Or a sign of something worse?
The sign of a world going into the shitter, that’s what. It’s breaking out everywhere now…random violence, bloodshed, savagery. And, for once, old boy, you don’t need to turn on CNN to see it: because it’s HERE. It’s in the STREETS…
Shore hopped into his Jeep and buried his head in his hands.
He sat there like that for maybe ten minutes and then just stared out into the deserted parking lot. There were a few police vehicles there, but that was about it. He was thinking about what Ray Hansel had been telling him as the State Police CSI unit combed through the wreckage, about the violence not only at the school but in the town as well. So much of it in one day that it made even the most skeptical onlooker more than a bit nervous. Was there an underlying cause to it all as Hansel had suggested? Was there a pattern very much evident, but one they could not see because it did not fit the usual parameters? And probably the worst and most unthinkable thing of all, was it possible, as Hansel had hinted at, that this was only the beginning of something much larger?
Would this infection of violence gut the world?
Shore shook his head.
Too much, too much. His head was beginning to hurt from it all. There had been a nasty headache threatening all day and now it was coming, landing hard in his head with reinforcements.
He dug a bottle of Ibuprofen from the glove compartment and chewed a few tablets up, washed it all down with a swig of coffee from this morning that had been sitting in the Jeep all day. It was awful tasting, but he did not notice. He fumbled a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and blew smoke out through his nostrils.
He felt so…helpless.
So utterly helpless.
He’d been principal at Greenlawn High for nearly eleven years, before that assistant principal and guidance counselor. This school was his school and he did not like the idea that he could do absolutely nothing. That this was all in the hands of others, most of them with no true personal interest in the school, the kids, their combined impact on the community at large. He felt like he was giving up without a fight.
He unrolled his window the rest of the way and stared up at the school.
Two stories of red brick that had been standing since 1903, right on the spot where the old schoolhouse-tall and narrow, whitewashed clapboard with a rising belfry-had been until it burned to the ground in the winter of ’01. He thought of all the classes that had passed through those high, arched doors, the class pictures that had been taken out in the grassy courtyard. All the football games and track meets that had been held in the athletic field behind. He could almost hear the cheering and laughter, the boom of drums and thunder of the high school band. Yes, he could smell autumn in the air, leaves and bonfires and apples.
That’s what it was all about, he suddenly knew.
Tradition.
It was all about tradition.
And those goddamn kids in Biolab had taken that all away.
Not just from Shore himself, but from the whole goddamn town and the generations that had yet to set foot in the school. Those kids had tarnished that and it would never be the same again. For the next hundred years, maybe, if the school stood that long and the world was still turning, kids would be telling stories of that terrible day. Horror stories. That was the ultimate legacy of this day, this Friday the 13 ^ th, grist for horror stories.
Shore felt the headache building in his skull. Fucking kids, he thought. What the hell were they thinking? What the hell came over them? How dare they do something like this, turn my school into a goddamn sideshow!
The headache amplified and Shore actually cried out, pressing his hands to his temples. The cigarette fell from his lips and landed on the seat between his legs, burning a hole there, but he neither noticed nor cared. The pain passed and he swore under his breath. He was actually hoping that none of those little shitting monsters from 5 ^ th hour Biolab was ever found. He hoped they did the right thing and threw themselves into the deepest, darkest hole they could find and pulled the dirt in after them. Hell, yes. Let the evil of this day die with them and then nobody would point their fingers at Greenlawn High, they’d just speculate and speculate and finally accept the fact that those kids were all fucked-up on drugs.
Shore smiled at the idea.
He started the Jeep and threw it in reverse, then drive, coasting it slowly through the parking lot. He lit another cigarette and brushed the burning one on the seat to the floor. He pulled around behind the building, taking the circle drive, so he could take a good long look at his school.
He liked to see it.
It made him feel good inside, important maybe.
Necessary.
This was his territory.
His.
As he came around the corner, passing through the faculty lot, he decided he had better not see any of those damn dirtbags smoking cigarettes or necking in the trees behind the lot. If he did…well, if he did, he was going to come down on them like never before. He’d bust their heads open. He’d bust their goddamn heads right open.
But he saw no one.
At least until he came around the back of the school and then he saw a kid standing there, right in the middle of the road. Some dumb kid staring at the oncoming Jeep like he had no idea what a moving vehicle was. Shore grimaced and hit the horn a couple times. The sound made his head throb.
Dumb kid…what the hell was he doing?
Then Shore got a good look at him.
No, just not any kid. That was Billy Swanson. Goddamn Billy Swanson from 5 ^ th hour Biolab.
“Billy,” Shore said under his breath. “Well, well, well.”
He knew Billy fairly well.
A little nothing shit, an outsider dwelling in a world of fantasy. He didn’t try out for sports, volunteer for any of the clubs. He did absolutely nothing and like any kid that did not fit in, he took the standard ration of shit. Shore had disciplined kids like Tommy Sidel-another 5 ^ th hour Biolab monster-for picking on Billy, for shoving him in the halls or punching him in gym class or tripping him up outside. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It had fallen on Shore as it always fucking fell on Shore. But right then? Had he been able to go back, he would have picked on that little shitting mama’s boy himself. Knocked his ass to the floor and kicked his fucking Star Trek paperbacks away, wiped his ass with them.
Kind of shit was that for a growing boy to be reading anyhow?
Feeling it rising in him, the anger, the rage, the frustration, Shore slammed on the brakes about ten feet from Billy. He hopped out. “Billy! Get your ass over here, I want to talk with you! You hear me?”
Billy just looked at him, his eyes dead and flat and somehow defiant.
Shore did not like how the kid looked at him, because not only was there defiance there, but an absolute lack of fear. Shore did not like that in the least. Billy should have been cowering, hanging his head, but he was not. He was glaring. Shore glared right back at him, his lips peeling back from his teeth. It occurred to him that they were facing off like two dogs disputing territory, which had the right to piss on a given tree. But he dismissed that, for suddenly things like metaphors made no sense to him.
“Billy…” he said.
The kid just smiled.
Smiled and spit at his feet, made sure Shore watched him do it, too. Why, the defiant little shit. He had no idea what he was stepping in this time. Benny Shore did not take crap from losers like Billy Swanson. He stepped on them. He crushed them. And Billy was about to find out all about that.
But Billy had no interest.
He turned and walked off at a very leisurely pace, again indicating no fear.
Shore reddened, fumed. “Billeeeee…”
He thought he heard the kid laugh, was almost sure of it.
Billy was now moving off at a casual jog, the sort of jog that said, you couldn’t catch me anyway, you stupid fuck.
So that was the game he wanted to play? All right, all right.
Shore jumped behind the wheel of the Jeep and threw it in drive.
