This is, uh… Day Six. Maybe an hour before dawn. Thought I should keep track of the days from now on. Seems important somehow, and yet also totally pointless.

Still dark out. Can see stars peeking out from behind all those broken rain clouds. Looks a bit brighter to the east. I just realized the sofa is paddling in that direction. East, I mean. It always has been. Always paddling towards the rising sun. Where are you going, sofa?

I wish it could talk so I could ask it what it’s up to. I just said that aloud. Got no answer. My voice sounds raspy. My head kind of hurts.

Oh crap. Schroeder just woke up and asked me who I’m talking to. He’d been sleeping with his head on my foot. Sigh. Frown.

He’s looking around blearily now. Boy, he’s scruffy. Kind of out of it too, like he’d been dreaming and now he’s not very sure of where he is. Sorry, Schroeder. This is no dream.

Now he’s asking what I’m doing. Sigh. Stand by.

—

Huh. That was a strange conversation. Let me try to write it down as best as I can.

“I’m writing,” I said.

“You’ve been doing that for days.”

“Duh, I know that.”

“You don’t exactly strike me as the kind of girl who keeps a diary.”

I shut the notebook and stuck the pen in it. “It’s not a diary! I’m writing about everything that happened to us before Miller’s cellar.”

“Why?”

“Don’t look at me like that. It was Simon’s idea, not mine.”

“Why does he want you to write about that?”

“Oh, who knows. Maybe it’s just for posterity.”

I don’t actually know what posterity involves, but it sounded right.

Schroeder grunted and flopped back. We both lay half-in, half-out of the sofa fort with our feet in the water. There really wasn’t enough room for all three of us in there. Simon was squashed against the arm of the sofa, hugging an end cushion.

Schroeder was quiet for a while. I thought he’d gone back to sleep. Then he said, “It’s not right.”

I sighed. “What isn’t?”

He nodded at the notebook. “You being the one to write all that down. You haven’t even been here a week.”

“Yeah, well, go take it up with Simon if you’ve got a problem.”

“You barely know anything about Hinterland. Nobody likes you.”

“Wow, way to be classy and bring that up.”

“You didn’t even bother getting to know any of the other kids.”

“Hey!” I said. “That’s not true. I like, uh… Noelle! And Jack. And I want to punch, uh… Doris.”

“Everyone wants to punch Doris at some point. That doesn’t count.”

“Look, I don’t care about the other kids, okay? All they do is eat, fight stupid things, and make a mess in the house. Besides, I knew that since I was only going to be around for a week there was no point in making too many attachments. So I didn’t.”

Schroeder regarded me pensively. For a moment I thought I had settled the discussion.

“You didn’t meet him, did you?” he said.

“Who, the Unabomber?”

“What? No! Roger.”

Roger?

“Oh. No,” I said. “He was dead by the time I got here.”

Schroeder scowled. He slouched even further down.

“It isn’t right,” he said. “He shouldn’t be dead. He shouldn’t have been the one to die.”

Nonplussed, I said, “What, someone else should have?”

“No! Shut up! Listen – Roger was smart. Ten years.”

He jabbed me in the knee with one finger for emphasis. “Ten years! He’d been here longer than anyone else, him and me. There were only four of us at first. We grew up here. We’d lived in this place longer than we’d ever lived back home. We learned how to survive here. Roger shouldn’t have been someone who could get killed by being caught alone in the fringe. He should have known better than that.”

I shrugged. “Sounds like he got cocky. No, wait, that’s not the word I’m looking for. What’s the word I want? Starts with a ‘C’.”

“Complacent?”

I gave old Schroeder an appraising look. That was a pretty big word for a guy with a grade three education at best.

“Sure, that works,” I said.

That earned me a cold look. I thought he would would bite my head off for dissing his dead chum. But he just muttered, “Yeah, maybe.”

We sat in silence for a while, staring out over the ocean.

“He was a good guy,” said Schroeder. “He shouldn’t be dead.”

He hasn’t said a word since.

Right now he’s sitting at the far end of the sofa like he wants to be alone. Good luck with that, Schroeder. The cushions are soaked from the rain but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s just slouched there glaring moodily into the distance. Face like a thundercloud.

I wish Simon was awake. He’s a good awkwardness buffer. I sort of want to ask him about that Roger kid. Because I think Schroeder is wrong. I think it’s Simon who has really been here the longest. I bet he knows all about Roger too. Maybe even the details of how he died.

And after what Schroeder did to Simon back in the scrapyard, after that ugly business down in Miller’s cellar, well… it makes me start to wonder. About all of those dead kids, not just Roger – and why Schroeder did what he did.

But I suppose that would be a difficult conversation to have with Schroeder sitting right here beside us. Ugh. Hate this sofa.

I’ve already heard bits and pieces about that Roger kid. As I understand it he and Schroeder got trapped in Hinterland around the same time, and became good chums as a result. All the other kids say is that Roger was an okay guy who happened to die the same day I arrived here. Maybe that’s why Schroeder despises me. In his screwed up mind maybe he thinks that Hinterland killed off Roger in order to make room for me. I dunno. Who knows what that nut is thinking.

Actually, now that I sit here and think about it, this reminds me of something odd that happened just after Noelle and I got back to the hideout. Might as well write it down now. It’s not like I have anything better to do. Like EAT.

Ugh.

Okay, so…

Noelle and I biked straight home at top speed after the encounter with the Triumph. Cyril was a grouch, and we had just put his precious motorcycle upside down in a flower bed. Okay, it was Noelle who did that. Big thumbs up.

We got back to the hideout around noon. Noelle wheeled the road bike through the gate and into the backyard. I didn’t even bother. I picked up Nuke by the frame and threw him over the fence.

“Morgan!” said Noelle when I strolled into the backyard.

“What?” I said. “Look at him.” Nuke had already picked himself up and was chasing a yard gnome around the bird bath. “He’s fine! Happy as a clam.”

“Put him in the shed properly before he kills something!”

So I did. I grumbled as I led Nuke into the shed. I think he grumbled too. His wheels ticked louder than usual, anyway.

Boy, it was noisy inside the house. I heard kids yelling and thumping up and down the stairs. Doris was standing next to the washing machine when Noelle and I walked into the mudroom. He had a bandana wrapped around his head and he was shaking out a bunch of sleeping bags. Dirt flew all around him.

“Watch out for Jack,” he said sourly. “He’s on a cleaning rampage.”

Jack himself stood at the stove. He glanced at Noelle and I when we stepped inside. He had a greasy spatula in one hand. The whole kitchen smelt like, mmm. Fried eggs.

“Where have you been?” he said. He looked down at my scraped knees. “What happened to you?”

“That stupid bike, that’s what!” I said. “How long am I going to be saddled with that animal?”

“Until you learn,” said Schroeder as he lurched into the kitchen.

He wore a raggedy red polo shirt and a beat-up backpack with a golf club strapped to it. I couldn’t figure out why he was walking strangely until I looked down. Glasses had a death grip around his ankle with both arms and he was dragging her across the linoleum floor. She gasped with laughter.

Joe skipped behind them, his windbreaker flapping. In a sing-song voice he said, “Come look at our power tool traps, Schroeder! We put them around the garden just like you showed us.”

“I will look at your traps when I get back home,” said Schroeder. “Are they good and strong?”

“They’re lethal!” said Glasses.

“Atta girl.”

I glared at him as he shuffled to the fridge. “What exactly am I supposed to learn? That thing keeps trying to kill me!”

“You’re a big girl, you can hack it.”

“What’s on the agenda for today?” said Jack.

Schroeder slammed the freezer door shut and ripped the paper off a popsicle. “I’m heading out for a while. You know where I’ll be.”

He pointed the popsicle at me. “Think I’ll take Red Lobster with me. It’ll be a good lesson for her.”

“I think not,” I said icily.

Jack flipped an egg. “Just try to be back before two. Small Matt and Joe reported a suspicious mini-bike loitering two blocks away from here that they’re going to need your help with.”

“Hear that, Red? Let’s get a move on, chop chop.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, thanks!”

“Let me put it this way,” said Schroeder. “You can come with me, or you can stay here and scrub the bathroom for Jack.”

“Scrub the bathroom!” said Jack. There was a glint in his eye. “Then I can finally check it off the to-do list.”

“Which is it gonna be, Red?”

“I’ll come,” I muttered.

So back out into the backyard I jolly well went!

Nuke was glad to see me again. By glad I mean he charged straight at me when I threw open the shed door and tried to plant his front wheel in my face. I was ready for it this time, and punched him squarely between the handlebars. “Stay down!”

“Good to see you’re learning the proper way to handle a bike,” said Schroeder.

“Shut up!”

We wheeled the bikes out of the yard and back into the street. Schroeder immediately took the lead. I watched him as he flew ahead of me. I had to admit, the guy knew how to ride a bike. He knew exactly how to lean into a corner and when to stand up to pump for speed or hop a curb. With that dirty backpack on he reminded me of those bike couriers you see all over the streets in Toronto. That whole popsicle was wedged into the side of his mouth.

The noonday sun beat down through the trees. It was starting to get hot out. Luckily the heat seemed to keep most of the cars away as well. I saw a lot of them drowsing in garages as we pedalled towards the downtown area. A maroon SUV lunged out of its garage and half–heartedly chased us for a few blocks before turning back.

By the time we coasted to a halt in front of a shady little shop I was pretty sweaty. I leaned on the handlebars and squinted at the sign above the doorway.

“Milestone Flowers,” I said. “You dragged us out to a flower shop?”

Schroeder stepped off his bike.

“I need to pick up something first,” he said. “You can either stay out here and keep watch, or come inside and help me do some looting.”

“What could you possibly want flowers for?”

The door clicked when Schroeder tested the handle.

“Locked,” he said.

He stood back and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Like most of the downtown buildings it was three stories high, with apartment flats above the shop. One of the second story windows was open, the curtains swaying in the breeze.

“Hm,” said Schroeder. “Wait here.”

“And do wha– ah!” I gaped as Schroeder ran forward two steps and sprang up the side of the building. With the help of an awning and a hanging flower basket he deftly scaled the wall and parkoured through the window. Holy crap!

A few minutes later the shop door swung open.

“Get in,” said Schroeder. “Leave your bike here. He won’t go anywhere if mine won’t.”

“Where did you learn to do that?” I said as I followed him inside.

“Do what? Watch your step.”

It was a small shop, narrow and dark. Little sunlight filtered down through the lush foliage that crowded the tables and walls inside, and what did glowed a brilliant emerald-green where it peeked through the leaves. Baskets of flowers sat on shelves, burst from tubs of water, or bloomed wildly in decorative clay pots. The air was humid and heavily fragrant. Water trickled in a fountain, while the big glass floral coolers for the more delicate blooms hummed with refrigeration.

I stood and watched a clay frog with a pot of violets in its back hop across the floor. Frilly bows flapped like butterflies overhead.

“So,” I said. “Flowers.”

“Stop pointing out the obvious and help me find pick out something nice.”

I twisted a purple orchid bud between my fingers while Schroeder prowled off into the tulipy underbrush. “What do you want flowers for?”

“Never mind that. What do you think about these?”

Schroeder re-emerged carrying two bouquets. “The red ones or the yellow ones?”

“Yellow!” I said. “Hey, check these out.”

I peered into one of the glass coolers. It was loaded with bushels of roses, red and pink and cream-coloured ones, some in full bloom and some still curled into dainty little buds. They were so soft and perfectly formed they didn’t look real, like decorative icing on a cake. Mist had condensed on the inside of the glass.

“How about some roses?” I said. “They’re nice. They’re fancy.”

“Gah!” said Schroeder. He shuddered. “No roses!”

I arched a brow. He didn’t exactly strike me as the type to form passionate opinions about flowers.

“Why not?” I said.

“I just don’t like them, okay! No roses!”

And that was the end of that.

Eventually we trooped out the front door with a bundle of flowers each. For some reason. I ended up picking out a mixed bouquet of orange lilies and yellow and white daisies. I thought they were pretty. What do I know about flowers. Schroeder got the red flowers instead of the yellow ones. Of course. The dude seems to have a thing for red.

We didn’t have anywhere to stash them on the bikes, so we ended up sticking them down the back of our shorts. As we cycled through the rest of town we left a path of leaves and petals in our wake like a wedding procession. Now there’s a horrifying thought.

Schroeder led the way down towards the lake. Before we hit the golf course he veered down a narrow lane in the woods. It was a shadowy kind of place, with pine boughs that stretched over our heads like the roof of a covered bridge. Pine needles fluttered to the ground and gravel crunched beneath our tires. Creepy.

Before long the lane opened up into a sunlit clearing. Tall red pines with gnarled branches shaded the well-groomed lawn. The gravel lane wove off between the trees, around grassy hills plated with rows of mossy tombstones. Tombstones!

I skidded to a halt. Dust flew up around me.

“A cemetery?” I said. “Now you’ve brought me to a cemetery?”

Schroeder stuck one foot down and made a broad loop in the lane.

“Wow, you’re sharp,” he said as he circled back. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of g-g-g-g-ghosts?”

“Don’t be stupid! Why here?”

“How about you come with me and find out?”

I swore and kicked after him when he swooped away.

In silence we glided down the lane. The cemetery was a quiet, melancholy sort of place, with a well-bred eldritch air about it. Crooked tombstones sat in rows to either side of the lane, some with wreathes of dried flowers leaned against them. A smattering of dandelions grew wild over the graves. It might have been a pleasant scene, except for the mounds of freshly dug soil and deep holes that were scattered about the property. Grave-shaped holes, just the right size for a coffin. Disturbing.

I was so distracted that I nearly ran into the back of Schroeder’s bike when he came to a stop. Nuke swerved to avoid him and I braked to a halt.

“What, what is it?” I said.

“We’re here,” said Schroeder. “Leave your bike with mine. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

I didn’t even bother lowering the kickstand. I just pushed Nuke over onto his side. He didn’t like that. He spun around a few times before coming to a sulky halt.

“Pull those flowers out of your shorts and follow me,” said Schroeder.

We hiked into the woods. An overgrown path in the trees led to another sheltered clearing. The grass grew thick and rank here, and pine cones lay like pebbles among the weeds. Beneath my feet the ground felt uneven, not at all like the beautifully tended lawn of the cemetery proper.

Strewn amid the grass were smooth round white things, as big as my head. My heart lurched until I realised they were only rocks.

“Schroeder,” I said. “What the hell are we doing here?”

He crouched down in front of one of the white rocks.

“Show a little respect,” he said. “Do you have any idea who you’re standing on?”

I stared at him blankly until it clicked.

“Gah, Schroeder!” I pranced backwards. “Are you telling me there are dead people buried here?”

“We’re in a cemetery, dumbass.”

“Yes, but…!”

I flailed at the rocks. “These aren’t tombstones! Did you put them here?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And the dead people? Did you put them here too?”

“If that was some kind of ass-backwards way of asking me if I killed them, then no. I only buried them. Everyone who has died in Hinterland I’ve buried here.”

I sobered at that.

“Even whatshisface?” I said. “That Roger kid?”

“Miller has his body.” Schroeder spat the name. “He’s still out there. He’s the only one who hasn’t been put to rest. I’ll kill her.”

“He was a good friend of yours, huh?”

“Yeah. He was.”

I did a quick headcount. Fourteen white rocks. Really, they were just ordinary rocks painted white, but still.

Fourteen dead kids.

“How did they die?” I said.

“The Rover got some of them. Others got hurt, or got sick and died. Cars got the rest. But see that one over there?”

Schroeder sat back on his heels and pointed to a rock stuck deep in the soil beneath a lilac bush. It was green with moss.

“That’s Lucy,” he said. “She was one of the first four kids who came to Hinterland. She and Roger and Heinz and me.”

“Lucky you.”

“She hated it here even more than you do. So seven years ago she broke into Miller’s estate in search of that magic portal that would whisk her back home. I told her not to go, but she did it anyway.”

“Good for her.”

“The following evening Miller hung her body from an upper balcony to taunt us. She killed Heinz when he went to cut it down.”

I lowered my eyes. So, Schroeder was the last one left of his odd little fellowship. Maybe that explained his attitude.

Fourteen bodies to bury, all on your own…

When I looked up again he was glaring at me. He slowly climbed to his feet.

“Do you get it now?” he said. “Has it sunk into that thick skull yet? You’re stuck here, with us. And we will die here. Run amok on your own, stroll into familiar places like you know them, and you will be killed. And I refuse to take responsibility for that, because now I can at least say I warned you.”

My anger flared. I threw my bouquet of flowers down at his feet.

“I didn’t ask for you to take responsibility for me in the first place!” I said. “Same way I didn’t ask to be here!”

“None of us did!” said Schroeder. “And here’s a news flash: you’re just like all the rest of us! Nothing makes you or your situation here any different! Time to get over yourself and accept that!”

“Like hell I will! Because I’m not going to sit around cowering in some squatter house just because the almighty Schroeder has been here for all of ten years and says there’s no way back home! There is, and in less than a week from now I’m leaving you to find it! And anyone who doesn’t want to help me can just get out of my-”

A sound like thunder rumbled through the trees. Schroeder held up his hand.

“Shut up!” he said. “Hear that?”

In frustration I clawed at the sky. “Not a-god-damned-gain!”

Again came the rumble in the distance. We stood together and listened to it. I heard a man’s low voice.

“Mumble mumble mumble,” it said. “Mumble mumble little girls with bad intent.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I said.

Schroeder made a curt gesture and we scampered into the trees.

Bent low, we crawled through the scratchy thicket until we could hunker at the edge of the brush and peer out over the main cemetery. Cars prowled up and down the gravel lane, a pack of rust-scarred brutes. Slap-bang in the middle of them was that big sky-blue Aqualung bastard. Sure enough, his windows were down and his radio was playing – softly, like he was trying to be stealthy but just couldn’t bring himself to turn it off entirely.

Schroeder swore under his breath. I glanced at him, then looked over to see what he was staring at. Oh, damn it. Both of our bikes lay on the grass. Standing over them, one boot on Duke’s frame, was Cyril.

“Schroeder!” he shouted. “I know you’re here! You might as well come out!”

“Him again?” I snarled.

“‘Again’?” said Schroeder.

“There is no point in hiding, Schroeder! I only want to talk with you!”

“Now that’s a damn lie,” I said.

Schroeder’s gaze didn’t budge. “We need the bikes if we want to get away from those cars.”

“We’re not going to outrun a car with bicycles, Schroeder!”

“Schroeder!” bellowed Cyril.

Fuming, I dragged my hands back over my head. “What is with this guy? That’s twice today he’s ambushed us outta nowhere!”

“Twice?” said Schroeder. “When did this happen?”

“Noelle and I might have had a run-in with him earlier.”

“I didn’t hear about that!”

“Maybe that’s because you were too busy dragging me off to commit grand theft flowers!”

Schroeder reached back over his shoulder. With one yank he jerked the golf club from its straps.

“Let’s approach this from a diplomatic angle,” he said.

Cyril whirled around when Schroeder stalked out of the trees.

“Schroeder,” he said warily. “I hope you intend to be reasonable about this. Otherwise, you had better make your first blow count.”

“Here’s my idea,” said Schroeder. “I propose you step away from those bikes and call off your goons, thus allowing us to leave in peace. In exchange, I won’t cave in your skull.”

Cyril squinted. “I see two bicycles here. Who else is with you?”

I swore and scrambled out of the trees. The old man’s expression grew ugly when he recognised me.

“Mumford,” he said. “Aren’t you having a busy day.”

“Nice face, Cyril,” I said. A purple bruise was spread across his left cheek. “You use it to field a piece of furniture or something?”

“Watch your mouth! Which one of you little monsters wrecked the Triumph?”

“Don’t give me that look! That was Noelle’s handiwork, not mine.”

Schroeder looked back and forth between us. “What am I missing here?”

Cyril swept off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. He ran his hand over his sweaty hair.

“I have a proposal of my own,” he said. “Turn over Simon Miller, and I swear I will let both of you walk away from here unharmed. Even you, Mumford.”

“What makes you think I would be stupid enough let Miller’s son anywhere near us?” said Schroeder.

“You must have some idea of his whereabouts. So I’ll ask you one last time: where is he?”

I jeered. “Go fish, sucker.”

Schroeder scratched his chin. “Miller is after him, huh?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Schroeder! Stop scratching your chin and let’s stomp the bastard!”

And then we both stuck our hands up into the air in a hurry when Cyril calmly reached into his overcoat and pulled out an old revolver.

“Nobody is stomping anyone today,” he said.

“Hold it!” said Schroeder. He glared at the revolver. “Sikes told me he’d gathered every gun in town and was sitting tight on them back at the police station!”

“This comes from a private collection. I lived in this town once too, you know. Now keep those hands up and start marching. The Jaguar will be around shortly to escort you to a personal audience with Miller, Schroeder.”

“Hey! What about me?”

“You I could be persuaded to shoot and leave in a shallow grave, Mumford.”

“‘Let’s approach this from a diplomatic angle!'” I muttered as the old man frog-marched us down the gravel lane. “‘We’ll just chat up the villain a bit! We’ll get answers! We’ll get shot!”

“Shut it!” said Schroeder. He gave a little jerk of his chin. “Haven’t you noticed who’s following us?”

“Yeah, I have! It’s Cyril, with a gun!”

“Stop muttering, you two,” said Cyril.

Schroeder tried to look back. “How did you even know we were here?”

“Miller likes to keep an eye on this place, for her own reasons. Her spies are everywhere, Schroeder, you should know that.”

“What a creep,” I said.

“Watch it, Mumford! How are you even alive in the first place?”

“Not this again,” I said. “Is this about the Rover?”

“I watched Miller use your name to call it upon you. And yet here you stand. Why?”

“How should I know?”

From the corner of my eye I saw a glint of metal. Somehow Nuke had managed to claw back onto his tires and was trailing us at a distance. Good boy, Nuke. I kept my gaze forward and silently took back some of the nasty things I had said about that bike.

With a snort, Cyril said, “Well, nothing will save you when I march you in front of Miller. She’ll sort you out properly herself.”

“Ffft. I’ve been there already. She didn’t impress me much. Simon slammed a door in her face,” I said to Schroeder.

“Good for him,” he said tersely.

Cyril chuckled.

“Did he?” he said. “Funny how she didn’t mention that. I bet-”

“Now, Nuke!” I cried.

There was a rattling clang as the bike valiantly sprang into action. Two seconds later I went flying as Nuke slammed into me broadside and knocked me off my feet.

We crashed into a row of tombstones. As I tumbled over I saw Schroeder leap at the startled Cyril. The two of them grappled back and forth while I fought to keep Nuke from mashing his front tire in my face.

“You stupid, stupid bike!” I raged.

CRACK! went the gun. The shot echoed through the trees. With my heart in my throat I desperately kicked off Nuke and scrambled to my feet.

Schroeder’s hands were locked around Cyril’s wrist. Cyril’s bristly face was red with fury. He let go of the gun with one hand and smashed his elbow into Schroeder’s cheek. Schroeder staggered and held on tight, but when he got hammered a second time he stumbled backwards. Cyril shakily lifted the revolver and took aim.

I grabbed Nuke by his front tire and lunged. The bike’s back tire made a blurry arc through the air. Cyril pitched into a tombstone when it clouted him across the side of his head.

I stepped forward to hit him again, but Schroeder grabbed my arm.

“Run away from the gun, dipshit!” he said.

A shot cracked into a tombstone as we fled, showering us in flying stone chips. Somewhere behind us Cyril bellowed for us to stop, which we immediately refused to do. My heart pounded, and at any moment I expected a bullet to hit me in the back, but there were no more shots after that.

Schroeder snatched up his bike when we ran past it and together we hit the dirt. A beat-up green Honda Civic crashed onto the lane ahead of us amid a huge cloud of dust. We swerved to avoid it as the car fishtailed in place, trying to chase us both. I could barely see a thing in the swirling dust. I heard Schroeder coughing nearby.

“Into the tombstones!” he choked. “They can’t follow us there!”

We pelted down a row of tombstones. Cars closed in from all corners of the cemetery, leaping and howling over the lawn. But Schroeder was right – they hung back from the graves. I guess even a killer car won’t risk smashing itself into granite stone at sixty kilometres an hour.

Except for one of them.

CRACK! Out of nowhere a white tombstone flipped into the lawn in front of me, forcing me to swerve. I risked a look over my shoulder.

Tombstones smashed off his chrome grille and shot into the air like bottle rockets as Aqualung roared straight down the middle of the row. He belched smoke and his tires threw up dirt.

“Schroeder!” I yelled.

Schroeder glanced back. Then he put his foot down and skidded Duke around it. Nuke and I shot past him, and as we did I saw him reach back for the golf club that was no longer strapped to his backpack.

Holy shit, I thought. He’s going to do it. He’s going to stand down a Buick Skylark. He’s going to get killed!

Aqualung hit a grave and catapulted into the air. He roared down at Schroeder, who stood on his bike and tensed.

And then a nearby angel statue reached around and rammed its sword through the car’s hood.

Of course its entire arm shattered and broke off, because it was made of marble. But that broken slab slammed into Aqualung’s hood like the fist of god and smashed the car flat into the ground. Aqualung ploughed into the earth with a horrible screech, metal shearing and crumpling. And then he just lay there, covered in dirt, a marble sword lodged into his buckled hood. Smoke poured from his engine as it sadly warbled into silence.

Schroeder stood gaping. I stood gaping. Simon Miller jumped down from the back of the angel statue and threw up his hands.

“Oh my god!” he said. “I can’t believe that worked!”

He went into a capering dance on the spot.

Stunned, I fell off my bike. “Simon?!”

He wheeled around. He was red-faced and tousled, and his eyes shone.

“Did you see that, Morgan?” he said. “Did you see what I just did? I asked that angel to help me and look at what happened! I just smoked a car with a statue!”

I stared at him. Simon looked terrible. His school uniform was filthy and torn and his tie was wrapped around his head like a Rambo bandana. There was a big raw scrape on his cheek and grime encrusted on his hands. But boy, I had never seen him so happy.

“You did that?” I said.

Simon hopped from foot to foot like he couldn’t stand still. “Yeah right I did! I followed you here but when Cyril showed up I couldn’t think of a way to help you without giving myself away and then I saw that angel statue and the idea to ask it to help me just hit me out of the blue so I did!”

I grabbed him by the ears. “I thought only your mom could boss things around in Hinterland?”

“Well I guess I can too if I talk to them!”

“Holy shit, Simon! Only you could – wait, what is wrong with you, why are you jumping around?”

“I’m drunk on power!”

I think he was just excited really, but his reply was so funny I started to laugh. Relief crashed over me. Ha ha ha! I almost died!

“Simon, that was so badass!” I yelled. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“I know I can’t either!”

So we both jumped up and down and laughed like hysterical people. Schroeder stood where he was, his arms slack and his jaw hanging open. Blood dribbled down his dusty chin. There was a dazed look on his face. I think he had braced himself to get crushed, and Simon’s rescue out of nowhere had fried a circuit in his brain.

He wasn’t the only one to get a shock.

“What the hell happened here?!”

Cyril stood on a grave and stared down at the scene in horror, the revolver clenched in his fist. The other cars gathered behind him, their engines revving with menace. But they all hung back, like they saw Aqualung lying crumpled and smoking in a crater of earth and could read the writing on the wall.

“Mumford!” roared Cyril. “Did you do this?”

Simon and I broke apart, and Cyril’s eyes bulged. “Simon?!”

“Time to run,” I said.

“Simon Miller! Hold it right there, young man! Did you do this? Good god! Your mother is going to be furious!”

“I’ll draw them off,” said Simon. His gaze was pinned on Cyril as the old man scrambled down through the tombstones. “You guys make your escape.”

“Are you crazy?” I said. “Your mom is after you!”

“She always is. I’ll be fine. Just get away from here while you still can.”

He sounded calm. I wanted to argue, but Schroeder snapped out of his fugue state.

“For god’s sake, Red, it’s his mother, she won’t kill him,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

“It’ll be all right,” said Simon. “Just go!”

Still I hesitated. The last time Simon and I had encountered his mother she had burned a house down around us. Maybe not intentionally, but she hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to save her precious boy either. I met Simon’s gaze and studied that earnest, dirt-smeared face.

“Move it, Mumford!”

I snarled at Schroeder and snatched up my bike.

“Be careful!” I yelled as Schroeder and I took off through the graves.

I caught one last glimpse of Simon before we tore away. He stood next to Aqualung with his head up and his fists closed. He calmly watched Cyril as the old man shouted, “Circle around him, don’t let him bolt off! Forget about those two, they’re not important now. Mister Miller, you’re coming with me!”

And then the bikes hit the gravel lane and Schroeder and I raced back through the trees and out of the cemetery and that was the last time I saw Simon Miller aliiive.

Okay, yeah, that last bit is obviously not true. But now that I think about it…

Just how did Simon get away from Cyril and his goons?

Well, he’s awake now. I think I’ll ask him.

—

Oh shit.

Well, I got my answer. But now I’m currently stuck in the middle of yet another Schroeder emotional meltdown. Turns out Schroeder was listening too, and didn’t like what Simon had to say.

Sigh. I’ll have to get back to you guys later. Adios for now, banditos.