Zombie Ocean (Book 3): The Least (4 page)

Focus.

He shook himself and turned to the dive scoreboards. This was what he was here for. If Green-O wanted to shoot him from the gallery, flinching away wouldn't do a damn thing. This was the only thing he could control.

He strode along the poolside toward the platform, hit the ladder for the medium board and climbed. The agent would be in the stands now, watching how his potentials responded to the pre-dive jitters. He'd gotten off to a rocky start, but screw that; this was his house.

He reached the top and took to the board. Good flex, nice spring. He took a second to compose himself, letting the crowd fade into rustling pink and black smudges. Below was the water. Ahead was the flight, those precious instants of magic when the air took him. It wasn't falling, it was flight. The world centered and focus came.

He took one step, one jump, then launched spinning into the air, doing one, two, three, four somersaults in a tight ball before straightening and punching into the water.

When he curled back up to the surface there were no cheers, not yet, but of course he didn't expect any. This was where he wanted to be, after years of disaster had kept him away, finally in control of his own destiny in a place where Green-O couldn't do a damn thing. 

He made for the platform.

* * *

Two hours in and the air fizzed like a shaken soda can. His dives were about to start and the audience were settling in, with the odd klaxon firing to get the divers into line. The judges were at their desks.

Someone ran over to his seat on the divers' row, pressed a printed paper into his damp hands, then scurried to the next diver in line. He looked down at it.

It was his dive list; ten dives culminating in the inward arm-stand. He felt strong and limber, ready to perform, and there was a buzz growing from his middle where the bag of cold milk had been. He was ready to dive into it.

He passed the list on, approved. He knew it by heart. Now Coach Willings was coming over. The big clock on the wall was drawing them inevitably closer on.

"You look better," the Coach said. "Robert, I'm rooting for you. Make me proud."

Robert nodded. The Coach moved on. He was the closest Robert had ever had to a father figure, and earning his pride, while repaying his faith over the long years of failure, was important.

A speech happened over the announcement. People clapped and cheered. The Olympic agent was mentioned to more patriotic cheers, then somebody sang the anthem. Finally they called his name.

His was the opening dive. His body moved without him telling it to, like in a dream, toward the medium board ladder. The announcer's voice read out the dive he'd be performing, a triple backflip with double twist. It was easy stuff, fodder for marks to pad up his score and build confidence in himself, in the judges, in the audience, and get some momentum rolling.

He reached the top of the ladder and walked out along the board. The crowd sucked in a breath and held it. The dive filled his mind, preparing his body to rotate through flight, always aspiring to perfection.

At the halfway point along the board he ran. Three steps on he took a small jump, landed at the edge and sank low with the spring-loaded board's flex, then launched up and out. The air grabbed him and spun him tight and furious, the second or so of flight stretched out as he soared, then he hit the water.

This time he surfaced to rapturous applause. Grins met him at the water's edge. Coach Willings punched the air. Back at his starting line beside the other divers, he waited for the scores to come up on the boards.

7

7.5

8

7.5

8

He couldn't stop the grin spreading onto his face too. Those were close to perfect scores for a dive of such simplicity. Of course state-level judges were not the same as the Olympic agent, but they'd all be marking harder with the agent there.

The other divers' names were called and they rolled past him like items on a conveyor belt. Some were excellent, most were solid, all starting with their most competent, confident dives, leading in to their lists like the intro track on a greatest hits album, displaying their personality, skill and determination.

Soon his next dive was called up; a backflip off the middle board chased by a double pike and single tight somersault. He climbed, jumped and took to the air, executing it with clockwork perfection that ended in a slim and tight landing. Plunging through the surface felt like he was coming home.

More great scores followed and he topped the chart. More dives were called and he knocked them all down: a running flip off the platform, an inward off the middle, a simple rolling arm-stand. Two o'clock came and went, then three, until the crowd was buzzing at a feverish pitch of excitement. 

The final round came. Leaving the hardest dive to last was normal, bringing the competition to a tight climax. His scores led the boards, but it all came down to this. Dives one to nine were his entry ticket only. Now he had to give up the goods.

The announcer called his name and he went to the platform ladder. The rungs were slick and cool, the edges biting into the wrinkled flesh of his palms. At the top it seemed colder and he shivered. He looked over the crowd and strode confidently to the edge. He turned his back and bent over to adopt his last arm-stand on this platform, ever.

Abruptly someone's head appeared over the top of the ladder behind him and he paused. A call came out over the PA.

"It appears there may be a last-minute correction to the dive list."

In that instant, Robert understood. The young man on the ladder was not anyone he knew from the University or the pool, though he was wearing the purple sweats of swim hall staff. His face was pale and there was a large zit right in the middle of his forehead.

Green-O's soldier.

In an instant he saw it all. Green-O must have bribed the judges, or the pool staff, or someone. Robert straightened, spun and looked over the crowd, eliciting a, "Whoa" as he wavered on the edge. It was impossible to pick out detail though, not at this distance. There were plenty of reds on the bleachers but were any of them Green-O?

"Hey," the guy on the ladder said, "get over here, genius."

He had to play this out, and walked over. "Where's Green-O?" he asked. Over the PA system they were discussing the protocol for last-minute dive list corrections.

"With your mom," the guy said. He looked ridiculous with only his head and shoulders above the ladder top, like some kind of freakishly white ladder mole.

"Bullshit," Robert said softly. "He hasn't got a clue. This is just a psyche out."

"She's in Clarkdale," the guy said. "A Big Eastern, and Green-O's with her."

The heavy bag of milk burst in Robert's belly. For a moment his vision went foggy and his balance wavered. He just caught himself on the railing, to the excited, "Oooh" of the crowd.

"Tracked your taxi back," the zit-head went on. "It was so simple, man, I thought you'd have looked out."

The taxi. It was so simple, this punk was right. It was a massive screw up, but then he'd been so preoccupied with what he'd already lost, and what he stood to gain.

The focus faded. His sense of purpose drained away.

"He wants me to come down."

The guy shook his head. "Nah, man. He wants you to dive. He wants you to dive so bad they'll never even let you near a pool again. Do that and he doesn't give a shit about the rest. Go to the memorial or not, ride with us or not, whatever."

The words washed over Robert in a vague, water-swirling-in-the-bottom-of-the-bathtub way. He couldn't quite grasp them. He was leading the pack of the meet by a dozen clear points. One more dive with something the agent had never seen before would send him to Colorado.  

"And if I don't?" his own voice sounded drunk.

"Then say goodbye to your mom. I don't know exactly what we'll do with her, but there are costs, you know? Maybe she'll whore for us, or be a drug mule, or we'll sell her on south. She's got a good figure still. Fact is, you won't see her again. And you'll never know."

Robert's left leg buckled. There was suddenly a sharp and throbbing pain in his right eye.

"I…"

"Decide, man. You already made this bed. Lie in it."

Robert rolled backward, off-balance though he'd only been standing straight. Again he caught himself on the railing. The announcer called something in alarm but it didn't register. His right leg buckled too, and the pain spread to his right eye. The cold milk was rising up. Something was wrong.

"Don't pull this shit," the guy hissed. "You dive bad or the deal's off. There's no fainting."

Robert tried to nod. His focus was gone and so was his control. The arm-stand jump was out of reach. His jaw lolled lazily open. It felt like he was coming apart.

He turned from the zit-face and lurched to the edge. Was he diving? He didn't know. Something had to happen. Something important. Triple pike, inward, roll. Was that even the right order? He bent over at the edge sloppily and more cries rang out. Now there was genuine alarm out there. He didn't have a choice. He had to dive. For his mother, for himself, and there was no time to sit down and think. His pride had caught him up and this was the price.

He tried to kick his legs up into an arm-stand, but his arms wouldn't hold him and he thunked down solidly on his head, rolling clumsily away from the edge. Gasps sucked up from below but what did that matter now? His head was full of beer and popcorn. Green-O was out there with his mother. His mother was alone with Green-O and that was the end. Either way he'd screwed up. He'd pulled her in and ruined her, just like his sisters and his father and Frayser itself.

He tried again to get to his feet. The pain was now a hard gray fog bearing down, and even moving his muscles an inch brought burning sweat out on his skin.

"Quit kidding around," somebody called. "You think this is a joke? Do the damn dive!"

He had to dive now. There was something wrong with his head and he had to get it done fast.

He turned and ran, working the angles with each slow step. It would be a great dive but not the one on the list. He'd give them something beautiful and they'd mark him zero for it. They'd say he'd broken down and panicked, that the stress had gotten to him, but no one could say he didn't know how to dive. He'd wash out of the program but he'd keep some of his pride, and Green-O would still get what he wanted.

He hit the edge and jumped.

It wasn't the front edge of the platform though. The fog in his eyes and mind had blinded him. It was the side, and as he took off high his knees caught on the railing, sending him into an out of control and reeling flight. 

Somebody screamed. One long second of chaotic, desperate flight passed, two, then

CRUNCH

He hit the edge of the pool hard across his side, snapping his spine with a sickening impact that cut him in half. The pain flooded in with the sickness and bound itself up with the dizziness behind his eyes. He was screaming on the edge of a deep black well, unable to move, unable to stop his body as it slid face-first into the water.

The water was cold and everywhere around him, but it wasn't the same water that he'd loved, that had rescued him from the Sons of the Harp, that had won him girls and friends and success. This was a different animal, dark and full of hate, swirling down his throat and eyes and pounding on his burning chest.

He sucked in a breath and water flooded his lungs; fresh pain burst through him in gray bubbles, filling his head with panic and agony. He was drowning. Another sickening gulp of water poured into his lungs and the pain grew unspeakable. His broken body convulsed and sank, panic flushed conscious thought a long way distant, until finally burning red arms gathered him in to the dark. 

4. DEMON

He was in the forest again, loping along beside Zane.

Poor Zane.

"Focus, Robert," Zane said. "Focus and the world opens up."

The air in the forest smelled of pine sap, cheap liquor and possibility. There was a girl Robert liked who'd handed him a note during the game:

Tonight.

He was ready to focus on that. He was looking forward to it. Then Zane stopped, laid his hand on Robert's shoulder, and the world erupted in gunfire and violence.

Blood flew through the air like snow, in slow, slow motion. Bottles revolved and bullets soared. In the balletic midst of it Green-O was shot, a bullet that changed his path and his life forever. Zane was shot too, burying him in the dirt, because that was the reward that heroes got.

Robert was left in the middle with blood on his hands and sirens wailing closer.

Then it started again.

They were in the forest. "Focus," Robert said. Bullets flew and bodies dropped, but now it was not Green-O's father and Tolerance Bigs dying, but his mother and some man who might have been his father, his sisters and his grandmother, even Coach Willings, all riddled with bullets and sloshing their blood everywhere, settling like frozen snow over the dirt.

Robert walked between their ruined bodies with guns in both hands, barrels smoking wondering aloud, "Did I do this? Was this my work?"

It started again. He was entering the forest, and the girl at his side was fogging his mind with her musky scent and anticipation of what was to come.

This time when the bullets began he didn't care, he just turned into the forest with the girl and made love while the others were dying nearby. Zane called his name but he ignored it, because he had a vision for his life.

When they were finished, panting and sweaty, he rose and wandered away, passing naked through the scene of battle. There were dozens of bodies in the clearing now, perhaps hundreds, stretching for as far as he could see, and in the middle of them stood Green-O, holding his guts in his hands and grinning. There was red all over him, red pasting down the hair on his head, red sticking his clothes to his skin, red around him in a puddle, red for the Sons of the Harp.