Chapter 11

            The war had already come and gone.  Tom Denton lay on his bunk, reading an issue of Newsweek from over a year ago describing the end of the Gulf War.  He had only learned of the war's start two weeks earlier.  The warden—detention supervisor was his actual title—didn't allow the inmates access to current newspapers, magazines, or television programs.  When asked for an explanation, the warden would only say that it was to allow the inmates to focus on their rehabilitation.

            Tom knew the real reason was as part of their punishment.  By cutting them off from current events, the warden made them feel out of place and out of time—stuck.  It was as much a part of their punishment as the terrible food, cold showers, and overcrowded cells.

            Of course the cells weren't referred to as cells.  They were called rooms, as if they were staying in a motel—a motel from which they could never escape.  The old Eagles song "Hotel California" came to Tom's mind; the song had always struck him as weird until he came to be stuck here.  Now the horror of being able to check out any time you want but never able to leave almost made him cry.

            But he didn't cry.  He hadn't since his first night in here.  He hadn't stopped crying out of any kind of resolve or mental toughness; one of his cellmates had dragged him to the floor and threatened to break every bone in his body if he didn't shut up.  So he had shut up, crying inside for a few weeks until there was nothing left.  Only a hard shell remained.  That's how you survived in a place like Stratford.

            Resting the magazine on his chest, he tried to imagine the war.  He could see the planes streaking through the night sky, twisting through lines of colored tracers.  He saw the explosions as their bombs struck home in Baghdad or elsewhere in Iraq.  Finally he imagined Saddam in his bunker, cursing the inept generals under his command.  But imagining it was all he could do.

            "Shit," he said, tossing the magazine to the floor.

            "What's your problem, Denton?" asked one of his cellmates, Amos Tidwell.  Amos had come to Stratford two years ago after holding up a liquor store in Helena.  He gained notoriety by leading police on a chase all the way to the South Dakota border.

            "You're my problem, Tidwell.  Did you bother showering or were you too busy cornholing Sumpter?"  Ron Sumpter had gained a reputation, a well-earned reputation, as the girliest inmate in Stratford.

            "I don't cornhole nobody, shithead."

            "Yeah, right."  Tom stared up at the ceiling.  Another long day stretched ahead of him.  In two hours they would be released from the cells for lunch and then afternoon classes.  Then would come dinner and his shift in the kitchen to wash the dishes.  Much later it would be lights-out and another day would come to an end only to repeat itself the next day and the next.

            Some boys marked the days with ticks on the wall or calendars if they could get someone to bring one in.  Tom didn't need such devices to keep track.  He knew in his mind how long he had been here—fifteen hundred twenty days—and how many he had left—three hundred five.  Tomorrow it would be three hundred four, and so on until it finally reached zero.

            Then he could go home, back to Preston with Mom and Will.  As much as he wanted to be with them again, he couldn't help wondering what would happen then.  If he kept to his studies he could get his GED in here.  From there, he didn't know.  His grades weren't enough for a scholarship and he knew his parents didn't make enough to pay his way.  Maybe he could get a job—probably in fast food or something minimum wage like that—and take some classes at the community college.  

Looking down at the magazine, he thought about joining the military.  It couldn't be much worse than this place, and after his tour he would have some money for school.  Maybe he could even get into a state university.  For what?  He didn't have any idea.  Not that there would be any rush for him to come up with something.  Suppressing a sigh, he wondered if he would be any less stuck out there than in here.

            Someone pounded on the door.  "You ready, Denton?" a guard said.  "It's your turn."

            "Yeah, great," Tom grumbled.  He hopped off the bunk and went to the door.  A pair of guards waited for him.

            "You're looking good," one guard said.  "I put twenty bucks on you, so you better not blow it."

            "Like I care."  The guards ushered him into the cafeteria, where a crowd had already gathered.  Some of the other guards had pushed aside the tables, allowing the crowd of onlookers to form a rough circle.  In the center of the circle stood Max Proudfoot, the largest and meanest kid in Stratford.  Proudfoot had already taken off his shirt to reveal his well-toned chest and arms.  "Just my luck," Tom said as the guards pushed him into the ring.

#

            With Ricky on his shoulder, Will slunk around the fence, past what looked like an athletic track, until he was nearly to the highway.  There he finally found what he was looking for:  a sewage grate.  Will shivered at the thought of what he was about to do.  "You're sure about this?" he asked.

            "As sure as I can be without a full schematic," Ricky said.  He had armed himself with Heather's energy weapon, which he aimed now at the grate protecting the sewage pipe.  The raccoon triggered a single burst of light that was still enough to evaporate the grate.

            "So I guess we go in there," Will said, his stomach churning.

            "I can go alone if you wish."

            "No.  You might get eaten by a rat or something."

            Will didn't see his first rat until he was at least a hundred yards down the pipe.  He caught sight only of the creature's eyes and pointed snout before it scurried deeper into the darkness.  Ricky had his sword at the ready as Will continued to crawl along the pipe in case any of the vermin got curious.

            Sewage water drenched Will's clothes and the stench of it threatened to overpower him.  He considered if it wouldn't have been smarter to let Ricky go by himself; the raccoon's avatar probably couldn't smell anything.  Still, he forced himself to keep going, towards where his brother waited.

            He wondered again if Tom would remember him after four years.  Will had wanted to visit his brother, but his mother refused to let him go anywhere near the detention facility, as if she feared some of its evil would magically rub off on him.  He had been forced to write letters, the last of which he'd mailed six months earlier and still not gotten a response.  That wasn't any surprise; Tom had never been much into writing.

            A device on Ricky's belt beeped.  "I'm detecting an energy signature.  It could be him."

            "Where?"

            The raccoon pointed up with his sword.  "Above us."

            "Oh, great."  Will crawled back a few feet to give Ricky room to operate.  The raccoon took the energy weapon again, this time aiming it over his head.  He squeezed off a burst that melted the pipe above them, which in turn sent an avalanche of dirt cascading down.  Will heard the shriek of rats escaping farther down the tunnel.  He too wanted to run away, but couldn't, not when they were so close.

            Ricky had to wait a minute for the energy weapon to recharge.  He fired another burst that this time scorched the concrete foundation of the detention center.  A third shot opened up a hole in the floor big enough for Will to squeeze through.  He climbed up onto the cold cement floor of a cell.

            A young black man stared down at him.  "Who are you?" the black kid asked.

            Will looked around the cell.  Tom wasn't there.  "I'm—"

            Before he could say anything, Ricky climbed up his back and flung himself at Tom's cellmate.  The raccoon landed in front of the black kid, who pressed himself back against the wall.  "What the hell is that?"

            "You have nothing to fear.  I won't hurt you."  Then Ricky touched a compartment of his belt and a trio of darts launched themselves into the black kid's neck.  Tom's cellmate collapsed face-first onto the bunk.

            Will studied the boy for a moment, deciding that his clothes would fit well enough.  "Keep an eye out for the guards," he said to Ricky as he began to change.

#

            Jessie nursed her small Coke and then checked her watch again.  Will had been gone for an hour now.  She wished they had been able to buy a set of walkie-talkies or something to keep in contact.  By now the guards at Stratford or the local police might have found him and taken him in.

            Heather sat on the tabletop, glaring at the other customers with her plastic eyes.  "How much longer are we going to watch these meatbags stuff their faces?" she asked.

            "I don't know.  Try to be patient."

            "I should have gone.  Raccoons are too clever for their own good."

            "Yeah, well, we couldn't have you shooting up the whole place like you did in my house, could we?"

            "Why not?"

            "Because we'd have the whole place on top of us then."

            "So?"

            Jessie shook her head.  Heather would probably relish that kind of fight and the chance to take down a couple dozen meatbags.  She didn't understand how she could have created this feline Rambo.  Whiskers had been such a delicate creature, a lady, drinking tea with her in the backyard.  She supposed it was the boys who had really created Heather.  They had wanted an adventurer, a warrior, and so to fit in she had allowed them to twist Heather into this.  Now she was regretting it.

            "Hey gorgeous," a voice said, interrupting her thoughts.  She looked up to see a boy with a crew cut and varsity jacket staring down at her.  She had seen this look before often enough on the jocks at school.  "Want some company?"

            "I have company," she said.

            The boy glanced over at Heather.  "That your kitty?"  He picked Heather up and then leered at Jessie.  "Aren't you a little old to play with stuffed toys?"

            "I'm too old to play with dumb jocks too," she said.  "Beat it."

            "Come on now, honey, I just thought maybe you and I could talk."

            "Yeah, right.  Put my cat down and go before I kick your balls into your throat."

            "Oh yeah?"  The boy started to squeeze Heather's midsection.  The white cat yowled with a mixture of pain and anger.  "Maybe I'll just destroy your stupid cat first."

            "Leave her alone!"  Jessie stood up and tried to snatch Heather away, but the jock was too tall.  She suddenly felt eight years old again.  "Give her back!"

            "How about we discuss this in the backseat of my car?" the bully asked.  Jessie looked around but the restaurant was empty of customers and none of the employees seem inclined to help her.

            Helping her turned out to be a moot point when Heather produced the metal spike on her right paw.  She rammed this into the jock's hand.  He cried out in pain, loosening his grip, which allowed her to lunge at his face.  She slashed at his cheek, leaving a nasty gash.  Before Heather could do any worse, Jessie pulled her away.

            The jock pressed a hand to his face.  "You bitch!  I'm going to get you!"

            Jessie bolted from the restaurant, into the parking lot.  As she did, a police cruiser pulled into the driveway.  The cop inside took a look at her and then at the bully emerging from the restaurant with blood on his face.  The cop opened his door.  "What's going on?"

            Jessie ran.