I knew now why Toby had been screaming. The man was wearing what looked like a gas mask-an antique, rusted device that covered the lower part of his face and stretched over his shoulder to a tank on his back, like the ones worn by divers. He wheezed noisily through the ancient contraption as if he was having an asthma attack. Peering over the top of the mask, like two raisins set into rancid porridge, were his eyes, and the way they stared at me made me want to curl up and die.
It took me a few moments to notice the frail, shaking body of Toby on the floor beneath one of the men in black. He stared at me with a look of pure terror, his eyes wide, pleading for me to help him. I didn't know what to do, I didn't even know who the men were. Taking another look at the shriveled figure by the window, I found myself praying for the familiar uniforms of the police, not this freak show of gas masks and goliaths.
"Nice of you to join us, Alex," said the huge, black-suited man who was standing above Toby. His face was a mirror image of the others', only with what looked like a small mole on his chin. His voice too was indistinguishable from those I had already heard, like distant thunder.
"It looks like everybody here knows my name," I said, the words coming out of my mouth before I even knew I was speaking. Despite the terror that rooted me to the spot, I was determined not to give these men the satisfaction of seeing my fear. "If I'd known there was a party here tonight I would have brought some cake."
To my surprise, the men all chuckled at my joke-a noise so deep that it made the remaining glass in the window vibrate. It was the most terrifying sound I'd ever heard.
"We wanted to surprise you," the man continued.
"Well then, arrest me-arrest us," I said, just waiting to get out of that room. "You've caught us red-handed; take us down to the station and we'll confess."
The same grating laughter that set my teeth on edge. When it had finished, the giant man turned to his smaller friend as if awaiting a command. Seconds rolled past while the freak in the gas mask studied me and Toby, then he turned his dark eyes to me and nodded.
"What?" I asked, desperate to know what was going on. "What the hell does that guy want?"
"He wants you to say goodbye to your friend," the man continued. I shook my head, the fear and confusion churning in my stomach. Were they just going to take me and not Toby?
"What?" I repeated. Toby was no longer looking at me, but was staring at the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably.
"They've got guns with silencers," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "They're not police, Alex."
I didn't understand what Toby had said until the giant man opened his suit jacket to reveal a holstered pistol tucked beneath his armpit. For a second, I felt the world spin as if I was about to pass out, and by the time I'd regained my composure the man had pulled out the silenced handgun and was pointing it at me.
"Last chance to say goodbye," he said.
I looked at Toby, wanting this nightmare to end, thinking about the things I'd never be able to do if the man pulled the trigger, thinking about how much I'd miss my friends, how much I loved my family. All lost because of greed. It was so stupid! I couldn't control my emotions anymore and tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision. All I could see was the outline of the man, and the black shadow that was his gun.
"Goodbye, Toby," I said through sobs. "I'm sorry."
"Alex," was all I heard of his reply. Then the black shadow moved, sweeping downward and emitting a low pop that was barely audible against the laughter that once again filled the room. I tried to blink the tears from my eyes, not quite believing what I'd seen. But when my vision had cleared I realized there was no escaping what had just happened.
Toby lay motionless, his eyes blank, the carpet beneath his body the same horrible color as the wound in his head.
It seemed like hours before anyone moved again. It felt as if the connection between my brain and my body had been severed, turning every limb numb. I wanted to feel anger, hatred, sorrow, anything, but all I could do was stare at my friend, at the body that would never move again-a corpse with one dirty shoe. My legs finally gave way and I sank to my knees.
"Catch," came the booming voice. The giant man tossed the gun to me and I reached out instinctively, grabbing it by the handle and staring at it in shock. For a second, I pointed it at the black-suited brute, but I'd barely held a toy gun before, let alone a real one, and quickly tossed it to the floor.
"Now, if I were you, Alex, I'd make a run for it," he continued. "I mean, you've just broken into a house, stolen a load of cash, and shot your best friend in the head in cold blood. The police aren't gonna like you one little bit, so why don't you put those sneakers to good use and run."
I couldn't respond, I didn't know what he was talking about. But suddenly I felt an enormous pair of hands grip me under my arms and hoist me effortlessly to my feet. The same hands turned me around and pushed me roughly toward the front door, which had been unlocked and opened.
"Good luck, Alex," came the voice from behind me. "Run as hard as you can, or sit and cower outside. Either way we'll see you real soon."
I turned and saw the face of the man in black break into a monstrous smile-all teeth and slitted eyes. Then I took one last look at Toby, at rest on his crimson bed, and bolted out into the rain.
ON THE RUN
WHAT'S THE MOST SCARED you've ever been? Maybe at night, after a horror film, lying under your blankets convinced there's a monster in the room. Or one day in the city when you were younger, realizing you've lost sight of your mom and dad. Perhaps face-to-face on the playground with someone who wants to beat the living crap out of you.
Multiply those feelings by a million and you get me on a dark, wet night, running as fast as I could on the slippery streets to escape the people who'd shot my best friend. I didn't know which direction I was heading in, I just needed to get as far away from that house as possible, and I ran until my legs felt like they were made of lead, until my lungs were on fire and my heart stuttered and stammered like it was about to give out.
Then I collapsed by the side of the road, my wheezing sobs so loud that people in the nearby houses actually pulled back their curtains to see what was going on. But nobody came out to help me, and I didn't blame them. When you've committed a few crimes, something about you changes. It's like you've been marked with a tattoo that only other people can see, and it makes them wary so that they cross the street to avoid you. Even now, as helpless as a newborn baby, my tears conspiring with the rain to soak my jeans, I knew I was alone.
And I also knew that I couldn't stay out in the open. If what that man had said was true, then they were trying to frame me for murder. And that wasn't just a slapped wrist or a month or two in juvie, that was life in prison-in Furnace, with its pits and its punishments and its pain.
Pushing to my feet, I looked at the road sign to get my bearings, realizing that my school wasn't too far from here. I took a deep, shuddering breath and started jogging again, making my way down Brian Avenue and across an abandoned Trafford Road into the row houses that ran along the back of Eastmark High. Toby, Brandon, and I had snuck into school this way countless times to play soccer on the field.
I realized that Toby would never play soccer again, and the thought was like a punch to the gut. But I fought back the tears, tried to push the image of my dead friend from my mind as I cut through an overgrown garden and climbed over the worn fence into the dark, deserted field beyond.
I didn't learn the word irony until much later, but I guess it was ironic that I ended up walking across the slick grass to the jungle gym, which rose from the wispy layer of predawn mist like the rusted hull of some ghost ship. It was here that everything had started to go wrong.