Boys in the Valley(59)

Two smaller boys, Harry and George, begin to stagger and slow, trying desperately to keep up with the rest, but the boys chasing us are older, faster.

The dormitory doors are wide open. Panicked faces from inside beckon us to hurry. They can’t be more than twenty feet away, but it seems like twenty miles.

“Run!” I yell at Harry as I catch up to him and George. They’re both too big for me to carry, and the murderous screams behind us feel only inches away. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die.

George, who had a birthday only last week, trips. He hits the floor in a heap. I spare a look back and see two of the pursuers fall on him like wolves. Flashes of metal. Pumping arms. His screams are horrible.

I trip next.

I fall hard, hitting the floor with such force it feels I’ve dropped a hundred feet instead of five. My breath shoots out of me. I scramble to my hands and knees when a body crashes down onto my back, flattening me to the floor. Something hard and sharp is stabbed into my shoulder and I scream. I manage to twist partly around, panicked with the need to fight back—to survive—but whoever is on me is heavy, their knees planted on my back, my arm. I wait for a second thrust of the knife, perhaps to my head or neck. A killing stroke.

Then I hear a thump and the body is gone. Hands are pulling at me desperately, trying to get me off the ground, to stand. I look up to see Byron. There’s a spray of fresh blood on his face.

“Get up Peter.” He says it almost calmly, but his eyes are behind me, on those who still pursue us. I scramble to my feet, take a fleeting second to notice the meat hammer in his hand dripping blood, a clump of black hair mashed into its prongs.

Byron, who has now saved my life twice this day, is already running. I don’t hesitate to follow.

David is at the doors. He’s got one closed and stands holding the other, waving his hand at me and the boys in front of me, as I bring up the rear once more. “Hurry! They’re coming!”

The boys running ahead slip through the door. Byron is through.

Just me now.

I lunge through the opening and David slams it behind me, leans his weight against the doors. He turns and yells to me, to anyone. “Bar it!”

I look around frantically, then spot the iron cross on the floor by the wall, the same one which had hung over these doors for so many years. The one which had inexplicably fallen the night of the visitor, the night this all started.

I grab the cross, run back to David and slide it neatly between the arched, twisted iron handles of the two doors. I’m reminded of the broken shovel I saw in the foyer, knowing this cross is not nearly as fragile. It won’t be broken.

Almost immediately, bodies slam into the doors from the other side. Whoever is out there is shrieking like mad; making horrible, guttural, animal sounds. They punch and kick and push at the entry, but the doors hardly move thanks to the tightly wedged cross, barely fitting in the gap of each handle, the short arm hooking neatly over one grip, making it impossible to dislodge.

We all stare at the doors as the pounding slows, slows . . . then eventually stops.

There are voices. Whispers.

Finally, footsteps trail away, away . . .

And silence.

I look at the survivors we have with us. A rough count puts us at fifteen, give or take.

Minus those who fell.

I look for Byron, locate him sitting on a cot, bloody mallet between his legs, head bowed.

“Where’s Jonathan?” Finnegan asks.

David and I look at each other, each asking the other the same question.

Finnegan tugs my sleeve. There’s a strange look of humor on his face, as if we’re playing a joke on him. “Where’s my mate? Where’s Jonathan?”

Once again, I look around the room, praying to see the boy’s head, his smile, maybe waving a hand from behind a cot, laughing at how he got us. Got us good.

“He was right next to me,” Finn says, the humorous look turning slowly to confusion, then alarm. “He was right next to me . . .”

I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . I fell . . .”

Finnegan looks to the doors. The large, shining cross wedged in their handles.

“He can’t still be out there,” he says, voice breaking. He walks toward the doors, but David drops to a knee in front of him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Finnegan looks at David crossly, but warily, as if still unsure whether we’re all playing a cruel joke.

“We need to go get him,” he says.

“No, Finn. We can’t,” David replies, looking to me for help.

“But he’s out there!” Finnegan yells abruptly, realizing the worst has happened.

The others are watching the scene now, all eyes on the doors. On Finnegan.

Obviously, we all realize that they’re not biological siblings—not even related—but we also know, deep down, what we’re seeing: a twin who has lost his other half.

“Finnegan,” I say, and he spins on me, eyes red and wet with fresh tears.

“We need to go back!” he screams, his young, high-pitched voice breaking. “We need to get Jonathan! We need to get my friend!”

He runs for the doors, but David catches him, holds him tight as Finnegan fights against him, wailing and shrieking and calling out the name again and again.

“Jonathan!” he yells. “Jonathan, please! Jonathan!”