The 13 th tribe

[38]

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

The words flashed in Tyler’s head like a flickering neon sign. But the explosion had been so loud it had even scared his dad, he could tell. People were yelling. Footsteps grew louder, then faded away. It was like everyone was running around, all confused and scared and bumping into the things they were trying to get away from. He hadn’t seen many monster movies, but he’d watched enough to know they were like this.

He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears streak down his cheeks. He hadn’t even known he was crying; he wasn’t really, only frightened enough to make his eyes water. That’s all.

The branches in front of him shook, and he snapped his eyes open, stopping a scream by cutting off his breath. He looked up, knowing some gruesome creature had found him. But there was nothing, only his shaking hands, and he stiffened his muscles to make them stop.

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

He remembered something his mother had read to him from a story about Joshua: Be strong and courageou s. Do not be afraid, because God is always with you. Something like that.

“God, are you there?” he whispered. “Make me strong and courageous.” He closed his eyes again, releasing another tear. “Make me be okay. Make Dad be okay. And Mom. And Gheronda and Father Leo and Father Jerome and…”

Footsteps were coming down the stairs. Tyler held his breath and stared out through the leaves. No one appeared, and the footsteps echoed away.

“Dad?” he said quietly, then louder: “Dad?”

He squeezed farther back into the corner and adjusted the branches in front of him. His stomach hurt, and his heart was pounding so hard he was sure it would burst out of his chest. He rested the branches against his legs and pressed his palm over his breastbone. Pa-dump, pa-dump, pa-dump.

All he wanted was to be back in the apartment with Mom and Dad, all of them cuddled up on the couch, reading something cool like Diary of a Wimpy Kid… actually, he’d settle for anything, even one of those boring books Mom liked.

God, please, I’ ll even do the dishes. Just get me out here. Make everything okay, make it He heard his name… thought he did. Had Mom just called him? His breathing was too loud in his ears. He forced his lungs to stop, and listened. Footsteps, all over the place, running, echoing. Then: “Tyler!” It was Mom! But not close by… he’d heard it many times before: she was calling from the walkway in front of their apartment.

Someone yelled back. Dad, had to be, but the voice was quieter and Tyler couldn’t make out the words. Did he want him too?

He tossed the branches aside and sprang up. He took two running steps toward the stairs, kicking up the stuff in his utility case-loud as a siren-and stopped. Stupid, stupid! Last birthday, Grandma Marilyn and Grandpa Tony had bought him sneakers with lights in the soles that flashed when they hit the ground. He’d never worn them, because how could you sneak around in the dark with lights marking your every step? But he’d never considered how unsneaky his utility case was. Around the monastery-uncovering its secrets and spying on monks-he’d always crept. He’d never thought about running quietly.

He worked the belt buckle, but it was a “friction style,” Dad called it, with a post that tightened the belt against the back of the buckle. He liked it because they’d found it in an army surplus store-a real army belt-but he could never get it undone. After a few seconds of frustrated tugging, Tyler decided walking quietly at least got him moving, and he padded up the steps, past the shoes and socks he and Dad had left behind.