Phoenix Island (15 page)

C
ARL BRACED HIMSELF.

Parker held the baton close to Carl’s face. “Let’s see how tough you really are, Hollywood.”

Carl tensed as the stun gun crackled and an arc of blue energy snickered between two blunt points at the end of the baton.

“It’s not fair!” Ross shouted from the floor.

Carl heard the dull thud of a kick and heard his friend grunt with the blow.

“Gather around, orphans,” Parker said. “I want you to see what happens to
individuals
on Phoenix Island.” The others pressed closer. Decker pushed to the front, his face smashed and bloody.

“You think you’re a star, Hollywood,” Parker said, “so let’s light you up.” The baton crackled, and two needles of energy plunged into Carl’s forearm. Electricity coursed through him and locked his muscles rigid, filling him with sparking, yellow pain. His teeth clacked shut, but he didn’t cry out.

It was kind of like getting punched hard—when somebody with fast hands cranks you a good one, when you don’t see it coming. White lights flash in your head, and you feel like a surprised cartoon character, all these little spikes shooting out of your head. That’s what this was, only the explosion was in his arm, not his head, and all those shock lines, instead of shooting out of him, stayed inside of him and shot up his arm and into him, spreading and multiplying the pain.

Withdrawing the stun gun, Parker looked angrier than ever.

Somehow, Carl had passed the test, had managed to maintain parade rest position and avoid crying out. For that he was thankful.

He let out a shuddering breath. He’d done it. He’d taken a blast of 500,000 volts and hadn’t given Parker an inch.

Parker grinned through his anger. “Not bad for the first one.”

The first one . . .
And then the horror of it dawned on him; Parker had no intention of stopping no matter what Carl did. He was going to keep shocking Carl until Carl couldn’t take it anymore. He was going to keep pushing and pushing and pushing until Carl finally broke, and then he’d push a little more.
Well,
Carl thought,
he’s going to have to work at it. I’m not going to just lie down for him
.

“You know what, Hollywood?” Parker said. “I’m feeling kind today. You want to stop, we can stop.” He pushed his boot forward. “All you have to do is be humble. Kiss my boots, and I’ll let you go.”

“Just do what he wants,” Ross said.

Screw that
.
I won’t give him the satisfaction
.

“No? So be it. . . . In nonlethal combat school, they taught us the three best places to stick somebody with a stun gun: the hip, shoulder, and neck. What do you say we go in that order?”

Parker reached out again. Carl heard the snicker and saw the blue flash, and needles of pain tore into his hip. His muscles went tight as a fist, his jaw locked, and he strangled a scream in his throat. His body jerked more this time, but he stood his ground. The pain was bright white. The initial shock felt like the explosion of a hard punch, but the pain was nothing like the pain of a fight. Fighting generated suck-it-up-and-take-it pain. This stun gun pain was something else altogether. Not worse exactly, but abrupt. It seized him, taking control of his body, and this lack of control filled him with wild desperation. Fighting it was more like fighting panic than pain. It was more like drowning than getting punched.

The electricity cut off. Somehow, he’d managed to hold position and keep from yelling.

Parker roared with laughter. “How’d that feel, Hollywood? Huh? Let’s see what you do when I touch this thing to your shoulder. Right where you got your shots today . . . that ought to tickle. Unless you’re
ready to quit playing games. You know what you have to do: just give Daddy’s boots a smooch.”

Carl said, “You’re nothing like my dad.”

“You’re right,” Parker said. “I’m still alive.”

Carl opened his mouth to tell Parker what he really thought of him, but then a yellow jolt whacked across his shoulder and through his chest, and it felt like there was a bird in his heart, flapping its wings. The shock flashed up through his head, and Carl’s skull felt like a shining lantern. With the pain came the panic, but still he did not cry out, and though his upper body jerked involuntarily, he managed to keep his hands behind his back and his legs spread. He had to. . . .

“Woo-hoo! That was a good one!” Parker yelled. “Well, Hollywood, you took it to the arm, the hip, and the shoulder. You don’t really want it in the neck, do you? Be a smart little individual. Kiss the boots, and I’ll make all of this stop.”

Carl shook his head. He’d rather die than play Parker’s stupid game.

Parker turned to the others. “See? Hollywood thinks he’s better than you. Always showing off. Now he’s the superhero. He gives you guard duty, and while you’re up in the night, he sleeps like a baby.”

Carl saw people nodding, angry, eager . . . crazy. Like animals smelling blood. How could they buy into this? But he knew the answer, didn’t he? This was the whole point of Phoenix Island. Parker was setting him up for the kill. Had been since day one. Eric’s journal was right. Parker, this place, they didn’t just want to kill kids; they wanted to turn kids into killers. He was trying to transform the kids in their united hatred of him. And by the looks of the faces he saw around him, it was working.

With one noteworthy, unexpected exception.

Davis.

Carl saw Davis looking at him, his face slack, unhappy. Davis, who had seemed to want to kill Carl mere days ago, now looked like the only sane face in the crowd. Davis, of all people, looked restrained, thoughtful. Seeing Carl look at him, he nodded.

Parker said, “Last chance, Hollywood. You want to get humble or keep showing off and take it to the neck?” He grinned. “Well, what do you say? You want me to stop?”

Want him to stop? It hurt so much, he wanted him to stop more than just about anything. . . . But punk out for Parker, after all he’d done?

Carl looked straight ahead, waiting.

“Well,” Parker said. “Aren’t you just the show-off?” He turned to the others. “I gave him a chance. You all heard me. I tried to show mercy, but Hollywood insists on being an individual. It’s all right. We’ve got all night.”

The drill sergeant triggered the stun gun, and blue light snapped from prod to prod, flashing.
Crack, crack, crack
. He held it close to Carl’s face for several seconds, and once again, Carl had to force himself not to close his eyes. Suddenly, strangely, it came into his mind that he had nothing in the world. No possessions, no family, no future. All he had was himself. His self-respect. He would rather die than let Parker take that.

“Go ahead,” Carl said, and he had just enough time to hear people shout with laughter before the prods plunged like fangs into his throat, and his whole head filled with white light, and his body jerked, and this time his mouth
did
make noise, a quiet animal sound that was not crying. Parker pressed the points deeper. Everything in Carl wanted to scream. Everything in him wanted to jump away. But using every last ounce of willpower, he remained in place as lightning coursed through his neck and made his head feel like it was cooking. Parker bore on, and the light turned from white to blue, and everything in the world flashed and crackled as if Carl’s head were nothing more than the end of the stun gun itself.
Crack, crack, crack!
And it felt like his eyes would pop from his head like bottle rockets riding tails of flame.

Parker pulled away the prod.

“Woo-ee! I thought his head was going to blow up.”

Carl shuddered. His muscles shook from fatigue and shock and anger. He forced them to stay in place as best as he could, his legs spread, his hands folded at the small of his back. He kept his chin out and his eyes forward as Parker walked around him in a wide circle, as if inspecting him.

Parker said, “You jerked around like a little girl that time. I think you’re ready to quit. You ready to quit, Hollywood?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

Parker smiled. “You know what to do, then. Get down there and pucker up.”

“No, Drill Sergeant.”

Parker shook his head. “In nonlethal combat training, they also taught us to target the red zone during emergencies.” He tapped Carl’s chest three times with the baton but didn’t trigger it. “The red zone can kill. See, a stun gun works through the muscles. That’s why you look so stupid every time I touch you, like you’re having a fit or something. Well, the heart’s a muscle, too. What do you think will happen if I put half a million volts through it?”

Carl said nothing.

Parker shook his head. “See, this is what I call an emergency situation. The emergency here is that you need an attitude adjustment. You are tore up from the floor up, and I don’t mean that in a good way. FUBAR. The most FUBAR soldier I have ever seen.” He turned to the group again. “Hollywood’s too good for us, too cool. Thinks he’s better than us. What do you think? Is he better than us?”

Angry shouting filled the room.

Carl saw what Parker was doing, knew he was feeding the platoon’s bloodlust. He wanted them to howl for Carl’s death.

“Last chance to make it stop, Hollywood. We go to the red zone, you’ll be crying for your mommy.” He stared into Carl’s eyes. “Though you might as well save your breath, seeing as how your mommy’s dead.”

Rage leapt up in Carl, and it was all he could do not to bring his fists around from behind his back. But he knew that was just what Parker wanted. He was waiting for Carl to strike, hoping he would swing. Then he could justify anything . . .
anything
. Even public execution.

Parker raised the stun gun again. “Get smooching, Hollywood, or we’re going to the red zone.”

Before Carl could even think about what he was doing, his mouth opened and words came out. “Go to hell, Drill Sergeant.”

The platoon cried out with delight.

Parker looked like he’d been slapped. “What did you say to me? You worthless piece of crap, you’re going to wish I fed you to the hammerheads.”
The cattle prod crackled to life. “So be it. Say hi to your parents for me.”

“Stop!” Ross shouted. “You’re a monster!”

Carl’s heart surged with gratitude and concern for his small friend.

Ross broke free of Stroud and grabbed Parker’s arm. “What are you trying to do, kill him?”

Parker drove a crushing right into Ross’s mouth. Ross flew backward into the others and dropped to the floor. His limp body hopped with convulsions.

That’s when Carl started punching.

C
ARL DIDN’T HOLD BACK.
He didn’t worry about hurting his hands. He just unloaded his punches with the full force of all that pent-up hatred. Parker had pushed and pushed and pushed, and if he’d been smart enough to just keep pushing, he could have melted Carl into the floor with that stupid stun gun of his, but then he’d punched Ross, and now he was going to pay, even if it meant Carl’s death.

Carl’s punches landed at full extension with full power, and they caught Parker off guard—
smack, smack, smack, smack
—but they did not knock him unconscious. This was no boy. This was a man who had led a life of pain and who’d spent most of that life lifting weights, shooting steroids, training his body, and preparing for situations just like this. He had a thick neck, a square jaw, and broad shoulders so heavy with muscle that he looked like an ape. He wouldn’t go easily.

But that didn’t bother Carl. He had nothing left in the world, nothing but this. And he didn’t care if somebody shot him. He didn’t care if they hung him or nailed him to a cross. . . . He was going to finish this now. He had tried his best not to get into trouble, to just get along, but they pushed here just like they pushed everywhere else, and Parker was the worst bully of them all, and Ross was down and hurt very badly, and now Carl was going to hurt Parker just as badly, no matter what the cost.

The other kids roared like savages.

Before the drill sergeant could recover from the first barrage of punches, Carl moved in and drilled him with half a dozen sharp blows: hooks and uppercuts and a right cross every bit as crisp as that stun gun.
Parker’s hat flew off his head. He put up his hands. His face was already lumped and streaming blood. He cursed and rushed at Carl.

Carl danced away and caught Parker with another jab on the way out.

Parker crashed into a bunk, spun, and roared, “I’m going to kill you!” He raced toward Carl again, going low like Decker had, and Carl lashed out with his foot and landed a kick square to Parker’s face. There was a shock of two powerful forces slamming together, and Carl hitched backward, his foot exploding with pain. On the other end of the collision, Parker’s head snapped back on his thick neck. His arms went wide, and he sat down hard with a grunt, then fell over onto his back.

There was a lot of shouting. Carl was aware of people running off, hollering for other drill sergeants. He knew he should run, but he had to finish this first. Besides, where would he run? This was the end of the road.
A terminal facility
, the judge had called it.
Terminal
. The same word the doctor had used for Carl’s mom’s cancer.