Elizabeth Miles - Eternity

“He’s choking,” someone shouted.

“Does anyone know CPR?” That was the waitress’s voice, high, hysterical.

JD almost missed Ali’s muttered comment: “See?” He was already getting out of the booth.

He was by the guy within seconds. He hoisted him to his feet, then spun him around to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Channeling his memories of sophomore-year health class, he wrapped his arms around Frat Boy’s stomach, made a fist, and thrust upward. Once, and again. On the third try, something was dislodged, and the guy gasped.

“Oh my . . . Oh my god.” He coughed. “Thank you. Thanks, man.”

A little old lady sitting at a wooden table with her husband started clapping. “You saved him,” she said. A round of applause swept through Pete’s;  JD felt his cheeks flush as red as the back of the booths around him.

“No problem,” he said, backing toward the doorway. He couldn’t stay inside any longer. He was dizzy, pumped from a combination of adrenaline and fear. “Look—smaller bites, okay? Come on, Melissa.” With that, he swept out into the parking lot, relishing the way the fresh air cooled his face. He paced the asphalt, waiting for the girls to follow him outside.

“You’re a hero!” Melissa said, bursting out the door after him with Ty and Ali close on her heels. “That was amazing. How did you know how to do that?”

“Even zombies can save lives,” he said lightly. “Ready to go?”

“Let me just say good-bye,” she said, turning to give Ali a hug.

Ty took the opportunity to take a step closer to JD. “It would be awesome to get a phone call from a hero,” she said with a wink.

He felt the heat rising back up his neck. “I, ah—I don’t have your, ah—,” JD stammered.

“My number? Don’t worry, I have yours. I did my recon,” she said, clicking away. A second later, JD felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

The number was blocked.

Another chill washed over him. He couldn’t tell if it was one of excitement or apprehension or both. He unlocked his phone and read the text: Guess who?

Surrounded by the chalky-strong smell of gym clothes and disinfectant, Em sat in the girls’ locker room during fourth period on Tuesday. She was cutting class, but this was more important. She was worried about Crow, and his confession about seeing visions had reminded her of the book—the one she’d stolen from Sasha’s locker last month: Conjuring the Furies . She carried it with her everywhere and had practically memorized most of it, although there was one section, the one she was reading now, that she’d previously just skimmed over: “The Role of the Prophet.” She remembered it talked about visions. She had to figure out whether there was something she’d missed, some key clue that she’d ignored.

According to the book, prophets were reborn over and over again through the centuries, living lives tortured by incomprehensible visions, as vulnerable to forces of evil as to sources of good.

No one knows if they descended from above or arose from the underworld. Some prophets are responsible for calling the dark essence of the Furies out from their dark lairs and into the real one. Others, gifted with an ability to identify the Furies’ snowballing thirst for vengeance, are able to combat the influence of those and other dark spirits. Prophets are usually, but not always, male.

As much as one percent of the population may be unrecognized prophets—many of them artistic types who try to channel their visions into their work; others are driven crazy, or persecuted by the mainstream into believing they are crazy.

Some become entangled with the Furies unknowingly, Em read, drawn unconsciously to do the Furies’ bidding. They may, however, recognize that they are part of something heinous; if they trust their visions, they may be able to battle the Furies.

The passage went on. Do not confuse the prophet with the patient. Many victims of head injury or trauma display symptoms of prophecy. They may hear the Furies, but it is temporary.

So, “prophets” were different from “patients.” Patients were people who had brain defects and who shared some of the same symptoms as prophets. They were missing the part of the brain that apparently stores and processes trauma. The part of the brain that keeps most of us sane and normal, that protects us from succumbing completely to exposure to evil and chaos. If that part of the brain is damaged or missing, it’s like the floodgates to evil open up. And that’s how the Furies can get in.

Crow didn’t seem to have anything wrong with his mind.

No, Crow was a prophet, not a patient. She was almost certain of it. The disturbing visions. The desire to escape from them, or turn them into art . . . It all sounded just like him.

But how deep was his connection to the Furies? Could he help her? Or would he hurt her more?

She packed up her books and started walking back up the hill from the gym to the library, where she had plans to meet Gabby for lunch. Halfway up the hill, her cell rang. It was a blocked number.

She picked up anxiously. “Hello?”

“Emily, it’s Crow.” He sounded distant.

“What happened to you last night?” she asked. “Where did you go?”

“To jail,” he said. There were loud voices in the background.

She stopped walking and covered her other ear to hear him better. She stood in the middle of the walkway and students streamed around her. “To where ?”

“I was arrested last night,” he answered sharply. “Don’t ask. I need money. For bail.”

“Wait, Crow, hold on,” Em said. She suddenly felt itchy all over, like she’d stood in a hot shower for too long. “What are you talking about? What can I—”

“Go to my house,” he said. “Get my guitar—the acoustic, the Fender, from my room. Then, please, can you go down to the pawn shop on Route One? And get some money? To bail me out? Two hundred should be enough. I’m sorry, Em.”

His guitar? The one thing he loved? His one source of happiness?

“No way,” she said.

He misunderstood. “Em, there’s no one else—”

She couldn’t bear to let him think she would just leave him there. “No, of course I’ll bail you out,” she said hurriedly. “But I’m not going to sell your guitar. Just don’t . . . I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Did you see the article about Landon?” Em heard Portia say later as they waited for their French teacher to arrive. The hair on Em’s arms prickled. The very last place she wanted to be was here when Crow was sitting in a jail cell, and the very last thing she wanted to talk about was a dead teacher.

The school paper had just run a short obituary of their former English teacher, published on the anniversary of the Spring Awakening humanities quiz show he’d started at Ascension a few years back as part of Spring Week. School administrators were promising to bring back the Jeopardy! -style event later this season, before SAT and final-exam pressures started to build. Em had placed well last year but she hadn’t decided if she would participate this time around. Not likely.

“Shitty luck,” said Andy Barton, the football player and former friend of Zach and Chase. “That ice is dangerous.” He didn’t really sound too beat up about it.

Henry Landon had been found, drowned, in a small pond near the Haunted Woods, where people ice-fished in the winter. The reports said there was no appearance of foul play; the ice had simply cracked below him.