Rhett McLaughlin - The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek

Suddenly, the black cloud enveloping Ruby receded into the distance, his daughter’s face her own once again.

“The Keeper says you have ten years,” she said.

Whitewood felt sudden relief, but it was quickly followed by a sinking weight of dread, realizing what the coming years would look like.

“Okay, Ruby. I can do that. I will do that. For you.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby girl.”

—

WHITEWOOD NERVOUSLY TAPPED his gloved fingers on his desk and looked at the calendar: September 1992.

It had taken him close to a decade to find four acceptable individuals for the Keeper. He’d done unspeakable things—and gotten others to do even worse by convincing them that it was all for the good of Bleak Creek, and the world—just so he could be reunited with his beloved Ruby.

He had just over a week to find three more kids. Even for a man who had successfully made himself the prophet of a bogus cult, that seemed impossible.

But there was hope. Leif Nelson had practically offered himself up on a silver platter earlier tonight. He had a feeling that meant Rex McClendon would soon find his way to the school as well. And he still had people on the lookout for the one who had escaped, not to mention the new crop of students he was just beginning to break.

Three more.

It could happen.

It would have to happen.

After all, he’d come this far.

21

LEIF WAS PRETTY sure the sour-faced lady at the front of the classroom was looking at him. He was also fairly certain she’d gotten some bad information, because she had just called him something that sounded nothing like Leif or Nelson.

“Yes, you, Candidatus,” she said.

“Oh,” Leif said. “That’s, uh, not me.”

The helper smiled, which was actually worse than when she didn’t. “How sad you don’t know your own name.”

The past twelve hours had been—by a long shot—the most difficult of his life.

After confronting some kind of invisible monster in the spring, he’d been chased down by an all-too-visible monster, who’d caught him and then somehow convinced his mother that he needed to be sent here, to this terrible place.

“For your information,” the helper continued, “ Candidatus is Latin for ‘candidate.’ Because you, just like each and every student in this room, are a candidate for reform. If you decide to…” She tapped the large sign on the wall that said FOLLOW . “Do you understand, Candidatus?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Leif said.

“Yes, Helper !” she said. “You call me Helper.”

Leif thought, as far as titles of respect went, ma’am carried more dignity than helper, which was a designation he remembered coveting back in kindergarten. But he wasn’t going to say that. “Okay, Helper.”

She narrowed her eyes in disgust. “You’re just like her,” the woman said with a hushed intensity before redirecting her attention to the whole class. “Candidati, you should know that not only was Candidatus caught by Headmaster trespassing on school grounds in the middle of the night, but he also aided and abetted that student—may she rest in peace—who injured Headmaster’s hands.” Everyone quietly freaked out, though it seemed more like a performance than a genuine response. “He is a complete disgrace. Now please open your Whitewood Learning Guides to page four hundred and sixteen.”

In spite of everything Leif knew about the Whitewood School and its headmaster, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed. He was accustomed to being singled out in class, but that was because he usually had the answer the teacher was after. Now, he felt completely in over his head. Rex should be here instead. He’d know what to do. Probably come up with some completely outlandish plan that would somehow totally work out.

But there was an even better question than What would Rex do?

What would Alicia do?

Or, rather: What did Alicia do?

Leif tried to picture her here, her first day. He was sure she’d handled herself like she always did in difficult situations, with that natural poise. She’d probably seemed brave regardless of how she felt. She’d probably even summoned the nerve to talk back to the helper.

And then Whitewood had killed her.

Leif shuddered, for the first time fully acknowledging that truth.

And now the same man was featured in a huge portrait in front of him, as if murdering Leif’s best friend was a virtue to aspire to. Leif felt himself shaking. He assumed it was more of the involuntary sobs that had been erupting from him for hours, but then he realized it was something else.

He was shaking with anger.

Anger that this righteous organ-playing psychopath had taken from Leif one of the people he loved most in this world. Had forced his mother to turn on him. Had even driven a wedge between him and Rex.

It wasn’t okay.

Leif knew in his gut what Alicia would do.

She would run toward her anger, not away from it.

Embracing his rage, he felt it transforming into courage.

He was speaking before he had time to second-guess it.

“Hey, teach,” he said. “I was wondering: Are you part of Whitewood’s cult that sacrifices students or is that, like, a separate department?”

The blood drained from the helper’s face as she stared at Leif in shock.

“You just earned yourself a trip to the Roll,” she said.

The students were shocked again, but this time it seemed genuine.

—

AS HE LAY on the floor of Thinking Shed Number Two wrapped up in a cheap carpet like an enchilada, Leif considered his options.

Following his rude introduction to the Roll, during which he’d believed that his head might legitimately twist off his body like a mistreated G.I. Joe figure, he questioned if open rebellion was worth it. What exactly did his smart-ass outburst accomplish other than giving him a chance to marinate in his own pee?

Sure, it had felt amazing to go against his passive instincts. It was intoxicating to swim out into the spring when Rex was frozen in fear, and calling out the helper in class was electrifying, like he’d tapped in to some suppressed inner rebel. But where had that gotten him? Right here in this moldy room, struggling to breathe.

Yeah, it was probably best to just hunker down and wait.

Save the boat-rocking for someone else.

—

LEIF SHUFFLED THROUGH the cafeteria with his tray of mush—which, after going so long without food, actually looked appetizing—and sat down by himself for lunch. The relief he experienced once he was let out of the Roll had confirmed his earlier decision to simply do as he was told. It wouldn’t be hard. There was only one rule around this place: Follow. He was sort of an expert at it.

As he was convincing himself that he legitimately liked the flavor of the lukewarm paste that matched the color of the walls, he was startled by someone knocking into him, dropping her entire bowl of mush into his lap.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” a girl about Leif’s age with dark hair and thick eyebrows said as she bent over to pick up her bowl and tray.

“What’s going on over there?” a young helper with sideburns that reminded Leif of Jason Priestley said as he rushed toward them.

“I tripped,” the girl said. “I’m so sorry, it was an accident. I’ll clean it up.”

“It’s okay,” Leif said, as he wiped the mess off his legs and onto the floor.

“It’s not okay!” the helper said, two more helpers hovering behind him in case backup was needed. “There’s no talking during mealtime!”

The girl began to stand up, but as her face passed by Leif’s ear, she whispered, “Shoe.”