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The car broke down somewhere between Flagstaff and Phoenix, announcing its refusal to carry them further by emitting white steam and sputtering to a halt while Zeke cursed and pounded on the wheel. Casey just lit a cigarette and handed it to Stokely, both of them too hot and tired to muster much concern.
Zeke popped the hood and tinkered underneath it, treating them to a colorful monologue as he did so. Casey had learned more new words in the past 10 days than he had in all his years at public school. The display was wasted on Stokely, he suspected, who it turned out had an even filthier mouth than Zeke.
“You’re going to get heat stroke,” Stokely said finally to Zeke. She sounded only mildly interested in Zeke’s impending medical crisis. They’d opened the passenger side doors to perch with their legs out, the roof of the car protecting them from the driving sun, while they shared another cigarette and listened to Zeke’s diatribe.
Zeke didn’t answer, but stripped off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and mopped his face with it before returning his attention to the car. “Now you’re going to get sunburned,” Stokely said. Zeke didn’t respond, and a moment later, muttered something vile under his breath. Casey wasn’t sure if it was at the car or at Stokely.
“This is a big mistake,” Casey said abruptly. “We should go back.”
“So go back,” Zeke said shortly, and stopped tinkering long enough to wave at the empty horizon. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
Casey didn’t move. He watched Stokely, who was watching Zeke, her eyes traveling lazily over his lean torso, the bit of hip showing above his low-slung jeans. Casey was cold suddenly, in the heat, and his mouth tasted bitter.
“No place to go, Case,” Stokely said, not taking her eyes off Zeke. “Besides, we’re just about to the end.” She dropped the cigarette in the dust and stubbed it out with the toe of the $2 Wal-Mart flip-flops she’d picked up in Santa Fe.
“Yeah,” Casey said after a minute, looking at the curve of Stokely’s neck up from her tank top. It was beaded with tiny drops of sweat, and small strands of hair that had escaped from her sloppy ponytail clung to it. He lit another cigarette.
From under the hood, Zeke swore vehemently and dropped a tool. Stokely reached out for Casey’s cigarette. The sun beat down.
_____
“Nobody’s stopping you,” Zeke said, and the words echo in Casey’s mind.
"Fuck," Zeke mutters as the car plumes steam. He comes around and leans against the car. "Gotta let it cool off." He lights a cigarette and stares out at the horizon.
Casey feels short and stupid. He wonders if he should light up too, then remembers he doesn't smoke.
"I think we should all go back," he says in a tiny voice. The desert and the hissing engine swallow his words.
"What? What's that, Casey?"
"I think we should all go back."
Zeke squints at him, looking cool. How is it that Zeke looks cool squinting while Casey knows he just looks sweaty and nearsighted?
"You know what, Casey? You want to go? You go right ahead." A grin slides over Zeke's face. He waves his cigarette at Casey. "You'd better be careful though, getting back home all by yourself. Little guy like you."
Humiliation twists in Casey's guts. "I can take care of myself."
"No, I mean…you know what's out there, right?" Zeke shakes his head, as though disappointed with the world. "Perverts, man. The perverts are everywhere. Kid like you, out on the road by himself…you’re liable to get yourself cornholed, Case."
Cornholed!!! Casey thinks, alarmed. He stammers something at Zeke.
"You know, you're actually pretty adorable, Casey. Big blue eyes…little pouty lip…"
"Shut up."
"Zeke," Stokely says, but she's suppressing a laugh behind her cigarette.
"…you're a fucking NAMBLA poster boy in the making."
NAMBLA?? NAMBLA!!!
"Isn't he, Stokes?"
"Fuck you," Casey spits, hoping he sounds furious, knowing he sounds like a dork.
Zeke squints at him for a minute, not speaking.
"What?" Casey snaps.
"You're really hot when you're angry."
Casey fumes.
"Go fuck yourself, Zeke," he finally sputters. "I don't need this shit." Casey plows into the back seat and grabs the bag of stuff he bought at Wal-Mart. A bottle of Dr. Pepper. Doritos. The underwear that he hoped Zeke and Stokely didn't see him buy. Fugitives aren't supposed to worry about their underwear. He stuffs the bag under his arm and starts stalking off, back towards the town they left behind hours ago.
"Casey, come on," Stokely says. Casey hears her running up behind him. She grabs his arm. "Zeke's just kidding around. We all need to blow off some steam."
"Bullshit, Stokely," and she actually takes a step back, surprised by how angry he is. "I know what's going on here."
"What's going on?" Stokely asks.
Casey thinks about the way Stokely was watching Zeke. He thinks about the two of them sharing the motel bed last night while Casey lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. They said there was room for him. Right.
Casey puts his head down. "Nothing," he mutters. "I just…I want to go home."
"I don't think that's a good idea. A few days ago, you didn't think it was a good idea, either."
"Yeah, and now I don't think this is a good idea. And you wouldn't either but you…you're playing some sort of game. You think this is cool, you and your boyfriend over there, Bonnie and fucking Clyde."
"What? You know, you're being a real asshole, Casey."
"Well, you don't have to worry about me anymore." Casey glances back towards Zeke. Zeke blows him a kiss. Casey shoots him the finger. He turns and stomps away.
"Casey!" Stokely says.
"Watch out for the cornholers!" Zeke shouts. His laughter drifts on the hot air.
_____
"Listen," Stokely says to Zeke. "We can't let him walk off like that. He's going to drop dead of sunstroke before he hits a mile."
"Nah, don’t worry about it. I'll give him time to cool off and then go pick him up."
"You shouldn't tease him. We've got to stick together – you said it yourself."
"I know, I know," Zeke says wryly. He grins down at Stokely. "He is kinda cute when he's pissed off, though."
Stokely slaps Zeke on the arm. "Dick."
_____
Casey's hot. He's hot and he's miserable and he wants to turn around and go back to Zeke and Stokely. He wonders if they got the car running and have driven off so that even if he did go back, they wouldn't be there anymore.
Fine, he thinks bitterly. Fine, you assholes, go. I can (cornholers) take care of myself, I don't need this (NAMBLA) shit, they think they're so fucking cool (nobody's stopping you), they weren't so cool when aliens were…were…
Casey pauses. He's been so miserable and pissed off that he hasn't even been thinking about Herrington. He thinks about it now. He thinks about the police cars swinging onto the campus, about the panic that he felt. He thinks about that dark sedan in the parking lot at the motel, and Stokely waking them up at 3 a.m., whispering urgently, I think we're in trouble, we've got to get out of here…
The burning end of a cigarette, from someone sitting at the sedan's wheel. Sitting, smoking, waiting. Waiting for them.
Ah, shit, Casey thinks. Shit.
There's a sudden flare in his vision, and through the wavering heat Casey sees a car approaching. Zeke? he thinks hopefully, but it's coming from the wrong direction. Maybe Zeke circled around somehow…maybe…
It's not Zeke. It's a sedan, dark blue. Cornholers! Casey thinks automatically, hysterically. He stands frozen at the side of the road, the tallest thing on a landscape of desert. He hugs his Wal-Mart bag to his chest. Doritos crunch inside.
The car slows to a stop, a few yards away from him. Two men get out, in suits and sunglasses. Not cornholers, Casey revises. MIBs. He hears Will Smith saying, "I make this look good." But there's no Will Smith here.
“Casey Connor?” MIB 1 asks.
Casey shades his eyes against the sun. “Um…yeah…how did you…”
“Why don’t you get in the car, Casey?”
Casey takes a step back. The men take a step forward. “Um…” Casey hedges. He looks around but there's nothing to look at, no one.
“You’re not in any trouble, Casey. We’re going to take you back home.” MIB 1's shoes wink at him, blinding in the sunlight.
“I think I’ll…I can go to the gas station back there and call my parents.”
“That gas station's a couple of miles down the road, Casey, and it's awfully hot out. We can drive you right back to Ohio. That’s what we’re here for. Just get in the car, Casey.”
Casey takes another step back. MIB 2 hasn’t said anything yet, but he's coming up around Casey’s right. His suit jacket blows open a little and Casey thinks he sees a gun under his arm.
“It’s okay, I can…I can go to the gas station…”
“Don’t make this difficult, Casey,” MIB 2 says, and that makes Casey turn and run.
Casey runs, his feet kicking up dry puffs of sand. Oh God, he thinks. Oh God oh God oh God…
One of them gets him by the arm and Casey trips and falls to his knees. His bag spills out in the sand, affording him a glimpse of his shameful new Jockey shorts. Then the other one is there and they're dragging him back to the car.
“No!” Casey screams. He braces his arms against the door frame. “Help!”
“Jesus, knock him out already,” one of them says, and then Casey hears a sound like a firecracker going off. Something hot and wet splatters against his face and the man on his left lets go of him. Casey stumbles backwards and falls down hard.
“Aaaack, aaaaack!” MIB 1 says, because he can't say anything else. A chunk of his throat is missing, most likely because it's all over Casey’s face.
“Fuck,” MIB 2 says on Casey’s right, and a hole appears in his forehead, just like it did in Principal Drake’s, and he falls over with a dusty thud.
Casey sits on the road, stunned, and then Zeke is there, Stokely behind him, and Zeke is pulling him to his feet and making him run. Zeke has an arm around him and the gun is digging into Casey’s ribs and his feet are barely on the ground. Casey doesn't even realize he's back in the car until he hears the tires squeal.
“Are you all right?” Zeke shouts from the front seat. His eyes lock onto Casey's in the rearview mirror. “Are you hurt?”
Casey shakes his head. "You shot them." he pants. "You shot them."
"What the fuck was I supposed to do?"
Casey has no answer. Stokely is next to him. She's running her hands over him, checking for wounds.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks.
Casey nods. “How did you know?”
“We didn’t…we just figured we’d give you time to cool off and when we caught up to you, you were…in trouble.” She gives him a half-hearted smile.
“I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I’m sorry.” He's shaking so hard he thinks he might faint. Or throw up. Or both.
Stokely is wiping blood off his face with McDonald’s napkins. They still smell like french fries. Throw up, definitely. Then faint.
“You’re more trouble than you’re fucking worth, Casey,” Zeke says.
“Leave him alone,” Stokely answers.
Casey tries to breathe normally. He can feel the men's hands on his arms. He turns his head towards Stokely.
"It's not a game…is it?"
"No," Stokely answers. She runs her hand through Casey’s clotted hair. "It's not."