5
The following evening there were fourteen or fifteen kids in the caff at dinner, some talking,
some laughing, some of the new ones crying or shouting. In a way, Luke thought, being in the
Institute was like being in an old-time mental asylum where the crazy people were just kept and
never cured.
Harry wasn’t there at first, and he hadn’t been at lunch. The big galoot wasn’t much of a
blip on Luke’s radar, but he was hard to miss at meals because Gerda and Greta always sat with
him, one on either side in their identical outfits, watching him with shining eyes as he blathered
away about NASCAR, wrestling, his favorite shows, and life “down Selma.” If someone told
him to pipe down, the little Gs would turn killing looks on the interrupting someone.
This evening the
Gs were eating on their own, and looking unhappy about it. They had
saved Harry a seat between them, though, and when he came walking slowly in, belly swinging
and glowing with sunburn, they rushed to him with shouts of greeting.
For once he barely
seemed to notice them. There was a vacant look in his eyes, and they didn’t seem to be tracking
together the way eyes are supposed to. His chin was shiny with drool, and there was a wet spot
on the crotch of his pants. Conversation died. The newest arrivals looked puzzled and horrified;
those who had been around long enough to get a run of tests threw worried glances at each
other.
Luke and Helen exchanged a look. “He’ll be okay,” she said. “It’s just worse for some kids
than it is for—”
Avery was sitting beside her. Now he took one of her hands in both of his. He spoke with
eerie calmness. “He’s not okay. He’ll never be okay.”
Harry let out a cry, dropped to his knees, then hit the floor face-first.
His nose and lips
sprayed blood on the linoleum. He first began to shake, then to spasm,
legs pulling up and
shooting out in a Y shape, arms flailing. He started to make a growling noise—not like an
animal but like an engine stuck in low gear and being revved too hard. He flopped onto his
back, still growling and spraying bloody foam from between his blabbering lips.
His teeth
chomped up and down.
The little Gs began shrieking. As Gladys ran in from the hall and Norma from around the
steam table, one of the twins knelt and tried to hug Harry. His big right hand rose, swung out,
came whistling back. It struck her on the side of her face with terrible force, and sent her flying.
Her head struck the wall with a thud. The other twin ran to her sister, screaming.
The cafeteria was in an uproar. Luke and Helen stayed seated, Helen with her arm around
Avery’s shoulders (more to comfort herself than the little boy, it seemed;
Avery appeared
unmoved), but many of the other kids were gathering around the seizing boy. Gladys shoved a
couple of them away and snarled, “Get back, you idiots!” No big fake smile tonight for the big
G.
Now more Institute personnel were appearing: Joe and Hadad, Chad, Carlos, a couple Luke
didn’t know, including one still in his civvies who must have just come on duty. Harry’s body
was rising and falling in galvanic leaps, as if the floor had been electrified. Chad and Carlos
pinned his arms. Hadad zapped him in the solar plexus, and when that didn’t stop the seizures,
Joe
hit him in the neck, the crackle of a zap-stick set on high audible even in the babble of
confused voices. Harry went limp. His eyes bulged beneath half-closed lids. Foam drizzled from
the corners of his mouth. The tip of his tongue protruded.
“He’s all right, situation under control!” Hadad bellowed. “Go back to your tables! He’s
fine!”
The kids drew away, silent now, watching. Luke leaned over to Helen and spoke in a low
voice. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”
“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t,” Helen said, “but look at that one.” She pointed to the
twin who had been driven to the wall. Luke saw that the little girl’s eyes were glazed and her
head looked all crooked on her neck. Blood was running down one of her cheeks and dripping
onto the shoulder of her dress.
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