Gray Skies (8 page)

When Socks tried to mew, a raspy sound broke the air. He stopped, and left his tongue out, hanging to the gravel. Called on by Sock’s meow, Harold leaped high on his toes, and crashed down with his club, hitting Socks with a sickening thud. As Declan fell backward, Sammi screamed for Harold to stop. Tears blurred and twisted the image in front of her. The guttural sound of Harold’s club striking the cat filled her ears. She dropped to her knees, trying to protect the cat. Harold’s arm was in the air again, with the sweat of an anxious hunter dripping from his brow.

“Thought we’d killed that one,” he said. He spoke in a strong, but breathless voice, as his club connected again. The crash of Harold’s weapon sent blood across her coveralls and face in bright crimson freckles. The touch of the warm droplets on her skin left her feeling queasy and defeated. She felt Declan grabbing at her, trying to pull her away from Socks. With another swing, Harold’s club brushed against her hair. She was only vaguely aware of Declan’s hold, as her eyes stayed on Socks. She screamed for him to stop, but it was too late: Socks was dead.

When Harold’s bloodied club stayed down, she heard the snorting of his piggy laugh, and the sniggering exchange of satisfaction between the boys. Before she could control it, the anger welled inside her, and then erupted for what they’d done to the cat. Sammi leaped to her feet, and clawed at the smallest of the three boys.

Richie had never seen her coming. Shock replaced the mocking smile on his gaunt face. His thin frame stumbled backward in retreat, while he tried his best to cover his head amidst the blows that Sammi threw. When there was enough of his hair in her grip, she closed her fingers in a balled fist, and pulled his head down, while throwing her other arm in a wide swing. She felt the crunch of his nose against her knuckles, and the sound encouraged her. Richie let out a child-like cry. He jabbed one of his arms aimlessly forward in a feeble attempt to defend himself. Sammi had forgotten about Declan and Socks; she only knew that she wanted to hurt the boy who was backing away from her. The realization of what she’d witnessed consumed her. She was crying, and only when she saw the blood on her fist did her strength fade.

As the greasy feel of Richie’s hair filled her hand, a massive blow struck her back, and threw her forward. Against her will, she spat out all the air from her lungs. Writhing in pain, her shoulders and back cramped, and she was certain that she’d soon join Socks in death. Bright pin-lights danced in her eyes, and the images in front of her went pale and dim. She dropped to her knees, and gasped absently at the air, struggling to fill her lungs with the stale salt that she so loathed. Sammi heard Declan yelling at Harold, and then turned her head in time to see that his feet were surrounded. Harold was swinging his club again, only this time it wasn’t Socks that he was aiming for. She heard another sickening thud, and then watched Declan fall to his knees next to her, gripping at his middle, as his mouth furiously tried to pull in the same foul air.

Sammi had sucked in enough to douse the stray pin-lights, and stood in time to see Harold’s club held high above them: he was going to strike Declan. Unlike the first blow that had stolen their breath, this was intended to hurt Declan badly.

“Wait!” Sammi was able to cough out, and then leaped in front of Harold. Her eyes darted to the club hanging above her, and to the jealous rage in Harold’s eyes.

He’s going to swing the club, anyway
, she thought.
He’s not done killing today
. Harold paused briefly, and then reared his club higher, ready to strike. Still gasping, she swung her leg in a clumsy motion, and connected her shin against his groin. She punched with her leg again until Harold collapsed to his knees. Her strength was exhausted, but she planted her legs, and readied herself for the other boys, pleading in her mind for them to run. Richie and Peter took a step back, with shock and uncertainty on their faces. They huddled together, as though conferring what to do next. Sammi heard Declan heaving, and then saw him limp forward. He moved a few meager steps, but it was enough for Sammi to take hold of his hand, and lead them into the fog.

Precariousness crippled their steps. But, as confidence grew, so did their distance from Harold. Sammi kept her head down, with eyes fixed to her feet, where she followed the morse lines toward their dwellings. Declan’s hand fell from hers as he stumbled to the ground. He hollered out, having twisted his bad knee, and let out a grunt when he rolled to the ground.

“We’ve got to run, Declan!” Sammi spat in a near whisper, trying to stay hidden, as gray mist filled the space around them. Her arm strained against Declan’s weight, almost causing her to stumble, as well. She pulled until she felt him behind her again, matching her feet step for step. The fog was thicker now, and when she looked back, she only saw Declan’s fingers in her hand, bobbing in and out of the gray mist. She picked up her feet, and hastened their pace.

Two, maybe three hands
, she thought.
We’re safer with more gray now
. They ran blindly in the fog. She fed on the fear and adrenaline, which carried them for another minute until they had to stop.

Declan tripped, and rolled onto his back, heaving. Spittle mixed with blood dripped from his mouth, and lay on his chin. His upturned face also showed her a bloodied nose, and a swollen eye. She dropped next to him, and took his face in her hands, lightly touching where he’d been hit, as though she could wipe away the hurt.

“Oh, Declan, I didn’t know they’d hit your face,” she said, and touched her lips to where he’d been hit.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t know what got into Harold, but we need to go. I’m not sure how much I can run, though.”

Declan wiped some of Sock’s blood from Sammi’s face, and then rested his hand on her back. “He hit you hard, Sammi, really hard. Are you hurt?”

Her back ached where Harold had struck her with the club, but she thought that she would be okay. She shook her head, and then put her hand on his knee. It was swollen and hot; worse than she imagined it might be.

When they’d caught their breath, Sammi crawled over the pavement to find the morse lines, and hopefully figure out where they were. She put her hands against the white paint, feeling the cool smoothness. Thousands of feet had followed this path, passing over the thick paint with padded coverall shoes until the morse lines were worn smooth. Her fingers stopped when she came across markings that felt irregular. While the shapes were whole, a few of the circles in the dotted pattern were oblong, and torn along the bottom edges.

“I know where we are.” She said under her breath. “You have to trust me.” Declan got to his feet. He snapped his head with a short nod as she gripped his hand. She led them off the path, away from the morse lines, and into a complete whiteout of fog. There were no morse lines; nothing, but the gray mist.

Declan called out an objection to the direction that they were moving, but the sound of Harold and the boys thrummed from behind, growing louder. Declan’s hand became lighter in hers, while they entered the emptiness. Sammi’s heart filled and lifted, as Declan gave himself to her trust completely.

After counting nearly forty long steps, Sammi stretched her arms out in front of her as far as she could reach. She steadied their pace until they slowed to a crawl. They were near the old theater; she had to be careful so that they wouldn’t run into the wall of the building. Fifty long steps from the morse line, fifty reaches of her legs, perpendicular to their daily path to and from school, and she’d found the building a year earlier, after following the mews of a cat. Sammi rubbed her head where she’d stepped headlong into the coarse wall so long ago. Shaking her head, amused, she felt the raised and tattered scar just under her hairline. After that, she’d visited the theater dozens of times, and knew the exact number of steps from the path to the entrance.

When Sammi’s hand landed flat against the damp decay of brittle mortar and aged brick, they’d found the building. She picked at the red stone, letting bits of it break away, and fall to their feet. She pulverized the remains of a flat piece between her fingers; the powdery stone crumbled to dust without protest.

“We’re here,” she exclaimed.

“Where exactly is
here
?” Declan asked. “Is it safe?”

“This is where Socks came from,” she answered, pointing to the building. “It’s the old theater.” Declan held his hand up, and turned to listen. They could still hear Harold and the other boys, but their footsteps were distant. He cringed when Sammi touched the swelling bulb above his eye.

“Oh, Declan, your eye is purple!”

“I’m fine,” he breathed, and turned toward the building. With an eager smile, he added, “Want to go inside?” Sammi gave him a quick nod, and moved along to the wall, following it around until they found an opening. It was just a hole that might have once been a door, caved in by years of neglect. The dirt beneath their hands and knees was wet, but it wasn’t stony. Surprise caught her when she realized that it was actual dirt, not crumbling pavement, or crushed building stone. Sammi gripped a handful, and held it up to her nose, smiling. The dirt felt crisp, and soothing on her skin; it smelled earthy.

“Ever seen anything like that before?” Declan asked, bringing his bloodied nose to her hand. He tried sniffing the dirt, but shook his head—his sense of smell had been crippled by the beating.

“On the farming floors, yeah, but this is different,” she marveled.

“It is, but let’s keep moving,” he answered, and passed her through the opening. Sammi lifted the earthy substance up once more, oddly delighted by the smell, and then met Declan inside.

Once they were back on their feet, she stared in awe of the room and its size. Ragged openings stretched across the decorated ceiling, where the roof opened up, letting gray light bleed into the theater. Sammi wondered how many years the room had stayed closed off from the outside before the roofline finally ruptured. She watched the fog passing over the building like ancient clouds, yet none of the salty mist seemed to breach the openings; at least none that she could smell or taste.

A terrible thought came to her then, haunting where Harold clubbed her.
Could the boys have gotten on the roof?
She wondered, but then dismissed the thought, thinking that she and Declan were safe. She only wished that she could have just as easily dismissed the pain gnawing at the middle of her back. Stretching out the rift that was tensing up beneath her shoulders, she glanced over to see Declan’s grinning face staring forward. She could see in his expression an unsettled excitement that was just waiting for him to explore the theater.

Though his smile was sweet, the mess they’d been through had left Declan’s face a pulpy jumble of blood and dirt. Sammi turned to him, and used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe away the grime. When he winced, she pulled her hand back and offered a quick apology, promising to be careful, avoiding where he’d been hit. As she cleaned his wounds, Declan became quiet. Standing close to him, and feeling his breath on her, she looked up, and met his eyes. For a moment, she did nothing except return his gaze. A flutter of excitement turned her knees weak, causing her to lift one foot, and then the other. A warm flush crept up her cheeks, as his eyes stayed with hers.

Declan leaned in, and before she could say anything, he kissed her. Sammi dropped her arms as his lips moved over hers, and he placed his hands behind her, resting them on the small of her back. She didn’t know why, but she loved when he touched her there. She loved it even more when he opened his hands and tightened his hold on her. She let herself fall against him, as his fingers gripped her, pressing until she thought he’d pick her up into his arms. The skin on his face was hot, but it wasn’t from the excitement of the moment. Declan lifted his head just enough to break the kiss, and cover one of his bruised eyes. He shook his head, smiling, and raised his brow, as though apologizing for ending their kiss.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and gently rested her fingers on his. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he nodded, pecking her lips with his. “Just got a little carried away. How about we take a look around, and see what’s inside?” Anxious to explore, Sammi nodded hurriedly, and turned back to the theater. Toward the front, she saw a long narrow stage with a yellowing screen that was broad, and as high as the ceiling. It seemed to loom over the theater seats, like a fretful parent guarding its young.

“That’s where they showed the moving pictures. ‘Movies’, they called them,” she mumbled to him.

Sammi watched Declan follow the screen with his eyes, taking in the size, and nodding his head. The huge canvas was torn and tattered, like the ceiling, and wore long, jagged rips that staggered in different directions, like old potato sprouts that she’d seen on the farming floors. But, to Sammi’s delight, it was still in place, and was standing. She imagined it as a large window for the audience to peer through.

In the back of the theater, a balcony that lifted high above them had somehow survived the centuries of fog. A lonely set of stairs leading to the balcony accompanied the far wall, and Sammi wondered if the stairs could hold their weight. Row upon row of antique theater seats curved around the screen; the crescent pattern reminded her of their classroom, only this was much larger. She imagined that, at one time, the seats had been plush, and cushioned. But years had aged them, decaying the comfortable fabric until there were only strands of rotting cloth hanging from the remaining wooden frames. Large areas of the chairs were missing, leaving behind rusted metal posts that stuck up out of floor. The posts were tapered and sharp, like the stabbing ends of the spears that she’d seen dancing above the hunting teams when they gathered for an excursion.