Spoiler
RECAP:
After the death of his father, Dwight Markos and his mother move to a small town on the gulf of Alabama. It's not exactly clear why yet. Dwight doesn't like it here, and Sally (Dwight's still-grieving mother) is usually too drunk or simply too apathetic to care. At his new school (a private joint called Saint Michael's, run by the ever-absent Frederick Lovelace) Dwight's been seeing things. Shadows in the corner of his eye, a red-eyed man standing on the roof. Hellish things. He thinks he's going insane. He hopes he's going insane.
After the death of his father, Dwight Markos and his mother move to a small town on the gulf of Alabama. It's not exactly clear why yet. Dwight doesn't like it here, and Sally (Dwight's still-grieving mother) is usually too drunk or simply too apathetic to care. At his new school (a private joint called Saint Michael's, run by the ever-absent Frederick Lovelace) Dwight's been seeing things. Shadows in the corner of his eye, a red-eyed man standing on the roof. Hellish things. He thinks he's going insane. He hopes he's going insane.
IV
Here and now, Dwight Markos sighed onto the window, now foggy with his breath. The waters of the gulf (though now muted and almost indiscernible from his side of the glass) were still and silent, a heart between beats. He'd been sitting here for almost thirty minutes now. School had let out almost an hour ago, and the campus had emptied. It was almost funny. For some reason, he'd expected his mother might actually show up today. No dice. Looked like another five mile walk back to the condo.
Or maybe not. Was that his mother's car, pulling up into the parking lot down below? No. Still no dice. The car, its red paint fading, pulled up into the school's lot. It stopped, quite carelessly and quite crookedly, into one of the many empty parking spots. Dwight knew enough about cars to know that the vehicle was a good deal old. Had to be a thing of the eighties, maybe even the seventies.
Behind him, voices and footsteps suddenly started and grew louder.
"Damn it," was the first thing he heard. "He's here. Shit, I can feel it! I can literally feel that -"
"Calm down," said another voice. Dwight recognized that voice. "We'll take care of it. We always do. Who knows? He might make a good recruit. A coach maybe."
It was Alexander and his band of merry men. Six foot two, bespectacled, and as skinny as a stick with an eating disorder, Alexander was known throughout Saint Michael's as a boy who was and always would be a thing not to be screwed with. It wasn’t that he was physically imposing or even aggressive. The simple fact of the matter seemed to be that Alexander (whose last name was deemed mostly unpronounceable due to Russian ancestry or something like that) was as cold and cruel a human being that had ever walked on this earth. That was according to the stories and oh, had Dwight heard stories. He’d heard about how old ‘xander had stuck a fire cracker in a puppy’s mouth at a New Year’s Eve party, and his boys had laughed and called it a good joke. It had been their last Christmas party, and the boys had shown very little interest in more invitations. Dwight had never liked them. Honestly, he felt sick at his stomach whenever any of them were around. Alexander was the worst of the bunch, there was no doubt in Heaven or Hell about that, but it was clear they were all a few wheels short of a car.
And speaking of cars…
“He’s here, man,” McCauley was saying. For a moment, Dwight thought he sensed actual fear in that voice. “We need a plan, or something. He’s coming. He’s almost here.”
“How close?” Even from the other end of the hall, Alexander sounded impatient. Dwight had no intention to be around when they finally showed up, but his curiosity was more than piqued.
Dwight rubbed his fog off the window to get a better look at the red car and its driver. The vehicle itself was still in the same place, but its owner (of whom Dwight had failed to catch a proper glimpse of) was gone.
“I dunno how close,” said McCauley. “Maybe he’s here already. Maybe he’s just on his way. You know I’m not good at this.”
“Wow, McCauley,” said Jasper. “You’re not very useful, are ya?”
“Shut up before I - ”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” said Alexander, and all other conversation ceased. Dwight turned his eyes back to the hallway. Any second now, the three psychos would turn a corner and face him directly. He stood up, ready to leave before they got to him first. “We get up behind him, slit his throat, and all’s well that ends well.”
“Lovelace won’t like that,” said McCauley.
“Lovelace can blow me.”
Dwight's heart skipped a beat. He knew these guys were crazy, crazier than him even, but now they were talking about murder. Actual murder, like it was nothing. Dwight made a break for the door.
He walked fast, slinging his book-bag over his shoulder. He opened the door, felt his heart pounding faster as he noticed the boys’ conversation had stopped. He felt a warm breeze hit his face, all the more racking when an ice-cold hand wrapped around his neck, finger nails digging into his jugulars. Before he could gasp, before he could even think, he was being yanked backwards. He lost his balance and fell (was thrown) down on the hard floor.
“Well, looky look here, buddy boys.” Alexander’s voice sounded casual, almost friendly. “Looks like this naughty little boy’s been dropping some eaves.”
The wind had been knocked out of him, and every breath was a hard-fought battle. The feeling that so ruled his life, that feeling of coldness and dislocation, tickled at the back of his head like a rat burrowing into a wall. He barely even noticed the pain.
“What we gonna do?” asked Jasper. The three boys were standing over him like three lions about to fight over an antelope.
“Just leave him,” said McCauley. “Just a kid. Can’t do nothing.”
“A kid who heard me,” said Alexander. “Go on, sonny, tell daddy what you heard. Was it a bad word? I’m so sowwy you had to hear.”
Dwight said nothing. He was going over escape attempts in his brain. Throw the bag at Alexander’s face, kick Jasper in the balls and run away leaving McCauley looking dumb-struck as ever. In a movie, that would’ve worked just fine. But now, seeing the knife that Alexander pulled out of his pocket, things didn’t seem quite as simple. The boy with the glasses switched the knife out of its cell, the killing metal gleaming as a ray of sunlight from the window hit it.
“Maybe daddy should just cut out your widdle tongue so you don’t repeat Daddy's bad, bad word,” Alexander’s mouth formed into a hideous grin. “Come here, little lamb. Daddy’ll take care of you. Daddy’ll take care of you real good."
