Boys in the Valley(71)

Something cold and syrupy-thick spills onto Johnson’s head, onto the mask, from above. It seeps through the cloth, instantly soaks his hair, slides across his scalp, leaks down his temples, into his eyes. It reaches his lips. He opens his mouth and licks his top lip, wanting to taste it. It’s bitter.

The boys are all murmuring louder. Their chant mixes with the sound of the swarm and Johnson is blinking away the oil and he badly wants to stay inside this dark place forever because it feels safe, like a mother’s womb, like a lover’s embrace.

“Watch now,” Bartholomew says.

Johnson sees the dark, distorted shape of Bartholomew stand. The light in his hand diminishes, then grows bright. It fills his eyes!

Pain explodes as the lantern smashes into his head. The oil catches rapidly and blazes against his skin. In a matter of seconds, the fire eats away his hair, his eyes, his lips.

Johnson screams! He leaps to his feet, slaps his head. The flesh of his fingers and palms become singed, the skin blisters and burns. He pulls them away, still screaming, panic and fear and pain bursting through every nerve, boiling his blood.

He runs, directionless, wanting to be anywhere but with this pain—desperate to get away from the flames.

He slams face-first into a wall and is knocked backward. Sharp edges and hard blows begin punching his back, his hips, his arms. He is spinning, knocking into unseen objects and shrieking in desperation, crying out madly from the pain.

Everyone around him is also screaming, but these are screams of laughter, of hysterical joy. God, there are so many voices!

And the swarm swells like a mighty host behind his scalded eyes and it begins to sing—a jubilant, buzzing chorus made of a thousand shrieking voices, rising to a maddening crescendo as he burns.





44


I KNOCK LIGHTLY AT THE DORMITORY DOORS, HOLDING my breath. I can’t quit looking behind me toward the long, empty hallway. I wonder what happened to the bodies of those that fell on our mad run only hours ago. George. Jonathan.

Andrew stands beside me, looking apprehensive.

After our return from the barn, he insisted on going to the chapel once more. I waited at the bottom of the stairs, too terrified to go with him and wanting an escape route—either up the stairs or out the front doors—if attacked.

When Andrew re-entered the foyer, he carried a heavy-looking crozier, the top hooked into a flat spiral, the design supported by heavy knobs welded into the staff. It’s taller than Andrew and appears to be made of iron, or some dark metal, although the top—that strange spiral—is painted dull gold. A good weapon for a priest, I suppose, if that’s his intention.

Standing at the barred doors, waiting for the blasted kids to answer, I’m glad he has it.

Finally, a voice comes from the other side.

“Who is it?”

David.

“It’s me and Andrew. Open the damn . . .” I sense Andrew turn his head toward me, and steady my voice. “Open the doors, please.” I finish.

Several muffled voices talk at once. The sound of metal sliding away. One of the doors is pulled open, and David stands there. Behind him are several boys, including Byron.

All of them are armed.

I push through and Andrew follows.

“Anyone ch-ch-chasing you?” Timothy asks. He’s got a folding ruler in his hands.

“Where did you get that?” I ask, slightly amused.

He looks abashed, turns to David, who answers for him.

“We raided the classroom for, uh . . .” He looks to Andrew, who raises his eyebrows but says nothing. “Well, weapons. To defend ourselves.”

“A smart idea, David,” Andrew says. “As you can see, I raided the priest’s cabinet.” He holds forth the crozier, and a few of the boys nod, some wide-eyed, as if seeing something holy in our crummy dormitory is somehow awe-inspiring. Andrew reaches into a pouch of his cassock and pulls out a glass vial, covered in spun silver, a cork stopper at the top. Part of the silver is woven into a cross.

Holy water.

“No offense, Father,” David says. “But what’s water good for against knives and hammers?’

Andrew inspects the bottle a moment, as if considering. “Well,” he says, smiling at all the boys in turn. “Can’t hurt, right?” I’m not surprised to see a few of us nodding.

“Did you gather anything else?” Andrew asks, tucking the blessed water away. “Besides the ruler, I mean.”

David shakes his head. “Some pencils. A globe stand that might make a good head-knocker if push comes to shove. Harry found a letter opener, I think.”

David leans in closer, lowers his voice. “Honestly, the place I really want to raid is the kitchen. These kids are hungry. Starving. We haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that wasn’t much to begin with. Even for this place.”

I agree, and for the first time since the horrid memorial service I realize how hungry I am.

You get used to it after a while: the hunger. It becomes part of you. Familiar. You only really notice it after you’ve had a decent meal, and then time passes, and your body wants more. But there’s nothing more to be had. Most of the time, though, it’s there, inside you, festering and gnawing at your guts. Hearing David talk about food makes the craving inside me heighten its attack. It feels like my stomach is being folded in half, then wrung like wet laundry.