War Page 6

  “NO! NOT THAT WAY!” cried a voice behind him.

  Don’t listen.

  In the distance, maybe fifty yards away, an object.

  A building.

  Yes. Go. Hide.

  “STOP THERE OR YOU’RE DEAD!”

  It was Weymouth’s voice.

  Right behind him.

  Jake stopped.

  And turned.

  And froze.

  Weymouth stood a few yards away. Glaring at Jake down the barrel of a musket. “We were so close to escape … so close.”

  Over. Done. The end.

  Jake put his hands in the air. “You win,” he said. “That’s how this ends. You escape and no one ever finds out about you. I know.”

  Weymouth faltered a moment. Lowered the gun.

  And in that moment, it all became clear to Jake. Weymouth the commander, Weymouth the powerful, was nothing. A blot in a history book, no more, no less.

  “The funny thing is,” Jake went on, “in the end, the battle means nothing. The war ends, and guess what? Your side loses anyway, Colonel. So everything you’ve done — the stolen plan, the escape, the deaths you just caused — what was the point?”

  “No, my boy.” Weymouth’s face flushed. His eyes narrowed. “No one would have died just now if you had shut your mouth. Tactical error, soldier. A fatal one.”

  He raised the gun. Took aim.

  “Wait,” Jake said, backing away. “WAIT!”

  Weymouth cocked the gun.

  And fired.

  14

  “AAAAGH!

  Jake hit the ground.

  He coughed. The dirt was sour on his tongue, the root had scratched his cheek, and the smoke hung heavy and acrid in the air.

  Taste. Touch. Smell.

  I’m alive.

  Run.

  Don’t look back.

  Jake scrambled to his feet and took off.

  “HEY!”

  Go.

  He missed once. He won’t do it again.

  He raced toward the clearing.

  The building.

  Visible now. Through the branches.

  A hut. Like the one Jake had seen the day before at the ridge.

  “NOT THERE!”

  BLAMMMMM!

  Jake dived again. Blindly.

  “GO LEFT!”

  Weymouth was right behind him.

  Think.

  Jake darted to the right.

  “I SAID NOT THAT WAY!”

  Motion.

  Near the hut. A figure in the shadows.

  Human.

  Weymouth’s Confederate pals. Gathering for the ambush.

  Forget the hut.

  Only one direction remained.

  Straight up the mountain.

  Behind him, footsteps crashed through the underbrush. More than just Weymouth now.

  “Stop!”

  “You can’t go there!”

  “Get him!”

  Voices. Lots of them.

  You’ll be in the crossfire.

  GO!

  Jake veered away.

  Sprinted. Toward the base of the mountain.

  Away from the voices. Away from the madness and the killing and the blood and the guilt —

  Jake lurched downward.

  Something was wrapped around his ankle.

  He sprawled on the ground. Spun around. Sat up.

  Reached down.

  It wasn’t a root.

  It was long and black. Plastic.

  A cable.

  What the — ?

  No time to think.

  He could see them out of the corner of his eye.

  Advancing through the woods toward him.

  Weymouth. Soldiers. Mrs. Stoughton.

  Go!

  Jake stood up and ran.

  The ankle throbbed. But it wasn’t broken.

  Ignore it.

  Just. Go.

  A voice was shouting something behind him.

  Loud. Unnaturally loud. Magnified.

  The echo of the mountain.

  Jake began to climb. He planted his left foot and pulled himself upward on a branch. Then his right —

  “OWWW!”

  The ankle buckled. Jake fell.

  He couldn’t move.

  Pain shot through him. Sharp. Blinding.

  They were coming nearer now.

  Weymouth was running up the mountainside. Panting.

  This is it.

  Death.

  A century and a quarter before your own birth.

  And you can’t do a thing about it.

  What was the point, Jake?

  Was this what you wanted?

  The fighting, the blood, the death—was this the feeling?

  Was it?

  He gritted his teeth. Turned away.

  “Hello?” Weymouth said. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

  Jake peeked. Weymouth was giving him a peculiar look. His gun was at his side. He turned briefly and waved the other men off.

  “What — who — ?” Jake stammered.

  “Didn’t you hear Mr. Kozaar? Through the loudspeaker?” Weymouth asked. “He yelled ‘Cut!’”

  Found him.

  15

  CUT?

  Behind Colonel Weymouth, soldiers were now crowding the woods. Some were staring quizzically at Jake.

  Others were cleaning their muskets.

  Stretching. Laughing.

  Cut?

  In the distance, two familiar figures emerged from among the trees. The man on the left had a large red stain on his chest. The one on the right had what seemed to be a hole through his head.

  Edmonds. Rademacher.

  Cut?

  Jake sank back in the brush. The scene seemed to whirl before him, and he felt as if he were floating.

  A movie.

  A man dressed in black was fixing Mrs. Stoughton’s makeup. He was wearing a baseball cap embroidered with the words Civil Disobedience.

  Behind him, a woman was bending over the wire Jake had stumbled over. “Affirmative on electrical damage,” she called into a wireless headphone. “Send Herb after he fixes that memory chip.”

  The blood.

  The deaths.

  Fake.

  All of it.

  But how — ?

  Jake’s mind raced back over the last twenty-four hours — all the shootings and the bombings.

  I never saw them. I never saw the bombs or the bullets. Just the aftermath.

  The stone wall. The massacre of Edmonds’s men.

  Rigged.

  The exploding munitions cabin.

  Choreographed.

  That was why Edmonds pulled me away before it happened. He knew in advance.

  “Nice job, kid.”

  Edmonds.

  No, that’s not his name. He’s an actor.

  “Almost lost you there,” the actor said. “What’s the matter, couldn’t find your scene map?”

  “Scene map?” Jake asked.

  The man’s face fell. “Didn’t they give you one?”

  No. They didn’t.

  He didn’t.

  Gideon Kozaar.

  Jake looked past Edmonds. Past the chattering actors, the occasional puffs of cigarette smoke, the dead men come to life.

  Beyond them was the hut.

  Lopsided, boarded up.

  Its door opened briefly. And Jake saw, silhouetted in deep red light, the profile of a man wearing earphones.

  Jake stood slowly. Pain shot upward from his ankle.

  He hobbled a few steps, then steadied.

  “Kid? Are you okay?”

  Jake ignored the question. He elbowed his way through the crowd until he reached the hut.

  The door was padlocked.

  He grabbed the lock and pulled anyway.

  The door swung open.

  In the red light, the room seemed bathed in blood. Along one wall, a bank of monitors glowed dully with familiar images: the encampment, the woods, the ridge, th
e hut itself from the other side.

  “I was wondering when you’d find me.” Gideon Kozaar’s back was to Jake. He was staring at the monitors.

  “This is — this is so — ” Jake spluttered.

  “Unfair?” Kozaar turned. A small, tight smile played beneath his beard.

  “I could have been killed!”

  “Not likely. The cast was well trained to protect you. They knew where the explosives were. They were equipped with hidden earphones that warned them of the timing. Some got carried away. James Nickerson — the fellow who plays Rademacher — he will be fined for what he did to your cheek. And if you need plastic surgery, I will pay for it. But this is the price for art, Jake. Not every fourteen-year-old stars in a movie based on himself.”

  “Based on me? You don’t know me!”

  “I didn’t have to know you. You created the story as I watched — the tale of a war-loving boy named Jake who wills himself into the past and finds what war is really like.”

  “How — how did you do it? The old village — ?”

  “A replica. Built by my construction crew. They cleared a spot in the woods, even landscaped the soil. You met three of them on the day I gave you the note. They were checking the topography of your neighborhood, fine-tuning. Impressive, eh?”

  “What if I hadn’t found the set? I nearly didn’t — ”

  “I had faith.”

  “ — And where were you when I got there? Why didn’t you tell me it was a movie?”

  “It would have made you self-conscious. If you knew it was a film, you never would have given the powerful performance you did.”

  Powerful?

  I gave up.

  I ran.

  I was weak.

  And the world is going to see it.

  “No — ” Jake murmured.

  “Bravery versus prudence,” Kozaar said. “Arrogance versus humility. Tactics gone wrong. Life and death. All wrapped up in a nifty whodunit. You’ll be instant A-list in Hollywood.”

  “I don’t care about that! You can’t show this!”

  “Oh? Don’t like what you saw? Shall we re-shoot?”

  No.

  Never.

  Never in a million years.

  Don’t listen to him.

  “I — I need to go,” Jake said. “My brother is probably freaking out.”

  “He knows,” Gideon Kozaar replied with a shrug. “I told him. And he gave me your parents’ number in Chicago. They’re very proud of you. I believe your mother’s exact words were, ‘He’s in his element.’ And I must agree. Although I was a bit surprised by how you chose to end it — ”

  “I didn’t choose anything! I just — ”

  “— But that’s the beauty of improvisation. You never know what will happen, do you? Even if you think you will. Even if you’ve been there a thousand times in your mind. At home. Tucked away in your private world.”

  Gideon Kozaar smiled, and Jake felt as if he’d been scratched by an icepick.

  Kozaar’s eyes seemed to shift color and depth, a dark pit giving way to an endless sky, a flame turning to frost.

  He knew.

  Everything.

  He’s seen me in the attic. He’s read the journal. Reached into my thoughts.

  But how?

  “Who … are … you?” Jake asked.

  “The same as you, Jake. Only you don’t know it yet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll find out, if you’re ready. And if you do, think of me. I may be long gone. I wasn’t supposed to tell you even this much, and I may suffer for it.” Kozaar sighed. “But I never was much for following rules. It’s only by breaking them that progress is made, don’t you think? Sometimes the rebels actually win. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

  Turning abruptly, Kozaar headed for the door on the other side.

  “Wait!” Jake shouted.

  Over his head, he spotted movement on one of the monitors. A view from an outside camera. The camera that was trained on the hut.

  As Kozaar opened the door, the door in the image opened.

  As Kozaar stepped out and shut the door behind him, the door in the image slammed shut, too.

  But no one passed through.

  “What the —?”

  Jake ran to the door and flung it open.

  Before him, a table of food was being laid out for the actors and crew. As Jake scanned the area, he noticed things he hadn’t seen before — mikes, speakers, cameras — tiny black objects, hidden in the trees and bushes. Some were wireless, some attached to cords.

  Were they there before?

  How could I have missed them?

  Jake still had a million questions.

  But Gideon Kozaar was gone.

  We have him in our sights now.

  But the boy — he knows.

  Can we bring him back?

  I don’t believe this, He’s on his way.

  But the boy. He’s the only one who’s ever made contact.

  He broke the rules again. He must be expelled.

  No Watcher has ever been —

  But what about the boy?

  16

  “I SHOULD HAVE BROKEN character. What a jerk I was. Can you ever forgive me?”’

  James Nickerson sat at the edge of the Branfords’ living room sofa. His red hair was swept back, moussed. His chin was smooth, the grime gone from his face. His skin was bright red — because of embarrassment this time, not anger.

  Jake gently fingered the cut on his cheek. It was still sore and the scab was starting to harden. “It’ll heal.”

  “I would have backed off,” Byron murmured sullenly. “If he’d have hired me.”

  “You know what Kozaar told us?” Nickerson hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice to a pitch-perfect imitation: “ ‘You may not act. You must be your character until I say “Cut,” and not a moment before — whether it takes an afternoon, a day, a week.’ All we know is that a kid is coming, and we have to do two things: react to whatever he does and protect him from the explosives. Plus, when the kid says he wants to go home, we have to take him to the Hobson’s Corner set. We have these little chips behind our ears for whenever Kozaar needs to direct us — which is practically never.”

  “I don’t get how he builds a whole village that no one knows about,” Byron grumbled.

  “The cops knew,” Nickerson said. “The Hobson’s Corner Chamber of Commerce. The local government. They made sure no planes flew overhead, stuff like that — and they were sworn to secrecy. Anyway, so we’re in this camp, this huge outdoor set. The cameras and mikes are hidden away — everything’s wireless — and it’s magic. Like we’re in the war. But it doesn’t take an afternoon or even a week. Two weeks go by before Jake actually shows up.”

  “And you just stayed?” Byron asked.

  “No choice. We’re pros. We can’t bathe or brush our teeth or watch TV or say anything our characters wouldn’t say. But the weird thing is — no one complains. Because we’re not ourselves anymore. Slowly we’ve become the characters. Only they’re not characters. Not really.” Nickerson’s face darkened. “They’re parts of ourselves. Hidden inside. Parts we maybe don’t know about. Maybe for good reason. So … what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry about what I did. Jake was the one who showed courage.”

  Courage.

  Jake didn’t know what the word meant anymore.

  At this point he just knew what it didn’t mean.

  It didn’t mean strategy. Or tactics. Or arms or training.

  In the end, none of that mattered.

  All of it was as fragile as a thought.

  In the end, you were left with only chaos.

  And death.

  Unless you’re lucky, and it’s all a fake.

  After Jake said good-bye to James Nickerson, he walked upstairs. Into the attic.

  He felt for the green steno journal in his back pocket.

  It was there, but the urge to write wasn’
t.

  The mood — the feeling — was gone.

  Only numbness was left.

  Numbness and confusion.

  Jake flicked on the antique lamp and sat by the steamer trunk. A mournful sadness settled over him. In the excitement and horror of the movie shoot, he’d forgotten to ask about his cap and the uniform.

  Too late now. Gideon Kozaar had disappeared. A check had already arrived to cover the cost of the “antiques.” No return address.

  Jake yanked open the old trunk. The moldy sweet smell of the past wafted upward.

  What?

  There, on top of the pile of clothes, was a Civil War uniform.

  And a cap.

  And a dagger.

  Jake smiled.

  Feverishly he dug his hands under the clothing and pulled on the handle of the secret compartment.

  Inside was a book. Crumbling and brittle. Held together by a faded satin cord.

  Jake carefully took it out. It was some kind of scrapbook, stuffed to the brim with photos, letters, and newspaper clippings.

  On the soft cloth cover he could feel an embroidered inscription.

  He held it to the light and read:

  Jake opened the book and quickly leafed through … photos, news clippings, pages from a personal journal …

  There.

  Under the heading “The Battle of Dead Man’s Trace”:

  Jake looked around the attic.

  No cameras.

  Hesitantly, he continued to read.

  WATCHERS

  Case file: 6955

  Name: Jacob Branford

  Age: 14

  First contact: 57.34.43

  Acceptance: YES

  A Biography of Peter Lerangis

  Peter Lerangis (b. 1955) is a bestselling author of young adult fiction; his novels have sold more than four million copies worldwide. Born in Brooklyn, New York, Lerangis began writing in elementary school, inventing stories during math class—after finishing the problems, he claims. His first piece of published writing was an anonymous humor article for the April Fools’ Day edition of his high school newspaper. Seeing the other students laughing in the corridors as they read it, planted the idea in his head that he could be a writer. After high school he attended Harvard University, where he majored in biochemistry and sang in an a cappella group, the Harvard Krokodiloes. Intending to go on to law school, Lerangis took a job as a paralegal post-graduation. But after a summer job as a singing waiter, he changed his path and became a musical theater actor.