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“Hey Avery, do me a favory”
in his face. There had been none of
that here, because here they’d all been in it together. Here his friends had taken care of him,
treated him like a normal person, and now he would take care of them. Kalisha, Nicky, George,
and Helen: he would take care of them.
Luke most of all. If he could.
With his eyes closed, he saw the big phone.
It was sitting next to the trampoline, in front of the shallow ditch Luke had squirmed
through to get under the fence, an old-fashioned telephone at least fifteen feet high and as black
as death. Avery and his friends and the kids from Ward A stood around it in their circle. The
Stasi Lights swirled, brighter than ever, now over the phone’s dial, now skating giddily over its
gigantic Bakelite handset.
Kalisha, GO. Playground!
There was no protest. Her hand left Avery’s, but before the break in the circle could
interrupt the power and destroy the vision, George grasped Avery’s hand. The hum was
everywhere now, surely they must hear it in all those faraway places where there were other
children like them, standing in circles like this. Those children heard, just as the targets they’d
been brought to their various Institutes to kill had heard. And like those targets, the children
would obey. The difference was they would obey knowingly, and gladly. The revolt was not
just here; the revolt was global.
George, GO. Playground!
George’s hand dropped out and Nicky’s took its place. Nicky who had stood up for him
when Harry knocked him over. Nicky who called him the Avester, like it was a special name
only friends could use. Avery gave his hand a squeeze and felt Nicky squeeze back. Nicky who
was always bruised. Nicky who wouldn’t knuckle under or take their shitty tokens.
Nicky, GO. Playground!
He was gone. Now it was Helen gripping his hand, Helen with her fading punk hair, Helen
who had taught him to do forward rolls on the trampoline and spotted him “so you won’t fall
off and split your stupid head.”
Helen, GO. Playground!
She went, the last of his friends from down here, but Katie took the hand Helen had been
holding, and it was time.
Outside, faint gunfire.
Please don’t let it be too late!
It was his last conscious thought as an individual, as Avery. Then he joined the hum, and the
lights.
It was time to make a long-distance call.
21
Through a few remaining trees, Stackhouse saw the Suburban roll forward. The gleam of lights
from the admin building slid on its chrome. It was moving very slowly, but it was coming. It
occurred to him (too late to do anything about it, but wasn’t that always the way) that the boy
might no longer have the flash drive, that he might have left it with the one he called Officer
Wendy after all. Or hidden it somewhere between the airport and here, with a last-gasp call
from the misguided hero to tell Officer Wendy where it was if things went wrong.
But what could I have done about it? he thought. Nothing. There is only this.
The Suburban appeared at the head of the driveway. Stackhouse remained standing between
the bus and the flagpole, arms outstretched like Christ on the cross. The hum had reached a
near deafening level, and he wondered if Rosalind was still holding her position or if she had
been forced to flee. He thought of Gladys and hoped she was ready to start the mix.
He squinted at the shape behind the Suburban’s wheel. It was impossible to make out much,
and he knew Doug and Chad wouldn’t be able to see jackshit through the darkened rear
windows until they were blown out, but the windshield was clear glass, and when the Suburban
closed the distance to twenty yards—a little closer than he had hoped for—he saw the
expansion band of the turned-around cap cutting across the driver’s forehead, and let go of the
flagpole. The driver’s head began to shake frantically. One hand left the wheel, pressing a
starfish shape against the windshield in a stop gesture, and he realized he’d been deked. The
trick was as simple as a kid escaping by crawling under a fence, and just as effective.
It wasn’t the misguided hero behind the wheel. It was Mrs. Sigsby.
The Suburban stopped again, then began to back up. “I’m sorry, Julia, no help for it,” he
said, and raised his hand.
The shooting from admin and the trees began. At the rear of Front Half, Gladys Hickson
removed the covers from two large buckets of bleach positioned under the HVAC unit which
provided heating and cooling to Back Half and the access tunnel. She held her breath, dumped
the bottles of toilet bowl cleaner into the buckets of bleach, gave each a quick stir with a mop
handle, covered the buckets and the unit with a tarp, then sprinted for Front Half’s East Wing
with her eyes burning. As she ran across the roof, she realized it was moving under her feet.
22
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