 
### Night of the Parents

Published by Christopher Suarez at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Christopher Suarez

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

God I hate report card day. On any other day I can at least hope to avoid being negatively compared to my siblings, but on report card day? No way. If only I'd managed to pull off a B average to match Lynda's. It wouldn't have been nearly as impressive as Mark Jr.'s straight A's, but Dad never gets on Lynda's case for failing to live up to Super Brother, so if I'd matched her average he would have had to give me a pass too. But of course I couldn't do it. Today, on my very first high school report card, I got my usual C's and D's. So tonight, when I finally go home, I'm going to get my usual lecture from Mom about how I don't try hard enough, and worse, my usual put down from Dad about how it's not a matter of my not trying, it's a matter of my not having the necessary intelligence.

Screw it. I'm putting that moment off for as long as I can. My fellow underachiever Jobie, the closest thing I have to a friend, got detention today. He won't be at the youth center for at least another hour and a half, so I have some time to kill.

I get off the bus and walk halfway down Noble Street to the Bluebird Diner, a small hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon that Mom says has been in business since the fifties. I've spent many glum after school hours at the Bluebird. All through junior high school, on report card day or any day that left me reluctant to go home, I would get off the bus six blocks from home, just like today, walk into the Bluebird, sit down at the counter, and order something to eat, C-minus depression or not.

And that's exactly what I do now. I walk in, take off my backpack, sit down at the counter, and order a cheeseburger and coke. One thing about me -- I'm never so pissed off or depressed that I lose my appetite. And the burgers here, despite being greasy, are really good. I can't imagine anyone coming in here and not eating one, especially since this place is so homey and friendly.

The massive, grey-haired African American waitress who's always behind the counter serves me my food. I grab the burger with both hands and take a huge bite. Immediately I start to feel better. Eating always cheers me up. I turn to food a lot for comfort. Luckily I have a fast metabolism, otherwise I'd be as fat as a house. That's one of the few things I have going for me. Too bad everyone else in my family is the same way. If only one of them had a weight problem to struggle with. That would draw some attention away from my many failings: my poor grades, my clumsiness, my total lack of creative talent, my plainness. But no, everyone else in my family is perfect. Well, maybe not perfect, but pretty damn close. Smart, good-looking, athletic, creative, they're all the kind of superior beings that make ordinary humans sick with envy. Take my dad for example. Lawyer, former high school football star, and so handsome that he actually paid his college tuition by modeling. A living, breathing testament to the unfairness of life. Mom's no slouch either. A watercolor artist, tennis player, and ex-high school cheerleader, she's like the moms on those really old sitcoms that you see on cable.

As for my brothers and sister, they take after both of them, in varying degrees. Mark Jr., at sixteen, is Dad's "Mini Me" -- same honor society grades, same career goal (lawyer), same football stardom, same good looks. Taylor, my twelve-year-old younger brother, isn't quite the star that Marky is. Gradewise he hovers between an A and B plus average, and athletically he's a participant rather than a star. (He plays football for his junior high but usually warms the bench.) And he has no idea what he wants to do with his life. Still, he has the Hallenbeck family good looks and all the girls at his school love him. As for my ten-year-old sister Lynda (Mom has a fondness for common names spelled in an uncommon way) she's strictly a B student, like I said, but everyone knows that's only because she focuses all her attention on her acting lessons. Despite their almost religious belief in top grades, Mom and Dad never get on her case about her B's. They've seen her act in her school plays and workshops. They know how talented she is. Her acting coach keeps pleading with them to let her audition for TV and film roles. So far they haven't given him the green light, but it's only a matter of time before they do. They know how badly she wants it, and they've never been able to say no to her for long. After Marky, she's always been the favorite.

So what happened with me? Why didn't I get any of the Hallenbeck genetic bounty? Fate I guess. Or God's will, if you're religious. Then again, I'm only fourteen. There's always a chance that I'm just a late bloomer, that one day all the boring stuff they throw at me in school will click and I'll become an A student, or that my later teen years will bestow on me some kind of beauty, or at least athletic ability. But I doubt it. I've never seen anything like that happen with any of the other plain, underachieving kids I've known.

So where does that leave me? I remember seeing a movie once called American Beauty that had a girl character my age. She told the main character of the movie, a man in his forties, that she couldn't imagine anything worse than being ordinary. Well in a way I agree with her. Being ordinary does suck. But there's something that sucks even more: hating yourself for being ordinary. I absolutely refuse to hate myself. I don't want to end up like my Uncle Wayne. He's the other member of the family who missed out on all the Hallenbeck talent, beauty and grace. Only unlike me, he hates himself for it. I know because he doesn't have a wife or girlfriend, doesn't have a job, and hasn't left his apartment in years. Mom says it's because he has this debilitating condition called agoraphobia, which as I understand it is a fear of going outside. Okay, maybe he does have agoraphobia, but I'm sure the only reason he has it is because he's spent his whole life feeling inferior -- so inferior that he feels he doesn't deserve a life. It's a good thing he injured his back on his last job and received a small disability pension, otherwise he'd probably be out on the street. I never want to be that spiritually messed up. And I'm never going to be.

It's already starting to get dark out, even though it's only a quarter to five. That's one of the things I love about fall -- the shorter days. I've always preferred night to day, and fall and winter to summer. As soon as I turn eighteen I'm going to start hanging out late at night.

"Anything else?" the massive waitress asks.

"No. That's all," I reply. She hands me the check. I leave a dollar tip on the counter, put on my backpack, and pay the paunchy, olive-skinned man working the register.

"Thanks. Come again."

"I will."

Outside it's considerably cooler than it was before. I yank my sweatshirt hood out from under my jacket, put it on and shove my hands into my pockets. It's still too early for Jobie to be at the youth center, so despite the cold I stop at the playground and watch the skateboarders. I don't go in, I just watch from the fence. The skaters don't do much, just jump over an overturned milk crate. I recognize one of them as a boy from my block, a big red-haired kid of sixteen named Rolo. Rolo's a bully and a trouble maker, but he never gives me a hard time, probably because of my older brother. Even though Marky's a real straight arrow, and about as far from "street" as a teen can get, he's respected by the tough kids in our neighborhood, no doubt because of his size and athletic ability. Still, I don't want to take any chances with Rolo. When one of the younger skateboarders, a boy of about twelve with a mohawk, looks up and sees me, I take off before he can point me out to him.

It's even darker now. The youth center is still four blocks away. I walk faster, keeping my hands in my pockets. As I pass the apartment building on the corner of Albermarle and Mott I hear what sounds like a kid screaming. The voice comes from one of the first floor windows. I stop and listen and hear a boy shout "What did I do? What did I do?" I move closer and stand right under the window and hear another scream, followed by a loud crash. Then nothing. I wait, but there are no more sounds of violence. I look around, hoping to spot an adult nearby who heard the same incriminating sounds that I did. But the only other people I see are two older teens -- a long-haired boy and a short-haired girl walking about half a block ahead of me. I briefly consider calling Nine-One-One on my cell, but when the silence continues I decide against it. For all I know it could have been a TV show or a DVD someone was watching. I'm pretty sure it wasn't, to be honest, but I don't even know the number of the apartment, and now that whatever happened -- or didn't happen -- is over, I don't see the point of calling the police. They probably won't be able to do anything anyway.

Ignoring the voice of my conscience, I continue down the street. God I hope Jobie didn't get so pissed off about detention that he decided to go straight home. Not that that's likely: as a rule he spends as little time at home as possible He told me so himself. Jobie's father is MIA and his mother is a major alcoholic. He hates having to be the adult and look after his mom, so he spends as much time in the youth center or on the street as possible. I would do the same if I could. He and I are both misfits, unpopular at school and at home. I like to think of him as a friend, but I don't know if he really cares enough about me to be called a friend. I don't think he really cares much about anyone. Still, he's one of the few people I like to talk to -- that is, when he's in a talkative mood. He's the one who told me that I have the same first name as the girlfriend of the famous nineteen fifties serial killer Charles Starkweather.

The boy and girl walking ahead of me start laughing about something. The boy reaches out and takes the girl's hand. As soon as he does a car screeches to a halt alongside them and a tall bald man gets out. Despite the cold he's dressed only in blue denim pants, a blue flannel shirt, and black leather cowboy boots. In his right hand he holds a tire iron. Leaving the door of his car open, he runs up to the two teens. The girl apparently knows the man, because even though she looks scared she makes no attempt to run. I hear her cry "Daddy!", and then the man raises his tire iron and tries to bash her over the head with it. The girl reacts instinctively, raising both her hands to ward off the blow. As she does the boy steps between them, reaches up and grabs the man's arm. The two of them wrestle for the tire iron. Frozen with fear, the girl just stands there screaming "Om my God!" over and over. "Mr. Hughes! What the hell?!" the boy shouts. Finally the girl snaps out of her fear-induced paralysis. She throws her arms around the man's waist and tries to pull him away from the boy, but the man is too big for her to move.

I look around to see if there are any other witnesses to this mayhem. The only other people on the street besides me and the three combatants are an elderly man with a cane and a thirtyish woman. The elderly man watches the fight from the other side of the street. The woman, walking very briskly, completely ignores the homicidal man and his two intended victims even though they're right in her path. She walks around them without even turning her head. As she draws closer I see that she has an intense, almost crazed look on her face. I back up several feet to give her a wide berth, but my precaution turns out to be unnecessary. The woman ignores me too and just keeps walking, as if she's on a life and death mission.

Well I'm not on a mission, at least not a life and death one, so I reach for my cell phone. But before I can dial Nine-One-One I hear a familiar voice call out my name.

"Caril! Caril!"

I turn and see my brother Taylor and sister Lynda running towards me. Lynda cries and stumbles as Taylor grasps her tightly by one wrist, pulling her along with him. There is blood smeared on the lower half of his face and his nose is bleeding. I put my phone away.

"What the hell happened to you?" I ask Taylor when they stop in front of me, but he's too out of breath to answer. Gasping, he leans forward with both hands on his knees and struggles to catch his breath. Lynda does the same.

A patrol car driven by a single male cop speeds down the street with its turret lights and sirens on, but it passes the still fighting bald man and long-haired boy without stopping. Two cars follow right behind it, travelling at the same high rate of speed.

Lynda recovers her breath enough to straighten up and throw her arms around me, a weird thing for her to do since she's never been a huggy kind of kid, even on the rare previous occasions when she's cried. What the hell is going on?

"Taylor what happened to you?" I repeat. "Why's your nose bleeding?"

Behind me the teen girl screams again. I glance over my shoulder and see the man bring the tire iron down on the long-haired boy's head so hard that I can actually see the metal sink into his scalp. Blood sprays up and the boy goes down like a marionette with it's strings cut. The man hits him again. And again. I stare transfixed until I hear Taylor's voice again.

"Caril, Mom and Dad tried to kill Marky!"

"What?"

"Mom and Dad tried to kill Marky!".

CHAPTER TWO

Taylor's words, and the obvious fact that something terrible is happening, finally register in my mind when the teen girl runs past us screaming. Her father the bald man chases after her, waving the bloody tire iron over his head the same way the Keystone Cops used to wave their nightsticks in those ancient silent movies.

"Come back here you little bitch!" he bellows.

I push Lynda back and grab her by the wrist the same way Taylor did. "Come on!" I shout. I lead my two younger siblings down the block to an alley between an apartment building and a pet store. The three of us duck behind a foul smelling metal dumpster.

"Okay," I whisper to Taylor. "Tell me what happened."

Taylor pauses again to catch his breath and compose himself. Despite his bloody nose he doesn't seem to be in danger of crying. Lynda, on the other hand, is still sobbing.

"Calm down Lynda," I tell her.

Lynda sits on the filthy ground and covers her face with her hands.

"Well Taylor?"

Taylor takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Lynda and I were having a snack in the kitchen. Mom made Marky some hot tea for his sore throat and took it upstairs to him. All of a sudden I heard Mom yelling. I couldn't make out what she was saying -- I thought maybe she spilled the tea and was cursing or something. Then I heard Marky shout 'Get off me! What the hell's the matter with you?' Lynda and I started to run upstairs to see what was going on. That's . . . that's when Dad came home."

Taylor pauses, looks down at the ground to avoid my eyes, and shakes his head.

"Then what happened?"

When Taylor looks up at me again tears are streaming down his face.

"Dad looked up at us, slammed the door, and then started running towards us. He looked really mad. We got scared and ran to Marky's room. When we got there Mom was sitting on the floor holding her head and Marky was standing over her. We ran to Marky and hid behind him. Dad ran in and he didn't even stop to ask Mom if she was okay. He just charged at Marky and started choking him. I grabbed one of his arms and tried to make him let go, but I couldn't, so I stomped on his foot. He elbowed me in the face, then Marky punched him and knocked him out. I thought it was over, but them Mom got up and lunged at Marky and started slapping and scratching him. He grabbed her by the wrists and shouted 'Taylor! Lynda! Get out of here! Now!' We ran downstairs and grabbed our coats and ran."

I hear an ambulance's siren, and then a girl screaming. The same girl as before?

"You two wait here," I tell my siblings. "I'll be right back."

"Where you going?" Taylor asks.

"I'm going back out there to look around."

"No! Don't!" Lynda cries, grabbing my arm.

"It's okay. I'll be all right."

Taylor sits down next to Lynda and puts his arm around her. She let's go of me and I step out from behind the dumpster. Keeping close to the wall, I creep over to the alley entrance, poke my head out and glance up and down the street. The teen boy is lying face down on the sidewalk with blood flowing from his head. There's no sign of the bald man. Further down the block a short African American man holding a baseball bat slowly walks away from an unconscious, flat on his back African American boy of about ten. His son?

I duck back into the alley and retreat to the dumpster.

"Well?" Taylor asks, wide-eyed with fear.

"Did you see that bald guy going psycho with the tire iron out there?"

"Yeah."

"Well I think the kid he clobbered might be dead. If he's not he's hurt really bad."

Taylor winces.

"And he's not the only one. There's a little boy lying on the ground out there too, a boy about Lynda's age. I think this guy out there hit him with a baseball bat."

"What the hell is happening?"

"I don't know. A terrorist attack maybe. Maybe someone put LSD in the water supply. Or maybe it's an epidemic of insanity or something.

"What are we gonna do?" Lynda squeaks.

There's only one thing we can do. "There's a youth center a few blocks from here. I go there sometimes after school. We can go there. The guy who runs it is really cool. He'll let us hide there."

"What if he's gone crazy too?"

"We have to chance it. We can't stay here all night. Besides, I've never seen Gus -- that's the guy -- get violent with anyone. I've never even seen him lose his temper. I don't think he could hurt anyone even if he wanted to -- not even if he took LSD."

Taylor takes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wipes his bloody nose. "How do we keep from getting killed on the way there?"

"Run fast. Too bad we don't have any weapons." I peer around the side of the dumpster at the alley entrance. There's no one there. I stand up quickly and lift the dumpster lid, hoping to find something I can use as a weapon. But despite its foul smell the dumpster is empty. I lower the lid and duck down again.

"Nothing! Damn!"

"What about in your backpack?" Taylor whispers.

"There's nothing in there. Just my schoolbooks and a few pens."

"You can stab someone with a pen."

"Not deep enough to do any good."

"We should stay here," Lynda pleads. "Maybe whatever's happening will be over soon."

Somewhere out on the street a woman shouts "Connie! Connie!" Another siren wails. For a moment I wonder if Lynda might be right about staying put. But no -- we have to get indoors. If we stay here in this alley it's only a matter of time before some psycho finds us.

Taylor and Lynda eye me anxiously, waiting for my decision. It's funny how they're all of a sudden defering to me. They certainly never have before. I guess book smarts don't matter much in a life and death situation. What matters is that I'm older and bigger.

"No," I say. "We can't stay here. We're going to the youth center. It's only four blocks from here, right on the corner of Albermarle and Hayes. We can get there in minutes if we run."

Lynda starts to sob again.

"Lynda, I need you go get a grip, okay? We're going to be all right."

"No we're not."

Great. She's going to be a big help.

"Okay, here's the plan. We're going to run down the street together. If anyone tries to mess with us I'll deal with him. You two keep running. Taylor, there's a barred window on the Albemarle side of the center, next to the door. When you get there, jump up and see if you can see Gus. He's a tall skinny black guy with greying hair. He usually wears sweatpants and sweatshirts. If you see him and he looks okay, go inside, tell him you're Caril's brother, and tell him what's happened. If you don't see him, knock on the door anyway. No -- have Lynda knock on the door. You stay at the window and watch. If he's there he'll answer."

I can tell by Taylor's face that he doesn't like my plan.

"What if he's not there?"

"He should be. He's always there this time of day."

"What if he isn't? Or what if he's there and he looks crazy?"

I consider a moment. "There's a church around the corner from the center, on Hayes Street. Turn right on Hayes. It's right on the next corner. See if someone there can help you. It's a church so . . . God should protect you there.

It's kind of stupid of me to bring God into it, since I never go to church anymore, but it's the only thing I can think of to say that's even remotely comforting.

Taylor still looks doubtful. "Yeah. Right."

"Wait," Lynda says, "You have your cell phone. Why don't you call the youth center first?"

"I don't have the number. Gus doesn't give it out."

"Then he's not gonna be there. People who don't give out their phone numbers are never there when you need them."

This is no time for philosophizing. "Stand up!" I command.

My siblings reluctantly rise to their feet.

"I'll go out there and check to see if the coast is clear. If it is I'll signal you like this." I make a beckoning motion with my hand. "You join me and we'll run to the youth center together. Okay?"

"Okay," Taylor says. Lynda just nods.

"Okay. Wait here."

I creep back to the alley entrance. Once again I poke my head out and glance up and down the street. Both boys are still stretched out on the street, but I don't see anyone else. Another car speeds by. I signal for Taylor and Lynda to join me and take them each by the hand.

"Run!" I shout.

We run down Albemarle Road, past the two dead kids, past ground floor apartment windows with high-pitched screams emanating from them. At the first corner we stop for a red light. An ambulance with its turret lights on and its sirens blasting shoots down the street, followed by one of those ridiculous looking little "Smart" cars that I can clearly see is being driven by a child, a brown-haired girl of maybe thirteen. She looks frantic. No doubt she's trying to escape some crazed adult.

"Holy shit!" Taylor gasps.

I glance behind me to see if anyone's coming up behind us. Sure enough, a panting, lean-bodied Asian woman wearing a very clean blue jogging suit runs up to us clutching a kitchen knife in her right hand. I consider ordering Taylor and Lynda to run, but the light is still red and too many cars are speeding down McAllister Street. I block the woman's path and raise my hands defensively, but the woman doesn't attack. She just stops and stares at me.

"You go to her school," she says accusingly. "Where's June?"

"I don't know," I answer quickly. "Honest." I look over my shoulder at the traffic light just as red gives way to green. Thankfully the traffic actually comes to a halt. I grab Taylor's and Lynda's hands again. "Go!"

We bolt across the street. On the other side I look over my shoulder one more time. The woman in the jogging suit isn't chasing us. She's storming down McAllister Street, hunting for June.

We keep running. Halfway down the next block a very thin man is down on all fours on the sidewalk, vomiting. A stocky, baby-faced boy of about fourteen is standing over him, looking distraught.

"I didn't want to do that Dad!" the boy cries. "I had no choice! You made me!"

We make it to the youth center without encountering anyone else. I look through the barred window and there's Gus by the weight rack lifting thirty pound dumbells over his head. I pull Taylor and Lynda to the door, open it, and push them inside.

"Hey Smiley," Gus greets me. That's his sarcastic nickname for me since I rarely smile. I shut the door behind me and lock it.

Gus lowers the dumbells and places them back on the rack. "Any reason why you locked that door?"

"Yeah," I answer, panting. "The whole world's gone crazy!" I take off my backpack and toss it on the weightlifting bench. As always, the place has a slightly musty smell. The dusty radio on the small shelf over the weight rack is playing an oldies tune -- Buddy Holly's "Rave On".

"The world's been crazy for as long as I can remember," Gus says. "But I've always kept that door unlocked until closing."

"No, I mean it's really gone crazy." I point Taylor and Lynda towards the two beat up couches in the TV area to my left. "Go sit over there," I order them. Still in scared mode, they obey without question. One of the youth center regulars, a tall, pale, black-haired girl of about sixteen named Madison, is already seated on one of the couches, watching a program on the ancient television -- a sitcom, judging from the laughtrack. She doesn't even look up as Taylor and Lynda join her on the couch.

"Who are those two?" Gus asks, tilting his head in my siblings' direction.

"Taylor and Lynda, my brother and sister. I know they're not registered, but is it okay if they stay here for a while?"

I don't know where Gus gets the funds to run the youth center, but he never charges kids. The only thing he asks for -- the only thing he demands -- is a face to face meeting with a parent and a signed waiver freeing him from any and all liabilities. Mom actually provided him with both -- but only because I told her I needed somewhere to go where I could exercise and "clear my mind".

Gus eyes Taylor suspiciously. "That depends. Why does your brother have a bloody nose?"

"Because my Dad elbowed him in the face."

"Why the hell did he do that?"

"Because Taylor tried to stop him from killing my older brother. Something weird is going on. People -- adults -- are attacking kids. I saw it happen twice on my way here. A man bashed a kid's head in with a tire iron, and another man clubbed a kid with a baseball bat. I think both kids are dead. People are driving crazy too. It's like . . . it's like someone put LSD in the water or something."

Gus looks skeptical. "You're not trying to play me are you?"

That pisses me off. "No, of course not. Why would I do that?"

"People are always trying to play me Smiley."

True. Gus is no fool, but he's basically a soft touch. Especially with kids. And so kids are always trying to get over on him.

"If I was playing you my brother's nose wouldn't be bleeding," I say.

"Just because somebody popped him doesn't mean the whole world's gone nuts."

I'm about to ask him if he's calling me a liar when I'm distracted by the sound of heavy breathing to my right, low down near the ground. I look down and see Jobie doing push ups between the soda machine and the makeshift boxing ring. He must be almost finished because he's grimacing and pushing himself up very slowly.

"Hey Jobie," I greet him.

Jobie grunts through one last push up and then rises to his knees. He looks up at me but doesn't return my greeting. Jobie's kind of short for a fourteen-year-old, and slightly built even though he works out a lot. We've known each other since the sixth grade, but pretty much the only time we talk is when we're here in the center, and even then we don't say much to each other. I'll be honest -- I care about him a lot more than he cares about me. But on days when he's in a good mood, more talkative than usual, I'm convinced that we'll eventually become real friends. We should, because like I said, we have a lot in common. We're both poor students. We're both terrible at sports. And we both have lousy relationships with our fathers. In fact, Jobie barely knows his. His dad took off when he was only three. His mom stayed, but considering her alcoholism, I'm not sure that's such a plus.

"What's going on? Is something wrong?" Madison asks, slinking towards us. It's a wonder she can move at all, her jeans are so tight. I've never really liked Madison. She's pretty and she knows it, and the only reason she hangs out at the youth center is to hook up with boys. Okay, a lot of times the only reason I hang out at the center is to be with Jobie, but the difference is there are other times when I go there to escape my family.

"Something's happening," I tell her. "I think terrorists have put something in the water supply. People are going nuts. My dad attacked my older brother. Two kids were beaten to death out on the street."

Madison smooths her hair back with her hand. "Wow."

Suddenly there are several loud knocks on the door. Gus goes to open it.

"Wait -- don't open it!" I plead.

"If what you say is true, it might be some injured kid who needs help."

Gus might be getting on in years, but he's a big man and a former boxer. I know he can handle himself. Still, I back up towards the TV area and motion for Taylor and Lynda to duck down out of sight. Again they obey me without hesitating.

Gus unlocks the door and opens it. And it turns out he was right, it is a kid who needs help. Really needs help. Standing in the doorway is an Asian girl of about my age, dressed only in jeans and a blood soaked blouse -- no coat, no shoes, no socks. There are deep cuts on her forearms. Pressing a hand to her chest, she takes two steps forward and collapses into Gus's arms. Gus pulls her back from the door and kicks it closed with his foot. "Lock that!" he shouts at Jobie.

Jobie runs up to the door and relocks it.

"Stay down!" I order Taylor and Lynda, without taking my eyes off the battered girl. I don't want my sibs to see all the blood and freak out, but Gus carries the poor girl to the unoccupied couch right across from them, so they get an eyeful anyway. Horrified, they cringe and look away.

"What happened to you?" Gus asks the poor girl. Jobie, Madison and I gather behind him.

"My Mom," the girl gasps. "She . . . she stabbed me."

"There? Where you're pressing?"

The girl nods. Gus whips off his sweatshirt and balls it up. "Move your hand."

The girl takes her hand away from her chest. Gus presses his sweatshirt to the wound. "Press there!" he commands Jobie. Despite all the gore, Jobie takes over for him without flinching. "Turn off that TV Madison! Smiley, turn off that radio!"

Madison and I do as we're told.

"I hope Nine-One-One isn't too backed up," Gus says, unclipping his cell phone from his sweatpants. I guess he believes me now.

"Why'd she do it?" Madison asks the girl.

"No, don't talk," I advise her. "Save your breath."

"I was at a friend's house," the girl wheezes. "Her dad came home and started beating her up. I tried to stop him but he was too big. I ran outside and tried to call Nine-One-One on my cell but I couldn't get through. Then my mom came running up the block . . . "

The girl coughs up blood, just like in the movies. And for some reason seeing the blood trickle down the sides of her mouth makes me recall the crazed Asian woman with the kitchen knife.

"Oh my God. Are you -- is your name June?"

The girl nods again.

"I . . . I met your mom."

The girl opens her mouth to speak, but this time no words come out. She tries to raise her bloody hand but only manages to lift it a few inches before lowering it to her side again. Her eyes roll back, and she exhales for the last time.

"Oh shit!" Jobie says, still pressing down with the balled up sweatshirt.

"No answer," Gus says. "Damn."

"I think she's dead," Madison tells him.

Gus reaches down with his free hand and checks June's pulse at the wrist. He sighs. "Yeah, she's dead. But we still have to get someone here. The paramedics or the cops, to make it official."

Jobie stops pressing and steps back from the couch. Lynda, her back to the corpse, sobs. Taylor puts an arm around her shoulders again.

Suddenly I think of home.

"God, I wonder who won."

"What?" Jobie asks, giving me an annoyed look.

"I wonder who won. My dad or my older brother."

Gus tries Nine-One-One again but still can't get through. He lowers the phone, dials again, waits. Then:

"Maya, it's Gus. Is everything okay there?" Pause. "Are Ruby and Jolene with you?" Pause. "Cause things are going crazy here in the city. People are killing kids -- even their own kids. I don't know why. Maybe terrorists put something in the water." Pause. "You sure they're -- shit! What was that? What's going on? Maya? Maya?"

Outside another emergency vehicle with a blasting siren speeds by, and then someone -- it sounds like a kid \-- screams.

"Maya!?"

I know from overhearing some of Gus's previous phone calls that Maya is his ex-wife. I assume that Ruby and Jolene are his daughters. Or maybe one's his daughter and one's his granddaughter. He's definitely old enough to be a grandfather. Come to think of it, there are two framed photos on his small cluttered desk -- one showing an African American woman in her mid to late twenties, the other showing an African American girl of about six or seven. Yeah, they must be his daughter and granddaughter.

"Dammit!"

Gus looks really scared. I'm afraid to ask, but I have to. "Does it sound like someone's being murdered?"

Gus ignores me. He presses "end", then redials.

"Well?" Madison asks impatently, hands on her hips.

Raising his phone to his ear again, Gus reaches down with his other hand and closes the dead girl's eyes. "She said everything was okay. Then in the background I heard these thudding sounds, and my granddaughter screaming. She said 'Hold on', and it sounded like she was running. Then she shouted 'Stop it Jolene! Stop it!' That's when we got cut off."

"Holy shit," Jobie mutters.

Madison takes out her cell phone and dials.

A scary thought occurs to me. "Where do your daughter and granddaughter live?" I ask Gus.

"What difference does that make?"

"If they live here in the city then maybe this is only happening here. If they live far away, then maybe this is happening everywhere."

"No answer. Shit." Gus clips his cell phone to his waistband again.

"No answer at my place either," Madison says.

"Where do they live?" I repeat.

"What? In the suburbs. In Collingswood."

"That's about twenty miles from here. Then it's not just happening here in the city. What if it's happening everywhere?"

"If it's happening everywhere it can't be a terrorist attack," Madison says. "How can terrorists poison all the water supplies?"

"Maybe it's Judgment Day," Lynda whispers, just loud enough to be heard.

"Judgment Day my ass," Jobie responds.

Gus grabs his bloody balled up sweatshirt, straightens it out, and drapes it over June's face. "I gotta go check on my family," he says grimly.

"What about us?" Taylor asks. "You can't leave us here alone -- we'll be killed!"

"Maybe not," I say slowly. "I think I know what's happening. And why."

CHAPTER THREE

They all wait for me to explain. I have their complete attention, so of course I freeze up. My theory makes sense considering everything I've seen tonight, but it still sounds crazy.

"Okay Smiley," Gus says. "Let's hear it."

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. "It's not just that adults are killing kids. Adults -- parents -- are killing their own kids. Just their own."

Jobie and Madison exchange puzzled looks. So do Taylor and Lynda.

"How do you know?" Gus asks.

"Because my dad tried to kill my older brother this afternoon. And because outside I saw a man try to kill his daughter with a tire iron." I point at June's corpse. "And then I ran into this poor kid's mom. Even though she was armed with a knife she didn't attack me. All she did was ask me where June -- where she -- was. When I said I didn't know she still didn't attack. She just let me and my brother and sister run off. You see?"

"Wait a minute," Gus says. "Hold on a second. I'm a parent, but I don't want to kill my daughter. How do you explain that?"

"You're an older parent. Your daughter isn't a kid anymore."

"So?"

"But your granddaughter -- the one you heard screaming over the phone -- is. If I'm right, parents are killing their teen and preteen kids, but not their adult kids. And that's why your granddaughter was screaming -- because your daughter was trying to kill her.

"Jesus."

Another emergency vehicle siren pierces the night, followed by the sound of brakes and a car crash.

"I know you're worried about your family, but we need you here to protect us," Taylor tells Gus.

"Maybe not," I say. "If I'm right about all this being parental violence, all we have to do to survive is avoid Mom and Dad." I turn to Jobie and Madison. "And the same goes for you two. If you just stay away from your parents until all this is over, you'll be fine."

"And exactly when will all this be over?" Jobie asks sarcastically.

"How should I know? But it has to end sometime."

Gus hurries over to the barred window next to the door and peers out at the street. From somewhere out there comes the distant sound of a child -- a boy, judging by the voice \-- shouting. Gus goes over to his desk, yanks his jacket off the back of his swivel chair, and puts it on. Then he reaches under his desk and grabs the baseball bat he keeps there for protection.

"Are you leaving us?" Lynda asks anxiously.

"No, I'm just gonna look around a bit." He returns to the door. "Come here Jobie."

Jobie rushes over to him.

"Lock the door behind me. I'll knock four times when I want to come back in."

"Don't go!" Lynda cries.

"I'll be right back for Christ's sake! I just want to see what's going on."

"Gus wouldn't lie," I assure Lynda. "If he says he's coming back, he's coming back."

"Ready?" Gus asks.

Jobie nods. Gus pushes back the deadbolt, opens the door, and steps outside. Jobie slams the door shut behind him and locks it. A few seconds later I hear Gus shout something but I can't make out what it is.

"What did he say?" I ask Jobie.

"Sounded like 'Get away from her!'"

Again I hear Gus shout, only this time his voice is much fainter, as if he's moved down the block.

"He's gonna leave us," Lynda whispers.

Despite the seriousness of our situation, and the fact that she's just a little kid, I'm really starting to lose patience with her. "I told you he wouldn't. Now shut up."

"Don't tell her to shut up!" Taylor snaps, reverting suddenly to his former disrespectful self.

"You shut up too."

After a minute or two Gus pounds on the door four times. Jobie unlocks it and lets him in. We all rush him.

"What did you see?" Madison asks as Jobie shuts the door and relocks it. "What's going on out there?"

Gus walks slowly back to his desk. He lays his bat across it and sits down. "Across the street this little boy was lying on the sidewalk. There was blood all over his face. This man was standing over him holding a skateboard -- holding it at one end with both hands like a club. There was blood on it. I shouted at him and he ran off. Then I went back to check on the kid. He was dead."

"Did the boy and the man resemble each other, like a father and son?" I ask.

"They were both blonde."

So I'm right.

"See? That man with the skateboard didn't try to kill you, just his kid. If this was an epidemic of insanity, with everyone trying to kill everyone, he would have tried to kill you too."

Nobody talks for a moment. The only sound comes from Lynda. She's sobbing again.

"Come to think of it," Gus says finally, "right before you showed up, Paulie took off. Said he had to get home right away, that it was real important. He looked stressed out, so I let him go. He has a son, a boy about seven years old."

Paulie is Gus's assistant on Fridays and weekends. He's a short but very muscular man in his thirties. To be honest, I've never liked him very much. He has a very abrasive manner. I've always gotten the impression from him that he doesn't like kids -- a weird attitude for a youth center worker to have.

"I hope his son has a good hiding place at home," I say grimly. "Otherwise -- "

"Okay. Let's say you're right," Jobie interrupts. "Why's this happening? You said you knew both what was happening and why. Let's hear the why."

I shouldn't have said anything about the why. That's the craziest part of my theory. But to me it makes sense.

"I think all human beings are born with a built in biological failsafe. When there are too many of them doing too many shitty things to the environment, this is what happens. Parents kill their kids to decrease the population, to thin the herd so that the earth survives."

"Bullshit," Jobie scoffs.

Madison doesn't buy it either. "You can say that again."

I refuse to waste time arguing with them. We have to think up a survival strategy.

"What's your parent situation?" I ask Madison.

"My parent situation?"

"Yeah. Where are they right now and how capable are they of killing you?"

Madison looks at me like I've totally lost it. "My dad's visiting my grandmother in Canada. My mom's home but she's in a wheelchair."

"A wheelchair? Great. I mean, she's not able to hurt you. And since your dad's out of town he can't hurt you either." I turn to Jobie. I pretty much know his situation, but despite his absentee dad and alcoholic mom, it's not nearly as safe a situation as Madison's. A deranged alcoholic woman can be very dangerous. As for his dad, since no one knows where he lives it's not impossible that he lives nearby. He could very well be on his way to Jobie's apartment right now to kill him. And if Jobie's mom is still sober enough to give up his location . . .

"Does your mom know you're here?"

"Yeah, she knows. That is, if she's still aware of anything."

I hope my next question doesn't piss him off. "Is there any chance that your dad might show up here and -- ?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"I said no."

"Okay. Good."

"We're the ones who should worry," Taylor says. "Unless Marky managed to overpower both Dad and Mom, and tie them up."

Gus tries his ex again and this time gets lucky. "Maya! Thank God!" he cries, jumping to his feet. "Is everything okay? Why was Ruby screaming?"

We all listen in.

"Oh my God." Gus sits down again, looking slightly relieved. "You sure you're both okay?" Pause. "No, don't call for an ambulance. If you do, the Nine-One-One dispatcher will send the cops too, and they might decide to give Ruby to Child Services." Pause. "I don't think Jolene's hurt, just knocked out. Just leave her tied up. Maybe she'll be herself when she wakes up." Pause. "I have no idea. There are some kids here with me at the center. One of them thinks . . . well, never mind what she thinks. It's crazy."

His diss of my theory annoys me, but I keep my mouth shut.

"Just stay put until I get there. I'll be there as soon as I can. I just have to figure out what to do with these kids. In the meantime don't let anyone in the house. Don't even go to the door if the doorbell rings. Call me if there's any more trouble." Pause. "Okay. Bye."

Gus reclips his phone to his waistband. His gaze drifts towards the couch where the late June is stretched out.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"You were right. My daughter attacked my granddaughter. Tried to stab her with a knife, just like that one's mother did. Would have succeeded too, if she hadn't tripped over one of Ruby's toys. Maya, my ex, punched her in the head and knocked her out. Tied her up."

"It's a good thing your granddaughter leaves her toys lying around, otherwise you'd have had another death to deal with."

"Jesus," Taylor says. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it is parents killing kids."

"So what's the plan?" Jobie asks. "What are we gonna do?"

"That depends on you kids," Gus answers.

"What do you mean?" I ask cautiously.

"On whether you're willing to come with me to my ex's place and wait this out with me and mine. If you're not you're gonna have to figure out a way to survive on your own. Either way I'm gonna take care of my family."

"You should stay here," Lynda insists. "It's safe here. If you leave you might not even make it to your ex's place."

"If we go with you how will we get there?" I ask. "You told me you don't own a car."

Gus steps out from behind his desk. "We'll use the van in the lot out back. There's more than enough room in it for all of us."

"That beat up piece of junk with the graffiti all over it?" Jobie asks, incredulous. "That thing actually works?"

"Yeah it works. It's always worked. That's my escape vehicle."

"Escape vehicle? You mean you were expecting something like this?" Madison asks.

"No. I was expecting something like just driving off on my own one day and spending the rest of my life in solitude."

I run my hands through my hair and consider our two choices. "Well, if we go with you we won't have to worry about our parents, since they'll have no idea where we are. And we'll have two people to protect us -- you and your ex. And food. That is, if your ex doesn't mind sharing."

"She won't." Gus says.

"Then again, if I'm wrong about it just being parents killing their kids, and we get attacked by a mob on the way there, we'll all be slaughtered."

"Only if I brake for the mob," Gus says. "And I won't."

"On the other hand, if we stay here by ourselves, with the door locked and maybe the lights out so that it looks like no one's here, we'll be relatively safe, even if our parents do show up. We just don't have any food."

"I'm not hungry anyway," Lynda says. "Don't tell me you are."

"No, but we'll both be hungry if we have to stay here a few days."

"If we stay here we'll have to stay with her." Taylor jerks his thumb towards June's corpse.

"That settles it," Madison says. "I'm not spending days with a corpse."

A third alternative occurs to me. I can ask Gus to drop me and my siblings off at my uncle's place. He doesn't live far from here. I can even try to call him on my cell first. But what if uncles are the next ones to go crazy?

"Okay, we'll go with you," I tell Gus finally.

"Hold it. Who made you boss?" Jobie asks angrily, suddenly offended that I've done all the thinking and decision making. "I'll decide for myself."

"Go ahead. Decide for yourself." I tilt my head towards Taylor and Lynda. "But I'm definitely boss over these two. If you want to stay here alone with June over there, fine. But the rest of us are leaving."

"I'm leaving too. I just like to speak for myself."

"Fine." I turn back to Gus. "You sure your ex won't mind having us as guests?"

"She won't. She wouldn't want me to leave you kids here alone."

"What about the deceased?"

Gus glances over at June. "She'll just have to stay here until I finish taking care of my own."

"I still think we should stay here," Lynda pleads. "All of us. Together."

"We'll be better off with Gus," I insist.

Suddenly there's a loud bang against the door, as if somebody kicked it. Then a man's deep booming voice calls out. "Tommy! Tommy I know you're in there!"

We all turn to Gus, who raises a finger to his lips.

The man kicks the door again. "Tommy open up!"

"That must be Tommy Jindall's dad," Madison whispers. I've never heard of a Tommy Jindall but I assume he's one of the older male teens who hang out here at the center -- one of the good looking ones that Madison likes to flirt with.

"Open this door you little shit!" Another kick.

"You see? He's only looking for that one person!" I say. "Tommy -- his son."

"What are we gonna do about him?" Jobie asks.

"Screw him," Gus responds, and yet he walks over to the door and addresses the enraged man on the other side. "There's no Tommy here! Get lost!"

"I know he's in there!"

"You don't know jack, fool! I told you he's not here! If you want him so bad go look for him somewhere else!"

"One way or another I'm coming in, so you may as well open up!"

"One way or another you can kiss my ass!"

More kicking.

"Shit!" Madison says. "What if the parents of all the kids who hang out here decide to storm this place? Then what?"

"As long as they stay out front and not out back where the van is, we'll be fine," Gus says.

"Maybe we should just let him come in and look around," Taylor suggests. "If Caril's right, he'll leave once he sees that Tommy isn't here."

"No, let's keep the door locked," I say.

Gus goes back to his desk and takes a set of keys out of the top middle drawer. "You kids wait here. I just want to see if anyone's hanging around out back." He starts for the back door.

"Shouldn't you take your baseball bat?" Madison asks.

"The rear fence is chained and locked. No one can get in unless I open it. I'll be back in a minute. Don't say anything to that nut."

Gus enters the storage room. A few seconds later I hear him pull back the rear door's heavy deadbolt. Outside the nut continues to kick the door and shout for Tommy.

"I'm glad we're leaving," I tell the others. "Anything's better than listening to that."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth another voice joins the nut's -- a familiar voice that shouts my siblings' names and fills me with so much anxiety that I actually feel nauseous.

"Taylor! Lynda! I know you're in there. Get out here! Now!"

Dad's voice.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lynda starts wailing. I mean actually wailing, the way toddlers do when they're scared. Since she's not a toddler, I'm reminded of the way Lucy cried on the old I Love Lucy show. It would be funny if her tears weren't motivated by such a terrible situation.

"Shut up!" I hiss. "He'll hear us."

Taylor hugs her. "Shh. Stop. It's going to be okay," he says. But she keeps it up.

I take several deep breaths, at the same time pounding a fist into my palm so that my siblings will think I'm getting psyched for battle instead of fighting nausea. "Great. Just great," I mutter, once again suffering compassion failure.

Jobie's compassion leaves a lot to be deisred too. "Don't tell me," he says drily. "Your dad?"

"Yeah. My dad," I admit.

Dad shouts my siblings names again. The nut shouts "Tommy!" And as I listen to the two of them I come to a terrible realization. My older brother Marky is dead. He must be, otherwise Dad wouldn't be here. "Thanks for the save Marky," I think to myself. The nausea gets worse. I dig a thumbnail into my palm to try to take my mind off of it, to keep from puking.

"Lynda! Tommy! Get your asses out here!"

Strange how he only shouts for my brother and sister. He must know I'm in here. The only reason Taylor and Lynda would come here would be to find me. And I'm the one he always hated.

Madison stares at the locked door, her arms folded defensively across her chest. "Well it looks like you're right about what's happening, maybe even about why it's happening. In which case . . ."

"What?"

She considers a moment, then shakes her head. "No. Mom has a bad heart too. If she does want to kill me and I go home and she gets all excited . . . "

Gus returns from the backyard looking even more tense than before. He immediately grabs his baseball bat.

"Was someone back there?" I ask.

"No. The coast is clear, but it won't be for long. We better get moving."

"Taylor! Lynda!"

"Oh Jesus." Gus turns to me. "Is that your -- ?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's him."

"You didn't answer him, did you?"

"No, but he might have heard my sister's hysterics."

Taylor gives me an angry look. Lynda continues to sob, but not as loudly as before. Her big panic attack is pretty much over.

"I wonder if . . . " Taylor starts.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No -- what? What were you gonna say?"

Taylor shakes his head. "Mom's probably still home, taking care of her head."

Mom. God, what if she shows up? "Oh yeah. Yeah, of course she is."

One of the crazed men outside kicks the door again, only this time the kick is followed by a female voice.

"Jennifer! Jennifer!"

There's an overweight Hispanic girl named Jennifer Sanchez who hangs out at the center every now and then. Is this her mom?

"Okay listen up!" Gus says sternly. "Here's the plan. The van's unlocked and the engine's running. You kids get in. I'll unlock the gate and open it. If those crazies come around and attack me, just lock yourselves in until I beat them down. Got it?"

"Got it," Jobie says.

"Got it," I echo.

"What if you can't beat them down?" Lynda asks timidly.

"Don't worry about that. Nobody's gonna stop me from helping my family. Let's go."

Jobie and Madison grab their coats off the coatrack by the boy's bathroom. I leave my backpack behind. We all head into the storage room and gather by the back door. Even though Madison is the oldest, Jobie is the one who steps up behind Gus.

"Ready?" Gus asks.

We all nod.

Gus pushes open the door. "Go!"

We all run to the beat up, graffiti-tagged van. Jobie, since he was brave enough to take point, claims the front passenger seat. The rest of us pile into the rear seats -- Madison and I in the middle, Taylor and Lynda all the way in the back. Gus, meanwhile, unlocks the lock on the gate and pulls off the chain. He tosses both chain and lock aside, then takes his bat from under his arm and pushes the gate open.

"Hurry!" Lynda cries.

"Shut up!" I shout.

Gus runs back to the van and slips behind the wheel just as Dad's voice echoes down the street.

"Taylor! Lynda! You little brats! You're not going anywhere!"

Dad's voice is followed by the woman's.

"Jennifer! You bitch!"

And then the nut's.

"Tommy!"

Gus shifts the van into drive. He pulls out of the yard a few feet past the gate, checks for deranged pedestrian and bicyclist traffic, then makes the right turn onto Hayes Street. "Put your seatbelts on!" he orders. But I don't. Instead I slip to the back of the van, push Taylor and Lynda aside, and look out the rear window. Sure enough, there's Dad running down the street, still dressed in his suit, tie and trench coat lawyer clothes, his face contorted with rage. "Tommy's" fat, balding, leather-jacketed dad and "Jennifer's" skinny, Hispanic, raincoat-clad mom run several yards behind him, struggling to keep up despite their own madness. One thing about Dad: despite his heavy workload at the law office, he always finds time to go to the gym and work out. With his strength and stamina, even Gus might not be able to stop him if he catches up with us.

"Jesus," I whisper.

Gus floors the gas pedal. The van shoots forward and I fall back against the rear seat.

"Smiley sit down and put your seatbelt on!"

This time I obey. I move back to my original seat and strap myself in. The van swerves sharply as Gus steers around a car accident in the intersection. We almost get broadsided by a speeding limo, but the driver manages to slam on the brakes just in time. I look out the right side window and see several other crazed parents running in different directions in search of their children. A deli at the end of the block is burning.

"Good God!" Madison says, staring out the left side window at the mayhem. Up in the front passenger seat Jobie also surveys the scene, but he seems a lot calmer than the rest of us. Is it an act? Is he playing it cool, the way he always does? Or is he really not as affected by all this as the rest of us are? Has the fact that his parents pose no immediate threat to him given him an unwarranted sense of confidence? If so, he's not as smart as I thought. Madison's parents are also non-threats, and yet she has the sense to realize that she's still screwed, since the world is obviously going to hell tonight.

Behind me, in the rear seat, Taylor and Lynda sit with their heads down and their eyes closed, shutting out the horror. Hearing our now psycho dad shout their names, knowing that he still wants to kill them, has really done a number on their heads. It's a wonder they're not holding their hands over their ears too, even though we've left Dad far behind and can no longer hear him.

"You kids are gonna be all right," Gus assures us. "We'll be at my ex's place before you know it. Once I get everything straight with my family we'll -- "

The other van crashes into us with a bang that sounds like a cannon firing. Our van is spun sharply to the right from the impact, and, for a split second, tilted on its right side wheels. Lynda screams. The van falls back on all four wheels, bouncing on its shocks, and is finally still.

For a moment I'm too stunned to do anything. I don't feel any pain but I still wonder if I'm hurt. I turn my head from side to side, bend my arms, raise and lower both legs. No injuries. "Holy shit," I finally say. "Is everyone okay? Taylor? Lynda? You okay?"

"Fine," Taylor answers, sounding pissed. "Just fine".

"Lynda?"

No response from Lynda. Taylor looks her over. "She's okay."

"No I'm not. My neck. My neck hurts."

"Good God", Madison says again.

"Gus, you all right?" Jobie asks.

No answer.

"Gus?"

Still no answer. Jobie and I unbuckle our seatbelts. Jobie checks on Gus while I check on Lynda.

Madison unbuckles her seatbelt too and leans forward. "Is he okay Jobie?"

"No. No he's not. He's unconscious."

"But he was wearing his seatbelt."

"So? He's still unconscious."

"Ow!" Lynda groans, pressing the sides of her neck with her hands.

"It's probably just whiplash," I tell her. "You'll be okay." I check out the other van. It has crashed into a small two door sedan parked on the corner of the intersection. The driver's door is open. A tall man in a hoodie and jacket, who I assume to be the driver, is running down the middle of the side street the sedan is parked on. He's obviously a parent – a parent who's not going to let a little thing like a car accident keep him from killing his kid.

"Unbuckle," I order Taylor and Lynda. "In case you have to run."

"I can't run," Lynda whines. "My neck."

"You'll run if you have to."

"We can't just leave Gus here," Jobie insists.

I move up to the front of the van, lean between the two front seats, and look Gus over. There's no blood on him. His face isn't swollen. His breathing sounds normal. He's just out cold. Unless . . . Lynda has a neck injury. Could he have one too? Could it be serious?

"I don't want to leave him here, but . . . " I can't bring myself to finish the sentence, but there's no need for me to. Jobie knows I'll bolt with my sibs if I have to.

Madison takes out her cell phone and tries Nine-One-One. Outside a short man in a tweed coat checks out the damage to the small two door sedan and curses loudly. Twice he glares at the van's empty driver's seat, as if to will the driver to reappear so that he can beat the crap out of him. At the same time, across the street, a brawny middle-aged man in a parka walks arm-in-arm with a little old lady in a fur coat. The man grips a large hammer and glances around defiantly, ready to take on any maniac stupid enough to attack him and his elderly companion, who I'm sure is his mother. If she is his mother, then I'm right about the madness having an age limit. But is the limit really adolescence? How far past childhood does a person have to be to not provoke his parents' murderous rage?

Old lady and brawny son reach the corner. Son looks both ways and they cross the street. They walk right past our wrecked van without giving us so much as a glance.

"Nine-One-One is still out," Madison growls, putting her cell phone away.

An ambulance with its siren blasting speeds up to the intersection, drives around us, and keeps right on going.

"What the hell?" Jobie fumes, incredulous.

"Ruby," Gus mumbles suddenly, his eyes still closed.

I lean down and shout right into his ear. "Gus! Gus, wake up!" Stupidly, I grab his shoulder and start shaking it.

"Don't shake him!" Jobie snaps. "What the hell's wrong with you? He could have a serious injury."

"We either wake him up or leave him here."

"Ruby," Gus mumbles again. This time he opens his eyes.

"Gus, we got into an accident," Jobie tells him. "Are you okay?"

"Accident?" Grimacing, he raises his head.

"Oh my God!" Lynda cries.

I turn away from Gus to see my younger sister kneeling on the back seat, staring out the rear window. I fear the worst.

"What is it?"

Lynda answers without turning her head. "Dad's coming."

"No. He can't be."

Taylor turns to look too.

"He is," Lynda insists. "He's all the way at the other end of the block, but he's coming. Fast."

I have to see for myself. I edge my way to the back of the van again and, despite her sore neck, elbow Lynda aside. Sure enough, there's Dad running down the mercifully long block. He obviously hasn't stopped chasing us since we left the youth center. The fact that we escaped in a motor vehicle didn't deter him at all. He just kept right on running. With that kind of rage motivating him, if he catches us he's going to tear us apart.

I grab Lynda by the arm and pull her towards the van's sliding side door. "Let's go! Taylor move!"

"Where we gonna go?" Taylor asks.

"Anywhere but here!"

"What about Gus?" Jobie asks.

"You and Madison stay with him. Or come with us. Whatever. But we're out of here." I pull open the sliding door and jump out. Lynda jumps out behind me, then Taylor.

"Ow! My neck!" Lynda cries.

I keep an eye on Dad. He's closing in fast.

"Go!" I hear Gus shout. "Run!"

Once again I take my siblings by the hand and run for my life. There's no question of which direction to take. Running down Hayes Street in full view of Dad would be insane. Instead we bolt down the side street, past the other wrecked van and the wrecked sedan, past the still cursing short man, past an alley.

"Wait – the alley!" Taylor cries, and tries to stop running.

I practically rip his arm off. "No! No alley! If he finds us in there we'll be trapped!"

"The park!" Lynda shouts, pointing towards the next intersection. "It's right there!"

.
CHAPTER FIVE

Squibb Park is right across the next intersection. How many times have I entered the park through the entrance right there on the corner?

"Yeah! The park!" I shout back, running a step ahead of my siblings now, pulling them along.

"I see him!" Lynda cries.

"Don't look back! Just keep running!"

We race up the steps and into the park. The cobblestone footpath is lit by lampposts, but luckily the first two are out, giving us a brief cover of darkness. We veer off the path and run straight through the trees. Combined with the darkness the trees provide excellent concealment. Hopefully Dad won't read our minds the way he so often seems to at home. If he does figure out our strategy and catch us, I'll have no choice but to take him on so that Taylor and Lynda can escape.

As I try to figure out how long I would last against Dad before he beat me into the ground, I trip over an exposed tree root and sprawl forward. I instinctively let go of Taylor's and Lynda's hands but they still go down with me. That's when I find out that Jobie and Madison decided to join us.

"You okay?" Jobie asks, helping me to my feet with one hand and gripping Gus's baseball bat with the other.

"Yeah. Fine."

Madison helps Lynda up. "Your dad's not far behind us," she warns.

"Then we better keep moving," I snap.

We climb an embankment. On the other side we find a clearing and about two dozen people milling around in the dark, talking. Judging from their voices and their general height, they're kids. One of them lifts what appears to be a baseball bat and rests it on his shoulder.

"All right!" Madison says, flipping a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. "Maybe they'll help us." Despite all the running she's not at all out of breath. And I've never once seen her work out at the youth center. Jobie's doing okay too. But my sibs and I are completely winded. Taylor and Lynda sit down on a nearby boulder and collapse against each other. I stand doubled over with my hands on my knees.

"How can they help us?" Jobie asks. "They're probably in the same fix we are."

"Even if they can help us . . . I think we should keep . . . to ourselves," I gasp.

"Why?" Madison asks. "There's safety in numbers."

"Unless the numbers . . . are made up of morons," I respond, revealing the general contempt I have for my fellow young people. I can't help it. I've never been able to ignore the fact that the vast majority of them are self-centered, mean-spirited, and cruel. Just because my parents suddenly want to kill me doesn't make that any less true.

"Look, if nothing else, I'm sure they'll be willing to run interference with your dad."

She's right. Of course she's right. What's wrong with me? "Okay," I say weakly. "Okay. But if they turn out to be jerkoffs my brother and sister and I are moving on."

"Let me catch my breath," Lynda wheezes.

"Yeah. Sure." As my eyes adjust to the darkness I see that the kids in the clearing have stopped talking and are watching us. Besides the baseball bat I can now make out other weapons: a pool cue, a golf club, a few knives, and what looks like a large branch.

Dad's far away, enraged voice reaches us from somewhere on the other side of the embankment.

"Taylor! Lynda!"

I grab Taylor and Lynda by their jacket sleeves and yank them to their feet. "Let's see what these kids can do for us."

Jobie and I lead the way through the clearing. My brother and sister trudge along right behind us, with Madison taking up the rear.

"I hope Gus is okay," Jobie says. "I feel really bad about leaving him."

"He told us to run," Madison reminds him, doing another hair flip. "Remember?"

"He'll be okay," I say, even though I'm really not sure. "He was just stunned."

As we draw closer to the group one of the kids, the one with the golf club, steps forward. He's a tall Hispanic boy of about fifteen or sixteen.

"Thank God you brought the bat," I whisper to Jobie.

"I hope Gus doesn't need it."

Man his guilt is starting to piss me off! We had no choice but to leave him. What's done is done.

When I'm only a few feet away from him the Hispanic boy raises his golf club and rests it on his shoulder. I'm sure he does this as a prelude to bashing my head in, but when he speaks his tone is mocking, not threatening. The full moon overhead provides just enough light for me to see that he's smiling – and handsome.

"Yo girl. What you doing in the park after dark?"

"Hiding from my parents," I answer. "They've gone nuts."

"Yours too huh?"

"Yeah. Did you hear that guy shouting a minute ago? That's my dad. Mind if my friends and I hang out here for awhile?"

The boy shrugs. "It's a free park."

"Thanks."

The boy lowers his golf club, grips it with both hands the way golfers do, and swings at an imaginary ball. His swing looks as graceful and powerful as a professional golfer's. I know because my dad plays golf, and he watches the sport all the time on TV. I'm surprised – and impressed.

"Do you play golf?" Madison asks sweetly, stepping up between this boy and me. Unbelievable. Even with everything that's going on she still can't resist flirting with every guy she sees.

"Once in a while I play with my dad."

"You swing like a pro."

"How would you know?"

"I've seen golfers on TV."

I wonder what this boy's parental situation is. He doesn't seem all that concerned about what's going on. Maybe his parents are incapacitated in some way, like Madison's mom. Or maybe they're out of town like her dad.

"Hey, if they want to stay here they should pony up!" says a boy with a raspy voice standing at the edge of the group, too far away for me to see clearly.

"Pony up what?" I ask.

This other boy makes his way through the group and stands next to the Hispanic boy. It turns out he's a short but muscular black-haired boy with close-cropped hair and a mean face. Despite his height I'd say he's about sixteen. In his right hand he holds a tire iron.

"Whatever you got. Got any money?"

"Why should we give you money?" I tilt my head towards the Hispanic boy. "Like he said, it's a free park."

"Not anymore."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

I look Tire Iron Boy in the eye. He doesn't tense up or look away the way punks do when you look them in the eye. Perhaps he's the apocalyptic leader here, not the Hispanic boy.

"Is that how it is?" I ask him.

"That's how it is."

I turn to the Hispanic boy. "So he's the leader here?"

The Hispanic boy shrugs. "If he wants to be. I don't care. I'm just looking after myself."

I check out the other kids. Most appear to be my age. About two thirds of them are girls. There are no subgroups, no paired up friends. They all appear to be strangers to each other. And unlike the Hispanic boy and Tire Iron Boy they all look scared. None of them are brave enough to speak up in our defense, so it's pay up or move on.

I'm about to tell Tire Iron Boy to go screw himself when Dad calls out again.

"Taylor! Lynda!"

I look towards the top of the embankment. Still no sign of him, but he sounds a lot closer. I reach into the right front pocket of my jeans and take out what's left of my money. "Here," I say, holding the cash out to Tire Iron Boy. "It's all I have."

"How much?"

I unfold the bills and count them. A ten and three singles. "Thirteen bucks."

"That's not enough."

"Screw you!" Jobie snarls, tightening his grip on Gus's bat. "We don't need your help. Come on Caril. Let's go."

I start to stuff the bills back into my pocket.

"Taylor! Lynda! You're just making things harder for yourself!"

"Tell you what," I say, holding out the money again. "We'll leave, but you hold off our dad until we're out of sight. Deal?"

Tire Iron Boy makes a big show out of pretending to think it over. "For just thirteen bucks? I don't – "

"Come on man," the Hispanic boy interrupts, still smiling. "Sure girl. We got your back." He's acting as leader now, speaking for the whole group, but he doesn't make a move for the money. Tire Iron Boy makes the move. Without a word to confirm that we do in fact have a bargain, he reaches out, snatches the money out of my hand, and retreats back to the far side of the clearing.

"Let's go," I order my siblings.

"Don't kill him!" Lynda pleads to the group. "Even if he puts up a fight. Even if he really tries to hurt you."

Tire Iron Boy responds with a laugh.

"Please!"

I give both my sibs a shove. "Move!"

We run right through the group. The kids move aside for us but say nothing as we pass.

"Taylor! Lynda!" Dad calls out again. His voice sounds even closer. I look over my shoulder and just manage to make out his silhouetted figure emerging from the trees.

"Oh God! There he is!" Lynda cries, also looking over her shoulder.

"Don't look back, just run!" I yell. I hope to reach the other side of the clearing without having to hear any of Dad's confrontation with the kids, but before we make it to the dark safety of the trees I hear the Hispanic boy's shouted warning.

"Back off man! I ain't playing with you!"

Lynda trips over something and falls on her face. I pull her up by the arm and drag her along.

"Caril wait!" Taylor shouts.

I look over my shoulder again and see that Taylor has stopped and turned to watch the action.

"Taylor will you move your ass!" I scream.

"Caril they're beating him up!"

"They're saving us! Move!"

Someone screams, and I can tell by the pitch of the voice that it's not Dad. It's one of the kids, one of the younger ones. Dad must have hurt him somehow. Even outnumbered two dozen to one by punk kids he still managed to do some damage. That's how badly he wants to get at us.

We reach the trees. I push Lynda behind one. "Stay with her," I order Jobie and Madison, then run back to my brother. Taylor is still staring transfixed at our father, who's now battling three kids simultaneously. I know he's watching as much out of pride as out of fear.

"Taylor, he's going to be okay," I tell him. "He's going to defeat them, but after he defeats them he's going to try to kill us, so let's go."

It works. Taylor turns and runs with me.

"What did you see?" Jobie asks him when we reach the relative safety of the trees.

"Never mind," I say. "Just – "

"No, I want to know. What did you see?"

"I saw my dad taking on all those kids," Taylor answers, sounding both scared and proud. "And kicking ass."

"Which means we better put some distance between him and us," I advise.

We take off again. A few minutes later Madison trips over a root, and then Jobie. If only one of us had thought to ask Gus for a flashlight!

"Stop. Stop," Lynda pleads, winded. She stops running and sits down on the ground. Taylor sits next to her.

"Shit," Madison mutters, rubbing her sore knee. Once again she's not the least bit out of breath. What the hell does she do for exercise? Whatever it is, it's given her stamina but not the lean, sinewy body that athletic kids usually have. Her body is curvy, her muscles – at least her arm muscles – soft.

We all keep quiet for a while. I wait anxiously for Dad's voice to break the silence, but all I hear is a breeze rustling the branches overhead.

Taylor is the first to speak.

"I never knew Dad was so tough. That kid with the golf club and the one with the tire iron ganged up on him, but he knocked the kid with the tire iron on his ass and grabbed it out of his hand, and then hit the other kid on the head with it."

"So now he has a weapon," Jobie says. "Great."

"He's not tough, he's crazy," I tell my brother. "Crazy people are always hard to put down. And he's big too. That gives him an advantage over any kid."

"What happened after he hit the kid with the golf club?" Lynda asks.

"He faced off with a third kid who had a baseball bat. After that I don't know." He gives me a look. "That's when I started running."

Lynda closes her eyes and leans her head against her knees. "I hope he wins. Even if he keeps on chasing us. I don't want him to die."

"I don't want him to die either," I say.

"Yes you do. You paid those boys to kill him."

God, what a little pain in the ass! Even a parent apocalypse can't wise her up!

"I paid those boys to hold him off, not kill him! Did you hear me say kill? Did you?"

"Hold off. Kill. Same thing."

"No, it's not the same thing. It's not the same thing at all you little brat!" Before I know it I'm standing over her with my fists clenched, ready to punch her upside the head, something I've never done before.

Madison, appalled by my rage, gets right in my face. "Hey! Give her a break! She's scared!"

Lynda looks up at me calmly. There are tears in her eyes but not a trace of fear. Has she reached that traumatized state of mind beyond fear?

Ashamed, I unclench my fists and step back from her. Jesus. Am I losing it now? Could the madness be affecting older sisters now?

"Sorry Lynda," I mumble. "I . . . I just don't like being unfairly accused of things. I love Dad, even though he's never loved me much. I don't want him to die, so don't say that I do. Okay?"

Lynda puts her head down on her knees again. "Whatever."

Taylor draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. "So where do we go now?"

Jobie rests his bat on his shoulder. "If we can make it to the Lincoln Road exit there's a church not too far from there. It might be open. Especially if the priest of minister or whatever knows what's going on."

I hear the distant sound of a fire truck. Are the firefighters responding to a regular everyday house fire, or did some psycho mom and dad set their sleeping little darlings on fire?

"Why would a priest keep his church open if he knows what's going on?" I ask.

"To provide sanctuary for all the desperate kids. I know church doors are usually kept locked between services these days, but they used to be kept unlocked twenty-four/seven so that anyone who wanted to could go in and pray. In fact, criminals were even allowed to hide from cops in churches. I think if the priest of that church knows that kids are being murdered by their parents tonight he'll provide sanctuary for them."

I consider a moment. "Do you know how to get to the Lincoln Road exit from here? Because I don't. I don't even know where we are.

"I do. I hang out in this park all the time. If we keep heading that way" – he points in the direction we were running before we stopped – "we'll reach a footpath. If we turn left on the footpath that will lead us to the Lincoln Road exit."

I turn to Madison. She nods.

"What do you think?" I ask Taylor and Lynda.

Taylor shrugs. "What have we got to lose?"

"Lynda?"

"Whatever you want."

"Okay. Let's go."

We start off again, only walking this time instead of running. Jobie leads the way. Ten minutes or so later we reach the footpath and turn left.

"Should we be walking out in the open like this?" Madison asks as we pass one of the lampposts. "Wouldn't it be safer to walk off the path, along the tree line?"

"We'll move faster this way," I reply. "And we'll be able to see where we're going. I don't want to fall on my face again."

We haven't heard Dad's voice since we left the clearing. I honestly believe that we're safe for the moment, and yet when we pass a fallen branch I pick it up. I break off the protruding twigs and swing it in front of me like a sword. It's actually more of a switch than a branch, but it will still make an effective weapon, especially if swung at the face.

"See if you can find some other branches," I tell the others. They'll make good weapons until we can find something better."

I cut the air with my branch again to encourage them, but they don't even pretend to look. That pisses me off. Okay, Jobie has Gus's bat, and Madison doesn't have to worry about her parents, but Taylor and Lynda should at least make some effort to protect themselves. Their asses are on the line too.

We make it to the Lincoln Road exit without encountering anyone else, but as soon as we step out onto the street we run into four laughing red-haired boys. The oldest looks to be about sixteen, the youngest about eight. They're pushing one of those rolling metal clothing racks that garment industry workers use, only there are no clothes hanging from it. Instead there's a middle-aged, red-haired man tied to the cross bar by his hands and feet. Dressed only in pajamas, the man shivers uncontrollably and shouts something in a foreign language – I think French. No doubt he's the boys' father and he's cursing them out for overpowering him and trussing him up like a prize porker. We step aside and let the boys pass. Without giving us so much as a sidelong glance they roll their captive into the park.

"Well, they're certainly not letting this crisis get them down," Madison quips.

"They're just happy that they defeated their dad and survived," I say sullenly.

Jobie taps his bat against the sidewalk like a cane. "Or maybe kids are going crazy now too."

"Maybe," Madison agrees.

"It'd be funny if Dad rescued that guy, wouldn't it?" Taylor says, looking over his shoulder at the boys. When he turns back I see that he's smiling. Actually smiling.

"No. I don't think that would be very funny at all," I say.

Jobie points with his bat. "The church is around the corner, two blocks down that street."

At the intersection there are two abandoned wrecked cars, the remnants of yet another car accident. When we turn the corner the first thing we see, propped up against an apartment building's hedge, is another dead child with a bashed in face, this one a blonde prepubescent girl. Lynda stops and gapes at her.

"Don't look," I tell her, taking her by the arm again.

"We never said a prayer for that girl back at the youth center," she says. "We should say one for this girl."

"Say it in the church."

CHAPTER SIX

The church turns out to be a small, grey clapboard church with a worn, weather-beaten steeple, more of a chapel than a church. The sign over the door reads "Our Lady Of Perpetual Mercy". A Catholic church. We run up the steps. Jobie tries the doors and it turns out he was right. They are unlocked. Holding one door open as I hold the other, he raises his bat and enters. I enter behind him, followed by Madison, Taylor, and finally Lynda.

The vestibule of the church is dark but the interior is lit. I look through the window of one of the swinging inner doors and see a man dressed in black lying prostrate on the altar – the priest I assume. I can't see anyone else but as soon as Jobie pushes open one of the swinging doors I hear the sound of two people sobbing – a man and a child.

We enter in the same order as before and make our way slowly to the front of the church, checking out each pew as we go. We don't find anyone else until we get to the very first pew, right in front of the altar. There we find three really messed up kids curled up on the bench: an unconscious, deathly pale, curly-haired boy of about sixteen with blood soaked denim pants; a sobbing, chubby girl of about twelve with blood in her hair; and a skinny, apparently uninjured African American girl of perhaps eight who's sucking her thumb and staring into space like a zombie.

"Damn," Taylor mutters.

Calling Nine-One-One for them will be a waste of time. The priest should be our best bet for help, but he's sobbing louder than the chubby girl.

"Father?" I ask timidly.

The priest doesn't respond. I can't see his face but from behind he appears to be a young priest. He's lean, his black hair has no grey in it, and the backs of his hands are smooth and free of bulging veins.

"Father? Can you . . . I mean, are you okay?"

Again no answer.

"Great," Jobie says sarcastically.

"We should see if we can lock the doors," Madison suggests.

That comment finally evokes a response from the padre. "Don't touch those doors!" he bellows, still prostrate. We all jump. "It's Judgment Day! Suffer the children to come unto Him!"

Madison steps up onto the altar and glares down at the priest with undisguised contempt. "Yeah, well we have come unto Him but we can still use some help." She points at the kids curled up in the first pew. "And so can they."

The priest still doesn't stand up. "Lord have mercy on us! Lord have mercy!" he cries.

"If the Lord really is running the show, something tells me he's not in a very merciful mood tonight," Madison taunts.

Despite everything that's happened, Madison's contempt for the priest makes me nervous. Even though I hardly ever go to church anymore, I'm technically still a Catholic. I have a lot of issues with the church, not the least of which is the child sex abuse scandal. And the fact that my dad goes to Mass every Sunday despite his meanness doesn't help either. But I still believe in the basic teachings of The Church, and in God, so I never mouth off at priests and get tense whenever anyone does.

Jobie rests his bat on his shoulder and leans over the unconscious boy. "Father, I . . . I think this boy is dead."

"Then kneel and thank God for his salvation."

"Maybe we can revive him," Lynda says, turning to me. "Do CPR!" She knows I took a first aid class in school once.

"There's no point in doing CPR if I can't treat his injuries, and I can't. Besides, he looks like he's been dead too long for CPR."

The chubby girl sobs louder. Jobie turns away from the dead boy and looks down at the priest.

"Father, I really do think we should lock the doors. I know – "

"They were unlocked for you, weren't they?"

"Yeah, they were. But – "

"In fact, you wouldn't have come here tonight if you thought the doors were going to be locked, right?"

Jobie sighs. "Right. I guess it wouldn't be fair to lock them now. But then again, if we did, I could always stand by them and open them for anyone who knocked."

I guess Jobie had a religious upbringing too. That's why he's talking so respectfully to the prostrate, loony priest, instead of bombarding him with sarcasm and hostility.

Madison, on the other hand, must have been raised by atheists.

"Will you get up off the floor and do something for God's sake!" she shouts, loud enough to shock the chubby girl into silence.

That does the trick. The priest slowly pushes himself up onto his knees and then, finally, rises to his feet. He turns to face us for the first time, and it turns out that he is a young priest, no older than thirty. And handsome. If he hadn't chosen to be a priest he could have been an actor or a model.

"The only way I can help you," he says solemnly, brushing off the front of his clerics, "is by convincing you to go home to your parents and let them kill you. The sooner you accept your fate, the better."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. "You want us to just let ourselves get killed?"

"I don't want you to," the priest insists. "God wants you to. Don't you see? He's inviting all the innocents to join Him in Heaven. This world, this life, He's leaving to those who are already corrupted beyond hope."

"I thought the meek were supposed to inherit the earth, not the totally corrupt," Madison counters.

"They will. The morally meek."

I tap the base of the altar with my branch. "So if my dad comes in here and tries to kill me you won't stop him? You'll just let him kill me right here in God's house?"

"Yeah. That's right. After I counsel you first."

"Counsel me?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see Taylor and Lynda sit down between the chubby girl and the catatonic African American girl. Lynda puts her hand on the catatonic girl's shoulder and says something to her, but I can't make out what she says. Taylor glances briefly at the chubby girl but doesn't say a word to her. Instead, he sits back and closes his eyes.

"Well if you're gonna leave the doors unlocked you better counsel me and my brother and sister now," I tell the young priest. "Because any minute now my parents are gonna come barging in here." The odds of that actually happening are pretty slim, of course, but I want to hear the priest's words of wisdom.

"Mine too," Madison lies. "So go on. Start counseling."

The priest runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "Well let's start with the big question: Do you kids believe in God?"

Madison and I answer simultaneously. "Yes," I say. "No," she says.

"How about you three?" he asks, looking from Jobie to Taylor to Lynda.

My siblings answer "Yes". Jobie says "I don't know. I'm not sure."

"Well there's no point in counseling anyone who doesn't believe, because if you don't believe you're not going to Heaven anyway."

"Then I'm safe," Madison snorts. "If kids are being killed because God wants all kids up in Heaven, and I'm not eligible for Heaven, then I won't be killed."

"Wait a minute," Jobie says, turning to me with a withering look. "I thought we're being killed because people have a built-in biological failsafe that stops them from destroying the planet."

"That was just my theory," I say angrily, wishing that I'd never shared it with him.

That's when I hear the heavy outside doors open and close. I turn and see a short, stocky, bulldog-faced man standing in the vestibule, staring at us through the window of one of the swinging doors.

"Another soul for counseling," Madison mutters.

The man hesitates a few seconds, then pushes open the swinging door and strides down the center aisle, checking each pew as he passes, just as we did.

Jobie immediately moves closer to the aisle. Taylor and Lynda stand up but stay put. The chubby girl resumes her sobbing, while the catatonic girl just blinks.

The priest stands before the altar. "Can I help you my son?"

The man doesn't answer. When he reaches the first pew he glances down at the dead boy and the two girls.

"I said, can I help you?"

"No. No you can't," the man answers calmly. He points at the chubby girl. "But she can."

"In what way?"

The man approaches the chubby girl. I expect the priest to make a move and block his way, but he doesn't. Madison does. At the same time Jobie moves in from the side and raises his bat to strike. I raise my branch.

"You know my daughter," the man says. "You go to school with her. I've seen you talk to her." He sounds just like June's mother did a few hours ago. "Where is she?"

"I don't know," the chubby girl whimpers without opening her eyes.

"Yes you do."

"Back off Mister," I warn.

Jobie takes a step closer, his bat still raised. "Yeah. There's three of us and one of you," he says, understandably not including the priest as one of the girl's defenders.

The man ignores us. "Just tell me where she is."

"I can't," the chubby girl says. "I don't know."

"I don't want to hurt you, just her."

"Why?" I ask him. "Why do you want to hurt your daughter?"

The man glares at me. "Because she has it coming."

"Why? What did she do?"

"She was born."

The priest nods. "And you want to do God's will and send her to heaven."

"Screw it," Jobie says. He lunges forward and swings his bat, striking the man on his right arm just above the elbow. The man cries out in pain. Clutching his injured right arm with his left, he staggers forward. Despite his homicidal madness, I wince at the sight of his suffering. Then, ashamed of my weakness, I make an intimidating, slashing motion with my branch.

"Get out of here!" I shout.

Even though he approves of the day's carnage, the priest is appalled by Jobie's attack. "How dare you hurt that man! He's just doing what he has to do, the same as my brother!"

"You get out too!" Jobie shouts.

"What did you say to me?"

"I said get out!"

"This is my church!"

Not willing to risk any further injury, the bulldog-faced man staggers back towards the center aisle.

"I'm sorry," the priest tells him. "You came here for inspiration and courage, not abuse. I've failed you. I should have taken the bat away from the boy." He tries to walk alongside the man but the man is in no mood for companionship.

"Get lost!"

We all watch as the bulldog-faced man slowly makes his way up the aisle and through one of the swinging doors. As soon as we hear the heavy outer door close behind him we all turn on the priest.

"You're crazy, you know that?" Madison shouts.

"You and your two friends have just driven a good man from a house of God!" the priest counters. "You're going to pay for that in the next life!"

"Screw you!" Jobie shouts.

"Wait a minute," I say. "Hold on. What was that you said before about your brother?"

"I said that man was just doing what he had to do, like my brother."

"Your brother wants to kill his kids too?"

"No, my brother has killed his kids. I was there at the house when he heard God's word. One moment he was just sitting there at the kitchen table, peeling an apple. The next he was stabbing my niece and nephew to death with his paring knife."

Lynda cringes. "Jesus."

"At first I didn't understand. I thought he'd gone mad. But when I couldn't get through to Nine-One-One I ran outside to get help and saw his neighbors chasing down and killing their children. That's when I realized the truth. My brother wasn't mad. He was divinely inspired, like all the other parents tonight. God's calling his children home."

Now I know what drove the young priest over the edge. I feel sorry for him, but my sympathy doesn't change the fact that he's insane now. And dangerous. He's definitely not going to let Jobie kick him out of his own church. No priest would. So we have to go. But to where? And what about the two messed up girls?

"I'm sorry for your loss," I tell the priest. "Look, you don't have to go. We'll – "

"I know I don't have to go."

"We'll go. Come on guys."

"Where are we going?" Lynda asks calmly.

I turn to Jobie. "Jobie's place. That is, if his mom won't mind."

"She won't," Jobie says, a slight smirk on his face.

"Wait a minute. Your mom's gonna be there?" Madison asks.

"In body, not in mind."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's long past her sober time."

"That doesn't mean she'll be safe to be around."

"I can handle her."

Madison sighs. "Shit."

"I'm not going out there," the chubby girl blubbers before I can even ask her to join us. That takes care of her. As for the other girl, carrying her to our next destination is definitely out of the question.

"She's gonna have to stay here too," I tell Jobie and Madison, nodding towards the catatonic girl. "Carrying her will slow us down, and we'll just end up having to dump her somewhere if we get attacked."

"I know," Madison says. She squeezes the catatonic girl's shoulder. "Sorry."

We all join up in the center aisle. As we walk out I glance back at the young priest.

"Good luck," I say.

"You're rejecting His invitation," he accuses us. "You're saying no to paradise. I can't even say 'God help you' because He won't.

"Whatever."

We exit God's house.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"How far away is your place?" I ask Jobie as soon as we're out on the street.

"Not too far. Five blocks this way and then two blocks to the right," he says, pointing.

I make an "after you" gesture with my hand. Jobie leads the way down the street.

The next five blocks are home to several more bloody pre-teen corpses, two more mashed together abandoned cars, and a burning storefront. At the end of the fifth block we turn right and suddenly Jobie stops in his tracks. He turns to face us, both arms spread out to block our way.

"Cross over to the other side," he says curtly. At first I think he does this because his home is on the other side of the street. But then I see the tiny bloody bundle on the sidewalk a few feet behind him. It takes a few seconds for my mind to register what it is. A baby. A blanket-wrapped baby that some crazy mother or father must have spiked into the pavement like a football. Christ. I definitely don't want Lynda to see that, so I position myself between her and Jobie and put an arm around her to guide her across the street. Unfortunately Madison gets a glimpse of the tiny bundle and immediately knows what she's seeing.

"Good God," she says, raising a hand to her mouth.

"What?" Lynda asks.

"Never mind," I say quickly. "Just walk."

"Good God."

"What is it?" Taylor asks.

"Just another body," I tell him.

We don't encounter any more people on the last two blocks, dead or alive. We don't find any more wrecked cars. We don't hear any more screaming. It's as if we're passing through a "No Apocalypse" zone. The houses on Jobie's block turn out to be small, neat, one family houses. The lights are on in four of them. The rest are dark.

"Have you thought about what you're gonna do if your mom isn't smashed when we get there?" Madison asks Jobie, a real edge to her voice.

"She'll be smashed."

"What if she isn't?"

"Then I'll pour her a drink."

"And if her need to kill you is greater than her need for a drink?"

"It won't be. But even if it is, there are four of us and only one of her, and she has no strength at all. The only thing she ever lifts is a bottle."

Madison isn't convinced. "I need a weapon."

"There are plenty of things you can use at my place."

"I want to have something before I get to your place."

"Then look around."

"I will."

A minute or so later we pass a run-down looking house that has a lot of junk in its driveway: an old, battered couch; two equally battered kitchen chairs; a filthy Big Wheel tricycle; three big cardboard boxes full of gardening tools and junk. The owner is either planning on having a yard sale or already had one. Without asking the rest of us to hold up Madison walks up the driveway and starts looking through the boxes. After poking around for a while she pulls out this weird gardening tool that I've never seen before. It looks like a metal spade attached to a wooden handle about half the length of a broomstick. She rejoins us on the sidewalk holding the weird extra-long spade propped up against her shoulder, the same way Jobie holds his baseball bat. "This'll do," she says confidently.

Ever the cool kid, Jobie just shrugs. "Looks good," he says, then starts down the street again.

An angry, adolescent male voice shouts out from one of the dark houses.

"You think you're man enough to kill me? Me? Man, you couldn't kill me with a goddamn bazooka, punk!"

Obviously a son facing off with his homicidal father. This one clearly has no fear of his old man.

"Sounds like somebody has his situation under control," Taylor says.

Two long-haired, leather-jacketed boys of about sixteen race towards us on bicycles, hooting and hollering and waving samurai swords. "Yeah, that's right!" the one in front shouts as they pass us. "Arm yourselves!"

"Yeah baby!" the other hollers.

They speed off down the street.

"Lynda and I should have weapons too," Taylor says.

"Why didn't you get one back there?" I snap. Damn, what a flake. Lynda too.

"I didn't think of it back then."

"Well it's too late now."

"You said you have stuff we can use, right?" my brother asks Jobie.

"Sure," Jobie replies. "If that's okay with your older sister."

"Of course it is."

"I can speak for myself," I say.

"Well why wouldn't it be? Suppose something happens and Lynda and I get separated from you."

"You won't get separated from me as long as you use your heads."

At the end of the block Jobie directs us to cross back to the other side of the street, where there's an apartment building on the corner.

"I live on the fourth floor, apartment four C," he says.

We enter the vestibule. Jobie tucks his bat under his arm, takes his key out of his pants pocket and lets us into the lobby, which is clean and graffiti free. He leads us to the elevator and presses the up button.

"Wait a minute," I say. "We should take the stairs. I mean, what if we go in there and there's a power failure? Nine-One-One isn't responding, and even when they start up again they'll have to take care of all the murders first. We'd be stuck in there for days."

Taylor's not keen on the elevator either. "And what if your . . . what if some psycho adult is waiting for us in the hallway when the doors open? We'll be cornered."

"We have weapons," Madison counters, smirking.

"We should take the stairs," I repeat.

"Okay, okay," Jobie says finally. We follow him to a door marked "Stairs". The stairwell, like the lobby, is clean and graffiti free but hot and stuffy despite the season. We climb the four flights to his floor and exit into a hallway that to me seems way too narrow for a residential building. Jobie leads us to his apartment and, without any hesitation, tucks his bat under one arm again and unlocks and opens the door.

"Come in," he says casually. Gripping my branch tightly, I enter behind him. Madison nudges Taylor and Lynda inside, then closes the door behind us and locks it.

I expected Jobie's apartment to be a mess because of his mother's alcoholism, but it turns out to be very well kept. Okay, there are old, stained magazines spread out on the coffee table, along with a half full bottle of scotch and two lipstick-stained glasses, but other than that the place looks spotless. The carpet looks recently vacuumed, the two small end tables on either side of the couch – and the lamps on them – look dust fee, and the place smells of plug-in air freshener. My house is a hell of a lot messier.

Mrs. Tobias, Jobie's mom, lies face down on the couch, unconscious. Her breathing sounds raspy and irregular, and she looks pale. Her face is puffy. She appears to be in her forties but she could be younger, depending on how much her alcoholism has aged her. Overall, she doesn't bear much of a resemblance to her son. Her dyed blonde hair has brown roots though, so they have the same hair color.

As we all stare rudely at his mom, Jobie calmly places his bat in an umbrella stand by the door, then takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coatrack. He sits down in one of the two leather armchairs across from the couch.

"Is that your mom?" Lynda asks.

"That's her."

"She doesn't look too good. I mean, she looks sick."

"She'll be okay."

Without taking off my jacket I drop my branch and plop down in the other armchair, leaving Madison and my siblings chairless. Madison gives me a dirty look and sits down on the carpeted floor, as far from the couch as she can manage. She lays her weird superspade down at her side. Taylor and Lynda sit next to her. Like me, they all keep their jackets on.

"Your mom's a great housekeeper," I say sincerely.

"Oh yeah, right," Jobie sneers. "You think she cleans this place? I'm the housekeeper."

"Oh. Well you do a great job."

"Thanks."

"Must be rough having to take care of everything."

Jobie shrugs. "I don't mind cleaning. Actually I kind of like it. It relaxes me."

I point at his mom. "We should tie her up."

"Is that why you won't take your jackets off – because she's not tied up? Because you're all planning on running out on me if she wakes up and tries to kill me?"

"Only if she's too tough to put down," Madison says. "Alcoholics sometimes are. Even sick ones."

Jobie laughs. "I tell you she's no threat. I could put her down with one hand tied behind my back." He points his foot at Lynda. "Hell, she could."

Lynda's not convinced. "We should tie her up anyway. At least her hands and feet."

"She's right," I say.

Jobie shrugs again. "You tie her up if you want to. I'm not touching her."

Something about that comment strikes me as odd. Gross or not, the woman on the couch is still his mom. Okay, I know boys often don't want to be hugged anymore once they reach their teens, but should he really have such a problem about touching his mom's wrists and ankles?

"Got any rope?" I ask him.

"What the hell would I have a rope for?"

I sigh. "How about twine? Or even an extension cord?"

Jobie disappears into the kitchen and emerges a moment later with an extension cord bound in a rubber band. I yank off the rubber band, unravel the cord and tie Mrs. Tobias's ankles together with the plug end and her wrists together with the socket end. She doesn't stir at all. When I'm done I step back from the couch and look down at the pathetic woman's face.

"Is it me or does her breathing sound a little . . . slower?"

Jobie doesn't even look. "I tell you she's fine."

"If you say so." I take off my jacket finally, spread it out on the back of my armchair, and sit down again. Madison, Taylor, and Lynda take off their jackets too and throw them all in a pile in the middle of the floor.

"Well I guess we're safe for now," Madison mutters.

Jobie leans his head back and closes his eyes. "You're safe."

Unless his dad shows up. He's always said that his dad abandoned him years ago, but what if that's not true? After all, someone has to pay the rent on this place. His mom certainly isn't employed. Even if she's on welfare, I doubt welfare moms receive a rent allowance. What if his dad lives nearby and pays the rent, but Jobie never admitted it because he hates him for leaving his mom?

"Safe. Yeah. Yippie," I think to myself. I want to ask Jobie who pays the rent but I know he'll get pissed off if I do, so I keep my mouth shut.

Taylor once again puts his arm around Lynda and pulls her close to him. They both stare blankly at the jacket pile, looking like poster kids for the dangers of childhood trauma. I feel a sudden, powerful urge to comfort them but I know there's absolutely nothing I can say that will make them feel better. I wonder: Is this the first time I've ever really cared about them? I search my memory for another occasion when I felt protectively towards them, but I can't recall one. Has it really taken this nightmare to finally turn me into a caring big sister?

Madison draws her knees up to her chest, hugs them and rests her head on them. I have no idea what her sibling situation is. She hasn't mentioned any since all this started. If she does have sibs does she give a damn about them? And what about Jobie? He's an only child, so of course brotherly love is alien to him. But what about his feelings for his mom? I already know he has a hang up about touching her, but does he love her? He certainly doesn't seem to. Will this horrible night eventually inspire him to care about her?

"Caril?"

Taylor, still holding Lynda close to him, eyes me curiously.

"What?"

"Back at that youth center, and in the park, why didn't Dad call your name?"

Lynda eyes me too.

"Beats me."

"Do you think it's because of the way he's always . . . disliked you?"

Hearing him say it, hearing someone finally acknowledge that I've been treated unfairly, leaves me temporarily speechless. I look down at the recently vacuumed carpet and try to think up an answer. They both wait patiently for me to respond.

"So you've noticed," I say finally.

"Of course."

I sigh. "I don't know. Maybe the more a father usually loves a kid, the more he hates him tonight."

"Then in a way you're lucky."

"I guess."

Another moment of silence. Then: "Caril, I'm sorry I never spoke up for you. You know, when Dad got on your case."

"Me too," Lynda says, rubbing the back of her neck and grimacing.

I've always fantasized about them – and Marky – saying that to me one day. Usually in my fantasies we're all older, in our thirties and, despite the unequal amount of parental affection we'd received as kids, all equally disappointed by life and bitter. I always respond by saying "Well why didn't you speak up for me?" And the answer I get is always either "I was afraid to go against Dad" or "I don't know." Which one will they give me now in real life?

"Why didn't you speak up for me?" I ask, still looking down at the floor.

Taylor comes right out and says it. "It made me feel superior to hear him put you down, since you're older."

"Same here," Lynda says meekly.

"But we're not. Superior."

"Definitely not."

In my fantasies, my response to their apology is always the same: "Go to hell! Your apology doesn't change a thing! It might have back when I was a kid, but not now!"

I should say something like that now. After all, does any apology ever change anything? But they look so sad. So . . . remorseful. I can't bring myself to be hard on them.

"Forget it," I tell them. "What difference does it make now?" I look up at them finally and see that they're both blinking back tears. "You two get some rest."

I don't know if they're really tired or if they're just glad to end our conversation, but they immediately lie back on the floor and close their eyes. I wish I could doze too, but now that they've apologized I'm more obligated than ever to protect them.

There's a small, old model television with a cable and VCR hookup in the corner. I consider turning it on to see if the networks are still broadcasting, but decide against it. Everyone's in rest mode at the moment, even Madison, and besides, what good will it do? Regardless of what any emergency broadcast anchorman says to do, we're staying put.

A more important matter is food. I'm not hungry myself, thanks to the burger I had at the diner, but I'm sure the others are. At least, they will be once the trauma of the night starts to wear off. How much food does Jobie's mom have in the apartment? Usually alchys don't eat much. If it comes to a choice between filling the pantry with food and filling it with booze, they choose booze. But an alchy with a son might have a halfway decent food supply. As soon as Jobie wakes up I'll ask him about it.

From somewhere out on the street comes the sound of another emergency vehicle siren, and with it vivid images of the last five hours. They pop up in my mind like pop up ads on a computer screen: June, battered and bloody, lying on that couch in the youth center; Dad and the other two psycho parents running down the street, chasing after our van; that crazy priest lying prostrate on the altar of his church; the dead boy curled up in the first pew; that poor dead baby on the sidewalk.

For some reason my mind circles back to the priest. He was out of his mind no doubt, but he still had his faith. I know it's fairly common for crazy people to believe in God, or even to think they are God. Still, the fact that he held onto his faith through all this makes me feel slightly ashamed.

Should I pray? If I do, will He even listen to me, considering what a lousy Catholic I am? I remember how often I prayed when I was little, usually because I was upset about something Dad said to me. I always felt better afterwards. Will I feel better now?

Okay. Just a short one. Please God, let this nightmare end. Please, no more killing.

There. That's it. To block out any more religious thoughts I reach for the remote to turn on the television. But before I can press the power button the doorbell rings.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jobie immediately opens his eyes and sits upright. Madison lifts her head off of her knees and stares anxiously at the door. But Taylor and Lynda, remarkably, don't even twitch. They just lie there, sound asleep. Apparently apologizing to me has given them enough peace of mind to nap during the apocalypse.

Another ring.

"Does anyone else live here with you?" Madison whispers to Jobie.

Jobie shakes his head.

"Maybe it's the super," I suggest. "Has your mom put in any requests for repairs?"

Jobie looks at me like I'm a total moron. "The super has six kids. The only repair he wants to make tonight is killing all of them."

"Unless they're all already dead," I whisper back.

The doorbell rings again. Jobie, Madison and I stand up simultaneously.

"Who's there?" Jobie shouts.

A deep male voice responds. "Paramedics."

"Paramedics?" Jobie echoes.

I kick Taylor's leg and then Lynda's. Taylor opens his eyes instantly. Lynda needs a second kick.

"Wake up!" I hiss.

"What is it?" Taylor asks fearfully, sitting up and glancing around the room.

"Someone's at the door."

"Who?"

"He says he's a paramedic."

Taylor stands up. Lynda, despite looking a lot more scared, stays seated. "Don't let him in!" she whispers.

I pull her up by the arm. "Get up!"

"Ow! My neck!" she cries, grabbing the back of her neck with her free hand.

"Shh," Jobie whispers. "Stay here." He creeps up to the door, looks through the peephole, and creeps back.

"Is it a paramedic?" Madison asks.

"Yeah. Two of them. Two men."

The same paramedic as before tries to get things moving. "Look, we received a report of a woman having trouble breathing in this apartment. A Mrs. Sarah Tobias. Is she in there?"

"Who called it in?" Jobie asks.

"She did."

"Hold on a second." Jobie leans over the couch and shakes his mom's shoulder. "Mom? Mom?"

No response.

"She is breathing funny," Lynda whispers.

Jobie turns to the door. "How do I know you're not crazy like all the other adults outside?"

"Because we're here doing our job instead of out there killing people. Now is there someone in there who needs medical attention or not?"

"Yeah. Yeah, there is. Hold on." Jobie lowers his voice back to a whisper. "I'm gonna let them in," he says. "She does look crappier than usual. She must have called them."

I shake my head. "How could she have? Nine-One-One has been out since all this hell started."

"Maybe she called right before all this started and it took them all this time to get here."

"Or maybe Nine-One-One is working again," Lynda suggests.

"I'll check," Madison says. She takes out her cell phone, dials, listens. "Nope. Still dead."

"Look, the bottom line is they're here. They can check on my mom and on Lynda's neck too."

"What if – ?" I start, but I'm not sure how to ask him.

"What?"

"Look, is there a chance, even a chance, that one of those guys out there is your dad?"

"Hell no."

"How can you be so sure? You haven't seen him since you were three."

"Mom always said he was a complete bum. Bums don't become paramedics."

"The one who spoke just now knows your mom's name."

"That's because the Nine-One-One dispatcher asked her for it."

The paramedics aren't willing to wait anymore. "Look kid, either let us in or we're gonna go."

"I'll be right there!" Jobie shouts. He runs into the kitchen. I hear a drawer open, and the rattling of cutlery. Convinced that there is no changing his mind, I pick up my branch and get ready for battle. Madison picks up her superspade.

Jobie returns from the kitchen with three long knives. Apparently he doesn't have much faith in my weapon or Madison's, at least not for close quarters fighting. "Here," he says, handing me one. I toss my branch aside and take the knife. He offers one to Madison but she shakes her head.

"I have what I need."

"What about us?" Taylor gripes.

Jobie looks at me.

"Sure. Go ahead," I tell him. He hands Taylor the knife.

"But you don't do anything until I tell you to," I order my brother.

"Got it."

"Lynda, you just stand behind him."

"Got it."

Jobie goes to the door, unlocks it, and quickly steps back, holding his knife out in front of him. "Okay. Come in."

The door opens slowly and two uniformed paramedics enter. The first one in is a tall, round-faced man in his late thirties or early forties. He carries the equipment bag. The second is a shorter, thinner man with a moustache, about the same age. He carries a folded up portable wheelchair. Neither one resembles Jobie in my opinion, but they both have brown hair like him.

Both paramedics stop in their tracks when they see that we're armed.

"Why don't you kids put your weapons down, okay?" the taller one, the one who did all the talking out in the hallway, says. "We're here to help."

"No chance," Madison responds, holding her superspade like a baseball bat.

Jobie steps behind the men, closes the door, and retrieves his baseball bat from the umbrella stand, which he carries back to the other side of the couch and hands to Lynda. "That's her on the couch," he tells the paramedics.

"I'm not going anywhere near her until you kids disarm," the shorter paramedic says.

"We won't hurt you as long as you don't hurt us," I tell him.

"That's it!" the shorter paramedic snarls. He turns to his partner. "I'm gonna do what I have to do!" With that he drops the folded wheelchair and exits the apartment, leaving the door wide open.

"Close the door!" I yell, but of course he doesn't come back.

Madison closes the door and relocks it. "What did he mean by that?" she asks the tall paramedic.

"Never mind that. Just help her," Jobie commands, pointing at his mother with his knife. He sounds genuinely concerned about her now, unlike when we first entered the apartment.

The paramedic approaches the couch and looks down at Mrs. Tobias. "You're going to have to untie her," he says. "No arguments."

"Fine." Jobie hands me his knife and starts to untie his mother's ankles, then stops. "Wait, help me move this coffee table first." He takes one end of the table, the paramedic the other.

"Is this your mother?" the paramedic asks as they move the table.

"No," I answer for Jobie, a little too quickly. "She's mine."

With the coffee table out of the way Jobie proceeds to untie his mother's ankles. Instead of helping with her wrists the paramedic pulls his equipment bag closer to the couch, opens it, and starts rummaging around inside, I assume for a stethoscope. I stand behind him with my knife in one hand and Jobie's in the other. Madison stands on my right with her superspade. I'm so confident that we have the paramedic covered that I step back and lower my hands to my sides.

And that's when it happens. Finished with his mother's ankles, Jobie starts to reach for her wrists. Still crouching, the paramedic watches him, waits until he's within range, then jumps up and plunges a pair of scissors into the side of his neck. Before I can even scream he pulls them out and plunges them in again. This time he leaves them in. Jobie falls to the floor.

"No!" I scream. "Oh my God!" I raise my knives and attempt to slash the paramedic's back as he bolts for the door, but I miss. Behind me Lynda screams. Madison, infuriated beyond reason, chases after the maniac. I drop my knives and kneel down next to Jobie, but I have no idea what to do. Blood is spraying out of the first puncture wound, but the scissors are sticking out right next to it. I can't put pressure on the first wound unless I pull the scissors out of the second, but I read somewhere that if someone is stabbed and the knife is left in you should never pull it out. If you do you might cause more damage. You're supposed to leave it in and wait for the . . . Shit!

Jobie's eyes roll back, his breathing stops, and the blood stops spraying.

For the first time tonight my eyes fill with tears. It's all I can do to keep from bawling.

"God Jobie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I reach down and close his eyes. Taylor and Lynda, still holding their weapons, kneel beside me. Lynda is sobbing. I tell myself to get a grip. If I lose control I'll never be able to calm her down. Drying my eyes on the backs of my hands, I stand up and turn away from my dead friend. "There's nothing we can do for him," I say coldly, picking up my knives. "Close the door but don't lock it," I order Taylor.

Taylor obeys.

"Get away from him Lynda. Go back to where you were."

Lynda retreats to her previous place near the jacket pile but remains standing. "We should cover him up," she whimpers.

"We will. When Madison comes back."

"If she comes back."

"She'll come back."

Taylor rejoins Lynda by the jackets. I stand at the ready, just in case Jobie's paramedic dad makes a return appearance, not that he has any reason to anymore. I tell myself that this time I'll hurt him, but at the same time I berate myself for not recognizing him as Jobie's dad the second he walked into the apartment. Sure there wasn't much of a resemblance, but a lot of fathers don't resemble their sons. He had the same brown hair as Jobie. And he knew Mrs. Tobias's full name – a huge red flag. And what about the way his partner said "I'm gonna do what I have to do" before he took off? He was obviously talking about going home and killing his own kids. How could I not have seen all that?

There's a knock on the door.

"Caril?" Madison calls out.

"It's unlocked."

Madison enters and locks the door behind her.

"Did you clobber him?" I ask.

"No. He was too fast." She joins the rest of us in the living room and looks down at Jobie's lifeless body. "Damn," she mutters.

"We should cover him up," Lynda repeats, no longer sobbing.

"Yeah. Definitely."

"Do you want me to look for a blanket?" Taylor asks me.

"No. Stay here. We'll use his jacket."

"Let's move him away from the couch," Madison suggests. "I don't want his mom to step on him when she wakes up."

Madison and I put our weapons on the coffee table.

"Lynda, move those jackets," I command.

Lynda piles the jackets on the armchair Jobie sat in. Madison grabs Jobie under his arms, I grab his ankles, and together we carry him to the center of the room. We put him down very gently, as if he's still capable of complaining. Taylor fetches his jacket from the coatrack and hands it to me.

"Pull the scissors out," Madison tells me.

"Should I?"

"You want to leave him with that scumbag's murder weapon in his neck?"

No. No, of course not. I reach down, pull the scissors out, and toss them onto one of the magazines on the coffee table. Then I drape the jacket over Jobie's lifeless body.

"We should pray," Lynda says.

"Go ahead if you want to," I tell her. "Silently."

Lynda makes the sign of the cross and bows her head. Taylor does the same. Madison shakes her head angrily, grabs her superspade, and faces the door, as if she's expecting another homicidal visitor. Me? I don't bow my head or make the sign of the cross, but I do pray one more time. Again, it's a very short prayer. Lord, please have mercy on Jobie. Please have mercy on all of us.

Finished, I pick up my knives. Taylor and Lynda continue to pray, putting me to shame – and pissing me off. They only knew Jobie for a few hours. How could they have more to say to God on his behalf than me?

Mrs. Tobias's unexpected voice stops me from trying to figure out the answer.

"Where's he?"

Her voice is raspy and barely audible – a pneumonia voice. Her eyes are still closed but she's moving her head slowly from side to side.

"Where's he?" she slurs again.

"We should tie her feet again," Taylor says, finally finished with his prayer. He and Lynda stare down at the pathetic alchy, who's now slowly bending her legs, first the right, then the left.

"No, we should club her," Madison recommends, tapping the metal end of her superspade against the palm of one hand.

"Why bother?" I say. "She can't do anything with her hands tied. Besides, the only person she's gonna want to hurt is already dead."

"Jobie!" the wretched woman shrieks suddenly. She sits bolt upright, her eyes wide open as if she's just awakened from a nightmare. "Jobie!"

Despite being armed, Taylor and Lynda jump back. Madison raises her superspade and holds it at the ready.

Mrs. Tobias eyes each of us anxiously. "Where's he? Where's my son?"

"Why do you want to know?" I sneer.

The woman slowly, clumsily rises to her feet. Sways unsteadily. "Tell me! You tell – "

She sees him.

" – me."

"Don't you want to know who we are and what we're doing here? And why your hands are tied?" Madison asks.

Mrs. Tobias staggers around the coffee table, the extension cord dragging between her legs. She stares down at Jobie's covered body.

"He's dead," I say.

"Dead?"

"A paramedic killed him. A paramedic who said that you called Nine-One-One because you were having trouble breathing."

The woman reaches down with her bound hands and pulls the jacket back from Jobie's face. At first she doesn't react. Then she presses the back of one hand against his cheek and holds it there. For a moment I think she's mourning him, but then she pulls her hands back and looks up at me, smiling. "Trouble breathing? I never have trouble breathing. Not me." She staggers back to the couch and sits down. Eyes the bottle of scotch on the coffee table. "Untie me. I want a drink."

"You bitch!" Madison shouts.

I cover Jobie's face again. For a second time his mother looks each of us over, only this time with bewilderment instead of anxiety.

"Who are you kids?"

"Get your jackets!" I order my siblings. I put a hand on Madison's shoulder. "We can't stay here with her awake. Come on. Let's go."

"Where?"

"Where we should have gone in the first place. My uncle's apartment."

Taylor and Lynda exchange surprised looks. "Uncle Wayne lives around here?" Taylor asks.

"Yeah."

"I thought he lived upstate."

"No. He lives here."

Madison and I put on our jackets. "That bat's too heavy for you," I tell Lynda. "Take this." I hand her one of my knives. She drops the bat and takes it.

"Were . . . were you kids friends of his?" Mrs. Tobias asks.

"Yeah," I tell her, even though she has no right to know. "We were."

We leave without untying her hands.

CHAPTER NINE

"How far to your uncle's place?" Madison asks.

It's strangely quiet out on the street. No sirens of car horns, no vehicle traffic either. Still, we keep a tight grip on our weapons.

"Kind of far. Ten blocks that way," I reply, pointing.

"Does he have kids? I mean, what if we get there and – "

"He doesn't have any kids."

"Then why didn't we go there before, instead of Jobie's?"

"Because Jobie kept telling me that his dad was gone for good! And I believed him!".

"God, if we'd gone there first Jobie would still be alive."

"Well we didn't. And he's not. Okay?"

"Poor Jobie," Lynda says, shaking her head. "That paramedic must have been his dad. How do you think he identified him? I mean, you said he hadn't seen Jobie since he was three."

"I don't know. Maybe by instinct. Or maybe just because Jobie was there in his mother's apartment.

A car pulls up next to us. The driver honks the horn. I tighten my grip on my knife, expecting the worst, but when I turn to look I see that the car is filled with kids – young kids, aged maybe ten to fourteen. The driver is a long-haired blonde girl of about twelve. The kids all brandish knives and hammers and make whooping sounds. I give them a half-hearted wave and they speed off.

"Jesus," Madison says, then turns to me. "Are you sure your uncle's gonna be there?"

"He'll be there."

"Won't Dad look for us there?" Taylor asks.

"I doubt it. He doesn't know that I know the address."

"But you said you were there before."

"Yeah – without him knowing about it."

We reach an intersection and start to cross, but then hear a woman shouting down the block to our right.

"Go away! Leave me alone!"

We all look and see a fortyish woman in a wheelchair being menaced by two tall male teens, one African American, one white.

"You bastards!" the woman shouts.

"We should help her," Lynda says. God, what a little moralist she's become since the world's gone to hell! Always suggesting that we cover bodies and pray and help people. Okay, I'm glad she's gained enough insight to apologize for her past hatefulness towards me, but damn!

"Maybe she killed her kid and they're avenging him," I say. The words are barely out of my mouth when Madison bolts across the street to help the woman. At first I think she's still in rage mode because of Jobie, but then I remember what she said about her mom being wheelchair bound. Could that woman be her mom? Or just someone who resembles her? As I watch from the corner, trying to make out the woman's features, Madison is hit by a car. The impact knocks her out of her sneakers and throws her into the air. She bounces off the car's roof and lands on the asphalt with her arms and legs at crazy angles. Her superspade lands next to her. The car, a red four door muscle car – a Camaro, I think – doesn't even slow down.

Once again, Lynda screams and turns away. Taylor just stares, horrified. I run out into the street to check on her, making sure to look both ways. One look at Madison's staring, unseeing eyes and I know she's dead.

"Yo!" a deep male voice exclaims. I look up to see the two thug teens cool walking towards the intersection. Behind them, almost out of sight, the woman in the wheelchair rolls rapidly down the street, making her escape.

"Too bad," the white teen says, with very little sympathy in his voice.

Ignoring the two thugs, I pick up Madison's superspade and rejoin my siblings on the sidewalk. Lynda throws her arms around me and sobs, while Taylor keeps gaping. "My God," he says.

"Let's go!" I bark. "Taylor, get her off of me or so help me God I'll leave you both here."

Faced with abandonment, Taylor snaps out of it. He grabs Lynda by her upper arms and tries to pull her off of me. "Come on Lynda," he says gently. "We gotta get off the street." But she just won't let go.

To hell with this! I pivot my body, breaking Lynda's grip, and start half walking, half running from both of them.

"Move!" Taylor shouts behind me. When I reach the other side of the street a few seconds later they're both at my side. We march along the rest of the way without communicating, hearing only other people's voices – some adult, some adolescent, some preadolescent. Some with a visible source, others coming from open windows. All of them shouting or cursing or screaming.

CHAPTER TEN

The lobby of Uncle Wayne's building is guarded only by the bloody corpse of a scrawny, pimply boy in a private school uniform. My siblings and I just walk right in.

Despite the inherent dangers I'm momentarily tempted to use the elevator now. Just the thought of walking up six flights of stairs makes me feel tired. But common sense wins out. I lead the way to the stairs.

We make it to the sixth floor with no problems. In the narrow, stuffy grey hallway we find yet another corpse – this one the corpse of an obese Hispanic woman. There's no blood on her and she has no visible injuries. Her lifeless hand grips a large claw hammer.

"I bet she had a heart attack," Taylor speculates. "She chased after her kid to kill him and she had a heart attack."

"And her kid kept on running," Lynda adds.

I step over the corpse. "Wouldn't you?"

"If I saw Mom or Dad collapse from a heart attack tonight? I don't know."

"Yeah, right."

We reach the door to Uncle Wayne's apartment. I turn to my brother and sister. "Look," I whisper, "when I came here two years ago the place was a mess. Ever see that TV show about hoarders?"

"Eew!" Lynda whispers.

"Well it was like that. It might be better now, but I doubt it. Oh, and it might stink in there. It did the last time. He had a cat but didn't clean the litter box."

"Great," Taylor mutters.

"Just thought I'd let you know."

I ring the doorbell. Uncle Wayne must have heard us talking in the hallway, because he answers right away, and when he speaks it sounds like he's right on the other side of the door.

"Who is it?"

"Caril Hallenbeck. Your niece."

"Caril?"

I stand in front of the peephole so he can check me out.

"God, is that really you?"

"It's me. Taylor and Lynda are here too. Can we come in?"

"Sure. Sure. Just hold on a second."

Plodding, heavy footsteps recede into the apartment.

"I hope he cleaned the litterbox," Lynda whispers.

The "second" turns out to last more than a minute. Finally, I hear a deadbolt being pulled back, a chain lock being undone, a second deadbolt. The door opens, with Uncle Wayne standing behind it, out of view.

"Come in. Quickly."

Of course I enter first, holding my knife and Madison's superspade at the ready, just in case Mom or Dad have found their way here ahead of us. Taylor and Lynda scoot in behind me, also brandishing their weapons.

Uncle Wayne slams the door shut, relocks the locks, and turns to face us. He looks exactly the same as he did that day two years ago when Mom and I went to see him. Stubble-faced, red-eyed, tall like Dad but paunchy from lack of exercise and an all take-out food diet. Even though it's not all that warm in the apartment he's sweating profusely. The sweatpants and sweatshirt he's wearing are dirty and stained. It looks like he's been wearing them for days. The tiny apartment looks the same too. Same ancient TV, same waist high stacks of old newspapers, same worn, cat-scratched furniture, same litter box smell.

"Hi Uncle," I say.

"You don't need knives. I'm not going to hurt you. It's your mom and dad you have to worry about."

"You know what's going on?"

"Of course."

"They're not here, are they?"

"No. I wouldn't have let you in if they were. You think I want to see my nieces and nephew killed?"

I lower my weapons. Taylor and Lynda do the same and stare rudely at this relative that they've never seen before.

"What the hell is that?" Uncle Wayne asks, pointing at Madison's superspade.

"I don't know exactly. Some kind of gardening tool. It belonged to a friend of mine."

"A deceased friend?"

"Yeah. How do you know what's going on? From the TV?"

"From what I heard going on out in the hallway. Any dead out there?"

"Yeah. One. A fat woman."

"Score one for the kids." Uncle Wayne gestures towards his worn, beat-up couch. "Sit down, sit down. Just throw your jackets – and weapons – anywhere."

Taylor, Lynda, and I exchange uneasy looks.

"Sorry about all the clutter but I wasn't expecting company."

I start edging my way along a narrow path between the newspaper stacks, my siblings reluctantly following behind me. Uncle Wayne stays by the door. I wonder how he buys his newspapers if he never goes out. Maybe he pays the super to buy them for him.

"Don't you ever throw your newspapers away?" Lynda asks.

"If I throw them away I'll lose all the news in them."

Lynda's too polite – or maybe too smart – to question his logic. "Oh."

We make it to the couch, which looks even worse up close than it did from across the room. I hate even the thought of sitting on it, but I have no choice. I'm certainly not going to stand the whole time I'm here. I'm too tired. I drop my knife and superspade on the nearest stack of newspapers – the one next to the coffee table – take off my jacket, and sit down. Taylor and Lynda do the same. We keep our jackets in our laps.

"Where's Mark Junior?"

Taylor and Lynda both look at me. I don't want to tell him, but since he was kind enough to let us in I figure I owe him an answer.

"He's dead. At least, we're pretty sure he's dead. The last time we saw him Dad was trying to kill him. That was back at the house. Dad chased after us later on the street, so we assume . . . " I can't say the rest.

"Jesus. What about your mom? Where's she?"

"We don't know."

Lynda takes a handkerchief out of her back pocket and covers her nose with it. I don't blame her. The cat stink is really horrendous. But I don't want Uncle Wayne to be offended. We can't afford to get kicked out of here. I consider pulling her hand away from her face, but that might draw his attention to her.

"Would you like something to drink?" Uncle Wayne asks, still rooted by the door.

"Yes please," Taylor answers quickly.

Uncle Wayne starts edging his way towards the kitchen alcove. "I have some orange soda. Is that okay?"

"Great."

Uncle Wayne's cat, a white cat with blue eyes, jumps up on one of the stacks of newspaper near the window and sits there like a sphinx blinking at us. I can't remember its name but it's definitely the same cat he had two years ago. Mom told me later that day that all white cats with blue eyes are deaf. I don't know if she had her facts straight about that, but if she did I'm pretty sure this cat doesn't mind not being able to hear its owner's voice.

Uncle Wayne finally squeezes into the kitchen alcove. Even in there he has to maneuver through stacks of newspapers. When he turns his back to us to reach into a cabinet for glasses, I pull Lynda's hand away from her face.

"It stinks in here," she whispers.

"We have no place else to go and I don't want him to get offended and kick us out," I whisper back.

"I like that cat," Taylor says. "I've never seen a white cat before." He slaps his knee a few times in an attempt to summon it. "Here cat. Here kitty."

The cat doesn't budge.

"What's your cat's name?"

Uncle Wayne opens his refrigerator and takes out a bottle of orange soda. "Whitey."

"Here Whitey."

"He's deaf," I inform Taylor, keeping my eye on Uncle Wayne.

"Deaf? Cats can be deaf?"

"Sure. Just like people."

Uncle Wayne fills four glasses with soda. "Who told you Whitey is deaf?"

"Mom. She told me all white cats with blue eyes are deaf."

"Really. I wonder where she learned that."

"I thought she learned it from you."

"No. I never told her that. She must have read it on the Internet."

"I'm allergic to cats," Lynda lies cleverly, covering her nose with her handkerchief again, "so I'm going to keep my face covered."

Uncle Wayne puts the bottle of soda back in the refrigerator. "Good idea. Caril, can you help me with these glasses?"

Without thinking I get up, drop my jacket onto the coffee table, and slowly make my way to the kitchen alcove. There's no way I can take the glasses from the living room side of the formica counter – too many newspapers are piled in front of it. I have to go into the alcove. Uncle Wayne waits patiently for me. As I approach I can only see him from the waist up, but I'm not concerned. As Uncle Wayne said himself, he's not my father.

There are almost as many stacks of newspapers in the alcove as there are in the living room. I inch along a T-shaped pathway in the stacks to where Uncle Wayne stands at the counter. On either side of him, running three deep along the entire length of the counter, are more stacks of newspapers. Most come up to his waist, but some are a little shorter. As soon as I'm within arm's reach he lowers his hand to the stack closest to him, the top of which is hidden by a taller stack. When his hand comes up again it's holding a cleaver. A cleaver! He raises it and lunges at me, but fortunately for me he attacks too soon. From where I'm standing at the intersection of the "T" I'm able to dodge the cleaver by jumping to the side.

"Taylor! Lynda!" I scream, stumbling as I try to escape the alcove through the narrow pathway. I trip, fall, and look up just in time to see Madison's superspade slam into the side of Uncle Wayne's head like a spear. The blade penetrates about a half inch into his skull – not enough for the weird tool to stay imbedded. The weight of the long wooden handle causes it to fall to the floor. Uncle Wayne drops his cleaver and falls forward on top of me, blood spurting out of his head and onto the newspapers and my face.

I scream and, even though I'm not hurt, pass out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When I wake up I'm still on the alcove floor and Uncle Wayne is still on top of me. I can feel even more blood on my face, but the flow from Uncle Wayne's wound has stopped completely. His skin is grey and he's definitely not breathing. For a moment I draw a blank on who he is, and why he's on top of me. But then it all comes rushing back. "Oh my God," I moan.

"Caril? You okay?"

Lynda's voice, from just outside the alcove. I try to twist around to see her but can't get her in view.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's his blood, not mine."

A few hesitant footsteps and then my sister is leaning over me. There's blood on the sleeves of her sweater. "We tried to get him off you but he's too heavy. Maybe now that you're awake we can all push him off. Taylor?"

No response.

"Taylor, she's awake. She's okay. Help me get him off of her."

Still no response. And I know why -- because he was the one who threw the superspade and put down our dear uncle. Twelve is way too young to be a killer.

"Is he freaked out?" I ask.

Lynda nods, then grimaces and rubs the back of her neck. "I think I made my neck worse."

"I can do this. Step back."

Lynda steps back. I slide my arms out from under Uncle Wayne and push my hands up against his shoulders, lifting his upper body and turning it to the right. At the same time I turn my upper body to the right and press my left knee up against his hip, flipping him onto his side. After that it's just a matter of wiggling and sliding out.

I turn over and crawl out of the alcove on my hands and knees. Lynda helps me to my feet, but I immediately feel dizzy and sit down on the nearest stack of newspapers. From where I sit I can see Taylor planted on the center of the couch with his head back, staring at the ceiling. His jacket and Lynda's are now with mine on the coffee table.

"You had to do it Taylor," I tell him. He was trying to kill me."

Silence.

"You saved my life."

Lynda whispers in my ear. "He was okay when we first tried to lift him off you. But then when he saw him stop breathing . . ." She doesn't finish.

"It's okay," I tell her. I reach out and take her by the hand. "Go back and sit next to him. I'll join you in a minute."

Lynda nods and does as I say. I sit there on the stack of newspapers and wait for the dizziness to pass. As I wait I ponder the implications of Uncle Wayne's violence. The homicide situation has definitely changed. It's not just parents killing their kids anymore. Now it's all adults killing all kids. What will it be a few hours from now? Everyone killing everyone?

"It's gonna be okay," Lynda tells Taylor. Hearing her comfort him makes me ashamed to be just sitting there on my butt doing nothing. Still slightly dizzy, I rise to my feet and join them in the living room. I squeeze past the coffee table and start to sit on Taylor's other side when I remember the blood on my face. If I sit next to him the way I look now he'll freak out even more. I have to clean up, but I'm certainly not going to use the sink in the alcove. I have no choice but to find Uncle Wayne's bathroom and rinse off in there. But God only knows what kind of sty his bathroom's going to be.

I pick up my knife. "I'm gonna look for the bathroom," I tell Lynda. "You wait here."

"You think someone's back there?" Lynda asks anxiously, looking at my knife.

"No, but I'm not taking any more chances."

There's a narrow, unlit hallway to the left of the couch. The light switch doesn't work, but luckily just enough light slips in from the living room to illuminate two closed, scratched wooden doors on the right. I put my ear to the closer of the two and listen. Nothing. I knock.

"Hello?"

No answer. I open the door, feel around for the light switch, and click on the lights. Uncle Wayne's bedroom is even more of a cesspool than his living room. In addition to more stacks of newspapers there are bulging, open plastic bags filled with garbage, piles of dirty clothes, scattered empty liquor bottles and beer cans. No adults though. I turn off the lights, shut the door, and proceed down the hallway to the second door. I take the same listening precaution as I did with the first, hear nothing, and open it. When I turn on the lights I find what has to be the cleanest bathroom I've ever seen. It's small, but the sink is spotless, the bathtub and shower tiles are mildew free, and the floor is newly mopped. Even the toilet is sparkling. I remember reading somewhere – or did I see it on TV? – That hoarders like my late uncle often keep one room or one small area of their homes as clean as possible. I guess this bathroom was Uncle Wayne's clean place.

I check myself in the mirror. Most of the blood is on my face. There's some in my hair on the left side, and some on my sweatshirt on the shoulder area. I hate to dirty the spotless sink, but I have to get the blood off. I look behind the door and find a bath towel and washcloth on the rack. I take off my sweatshirt and wash my face and run water through my hair. As soon as all the blood is off I gulp a few handfuls of water. Then I get to work on my sweatshirt. I scrub it with the washcloth, wring it out, then squeeze it in the bathtowel to absorb as much of the remaining moisture as possible. Finished, I check myself in the mirror again. Except for my damp hair I look exactly as I did when I left my house this morning. Inside I'm a completely different person of course, but outside I look the same.

I leave the light on and the door open and return to the cluttered, dirty living room, where I drape my sweatshirt on the arm of the sofa and sit down next to my freaked out brother. I try to think of something comforting to say to Taylor but come up blank. I've already told him that he had to do what he did. What else can I say?

"I have an idea," I say finally. "Let's rest a bit. Let's just sit back and close our eyes and rest. Okay?"

No response from Taylor. Lynda gives me a pained look. "Okay," she whispers. "But . . . "

"What?"

"I'm really thirsty." Without raising her hand too high she points at the kitchen alcove. The bottle of orange soda is still on the counter. At first I can't believe she wants some of it, but then I realize that she probably hasn't had anything to drink since she escaped from our house this afternoon. She must be parched. But how will Taylor react if one of us goes back there and climbs over Uncle Wayne?

"I left the light on in the bathroom," I say, tilting my head towards the hallway. "The bathroom's really clean. You can drink from the faucet. Oh, and you can use the towel to help dry your sleeves after you wash them."

"Okay."

Lynda gets up, goes to the bathroom, and comes back a few minutes later carrying her damp, blood-free sweater. Sighing, she drapes her sweater on the sofa's other arm and sits back down.

"What about you Taylor?" I ask.

I expect yet another non-response but still staring at the ceiling, Taylor shakes his head. "I can't believe you wanted to drink that bastard's soda," he says.

Lynda opens her mouth to reply, but I raise a finger to my lips and shake my head.

"Why don't you go wash up and drink some water?" I suggest.

"Screw it."

Taylor closes his eyes. Lynda sighs again, sits back, and closes hers. I watch both of them for several minutes, then sit back and close mine.

I wake up an hour later. Immediately I glance over at my siblings. They're both sound asleep. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but it's no use. Like it or not, I'm awake. My consciousness won't surrender again. Considering our situation, I'm surprised it surrendered the first time.

How much longer can we stay here with a corpse? Soon it's going to start to decompose. I suppose we could drag it out into the hallway and let it decompose out there, but that would mean opening the door and leaving the apartment. It would also mean asking Taylor to help, and there's absolutely no way I can do that. No, Uncle Wayne is going to have to stay where he is for the time being.

And what about food? I have no idea what our food situation is, but even if the refrigerator is full it won't be forever. Eventually we'll have to go outside to buy or find some. Then what?

I look over at my siblings again. I'm afraid for them, but the fact that they can sleep and I can't really pisses me off. For a moment I'm actually tempted to wake both of them. I fight the urge though.

The white, deaf, blue-eyed cat jumps onto the same stack of newspapers it sat on before. I'd forgotten all about him.

"Hey Whitey!" I say. The creature just sits there for a moment, then circles around two times and curls up on its side. Even the cat is more relaxed than I am.

Enough sitting around! I get up and, without hesitating, make my way to the kitchen alcove. I step over Uncle Wayne and check the refrigerator for its contents. Just our luck – it's practically empty. Two hamburger buns in a very old-looking, knotted plastic bag, several cellophane-wrapped cheese slices, a Styrofoam carton half-filled with some dried out Chinese noodles, an egg roll on a paper plate, a third of a bottle of cranberry juice, four cans of beer. That's it. Oh, and there's the orange soda on the counter.

Damn. I step over Uncle Wayne's body again and return to my place on the couch. What to do? What to do? As I contemplate our situation I eye the ancient TV set on its rolling stand in the corner of the room. Does it even work? Probably not. The screen is covered in dust, and there's no cable hook-up or digital conversion box. No DVD player either. I guess my late uncle really did spend all his time reading and re-reading old newspapers.

Considering that it's not just parents versus offspring anymore, there should be a lot more killing going on now. And yet it's awfully quiet outside. No screams coming from the hallway or adjacent apartments, no distant sirens, nothing. Could things be winding down? I take out my cell phone and dial Nine-One-One, just to see if someone answers. Nope. The system is still down. Shit. I put my phone away.

And that's when the doorbell rings.

Taylor and Lynda immediately wake up and sit up straight. "Shh," I warn them. Despite all the locks on the door, Lynda and I grab our knives. Taylor just sits there.

The bell rings again. I can think of only three people who could be on the other side of that door: the super, Mom, or – God forbid – Dad.

"It's Dad," Lynda whispers.

"I'm not going to kill him," Taylor says, loud enough to be heard by whoever's ringing the doorbell. "No matter what."

"Quiet!" I hiss.

"Wayne? Wayne, are you in there?"

It's Mom. I stand up.

"Wayne?" she shouts again.

"Mom!" Lynda calls out.

"Are you out of your mind?" I snap. But then I realize that now's as good a time as any to deal with her. If we keep quiet and fake her out until she goes away, she'll just come back again when she can't find us on the street.

"Lynda! Oh my God! Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. So are Caril and Taylor."

Taylor laughs. "Yeah. We're fine. Just fine."

"But we're scared Mom!" Lynda cries. "We're scared and . . . and we've seen some terrible things." Her voice breaks and despite the strength that she's shown since Uncle Wayne's death she starts to sob.

"I know honey, I know," Mom says. Judging from her trembling voice she's close to crying too. But will she cry out of sympathy for us or frustration at not being able to slaughter us?

"What do you want?" I yell.

"I want . . . " Mom starts, then stops. I understand her hesitation. What can she possibly say? That she wants us to come home? That she's sorry for trying to kill Marky? Sorry for wanting to kill us?

"Is Marky okay?" I ask.

Silence.

"Well?"

"No honey. He's dead. Your father's with him."

This time I'm the one who laughs. "Dad's with him? Doing what? Trying to kill him a second time?"

"Caril . . . He's sorry. He's so sorry. We both are."

"You're sorry?"

"We don't know what came over us. I don't think any of us do. We just . . . we just went mad."

"No shit."

Now I hear definite sobs.

"It wasn't our fault! We couldn't help ourselves! You have to believe me!"

"We do?"

Lynda puts down her knife. "Are you okay now?" she asks tearfully.

"Yes honey. I'm sane again. And so is your father."

"How do we know that?" I ask angrily.

Mom hesitates again. "You don't," she admits finally. "You can't."

"I believe you!" Lynda cries. She starts for the door, but doesn't even make it past two stacks of newspapers before I grab her by the arm.

"No!" I growl. "You're not opening that door!"

"We can look through the peephole to see how she looks. If she looks okay – "

"She can look okay but still be insane."

"We have our knives. She won't try anything when she sees that we're – "

"He did!" I shout, pointing towards the alcove. With that my sister starts sobbing again.

"Where's your Uncle Wayne?" Mom asks. "Is he in there?"

"Sit down," I order Lynda. She does, taking her previous place next to Taylor.

"Caril? Where's -- ?"

"He's dead. He tried to kill me so Taylor . . . saved me."

"Oh my God."

"God," Taylor echoes vacantly, sitting back with his eyes closed again.

"We're not opening the door Mom. We can't take that chance."

"But it's over honey. At least for us it is."

"Just . . . just go away."

"How long are you going to stay in there?"

"As long as we have to."

Another silence. "Is he . . . Is your uncle's body still in there?"

"Yup! Sure is!" Taylor pipes, then giggles.

This won't do. I don't want Taylor to hear any more talk about our late Uncle Wayne.

"Hold on a second Mom," I shout. I edge my way over to the door so I can talk to her without either of us having to raise our voice.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yeah."

I look through the peephole. There she is standing right in front of the door, hair disheveled, tears streaming down her face, but otherwise looking normal. She's wearing her blue parka and a scarf but no hat.

"Taylor's really upset," I say. "We all are. So why don't you just go home and take care of things with Marky. We're not opening the door. Not tonight."

"When will you? I mean, you can't stay in there forever."

I give her the only answer I can. "When I think it's safe."

"Can't you see me through the peephole? Don't I look . . . sane?"

"You look okay. But so what?"

"How can I prove to you that I'm not dangerous?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something."

Mom takes a handkerchief out of her coat pocket and dabs at her eyes. "Okay," she says, then adds: "Do you have food in there?"

"Some. Not much."

"I'll come back tomorrow with some stuff from the house, if that's okay with you."

"Okay."

I wait for her to say goodbye and move away from the door, but she just stands there staring sadly at the peephole. I start to turn away.

"Caril?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you want to know?"

I look through the peephole again.

"Know what?"

"Why your Uncle Wayne tried to kill you. It's only been parents killing their children tonight. Haven't you noticed?"

"Yeah, I noticed. I figured things were just getting worse – that the madness was spreading to everyone."

"No. It's not spreading. Just the opposite. It's coming to an end. That's why I'm okay. Don't you want to know?"

A feeling of dread comes over me. I don't want to ask, but I do.

"Okay. Why? Why did he try to kill me?"

"Because Wayne was your father. Bye."

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stand there with my ear to the door and listen to Mom's footsteps fade down the hallway. As I do I think about her parting words. Could it be true? Could the dead man in the kitchen alcove really be my father instead of Dad? If he is, why did he stay in his apartment all night instead of trying to find me? Because of his agoraphobia? And why on earth did Mom have an affair with him? Uncle Wayne was such a headcase. And he was broke. And unattractive. Unless . . . Could he have had a lot more going for him fourteen years ago?

I wait a full five minutes to make sure she doesn't sneak back. As I do the feelings of revulsion I have towards the deceased in the alcove reach critical mass. I turn to my siblings.

"I want to get Uncle Wayne out of here. Do either of you want to help me?"

Neither one moves.

"There's a little bit of food in the fridge, but I don't want to do any eating until he's out of here."

Lynda sighs, stands up and makes her way over to the alcove entrance. Taylor stays put. "I'm sorry," he says, staring at the still sleeping cat. "I can't."

It isn't easy, but Lynda and I actually manage to drag Uncle Wayne out into the hallway. Of course, we stick our knives under our belts first, so they'll be within reach in case we get attacked.

Once that awful chore is done, Lynda goes back to the couch, rubbing her neck. I go back to the alcove. I can't bring myself to clean up the blood on the floor, so I just throw a lot of newspapers on it.

"Do you guys want to eat something, or just have some cranberry juice?"

"I don't like cranberry juice," Lynda says, a tactful way to say that she still wants the orange soda.

"Okay, I'll get you something else to drink. Do you want to eat? There's some – "

Lynda shakes her head.

"Taylor?"

"I don't want any of his shit."

I pour out three of the glasses of orange soda that Uncle Wayne filled and refill two of them with fresh soda and the third with water. Feeling like a waitress, I carry the three glasses back to the couch. "Thanks," Lynda says, taking one of the sodas. I put the glass of water down on the coffee table next to the pile of jackets. "I brought you some water, just in case you get thirsty," I tell Taylor as I sit down next to him. He ignores me.

I take a few sips of the warm soda, the first nourishment of any kind I've had since the cheeseburger and Coke I had at the diner. Despite its warmth I find it amazingly refreshing. The sugary taste brings on a memory: I'm eight years old, I'm home in bed with the flu, and Mom brings me some orange soda. And even though I feel really crappy – it's only my second day of being sick and I still have a fever – the soda, and the fact that Mom brought it to me, makes me feel better.

That memory leads immediately to another, more recent one: that day two years ago when I went with Mom to visit Uncle Wayne. How she pleaded with me to go with her as a favor, and promised to increase my allowance if I did. How she didn't seem at all happy about visiting him. How Uncle Wayne kept giving me this odd look while I was there, and how the visit ended with Mom giving him a thick sealed envelope. Even back then I knew the envelope contained money, and that she was giving it to him without Dad's knowledge or consent. What I couldn't figure out was why she was giving it to him.

"I believe Mom," Lynda says suddenly. "She's okay now. We should have let her in."

"If she seems okay tomorrow I'll think about it," I say.

"Did she say she was coming back tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow morning. She's gonna bring us some food."

"Great."

"I'm not staying here all night," Taylor declares, still staring at Whitey.

"It's too soon to risk going back outside," I tell him. "Spending the rest of the night here won't kill us."

"You stay here if you want to. I'm going." With that my brother stands up and puts on his jacket.

"Where? Where are you going?"

"Home."

Shit.

"Taylor, it's too soon. Trust me on this, okay?" I plead.

"If it's too soon it's too soon, but I'm going home."

"What if you have to kill someone again?"

Taylor drains his glass of water, grabs his knife, and squeezes past me. "Excuse me." He starts heading for the door. Even though he saved my life I'm seriously tempted to deck him. But what if my punch isn't strong enough to knock him out? In his state of mind, how will he react?

"Okay!" I shout. "Just hold on a minute." I turn to Lynda. "We have to stick together. Are you okay with going home?"

"Totally okay," Lynda answers, sounding almost cheerful. "Why wouldn't I be? It's all over. Mom said so." She gulps the last of her soda and puts the glass down on the coffee table.

Defeated, I sigh. "Right. Mom said so. Okay, we'll go home. But I want you both to promise me something. If it turns out that Mom didn't tell the truth and everyone's still crazy out there, I want you to promise you'll come back here with me. No arguments. Promise?"

"Promise," Lynda says immediately, but Taylor just keeps edging towards the door.

"Taylor?"

He stops, turns and faces me. "I told you, I'm not spending the night here, no matter what. If things are still hot out there and we have to keep hiding out I'm going back to that church. You two can go wherever you want."

"Okay, fine." I squeeze Lynda's shoulder. "If things are still crazy we'll go back to the church."

Lynda shrugs and reaches for her sweater. She puts it on without hesitating, as if its sleeves are still completely dry. I consider just carrying my sweatshirt but decide I'll be warmer with it on.

Taylor stops at the door and looks through the peephole. "I don't see anyone," he says as we put on our jackets and grab our knives. When we're all together he starts to pull back the top deadbolt.

"Hold it," I say. "I'm the oldest. I'll open it."

Taylor steps aside. I unlock the locks, open the door, and step out into the hallway, leading with my knife. There's no one there except my late uncle (daddy?) and the dead obese woman.

"Okay, let's go."

Taylor and Lynda step out into the hallway. I close the door behind them and take the lead again, making a point of not looking down at the corpses as I pass them. I don't know whether or not Lynda and Taylor do.

The hallway is quiet – no screaming, no crying, nothing.

"It's so quiet," Lynda whispers. "It must be over."

"Or maybe there are no more children left on this floor to kill," I say coldly, immediately regretting the words.

Once again the stairs are psycho and corpse free. We make it down to the first floor without any problems. There are no problems in the lobby either, just a mystery: the corpse of the pimply teen boy is gone.

"I wonder who took him," I think out loud.

"Probably his parents," Lynda says. "They're sane now so they came and took him home."

As if to disprove her parental sanity theory someone outside on the street screams.

"It's not over guys," I say quickly. "Let's go back upstairs."

"No. Let's see what's going on." Before I can stop him Taylor rushes past me and out the lobby doors. Lynda chases after him.

"Taylor! Lynda!" I shout. Shit! I know there's more hell out there, but what can I do? I follow them outside.

Directly across the street a petite woman wearing a very thick fur coat but no shoes or socks wails and carries a bloodied, pajama-clad boy of about seven in her arms. The woman and boy both have the same color hair. Mother and son. She's mourning him now. Proof that Mom was telling the truth?

"She's sorry," Lynda whispers.

"We're all sorry," I reply.

Taylor leads the way now, heading – I hope – back to our house. At the corner, sitting on the sidewalk crying, is a big, olive-skinned man wearing jeans and an overcoat. The man cradles yet another dead child in his arms, this one a curly-haired, olive-skinned girl of about ten wrapped in a blanket. Taylor walks right up to him.

"Your daughter?"

The man lifts his head just enough to nod.

"Why are you crying? Isn't this what you wanted?"

A brief, unintelligible response. I can't make out what it is. Neither can Taylor.

"What?"

"I said kill me." The man sits up and glares at Taylor, tears streaming down his face. "Please." He turns to Lynda, then me. "One of you kill me."

Taylor shakes his head. "Kill yourself."

Even after everything that's happened tonight, saying something like that seems wrong to me. And yet admonishing Taylor for saying it somehow seems even more wrong. I keep silent. Not Lynda though.

"No, don't do that," she tells the man. "Don't listen to him. There's been enough killing." When the man presses his cheek against his dead daughter's, she adds "She wouldn't want you to."

Laughing, Taylor saunters across the street without bothering to check for oncoming traffic, just like Madison.

"I'm sorry," the man sobs.

"We're all sorry," I say again. "Come on Lynda. Let's go."

We cross the street. "It's over Caril," my sister says as we follow our brother. "It's definitely over."

"We'll see. Taylor wait up!"

"I'm glad we're going home."

Taylor stops and waits for us to catch up.

"Do you know what's waiting for us at home?" I ask my sister.

"You mean Mom and Dad?"

"I mean . . . what they did. What they left there."

"You mean Marky."

"Yeah."

"What about Marky?" Taylor asks casually, as if he overheard us talking about a neighbor instead of his dead brother. He's really starting to spook me.

"I was telling Lynda that when we get home we're still going to have to deal with Marky."

"Of course."

"Can you handle it?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. Can you?"

"I handled Uncle Wayne, didn't I?"

"Yeah," I acknowledge. "You sure did. Lynda?"

"I can handle it."

"Okay."

"Okay," Taylor echoes. He starts off down the street again.

"Don't worry Caril," Lynda says reassuringly. "It's gonna be okay."

We pass seven more grieving parents on our way home, each one carrying a dead child. By the time we reach our two story brickfront house I'm convinced that the nightmare really is over, and yet unlike Taylor and Lynda, I can't bring myself to climb the three steps of our front porch.

"Wait!" I implore Taylor as he reaches out to ring the doorbell.

"What?"

"I'm not ready yet." And I'm not. Because this isn't my home anymore. It's not my siblings' home either, even though they haven't grasped that yet. The fact is, there's no longer any such thing as a safe place where people always care, or – at the very least – never try to kill you. No. From now on every kid is homeless.

I lean against the porch, feeling sick to my stomach. "I just want to wait a while."

Mom must have heard us talking, because the front door opens suddenly and there she is. "Oh thank God, it is you!" She cries, rushing out onto the porch and hugging Taylor. "Thank God!" Taylor doesn't hug her back. His grip tightens on his knife, and for a moment I'm afraid he's going to use it. But when Mom releases him he relaxes noticeably.

"You were right Mom," Lynda says when Mom hugs her next. "It's over. On the way here we saw a lot of parents. They were all crying. They're all sorry now."

"Yes. We're all sorry."

Mom lets go of Lynda and steps down off the porch, but makes no attempt to hug me. I guess she can tell that I'm not feeling well.

"Are you okay Caril?" she asks timidly.

"No. I feel kind of nauseous."

Mom puts a hand on my shoulder and starts to move in closer.

"Don't."

She steps back. "Okay honey." She looks over her shoulder at Taylor and Lynda, then back at me. "Do you all want to come in?"

"What about Marky, Mom?" I ask before my siblings can answer.

"We covered him up and closed the door to his room. You won't have to see him."

"I want to see him," Taylor says angrily.

"Honey, that's not a good idea. You should remember him the way he was, not . . . not the way he is now."

"You mean, not the way he is now that Dad wasted him."

Mom winces. I expect her to break down and start bawling, but somehow she manages to maintain her composure. "Yes," she says calmly. "Exactly."

There's no point in delaying it any longer. "Let's go inside," I say.

Mom nods solemnly. She climbs the three steps and holds the door open.

"No. You first," I tell her.

"Fine."

Mom enters. I enter behind her, followed by Taylor and then Lynda.

Even though it's not a home anymore it looks exactly the same as before. Same bare wood floors, same beige walls, same leather couch and armchairs, same bookcase, same watercolor paintings. This might sound crazy, but the sameness of it makes it feel foreign, especially when I see Dad sitting on the couch wearing the same clothes he chased us in. He doesn't greet us. He just eyes us nervously and waits for one of us to speak first. I'm not up to the task. Neither are Taylor and Lynda. We all wait for Mom to break the ice, but of course she turns to me. She knows no reconciliation will occur until I start talking. Strange that it should all depend on me, Dad's least favorite kid – the kid who isn't really his kid. Was that why he never cared – because he sensed I wasn't his? Or did he know it outright?

What the hell should I say to him?

Only one thing comes to mind.

"Hi."

A single word that I hope will evoke a response. And it does – a non verbal one. He covers his face with his hands and hangs his head in abject shame. I should feel empowered sseeing him like that, but instead I feel anxious. With his eyes hidden I won't be able to tell if his mood changes.

"Aren't you going to say 'Hi' back?" Taylor taunts.

Dad starts to cry. "I'm sorry. God I'm so sorry," he sobs. My paranoia about his concealed eyes gives way to embarrassment, and then to anger, because I don't know why I should give a damn about his tears.

I guess Taylor is embarrassed by the sight of him crying too, because he chooses this moment to turn and bolt up the stairs. I know where he's heading. So does Mom. "Taylor don't! Please!" she yells. But she doesn't chase after him, Lynda and I do. When we get to Marky's room we find him standing next to Marky's bed with a blank expression on his face. He has already pulled the cover off the body and is holding one corner of it in his hand. The body is a horrible sight. Marky's face is battered almost beyond recognition. What did Dad use on him? His fists? His feet? One of his golf clubs? Mom was right to tell us not to look.

I grab the sheet out of Taylor's hand and cover my late older brother again. "Out!" I order my two surviving siblings. "Now!"

Lynda runs to the bathroom and starts retching. Taylor, looking shell shocked, staggers out into the hallway. I follow him and close the door behind us.

"Where am I going to sleep now?" Taylor asks, staring blankly at the closed door. "I can't sleep in there anymore."

"You can sleep with me and Lynda until everything gets straightened out."

"Okay," he says, and heads straight to my bedroom.

Finished with her heaving, Lynda exits the bathroom.

"Feel better?"

She nods. "I want to lie down."

"Good idea."

Taylor didn't bother to turn on the lights, but enough light slips in from the hallway for me to see him curled up in a fetal position on my bed, still wearing his jacket and sneakers and still clutching his knife. I consider yanking his shoes off but I'm certain the damn will break and he'll scream if I do, so I leave him be.

"You get some sleep too," I tell Lynda. Lynda nods. She puts her knife on the night table between our beds, takes off her jacket and tosses it on the rocking chair in the corner. "Where are you gonna sleep?" she asks, pulling off her shoes.

"Don't worry. I'll find a place."

Lynda lies down on her stomach and buries her face in her pillow. I turn off the lights.

"It's gonna be okay Lynda."

By the time I return to the living room Dad has regained his composure. He's still hanging his head but he's not sobbing anymore. Mom, teary-eyed now, sits next to him on the couch.

I sit down in one of the armchairs and place my knife on the small table next to it. "Taylor and Lynda are in my room sleeping," I tell them. "Taylor's really messed up. You can forget about him ever sleeping in his room again now that he's seen Marky."

Now Mom hangs her head. The sight of them both sitting there that way suddenly infuriates me.

"Look at me!" I shout.

They look up.

"Tell me what you were thinking! What was going on in your heads?"

Mom and Dad exchange pained looks.

"Well?"

Mom speaks first. "I hated you kids. All of you. For being young. For having your whole lives ahead of you. For using up so much of mine. All of a sudden it seemed like, just by being alive, you were destroying me, and the only way I could survive was by killing you. When it first came over me Marky was the only one nearby, so I attacked him. He knocked me down and . . . I'm sure Taylor and Lynda told you the rest."

"And you?" I ask Dad.

"Same here," he mutters. "All of a sudden I hated . . ." his voice trails off. He looks puzzled.

"All of a sudden you hated who?"

"I . . . I hated your brothers and sister. I wanted to kill them. But . . . but not you. I didn't even think of you. I wonder why."

So he doesn't know!

Mom looks stricken. I don't blame her. If Dad ever finds out the truth she's dead. He would never forgive her for sleeping with Uncle Wayne and having his child. Who would?

"Maybe whatever drove everyone crazy tonight didn't affect you as much," I suggest.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe."

"That must be it," Mom says.

Even though I know it won't help matters any, and might even make things worse, I can't help pointing out the obvious.

"Funny how I should be the only one you didn't want to kill Dad. I've never been your favorite kid."

Dad nods glumly. "I know. And . . . I want to thank you for looking after your brother and sister tonight. They never would have survived without you."

I've spent my whole life wanting to have some worth in his eyes. Now that I finally do I couldn't care less. "Marky's the one who saved them," I say cruelly. "What are you going to do about his body? I know the police, medical examiners and funeral directors are gonna be overwhelmed for the next few weeks, maybe even the next few months, but it can't stay up there."

"I'll take care of Marky's remains," Dad says.

"How?"

"Never mind. Leave it to – "

"How?"

"Burial. In the back yard. Or maybe the park. There's no other option I can think of. If the police want to they can always . . . "

He doesn't finish the sentence. I finish it for him.

"Dig him up."

"Yeah."

Suddenly I have to get away from these two people. I know they're not morally responsible for what they did, that they were temporarily insane, but they still disgust me.

"I'm going to bed," I say, rising to my feet.

"How can the three of you sleep in that one room?"

"Lynda and I will share a bed."

"I'm going to sleep down here," Dad says. "You can sleep with your mother if you want to."

"I'd rather sleep in my room."

"Whatever you want honey," Mom says.

"I'll see you in the morning." I grab my knife and head for the stairs.

All the fear-induced adrenaline that kept me going tonight drains out of me as I brush my teeth in the bathroom. By the time I finish I feel like I can sleep for a thousand years. But it turns out that I'm not quite through with Mom yet. She appears in the bathroom doorway as I dry my hands.

"Thank you," she says.

"What for?"

"You know what for. For not enlightening your father about why he didn't want to kill you tonight."

"You mean for not enlightening your husband about my real dad," I counter. I hang the hand towel back on the rack.

"Don't say that. Your father's still your father. He's the one who raised you."

"Raised me to feel inferior. And you helped him. The fact that I am inferior makes the way you guys treated me even worse."

"You're not inferior Caril."

"What makes you say that all of a sudden? Because I protected Taylor and Lynda tonight?"

"Yes!"

Another wave of revulsion washes over me. I want to retreat to my room but now that I'm alone with Mom I just have to hear the story.

"So what happened with you and Uncle . . . Daddy Wayne?"

Mom shrugs. "I found out that your father cheated on me with one of my friends. So I cheated on him to get back at him."

"And never told him? What was the point of that?"

"I didn't have to tell him. Just doing it was enough revenge for me. And I chose Wayne because he was the man your father looked down on the most. It would have killed your father to find out I'd been with Wayne.

"Not finding out he was my dad before I went to his apartment almost killed me."

"I know. Sorry about that."

I shake my head in disbelief. "God, how could you have slept with that . . . guy?"

"Wayne was very different fourteen years ago. He wasn't a total head case yet. And he wasn't all that bad-looking either."

"That time I went with you to see him – you gave him money, right?"

"Yes."

"He was blackmailing you?"

"Yes."

"I knew it. I mean, I knew you were paying him, I just didn't know what for."

"Well now you know. Are you mad that I told you?"

"No. Not at all. It's not like I've lost anything by finding out." I mean that as a put down of Dad, but Mom doesn't get it.

"We've all lost something tonight Caril," she says solemnly.

No shit Sherlock. "See you in the morning Mom," I say abruptly. I take my knife and beat it to my room. Without turning on the lights, I close the door and lock it. I give my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dark, then pull the rocking chair over to the door. Dumping Lynda's jacket on the floor, I place the back of the chair against the door and sit down. I know I'd be a lot more comfortable if I curled up on my bed with Lynda, but this is the only way I'll be able to have enough peace of mind to go to sleep. After briefly contemplating the dangers of sleeping with an edged weapon in my hand, I drop my knife onto Lynda's jacket and close my eyes. I expect my mind to be instantly flooded with horrific images of tonight's mayhem, but instead I see Marky's handsome, scowling face.

"You should take that knife out of Taylor's hand too," he admonishes me. "If it's dangerous for you to sleep with one it's dangerous for him."

"No, no," I whisper. "If I do he'll scream. I know he will."

Marky shakes his head contemptuously.

And then I fall asleep.

EPILOGUE

I can't believe I actually went to school today, only two months after The Night of The Parents. I know the authorities are trying to get everything back to normal – but school? Needless to say, my classes were nearly devoid of students since the student body has been decimated. And the ones who did show up didn't learn squat. The teachers, many of them parents, could barely look the kids in the eye – even the substitutes. And we could barely look at them. I know I should give them credit just for showing up, but all I could think about as I listened to them drone on was all the dead kids I saw that night.

Nothing more happened that night after I holed up in my room with Taylor and Lynda. No surprise attack from Mom and Dad, no nightmare screams from my siblings, nothing. No, wait – actually something did happen, even though I wasn't aware of it. Sometime during the night Dad buried Marky in Squibb Park, in the same clearing where we met the other survivor kids. Dad's not the only parent who buried a child in the park. Hundreds of parents did. I was right about the authorities being overwhelmed by the number of dead. Even with the makeshift morgues set up in schools and senior centers, there still weren't enough places to put the bodies. So Squibb Park, like all the parks throughout the country, became an unofficial cemetery.

In the following weeks it was determined that the slaughter was indeed a global event, and that a third of the world's children were killed. Another third were badly injured. The remaining third, the "lucky" ones, were, of course, severely traumatized. At first, everyone thought the same thing I did – that the madness was the result of a terrorist plot. Thank God World War Three didn't break out. I guess there was still some international communication going on despite all the violence – enough for everyone to deny responsibility.

So what was the cause? So far nobody knows. The world's scientists still haven't solved the mystery. No surprise there: many of them were or still are parents, so they're not a hundred percent focused on their work. The same is true of the people in all the other professions. Things are getting done at a very slow pace because most adults are still in mourning.

As for the surviving kids, they're not so much in mourning as in a state of total fury. As a result there's been a tremendous increase in juvenile crime – everything from truancy to vandalism to murder. Many kids still refuse to go home to their parents. Some have moved in with childless adult relatives. Others live in parks and alleys and empty lots, in makeshift kid communities called "bratvilles", where the smaller, weaker kids are often victimized by the older, stronger ones. So far the authorities have allowed these communities to exist, probably because the police are still too overwhelmed to shut them down. But the day is coming when America's angry, traumatized, battle-scarred kids are going to be forced to go home, for their own good.

I wish I could say there's been an upside to what happened, but I can't. There's been no upside, not even on a personal level. Marky's death hasn't strengthened my family in any way or brought us any closer together. Taylor is a total wreck. Taking the life of another human being at such a young age and seeing the condition of his brother's corpse have damaged him irrepairably. He hardly ever talks anymore, and he refused to go to school today, not that that really matters. Lynda isn't doing much better. She talks to me and Mom the same as before, but she's completely shut out Dad. And she still has neck problems. As for my parents, they're trying their best, and I've forgiven them, but the fear and mistrust are still there and probably always will be. They both have a newfound respect for me, but so what? Like I said before, I couldn't care less. Why should I? It won't bring Marky back.

Some child -- kindergarten age, judging from the quality of the artwork – has made a chalk drawing on the sidewalk right in front of the entrance to Squibb Park, the same entrance my siblings and I used on The Night Of The Parents. It consists of two stick figures, one a girl – I can tell by the triangle skirt – the other a boy. There's a white cloud and a yellow sun above them. Looking at the drawing I'm suddenly moved to tears at the thought of the child artist who created it. He (or she?) obviously survived the slaughter with enough intellect to create the drawing. I wonder who he is, where he is, and how he's doing. The drawing looks very cheerful, but is it because the little artist was happy when he made it, or traumatized into psychosis?

I step around the drawing and approach the entrance. Can I actually enter the park this time? If so it will be the first time since that night. I've tried to go in several times before, each time with the intention of visiting Marky's grave, but each time I froze. Can I finally work up the nerve now?

"Get off me!"

A boy's voice. High pitched. Pre-adolescent. Angry.

Instinctively I step back from the entrance and duck behind the stone wall, out of view. A few seconds later a tall, brawny blonde man exits the park dragging a dirty, disheveled boy of about ten by his arm. There is a definite physical resemblance between the two. Father and son.

"You're coming home!" the father shouts.

"So you can try to kill me again?" the boy replies. "Go to hell!"

A bratville boy being forced to go home – forced by the father who tried and failed to kill him. Watching them, I'm suddenly overcome with rage. I rush forward and grab the father's free arm.

"Leave him alone!"

The father doesn't miss a step. "He's my son and he's coming home!" he bellows, pulling both of us along.

"No he's not!"

That's when the boy makes his move. He draws up his left leg and kicks downward at his father's right shin. The father cries out and stumbles but manages to keep his grip. The boy kicks him again. This time the father trips and starts to fall. I pull back on his arm to keep from falling with him, and as I do the boy pulls away and breaks free.

"Run!" I shout.

The boy runs right back into the park. I hold on tightly to his father's arm.

"Let go you little bitch!" he shouts. He tries to turn and run after his son, but I hold him back. "I just want him to come home!"

"He doesn't have a home anymore!" I shriek.

The father slaps me across the face. I let go of his arm and fall to the sidewalk, stunned.

"Yes he does! He still does, no matter what he thinks!" With that the father turns and chases after his son.

Slowly I get to my feet. An old, African American woman riding one of those motorized scooter chairs rolls by and stops.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"If you say so." She rolls away.

I brush off the back of my pants. For a long time I just stand there, my heart pounding, not sure what to do or even where to go, until finally my uncertainty makes me start walking to the only place I know I'll have to return to eventually – the place I used to consider home.

###
