Authors: Kurt Dinan
Maybe it’s because of February’s high suck factor, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to continue the investigation into the Chaos Club. I suppose we could go with Adleta’s initial idea of beating his way through the entire student body until someone confesses, but that’s probably our last resort. The others have even stopped asking me what we’re going to do. Ellie pushed the hardest, asking on a daily basis, and then eventually, even she gave up.
Then an envelope.
Like the one I received inviting me to the water tower, this envelope is taped to the inside of my locker at the end of the school day. My pulse pounds in my ears as I tear it open and pull out a folded white sheet of paper.
The picture is grainy and shot from far away, but it’s clear enough that you can tell that it’s me on the football field with a camera. I stand over Ellie, who, thankfully, is safely hidden inside the Zippy the Golden Eagle mascot costume.
Written on the back of the picture:
Meet at Ryder Park Baseball Field 4 tonight at 10.
Tell anyone, we turn you in.
Don’t show up, we turn you in.
Do anything stupid, we turn you in.
CHAOS CLUB
I go because of the threat.
I go because I’m pissed.
I go because I’m scared.
I go because it’s our first real lead.
I go because what choice do I really have?
But mostly, I go because that’s what a leader does.
I don’t tell the other four. I’m not sure if the Chaos Club knows their identities, but since they shot that picture at the football field, they must know Ellie’s involved, and I want to protect her at all costs.
Does that mean it’s (one-sided) love?
In the time between receiving the note and lying to my parents by saying I’m going to the library to work on—you guessed it—a group project, a hundred questions have come to me:
Who took the picture?
Why not just turn me in?
Why do they want to meet?
Is this another setup?
All good questions I’d like answers to, but not the one I’m really concerned with:
Who in the group snitched?
Because either someone in the group ratted us out, or we’ve fallen victim to the one uncontrollable variable in every plan—randomness. You can plan a heist down to the last second, practice it until you dream it in your sleep, and double then triple check that every battery is charged, every schedule is running on time, and every person is in their exact position, and still be tripped up by a random act of the universe—the power going out, a dropped tool, a sudden sneeze, or, worst of all, a stranger accidentally wandering onto the scene.
Is that what happened here? Did someone walking by the football stadium on that December night see us and shoot the pictures? Then, realizing later what he or she had witnessed, contact the Chaos Club?
I consider calling Boyd because he’d know what to do. Most likely, he’d get to the park early, hide somewhere where no one would ever see him, then come out when the Chaos Club arrived, helping me overpower them and ending their reign of terror. Clearly I’ve watched too many movies. But because the note specifically said not to tell anyone, I don’t call Boyd. And this is too important to screw up. Besides, Boyd might tell my parents. Like I need more trouble in my life.
So I’m alone as I get to the vacant Ryder ball fields shortly before ten. The fields are near the school but aren’t on school property, so I won’t be in violation of Stranko’s zero-tolerance trespassing rule. The infield of field four is concrete hard, and the rain and snow of the last few months have leveled the pitcher’s mound. For a clear view in all directions, I wait at second base and pray no one’s parachuting in, bringing death from above. My head’s on a swivel, and I’m questioning every life choice I’ve ever made. I mean, agreeing to meet my sworn enemy? Alone? In the dark? How crazy does someone have to be?
Completely crazy.
• • •
It’s a few minutes after ten when I hear feet scraping on the hard dirt of the adjacent ball field. I squint hard into the darkness, and two figures emerge around the visitor’s side dugout, stepping onto the field, and…
They’re wearing masks.
And not like hockey masks or cute little bunny masks with a rubber band across the back, but full-fledged demon masks that cover their entire heads. Both stop dead when they see me, standing silent in the moonlight and looking creepy as hell.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Their loose-fitting clothes make determining their exact sex difficult, but the person on the left is clearly bigger and at least a foot taller. If I had to guess, I’d say one guy, one girl. They start toward me in confident strides, and it’s only my clenched butt cheeks that stop me from shitting myself. At ten feet away, the bigger one pulls a small box from his pocket and holds it up to his mouth. When he speaks, his voice is obnoxiously distorted, like he’s a kidnapper making a ransom call.
“Give me your phone.”
Yep, a guy.
“What?” I say.
He holds out a hand.
“Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you’re not recording us.”
Huh. I should’ve thought of that.
I hand him my phone, and he pushes a few buttons. The smaller one leans in and whispers something that has the big one nodding.
“I’m turning off your phone-finder app too. I don’t want anyone to know where we’re taking you.”
“Whoa, wait a second. I’m not going anywhere.”
The small one takes the distorter and holds it up.
“We’re not going to hurt you.”
A girl.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace private.”
“More private than this?”
The guy reaches into his jacket and pulls out a mask identical to the one they’re wearing, except this one has duct tape over the eyes.
“Put this on,” the girl says.
I may be dumb enough to come here, but I’m not dumb enough to put myself completely at their mercy.
“I’m out of here,” I say.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” she says.
“There’s no way I’m putting that mask on.”
The guy grabs for the distorter and holds it up.
“If you leave, Stranko gets the picture tonight. How long do you think it’ll be before he figures out who’s in the mascot costume? Now put the mask on.”
Again, do I have a choice?
I can’t see anything with the mask on, and the small slits at the nostrils and mouth have me suffocating. I’m led by the arm across the hard infield and off the diamond completely. We’re on grass for a bit, and the girl says, “Be careful. Don’t slip. There’s a step down here.”
Ah, kindhearted kidnappers, the best kind.
Then we’re walking on concrete, and I hear the chirp of a car door unlocking.
“No, it’s okay,” the girl says when I slow down. “You’ll be fine.”
A door opens, and I’m guided down so I don’t bang my head on the car. I can’t tell what the car’s make is, but I know it’s small because my knees hit the passenger seat in front of me. When my two captors get in, only a few feet separate us.
“Drive around a bit,” the guy says. “I don’t want him knowing where we are.” Then to me, “If you peek, Stranko gets the picture.”
The radio comes on, and we start driving. At first, I do a good job keeping track of our location. I’ve lived in Asheville my whole life, so I know these roads. But the turns become so constant that eventually I lose any sense of direction. When we finally come to a stop after twenty minutes of driving, we might as well be in China.
“This way,” the girl says once we’re outside the car. “It’s not very far, but we need you to be quiet.”
“Why?”
“Because we told you to be,” the guy says.
I’m guessing we’re walking across another empty parking lot. Of course, for all I know, it’s a dead-end road, someone’s driveway—or a walkway to an open vat of hydrofluoric acid.
“Just a little farther,” she says. “We’re heading inside.”
“To a murder shed?” I say, only half joking.
Neither reply. If I live through this, I need to stop being such a smart-ass.
We walk on what’s probably a sidewalk for a few seconds, then without any sort of transition, the night sounds fall away and the air warms up as we step inside some structure. My guards are on either side of me, and I’m led a dozen or so steps before the door we just entered closes with a click. Whatever sort of building we’re in, there can’t be many people around. The only sound is the constant drone of a heating system. After another minute of walking, I’m led inside what has to be a small room. There’s no noise in here, and I sense that the walls aren’t too far out of reach. But it’s the unmistakable smell of wet paint that has me most confused. Even with the mask on, it’s overwhelming, like somehow I’m in the backroom of a paint store.
“Sit here,” the girl says.
“Can I take off my mask? I’m dying.”
“Actually, we need to tie your hands behind your back now. We don’t want you taking off your mask before it’s time.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means put your hands behind your back. We don’t have all night,” Mr. Attitude says.
Having come this far, I do as I’m told. Thankfully, the rope isn’t so tight it cuts off circulation.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the guy asks.
I should be scared, but I’m not. Probably because I realize that underneath the tough-guy act, he’s really just another dumb high school kid like me.
“You’re the one who brought me here. Why don’t you tell me why?” I say.
“Don’t be stupid. We want to know why you’re trying to get us in trouble.”
“What do you mean
troubl
e
?”
“Stop the shit, man. You know what we’re talking about. The fake website—”
“The aerial photo—”
“The pep rally—”
“The goldfish—”
“Zippy—”
“And siccing the Secret Service on Stranko,” the guy says. “That trouble.”
Well, it’s nice to know our work hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“You’re the ones who started it by getting us busted at the water tower,” I say. “Then you went and stuffed our lockers with dough.”
There’s a long enough pause that I’m guessing the guy and girl are communicating without speaking. Maybe with semaphore.
The girl says, “We didn’t pull those pranks.”
“Yeah right.”
“We didn’t.”
If my fingers weren’t laced, I’d be making fists.
“Why lie to me? Do you still think I’m secretly recording this or something? Like I’m going to run to Stranko if you tell the truth? You have my phone, remember? Besides, it’s not me you need to worry about. It’s him.”
Another pause, and then the girl has the distorter.
“You’re swinging at ghosts,” she says.
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have we set you up at all lately? No. We’ve given up.”
“I wish we could believe that.”
I’m trying to get a clue as to who these people are—some hint in what they say or even how they say it that’ll lead me to their identities. But there’s nothing.
“If you don’t believe me that I’ve quit, then why am I here? If you want to threaten me, fine, but I’ll just tell you the same thing again—I’m not hunting you anymore, so you don’t have to worry.”
“We’re not threatening you,” the girl says.
“No, you’ve already done that.”
“That was just to get you to show up.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“We’re here to make you an offer.”
Even through the voice distorter, I can pick up the girl’s tone. She sounds almost worried, like she’s the one tied to the chair.
“What’s the offer?” I say.
“We’ll forgive what you’ve done if you accept a position in the Chaos Club. There’s only a few months left in the year, but it would be a good setup for next year. We need someone to carry the torch for us, and you’ve been chosen.”
There’s a pause, and then the guy says through the distorter, “We’re told a midyear invitation like this has never happened before. You should feel honored.”
I have a hard time finding words. Of all the scenarios I played out in my head before coming here, I never imagined this one. Me, in the Chaos Club?
“Who told you to do this?” I ask.
The guy says, “What do you mean
who
?”
“You said you were told this has never happened before. Who’s in charge? Is there some sort of, I don’t know, alumni panel or something?”
This time the pause is longer than I’m comfortable with. I imagine the two trying to figure out how to respond to the
gotcha
I’ve just nailed them with.
The girl finally says, “We can fill you in on the specifics later. But, Max, this is your chance to be a part of something special. I mean
really
special. We’re planning something everyone in the town will witness live. Nothing’s even been done like this before—”
“That’s enough,” the guy says.
I decide to push my edge.
“How did you find out about me?”
“We got an anonymous email with the picture attached.”
“Anonymous?”
“Completely.”
“Why would someone do that?”
No answer.
“We don’t have all night,” the guy says. “What’s your answer?”
“What happens if I say no?”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“But what happens?”
“There will be ramifications.”
The girl is on the distorter again. “Join us and we’ll tell you everything. Isn’t that what you want?”
In a way, yes.
Why did they choose us for the water tower prank?
How do they pull off their pranks unnoticed?
Who’s their leader?
What’s their next prank?
With just a quick yes, I can know the answer to all this and more.
Plus, becoming a member of the Chaos Club is as close to a professional heist crew as I’m likely to get.
It’s just too great an offer to turn down.
But.
“Go screw yourselves,” I say.
“You’re not serious?” the guy says.
“I already have a crew, and we’re taking you assholes down. You’ll regret ever messing with us.”
“We told you—”
“Max,” the girl says, this time without the distorter. “You need to reconsider.”
“Or you’ll give Stranko the picture?”
“Worse.”
Her voice is soft and serious. I could still change my mind, I guess. A big part of me still wants answers. But no. They’re just trying to scare me, to blackmail me into joining them, like they blackmailed me into coming here. So hell no.
“I’m out.”
The girl sighs, and both of them start moving past me for the door.
“You started this, remember that,” the guy says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The doors opens, and I say, “Aren’t you going to untie me?”
“The ropes aren’t too tight,” the guys says. “You’ll figure it out.”
“But how will I get home?”
Then the girl whispers in my ear, “Good luck, Max.”
I don’t recognize the voice. Or maybe I do. When the door closes, I’m alone, and suddenly all my macho bullshit is gone. I jerk at the ropes trying to free my hands and find that the guy was right. The ropes are loose but not
that
loose.
My feet aren’t tied, so I stand up but quickly bang into a table or desk or something. I fall back into the seat and work the ropes, my breathing coming faster. It takes a good minute to get one hand out. After that, the other’s out in seconds. My hands tear the mask off my head, and I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat off my face. It’s only then that I open my eyes.