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Stranger Inside

Steven Krane

DAW BOOKS, INC.

Donald A. Wollheim, Founder

375 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

eISBN: 0-74085-747-9

DAW Books Collectors No. 1247.

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly

coincidental.

Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in

commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

Be sure to read all of Steven Krane's acclaimed novels from DAW :

STRANGER INSIDE

THE OMEGA GAME

TEEK

This book is dedicated to Anthony Peck, the first in a long line of people without whose inspiration this

would never have been written.

J IMMY didn't know how the fight started.

He'd been standing in front of his locker and he remembered watching that asshole Frank Bradley pass

by. In Jimmy's mind there was an abrupt cut from that directly to the sound of his skull hitting the locker.

He didn't have time to shake the painful ringing out of his ears before he felt Frank's fist slamming into his

gut.

Frank must be having a bad day.

Jimmy felt his back slam into the locker behind him. Copper breath blew from his puffed cheeks as Frank

punched his side, above the kidney. Frank's other hand pressed against Jimmy's face, holding him back

and obstructing his vision. Frank's hand smelled of sweat and grease.

Jimmy heard a crowd around them, though he could only catch glimpses of the semicircle of students.

None of the faces were familiar, though Jimmy wondered exactly who he was looking for. He'd only

been here two months—

Another jab in the region of his kidney brought the thought to an abrupt end.

He brought his arms in close to fend off Frank's fist, which kept pounding. Frank didn't seem to notice or

care. Frank was throwing wild punches, with little attention to where he connected.

Fuck, Jimmy thought. The bastard isn't going to let up this time.

In desperation, Jimmy brought his foot down, heel first, as hard as he could along the inside of Frank's

leg. The hand over his face dropped away as Frank stumbled slightly. Frank's fist still connected for a

fourth— or was it a fifth?— time, but the momentum was gone. It bounced off of Jimmy's shoulder.

Jimmy didn't stop to reason out what he was doing; he just launched himself at Frank. Frank wasn't any

older than Jimmy, but he was a hell of a lot bigger. Fifty pounds heavier and about four inches taller.

None of it was fat.

Fortunately for Jimmy, Frank was off-balance. All his weight was on the near leg, the one that Jimmy

hadn't stomped. So, when Jimmy's shoulder hit Frank's solar plexus, the bigger kid toppled backward

into the ring of students surrounding them. Out of his peripheral vision, Jimmy saw a couple of kids fall on

their asses.

Jimmy knew that he was going to be seriously stomped when Frank got his breath back. He had to stop

this fight now.

He balled up his fist and did the only thing he could to keep Frank down. He punched the bastard as

hard as he could, in the groin.

Frank howled.

Jimmy scrambled away, tried to stand up, and fell back into the lockers, sliding down to land on his ass.

His face felt wet. He reached up to his cheek, afraid that he might have been crying in front of everyone.

He was somewhat surprised when his hand came away covered with blood.

He stared at the slick redness on his hand in bewildered fascination. Frank was doubled over and

throwing up, and the circle of spectators was backing away from both of them.

I'm bleeding, Jimmy thought, how the hell did that happen?

"The new kid…" Jimmy heard someone whisper. They meant him. "…he did time in prison. Bit

someone's ear off."

Fucking moron, that was Mike Tyson. Besides, Juvenile Hall shouldn't count if no one ever pressed

any charges.

"Did you see him go after Frank like that?" Someone else, a girl, out of Jimmy's immediate line of sight.

"…out of control…"

Jimmy shook his head and kept staring at his bloody hand. Frank had jumped him. That's how it

happened.

Frank's vomit gave off an acid reek.

Frank had grabbed him and shoved him into the locker. Frank had ground his hand into Jimmy's face.

Frank had started it.

"…nut case…"

Why am I bleeding?

"What the hell is going on here?" Jimmy heard the voice of a teacher over the sounds of the milling

crowd. Coach Miller by the sound of it. The guy was five feet of sour gristle, and everyone called him

"Miller Lite" behind his back. Everyone except the football team, and the wrestling team…

Frank, of course, was on both.

Jimmy, of course, was not.

Miller pushed and cursed his way through the surrounding students, opening a way for himself and a

squad of hall monitors.

When he made his way to the center of the circle, he stopped cursing. His normally swarthy complexion

had turned the color of bread dough. His lips pressed so hard together that Jimmy thought it looked as if

his jaw might crack.

Jimmy imagined that he found it upsetting, seeing Frank, their first-string quarterback, clutching himself

and lying in a pool of vomit.

"What. Happened. Here?" Coach Miller's voice was as sharp and as hard as a guillotine blade.

"H— he—" Jimmy began.

"No." Miller snapped, chopping the unspoken words out of the air. He jabbed a finger at someone in the

crowd. The blond freshman Miller singled out winced as if impaled. "You."

"S— sir?"

"What. Happened."

"It was a fight."

"Thank you, Mr. Genius." Miller snarled. He whipped around to target another unfortunate witness.

"You," he said to a black senior who had been trying to look cool and uninvolved.

"It's like he said something and he just wigged out."

"Who 'wigged out'?" Miller said, the voice a few degrees colder.

Jimmy closed his eyes because he didn't want to see who the black kid pointed to.

If Frank started this, why don't I remember?

"Get up," said Coach Miller. "Both of you get up now. "

Jimmy opened his eyes. He could feel his heart racing now, something he hadn't even noticed during the

fight. The blood dripping from his head felt cold when it landed on his arms. He felt dizzy and short of

breath, but somehow he made it to his feet.

"No, you don't," Coach Miller yelled over the crowd at someone Jimmy couldn't see. There were now

several hall monitors and one of the high school's security guards on the scene. From somewhere came

the crackle of dialogue on a walkie-talkie.

The security guard, unlike the hall monitors, wore a uniform. Jimmy didn't know the guy's name. The

students called him "Spam," and Jimmy didn't know if it was for the guy's greasy complexion, or if it was

a dig at him not being quite a pork product. Probably the latter, since the more smart-assed of the

student body took to singing the theme from COPS when he passed in the halls.

Even now, with his chest tightening from fear and his head spinning with the confusion of what had just

happened, the theme ran through Jimmy's head…

Bad boys, bad boys, whacha going do…

In spite of his disorientation, or perhaps because of it, the sight of the ruddy-faced security guard poured

into a uniform a size too small almost made Jimmy burst out laughing.

The amusement wasn't mutual.

"Everyone in this room," Spam called out. "I want every student in the sound of my voice in this

classroom now!"

Jimmy took a step forward, but Spam held up a sweaty hand with little sausage fingers. He shook his

head no— and Jimmy stifled a giggle because the guy's neck tried to remain stationary when his head

moved. Jimmy fell back against the locker, relieved.

His classmates filed past him, into the empty classroom Spam had indicated. Every single one of them

seemed to stop a moment to stare at Jimmy.

Spam took charge. "You two," he indicated two of the group of hall monitors and pointed up and down

the hall with the antenna of his walkie-talkie. "Keep people out of here. We got blood and puke all over

the place, and I don't want anyone through here before it's cleaned up." He pointed to a third hall

monitor. "Go in that class and get everyone's ID. If someone don't got it, get their name and have the

office call their folks. I want a confirmed list of every witness to this mess." He looked into Jimmy's eyes.

"And someone get the goddamn nurse down here."

The gloves made it sink in.

The hall monitors had put on latex gloves before they would touch him. They held his upper arms, half to

steady him, half to restrain him. The custodians who came to clean the mess wore long green rubber

aprons and heavy rubber gloves that reached to their elbows. Even the nurse, when she washed Jimmy's

scalp, wore a mask and latex gloves.

It was as if the hallway had suddenly become a plague zone.

Jimmy knew he was in deep shit. He was just now realizing how deep. Once the disorientation and

confusion ebbed what was left was a fatalistic view of his future. A quadriplegic on the railroad tracks.

Anyone else, it would be less stark. If it wasn't Jimmy. If it wasn't Frank…

Jimmy had no illusions. The faculty here didn't love him, and the administration loved him even less. A

foster kid, bad enough. A foster kid from the city, with a history of "problems." That was the kiss of

death as far as any benefit of the doubt went.

Never mind if the "problems" weren't Jimmy's doing. If someone got in his face, he got in their face right

back. If you took shit from anyone, it was painting a target on your face saying, "Kick this."

Jimmy had been in dozens of fights.

This was the first one here.

Jimmy had thought things had changed. He had told everyone that things had changed. They hadn't.

The vice principal, a cadaverous man with eyes the color of dirty, half-melted snow and the unfortunate

name of Cummings, came down to the north wing about twenty minutes after the incident. Jimmy saw him

talk to Coach Miller and Spam. Cummings nodded and looked grave— which didn't say much because

the man only had one expression.

Vice Principal Cummings stayed well outside the plague zone and waited while the nurse cleaned Jimmy

off. When the blood was mostly gone, Spam put a latex-covered hand on Jimmy's shoulder and

maneuvered him toward the vice principal.

"What happened here, son?" Cummings asked. His voice was less obviously stressed than either Spam's

or Coach Miller's. That seemed to have more to do with a lack of any emotion than any potential

sympathy.

Steven Krane - Stranger Inside.pdf

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