CONTAMINATED

CHAPTER THREE

Who had left it here?

Peering back into the box, I pulled out a small piece of paper with black writing. Licking my lips, I read the words silently. Beware the fury of a patient man.

“What?” I said to myself, pinching my eyebrows together in confusion.

What did that mean?

But then I glanced up, gasping as I dropped the blade and the note to the floor.

I stopped breathing, my heart trying to break through my chest.

Three men stood outside my house, side by side, staring up at me through the window.

“What the hell?” I breathed out, trying to figure out what was going on.

Was this a joke?

They stood completely motionless, and I felt a chill spread up my arms at how they just stared at me.

What were they doing?

All three wore jeans and black combat boots, but as I stared into the black void of their eyes, I clenched my teeth together to keep my body from shaking.

The masks. The black hoodies and the masks.

I shook my head. No. It couldn’t be them. This was a joke.

The tallest stood on the left, wearing a slate-gray metallic-looking mask with claw marks deforming the right side of his face.

The one in the middle was shorter, looking up at me through his white-and-black mask with a red stripe running down the left side of his face, which was also ripped and gouged.

And the one on my right, whose completely black mask blended with his black hoodie, so that you couldn’t tell exactly where his eyes were, was the one who finally made my chest shake.

I backed up, away from the window and tried to catch my breath as I dashed for my phone. Pressing 1 on the landline, I waited for the security office, which sat only minutes down the road, to pick up.

“Mrs. Fane?” a man answered.

“Mr. Ferguson?” I breathed out, inching back over to my windows. “It’s Rika. Could you send a car up to—?”

But then I stopped, seeing that the driveway was now empty. They were gone.

What?

I darted my eyes left and then right, getting right up to the table and leaning over to see if they were near the house. Where the hell did they go?

I remained silent, listening for any sign of anyone around the house, but everything was still and quiet.

“Miss Fane?” Mr. Ferguson called. “Are you still there?”

I opened my mouth, stammering, “I…I thought I saw something…outside my windows.”

“We’re sending a car up now.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”And I hung up the phone, still staring out the window.

It couldn’t be them.

But those masks. They were the only ones who wore those masks.

Why would they come here? After three years, why would they come here?

Three Years Ago

“NOAH?” I FELL BACK, leaning against the wall next to my best friend’s locker as he retrieved a book between classes. “Do you have a date for Winterfest?”

He scrunched up his face. “That’s like two months away, Rika.”

“I know. I’m getting in while the getting’s good.”

He smiled, slamming his locker shut and leading the way down the hall. “So you’re asking me on a date then?” he teased in his cocky voice. “I knew you always wanted me.”

I rolled my eyes, following him, since my classroom was in the same direction. “Could you make this easier, please?”

But all I heard was his snort.

Winterfest was a dance like Sadie Hawkins. Girls ask guys, and I wanted to take the safe route by asking a friend.

Students scurried around us, rushing to their classes, and I held the strap of my bag on my shoulder as I grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Please?” I pleaded.

But he narrowed his eyes, looking worried. “Are you sure Trevor’s not going to kick my ass? Judging from the way he’s on you all the time, I’m surprised he hasn’t GPS’d you.”

That was a good point. Trevor would be mad I wasn’t asking him, but I only wanted friendship, and he wanted more. I didn’t want to lead him on.

I guessed I could chalk up my disinterest in Trevor to knowing him my entire life—he was too familiar, kind of like family—but I’d also known his older brother my entire life, and my feelings for him weren’t at all familial.

“Come on. Be a buddy,” I urged, nudging his shoulder. “I need you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He stopped at my next class, which was on the way to his, and spun around, pinning me with a hard look. “Rika, if you don’t want to ask Trevor, then ask someone else.”

I let out a sigh and averted my eyes, sick of this conversation.

“You’re asking me, because it’s safe,” he argued. “You’re beautiful, and any guy would be thrilled to go out with you.”

“Of course they would be.” I smiled sarcastically. “So say yes then.”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at me.

Noah liked to draw conclusions about me. About why I never dated or why he thought I shied away from this or that, and as good of a friend as he was, I wished he’d stop already. I just didn’t feel comfortable.

I reached up, rubbing a nervous hand over my neck—over the pale, thin scar I got when I was thirteen.

In the car accident that killed my father.

I saw him watching me, and I dropped my hand, knowing what he was thinking.

The scar ran diagonally, about two inches long, on the left side of my neck, and although it had faded with time, I still felt like it was the first thing people noticed about me. There were always questions and pitiful expressions from family and friends, not to mention the jerk comments I got in junior high from girls laughing at me. After a while, it started to feel like an appendage, big and something I was always aware of.

“Rika,” he lowered his voice, his brown eyes gentle, “baby, you’re beautiful. Long blonde hair, legs that no guy in this school can ignore, and the prettiest blue eyes in town. You’re gorgeous.”

The one minute bell rang, and I shifted in my flats, gripping the strap of my bag tighter.

“And you’re my favorite person,” I retorted. “I want to go with you. Okay?”

He sighed, a defeated look crossing his face. I’d won, and I fought not to smile.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “It’s a date.” And then he spun around, heading for English 3.

I grinned, my nerves immediately relaxing. I was no doubt taking Noah away from a promising night with another girl, so I’d have to do something to make it up to him.

Walking into Pre-Calculus, I hooked my bag on the back of my chair in the front row and pulled out my book, setting it on the desk. My friend Claudia planted herself in the seat next to me, meeting my eyes and smiling, and I immediately sat down and started writing my name on the blank piece of paper that Mr. Fitzpatrick had set down on everyone’s desk. Friday classes always started with a pop quiz, so we knew the drill.

Students hurried into the room, the girls’ green and blue plaid skirts swaying, and most of the boys’ ties already loosened. It was nearly the end of the day.

“Did you hear the news?” someone said behind us, and I jerked my head around to see Gabrielle Owens leaning over her desktop.

“What news?” Claudia asked.

She lowered her voice to a whisper, excitement crossing her face. “They’re here,” she told us.

I glanced at Claudia and then back at Gabrielle, confused. “Who’s here?”

But then Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, booming in his large voice, “Take a seat everyone!”, and Claudia, Gabrielle, and I immediately faced the front of the room and straightened, ending our conversation.

“Please sit down, Mr. Dawson,” the teacher instructed to a student in the back as he came to stand behind his desk.

They’re here? I leaned back in my chair, trying to figure out what she meant. But then I looked up, spotting a girl jogging to the front of the room and handing Mr. Fitzpatrick a note.

“Thank you,” he responded, opening it up.

I watched him read it and saw his expression turn from relaxed to agitated, his lips pressing together and his eyebrows narrowing.

What was going on?

They’re here. What did that…?

But then my eyes widened and flutters hit my stomach.

THEY’RE HERE. I opened my mouth, sucking in a quick breath, fire and fever making my skin tingle. Butterflies filled my stomach, and I clenched my teeth, holding back the smile that wanted loose.

He’s here.

I raised my eyes slowly, looking at the clock and seeing that it was nearly two in the afternoon.

And it was October thirtieth, the night before Halloween.

Devil’s Night.

They were back. But why? They’d already graduated—more than a year ago, so why now?

“Please make sure you have your name on your paper,” Mr. Fitzpatrick instructed, an edge to his voice, “and solve the three problems on the board.” He switched on the projector, not wasting any time as the problems flashed on the Smartboard ahead of us.

“Turn it face down when you’re finished,” he called out. “You have ten minutes.”

I gripped the pencil, my entire body buzzing with nerves and anticipation as I tried to concentrate on the first problem dealing with quadratic functions.

But it was f*****g hard. I glanced at the clock again. Any minute…

I bowed my head and forced myself to focus, my pencil digging into the wooden desk underneath as I blinked my eyes, bringing them into focus on my task. “Find the vertex of the parabola,” I whispered to myself.

I quickly worked through the problem, moving from one thing to the other, knowing that if I stopped for a second, I’d be distracted.

If the vertex of the parabola has coordinates…I kept going.

The graph of a quadratic function is a parabola, which opens up if…

And I kept working, finishing one, two, and moving through number three.

But then I heard soft music, and I instantly froze.

My pencil hovered over my work as the sound of a faint guitar riff drifted through the loudspeakers. It got louder and louder, and I stared at my paper, heat stirring inside my chest.

Whispers sounded around the room, followed by a few excited giggles, and then the soft beginning of the song over the speakers gave way to a violent onslaught of drums, guitars, and a fast, sharp, heart-pounding mania. I tightened my fingers around my pencil.

Slipknot’s The Devil In I blared through the classroom—and, I assumed, the rest of the school, as well.

“I told you!” Gabrielle burst out.

I popped my head up, watching as students raced out of their seats for the door.

“Are they really here?” someone damn-near squealed.

Everyone crowded around the classroom door, peering out the small window at the top, trying to catch a glimpse of them coming down the hallway. But I stayed in my seat, adrenaline rippling through my body.

Mr. Fitzpatrick’s chest heaved with a sigh as he folded his arms over his chest and turned away, no doubt waiting for it to be over.

The music pounded, and the thrilled chatter from the other students filled the room.

“Where—oh, there they are!” a girl shouted, and I heard pounding coming from the hallway, sounding like fists beating on lockers, getting closer and closer.

“Let me see!” another student argued, pushing others aside.

A girl popped up on her tiptoes. “Move!” she ordered someone else.

But then everyone suddenly backed up. The doors swung open, and the students fanned out like a ripple in a lake.

“Oh, s**t,” I heard a boy whisper.

Slowly, everyone spread out, some falling back into their seats while others remained standing. I gripped my pencil with both hands, my stomach flipping like a roller coaster as I watched them slowly step into the classroom, eerily calm and in no hurry.

They were here. The Four Horsemen.

They were Thunder Bay’s favorite sons, and they’d gone to high school here, graduating when I was a freshman. All four went on to separate universities afterward. They were a few years older, and while not one of them knew I existed, I knew almost everything about them. All four of them stalked slowly into the room, filling the space to where the sun’s rays turned black across the floor.

Damon Torrance, Kai Mori, Will Grayson III, and—I locked my gaze on the blood red mask covering the face of the one always in the lead a little more than the others—Michael Crist, Trevor’s older brother.

He twisted his head left and jerked his chin toward the back of the room. Students turned, watching one of the male students step forward, a smile pulling at his jaw even though he tried to hold it back.

“Kian,” a guy’s humor-filled voice called out, slapping him on the back as he walked past him on his way to the Horsemen. “Have fun. Wear a condom.”

Some students laughed, while a few girls fidgeted nervously, whispering and smiling to each other.

Kian Mathers, a junior like me and one of our school’s best basketball players, stepped up to the guys, the one in the white mask with the red stripe hooking him around the neck and pulling him out the door.

They grabbed another student, Malik Cramer, and the one in the full black mask pulled him out into the hallway, following the other two and probably off to collect more players from other classrooms.

I watched Michael, the way his size had nothing to do with how he filled a room, and I blinked long and hard, feeling the heat flow under my skin.

Everything about the Horsemen made me feel like I was walking a high wire. Cast your balance a hair in the wrong direction or tread too hard—or too softly—and you’d plummet so far off their radar, you’d never reappear.

Their power came from two things: they had followers and they didn’t care. Everyone idolized them, including me.

But as opposed to the other students who had looked up to them, followed them, or fantasized about them, I simply wondered what it would be like to be them. They were untouchable, fascinating, and nothing they ever did was wrong. I wanted that.

I wanted to look down at the sky.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Gabrielle Owens sauntered up, followed by her friend, both of them carrying their books. “We have to go to the nurse. See you Monday!” And then they squeezed between the horsemen, disappearing out the door

I shot my eyes over to the teacher, wondering why he was just letting them leave. They were clearly not going to the nurse. They were leaving with the guys.

But no one—not even Mr. Fitzpatrick—tried challenging them.

The Four Horsemen, not only ruled the student body and the town when they attended school here, but they commanded the court and hardly ever lost in the four years they played.

Since their departure, though, the team had suffered and last year was a humiliating disaster for Thunder Bay. Twelve losses out of twenty games, and everyone had had enough. Something was missing.

I assumed that’s why the horsemen were here now, called back from college for the weekend to inspire the team or do whatever they had to do to pump them up and get them on track before the season started.

And as much as teachers like Fitzpatrick frowned on their hazing, it had certainly helped make the team a unit in their time here. Why not see if it would work again?

“Everyone sit down! You boys move on,” he told the horsemen.

Dropping my head, elation filled my body as my stomach floated up to my chest. I let my eyes fall closed, my head feeling light and high.

Yeah, this is what had been missing.

Opening my eyes again, I saw a pair of long legs in dark washed jeans walk past my desk, next to the window, and stop.

I kept my eyes down, afraid my face would give away what was happening in my chest. He was probably just scanning the room anyway, seeing if we had any other players in here.

“Anyone else?” one of the other guys asked.

But he didn’t answer his friend. He just kept standing over me. What was he doing?

Keeping my chin down, I tipped my eyes up, seeing his fingers, slightly curled, at his sides. I made out the vein over the top of his strong hand, and the whole room seemed to suddenly grow so quiet that dread filled my stomach and my breathing stopped.

What was he doing just standing there?

I slowly raised my eyes and instantly tensed, seeing golden hazel ones staring straight down at me.

I shifted my gaze side to side, wondering if I’d missed something. Why was he looking at me?

Michael looked down, his vicious red mask—a replica of the deformed and scarred Army of Two masks from the video game—making my knees weak.

I’d always been scared of him. The thrilling kind of scared that got me turned on.

I tightened the muscles in my thighs, feeling the throb between my legs, in the space that only felt empty when he was close but not close enough.