The Troop (35 page)

edges are knitted with wrinkles. his hair has a stripped-out, mousy aspect. There is a pronounced stoop when he sits down: his shoulders are rounded and hunched in a gait one associates with the elderly. he looks like someone who has been subject to unimaginable pressures and now, that pressure withdrawn, his body still bears the weight.

you have to remind yourself that Max is still a boy. But he’s a boy who has seen far more than most others his age.
We speak through an impermeable barrier at the clinic. It is not unlike the way inmates speak to their spouses in jail. There are phones on each side of the Plexiglas. after I finish, an orderly will wipe down the earpiece with a powerful germ-killer. The clinic operates at the highest levels of precaution. It took months of wrangling and compromise to secure a brief interview with Max.
The clinic itself is a gargantuan boxy structure far removed from any population center. The things inside the clinic are potentially lethal to humankind. The humans who reside in the clinic aren’t dangerous—what may be thriving inside of them, though, are very dangerous. The viruses and contagions and parasites. The worms.
Max is in good spirits today. he’s wearing a paper gown and slippers. he tells me that everything is burned after he wears it, as a precaution.
“When you get a whole new wardrobe every day, I guess it’s best that they’re made out of paper,” he says with a wry smile.
Max Kirkwood was spared. his fellow troop-mate newton Thornton was not. Why? That is as yet unknown. recent revelations at the tribunal trial of admiral Stonewall Brewer—chief tactical commander of the Falstaff Island event—indicate that the thinking may’ve been that Max would be a good candidate for study. There is a possibility he was spared because if not, there would have been nobody left to gauge the effectiveness of the worm. It is shocking to believe such thinking may prevail at the upper echelons of the military establishment.
Max is well clear of that now. In fact he seems to remember little of his experience on Falstaff Island. It is entirely possible, of course, that he doesn’t
want
to remember—that his mind, seeking peace, has simply jettisoned these memories. Who could blame him if that is the case?
he speaks about the others in clipped, jagged sentences. They are the only aspects of the ordeal that he claims to truly recall, and by and large he recalls them with great fondness and care.
Of Tim riggs, his Scoutmaster: “Dr. riggs was the coolest adult I ever knew. But he didn’t try hard to be cool. he was actually sort of not-cool, with the way he dressed and his fussiness. But he was cool because he treated us the way he’d treat grown-ups.”
Of ephraim ells: “eef was my best friend. you could count on eef. he always stuck up for you. he had a really big heart. I just think that, on the island, something crawled into his head and he couldn’t get rid of it.”
Of Kent Jenks: “I still have a hard time believing he’s gone. I mean, he was like Superman—really, he was. If anyone could have swum back to north Point, it was Big K.”
Of Shelley Longpre: “There was something the matter with him. I’m not so sad about Shel, to be honest. That’s a shitty thing to say, but whatever.”
Of newton: “newt would have been a great dad. The
best,
I just know it. he knew so much. The strongest of any of us. I really wish we hadn’t ragged on him so bad.”
When I ask him what else he can remember, his face grows distant, as if his mind is sprinting away from my question.
“There was a turtle,” he says finally.
he grows silent. Then the words pour out in a shocking flood.
“Do you know how
hard
it is to kill something? nothing wants to die. Things cling to their lives against all hope, even when it’s hopeless. It’s like the end is always there, you can’t escape it, but things try so,
so
hard not to cross that finish line. So when they finally do, everything’s been stripped away. Their bodies and happiness and hope. Things just don’t know when to die. I wish they did. I wish my friends had known that. Sort of, anyway. But I’m glad they tried. That’s part of being human, right? Part of being any living thing. you hold on to life until it gets ripped away from you. even if it gets ripped away in pieces. you just
hold on.
”
he grows silent. his head dips. When he looks up again his eyes are red at their edges and he’s near tears.
“I killed a turtle,” he says simply.
It seems the most wretched admission he’s ever made. I want to reach out and hug him—but I can’t because a thick barrier prevents it and anyway, there may still be something inside of Max that could kill me.
an orderly leads me away shortly after this. Max has been overstimulated. he needs to cool down.
I walk out to my car. The sky is gray with the threat of rain. I try to put myself in Max’s shoes on that island. I picture being confronted with a faceless hungering threat that he never truly understood. and it amazes me that he—that all the boys—hung tough together. They didn’t abandon each other—maybe it never entered their minds that they
could.
Those ideas come with the dawn of adulthood, and all the cruelties implicit in that stage of life.

To:
Alex Markson
Subject:
Hi . . .
Message:
Hey Alex,

We don’t even know each other really, so maybe this is weird. But I don’t know what’s happened to you—you vanished off Facebook! I hope you’re not gone for good. :( I’d miss all your great posts. So weird, I know, because you’re a stranger. But it doesn’t feel that way. I guess I was just thinking about you, maybe even a little worried, because of what’s been happening lately in my little town. It’s been crazy. Not good crazy. Scary-crazy. Anyway, this is silly. I’m sure you’re just taking a break. But still, I hope you’re OK. Sincerely (is that weird?), Trudy Dennison.

49

sOme NigHTs,
max Kirkwood would climb the bluffs on the outskirts of north Point and stare out over the water toward Falstaff Island.

This was after it had all happened. After the arrival of the hungry man; the madness of the island. After he’d stood at the prow of oliver mcCanty’s boat with the glowing red dot—a sniper’s laser sight— pinned to his chest.

After the military decontamination, they had transferred him to an isolated clinic. He was toxic, after all.
Infected.
or maybe not.
They had poked and prodded, drawn pints of blood, endoscoped him, X-rayed him, done mrIs and cranial maps, dosed him with every vaccination known to mankind.
After all that, they adjudged him to be clean.
It felt strange returning to north Point. everything was the same, but everything was different. His Scouting friends were gone. Those who’d been his friends before now kept their distance. People treated him differently. most of them pitied him. Some, though, felt that he must have done horrible things on the island to have survived. others crossed to the opposite side of the street when he came walking down it.
At irregular intervals, a black van would show up at his house. men in Hazmat suits would get out. more tests. more needles. They collected his blood and fluids and solids in sterile pouches. It made max laugh to think that some scientist in a white lab coat would be picking apart his shit with tweezers, frowning and tutting as he searched for clues—well, it
almost
made him laugh.

max Had
bad dreams. Those were the only dreams he had anymore—most nights it was just blackness. He closed his eyes and
bang.
Black. eight hours later, the black went away. He woke up. Those were the good nights.

on the bad nights, his dreams were still black. But the blackness was infested with sounds. Squirming. Always this squirmy-squirmy noise in the blackness. And when he woke up, max would be drooling like a baby.

His mom kissed him good night on the forehead now. used to be on the lips.
He tried to return to the life he’d known, but that simply didn’t exist anymore.
He wasn’t allowed to go to school. The parents of many students didn’t feel right having max in the same airspace with their kids. nothing against max personally. He was a good kid. A survivor.
But the things max had encountered on the island were survivors, too. The parents had read the newspapers. one of Dr. edgerton’s videotaped experiments had leaked online. everyone knew what those things could do—objectively they did, anyhow. everyone had
seen
things, clinically, but those things hadn’t touched them. not in any tangible way. So people knew in their brains but not inside their skin, and there
was
a difference.
everybody thought they knew what had happened on that island.

THE TROOP 353
everyone was an expert. But they didn’t
really
know. What they thought was bad. What really happened was a lot worse.
max studied at home. The teachers sent assignments to him in paper envelopes. He had to send his answers back via e-mail, as the teachers expressed concern over actually
handling
the papers he’d touched. one morning he found a poster tacked to his front door. It was sup

posed to look like a carnival poster—like, for the Freak Tent.
The Amazing Worm Boy,
read the blood-dripping type underneath. His mother made sweet-and-sour pork for dinner one night. The

smell was so familiar to max—that high stinking sweetness—that he started to scream. He didn’t stop until his father tossed the pan of pork outside in a snowbank. It took him a while, on account of the fact he limped real bad; the mPs had shattered his right kneecap after he and Kent’s dad stole Calvin Walmack’s cigarette boat.

max kept to himself. no choice, really. He wandered the woods and down by the sea.
He thought about his friends: Kent and eef and newt, especially. He’d recall the strangest, most trivial things, like Cub Kar rally night. one year, his car had lost to Kent’s car in the finals—except everyone thought Kent’s dad helped him build the car. Its wheels were thin as pizza cutters. eef’s mom had said it was cheating. newt’s mom agreed. Things got pretty heated. Kent’s dad kicked over the canteen of mcDonald’s orange drink and stormed out. eef’s mom’s eyes had popped out and she’d said:
And that man is our police chief.
max missed them all so much.
It was weird. They’d all had other friends. But now, max couldn’t think of any friends who’d mattered as much.
He’d give anything to have one more day with them. even one of those piss-away ones they used to have in Scouts: roaming the woods on a fall day with the smoky smell of dead leaves crunching under their boots. Playing King of the mountain and Would You rather? while nerdy newt collected samples for some dumb merit badge or another. Stealing away with ephraim to stare at the stars and dream their crazy dreams. And they would all be just like they were before. not skinny or hungry or trying to hurt one another.
There was nothing max wouldn’t give to have that again. Just one more day.
And Shelley? Well, Shel wasn’t in these daydreams. If Shel popped up at all, it was in his nightmares.
max had a shrink now—the same one newton and ephraim used to visit. When he’d told Dr. Harley about wishing for one more day with his old friends, he’d been advised against wishing for things that couldn’t happen. Harley called this negative projection. max thought Harley was an idiot.
If there was one thing he wanted to tell his lost friends, it was that
lots
of adults didn’t have a goddamn clue. It was one of the sadder facts he’d had to come to grips with. Adults could be just as stupid as kids. Stupider even, because often they didn’t have to answer to anybody.
of course, Harley wore a face mask during their sessions, same as a doctor would wear when he’s operating—same as Scoutmaster Tim had worn, probably.
Sometimes max wanted to rip it off and cough into his stupid sucker-fish face. The Amazing Worm Boy strikes again!

50

ONe eveNiNg,
max borrowed his uncle’s boat and piloted it toward Falstaff Island.

His heart jogged faster as the island came into view, rising against the horizon like the hump of a breaching whale. It was charred black. nothing but the odd burnt tree spiking up from the earth. The water had the sterile chlorine smell of a public pool. It was the most desolate place he’d ever seen. It echoed the desolation inside of him.

The emptiness . . .
The emptiness?
max leaned both hands on the gunwale. A nameless hunger was

building inside of him. It gnawed at his guts with teeth that called his name.
ackNOwlEdGMENTs

Thank you to my father, who read the rough manuscript and said: “Son, you may have something here. I don’t know what that something is, to be honest, but something.” To my agent, the kick-ass Kirby Kim, who wasn’t repelled enough by the subject matter to dismiss it out of hand. He may have even said something like: “We could actually have something here . . . possibly.” To my editor, ed Schlesinger, who put the manuscript through the proverbial wood chipper, gathered the shreds, and helped me put them back together, then said: “Hell, we just may have something here.” To Scott Smith, who kindly read the manuscript and offered some fantastic suggestions, all since implemented.

I’d like to thank Stephen King, who’s not read this book and likely never will, but whose first novel,
Carrie,
was a great inspiration to me while I was writing. The use of newspaper clippings, interviews, and magazine profiles seemed a perfect way to tell not only
Carrie
but also
The Troop,
where so much information is unknown to the main characters yet must be related to readers. Seeing how artfully mr. King employed these devices, I figured I’d . . . uh,
borrow
 . . . that structure. Steal? lord, I hope not. let’s just say I found the narrative chassis of
Carrie
to be perfect for my uses, and grafted my own story on it. If you’ve read this book and are now reading this, hopefully you’ll agree that the plot of
Carrie
—a story about a telekinetic girl with a really bad mom who rains death and destruction on her small-minded hometown—and the