Fight Dirty Page 17

  Another laugh as he pulled her up to her tiptoes, inches of the pants legs extending past her bare feet protected only by the flip-flops, her groin burning with the pressure of her weight suspended on the crotch seam of the pants. She flailed, totally off balance, trying to relieve the pain, but he propelled her forward, not giving her a chance. Her feet pedaled, like a cartoon character’s searching for firm ground after running off a cliff.

  Her father’s laughter rang through her mind as she realized she was as helpless in the boy’s grasp as any of her father’s victims had been in his. Deidre leaned forward. The two guards lifted Morgan higher so that Morgan’s face was opposite Deidre’s despite Morgan’s shorter stature.

  “I met your parents this morning,” Deidre said. Morgan forced herself not to look her in the eyes. “They said you were rotten. No good. Out of control.”

  She shoved her palm into Morgan’s breastbone, hard enough to make Morgan gasp as the breath rushed out of her body. Pinioned by the guards hoisting her by her elbows and the balled-up waistband of her pants, she had no choice but to absorb the energy of the blow rather than deflect it.

  “Funny. Looks to me like we’re the ones in control.” Deidre clapped her palm against Morgan’s cheekbone. “Remember that and you’ll do fine.”

  Morgan’s blood burned ice-cold. But she wasn’t here to kill. She was here to observe. Which meant either bowing to the will of the bully in charge—Deidre—or giving the bully a reason to do what they really wanted: to prove themselves the most powerful. King of the hill, her dad called it.

  Either way, Morgan would be the one paying the price. She calculated the odds, gauged the guards—of the seven, two didn’t seem cowed at all by Deidre. Was the student leader embroiled in a power struggle? If so, then a show of dominance might help both Deidre and Morgan get what they wanted.

  Morgan tilted her chin up, pursed her lips, and spat a wad of mucus into Deidre’s face.

  Deidre gasped and jumped back. Both of the guards that Morgan had pegged as possible trouble laughed, proving her right. As did the two guards holding her. She didn’t get a chance to notice much more, not after Deidre stepped forward and slapped her so hard her jaw threatened to slip out of joint and her glasses went crooked on her nose.

  “Bring her,” Deidre ordered, glaring at the two guards who had dared laugh. “I believe a lesson in humility is in order.”

  The guards hauled her across the threshold, leaving the intake room. Morgan didn’t need to fake her cringe when the heavy metal door slammed shut behind her.

  They entered a large room. No windows, cinder-block walls. In a real school it would have been the gymnasium or cafeteria. Plastic tables lined the back wall, surrounded by chairs made of the same lightweight material. In front of them five rows of kids dressed in khaki knelt on the linoleum, facing Morgan. Their silence was as painful as the look of abject dejection in their eyes. Not one of them with a spark of defiance—in fact, the youngest, a boy who couldn’t be more than twelve and who knelt all alone in the front row except for the Red Shirt standing behind him, hands on the boy’s shoulders pinning him down, was crying.

  “This is our new Step Zero,” Deidre announced, not bothering with Morgan’s name. As if she no longer had one—or an identity to go with it. “She already has two demerits, one for lying and one for disrespecting the good Reverend Doctor. What does she need?”

  “ReNew,” a ragged murmur came from the kneeling kids. Their voices were soft, all emotion exhausted.

  “I can’t hear you!” Deidre screamed like a cheerleader in the fourth quarter of the big game.

  “ReNew, ReNew, ReNew!” The Red Shirts, except the two flanking Morgan, still dangling from the wedgie to end all wedgies, spread around the room, hands pumping up and down, encouraging the kneeling kids into a chant that gained in volume and enthusiasm.

  “And what path leads to ReNewal?” Deidre shouted. “Shall we purge her of sin?”

  There was a sudden silence followed by a gasp. Several of the students glanced at each other in confusion until the Red Shirts began chanting, “Purge! Purge! Purge!”

  Soon they were all screaming the word, waving their arms, their bodies gyrating, feet knocking against the floor. But despite the movement every eye remained locked on Deidre. More than looking for guidance. Desperate to obey.

  Deidre waited, gauging the crowd. She raised one hand and silence immediately reigned—except for the young boy’s sobbing.

  “Micah Chase!” she called the name like a queen calling for an executioner. “You have been given a reprieve. To complete your penance you will instruct and supervise the new Step Zero as she purges herself of her sins.”

  The crowd turned as one to stare into the corner behind Morgan. Her guard steered her that way as well. There, face to the corner, knelt a tall boy, hands behind his head, elbows out, spine held rigid by a broomstick shoved down the back of his shirt.

  One of the Red Shirts leapt forward, pulling the stick out. The boy slumped but quickly righted himself before falling. Morgan sensed it was a matter of pride, but from the sweat stains on his shirt, she also had a feeling that he’d been kneeling in that corner, frozen in place, for quite a long time.

  Slowly, with the agony of an old man, he pushed a palm against the wall and climbed to his feet. He kept his back to Morgan and the others, shoulders heaving as he gathered his strength.

  “Almost a record,” he mumbled, but no one else seemed to hear. Then he turned to face Morgan, studiously ignoring Deidre and her minions.

  He was as light as Morgan was dark. Hair the red gold of a winter sunrise. A faint spray of freckles below his left eye the only hint of childishness softening his face. Eyes the color of a cloudless sky, fathomless and much too ancient for a kid his age.

  No mask. Micah Chase faced the world naked, exposed. Morgan’s own mask slipped for the barest of instants when she noticed that, as if in sympathy. How did he survive, vulnerable like that, when anyone could read him?

  His gaze sharpened, locking on to hers. Just a flash, but she knew he’d spotted her mask. Maybe not so vulnerable after all. Or innocent. Not with the calluses thickening his knuckles or the scars across one side of his neck. Scars like that—someone had once held him in a choke hold and tried to slit his throat.

  He tilted his head the slightest bit as if presenting his scars to her: trophies of a battle hard won. Gave her a nod faster than a blink—she almost thought she’d imagined it until she saw the challenge in his eyes. Ask me, his gaze said. I dare you.

  She didn’t try to hide her smile. Finally someone who might make being stuck here, playing this role, tolerable—maybe even entertaining.

  CHAPTER 31

  The new girl was a puzzle. One that Micah didn’t have long to sort out if he was going to save her from Deidre’s wrath. He had no idea what she’d done to piss Deidre off when she’d only just arrived.

  Maybe it was instructions from Reverend Benjamin. Or maybe it was Deidre losing control. Again.

  Ever since Bree left, Deidre had been bordering on psychotic, flying into rages followed by crying jags—and making the No Names suffer along with her.

  Usually new Zeroes were given a day or two before being forced into the Purge. Not this girl. They were going to strip her body and soul right here and now, with no preparation. And he had no way to protect her.

  Then he caught her eye. There was something about her, something almost-not-quite invisible. Like maybe she didn’t need protecting after all.

  Relief flooded him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last, and he was all that stood between the others and Deidre’s iron fist. It was the only good thing about his delay in getting out of here . . . maybe this girl, maybe she was the one who could take his place after he left? Just like he’d taken Bree’s place, shepherding the No Names, when her mother came and took her home early.


  As long as someone stood, unbroken, unbowing to Deidre and her cohorts, the rest could be protected.

  Deidre’s minions moved him into place behind the new girl. Handed him a fiberglass broomstick—lighter than a wooden one, it couldn’t be broken as easily and didn’t leave more than a welt if you hit someone with it. But it was still strong and rigid enough for Deidre’s purposes.

  He met Deidre’s gaze. Hated the look in her eyes. Fury personified, pupils so dilated only the faintest glow of blue around the edges remained. There was no reasoning with her when she was like this—which, since Bree left, had been more and more often. Deidre was a true believer. Her faith drove her righteous condemnation, which meant it was almost impossible to escape her wrath. After Bree left, Deidre felt betrayed and became more volatile than ever.

  No one could be as perfect as Deidre’s God demanded. Not Bree, not even Deidre herself. Micah had once spied bloody welts on her back—the kind you’d get if someone whipped you. Or perhaps she’d done it to herself. He’d read about religious zealots who did crazy shit like that.

  Either way, once Deidre targeted you as an unrepentant sinner, there would be hell to pay. For Deidre, salvation came through suffering.

  He heaved in a breath, his balance still off after the prolonged kneeling, legs and knees shooting sparks of pain with every movement. He needed to stay alert if he was going to save the new girl.

  The girl watched him with a wary expression. He wasn’t sure if she was pretty, hard to tell with her face blotchy with crying, but she was . . . interesting. He reached her just as two Red Shirts spun her around to face the crowd and forced her to her knees.

  “Everybody up,” Deidre called out. She glanced at Tommy, alone in the front row.

  Now Micah understood—Tommy hadn’t experienced a Purge yet. Deidre had orchestrated this not only to break the new girl quickly but also to break Tommy. And with Micah forced into the role of instructor, a reluctant instrument of Deidre’s torture, no way in hell would Tommy ever trust him again.

  Sometimes he wondered what lay in Deidre’s future. A career in politics? Bloodthirsty corporate raider? Or maybe worst of all, Mommy Dearest to innocent children.

  He shuddered. Deidre glared at him, jerked her chin at the new girl. Micah approached the girl and laid one hand on her shoulder. The two Red Shirts stepped aside. Micah leaned forward, murmuring to the girl as he adjusted her position.

  “Just do as she says,” he whispered. “My name’s Micah. I’ll try my best to protect you, but this isn’t going to be fun.” He forced her arms out straight in front of her, palms up as if begging for supplication. “Try to hold out as long as you can—if you break too fast, she doesn’t stop, she just keeps going until she’s had her fun . . . or gets bored.”

  The crowd was on its feet, Deidre walking back and forth, whipping them into a frenzy as they marched in place, belting out “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

  “I’m Morgan,” the girl whispered back, barely moving her lips. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. The Red Shirts watched him, obviously impatient. He stood upright, yanked the collar of Morgan’s shirt back and slid the broomstick inside her shirt so that it stood vertically pressed against her spine. Deidre liked to position the stick under girls’ bras—it increased their pain and humiliation. Micah hoped she wouldn’t notice that he was taking it easy on Morgan.

  Morgan didn’t resist but looked terrified as the other kids crowded over her, shouting and clapping and waving their hands.

  Micah stood at attention, gripping the stick, playing his role, half-hearted as it may be. Deidre glanced over her shoulder at him, flashed him a grin, then raised her hands. The crowd instantly went silent.

  “Let us begin.” She whirled on Morgan. “This is the Purge. Where you will confess all your sins and examine your life. It is only through repentance that you can be redeemed and ReNewed.”

  “ReNew, ReNew, ReNew,” the crowd chanted, moving even closer to Morgan, blocking her view of anything except their bodies.

  “You are here as a sinner,” Deidre continued, using her best preacher voice. “God loves sinners but only if they repent.”

  “Repent, repent, repent!”

  “We love you, but only if you redeem yourself by confessing your sins.”

  “We love you!” The crowd’s scream sounded like a wild beast out of control.

  That was the most dangerous thing about the Purge—when the crowd took on a life of its own. Kids humiliated and intimidated by the Red Shirts saw a chance to regain control, steal some power, even if it was at the expense of one of their own.

  Micah didn’t like crowds. Wild, unpredictable, and, if no one took control of them, deadly.

  Deidre knelt directly in front of Morgan. She grasped Morgan’s hands, bent over to kiss both palms, then looked up at Morgan as if it was Deidre seeking absolution.

  “We love you. We love, love, love you,” she whispered seductively. “This is for your own good. It’s the only way. We must purge you of evil.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Morgan stared into Deidre’s empty eyes. The girl reflected there looked scared—she was scared.

  At least as scared as Morgan ever got. When the Red Shirts had whipped out those broomsticks, she’d been expecting a beating, some kind of “spare the rod” type of punishment. Pain she understood; pain she could handle. All a matter of mind over body. Staying in control and divorcing herself from her feelings.

  Thanks to her father, Morgan was a master of pain.

  But this, this was something much worse than physical pain. Fifty bodies crowding in on her and she was trapped, unable to escape. Screams demanding answers coming from fifty different directions, making her head swarm as if a hive of wasps had been set loose.

  At the center of it all, the eye of the storm, knelt Deidre. With her piercing gaze and serene expression she whispered to Morgan, trying to seduce a confession from her.

  Deidre controlled the mob; Deidre controlled the noise and the fury and Morgan’s fate. And Morgan despised her for it. A physical beating would be so much better than facing this, Morgan’s greatest fear: trapped, at the mercy of strangers.

  “What was your first sin?” Deidre asked, swaying closer to Morgan so she could be heard over the din of the crowd stomping around them. “Your original sin. I know what it was, don’t I? Do you?”

  The other kids were clapping and whirling and shouting in a bizarre conga line spiraling around Morgan, Micah, and Deidre. They would abruptly leap forward and push at Morgan or shout in her face or kiss her, then vanish once more as the whirling mad crowd of khaki and red pulled them back into the vortex.

  Deidre kept hold of Morgan’s hands while Micah anchored her with the broomstick, keeping her upright. Buffeted from all sides, overwhelmed with heat and noise and the press of unwashed bodies, Morgan felt as if she were drowning, unable to breathe. Her heart rate, always slower than a normal person’s, began to throb in her temples as she gasped for air.

  “I know your secret,” Deidre persisted. “I know it and I forgive you. I love you, we love you, but you must confess. Purge yourself of your sins. You are a liar. Do you know your very first lie? The first one ever told, when you were such a little girl? Even then, even when you were so small that your dad could still carry you on his shoulders and your mother could rock you in her lap, even then you were a sinner.”

  Footsteps thundered around her, more and more hands knocking Morgan one way, then the other. The chanting coalesced into a single animal cry. “Sinner, sinner, sinner!”

  Deidre nodded, a simple, single jerk of her chin, and it stopped. Silence reigned. Deidre dropped Morgan’s hands and stood. Morgan slumped forward, but the broomstick kept her from falling. Her hair matted to her face and head, sweat trickled across her brow, fogging her glasses, turning the crowd into an ugly beig
e monster with more heads than a hydra.

  “Why do we begin at Zero?” Deidre asked the crowd who had reassembled itself into rows before her.

  “We are less than nothing!”

  “Why are we less than nothing?”

  “We are dirty, filthy sinners!”

  Deidre motioned to the crowd, and as one they fell to their knees, all eyes on Morgan. She didn’t try to wipe her glasses clean; it was far easier to deal with the crowd as an anonymous mass than to focus on each individual.

  Morgan knew what Deidre was doing: classic brainwashing techniques designed to strip a psyche bare, break a person’s will. She’d seen her father do it dozens of times. But knowing how it was done provided little protection. Morgan also knew how to manipulate people, a few at a time. That was easy. But she’d never spent much time in crowds. No formal schooling, no attending church services, no clubs or organizations designed to socialize a child.

  She’d never much missed it before now. Crowds to her were simple faceless diversions, a place to hide out in. Deidre was showing her a whole new side—a mob.

  Deidre paced back and forth, her gaze sweeping the crowd as her dress swirled around her like a priest’s robes. “I know what your sin was, your original sin. Do you?”

  “Sinner, sinner, sinner,” the crowd chanted, drowning out anything Morgan could say.

  Deidre whirled on Morgan. The crowd hushed. “Your very first sin, the sin that you can never be cleansed of, not until you fully repent . . . that first sin was when you told your parents that you loved them.”

  “Liar, liar, liar!” the mob accused Morgan, their bodies swaying in time with their words.

  “I know that you lied,” Deidre said, pacing once more, fists punching the air, emphasizing her words. “Because if you truly loved your parents, if you honored and obeyed them, if you truly loved God and honored and obeyed His commandments, then you wouldn’t be here now!”