Dad was staring, eyes moving from Alyssa to Ben as if he were watching a tennis match.
Ben started screaming in that high-pitched monotone of his. He lashed out, and his fist hit the side of his own head with a thud. I reached for his arm, trying to stop him from hurting himself. When I touched his arm, he punched wildly. I jumped back, and his forearm swished through the air where my head had been. His foot connected with a tent, tearing away one of its ropes from the canvas. People shouted from within, and Ben fell, tripped by his own kick, arms and legs still wildly flailing.
Dad grabbed Ben, trying to hold him down. But Dad had trouble even getting a firm grip-Ben thrashed with the insane violence of a fish just tossed in the bottom of a boat. Plus, he was bigger than Dad.
Ben wasn’t exactly throwing a temper tantrum. It was too violent and uncontrolled for that. When he fell, he didn’t throw out his arms or protect his head. He never looked to see if we were watching-I doubted he was even aware of us by that point. He seemed utterly out of control.
Suddenly Alyssa was back. She threw herself on top of Ben. She was like a cowboy on a bull at a rodeo-it’d be a miracle if she survived eight seconds. “Let go of him!” she screamed. “Don’t touch him! It’ll make it worse.”
That seemed odd-she was lying on top of him. That didn’t count as touching? But I figured she knew her brother better than any of us, so I pulled Dad off Ben.
Alyssa clung to Ben. Her voice dropped to a measured whisper. “It’s okay, Ben. We’ll keep trying your plan. You need to calm down.”
Ben kept thrashing, almost throwing off Alyssa. I was afraid she’d get hurt. When my little sister had thrown temper tantrums, the moment she got what she wanted, the tantrum was over. This was different. Alyssa brushed her glove along Ben’s side, whispering at him in an impossibly calm voice.
Gradually Ben quieted. It took fifteen or twenty minutes more, but eventually Alyssa got off him, he stood up and brushed the snow off his clothing, and we went on as if absolutely nothing had happened.
I turned to my father. “One more night. Then I’m leaving, with or without your help.”
Dad’s only reply was a scowl.
We moved our ambush spot that night. I was so sick of chanting “This Little Piggy” that I thought I might puke. I tried “Hickory Dickory Dock” for a while, then switched to counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi. . five hundred Mississippi. . one thousand Mississipi. I figured it was taking me a second just to say the numbers at that point, so I dropped the Mississippis, too.
Sometime after 4 A.M.-I’d just reached 21,300 in my count-everything changed. A group of shadows slipped out from between the tents behind Alyssa. Then a hand reached around her face, clamping over her mouth.
Chapter 64
I burst from under the tent in an explosive lunge, reaching the closest of the attackers in seconds. Four black-clad shapes had surrounded Alyssa. One of them was turning my way. I swept his legs from under him with a round kick and hit him in the side of the head with a right backfist as he fell. Even as my backfist connected, I was reaching toward the next one with a left uppercut to the stomach and launching a sidekick at a third attacker.
Suddenly it was all over. Dad and his four prefects swarmed over the attackers. There were six of us and four of them, and we’d taken them by surprise from behind. They all went down. Someone produced a hank of rope and started tying their hands behind their backs.
“You okay?” I asked Alyssa.
“Y-y-yeah.” She was shaking.
I hugged her. “You did good,” I whispered.
“You, too.” Her cheeks were wet as she cried soundlessly.
The prefects had hauled all the bandits to their feet. Everyone seemed to be okay, other than some bruises.
“What will you do with them?” Alyssa asked Dad.
“Find out who they are. How they got into the camp. Figure out how to stop them-if we can.” We’d started walking back toward the center of camp, the tied bandits in tow.
“You think it’d be okay if I went to lie down?” Alyssa asked.
“Yeah, I think that’d be fine,” Dad replied.
I caught her hand and squeezed it. “You did good. You were brave.”
“I don’t feel brave. But thanks.”
Dad directed that each of the bandits be held separately. I followed him as he pushed one of the guys into a tent big enough to stand up in. After a moment we were joined by one of the prefects, Amy Jones, who took the shake light from Dad.
Dad stood behind the bandit, holding his bound arms. “Search him,” Dad ordered. It was strange to hear him giving orders-as if he’d been replaced by a different man who looked like my father. Amy was holding the flashlight, so it fell to me to do the search. I started at his neck, working my way down. When I patted the guy’s right ankle, I felt a long, slender shape under his pant leg.
He kicked without warning, aiming for my face. I got my hand between his foot and my head, but the force of the kick still knocked me backward. Dad hauled up on his arms so hard I heard his shoulders crack. The guy moaned, and Dad said, “Kick my son again, and I’ll break your arms off and ram them down your throat.”
The guy fell quiet, and I rolled back to my feet. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said.
“Get on with it,” Dad snapped.
I pulled up the bandit’s pant leg and extracted a wicked knife from its sheath. It was at least six inches long, with a blood gutter and evil-looking serrations along its spine.
Dad ripped off the bandit’s black ski mask. He was dirtier than we were, his unkempt black beard caked with filth, and his face streaked with dirt and ash. Up until then, I’d thought maybe the bandits were guards, up to some kind of mischief in their off time, but all the guards I’d seen were far cleaner than he was.
“All you got is a knife?” Dad asked.
The guy was silent.
“Which one of you is in charge?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you shee-it,” he replied with a cocky smile.
“Make sure he can’t kick you again,” Dad said to me.
I moved to the side, out of kicking range. Dad seized the guy’s pinkie in his fist and bent it sharply upward. It made a sickening snap as it broke, and the bandit screamed. I turned away. This was my father, the same guy who had never wanted to watch “CSI” on TV because it was too gory?
I heard a slap and looked back in time to see Dad pull his hand away from the side of the guy’s head. “Now quit screaming! What’s your name?”
“Shawn,” he gasped.
“You have any other weapons?”
“Ain’t allowed to bring no others.”
“Not allowed by who? Why? Who’s in charge?”
“I can’t-”
Dad grabbed his ring finger. This time he had to work to peel it away from Shawn’s fist. But it snapped as easily as the pinkie. Shawn screamed again. My chest heaved, and I tasted bile. “You’ve got eight more chances to tell me,” Dad stated. The calmness of his voice terrified me, and I wasn’t the one having my fingers broken.
“Cody. . Cody’s in charge.” Shawn was panting. “Can’t bring guns in, case this happens and you get ’em.”
“Where are you all from?”
“I was in Anamosa when the volcano blew.”
“And now?”
Shawn hesitated, and Dad started peeling his middle finger off his fist. “Quit!” he yelled. “Iowa City!”
“So you’re in one of the prison gangs?”
