RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One)) Page 6

  Hu can’t believe it. She should be dead. She has to be dead. This must be some terrible nightmare. He has to wake from it. His whole life lies before him—a career, a wife and a family. Then her mouth comes down, her teeth ready to sink into his flesh. Hu Takashi’s scream echoes across the platform and then fades into the cacophony of woe at Westbourne Park.

  Essence of Folly

  Pre-infected world or Post, the scum still rises to the top like algae on a pond—Jonathan Parks

  15 Days Earlier

  Foster care isn’t the worst thing in the world. I mean, at least I have a home with two people there who can help me. Harold and Jeannette Lemon are good people. They’re willing to provide for my needs, a structured environment, all of those basic needs. However, they aren’t my mother and father. They know it, and I know it.

  I just turned nine when I lost my grandfather. My grandmother passed years earlier. My grandfather was very old. He simply died in his sleep.

  They lived in Gloucestershire and Baltimore before that with my mother. I never knew her. She died after I was born. I didn’t know until I was almost nine. I guess my grandfather wanted to tell me. Maybe he realized his time was short. At least, he explained to me what happened.

  My mother was sick, but none of them knew it. The doctors tried to save her, but she died anyway. I always carry this picture of her in my mind, looking down at me. I don’t know where that comes from. Still, the image is the same woman in the pictures on my grandparent’s mantel.

  I’m glad he told me. I didn’t want to wonder all my life about what happened to her. She was their only daughter. There was a great difference in their ages though. Maybe she was born when they were older, but it seems to me they were too old by then.

  Of course, the obvious mystery is my father. My grandparents never mentioned him. When I asked my grandfather, he claimed not to know. My mother was gone for some time, evidently, and when she showed back up on their doorstep, she was with child. With me. Any knowledge of his whereabouts or identity died with her.

  There are no answers to any of these questions. My whole family is now gone. I’m still a minor and find myself in the custody of the state. I went into the foster system with an inheritance that would be used by those who care for me until I turn eighteen and can take care of myself.

  I can honestly say I have grown to love Harold and Jeanette. It is more like an aunt and uncle familiarity, though I’m only guessing at the comparison. Still, we’ve grown to care for one another.

  My grandfather taught me to be respectful, to work hard, and to trust God. Even when I can’t understand my circumstances, to trust God. He took me to church when he could, but insisted I go on the bus even when he wasn’t able. He was a good man. I still miss him.

  Harold and Jeanette took over where he left off. They’re firm but fair. They lost a child, a son, to Leukemia when he was young. I think he may have been near my age when he died. His name was Shane.

  It was almost ten years after the death of their son when they decided to open their home to someone like me in need. I’m glad they did. They are like my grandfather in a lot of ways. They also attend church. They are both hard working people. They are genuine.

  I go to school and make pretty good grades. At least, I try. Math isn’t so great, but I enjoy history quite a bit. It is pretty interesting to find the patterns, how it repeats itself. People are like that. When we don’t learn from the past, we repeat the mistakes.

  I’m on the rugby team at my school. I make a good tackler. I have always been very strong. Some even say, I am unusually strong. After my fourteenth birthday, that only became more so. I’m careful, so I don’t hurt someone. Yet, I am still not that big a guy.

  Tom Kennedy is the hot shot. He is the captain on our rugby team—idolized by the kids at our high school. The girls think he is the man. Well, almost all of the girls.

  It’s strange. Why is it when we are denied something, that one thing—that one person—becomes the very one we feel we can’t live without. That was how it happened. That is why Tom Kennedy came after me.

  Lori Strauss is a junior. I am a sophomore. She likes me. Really, she is the only girl who pays me any attention. Maybe it is because they know I am a foster kid, that Harold and Jeanette aren’t my real parents. It’s hard to say. Sometimes, kids are just like that, but Lori isn’t.

  For some reason, that bothers Tom Kennedy. I’m not saying we were friends before. He shows a desire on the team to keep me down. They all know I can handle myself; that I can put them down when necessary. Maybe, he feels threatened by that, wants to protect his territory.

  He starts something after a thing on the field. During practice, I am the one to tackle him. He takes it personally. We push each other a little with the other guys circled up around us. Typical. They live for a good fight. The coach finds us first and breaks it up, sends us to the showers.

  I hope it ends there, but the anger doesn’t fall away for young boys so easily. I know this isn’t really over. Especially not with Tom Kennedy.

  He finds me almost a month later, but he doesn’t come alone. It is an ambush. He and six of his friends, mates from our team who hover around him like planetary bodies to his sun.

  I walk home every day. Harold and Jeanette both work. Harold drops me off at school, but they aren’t home in time to pick me up. It has never been a big deal or anything. I don’t mind walking. Still, Tom knows the route I take, knows where I live and where he and his mates can lie in wait for me.

  In fact, Tom waits with a bit more than just his friends. When he comes out of the alley on me from behind, he swings a cricket bat. He thumps the side of my leg before I know what is happening. The blow comes just north of my knee, and I go down immediately.

  Tom has known me for some time. We never particularly liked one another. Yet, we don’t come to blows until he decides he doesn’t like the attention I have come to receive from Lori Strauss. Tom also knows I’m not afraid of him, and I can handle myself pretty good in a fight.

  However, he comes with the intent to win this thing and teach me a lesson. Something along the lines of, don’t mess with Tom Kennedy, I suppose. Bullies are all the same. He is insecure, despite his good standing socially and his reputation. He means to hang on to all of that, which must mean zero tolerance for anyone who doesn’t act like Tom is God’s gift to our school.

  At any rate, all of the psychoanalyzing in the world doesn’t make my leg feel any better at this moment. I have been forced into a confrontation. I am either going to defend myself, or take the beating of my life. I don’t have any idea what possessed Tom to go this route. He could kill me with that bat.

  I fall because of the leg, as his mates encircle me. I suppose they are only here to make sure I don’t try to run for it, since none of them have ever actually joined in a brawl. Can’t really blame them on that though. I could whip any two of them in a different setting. Plus, Tom is swinging that piece of hickory around. If they make a move at me, they are just as likely to have their melon smashed in.

  Rolling to my back to find Tom over me, I raise my left arm defensively. It is purely instinctive when I notice him swinging something at me. The cricket bat doesn’t fully register in my mind yet over the numbing pain shooting through my leg.

  Tom brings the bat down on my forearm like Excalibur. I feel the arm give way before I register the pain of the break. That comes a second later with my screams.

  However, rather than balling up into the fetal position, something snaps inside me—something other than my arm. I tilt back to get the correct upward angle and then lash out with my right foot to the front of his left knee. Tom buckles and falls forward onto his hands.

  Cradling my broken left arm, I roll backward and come up on my feet. Then, like a raging bull with red in his eyes, I charge at Tom. He straightens on his knees, raising the cricket bat and swinging at my legs again.

  I hop over it and kick out with my right foot, catching him on
the chest just to the left of his sternum. His head whiplashes forward as his body is driven backward onto the pavement. I land astride his chest with my right knee pinning his left arm above his elbow and my left foot pinning his bat hand at the wrist.

  His eyes boggle in shock then, a sneer crossing his face. I pop him with an open palm that thumps the back of his head on the concrete hard enough to daze him. Then I give him another balled fist on the cheek like a hammer stroke to keep him down.

  My self defense instructor always said the human skull is like a bowling ball. Best to thump somebody with your open palm, which gives you more control, or hit them with the fleshy outside edge of your fist to keep from breaking your own knuckles. After all, the goal isn’t to kill the other guy, just put them down hard and stop the fight.

  I stand then, scooping up the bat. Tom’s cronies still encircle me, and I don’t want them getting any ideas. Fortunately, other bystanders have also happened by. One of them is evidently getting video on her cell phone. Typical, I suppose.

  I wave the bat around me, warning off the other boys. And, to the bystanders, I yell for one of them to call the police. I’m not going to put up with this. How long will it take before Tom starts something again? And I’m at a disadvantage now with my broken arm.

  It throbs terribly. Cradling it does little to help, but it is better to have it tucked protectively against by body than dangling around. Still, it hurts a lot, even if I am hyped up on adrenaline now.

  When the other boys hear the police will be involved, they abandon Tom. They want nothing to do with assault charges. It’s every man for himself.

  I keep Tom down, waiting with the three people who stopped to see what happened. I press the cricket bat threateningly against his Adam’s apple. “Try to get up and you’ll have a few breaks to match the arm you gave me,” I warn.

  Tom, almost surprisingly, stays down.

  This melee has left us both bloody and bruised, not to mention my arm. We have cuts and scrapes all over, despite how brief it has all been. My hand is bleeding, probably from hitting the ground initially. Tom has a couple of nice bloody fist prints across his face and a few cuts of his own, mainly where I thumped him around the mouth, cutting his lips on his teeth.

  We might have shared a little blood, but I don’t figure that makes us brothers. I’m angry at him for this, but I can honestly say I don’t hate Tom Kennedy. I know what to expect from someone like him, so it isn’t like I’ve suffered some shocking betrayal. He acted exactly the way I expected.

  Besides, Harold Lemon taught me a few things over the years. He taught me never to hate anyone, even when they wrong you. Anger is just an emotion, and I can get over that. So, I let it go. Hatred is against God, like murdering someone in your heart.

  So, I don’t hate him. I don’t want to get on his level. I choose to pity him instead. He is the one with the problem. I bested him today, even if I do have a broken arm. And Lori likes me. Tom hasn’t taken anything away from me, only from himself.

  When the police arrive, I stand up before they can get out of their car. They eye me warily, until I drop the bat, probably supposing Tom is the victim. At least until my three witnesses show them the video. I appreciate ubiquitous cell phone videos more and more.

  My wonderful witnesses arrived on the scene in time to see Tom with the bat in his hands striking a wounded me across the forearm. The break is ugly to watch on video and only makes it feel worse. The rest of the footage speaks for itself. Tom is the aggressor and everyone knows it.

  However, much to my chagrin, he isn’t going to be taken to the precinct for booking. Not only am I headed to the hospital for my arm, Tom is being sent for his mouth lacerations and a possible concussion from where I banged his head a couple of times on the pavement.

  Paramedics arrive on the scene shortly after statements are given. We each have to sit and have our wounds cleaned and bandaged. They also manage to place my arm in a sling that will keep it stable for the ride to St. Mary’s Hospital on Praed Street, not far away.

  I am loaded into the ambulance, since I technically have the greater injury. Tom is deemed fit enough to ride to the hospital, in style, in the backseat of the police cruiser. At that point, we part ways, but it won’t be long before we see each other again.

  Agony and Awakening

  We’re only beaten when we give up the fight—Jonathan Parks

  15 Days Earlier

  Following my complimentary ambulance ride to St. Mary’s, the doors open and the paramedics pull my folding stretcher out the back, wheels dropping to the pavement automatically so they can push me inside. It is a bumpy ride that makes my arm throb, but at least they have me bundled. It is, at least, nice to be warm for the trip.

  I am taken directly into the emergency room and wheeled into a triage room to await treatment for my broken arm. It isn’t long before I hear Tom Kennedy’s voice, accompanied by the frantic voice of a woman I can only assume is his mother. She sounds on the verge of panic at the thought of what Tom’s father will say when he gets word of this mess.

  Tom tries to explain the predicament he’s gotten himself into. Of course, he is the innocent party in the matter. The police just have it wrong. He was being picked on by the other boy. It isn’t his fault. Surely, his father will support him with the best lawyer money can buy.

  If I could, I would cover my ears. I can just imagine his parents buying Tom’s way out of this. What is actually assault with a deadly weapon, possibly attempted murder, might end up as a harmless indiscretion with a slap on the wrist.

  I look around as their voices fade down the emergency room hall. He is evidently being put into another triage room away from where I am. It’s times like this when I become acutely aware I have no mother and father. A pang of loss needles at me, but I push it aside.

  The police will make sure Harold and Jeanette know where I am. One or both of them will almost certainly be here after they got home from work and learn what has happened. I just can’t help the feeling it isn’t quite the same.

  Despite the Lemons being entirely decent and loving toward me, they have never mentioned the possibility of adopting me. They are great foster parents, but that just means they are willing to open their home to kids in need. Somehow, that just isn’t the same as making the ultimate commitment, wanting me to belong to them as an adopted son.

  There is a wall between us. Near as I can tell, it isn’t coming down. We will just continue like this, until I turn eighteen. An awkward farewell and parting will follow, and I will be out of their lives, leaving a space for some other child to fill. I suppose, for a while, I am only filling the void left by their dead son.

  I close my eyes, pushing back tears. Suddenly, I hope Harold and Jeanette won’t get the message for a long time. Seeing them now might only punctuate our predicament.

  I hear my name from a voice I don’t recognize. My eyes pop open to find a young Asian man’s face hanging upside down over me. I realize I fell asleep. I’m also moving. The corridor marches past me on either side of my stretcher.

  “Hey, you’re awake!” the man says. “I tried to wake you before I took you, but you were completely gone.”

  I realize he isn’t upside down. The man is pushing me from the head of the stretcher. I squint my eyes and open them again, pushing sleep away.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I’m taking you to have that arm x-rayed,” he explains.

  “And you are?”

  “Hu,” he replies.

  “Uhm, you?”

  The man laughs. “No, Hu is my name. Hu Takashi.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Are you a nurse, Hu?” I assume he must not be a physician. If Hu was a doctor, he would introduce himself as Doctor this or that. Since he isn’t Dr. Takashi, then he must be some other kind of healthcare provider.

  “Actually, I’m a med student,” Hu explains. “Just working here to pay the bills until I graduate and do my residency.”

 
“Oh,” I reply. This, at least, makes sense. I can tell, though, that Hu wants to introduce himself as Dr. Takashi. He just isn’t allowed to do so.

  We make our way into an elevator and then ascend two floors before disembarking. He steers me down another corridor until we come to the x-ray department. An x-ray tech meets us inside the department and takes my chart, scanning the notes inside.

  “All right,” he says. “Let’s get a shot of that arm, young man.”

  The x-ray tech is middle-aged, quite a bit older than Hu Takashi. His name tag simply reads John H and gives an abbreviation of his title. John and Hu maneuver my stretcher alongside a special table in the middle of the room. They lower the rail on the left side and put the beds together.

  “Can you scoot over here?” John asks.

  I nod and cradle my arm closer, as I scoot over from the stretcher to the x-ray exam table.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to move your arm a bit,” John warns. “I’ll be very careful.”

  He removes the sling, unfastening it and slipping it out from under my arm first. Then he gingerly maneuvers my arm while I do my best not to wince and tear up at the pain. It takes a minute to get it there, but eventually he has it laid out enough to take the x-ray. I am sweating by this point and dreading having to move it again to put it back into the sling.

  A beep later, the image is taken and displayed onto a nearby monitor.

  “Yep,” John says, “just like I thought. A clean break of the ulna and radius.”

  They help me get the sling back on, which is just as terrible as anticipated. Then Hu wheels me down the hall again.

  “Are we going back to the emergency room?” I ask.

  “No, to the pre-op unit,” Hu replies. “We’re going to get you on the schedule and get that arm fixed.”

  “What will they do?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hu says. “Maybe a pin from your wrist back through the bone to line it up right. Then they’ll put a cast on it. Wish I could be in there.”