Jacked (14 page)

“Doesn’t seem like a lot for someone’s whole life.”

“I don’t know,” Toby said. “If he’d wanted it easy he’d have stayed with the Black Shirts instead of going 404. My Dad told me once that parents count it as a pretty chilly job if their kids turn out better than them. We find these other fixers, I’d bet Jahn would count it square.”

Tar slipped the money and the pocket knife in his pants pocket.

“I guess so. I think the shirts’ll fit you. Can you get everything in your pack?”

Toby grinned and took out two school books—English Composition and Algebra I—and dropped them on the floor.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all year. Yeah, I’ve got room.”

It only took a few minutes to pack the extra supplies, then they moved to the door. Tar reached up to touch the lock but stopped. He turned and, for a moment, stared through the gloom at Jahn’s body in the recliner. In the shadows he was just a darker shade of gray. Tar looked back to the lock and touched the metal.

The door clicked open, and they stepped into the mid-morning sun. After being in the dark for so long they were practically day blind, which was why Tar never saw who ran into him before they were both spread flat on the sidewalk.

Tar winced as he looked up at the dirty-faced boy lying near him. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years-old at the most, though it was hard to tell with the black hair that fell over his eyes and covered most of the top half of his face. But when the younger boy shook his head to clear his hair out of the way, Tar saw terror in his eyes, except he was not looking at Tar.

He was looking over Tar’s shoulder.

A man’s shout echoed down the street.

Tar was still struggling to get up when Toby grabbed his shoulder.

“Black Shirts! Run!”

Even with the warning Tar could not help but turn and see the danger for himself. At least ten men ran toward them from about half a block away.

“Come on!” Toby shouted again. “Move it!”

Tar took one step forward, jerked the younger boy to his feet, and pushed him toward the street corner. It took one more shove before the boy broke out of his stupor and lurched into a run with Tar a step behind.

They rounded the corner of the building and Tar was shocked to see Toby already so far ahead. He thought about sprinting to catch up but couldn’t bring himself to leave the other boy behind, not with that look of terror he had seen in his eyes.

Toby veered across the street, avoiding the few slow-moving cars. Tar urged the boy along, hoping they might put more distance between themselves and the Black Shirts. He did not need to turn and look to see how close they had come.; He could hear their boots pounding the asphalt.

Tar thought he felt something brush against his back, grasping fingers that just touched his shirt in passing. It did not matter if the touch was real or imagined. For a moment, his own fear overtook the thought of protecting the frightened boy and he leveled into a full run, surging ahead in the most important race: survival. But, just as quickly, guilt slowed him. He reached back to pull the boy along.

Too late. A Black Shirt grabbed the boy by the shirt collar. Tar tried to pull forward but he stumbled and fell. For the second time he never saw the person who knocked him down. The weight of another body landed atop him, painfully pushing him into the sidewalk. He saw Toby turn the corner of the block ahead, glancing back just before he disappeared behind the brick building.

The pressure let off and rough hands rolled him over. Hard-faced men stared down at him, panting.

“Get him up,” said one, as he grabbed the smaller boy. “They’re going to jail.”

The man who had tackled him hefted him up. “Hear that?” he said, gripping Tar hard by the back of his neck. “You and your little dirty friend here are going to sit in a cell until we sort out just who you are.”

Chapter 18

Tar felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. Crying might have helped but the younger boy beside him was already sniffling.

His arm ached from the Black Shirt’s grip by the time they reached the jail. The man shoved him down on a bench and the other boy was pushed down beside him. He drew his feet up onto the wooden seat so he was sitting in a rough ball shape.

Voices and sounds echoed hollowly through an opening on the other side of the area, telling Tar a much larger room was out of sight. The only other exit was a closed door behind the desk. After a couple minutes, just long enough for a prisoner’s imagination to run wild, a lieutenant walked through the doorway.

“All right, what did you catch?” the man asked. The only thing missing was a bored yawn. “Aren’t these two small enough to throw back in the bay?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the Black Shirt that had grabbed Tar. “But the latest order said to pick up the younger ones for questioning.”

“Right.” The lieutenant waved his hand dismissively as he moved to the large desk in the middle of the room. He reached for a clipboard and flipped through the attached papers.

“Gas theft, food riot, possible arson…aah, here it is…” His head suddenly snapped up. “A fixer. Well, that’d be a helluva thing to see.” He looked back down at the clipboard and mumbled softly. “Hold all thirteen to eighteen year-olds…dark-haired…AmJap…contact immediately…ah!
Ferguson
.”

Tar flinched at the mention of Jahn’s name but he stayed silent.

The lieutenant walked across the room and stood over them, glaring down, his eyes narrowed and lips clamped in a thin, pale line. Tar had gotten used to being the shortest person in the room so the towering Black Shirt lieutenant did not bother him as much as the man probably intended. But he must have just eaten lunch. The man was close enough for his garlicky breath to remind Tar of the empty feeling in his stomach.

“Names,” the lieutenant said, his voice bouncing back from the wall. “Tell me your names now.”

Neither boy spoke. Tar kept his eyes trained on the man’s belt buckle. To look any higher would invite eye contact and he did not want to do that, not while he was still deciding what to do.

The lieutenant grabbed the hair on the smaller boy’s head and twisted his face up.

“Name,” he said again, this time quietly, a whisper through clenched teeth.

“Coleman.”

That was it. No cry out in pain, no cursing, no first name. The boy may have been sniffling on the way to the jail but Tar was impressed at how well he held up to the stare of the jailer.

He was still thinking about that when the lieutenant grabbed his hair and jerked his head up, as well.

“Name. Or do you want to play games?”

“Hutchins.”

The Black Shirt let go and backed away. He was still staring at them but he was blinking in surprise.

Tar felt the same way. The name—the name he had discovered was his own only a few hours earlier—had leaped to his lips without his thinking about it. But as soon as it hung in the air between them, it had sounded right.

The lieutenant signaled to one of the other men and whispered to him. The second man nodded and left the room.

For the next few minutes only the sounds from the unseen room filled the area. Tar looked at the side wall, not needing to see the lieutenant to feel his stare. Tables along the wall were heaped with mounds of clothes and other items. Tar noticed his backpack on top of the stack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other boy glaring, red-eyed, at the lieutenant.

“My name’s Tar,” he whispered, so quietly that for a moment he was not sure the other boy had heard.

“Jimmy,” the boy said, his lips barely moving.

Tar stiffened as the Black Shirt who had left returned carrying a small piece of tech like those Tar had fixed several times for the students at the school. The lieutenant accepted the tech and crossed over to them.

“Take it.”

Jimmy reached up and jerked the tech from the man’s hands. He turned it over and pressed a few of the buttons. Nothing happened.

“Big deal. It’s a shiny brick,” he said.

“Give it to him,” the lieutenant said.

Tar just stared at the device as Jimmy held it out for him.

“Take it,” said the lieutenant, his hand dropping to the baton on his belt.

Tar slowly reached out, his hand trembling, until his fingers closed around the plastic case. His palm rested on the corner of the tech and he felt……
nothing
. His hand did not tingle. No hallways or lights appeared in his mind. The thing was brick!

Tar shrugged as he offered the tech to the Black Shirt. “Is it supposed to do something?”

The lieutenant frowned and ripped the machine out of Tar’s hand. He turned toward the other men.

“We’ll keep them here for now,” he said. “Take them to the holding area.”

#

The boys were led through an iron gate into the noisy room beyond. The outer walls were ringed with cells and extended upwards two stories. The interior was furnished with tables bolted to the floors and plastic chairs. Men, young and old alike, sat or stood in the area while a few wandered cell-to-cell.

Tar and Jimmy walked to the end of one of the tables and sat down in empty chairs. Noisy conversations and curses flowed around them in a constant stream, echoing back from the concrete and adding to the din.

“What was that all about?” asked Jimmy, his voice small in all the noise. “What was with the tech?”

Tar looked around the room, making sure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation. “They’re looking for a fixer.”

“What’s that got to do with us?”

Tar dropped his gaze to where his hands rested on the tabletop. “Look, maybe you shouldn’t hang out with me,” he said after an awkward pause. “The Black Shirts might think we’re books.” He looked up at the other boy.

Jimmy stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “I wonder where we’re supposed to sleep.”

Tar never had a chance to answer. Two men walked up, one of them only a few years older than Tar. A scar stood out on his left cheek against pale skin and broke up the pattern of freckles, but it was his shockingly bright red hair that drew Tar’s attention.

The man took turns staring at both of them, then looked at Jimmy and moved his fingers three times, pausing long enough in between to form different signs. Jimmy squinted and tilted his head to the side before he responded, moving his fingers three times.

“I thought it was you, Pup,” the man said. “You’ve grown a bit since the last time I saw you.”

“Who’s Pup?” asked Tar.

“I am,” said Jimmy. “But I hate that name.”

“Well, we all gotta hate something,” the man said. “How’s One Shoe these days?”

Jimmy shrugged. “He’s doin’ all right. He’s still runnin’ the DT Moenes.”

The man nodded. “I figured he’d do chilly.”

Jimmy smiled. “This is Turbo,” he said to Tar. “He used to pay me to keep his blades sharp.”

“Yeah, you always wanted candy.” The man laughed.

Tar felt his breath rush back into his body. “Are we in trouble here?”

“One of your books?” Turbo asked Jimmy.

Jimmy looked at Tar a second before answering. “Yeah. He tried to help me when we got pinched by the shirts. That’s how he got caught or he’d be 404.” He flipped his head toward the man. “Turbo’s a friend of my brother.”

Turbo gestured to the other man who walked over to talk to another group. He grabbed an empty chair and sat down beside the boys. “So what’d they pop you for?” he asked.

“Nothing I was doin’,” Jimmy answered. “The shirts been picking up guys like us. At least that’s what we heard.” He glanced at Tar but didn’t say anything else.

“You’re not the first,” Turbo said as he waved toward a corner on the far side of the area. Tar followed the gesture and noticed about thirty boys around his age, huddled together, looking as scared as he had been a few minutes earlier. “Some of them said the shirts were looking for a fixer. It’s got to be some kinda joke. They don’t really exist.”

Tar stared at his hands but he could feel Jimmy studying him again. The silence stretched out, hanging between them with more force than the swirling noise. When he could not take it any longer Tar looked up.

Turbo’s gaze was drilling into him.

“I get it,” the man said, then he looked at Jimmy. “Better keep your head down, Pup. I’ll try to figure something out before you both end up fried crispy.”

Chapter 19

“You can really do it, can’t you?”

It had not really been a question. Jimmy was only saying what he already believed.

It was dark in the jail. Only a handful of small lights kept it from being pitch black. It was probably somewhere around midnight but it was impossible for Tar to tell. Time had dragged the rest of the afternoon before the prisoners had been fed. That had made for an interesting time. Several fights broke out over food. Turbo’s silent friend had brought them both a sandwich but Tar was sure none of the other young boys had gotten anything to eat.

He realized he and Jimmy were lucky. They had food in their bellies and now they were lying on bunks in one of the cells. He could hear a few boys sobbing in the dark and a couple of them had yelled out earlier. He did not want to think about what might have happened to them or where they were sleeping.

“Yeah,” he finally answered Jimmy.

“Automagically? Just touch it and it’s app again?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause in the dark before Jimmy whispered again. “Then what happened with the tech that shirt gave us? Was it too fragged?”

“Maybe,” answered Tar. “Probably the battery was just dead or there wasn’t one in it.”

“So, if it’s got juice, you can fix it?”

“Unless something is hard broke.”

“Chilly,” breathed Jimmy.

Tar stared at the dark ceiling and listened to Jimmy’s breathing as the boy drifted to sleep. He was on the verge of joining him when he felt—more than he heard or saw—a shadow enter the cell. He held his breath and eased closer against the wall.

“You guys awake?” Turbo whispered.

“I am,” answered Tar. “I think Jimmy’s out.”