Some Broken Things

Chapter 7

We're able to make it to my house while bypassing the pile of bodies altogether. I whimper in relief when my street comes into view, and jog up the hill in anticipation. But the sight that greets me is far from what I was expecting. Everything is perfect and immaculate out on the front lawn. All except for the broken bay window in the dining room, and the red staining the sharp edges of the glass.

No! My brain screams. Not here, not them! I sprint to the front door, which I find to be unlocked and slightly ajar. The door slams against the wall behind it as I push it open, shoving the chair that must be blocking it out of my way. My eyes sweep the entryway.

Carpet twisted, floor scuffed, blood staining it and the walls. My mind processes this in half a second, searching for the people that should be here, for the voices that should have welcomed us home from a hard day of school. I move into the kitchen.

Chairs flipped and thrown across the room. Silverware strewn about the floor. A small fire going on our gas stove. More blood. The living room is the same. I bound up the creaking steps two, three, at a time, my hand racing along the railing and my mind carefully blank. I go straight to my parents bedroom, and fling the door open. Trixie screams and turns into Anush at the sight. John is on the floor, Nick's head in his lap, silently sobbing and stroking his husband's ash blonde hair. A deep gash is stretched across Nick's abdomen, blood leaking out at a steady pace. A similar cut is on John's arm, not as bad, but still bleeding profusely.

Not dead not dead not dead! I plea. But even as I sit by John's side and look at Nick's gray porcelain face, my medical knowledge tells me otherwise. His face is ashen and gray, green eyes glazed over, all humor gone, replaced by fear. I remember how he used to smile and his ears would stick out, and his eyes would get that twinkle, lighting up and making him look ten years younger. I will never see those things again.

Gone I think. He's really gone. I hold back the tidal wave of emotions all begging for my attention. I pick numb shock, as it hurts the least.

John turns to me slowly and I look at him, really look at him. His face is pale, dirt streaked across his forehead and tears leaving their marks down his cheeks. His eyes though are what really shakes the tears loose. They're filled with sorrow and guilt, warm brown dulled to a pale lifeless color. He looks at me too, but it's as if he's not actually seeing me, just through me. His gaze turns to Trixie and my friends to the doorway, then to the plain oak door next to them. From there they travel to the simple dresser and then the bland maple bed next to it, with it's blue quilt still made, waiting for its owners, as if none of this had ever happened. Tabby sits next to me and takes my face in her hands, turning me towards her.

"It's okay." She says, her face wet with tears of her own. "You're going to make it through this. But we need to get John to a hospital. Can you help?" I nod, and lurch to my feet.

"John," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "John you need a hospital. Can you stand?" The only response I get is an almost imperceptible shake of the head. No. Worry cuts through the numbness like a knife through butter, and my nurse-in-training setting kicks in. I loop one of his arms over my shoulders, Anush coming over to do the same on John's other side. Together we navigate him out through the door and down the hallway, almost falling several times down the old wooden stairs. Tabby and Trixie trail behind us, the former whispering condolences to my sister who's crying so hard, it's difficult for it not to become contagious. We trace our way back through the kitchen to the door, and out onto the driveway. Curious neighbors peek through their curtains, giving them almost ghostly qualities. They all quickly disappear when we make eye contact. Not one of them comes out onto their manicured lawns to assist us, nor to call for help. I sigh. Typical. John mumbles incoherently under his breath, something about wanting his pancakes with a dollop of whipped cream on top. My worry grows with each passing second, and I unlock the green Jeep with the keys I had swiped off the counter on our way out. We stuff John into the passenger seat and I take the wheel, the rest of the crew hopping into the back and buckling themselves in.

I was awarded my driving license a few months back when I turned sixteen, and the steps the drivers ed instructor taught me play in my head. I turn the key in the ignition and press lightly on the gas pedal, peeling out of the driveway and turning left, away from the school. Once I've turned off of our street, I floor the gas and we shoot forwards down the right lane. Trees and houses and scruffy dogs pass by one after another until we reach the hospital. I slam on the brakes so hard that we all go flying forwards. Our seatbelts snap into place and I'm jerked back against the upholstered seat, all air vanished from my lungs.

"What was that for?" Gasps Anush.

Still coughing, I point at the dozen or so black pickup trucks in the parking lot. They're all evenly spaced out between the other cars, and there's a person in each, if not two. Some men are wandering around too casually to not be up to something. They're leading some of the people like kids and some adults to the park nearby, and all of them return alone.

"How are people not noticing this?" Trixie asks, aghast. I shake my head in shock, not understanding the scene myself.

"We can't walk up there." I say. "They're taking every child they see, along with the adult they're with." Trixie and I look at John and an idea comes up in my head like a miniature light bulb. As if Trixie can read my mind, she says exactly what I was thinking.

"What if we snuck up there somehow, and drop John off by the front door?" She asks. But no sooner than the last word leaves her mouth, I see something that makes my stomach drop to my feet. An ambulance is pulling up to the door, and a group of people carry out a body bag. Except that it's not in the shape of a human.

"Guys, I think those are the same people from our school I think!" I say, pointing them out to the others. I don't know how I know, I just have a feeling. A sudden headache blooms at the base of my skull, unfurling like a flower in the spring and filling me with nausea.

"We can't take him in there." They all give me a questioning look. "I have a bad feeling, like I did yesterday. It takes shape as a headache and gets worse and worse. And then it just.... stops. The same thing happened before our school blew up. I think they might try to do the same to the hospital." They all look at each other and unbuckle in unison. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?"

"There are people in there" shouts Tabby. "We can't just let them die!"

"We won't make it...." I realize, dread settling in my stomach. The body bag they just brought in, it must have been the explosives!

More people are going to die. I Think. I put my head in my hands and lean forward against the wheel. And all because I'm the only one who can sense it, but I'm too afraid to do anything about it. The headache spirals again and I grit my teeth, gripping the wheel to prevent me from screaming.

"We can't take him in there." I repeat. "We'll have to take him somewhere else."

"How about Aunt Lila's?" Asks Trixie. Her hair is bright against the dark upholstery of the headrest, made even brighter by the greenish tint to her skin.

"Perfect. As long as we can get out of here." I reply, my voice hoarse. I slowly back out of the parking lot, hoping not to draw attention to us. One of the men in the car spots us, and I hope against hope that they just take us for average people and not one of the families they take. Their gaze passes over us and I exhale sharply through my nose. We drive back the way we come and it isn't until we're back on the highway that I notice the black truck driving behind us.