Red Moon Rising (12 page)

“Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry. I'll put on some Hemo-Sealer and come back right away—”

“Don't worry about it,” I say. “I'll clear.”

“So sorry.”

“No problem.” Anything to get out of this room.

I
sit in my spot on the gym floor while Mr. Carver checks attendance. Gunther is talking softly to the guy in line next to him. I think his name is Andre. They both look over at me and start laughing, then go back to their conversation. I can feel my face getting red.

“All right, ladies,” Mr. Carver says. “We're going up the hill to the track, and I don't want to hear anyone complain that it's a cold night. It's not cold. I got them to turn on the lights, and we're doing it, so don't waste your breath whining. Get going.”

We start moving toward the doors at the back of the gym. A side door opens nearby, and it's
Craig
. He hands Mr. Carver a note. Mr. Carver nods and puts the note in his attendance book. He pats Craig on the shoulder, then moves toward the doors with the rest of us. I leave the crowd to follow Craig, who's headed back to the side door.

“Hey, Craig, how you doing?”

He turns. There's a black patch over his left eye, with two deep, angry gashes above and below the patch. There are two more shorter, shallower ones on the side. All four gashes are parallel, with shiny black stitches holding them closed, the skin puckering around the sutures. It's horrible.

“Wow. What happened?” I ask.

“I got clawed at the compound.”

“Is your eye going to be okay?”

“What eye? It's gone, man.”

“What do you mean, it's gone?”

“Gone. As in, not there anymore? And the surrounding bones are so messed up, they don't even know if they can fit me with a glass one.”

I think of one of Constance's words:
enucleate
, which means “to take out an eye.” Nobody at the lunch table had ever heard it before. “Damn. I'm sorry.”

He shrugs, looks down at the floor with his one eye. “Life sucks. What are you gonna do? At least I don't have to take Gym anymore.”

He starts to walk away, but he only gets one step before a voice says, “Hey! Man, that looks bad!” It's Gunther. He and his pal Andre lean in toward Craig. “That happen at the compound?” Gunther asks.

Craig nods, turning his face to the side. I can tell he just wants to get out of here.

“So, what?” Gunther says. “Another crumpskull—oh, sorry—another werewulf just, like, came over and slashed your eye out?”

Craig nods. He doesn't look mad or offended. Just defeated.

“Wow. That's a shame.” Gunther shakes his head. He takes a look at me before turning back to Craig. “A real shame, you know? If he'd gotten just a couple of inches to your right, he could've gotten the other one, too.”

Andre laughs. Gunther holds his hand up for Andre to slap. “Oh, well,” Gunther says, grinning. “There's always next month.”

He and Andre head toward the door, still laughing.

I truly don't know what to say to Craig. He swallows hard.

“Hey, kid!” Gunther shouts from the doorway. “I'll keep an eye out for you.” The idiot Andre laughs at this. Gunther howls, and it reverberates around the gym even after they're gone.

Craig starts walking away.

“Craig,” I say.

He stops and turns to me.

“I don't know what to say. If there's anything…”

Craig looks at me, his one eye shiny, narrowed with anger. He snickers. “Anything you can do? Like what? What can you do for me?”

“I don't know. Whatever I can do.” Which, I guess, is nothing. “Look. Guys like Gunther Hoering…He's just a specist scumbag. He has no idea what it's like—”

“But you do, right? You know exactly what it's like, after having gone to compounds for years and all that. I bet you know just what it's like to lose an eye, too.” He shakes his head, then raises his slashed eyebrow. “You want to help me? To be my pal? Live the life of a wulf for a couple of years, then we'll talk.”

“Did you see Craig Lewczyk?” Claire asks as we walk out the front doors into the night after school. She pulls her peacoat closed and buttons it.

I let out a long breath and shake my head. “He lost the eye.”

“I know. That's so horrible.” She shivers.

I shake my head. “Poor kid.”

“I know, right? Awful. You feel like doing anything?”

“I have to go over to the Kray-Mart in North Haven.”

“Eww. Why would you want to go to North Haven? And to the Krap-Mart, no less.”

“I have to get this DVD, and it's not something I want anyone I know to see me buy.”

“So download it.”

“I don't want traces of it on my computer. I have to buy it, and I need to be totally anonymous. I figure a million people go through the Kray-Mart every day, so nobody would remember me.”

“Yeah, but to go all the way there for it?” She pulls on her burgundy beret and studies me. “Okay. I
know
you're not talking about porn.”

“It's not porn. I need to get
Faces of Change
.”

“What? Haven't you seen it a hundred times, like everyone else on the planet? Why do you need to see it again?”

I grimace. “Because I'm not watching it for entertainment this time. I'm watching it to see my future.”

Being in any other girl's bedroom would've been the thrill of my life, but being in Claire's is no big deal. I've been here at least half a million times, and I think of her like another sister, except not spoiled or snotty or shallow.

Claire puts the DVD in the player. “You want to watch the medical section?” She means all the computer-generated stuff, the MRIs, X-rays, and CAT scans. “Or go right to the action scenes?”

“Skip that. I just want the MTD film—it's the only part not shot in a lab or with the wulf sedated or something. That's what I need to see.”

She advances to a freeze-frame at the beginning of the famous clip. It's an overhead shot of Michael Thomas Delaney, alone and naked in a small concrete cellar, his hands gripping his head. What a way to become famous.

“You sure you want to watch this?” Claire asks.

“No, I'm not sure I
want
to. But I need to. Go.”

She hits play. The narrator says: “The viewer is warned that the following segments contain graphic images that may be disturbing, especially for children. Viewer discretion is advised.”

The clip is of worse quality than the rest of the show. It was filmed more than fifty years ago. Somehow, it never struck me before how bare the room seems, how lonely, as MTD paces in tight circles, as far as the heavy black chain cuffed to his wrist and attached to the cement wall allows.

The narrator continues. “Michael Thomas Delaney, twenty-six years of age, a native of Cleveland, Ohio, goes through the Change.”

MTD drops to his knees and curls forward like he's praying. The camera zooms to the bumps of his spine getting bigger and wider.

A minute later the hair on his body grows thick. I feel itchy.

The shot switches to a close-up of his face. His eyes are squeezed shut. There's the sound of bone cracking. A ripple runs across his cheeks as the bones move. His nose and jaw start to push out.

I'm getting dizzy.

And that spray of blood from the corners of his mouth where his lips split and rip…

A different angle shows his hands curling, changing shape, joints bulging. Another angle shows the same thing happening to his feet.

Back to his face. More crunching of bone, and his brow flattens.

And then the scream, that scream that little boys playing vampyres vs. werewulves always try to imitate.

It starts as a human wail of pain, then gets scratchy and guttural, taking on an animal pitch, a sound that humans can't duplicate. It's the howl of misery. The agony of the Change.

In nineteen days, that'll be me.

A
s soon as I get in Jessica's car, I tear off the disposable Sol-Blok suit Claire gave me, ball it up, and throw it into the backseat. Jess sets her jaw and hits the gearshift hard, her coveralls making a crinkly sound. “My car is not your garbage can. Don't even
think
about leaving that there.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

She puts the car into gear and heads off down the street. “And you're welcome for the ride home,” she says. “It's no problem.”

“I'm guessing that Mom
made
you come get me. But thanks anyway.” I look out the Sol-Blok-treated passenger window. The sun is starting to rise. That DVD really shook me up.

I hear the crinkle of her SB suit and I can figure that she's turned to look at me. “What's wrong with you?” she asks.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

She drives for a while without saying anything. Then, “So Alexis told me something interesting.” I wait for it. “She said she saw you with this girl in school. A girl with brown hair, a human girl, she thought. She told me it seemed like you and this girl were…together.” She takes her hands off the steering wheel to make air quotes around the word
together
.

“Yeah? And?”

Jess shrugs. “You were telling the truth the other night. You
do
have a little girlfriend. And even though she's a human, according to Alexis, this ‘Juliet' was actually pretty normal. Decent looking, even.”

“I'm so relieved that your friend gave Juliet a good report. I don't know what I would've done if she hadn't.” I look back out my window.

“So,” she says. “Dante Gray has a girlfriend. Amazing. I'm stunned. I'll have to talk to this girl and make sure she doesn't corrupt my baby brother.”

“Don't even think of talking to her. Ever. About anything.”

She looks at me. “Awww. That's so cute.” She turns her attention back to the road but reaches over with her right hand to pinch my cheek.

I slap her hand away. “Don't think I won't punch you in the arm,” I say.

She laughs at me. “Ooh, touchy touchy. Is someone in love? Is my baby brother becoming a man?”

If she only knew what I'm
really
becoming. In less than three weeks.

I figure I might as well hit the homework. I fire up the computer and open the paper I'm writing for history. On the news feed, they're doing the monthly tallies from the compounds.

“Compound W5-188-M in Bakersfield, Wisconsin, had the highest number of casualties this month, with a whopping twenty-eight confirmed. D8-402-M in Newark, T9-498-M in Oakland, and K4-296-F outside El Paso all come in second place with twenty-four confirmed. Rounding out the top five is M3-042-M in the Bronx, New York, with twenty-three confirmed. That's the forty-fifth consecutive week that M3-042-M has been in the top five. Federal inspectors are investigating the high mortality rate.” This is all reported with the visuals of body bags being loaded into trucks, and a lineup of more trucks waiting for the compound gates to open. Then, of course, there's the “art shot” of the full moon glowing behind a guard tower.

That's a lot of dead wulves. They don't even bother counting the injured.

“Once again, this is outrageous and unacceptable,” says Huey Seele. As usual, his head is shaved to show off all his bumps and cranial misalignments. No beard, either, because he wants his jagged cheekbones, flattened nose, and crooked jaw to be on display. He's always on the news, getting arrested at some rally or protest. Mom isn't the only person who thinks he's a loudmouth “agitator.” Most vamps can't stand him. “The conditions at the compounds are deplorable,” he shouts into a microphone, spit flying. “Not to mention the fact that this imprisonment of wulves—American citizens, mind you—is a complete violation of our civil rights. I don't care about the twenty-second amendment, executive orders, or any of that legislation. They're all unconstitutional and need to be repealed. This is fascism, pure and simple.”

I can see why he'd be mad about the compounds and what he calls “illegal internment.” But I'm not sure what else could be done. I mean, during the Change, wulves become feral. They're dangerous.

I guess I shouldn't be saying
they
anymore. More accurate to say
we
.

Then there's the whole thing that happened to Craig. What if he'd never made it out of the compound—if he was one of the casualties I just heard about on the news?

And there's other stuff everyone hears. Like about guards throwing the werewulves into pits and having “wulf fights,” betting on who will win. I've heard about torture and medical experiments. Of course the LPCB claims the rumors are unfounded and that the compounds are strictly monitored for safety and humane conditions.

There's a knock on my door, and after I call yeah, Mom and Troy come in. He closes the door slowly.

Uh-oh. This can't be good.

“Dante,” Mom begins. “We know there's something going on that you're not telling us.”

“What?” No. I've been too careful. Nothing on my computer, no texts on my phone, no slips when talking around them.

“Come on, sport,” Troy says. “We'd like to help. Whatever it is, you can tell us. We won't be upset.”

That's what
you
think. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He looks at Mom, then puts his hands behind his back and leans against the wall. Mom looks at the image on my window monitor for a few seconds. It's a dark and cloudy day. There's fog in the nature preserve.

“You didn't swallow something the wrong way at dinner,” she says. “You were nauseated.”

“No. I wasn't—”

She holds her palm out to me, eyes closed. “Please. I know what I saw. You were ashen, and with your complexion, going pallid is
not
a sign of perfect health. Your Thirst seems odd. You've been irritable, argumentative with your sisters.”

“We're
always
argumentative.”

“I'm not a fool. Something is wrong and I want to know what it is. Are you doing illegal drugs? Coumidex?”

Troy stands up and puts his hands on his hips. “Dan. Straight and true: are you hooked in?”

I can't help but laugh, but I make myself get serious. This conversation could head into dangerous territory. “Look. I swear to you that I'm not doing any drugs.”

“Well, be that as it may, I'm making an appointment with the doctor. There is
something
wrong and I won't leave it untreated.”

The doctor. That'll mean a complete physical. And blood tests. “I'm not sick, Mom. If I were, I'd tell you.”

“Well, considering that you don't have a medical license and aren't qualified to make that determination, I think we'll just leave it to an expert. I'll schedule an appointment for tomorrow night after school.”

“Mom—”

“I'll tell you what time as soon as I know.”

After they leave I lock my bedroom door and wait to hear them settle in to watch TV. I dial Dad on my cell phone.

“How you doing?” he asks. I can hear hammering and power tools. He's on a job.

“Getting by, I guess.”

“Hang on, I can't hear you.” The construction noises fade as he goes somewhere quieter. “Okay. What were you saying?”

“I said I'm getting by. But we have to do something about Mom.”

“Something like what?” he says.

“We have to tell her. And
soon
.”