24
Beth Gleason. She stayed in the background, she did what she was told. She went to church because everyone went to church, and when Marci and I had talked during the sermon she’d shushed us, not because she wanted to but because everyone else wanted to. They were all looking at us, but Beth was the one who said it. In today’s town meeting everyone had been angry, but it was Beth who’d said it. She was the personification of the community as a whole—and ever since Brook and I had arrived, that community had been tearing itself apart.
Everyone thinks dark thoughts sometimes. Did mine finally set her off because … they were more intense? More single-minded? Other people thought about hurting each other, but Attina didn’t absorb thoughts, she absorbed intentions. The will to act. I was the only one in town with the true, unmitigated desire to kill someone, and the clarity of purpose to actually go through with it. Brooke or Marci or whoever it was at the time would always calm me down, but Attina didn’t have that. She had all my rage and nothing to hold her back.
I had to hurry.
The town was quiet, already on lockdown, but without the large influx of troops coming the next day, it was still relatively empty. They couldn’t be everywhere at once. I walked softly down the side of the Butler house, just far enough to peek out at the street. A cop car drove by, and I ducked behind the Butler’s garbage can. The car was moving south, away from where I wanted to go, but I couldn’t risk going right out in the road. I slinked back into the yard and started hopping fences.
The yard north of the Butler house was well-groomed, the lawn cut short and clear of any toys or benches or trees. With no cover to hide in I ran to the next fence without stopping, dumped my knife and rifle over the top and hauled myself over after them. This yard offered more concealment and I was able to crouch behind a small garden shed to get my bearings. Most of the people, I hoped, would be looking out their front doors rather than the back—this made it easy to jump from yard to yard, but my next fence vault would take me to a north-facing home and I would have to run out the driveway and across the street directly toward another row of houses. Anyone looking out would be certain to see me. But what would they do about it?
Most of the people in the town were armed—the unlocked truck with the gun rack I’d found was proof enough of that. If someone saw me running toward his house with a butcher knife and a rifle, would he see me as a threat or as another concerned, armed citizen? My best chance at avoiding trouble was to act like the latter, and walk slowly across the street as if I belonged there. It was a strategy that had always worked in the hallways at school: look like you have a hall pass and most people won’t ask you for one. Would it work here as well? Not with the cops, but maybe with the locals. Most of them were furious about the lockdown as it was; they might even see me as a vigilante hero.
Or, you know, shoot me.
I made another sprint to the next fence, threw myself over, and lowered to a crouch. Here was a driveway leading straight out to the road, but I had to check for police first. I crept forward, peering out and looking both ways. No cops. I slipped the knife into my leg sheath—a poor fit, but better than nothing—and then composed myself, carrying the rifle like a soldier on patrol and walking across the street like it was my job to be there. Halfway across I noticed an old man watching me through the open curtains of a house to my right. I saluted him and then immediately regretted it, wondering if it was too much. A wave would have been better. He did nothing, and I reached the next driveway and went back into hiding.
I crossed the rest of the town this way, jumping fences and hiding from cops. On the last street I had to wait almost ten minutes, crouched behind an old truck, while a police officer talked to a homeowner barely ten feet away. He asked if the man had seen anything and told him to stay inside. When the man left I held my breath, not daring to make even the tiniest sound. The cop got in his car and I moved around the side of the truck, out of sight from the street. He drove away, and I watched. The instant he disappeared around the corner I set out across the street.
“Not supposed to be out here,” said a voice. I turned and saw the man the cop had been talking to, standing in his open doorway.
“Just watching for trouble,” I said, gesturing with the rifle. “You really trust them to keep you safe?”
“Not at all,” said the man, and he showed me a rifle of his own, just inside the door frame. I nodded, and he nodded, and I crossed the street.