Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

He probably thinks Donnie is nearby. I grip the hammer a little tighter with my duct-taped hand and give chase.

The going is tougher now. The crowd thicker, shoving me to and fro. Tear gas stings my throat. The road is slippery with booze, gasoline and blood. If I lose my footing, I’ll be trampled to death.

A portly white man swings a star picket at a Latino guy in a cowboy hat, breaking half his teeth. The cowboy stumbles into me, moaning. I stay upright by grabbing the shoulder of a woman in an actual cape. She whirls around and tries to bring a sign down on my head, but her rage turns to disgust when she gets a better look at me, and that slows her swing down just enough for me to dodge the blow.

I get another glimpse of Fred. He’s heading for an alley, but he’s trapped between some cops with riot shields and a bunch of masked protesters throwing rocks. He’s forced to backtrack.

‘Fred!’ The shout comes out wet, like I’m gargling blood.

He’s close enough to hear, but he doesn’t turn around. He sidesteps, trying to get out of the path of the riot police and circle around behind them.

‘Grab him!’ I shout to the police. ‘Grab that guy!’

They have no reason to listen to me. I’m just one more screaming, bloodied lunatic in a sea of them. But the closest riot cop turns her head, her eyes lasering in on mine through the visor of her helmet.

‘That guy!’ I point the hammer at Fred like I’m trying to cast a spell on him. ‘Get him!’

The cop looks, but it’s clear she can’t tell who I mean. Fred is weaving away through the crowd. I try to fight my way towards him, but a man with huge shoulders, a mullet and a blue tank top is unintentionally blocking my path.

‘Stop him!’ I roar, still gesturing wildly towards Fred. ‘He’s getting away!’

The cop seems to have lost interest, but the big guy in front of me can tell who I mean. He clasps my shoulder with a strong hand. ‘Him right there?’ he asks eagerly. ‘White shirt, brown hair?’

‘Yes! He’s getting away!’ I’m desperate for this man’s help, although I have no idea why he would grant it.

He nods grimly and starts pushing through the crowd towards Fred. ‘That’s him!’ he shouts.

Several other bulky men, all in blue tank tops, emerge from the crowd to accompany the big guy. He’s here with a faction, although I have no clue which one.

‘That’s him!’ Someone from a different group has picked up the chant—a white woman with a bandana and a leather jacket. She points at Fred. ‘He’s right there!’ Several other people in bandanas follow her gaze.

With my head still spinning from the van crash, I can hardly keep up with what’s happening. The big guy and his crew seem to think Fred is Goldstein. Meanwhile, the bandana group have overheard the shouts, and now they believe it, too. Fred is quickly becoming public enemy number one in the crowd, even though no one except me knows who he really is.

Fred, oblivious, has made it around the cops, but now the alley he’s headed for is blocked by a group in grubby white robes, waving signs and chanting: ‘God hates fags!’ He turns to retreat, eyes widening as he sees the crowd bearing down on him, bloated by the righteous anger he impregnated them with. He backs away towards a shuttered grocery store, but the growing crowd fills the space before he can get to it. He spins around, confused and afraid, as people form concentric circles of hate around him.

‘Fascist!’ a woman screams at him.

‘Commie scum!’ someone else bellows.

‘Jew!’

The outermost circle wobbles with confusion. They’ve noticed that Fred is being targeted by everyone. Therefore, he’s the enemy of no one. That circle breaks up as the people in it forget about Fred and start hitting each other.

But the inner circles are too far gone. They’re moving in on Fred, clutching bottles and rocks and planks. Fred makes eye contact with me for a split second, desperation all over his face, before he takes a baseball bat to the throat and goes down. I lose sight of him, but I hear him hit the ground, gagging. A white supremacist and a guy in a hoodie both start stomping on him, side by side. As I push through the crowd towards Fred, a biker barges past and ducks down, a switchblade gleaming in his hand. Fred makes a choked squeal, and the guy comes back up, the blade now red. Someone in a Klan robe holds up a bottle of lighter fluid and starts pouring about where Fred’s face must be. After a second of spluttering, he goes silent.

I break through into the centre of the mob and raise the hammer, just as someone strikes a match.

CHAPTER 42

I visit every day, unseen by most. I am beautiful, but if you touched me, you would die. What am I?

I’m back at the van. I don’t remember walking here. It’s like waking up from a dream, and not knowing what’s real for a while. The street is deserted. There’s a faint glow from the horizon. I don’t know where the rest of the night went. There’s a cookout smell in my nostrils and my hand is scalded, like I was still trying to get to Fred even through the flames. The hammer is gone. For the first time since Monday, I’m not hungry.

Cedric’s dead body is sprawled half on top of Kyle’s. With the last of my strength I drag him off and collapse next to them both. No sign of Zara or Donnie. I take Kyle’s hat off his head and crush it in my hand. He looks younger without it. His