“Just then, I noticed a cluster of the noobs ogling me. “What’s up with them?” I asked my friends in an undertone.
Alan shrugged. “I think they’re working on a project or something.”
“What kind of project?” I asked warily. The intense kid with glasses—I still didn’t know his name—was looking back and forth between me and a large piece of poster board with a bunch of photographs and writing on it.
Sputnik got up and went over to look at their notes. He frowned, murmured something to the kid with glasses, and came back looking uncomfortable.
“What?” I demanded.
I’d rarely seen Sputnik so subdued. “It’s um, it’s a project about the Hallway Stalker,” he said finally.
“Oh.” I considered that. “He’s been active lately?” I’d tried to avoid news pieces about him ever since the attack at Christmas time. It had been a couple months, but in the back of my mind I knew he hadn’t simply stopped and disappeared.
“Apparently.” Sputnik wore an expression like he’d just tasted something bad. “One of those kids is a bit of a hacker, and he was checking out recent police reports. They’re…they’re saying a pattern has finally started to emerge.”
“What kind of pattern?” I asked. Sputnik just looked at me, taking so long to answer that I felt a knot of fear form in my stomach. I swallowed. “Sputnik, what is it?”
“Spit it out,” Alan agreed.
Wordlessly, Sputnik went back to the group of noobs, took their poster board (much to their vocal consternation) and showed it to me.
I took in the rudimentary timeline, dating from the beginning of the previous year, and noted the pictures and names of all the most recent victims. It took a second, but I saw the pattern, too, and felt a violent shiver go down my spine.
“My God,” Alan said. “They all sort of…look like…don’t they?” He looked between Sputnik and me, as if confirming we were all coming to the same conclusion.
Sputnik was watching me with a grim and worried expression.
I swallowed hard. “Me,” I finished Alan’s thought in a small voice. “They all look like ME.””
Alan shrugged. “I think they’re working on a project or something.”
“What kind of project?” I asked warily. The intense kid with glasses—I still didn’t know his name—was looking back and forth between me and a large piece of poster board with a bunch of photographs and writing on it.
Sputnik got up and went over to look at their notes. He frowned, murmured something to the kid with glasses, and came back looking uncomfortable.
“What?” I demanded.
I’d rarely seen Sputnik so subdued. “It’s um, it’s a project about the Hallway Stalker,” he said finally.
“Oh.” I considered that. “He’s been active lately?” I’d tried to avoid news pieces about him ever since the attack at Christmas time. It had been a couple months, but in the back of my mind I knew he hadn’t simply stopped and disappeared.
“Apparently.” Sputnik wore an expression like he’d just tasted something bad. “One of those kids is a bit of a hacker, and he was checking out recent police reports. They’re…they’re saying a pattern has finally started to emerge.”
“What kind of pattern?” I asked. Sputnik just looked at me, taking so long to answer that I felt a knot of fear form in my stomach. I swallowed. “Sputnik, what is it?”
“Spit it out,” Alan agreed.
Wordlessly, Sputnik went back to the group of noobs, took their poster board (much to their vocal consternation) and showed it to me.
I took in the rudimentary timeline, dating from the beginning of the previous year, and noted the pictures and names of all the most recent victims. It took a second, but I saw the pattern, too, and felt a violent shiver go down my spine.
“My God,” Alan said. “They all sort of…look like…don’t they?” He looked between Sputnik and me, as if confirming we were all coming to the same conclusion.
Sputnik was watching me with a grim and worried expression.
I swallowed hard. “Me,” I finished Alan’s thought in a small voice. “They all look like ME.””
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— The Jagged Edge of Lightning, (J. M. Richards)
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