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Michael winced and wagged his injured hand in the air. His bandages had caught on a nail and tore away as he climbed up to the treehouse. Every subsequent rung pressed into his raw, exposed wound, sending shockwaves of pain through his arm.
Reaching the top, he allowed himself a moment to relax, the first time he felt even the slightest bit safe since an ax had split his apartment door. He’d taken the high ground, and though there were two ways down from the treehouse, there was only one way up. He thought he could defend the ladder if he had to. I wish I had a bat.
Trying to keep his wound clean, he slapped the dirt and splinters from his hands, squealing but enduring the pain. Hand over hand, he shimmied the handlebar up the pulley system to have it ready should he need it. Then, he headed into the treehouse, grabbed the binoculars, then knelt before the window. His watch would be vigilant. At least it had been for an hour or so.
Fear slowly transformed into boredom, and adrenalin depleted into exhaustion. Still, there was nothing to do in his little hideaway but sit and watch. He had only the binoculars and Dylan’s copy of Moby Dick discarded on one of the chairs to keep him company.
He sat on the empty chair beside the book, picked it up, and flipped through it. He read the first page before tossing it back onto the chair. Talk about being vigilant. That’ll put me to sleep. He sighed, crossed his arms and his ankles way out in front of him as he slouched, and listened to the sounds of the forest.
“I knew you’d come here.”
Michael jolted upright, fist raised. He turned toward the saloon doors to see Dylan freeze partway through them.
“Woah! Easy there, Badass.” Dylan creaked the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside.
Slowly, Michael brought down his arm, eyeing the boy from head to toe, looking for weapons without realizing he was doing so until a few seconds later. Dylan’s hands were empty. His pockets were flat. Still, he could have had a knife tucked in the back of his pants or something worse hidden outside the treehouse, beyond Michael’s view but not Dylan’s reach.
Hands still balled up but at his sides, Michael kept what little distance he could from Dylan. He dared not blink, scrutinizing his friend’s every movement and expression, always on guard. “I saw them grab you. How’d you get away?”
Dylan pointed to a gash on his neck that Michael hadn’t noticed despite its conspicuousness. Smeared blood stained the skin beneath it, and dried flakes fell like scraped rust from his T-shirt’s collar as he ran a finger along it. “Wasn’t easy.” He shrugged. “I guess they were just more interested in you. I saw the other two going after you. The one that had me seemed old and out of shape, kinda had a wimpy grip on me. When I saw the one with the ax go completely psycho and you take off, I stomped on my guy’s toes as hard as I could. It worked. He let go but cut me as I slipped free.”
Michael’s gaze narrowed further. “You sure have a funny way of showing up right before those Indians do.”
Dylan’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth dropping open. “You think I have something to do with them?” He puffed out a breath. “Maybe you’re used to this crap, but that guy had a knife to my throat! I lived in a lot of places, some of them a lot more dangerous than Fall River, and nothing like that’s ever happened to me before. I thought I was going to die! And all I could think was how embarrassing it would be to be found dead if I pooped myself. Being friends with you, well... it’s never boring, anyway.”
Michael shrank into himself. “I—” he sighed, his head suddenly too heavy to hold up. “I know. I’m sorry. I get it if you—”
“No, man. Forget it. None of this is your fault. It’s not like you asked for this crap.” Dylan touched around the wound and winced. “I don’t think it’s deep. Can you tell?”
Michael leaned closer. “Doesn’t look too bad.”
“Anyway, I tried to follow you, but damn! Who would have guessed you could run that fast? And on a hurt ankle? You should definitely consider track this year.”
Michael exhaled. His shoulders drooped, and he sat back down. Dylan picked up his book and sat beside him.
Michael punched him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” Dylan whined. “What was that for?”
“Sneaking up on me. I didn’t even hear you coming up. I could’ve killed you.” Michael didn’t really know how he could have done that last part, but it sounded like the way he would be expected to finish his gripe. Or perhaps it was all his fault Dylan had gotten the drop on him. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the last few hours had passed so quickly they blurred at times. Other moments had moved so slowly he could describe their every detail. Though the day had certainly been too real, his wearied mind and body had left him so detached from himself that he felt like an outsider looking in, a spirit watching from an ethereal realm. A lot like he felt when he had a vision.
Dylan chuckled. “I can’t help it if I’m a ninja. Also, I didn’t exactly want to let the whole world know we were here.” He nudged Michael with his shoulder.
Michael giggled softly. The more he tried to stifle it, the louder it became.
The smile vanished from Dylan’s face. “What the heck could be so funny right now?”
Michael laughed harder, warmth flushing his face. “Did you really think you were going to poop yourself? I mean, poop, not shit.”
“Oh, fu—” Dylan huffed. “Fudge you.”
They burst out into a laughing fit that. Though grossly exaggerated, it let out some of the stress Michael had been harboring and relaxed the tension between them. He laughed until tears formed in his eyes. Wiping one with the back of his hand, he gazed over at Dylan, who had gone quiet. Apparently, his friend couldn’t laugh away the madness so easily.
Dylan grimaced. “So, what do we do now?”
Michael chewed on his cheek. “I don’t suppose you have a phone?”
“Sorry. No.”
“I thought everyone had a phone?”
Dylan shrugged. “Left mine in my bag. Not like anyone’s calling.”
Michael puffed out his cheeks and blew out air. “Then I guess we wait for Sam. She’ll find us here.”
“I believe you, Badass.” Dylan dropped to his hands and knees and peered out the window. “I just hope those nutbags don’t find us first. This is so messed up.”
Michael buried his chin against his chest. “I’m sorry, Dylan. For getting you into this.” He glanced up but could only see Dylan’s back. “Sam will find us. She’s a really good—”
“Shhhh!” Dylan hissed. “Someone’s coming.”
Michael cocked his head and listened. Dead leaves crackled and twigs snapped as feet plodded through underbrush. The sounds grew louder.
“Michael?” a familiar voice called. “You up there?”
“Sam?” Michael leapt to his feet as Dylan signaled with his hands for him to slow down. “It’s all right. It’s Sam!”
After bursting through the double doors, Michael watched from the platform as Sam, Frank, and Officers Tagliamonte and Paltrow approached the base of the tree. He might have cried, he was so happy to see her, had he not been too damn tired.
Sam smiled up at him, her eyes wet. “Michael! Thank God you’re all right.”
“I’m okay,” he called down to her. “Dylan’s okay too.”
“Dylan Jefferson is with you?” Sam glanced over at Frank, and they shared a look Michael couldn’t decipher from thirty feet up. “That’s great, Michael. Come on down, so we can all go someplace safe.”
Home? For a second, Michael thought it odd Sam hadn’t used the word. But home wasn’t safe anymore. No, they wouldn’t be going back there, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Is anywhere safe?
Michael turned to his friend, who stared back expectantly. “It’s Sam. We can trust her.”
Dylan smirked. “If you say so.” He ducked his head under the threshold and grabbed the bar for the zip line. “But I’m taking the easy way down. See ya!” He chuckled as he hustled over to the cable, snapped the bar onto the wire, then jumped off the platform.
“What the...” Frank said, circling the base of the tree and heading to where Dylan had landed. Sam and the two officers remained at the base of the tree, staring up at Michael. He sighed and began his slow descent.
At the bottom, Sam pulled him into a hug. Her hands only touched the back of his shirt, and her arms, covered by her long coat, prevented contact with his. But she almost pressed her cheek against his before apparently remembering herself. Instead, she leaned it against his clothed shoulder.
Behind Sam, Officers Tagliamonte and Paltrow watched in silence. Warmth rose in Michael’s cheeks. Down on the ground, it was much darker under the canopy of trees than it had been up above. Sam was whispering something to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. Then the hair on the backs of his neck prickled.
“O-officer—” His mouth dropped open, and he stuttered, struggling for the words. “Officer Paltrow! Look out!”
As if he’d materialized from tree bark, a masked figure dressed like a cop appeared behind her back. He raised his arm as she turned to face him. Michael heard the slightest chirp, and the back of Officer Paltrow’s head exploded. Her body dropped to the forest floor, glassy, dead eyes staring at Michael accusingly. A rivulet of blood trickled down her forehead where a third socket had formed. Then, he was falling.
Sam had thrown him to the ground as she drew her gun. Officer Tagliamonte went for his as well, but froze when another masked person pressed something to the back of his head.
“Don’t,” the person said, a woman’s voice.
Still holding her service pistol, Sam raised her hands. She glanced around, then at Michael, her eyes begging for forgiveness. Behind her, more masked figures circled.
Michael stayed put, hands smeared with cold earth. He looked anywhere and everywhere but Officer Paltrow. He counted at least half a dozen in the strange group, men and women of varying shapes and sizes, even one with the frame of a child. Nothing indicated their connection beyond the identical cigar-store Indian mask each wore. Most of them were chanting, each something different, but he couldn’t understand one over the other. Something about Indians? That they were crazy, Michael was certain. And there was no telling what they might do next.
A tall woman with an athletic build stepped out from behind her brethren. “Take them,” she said with the trace of an accent, pointing at Sam then Michael. He tensed as they approached, but he didn’t fight the two pairs of hands that pulled him to his feet. Two others were on Sam, taking her gun and cuffing her hands behind her back.
The woman behind Officer Tagliamonte pushed him forward. “Five little Indians on a cellar door.” She cackled, then pushed the officer harder. “One tumbled in and then there were four.”
The Amazonian woman held up a hand. “Easy, Laura. He doesn’t want that one. You know what to do. But just shoot him. No knives. Return to your room when you’re done here and await further instructions.” She nodded, then signaled something to the others. Michael lurched forward, pushed by rough hands. Behind Sam, he was shoved in the direction of Brentworth.
He heard Officer Tagliamonte whimper a soft, “No... no.”
But Michael didn’t want to look back, not even when a gun fired and a body dropped. He’d seen enough of death that day and was sure he would see more soon enough.