The Turning

23

23

He was sorry that Brett hadn’t passed away before the door had come down.

Kyle stood, tears spilling down his cheeks. He swiped at them, flustered by the fact that he was crying in front of this man he barely knew. But it wasn’t just the knowledge that he would inevitably meet an ugly death, but the idea that things had degenerated to this point. It seemed that the adults had finally turned on him once and for all, his own father at the forefront of this mob. That was the worst.

He left Brett Stephen's for the last time as he dozed in and out of consciousness just as the crowd exploded into the building. They did not shout or cry from below which was ominous but marched up the stairs like the secret service, not a word passed between them, and Kyle was convinced somehow that his father would be in the lead. After all, it would be his responsibility to do what had to be done. It was his offspring he’d be taking care of.

Brett didn’t look up when Ben and the others reached the top. He didn’t want to and he didn’t need to. He only heard the shuffling of feet as they gathered around him like children in a playground inspecting someone who has fallen from the monkey bars. A part of him felt that he had lost, that in spite of all the urgency of needing to leave, he had ultimately stayed for the sake of enlightening a thirteen-year-old boy. He wasn’t sure he had made much difference. Was it something the lord above might praise him for? Had he acted decently enough for the almighty to ignore the accumulated sin in his life?

The pain in his chest had returned with full force, so much so that now his vision was clouding around the edges and every breath he drew felt like a miracle in itself. Death swayed over him, his presiding guest of the hour, the townsfolk merely the faces of savagery, except that was too much for they lacked any human touch at all. They were simply the others. They were the turned ones.

"Go on then," he croaked. He didn't dare look up; after all, did the executioner ever grant the prisoner permission to see the blade fall? Ben Yates raised the tomahawk, hesitated for a second as though the last tiny notion of human semblance was working through his mind. Then he swung. The sound was wet. Blood sheeted down the old man's face, distorting his features. He hunched forward, teetering slightly, the tomahawk wedged deep in the crack of his skull. Ben removed the tomahawk and Brett's body dipped forward.

#

Kyle burst into the spare room at the far end of the hall and peered out of the window. A rope ladder, handmade though sturdy, was coiled on the floor, the end of it nailed into the wood of the inside of the window sill. He was only small and knew his weight would hold fine, but he could easily picture the nylon ripping out of the wall to send him plunging two stories down. He tried to pull the window across but it didn't budge. Years of rust had sealed it like a tomb.

Down the hall, the footfalls which had been growing abruptly ceased. There was a murmur of conversation. Kyle yanked at the window hard, teeth gritted.

"C'mon!" he whispered. Just before he was getting ready to break the glass, the window gave a howling shriek of wood against wood. He knocked out the screen where it went gliding downwards, landing in the weeds of the vacant lot below. He tossed the rope ladder out were sailed to the ground, and then gave it a hard tug to make sure that it wouldn't just rip out of the window sill as he was climbing out. Although the array of nails holding it in place seemed precarious, they held the ladder strong. He then heaved himself up and out just as the mob came bursting into the room. Ben stopped and gawking at his son. Then he raised the tomahawk and leaped at him.

Kyle hurtled out the window, gripping the ladder for dear-life, swaying. Ben poked his head out of the window and bent so far forward that it seemed as if he might plunge head-first. He swiped at Kyle with the tomahawk and Kyle managed to duck only by the skin of his teeth. He slid down the rope, hands searing with pain. He clung to the ladder, trying to work his feet into the rungs and then glanced up and saw Ben beginning to make his way out. He looked down and estimated a ten to twenty-foot drop to the grass of the vacant patch below. He tried to guide his feet onto the nylon rungs but kept losing his grip. His father was beginning to ascend. Soon he would have his whole weight on the ladder and the nylon chords would undoubtedly pull out. He knew of only one thing he could do to escape the situation quickly. He shut his eyes tightly and then allowed himself to drop, never daring to look down. Within seconds his feet had hit the ground, legs bent so as to save himself the shock of impact. Kyle then ran out of the vacant patch. For the most part, the mob was in the house but there were still four or five people lingering by the back fence. As soon as they saw him they charged towards, and Kyle found himself in a desperate race to reach his bike before they could reach him. It was just where he had left it, leaning against Brett's neighbor's corrugated wall. He lunged for the handlebars and dragged it out, hopped on and peddled as hard as he could. The people who had been lingering at the chain-link fence chased him for a moment but then fell away as Kyle began to make distance. He headed southwards, passing the window from which his father was awkwardly dangling from. He glanced over his shoulder again and saw that they were all standing there, unmoving. Their gazes were no longer fixed on him. Instead, their heads were tilted as though hearing a sound from far away. Kyle slowed and then stopped when he was sure that none of them were pursuing him. He could see his father hanging from the nylon ladder, also unmoving and listening. Kyle felt uneasy about what was happening, namely because he had no idea what exactly was happening. But then he heard it too. It was the sound of a siren, growing in pitch. The ambulance was coming.