raff getting in.”

He grinned at us. “Guess you guys are the exception.”

 

* * * *

 

“We’ve been watching you build it,” I said. “Trying to figure out what it’s for.”

Ru pulled on one of the cage’s bars. It held firm. “Worried that it was for you?” he grinned.

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“It’s for me.”

Porter and I both turned, surprised to find that the owner of the deep voice was Joe—the guy who had been tasked to kill Connor in the Pavilions’ parking lot. He was bare-chested, his torso covered in tattoos—some homemade, others he must have had previously, because they looked professional.

His dark hair was just past his shoulders now, but he wore it in a braid—the sides shaved so it appeared as a faux-mohawk. A thin gold hoop was threaded through his upper lip and he had another one through his left eyebrow.

“Man, do I have a girl for you,” I said.

“If you mean Cherry Winslette,” whispered Porter into my ear, “she’s gay, you know.”

I nudged Porter, silencing him. “It was a joke, dude.”

Joe came forward, one hand moving slowly along the cage’s bars as he approached. He had a machete tucked into his belt and I couldn’t help but notice that it was red along the edge. I hoped that it was paint, but I had a feeling that it was dried blood.

“What do you mean the cage is for you?” I asked him.

“My birthday present.”

“Joe will be eighteen on April 1st,” said Ru. “Do you know what that means?”

“We’ve been told,” I admitted. “But we don’t know if it’s really true.”

“Neither do we,” said Ru. “Joe will be our first guy turning eighteen.”

“So, you’re going to put him in a cage?”

“It was my idea,” said Joe.

“We don’t know what happens when a guy turns eighteen,” said Ru. “Maybe they disappear, maybe they don’t. Maybe some crazy supernatural being that no one can see shows up and takes them away.”

“And if that’s true,” I continued for him, “then maybe it won’t be able to get at Joe if he’s in the cage.”

“Nobody knows anything,” Ru shrugged. “We’re just trying everything we can.”

“Either way,” said Joe. “It’ll make for a good show.”

 

* * * *

 

“Here we go.” Ru unlocked the side door to the large garage. “Careful,” he cautioned. “It’s a little dark inside. Give your eyes a few seconds to adjust while I light us a couple of candles.”

The garage was enormous—with a polished tile floor and European imports angled all along both sides.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “That’s a Bugatti Brescia over there!”

“The prince was a car nut apparently,” said Ru, handing us each a small candle. “He’s got another garage on the other side of the property. That one holds the Domestics.”

“Is that a Delahaye?” I raced across to a tear-drop shaped vehicle. It was shiny green, spotless—perfect. “This one car is like—millions of dollars,” I whispered, in awe. “There’s only a handful of this particular model in the whole world. Like I’ve only ever seen them in pictures.”

“Well, it’s mine now,” said Ru. “But I tell you what. If you can drive it out of the garage, I’ll give it to you. No strings.”

And—as stupid as it sounds—I stood there for a good two minutes, trying to figure out a way to actually make that happen.

 

* * * *

 

The drugs were in a large, locked room at the back of the garage. There were shelves all along the side, no doubt once for car parts. Now, they were covered with tiny little boxes, bottles, and vials.

Over in one corner was a barrel filled with crutches. Next to it was a box of bandages and sterile wipes. Meanwhile, the shelves overhead were dipping from the weight of a half dozen crates of hydrogen-peroxide bottles.

“After what happened to the pharmacy at Webb Way, we figured that it was probably smart to bring everything here,” Ru explained. “This way we could control it.”

“Is this everything?” asked Porter, moving slowly alongside the shelves—reading labels and checking them against his PDR.

“Lock, stock, and two smoking barrels,” said Ru. “We also cleared out Pavilions, by the way. Got those things in another building on the property.”

“You guys have been busy,” I said, impressed. “I had no idea.”

“Well, you had no idea,” he said, cryptically.

“What does that mean?”

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we let Baby-Doc here do his shopping in peace? You and I can go get another glass of lemonade—maybe have a little discussion.”

“What can I take?” asked Porter. “You’ve got the list of what we can give you. What will those things get us?”

Ru snorted, amused. “Dude…you take what you need. But only that. If you need more, you come back. That way we’re all covered.”

“But the trade,” said Porter, confused. “What about the trade?”

“Get your drugs,” ordered Ru. “Me and Jacob will be outside discussing the details.”

 

* * * *

 

We sat on a low wall, just across from the cage. There were only a few boys around now—the novelty of new visitors having worn off, I guessed. Joe was across the way, sharpening his machete in a way that I was certain was supposed to intimidate me.

Off to the right, meanwhile, I could see a group of boys cooking something over an open pit. Beside them, another couple of boys were sorting through boxes of canned soups. To the left—across from them—was a single boy, washing clothes in a big tub.

“Where are you getting your water from?” I asked. “Bottles?”

“We’re keeping most of the bottled water we have in reserve,” Ru explained. “There’s a small creek that flows through the west end of the property. It’s not as big as the one you’ve got going through your place. Ours is tiny—no bigger than a hand’s width, and it tends to dry up every now and then. But we’ve also set up a system to bring up water from the bottom of the cliff. There’s another creek coming down from the mountains there.”

“Too bad we can’t just drink from the ocean,” I said. “Heck of a lot of water right out our back door.”

“I’ve got a couple of geek boys who are pretty good with the science stuff,” said Ru. “They said—if things get tough—we can turn the salt water into drinking water. It’ll just take time and a lot of effort.”

“Good to know.”

I took a long sip of my lemonade, watching as the kid finished his washing. Now, another boy joined him, helping to hang the laundry on lines strung throughout the trees.

“What do you want, Ru?” I finally asked. “For the medicine?”

“Well, here’s the thing.” His tone was serious and he moved closer, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing. “I wasn’t joking about Baby-Doc.”

“You want Porter?!”

“No.” Ru shook his head. “We want his services.”

“But—our guys need him.”

“So do ours.”

 

* * * *

 

It turned out that there were eight Locals sick.

Ru had converted a long hallway in one of the houses into a medical ward—beds on either side. It was a smart move on Ru’s part because it made it easier to walk from patient-to-patient. Plus, one wall of the hallway was made up entirely of windows, so there was more than enough natural light to see during the daytime without using candles.

“You’d spend half the day taking care of your guys,” Ru told Porter, as we walked along the hallway. “The other half—you’d come here and help us.”

“And you’ll let us have all the medicine if I do?” asked Porter.

Ru nodded. “But if it gets to be too much, then we consolidate—bring all the sick here. You take care of them at our place.”

“I don’t know if Connor would come if that happens,” murmured Porter. “And I’d need his help.”

“He’ll come if I ask,” said Ru, confident. “As long as he knows that Joe won’t hurt him. Plus, there’ll be some of our guys who can help you.”

We reached the end of the hallway and the last bed.

It was a small boy—about 11-years old. He was unconscious, his body trembling, and covered in sweat. Sitting beside him and holding his hand was the redheaded kid from before.

“You,” said Porter to the redhead. “Go put a mask and some gloves on. I know you’ve got them. I saw them on a table as we came in here.”

The kid didn’t move; instead, he looked to Ru for instruction.

“You heard the Doc,” said Ru. “He’s in charge here now.”

“And bring me back a pair,” ordered Porter. “Now.”

Immediately, the kid got up and raced out of the room.

“That’s Xavier,” explained Ru. “And this is his brother, Nate. We found them out at Trancas, at the supermarket there. Nate was already sick and out of it. Xavier was standing over his body with an axe, threatening to chop up anybody who got near.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Joe happened,” Ru grinned. “Dude simply walked up, grabbed the axe by the handle, and the kid by the scruff of his neck. Would’ve been pretty funny if Nate hadn’t been so sick.”

Xavier raced back, wearing gloves and a mask. He handed a second pair to Porter, who quickly put them on.

“Where’s your thermometer?” asked Porter.

Ru motioned to another boy who brought over a basket. Inside was an old-style mouth thermometer, stethoscope, and a blood pressure cuff. Porter took the thermometer, gave it a quick shake, and stuck it into Nate’s mouth.

The sick boy groaned and thrashed around a little.

“Hold the thermometer right there,” Porter ordered Xavier. Then, he picked up the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, looking at them.

“You know how to use those?” asked Ru.

Porter replaced them in the basket. “Not yet,” he said, honestly. “But I will.”

 

* * * *

 

Because Porter was worried about the condition of a couple of Ru’s guys, he had decided to stay with the Locals for a few more hours. Meanwhile, I would run the medication back to Connor who—apparently—would know what to do with it.

“Unless Connor needs you, I want you back as soon as possible, okay?”

I was loading up boxes of medicine onto a bike that Ru was lending me, while Porter stood close by, gnawing on a fingernail.

“Are you thinking that something is going to happen while I’m gone?” I asked Porter.

“Not with me,” he said. “But that kid, Nate—his temperature is really high and Xavier said that he hasn’t been awake in almost four days.”

“You think he might die?”

“Not if I can help it.”

 

* * * *

 

Ru went with me as far as the street. As we reached the junction, he stopped and got off of his bike. I stopped also—waiting—a little impatient.

“Dude,” he frowned. “One other thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“Remember when we talked about my boys taking everything out of Pavilions and the pharmacy?”

“You said that I didn’t know that you’d emptied the store,” I said. “Kind of like someone else did know.”

“Exactly like someone else knew,” Ru said. “Somebody who was skulking around, the night after we cleared out Pavilions.”

I groaned. “Please don’t tell me that Kieran and Brandon tried to get into the store again.”

“Oh, they got in,” said Ru. “Because we let them. I had guys hidden, watching them pass through the doors. We didn’t stop them, though—it’s not like there was anything in there anymore for them to take, so no skin off our backs, right?”

“When was this?” I sighed—disappointed.

“A couple of nights ago—about 2 a.m.”

I suddenly felt better.

“That wasn’t them,” I said, confident. “They were on watch duty. They’ve been on the graveyard shift every night this week.”

“Sorry, dude,” said Ru. “But those boys are not the most reliable to have up on that roof guarding you guys.”

“You’re saying that they’ve been leaving their post?”

“Every single night.”

“Are you absolutely certain it was them?”

“You be the judge,” Ru suggested. “My guys watched them tear up the store. Figured they were angry cause all the booze was gone. Your big guy—”

“Brandon.”

“Well, he took his shotgun and blasted out all the windows. Glass was everywhere. Then your brother—what’s his name again?”

“Kieran.”

“Kieran decided he wanted to be a street artist.”

“He graffitied?”

“More like—he wrote a poem.”

“Oh god!” I groaned again. “What did he write?”

Ru grinned as he recited:

 

“My big brother is a prick,

funny cause he has a small dick,

country bumpkin-what a hick,

my big brother—prick, hick, dick.”

 

I shook my head—embarrassed.

“Look,” said Ru, all serious now. “He’s your brother, I get it. You want to protect him. But this Point has to have rules if we’re going to survive on it together.”

“I agree,” I said, quietly.

“So, you need to get those two under control,” Ru ordered. “Otherwise me and my boys—we’re going to have to do the job for you. And—just for the record—it wasn’t just Pavilions those boys have been getting into. They’ve been all over the Point, shooting out windows, trashing houses. We just can’t have that here. You see that, right?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I sighed. “I promise.”

“Make sure that you do.” He got back on his bike, prepared to leave.

“Ru?”

“What?” he asked, turning back.

“Just for the record,” I murmured. “It’s not small.”

 

* * * *

 

Connor practically ripped the antibiotics out of my hand.

“How are they doing?” I asked, as he prepared Rhys’ first dose.

“Not too bad considering,” he said. “Where’s Porter?”

“He’s going to stay there a little while longer. Unless he’s needed back here. Some of Ru’s guys are sick.”

“With the same thing our guys have?”

“Porter thinks so. I’m going to go back again in a few minutes unless you need me here.”

“No, I’m good. Kieran’s been helping me.”

 

* * * *

 

I walked with Connor up to the second floor. Just outside of Rhys’ door was a pile of plastic gloves and masks. Connor picked up a pair of gloves and placed them on. His mask was already around his face.

“You shouldn’t go in,” he said. “Rhys is sleeping right now anyway. I’ll send Kieran out to talk to you.”

He turned and opened Rhys’ door. For the few moments it was open, I could see Rhys, sweaty and unconscious in his bed. A gloved and masked Kieran was sitting beside him, using a facecloth to clean our brother gently off.

Then, the door closed—and my brothers disappeared.

 

* * * *

 

When Kieran finally came out of Rhys’ room five minutes later, he looked exhausted.

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

Kieran pulled off his gloves and mask and sat down against the wall. “His temperature seems pretty stable. It’s not normal, but it’s not really high either,” he yawned. “Plus, he had some soup this morning. I’ll try to get some more into him when he wakes up. He needs the fuel, so he can fight this thing.”

“Did Connor tell you that I’m going back to the Locals? Porter is still there.”

He nodded, yawning again. “Said that some of the guys are sick.”

“Eight of them. We might just move them and our guys all together if this continues. Make it easier to take care of them all.”

Another yawn. “Okay.”

“You seem pretty tired,” I told him. “You sure you’re good to stay with Rhys if I go back and help Porter?”

“I’m fine,” he nodded. “Go do what you’ve got to do. If anything gets worse, we’ll come and get you.”

“Thanks, bro.” I leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder in gratitude. Even as I looked down, however—Kieran’s eyes were fluttering shut. Seconds later, he was snoring.

 

 

 

JOURNAL ENTRY #20

 

I can’t believe how crazy this day has been!

When I got back to the junction on Dume Drive this afternoon, Joe was already there, waiting for me.

“Hurry!” was all he said.

 

* * * *

 

The area around the two guest houses was in an uproar.

Boys were running this way and that—some carrying ropes, others—a giant block and tackle.

“What’s going on?” I yelled to Joe. We had left our bikes beside a wall and were running toward the medical unit.

Joe didn’t say a word—just kept running.

 

* * * *

 

Boys were crowded around the end of the hallway when we entered. Joe merely pushed them all aside, giving us space to race by.

“Put on gloves and a mask!” yelled Porter, from the far end of the room. “They’re in the basket over there!”

I followed his instructions—putting on the gear—then raced to his side. “What’s happening?”

“It’s Nate’s temperature…I can’t get it down!” he barked. “It just keeps going higher.”

The boy on the bed was soaked with sweat. His head was turning from side to side and he was moaning.

“We’re ready, Porter!” I turned to see Ru and Xavier at the far end of the hallway. They were both putting on gloves and masks.

“All right,” said Porter. “Let’s get him set up. Jacob, I need you to grab those belts there. We’re going to slide them under Nate and tie him up tight, right in his sheets. Like a burrito…understand?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Ru and Xavier raced over, as well as three other guys—all gloved and masked. We all began binding Nate up.

“Tight as you can,” ordered Porter. “We can’t have him slipping out.”

Joe joined us—also wearing protective gear. As soon as we’d finished securing Nate, Joe reached down to pick him up.

“Need help?” asked Ru.

“Screw you,” said Joe.

I could swear the big guy was grinning behind his mask as he tossed Nate over his shoulder. Next thing I knew, Joe was running out with the kid—as if he weighed nothing at all.

The rest of us struggled to keep up.

 

* * * *

 

“Anybody want to tell me what we’re doing?” I asked, as we ran along. Joe was still far ahead of us, racing along the trail—heading toward the cliff’s edge.

“Nate’s body temperature is too high,” puffed Porter. “According to my manuals, he’s probably going to have a seizure if we don’t bring it down.”

“How do we do that?”

Poor Porter didn’t respond. His lack of athleticism and poor conditioning dropped him on the spot. He fell to his knees—puking.

I quickly ran back, kneeling down beside him. “Porter?”

“I’ll…catch…up!” he gasped, waving me on. “Get…him…down!”

Honestly—I had no idea what Porter was talking about. When I looked around for the others, they were too far ahead to call back.

“GO!” bellowed Porter—then, he leaned over and puked once more.

 

* * * *

 

“Holy crap!” I cried, when I reached the edge of the cliff.

Ru and his boys were in the process of attaching Nate in his sheet-burrito to the giant block and tackle that I’d seen previously. It was suspended over the cliff—a complicated rope and pulley system that would lower Nate to the beach over a hundred feet below.

“Where’s Porter?” asked Ru, looking behind me.

“Winded. He’ll come when he can. What’s going on?”

“Porter says that Nate needs to be cooled down fast,” explained Ru. “That means the ocean—and the quickest way down.”

“Oh my god,” I exclaimed. “You’re taking Nate over the cliff?!”

“Sorry, dude…but…you’re taking him over the cliff.”

Huh?

“Joe is too heavy and I’m the only one who knows how to operate the pulleys,” he exclaimed. “You have to go down with him.”

Was he out of his fricking mind?!

“We’re ready,” called Joe. He and the others stepped back from Nate. The unconscious boy hung—suspended—a few feet out from the edge of the cliff.

“What about one of your guys?” I asked. “They’re right here.”

“And they’re smaller than you,” said Ru, becoming frustrated. “Dude, we need someone light enough, so that they don’t bust the lines—and strong enough to fireman Nate into the ocean once they’ve reached the bottom. I look around—I only see you. If you’ve got a better idea, tell it to me now. Because we are running out of time!”

Porter suddenly came gasping along the trail. He looked horrified to see Nate still on top of the cliff. “Get…him…down!” he panted. “Hurry!”

I looked at all the waiting, expectant faces.

One in particular—Xavier’s—sent me moving. The tiny redheaded kid looked absolutely stricken, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Let’s do this!” I exclaimed—rushing toward the edge of the cliff.

 

* * * *

 

I will not lie—I was absolutely terrified!

While Nate had been secured to the ropes by the block and tackle, I simply had to hang on tight. In reality, I kind of rode Nate—in an uncomfortable and embarrassing position. I remember thinking how absurd I must look—and that I was so very glad that my humiliation wasn’t going to be posted onto YouTube.

“How fast do you want to get down there?” called Ru. He was at the edge of the cliff, picking up the end of a lever attached to a winch—which, in itself, was attached to the rope that secured the tackle.

“Boot it!” I yelled.

Ru smiled, then—one of those grins people make when they’re up to no good. And he pushed the lever forward—not slowly, but all at once.

Nate and I dropped—fast!!

 

* * * *

 

The freefall lasted only a few seconds, although it seemed like much longer. Thankfully, I didn’t scream—at least, out loud.

Inside my head—however—I was squealing like a little baby.

At the bottom, I quickly jumped off of Nate—on very shaky legs—and unhooked him from the tackle. Cleared of the contraption, I waved upward.

Seconds later, the tackle began to ascend.

“Okay, dude,” I said to the Nate-burrito on the ground beside me. “Let’s go surfing!”

It took some doing, but once I had him over my shoulder—fireman-style—Nate wasn’t that difficult to carry. I couldn’t run very well, but I could jog. When I hit the sand, however, I was forced into a kind of hopping-quick walk.

Not very efficient—but I still got him there in less than a minute.

 

* * * *

 

The blue-green waves of Zuma were right in front of me.

God, but I loved this beach!

“Here you go, buddy,” I said, carrying Nate into the water. “Zuma will take care of you. You’ll see.”

His sheets immediately became waterlogged and heavy, threatening to pull him down. Undoing the bindings, I let them fall to the ocean floor.

I held Nate—cradling him like a baby—as I walked him farther out.

“Not much here today,” I told him. “Surf is kind of weak and mushy. Tide’s too high. Works well for us, though—don’t have to walk so far.”

Looking down, I saw that Nate had finally stopped shaking. He seemed so small in my arms, so fragile. The gentle waves swirled around him, feathering his hair, washing away his sweat and grime.

If anything—he looked ‘pretty’.

“Dude,” I urged him. “Time to man up.”

 

* * * *

 

Porter and Xavier joined us five minutes later.

They had come down together on the tackle. I was astonished—still am—that Porter would actually attempt such a dangerous stunt. But there they both were, wading out to meet us.

“How’s he doing?” asked Porter, stumbling to remain upright in the surf.

“You tell me.”

Unzipping a fanny pack, Porter reached in and pulled out his thermometer. He stuck it in Nate’s mouth and Xavier immediately moved into position to hold it in place.

“I can tell right now that his temperature has gone down,” said Porter, his hand against Nate’s head. “He feels a whole lot cooler.”

“He stopped shaking a couple of minutes ago,” I reported.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Xavier, looking worried.

“I don’t know,” said Porter, honestly. “But, at least now he’s got a better chance than before. I’m still worried that he’s been unconscious for so long, though.”

Xavier used his free hand to wipe a stray hair out of his brother’s face. “That’s just because he’s such a lazy bones,” he said, fondly. “Nate always likes to sleep in. Mom gets really mad because Nate will sleep all day if he could. Dad says it’s because he’s going through a growing spurt.”

Porter pulled the thermometer out of Nate’s mouth and held it up, squinting against the sun to read it.

“Well?” I asked, impatient.

“Almost normal,” he grinned.

 

* * * *

 

It might have taken us only a few seconds to get down the cliff, but it took us almost forty-five minutes to get back up. Exhausted, we trudged up the curling, ever-ascending road that led up from the beach—pulling Nate along in the back of a child’s wagon that Ru had dropped down on the tackle.

Once we got to the top of the cliff, we still had another half hour’s walk before we reached Ru’s houses. As we came around that final corner and saw the junction leading to the Locals’ compound ahead, we were all dead-tired and more than a little cranky.

Until we heard it…

“Hey, Xav…” The voice was faint and raspy.

I wasn’t the only one who wondered if I was imagining it. Then, I saw our little redhead turn and look down at his brother.

“Hey, Nate,” Xavier whispered—beginning to cry.

Best moment of the day—absolutely!

 

* * * *

 

Just before dusk, Porter and I walked back to our house alone.

Ru had wanted to come with us—or at least send some guys to accompany us like an honor guard—but Porter and I had wanted to be by ourselves.

It had been a long, weird day for both of us.

“I think you saved a life today, dude,” I commented. “That kid might be dead now if it weren’t for you.”

“If it weren’t for you, too,” he yawned.

Our house was just ahead, on the left. I climbed up on the mailbox and onto the top of the wall. Porter followed, barely holding onto my arm for balance. He was getting much better at this.

“Were you scared going down that rope?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “Piece of cake,” I lied. “How about you?”

“Honestly,” he said, “peed my pants a little.”

“Me, too,” I nodded.

We jumped down to the ground and started walking toward the mansion.

“Maybe we should keep that part to ourselves,” suggested Porter.

“Good idea.”

 

* * * *

 

We stopped in the kitchen for a quick glass of water, then headed up to the second floor. Gloves and masks were put in place; seconds later—we were standing in Rhys’ room with Connor giving us an update.

“I think he’s getting better, but I’m not certain,” said Connor. “It’s just been too soon since we gave him his first dose.”

Porter laid the back of his hand against Rhys’ forehead. “I’m not feeling any fever.”

Connor shook his head. “I’ve been taking his temperature on the hour and it’s remained pretty constant.”

“Has he been awake at all?”

“Woke up about an hour ago. Kieran fed him some more soup.”

“Excellent,” said Porter, pleased. “What about the rest of the guys?”

“Doing even better than Rhys.”

 

* * * *

 

I found Kieran, sitting by himself up on the roof. “It’s not your watch, is it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s Brandon’s.”

“And you’re taking it for him? After being with Rhys all day?”

Kieran shrugged his shoulders.

Sighing, I sat down beside him. “Dude, what the heck is going on with you guys?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, come on—he’s such a bad influence on you—pierced ears, tattoos, bad poetry on supermarket walls.”

He looked up at me, surprised.

“They were in their rights to shoot you, bud,” I said, very seriously.

“We were just fooling around.”

“The type of fooling around that could get you killed!”

“Is that why you came up here, Jacob?” he asked. “To bust my balls?”

I calmed myself down—somewhat.

“Kieran, I’m just worried about you, bro.”

“Well, you can stop,” he said. “I’m a big boy.”

“But it’s just—he’s making you do all these bad things.”

Kieran turned toward me, frustrated. “Have you ever considered, bro—that maybe I’m the one who’s making him do it?”

 

* * * *

 

I don’t know.

Maybe Kieran is the instigator; or maybe he just wants to think he is.

It doesn’t change things.

For me, the reality is that Brandon is the bad guy here.

And I hate the kid…I really do.

 

 

 

GOING, GOING, GONE

 

Two days later—all our guys were either completely healed or close to it.

And, over at the Locals, the same thing was happening.

You would have thought that this would have made Porter happy. Instead, he turned into a raging obsessive compulsive, determined that we do everything to assure ourselves that this type of thing would never happen again.

 

I guess the ‘sickness’ had really scared Porter.

Under his direction, all the pillowcases and sheets were stripped from the beds and washed in the creek. Then they were hung in the sun—for at least nine hours. For whatever reason, Porter had decided that this was the exact amount of time needed for the sun to burn away any infectious properties.

‘Hygiene Rules’ were then implemented.

Hands needed to be washed before and after each meal. All bodily functions had to be conducted only in the bathroom area. No one was allowed to cough or sneeze without covering their mouth and nose with their arm—not their hand—their arm!

The list of rules went on and on.

In all honesty—they were the same rules my mother had always tried to instill in myself and my brothers.

But we were boys—and we were living wild.

Rules? We didn’t think so!

 

* * * *

 

When Porter discovered the enormous pile of dirty clothes in one of the empty rooms of our mansion, he was livid. Apparently, some of the guys had been tossing their clothes in there instead of doing the laundry. Opening the door had released a stench that permeated the house for days.

Immediately, Porter made us all put on gloves and masks and carry the clothes out into the back of the yard. Luckily, he didn’t make us wash them. Instead, we just threw the clothes over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

However, we also had to go back into the house and—using bleach—disinfect the whole room. We all thought Porter was nuts, frankly, but we also did what he wanted.

Because he was our doctor.

 

* * * *

 

Brandon, however—did not take part.

Instead, he disappeared for a good five days. Where he went, we had no idea. Kieran simply reported that his backpack was gone and so was he.

Personally, I hoped that he would never return.

But he did come back—bearing a bloody scab across the side of his neck and a self-satisfied grin. He told everyone that he had gone down Pacific Coast Highway, checking the shops and pharmacies—looking for medicines.

Unfortunately, Brandon said—everything had already been taken.

Kieran believed him.

I did not.

 

* * * *

 

On the last day of March, Ru invited Porter and me to join the rest of his guys—watching Joe in the cage—as time inexorably marched toward Joe’s eighteenth birthday.

It felt weird and intrusive—sitting on the chairs they’d set up—watching a caged kid wait out his fate.

Joe was locked inside the bars—an armed guard on each side. Ru, meanwhile, paced outside the cage—around and around, looking extremely worried.

“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait,” Porter asked, quietly.

“Don’t know,” I said. “But Ru told me that Joe was born sometime after midnight.”

Porter looked down at the wind-up watch on his wrist. “If I’ve got the time right, we’re minutes away.”

But Porter was wrong.

He had forgotten about Daylight Saving’s Time.

Midnight had already come and gone.