Spree (YA Paranormal) (17 page)

“Each Taker only gets to take one soul,” Crazy T said.

He was fluttering among the legions of black mists, then swooped right down by Mrs. Walters.

“I know just who I’m going for,” Crazy T went on.

“Be strong,” Belinda told me.

“If every Taker gets one soul,” I said, “then I know just who I’m going for too.”

Crazy T sized me up. “Try it,” he said.

“All in good time.”

The Takers took their positions, forming impenetrably around the explosives, around the soccer team, and around Zipper, who was wandering around the sides of the fields with his green camouflage backpack. Moments earlier Takers clouded him so much that not even I could see through that much darkness. I could only imagine him loading his guns, checking them in the woods, making perfectly sure that nothing would go wrong. I could feel the anger, the fear, in his aura, which whipped around in angry reds and blacks like a bloody tiger unleashed upon the crowd. Up and down Zipper paced to calm himself, using the pretense of having to check the field.

Before the soccer team was announced, out came the cheerleaders.

“How do you spell champion?” the captain asked a live crowd.

She was a demure redhead named Monica who stood in perfect place by her teammates. I wondered if she knew I had died at all.

“B-U-R-G-U-N-D-Y H-I-L-L!” her squad shouted, jumping up and down and cheering wildly.

The soccer moms and dads clapped, but the crowd, unappeased, started their own chants.

“On the first day God made soccer,” Sue’s drunken boyfriend shouted, “and saw that it was great.”

The high school boys took the lead.

“On the second day,” they continued, “God made Franklin Shore soccer…We all make mistakes.”

The boys laughed and chanted “We all make mistakes” again as if it was ridiculously funny. Alcohol made idiots feel like Oscar Wilde. I’d know. I spent my life as one of them.

Another bench, filled with equally drunk Franklin Shore kids, took to chanting: “Sucks” every time the cheerleaders spelled out Burgundy Hill.

This chant led to parents cringing, and a few chant leaders got broken up by teachers.

The gesture was unnecessary, though, as the entire field became quiet the moment Aliya wheeled into full view.

A huge ovation started out and soon the Burgundy Hill chants turned to: “We love you, Ali.” The Franklin Shore boys even took to the chants, and the parents and other students were silent, just watching the only survivor of the most infamous drunk driving crash in town history situate herself next to the bleachers.

Principal Buckley made a big production out of going up to Aliya, shaking her hand like she was a visiting ambassador from some far-off country.

In a way, I suppose she was, having been to death and back again.

Crazy T sought my attention, forming from the darker mists with a cruel smile on his lips as he floated, stirring up his Takers.

I stood by Aliya, as did a few Keepers, trying to give her strength.

“We don’t want to make any speeches,” Aliya’s mom said.

“I’ll say a few words,” Aliya volunteered.

“Dear, no,” her father said. “No one expects—”

“I should say something,” Aliya said. “Is Steph here?” she asked.

Principal Buckley nodded.

“Okay. Get me a mic,” she said.

Principal Buckley went back before the crowd and tried to quiet the chants. The chants of “Ali” only grew louder until everyone was on their feet, applauding. Principal Buckley went over to the announcers’ table and asked them to announce that Aliya had something to say. They did so and passed the principal a working mic. He passed it along to Aliya, whose parents wheeled her to the center of the field.

Aliya looked around. The two teams were getting ready to take their announce positions to be called out to the field, but not one of them was focused on hearing their names. They all stood, applauding, waiting for Aliya to speak.

“One week ago,” Aliya said, “I was in a wreck that claimed three lives.”

All applause died; there wasn’t a sound on the field or in the bleachers.

“My best friend, Fay, is dead. My good friend Cindy is gone, and Steph’s mom, who was innocent, is gone too.”

Aliya started crying, but still there was silence.

“I learned this week that I may be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, and I grew scared and angry and wished that I was dead,” Aliya said. “But what we did was wrong. My parents don’t want me to say anything because of a lawsuit. We need the money since it will take millions and millions to keep me alive for the rest of my life. But at least I’m alive. Steph’s mom isn’t. And while I can’t ever apologize enough for what I did, for what Fay did, and for what Cindy did, as the only one of us left to speak, I feel I should say sorry from the bottom of my heart. I need to warn other kids not to drink and drive the way I did. I know that sounds corny. I know you’ll do what you’ll do anyway, and I can even tell a few of my friends have been drinking before this game. Some of them got behind the wheel. But if one kid looking at me, seeing a reminder of what drinking can do, if that kid stops, then all of this will have been worth it, everything except the deaths that didn’t have to happen. I’m not a great speaker, and I don’t know quite how to end,” Aliya said, “but I will fight to be back in high school before graduation. I want to be a daily reminder to my friends to stay sober. And I want to be a daily reminder of how precious life is and of how quickly it can be taken away.”

Aliya handed the microphone to Principal Buckley as an awkward applause broke through the bleachers.

Aliya’s parents wheeled her back to where she was, and Alex and Tom, the two captains of the soccer team, came to take the mic.

The cheers were immediate.

“A week ago we lost two great friends and a great mom,” Alex said once the cheers died down. “We want to dedicate this game to them.”

“Burgundy Hill is a family,” Tom added. “Every goal we score—”

“—If Tom scores any,” Alex interjected.

The crowd forced a small laugh, if only to break up the awkwardness of the moment.

“We dedicate each goal to Steph, to her mom, to Fay, to Cindy, and to Ali,” Tom concluded.

The applause increased as Principal Buckley turned the mic over to the announcers who asked for a final, sweeping round of applause. The crowd obliged. The announcers then indicated that it was time to call the two teams.

Zipper stood there, surrounded by Takers. I don’t know if an ounce of the emotion on the field or in the bleachers made it to him. His face was blank as he stood to the side, backpack now in hand, simply waiting.

I focused on making myself appear.

The energy it took would be enormous, but if I could just appear to Zipper the way I must have to Alex, if I could just let him know that I knew, that I cared, then maybe the lives of my friends would be spared.

“Help me,” I said to the Keepers floating around as I mustered all my energy.

I felt my dark energy, still full of anger and pain at my death, growing instead.

A supernatural storm circled overhead and manifested itself in storm clouds that even the spectators of the living world could see hovering over the fields.

“We’re sorry,” Belinda told me. “We have to use our energy for one purpose and one purpose only: to keep the bombs from exploding. You must face the Takers on your own. Use your strength.”

I did my best to quickly fly by and call out to Alex, to Aliya, to Zipper, to any who might see me, but it was clear that the vortex of Taker energy was too powerful.

The Takers are hungry
, I said to myself.

I knew they wouldn’t be full until they were glutted on the souls of the living.

In the midst of all this chaos, the announcers started calling the soccer players to the field.

“First up, for Franklin Shore, is #5, ranked 3rd in the state, team starter Will Coldon!”

The crowd either roared or applauded politely before hearing the Burgundy Hill lineup.

“At #7,” the announcer said before the crowd went wild.

Even grown men and women were screaming wildly like Lady Gaga was before them or something.

“He is The Annihilator —”

I didn’t hear the rest of Alex’s intro over the shouting, but was struck by the irony of The Annihalator so close to his own annihilation. Over the feverish cries, I heard the Takers planning their assault right as the game geared up.

“If he blows up both sets of bleachers first,” Preggers told Crazy T, “they won’t have anywhere left to run.”

“I want to see Lisa bathe in blood,” Crazy T said. “He shoots her first.”

“She’s positioned too far away,” Rope Man told him. “Let him shoot the players first. It’ll bring more people to the field. Then he can have his way with them.”

“We should’ve waited until we had two shooters,” Burn Girl said. “It would’ve been easy to divide and conquer. But you chose a loner.”

“Just see to it that the bombs go off,” Crazy T told Burn Girl. “Use as many Takers as you need. The explosion is the only way to guarantee everyone dies. Zipper is just my entertainment. I get him to shoot who I want when I want.”

I didn’t hear any more Taker bickering. Instead, I saw legions of Takers coordinating to assault the Keepers. The Keepers vowed to keep their place by the bombs. I knew that would be the last stand of this battle.

What I didn’t know was how to take Crazy T down. The Takers were just too many and too powerful, and I could feel Zipper losing patience. He might snap at any moment.

Crazy T smirked when he saw something. Steph’s aura was also out of control. Her vaunting reds and blacks looked nearly as angry as Zipper’s aura. Now I knew why Crazy T let Aliya speak without making any effort to stop her. Steph’s anger would get the better of her.

“Drop a gun near the girl,” Crazy T said. “Then tempt her. Tempt her to shoot Aliya in the fray, to finish the job Fay started. If Zipper fails, focus on her.”

“She’s too good a girl,” Cut Girl said. “It’ll never work.”

“Just look at her aura,” Crazy T said. “Do it before she calms down. The rest of you—make sure she has a path to the girl in the wheelchair.”

The reds and blacks merged with the storm clouds. Steph was close to the edge.

I knew I had to be near, that I had to protect her. I didn’t know how. The Taker power, anger, depression, aggression, hatred, and pain filled me. I tried to keep my soul clear, to remember the ways of the Keepers, of insight, protection, and love, but I was a Taker, and the forces around me were too much.

“Stop fighting what you are,” Belinda told me. “Use your Taker impulses to your advantage.”

“No,” I said. “I’m Fay. I’m not just some Taker.”

I fought the impulses, fought to hold onto the last shreds of human life, of compassion, of what made me Fay. But as I looked at Belinda’s pleading ghostly eyes I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

“Fay died,” Belinda said. “Only a Taker remains.”

The words, felt so deeply inside my soul, hit me. I had to give in to hold out. I let the Taker energy, Taker thought, the darkness of The Flow, fill me. Crazy T’s plan became apparent. He’d kill enough to earn himself a spot in hell. First the bombs. Then the shooting. His best moment: Mrs. Walters, gunned down, along with the older brothers of Alex and Tom, star soccer players in Crazy T’s day. Steph was just a diversion to him.

I knew then that Steph and Aliya were the key. They were the two girls Crazy T hadn’t counted on, that he didn’t believe could even be persuaded to attend the game. They would be my wild cards.

If I could use their anger, their depression, their darker energies like a Taker would, I might be able to

position them in all the chaos, use them to thwart the efforts of Zipper and Crazy T while the Keepers kept the bombs and explosives at bay.

Right now I knew that Steph’s dark energy was joining with the Taker cloud. I pushed that energy towards the advancing storm clouds to start a downpour.

The Takers knew I was up to something obstructive. Their attack: a temporal one. They played with time, freezing and then propelling it forward until we were in the game. Just when I positioned myself by Steph, they moved time backward, then forward again, until I knew that it was all just one last trick. There’d have to be a moment when Zipper got up, when he whipped the detonator and gun out of his backpack. That would be what I’d watch for, no matter how much Crazy T and his legions played with time.

Time moved back to the moment the game started up. Black cumulonimbus clouds festered overhead, initially unleashing a few large drops, then steady streams of rain.

Meanwhile, the coaches looked towards where Zipper stood.

“Play the game,” Zipper said.

“Like hell, kid,” Franklin Shore’s Coach Derriza said. “Where’s Mr. Peterson?”

Zipper pulled out his phone. The coach took it, mumbled a few words, and then handed the phone back. The coach nodded.

Neither coach was willing to let the championship go, to be the first to cave. They ordered their starters to take the line. To rounds of cheers, the players took the field and positioned themselves.

It was Tom starting out against Will of Franklin Shore. Both looked a little jittery; this was the key moment that would decide the tempo of the start of the game. A whistle sounded, and the ball went to Franklin Shore. This Will was a master of control. He maneuvered the ball away from Burgundy Hill’s defensive midfielder as he somehow managed to eye his teammates and see where the best place to send the ball was. He decided on a lanky guy, #25, last name Huele, and passed the ball to him. The whole audience felt a subdued silence as Huele passed the ball on and Will came down behind the defender to take the kick. He had such force behind the kick that the ball nearly tore through the goal post, but did not make the net. This was championship soccer, all right. It was no game for wimps.

Just then the rains hit. I kept my attention focused on Zipper’s aura. He clearly didn’t feel rushed despite the downpour.

The field got wet almost immediately. Players were sloshing along, slipping, staining their shin guards, falling in the field.