Only slowly did the rest of the world make its way back into my consciousness. By then, I was already drawing myself up, drawing myself out of that last punch and into the movements of my final salutation. I gathered myself again into the front position, my feet together, my arms up in front of me, my right fist covered by my left hand just beneath my chin. Power through self-discipline. I was done.
That was when I heard them, saw them: the students and teachers in the auditorium. They were on their feet, all of them. They were clapping as hard as they could. Some of the guys were hammering the air with their fists. Some of the girls had covered their mouths with their hands. And then all of them were clapping and screaming and cheering as I stood in front of them, bringing my breath under control.
I let my eyes shift to the right, just a little, just enough to get a glimpse of her. Beth had covered her open mouth with both hands. For another second or two, her eyes remained wide with fear and horror, as if she were still waiting to see what would happen when I struck the block. But now she let the hands fall. She took a deep breath of relief. She laughed. The fear and horror went out of her eyes and something else came into them, something I can’t describe but could feel flowing through me like a warm river.
Then Beth was applauding too, shaking her head with amazement and laughing and applauding, taking her eyes from me to look at Marissa and Tracy and shaking her head at them in amazement just as they were shaking their heads at her right back.
Slowly, I let my hands drop from front position to hang at my sides. I nodded my head sheepishly to acknowledge the cheers.
Nice going, Harley-Charlie, I thought to myself.
The audience went on clapping and cheering, and Beth went on clapping and cheering for a good long time, it seemed like.
It was just a day, you know. Just another ordinary September day. But I remembered now-it flashed through my mind: that moment-that moment standing on the stage while Beth and everybody clapped and cheered-which was, I have to admit, one of the coolest moments of my life so far.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Black Square Now that moment seemed a lifetime ago-an impossible lifetime that had somehow vanished into nothingness- there in a flash and just as suddenly gone. Beth was gone and my friends and my school and Principal Woodman and my moment of glory-all of it, the whole world I knew, the only world I knew, was gone, and the only cinder blocks around were in the walls of this prison hallway. There was nothing else-nothing I could make sense of- except the pain racking my body and the stampede of footsteps as the guards closed in on me-and that black square, that one black square of hope, coming closer up ahead.
I ran for the black square. I told myself again it was a window that had been painted over. It had to be a window. What else could it be?
It didn’t matter. I had to believe there was a way out. I had no other choice. The footsteps behind me were getting louder and louder, closer and closer, and I could hear shouts and curses now and a deep growl of a voice giving the order to “Go, go, go, get him, go, go, go!”
I ran as hard as I could, drove toward the black square, stretching my legs, pumping my arms, putting aside the pain that burned like fire in every part of my body. That black square: It was just like the cinder block at school, I told myself. It was no different from the cinder block. I just had to drive my mind through it, drive my mind straight through to the other side of it. Then my body would follow. At least I hoped it would.
The square kept looming larger as I kept getting closer, but still-still-I couldn’t see-couldn’t be sure- if it was a window or just some black paint slopped onto the surface of the concrete.
I was almost there, just a few strides away. I glanced back over my shoulder. For another half second the hall was empty-empty except for the big lump of chunky thug still lying unconscious on the floor where I had dropped him.
Then the guards came careering around the corner. I caught a glimpse of the first two-two men-dark, Middle Eastern-looking-both dressed the same, dressed the same as I was in black pants and a white shirt. They were carrying those machine guns, those automatic rifles you see on TV all the time: Kalashnikovs, they’re called-AK-47s. They were carrying them in their hands with the straps around their shoulders. As they spotted me, those first two guards dropped to their knees. They brought the rifles to bear. Two more men had already come around the corner behind them. They leveled their rifles also, pointing them at me above the heads of the first two. Four guns were trained on my back.
There was no more time to watch. I faced forward. The black square was now only a half step away. I threw myself at it headlong, full force.
The guards opened fire. Terror flashed through me. The stuttering coughs of the AKs seemed to drown out everything, every hope of survival, every thought of anything but death. Chips of concrete flew everywhere. My heart seized up at the stinging whine of ricochets. And then part of the black square shattered-a glass pane: it was a window after all!
The very next instant my body hit it. My arms were crossed over my face, my head was turned away. I hit the black square with my shoulder, struck the window’s sash with jarring violence. The sash snapped and gave way.
There was a long, tumbling moment of fear and singing bullets and the coughing Kalashnikovs and the breaking wood and glass.
Then I hit the ground-hard. The impact made my bones ache. Glass and wood rained down on top of me. Bullets whispered by overhead.
After the dark hall, the sunlight was blinding. The air was cool and fresh and filled my gasping lungs. I felt an unreasoning surge of hope and crazy joy. I was out-out of the prison-out in the open air!
But there was no time to think about that. Already I was rolling away from the window, fighting to lift myself to one knee. Already I heard more of those thunderous footsteps inside the building behind me, the prison I’d just broken out of. I heard more shouts: “Don’t let him get away! Let’s go-go!”
Dazed and stupid with panic, I knelt on the hard earth and looked around. I was in a broad compound of some sort. I saw gray barrack-style buildings. A fence with barbed wire on top. Guard towers rising against the forest behind them. Inside the towers: men with guns.
Somewhere, an alarm bell started ringing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw red lights begin to whirl and flash. I heard those guards shouting: “Get him!” Those thundering footsteps. The roar of an engine…
An engine. Where? My eyes wide with fear, I turned toward that roar. I saw a big old pickup truck bouncing over the rough ground near me. I caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. He seemed oblivious to the emergency unfolding around him. The alarm and shouts and whirling lights hadn’t reached him yet, hadn’t registered on his brain. He was still relaxed, steering the truck with one hand, leaning the other arm on the frame of the open window. The truck was heading toward a gate in the fence, the exit of the compound. The guards there were swinging the gate open to let him out. They were just now pausing, just now trying to figure out what all the noise and fuss were about.
All this I took in in a single second. In the next second, I had to act-had to act without even thinking.
I ran at the truck. Just as it passed me, I leapt at the window.
I caught hold of the window frame. The driver-a square-jawed white guy in his forties, maybe-turned to me in stunned surprise, his jaw dropping, his mouth a wide O.
There was no running board, nothing to rest my feet on. There was nothing I could do now but grip the frame of the open window and try to pull myself inside. With all the wild force of my terror, I yanked myself halfway through the window. I heard the driver curse. He swung the wheel. I felt the truck swerve hard, lifting up on one side. I clawed my way over him, into the cab.