Baffled and frightened by the thuggish behavior of their peers, the McGuigan brothers vowed to take action. The bullies, with their ginger hair and freckled faces, looked pleasant enough – until you saw their dead eyes. Which briefly lit up when the brutes tortured animals, jammed kids’ heads into toilets, threw people off roofs, and engaged in other nasty endeavors. Although never victims themselves – not yet, anyway – the McGuigan brothers knew they had to escape.     

One Sunday afternoon, generally a relaxed time in the schedule, the brothers secretly packed their bags. They dragged the bags – each had one large vinyl case – into the woods behind the baseball field.  The brothers camouflaged the luggage, then wandered back to their respective areas to pass the rest of the afternoon.    

Following dinner, the McGuigans returned to the woods. Their plan was to escape through a hole in the chain link fence that encircled the grounds. The brothers figured they would have a three-hour head start, between the end of the meal and curfew, before anyone was likely to notice their absence.

Surrounded by the woods’ tranquil shadows, the McGuigans pulled their luggage from under the bushes. Orson McGuigan, at fourteen, was two years older than his brother, Tim.  Orson was nearly a foot taller than his sibling, and had begun developing muscles. Tim’s upper body was still slender. Both brothers had fine blond hair. 

The brothers hauled their duffel bags toward the fence. Young Tim’s bag was nearly as big as he was, and he dragged it with earnest determination. The McGuigans kept close to the edge of the woods, hiding from the still-bright, early evening daylight.  Coming up ahead, they knew, was a ten-yard stretch without tree cover. The area was visible to anyone who happened to be standing behind the main building, looking toward the ball field.  But the risk was worth it. Tim was thinking about the boy who slept in the next bed, who’d been found the day before, hanging upside down from the ceiling of the cafeteria. The youth had been swaying forty feet above the floor, held by a rope – steadily unraveling – tied around his ankles, screaming with the force of something not human.     

The McGuigans hurried across the grass. They reached the fence – so far so good!  They shoved their bags through the gap, and pushed themselves out between sharp metal prongs.  Now, they were on the two-lane road that ran in front of the facility. They began walking east, away from the main building. Soon they were around a curve, out of sight and only then did they feel they could relax a bit.    

                                                                                                    ---

​

Three miles east of where the McGuigans walked, a blue Camaro sped toward them. The vehicle had received a sloppy paint job, and left oily clouds in its wake. It was driven by Bloom, a jowly man in his mid-twenties with dark hair. Bronson sat in the passenger’s seat. He was about the same age and had a taut, wiry build.   

Bronson squirmed with nervous energy. “He told us ‘round fifteen miles,” Bronson said. “We’ve gone more.” 

Wearing plastic sunglasses, Bloom nudged the steering wheel and blinked into the low sun. “You check the map?”

Bronson had on his lap a representation of New York State, and stared at its colors. A couple of hours earlier, he and Bloom had swallowed a wad of paper soaked with mescaline. The map’s lines and squiggles had lives of their own. Bronson had to chuckle. “You can’t tell from this if we’ve hit Route 440,” he said, puffing on a cigarette.  “If we drive into the Delaware River, we’ve gone too far.”

“Don’t worry,” Bloom said. He reached over and turned off the radio, which had been blasting static for the past half hour.  
“He said around fifteen miles,” Bloom said. “Not exactly fifteen. Around fifteen can mean anything from…say, twelve to twenty.”

Bronson flicked his cigarette through the window. Unbeknownst to him, it blew back inside and settled onto the back seat.  
“You oughta quit smoking those things,” Bloom said.  

“Can’t,” Bronson said. “When I stop, I don’t shit right.”

Bloom swerved slightly to avoid a squirrel, which he assumed was real. “Sorry I brought it up.” 

The men saw two kids lugging bags along the road. The kids stuck out their thumbs. To Bronson’s surprise, Bloom slowed the Camaro.

“Hey,” Bronson said.

“You’ve been on the road yourself,” Bloom said.   “Wishin’ somebody’d pick you up.”

“Not some dumb bastards tripping,” said Bronson.  

“I’m in control,” Bloom said. “Besides, maybe they know where Route 440 is.”  He gradually braked along the shoulder.

The strangers made Bronson nervous; still, he decided to try and be polite. He greeted the boys with a tight smile. “How’s it going?” 

“Hey,” the bigger kid said, grinning, as they approached.  “This is great.”   

Bloom said, “We’re gonna need the trunk space. Why don’t you put your stuff in the back seat.”

Bronson opened his door to accommodate them. Groaning, he inclined his seat’s backrest forward. This forced Bronson to bend his body in half like a jackknife. Behind him, the boys shoved their luggage inside, then climbed aboard. Bronson scowled as his forehead pressed against the dashboard. Bloom looked on, amused. The door slammed. “Everyone okay?” Bloom called in singsong.  He put the car in gear.   

                                                                                                  ---
   
“Where you going?” Bloom said.

“Port Jervis,” said the older kid. He winced as his hands probed the seat around his rear end. He held up a burning cigarette butt. “There go my pants,” he said.

  
“Can we get there this way?” Bloom said.

“Sure can,” the kid said. He looked at the cigarette with distaste. “’Bout five, ten miles.” As his younger brother watched, he dropped the butt through the window.  

The boys watched the cigarette sail off in the wind. The Camaro accelerated past the front gate of the facility the McGuigans had just fled. The brothers stared at the broad, looming main building. The structure sat atop a small hill, isolated like a haunted house.  A black shadow covered its clapboard front. The McGuigans reached for each other’s hands and held tightly.   

The man in the passenger seat looked back. He had fiery, bloodshot eyes. “You fellas wouldn’t know where Route 440 is, would you?”

 
“This road splits up ahead,” Orson said. “Bear right. Couple miles after that.”

“Bear right,” the passenger said. “Bear bear.”

“Bear,” said the driver. “Rawr.”

Both men exploded with laughter. When it seemed as if they were finished, the laughter flared again. They roared and gasped. They wiped tears from their eyes. The McGuigans looked at each other and shrugged. The Camaro met the fork in the road and Bloom steered rightward.

                                                                                                  ---
   
The road ran parallel to the Delaware River. It overlooked banks of leafy trees whose branches hung over the river’s edge. Dapples of sunlight flashed in the dark purple water. Leaning his head through the open window, Bronson stared at the shimmering current and inhaled the marshy air. He focused on an area under the surface of the water and then imagined himself swimming, darting around like a happy fish.    

 
“Mom ‘n Dad are gonna freak out,” Tim said. 

“They just don’t get it,” Orson said. “Give us this ‘boys-will-be-boys’ crap.  Maybe now they’ll see we’re serious.” 

Tim nodded. “Only way they get me back there’s if they kill me first.”    

 
“Where ya comin’ from?” Bloom asked.

“Camp,” Orson said. “Summer camp. We missed the bus home. Didn’t wanna wait for another.” He paused, then added: “Know what happens there?”

 
“Camp?” Bloom said. “I guess it’s kinda like school. Only easier.”  

“There’s this kid we know,” Orson said. “He’s got a habit. He’s always lookin’ in the mirror, combin’ his hair. No big deal. It’s a habit. Some guys get hold of ‘im. Shave all the hair off his head. He’s got some hair on his balls. They shave that off too.”

“Well,” Bloom said. To his relief, they approached the Route 440 sign. He steered the car left. There were modest single-family homes on either side of the street.  Good, Bloom thought. They must be close.

 
Bronson snapped out of his hallucination. “What?” he cried. “Who?”

Bloom snorted.  “Do somethin’ useful,” he said. “What the hell’s the house number?”

 
“Whoa,” Bronson said. He studied a slip of paper, and said “Twenty-three.”

 
The Camaro pulled in front of a one-story yellow house whose front yard was mostly red dirt.  

Bloom cut the engine. “We’ll be right back,” he said. He and Bronson climbed out of the car and shambled toward the house. The McGuigans watched them – two men  with shaggy hair, t-shirts, and jeans that sagged to their assholes.  

“Nice guys,” Tim said.

 
Orson shrugged. “Who knows?”

The boys looked around the car’s interior. They saw two crumpled Marlboro packs on the dashboard, and strewn beer cans. They saw a scattered yellowing newspaper and a pack of Easy-Wider cigarette papers. A road map sat on the front seat.

                                                                                                          ---

  

The sudden roar of an engine startled the McGuigans. It sounded like a truck without a muffler. A motorcycle pulled up behind the Camaro. When its engine shut off, the moment felt quiet. A man wearing a beard, leather jacket, and dark helmet dismounted the machine.  

With heavy footsteps, the man approached the driver’s side of the Camaro.  Mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. Beneath his jacket were a shirt, tie and an intimidating belly. He stooped and looked into the car, breathing through his mouth, his face filling the window like King Kong. “Can I help you,” he said in a rumbling voice.

Orson thought the man looked familiar. “No thanks,” he said. “We’re just waiting.”

       
“You’re blocking my driveway.”     

“Very sorry. We don’t have a key,” Orson said. “The driver should be back.  Real soon.”

The man removed his glasses. His eyes looked drained, like they’d been staring into the sun all day. He straightened up and turned away. He walked toward the house next to the yellow one, casting a long, dark shadow. Halfway to the house, the man stopped and gave the McGuigans one more look over his shoulder. The McGuigans gawked back. The man went into his house.        

Orson let out a deep breath. “Ever see him before?” 

“I don’t think so,” Tim said.

Orson hoped he was just paranoid. All they had to do was get home. He grasped Tim’s hand and held it with tenderness.

                                                                                                      ---

 

Bloom and Bronson emerged from the yellow house, each carrying a full shopping bag. They walked to the back of the Camaro, opened its trunk and set the bags inside.  

“The guy next door was pissed you blocked his driveway,” Tim said as Bloom started the car.

 
“I blocked his driveway?” Bloom said.

“Fuck ‘im,” Bronson said.

The sun touched down on the horizon as the Camaro pitched forward. They returned to the road that ran alongside the river. In the fading light, the water was several shades of dark gray.

  
Bronson leaned close to Bloom. “Told ya we shouldna fuckin’ picked ‘em up,” he hissed. “Now we gotta drive ‘em home.”

“Take it easy,” Bloom murmured. “It ain’t far. And they helped us find the damn place.”

“Where to?” Bloom called back.

“We’re just about there,” Orson said. “Stay on this road to 17, then it’s a couple of exits north.”

“We go past our dad’s furniture store,” Tim said. He sounded proud. “Then you go a few more miles.”

“We really appreciate this,” Orson added.

Bloom glanced at Bronson, who looked aggravated. Bloom smiled and punched Bronson on the shoulder. He removed his sunglasses, adjusting to the twilight. He glanced at the rearview mirror. A police car was tailgating the Camaro.   

Queasiness filled Bloom as he thought of the shopping bags in the trunk. His heart hammered. He squeezed the steering wheel to maintain composure. He’d been hooked twice for possession of a controlled substance. But that was kid stuff compared to this.  If these bags were found, they were worse than dead.

    
Bloom was hoping the cop car just happened to be headed in the same direction.  Happens all the time. But its headlights began flashing. The red, white and blue roof lights blazed. The cruiser looked like an enormous insect. Bloom’s stomach fell to his crotch.  Usually, he was good at keeping control while stoned, but now he was feeling frantic.

        
Bloom guided the Camaro to the roadside. The cruiser pulled up behind them.  Bloom nearly hyperventilated. The trooper, dressed in a spruce tight uniform, got out of his car and strode forward.  From the passenger’s side emerged a bearded man wearing a civilian’s jacket and tie. Bloom heard Bronson muttering what sounded like a prayer, which was almost funny. Bloom stared straight ahead, willing himself to appear sensible.  He’d have to convince the cop that he was sober, and a fine citizen to boot.    

The trooper bent and peered into the Camaro. “Evening,” he said.

 
The bearded man with the jacket and tie, a husky broad-shouldered fellow, walked up behind the officer. His shoes crunched into the gravel. Bloom managed an affable grin.

  
The cop said, “The McGuigan brothers, I presume.”

Bloom’s jaw dropped. He’d forgotten all about the kids. He and Bronson turned to look in the back seat. The brothers sat with prim stillness.

   
“Are you the McGuigan boys?” the cop said.

Orson nodded. “We’re not going back,” he announced.

   
“No problem,” the man in the jacket and tie said. “Remember me? We’re taking you home.” He pointed to Bloom and Bronson. “You don’t wanna take any more time from these gentlemen, do you?”

The brothers locked eyes. For a moment it seemed as if they might scream. Or try to claw through the back window. Then the tension collapsed – whether in agreement or surrender, Bloom couldn’t tell. Orson nodded at Tim, and both boys prepared to exit.

                     
The McGuigans climbed out of the Camaro, shoving their bags ahead of them through the drivers’ door. Now it was Bloom’s turn to hunch forward as his seat was pushed up. Not that he minded: he studied the texture of the steering wheel, and began to wonder if he and Bronson were off the hook.  

The man in the jacket and tie lifted the bags. The brothers followed him to the trooper’s car. The trooper watched them, then he addressed Bloom. “It never occurred to you,” the officer said, “driving in this area, those boys might’ve been from the orphanage?”

 
Bloom’s face showed his surprise. “Uh, we’re not from around here, sir,” he said.

    
The trooper looked across the seat at Bronson. Bloom prayed that Bronson would keep his mouth shut. But Bronson spoke and Bloom damn near had a stroke. “You said ‘orphanage,’” Bronson said. “They were talking about camp. And their parents. At least I thought they were.”

The trooper straightened up and removed his cap. He scratched his head. The hiss of the river filled the silence. Bloom lifted his sunglasses from the dashboard and put them on. It looked like midnight.  

              
“Their parents are dead,” the trooper said. “Died a couple of years ago. A car accident. Not far from here.”  

        
Bloom and Bronson stared at the trooper’s belt buckle. The officer’s palm slapped against the roof. “Have a good night,” he said. “And drive safely.”  

                                                                                                      --- 
                                                              
Bloom drove forward, headlights on. In his rear view mirror, he saw the state trooper’s car make a U-turn. Bloom steered carefully and kept below the speed limit. He saw the sign indicating Route 17 and steered accordingly. The Camaro accelerated off the entrance ramp and settled among traffic.

Bronson read the map of New York State, illuminating it with a pen light. He grew restless and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke toward Bloom.  

  
“Told you we shouldna picked ‘em up,” Bronson said.

Bloom nodded. Exhausted, he considered that there must be a better way to make a living. 

​

                                                                                              THE END

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