to keep it.
"Hey! Who the hell are you? Don't you know you're trespassing on private property?"
John snapped his head and saw two men in camouflage, one with a rifle pointed at him. They both had camouflage hats on that cast a shadow on their faces.
"I..."
"Didn't you see the sign?"
"I didn't see any sign, sorry."
"Easy," the one without the raised rifle said. "He's just a kid."
The rifle went down and the men approached John. John got up and dusted himself off.
"What're you doing here, kid?"
The men were short and stout. They looked like twins with bellies that shaped them into Ds.
"I was just passing through," said John. He was just relieved that they didn't look like the men from the parking lot.
"Passing through? Shouldn't you be going to school?"
John didn't answer. He looked down at his hand and was glad that no blood was present.
"Well?" asked the one with a slightly redder face.
"I don't know. I was just passing through."
"You on drugs, kid?"
"No," John said.
It must have been too sharp for the men's liking, and they furrowed their eyebrows at him.
"Say, you're not that man the police are looking for, are you?"
"What? Are you kidding me?" the other man said. "This little thing here isn't going to push a piece of furniture through anyone's chest."
"Yeah, I guess not," the redder one said, examining John as if for the first time.
John couldn't help but feel dizzy again. So the police knew about what he did.
"I need some food," John said and felt himself get dizzy again. He stumbled and one of the men grabbed him, the less red one.
"Easy there kid."
"We don't run no soup kitchen," the red one said, spitting out a dark brown spit onto the ground.
The less red one glared at him. "You need to take it easy."
The red one raised his eyebrows and nudged his head towards John.
"All right, Christ, why do we always have to be good Samaritans?" said the redder one.
"I'm Derek," said the less-red one.
"John," he said and shook his hand. It seemed powerful. "Thank you."
Derek looked at the redder man and coughed, again raising his eyebrows.
"Well?"
"What? I have to kiss his ass as well?"
"I'm not saying that, but how about you don't act rude for one second?"
"Bill," the redder one said, looking away and shaking John's hand without much power behind his grip.
"Nice to meet you Bill."
They walked back to a cabin in the woods. It was small and surrounded by three four wheelers and two trucks, each raised at least twenty inches beyond what was legal.
"Nice trucks," John said.
"Thanks," Derek said.
Inside, they served him a thick soup with gruel in it. The cabin was one room with a wood fired stove, a table and four chairs. There were several rifles leaned against the wall, and some large backpacks and various sacks, but that was it. A radio sat on the table.
When John finished, he could feel the two men studying him. He raised his head and forced a smile, but it felt like an aberration on his face. "Thanks."
"Of course, kid."
"I'll leave now," he said and realized that he'd nowhere to go. But he couldn't stay here.
"You can stay," Derek said with a smile.
"No, I have to get going."
"What's your story?" Derek asked, his face changing from kind to suspicious.
"I..." John took in a deep breath. He wondered what their story was. They weren't out in the middle of nowhere, but they seemed to live like it.
Bill, seeming unconcerned with what John decided to do, turned on the radio and walked over to a rifle.
"Last night a man was found dead in his apartment. The suspect shoved a broken piece of a chair into his chest. The man was DOA," the radio said.
John got up.
"Here," Derek said and grabbed what looked like a stack of beef jerky. "Take this with you."
John knew he had to leave, now, before these two men found out who he was, because then what would he do? It, or whatever it was that shoved a stick into a man's chest, would arise, and he didn't want to hurt people who'd just helped him. He tried to shift his attention to the radio, hoping that it hadn't named him.
"Here," Derek said with the jerky still in his face.
Grabbing the jerky, John turned to leave.
"They said it was some kid named John. Six foot..."
John turned.
Derek had his head cocked. "It was you, wasn't it?"
John looked at Derek's hurt face, then at Bill who suddenly seemed to have a look of approval on his face. The look faded, and he pulled out a revolver that looked to be bigger than his arm, though it wasn't pointed at John.
While he could have run, John wanted to make sure Derek knew the truth.
"I was attacked by him."
"You put a stick through a man's chest," Bill said. "The radio said you must have been on PCP, or meth. You're not one of those addicts, are you?"
"No, I'm not," John said. He hated that. Why did adults always ask him if he was on drugs just because he was acting the way he felt like?
"You shouldn't do drugs," Derek said in a voice that seemed like a cry for the wronged in the world. "My aunt got into it and it destroyed her life. No teeth, nothing—"
"I'm not."
"You weren't attacked," Bill jumped back in. "You were in the man's apartment, the radio said that."
"They're lying. I was attacked. They took my mother... it's where we lived," John said; he could feel his voice cracking. He didn't know why, but now he couldn't leave with Derek thinking of him this way.
"You really shouldn't do drugs, kid," Derek said, his eyes squinting and his voice getting softer.
"Look. I'm strong," John said, anger boiling up. "Come here," he beckoned Derek.
Derek glanced over at Bill then took a step forward.
"Take my hand," John said.
Derek took his hand.
John, focusing his anger, clenched his teeth and lifted Derek up, his arm straight out to the side.
"Holy shit," Bill said. "He weighs two-fifty."
"Two twenty," Derek said.
"What are you, a woman?" Bill said. "You're not a pound under two-fifty."
"Fuck you."
"Hold on," John said.
"Hold on?"
John cocked his arm back and tossed Derek. It was meant to be a few feet, but John underestimated himself, and Derek flew half way across the room. Derek landed on his feet then crashed to his ass.
"Sorry," John said.
Bill was laughing. "He threw you like a pebble."
Derek stood up, rubbing his ass. "That's... How much you weigh kid?"
"I'm sorry," John repeated.
Derek waved his hand. "Don't sweat it kid. How much you weigh?"
"One-thirty five, the last time I checked."
"Looks it," Bill added.
"He does," Derek said, rubbing his arm. "This ability of yours the reason these people are after you?"
"Yeah," John said, now wondering if he'd said and shown too much.
Derek and Bill exchanged glances. John couldn't tell if it was hostile or friendly.
"They took you mother?" Bill said.
John's eyes fell to his feet again. Hearing someone else say it only made it feel that much more real. His eyes welled up.
"Easy kid."
"Yeah, give him more food," Bill said.
"You got kin to go to?"
"No," John said.
"None?"
"Nobody."
"Where you going then?"
"Away," John said.
"Can't argue with that," Bill said.
"No," Derek added.
Bill walked up to John with the gun. "Here, you'll need this."
"I... don't know," was all John could manage to say.
"Hold here," Bill said, placing the gun in John's hand. "Eyes on the front sight post and shoot."
"Th... thanks."
"Of course kid." Bill slapped John's back and smiled. "This is how you'll keep the coppers off your back."
John stuffed the gun into his backpack, and a box of bullets that Bill handed him.
Derek came over with a bag of food and a map. "Use this map. See, stay away from built up areas."
John looked at the topographical map and was surprised to hardly recognize a thing. He and his mother had always moved from town to town, the forests between were only trees to drive by.
"Why, why are you helping me?" John asked.
"Oh, I had a cousin in your situation once," Bill said. "He wasted his wife and headed out to the woods. He managed to evade the cops for two months. But they found him stealing food from a house. So make sure to stay away from everyone. All right?"
"Got it," John said. He was trying to hold back his surprise at having been compared to a man who killed his wife, but he decided that Bill's friendly face meant the best.
"Take care kid, and keep your head straight."
"Thanks."
John set out with a heavier pack than he was used to. Twenty minutes later he crossed a highway; making certain to do it only after all cars were gone. He spent twenty more minutes trying to press the black box then gave up.
As the sun started its descent, John felt the urge to give up. He sat down next to a tree and looked at the dirt. What he would have given just to be normal, just to be absolutely average in this world.
A memory of his mother drifted through his head: when they moved into the apartment complex, came out to greet a couple of junkies with a broomstick after John burst in crying when the junkies threatened to knife him for money. She'd chased them off, then came at John with the stick. "Don't you ever cry over a fight with a couple of losers again. Got it? One day I won't be here, you understand?" He hated her that day, but now her words had the sting of being right.
His eyes welled up, and he shook trying to stop the tears from coming out. In the end, he couldn't help it.
When he was finished he felt better, and