Bad Boy: Sometimes It Takes a Bad Boy To Do Good

By Mike Whitworth

Orphaned thirteen-year-old Sam is alone after a huge earthquake flattens Memphis, Tennessee. A critically-ill, six-year-old girl pleads with him to take her and her cat to safety. It is not a responsibility Sam welcomes.

Excerpt

In due course, which is French for a long frigging time, they loaded us onto big helicopters. I made sure to get a seat as close to the open door as possible, right next to the Marine. As soon as we were in the air, I shouted at the Marine. "Hey, Dude. Cut me loose, will Ya. Where can I go now?"
The Marine shrugged, pulled out a wicked-long blade and cut me loose. I thought his knife was so ace I forgot to watch through the door. But then I got my wits, well maybe wit singular, about me and looked out the open door. Ms. Bitch often said I was a member of the forty-watt club. Right now, I figured she might be right. I hoped the pilot kept it low.
After what seemed like forever, there it was--a shiny lake. Soon we were flying right over it.
I jumped.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Whitworth
• Release date: Dec 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463100820

Book preview

Chapter 1

My ears slapped me awake. I heard a massive, rumbling boom and something slammed me into the waffle-wire underside of the top bunk face-first. Then it threw me sideways and body-crashed me into something hard. Next it rolled me like a log in a log rolling contest. I hung up and stopped turning so fast I almost threw up.

Man, that hurt.

My eyes were helpless. I couldn't see anything. It was dark. That was odd because Ms. Bitch insisted on leaving the bathroom light on all night long every night. Ms. Bitch said she'd be darned if she'd let us boys spray and pray in the dark like old men. But the light was out, and I was no longer in my bunk. I couldn’t feel the lumpy institutional mattress, in extra firm, against my cheek. Instead, I felt the rough, uneven wooden floor. At least I thought it was the floor. The surface tilted so much I was almost sliding. I pushed something jagged off my face, and got to my knees. That's when I heard it, a whimpering cry like something left over from a shoat's squealectomy.

I recognized the high pitch. It was Fart Jones. Well, his real name's not Fart. That's just what we call him. I have a nickname too, we all do here at Ms. Bitch's Home for Bad-Ass Boys. Okay, her name isn't Ms. Bitch, but, with her persimmon smile and hollow eyes, it should be. Her name's Ms. Doyle, and this is the United Churches Memphis Home for Orphaned Boys, but our name's better.

I slid across the slanting floor and found Fart in the dark. Hey, Man, you okay?

Who's that?

It's me, Sam.

Sam, I'm stuck. I can't get my legs free.

I felt around. There was a bunk bed on Fart's legs. I moved to where I could lift and tried to raise the bunk bed. I couldn't budge it.

I don't wanna die, Sam, Fart squealed.

This time I gave it everything I had and the bunk bed lifted. Pull your legs out, I said.

I'm free, Fart said. What happened?"

It was the big one, I said.

Earthquake?

Yeah, what else could it be?

Darn, and I was asleep. I missed it. There's a flashlight in my locker.

I reached into my right pajama pocket and retrieved my cheap plastic lighter. Like pocketknives, lighters were verboten here at the orphanage. I spun the wheel against the flint and, after sparking like a mini-fireworks display, it lit. The lighter gave off a warm, buttermilk-yellow flicker. I could see the room had tilted almost thirty degrees. I stood and helped Fart to his feet.

All the massive, oak bunk beds and surplus WWII footlockers were in a big pile against the wall at the base of the slope. I pointed. Which one's your locker?

That's when I thought of my best friend. Tiny Tim was in the room with us, somewhere. It had been the three of us in the bunk room for the past two days. The other boys were at a church retreat. The church had banned both Fart and me from the retreats. Tiny Tim refused to go if I couldn't.

We called him Tiny Tim because, at thirteen, he was six feet six inches tall and weighed 240 pounds. Tiny Tim and I were almost exactly the same age. Our birthdays were only three days apart.

I remembered the day I arrived at Ms. Bitch's. It was ten days after my seventh birthday. I carried only the single, Child-Protective-Services-allowed suitcase. From almost the first hour, it was Tiny Tim who looked out for me. We became instant best friends.

I searched for Timmy in the pale, anemic light. Then I saw it. An over-sized bare foot protruding from the pile of bunk beds and footlockers.

I shouted, Timmy, are you okay?

Fart squeaked, I'm getting outta here. Fart now gripped a flashlight and crabbed up the slope. He scrabbled through the door, and I watched the eerie, white reflections fade as he made his way down the hall.

Timmy didn't reply, so I slid down to him. Holding the lighter in one hand, I pulled a couple of footlockers off his legs. His head remained buried in the pile, and he wasn't moving. I got scared and started pulling at a bunk bed, but I couldn't budge it with one arm.

I fished under a couple of mattresses and found a flashlight. Most of the older boys kept one under their mattress for looking at girly magazines after lights out. Ms. Bitch pulled a raid now and then and confiscated flashlights and magazines. Other magazines and flashlights always appeared. We didn't have laptops and there was no WiFi at the orphanage, so the boys prized magazines.

I crammed the flashlight between two mattresses and used both hands. It took me a good while, but I heaved the bunk beds out of the way. I was wheezing from my pre-asthma, as the doctor called it, but I got 'er done.

I grabbed the light and inspected Timmy. A big irregular chocolate-brown stain marred the back of his beige pajama bottoms. The floor beneath him was wet. I almost choked on the stench.

I scooted closer and shined the light on Timmy's head. Timmy, are you okay? Then I noticed his head lay at an angle, an impossible angle. I got so scared I almost peed myself. I knew, but I kept trying to wake him while the tears rolled down my face and splashed on his back.

My best friend, my only true friend, was dead, his neck broken during the earthquake. I sat there shaking Timmy for a long time before I realized I smelled gas. I recognized the stink of the methyl mercaptan the gas company added to the gas. The rotten cabbage smell was strong and growing stronger. With this much gas in the air, the orphanage could catch fire any second. I didn't want to leave Timmy behind so I pulled and strained as hard as I could to free him until I almost couldn't breathe.

Then everything shook, clacked, clattered, and roared as a tremor tossed me into the air. The flashlight went flying and smashed into the floor. So did I. It was dark again.

I decided I'd have to leave Timmy and escape. It's what he would have wanted.

When the shaking stopped, I staggered to my feet and tried to figure out which way to go. I reached for my lighter, but it was gone, lost through a tear in my pocket. It wouldn't be wise to use it now anyway.

My knees almost gave way, and sweat rolled down my back. I careened up the sloping floor with my arms stretched in front of me like a zombie. I wondered if zombies hurt as much as I did right now?

My hands felt splintered boards and broken ceiling tiles where the door should be. My chest grew tighter.

For a second, my mind went blank. Then I remembered the other door, the one the workmen covered over two years ago. I clambered my way along the wall, glad the bunks weren't piled at this end of the dormitory.

I tapped the bowed wall every few inches and listened for the hollow sound.

I heard it. I tapped again to be sure. Yeah, that was it. I kicked through the thin wallboard. Then I squeezed between the broken studs. I was glad that the workmen hadn't filled the old doorway with solid wood to match the rest of the wall.

I lurched and crawled toward the window at the end of the hall. The gas smell was growing stronger, and I could hear thunder off in the distance.

My breathing grew more difficult and wheezier. Soon it was all I could do to stagger a single step. Five feet from the window I fell and slid backward down the sloping floor.

I managed to stop my slide and began crawling toward the window. Even though I gasped air into my lungs, I felt like I still couldn't breathe. It was the gas. It had to be.

Was I to die like Timmy? It sure looked that way.

I kept crawling, fighting panic. I held my breath because sucking more gas into my lungs wasn't gonna do me any good. Holding my breath helped. Every minute I crawled seemed like an hour or more. I made it to the wall below the window.

I reached up and grabbed the windowsill, hoping it wasn't too rotten to support my weight. I pulled myself up while pushing with my legs. I felt like I was about as strong as a wet noodle. But I made it and inhaled fresher air through the broken panes of glass.

I looked outside. There were no lights anywhere. I smelled smoke, thick and choking. It smelled like burning wood with a hint of burning rubber and sulfur. Then I saw the faint red glow from Memphis-Proper, as opposed to Memphis-Improper, where we lived. Was the town burning?

The gas stink grew stronger. I smashed the remaining glass from the second-story window with a broken chair. Then I ripped a sleeve from my pajama top and wrapped it around my hand. I swept glass fragments from the windowsill and staggered as another tremor hit.

I couldn't breathe again. My lungs were going on strike. I jumped through the window just as the orphanage went kablooey behind me.

Chapter 2

The blast tumbled me thirty feet across the lawn. The lawn I mowed yesterday with that darned, boy-powered, rusty reel mower. Ms. Bitch insisted we use the old reel mower because it made the yard look nicer and built character in us boys.

Every time I used the old mower, I had to take it apart, clean it, oil it, and sharpen the spiral blades so it would cut right. Every time one of the other boys used it, except for Timmy, they left it out in the rain and let it rust. The danged old thing must have been made from special steel, one that rusted at the speed of light. Every time it was my turn to mow, I had to fix it all over again.

I sat up and looked at the orphanage. Flames soared twenty feet above the debris. I got the feeling there would be no more grass to mow. I shuddered when I thought about Timmy's body in the fire. I missed him.

I looked to the west, where the nearby, dilapidated, Civil War mansion was also in flames. I hoped the couple who lived there were okay even though they always shouted at us when we came near the fence. They would even turn the hose on us sometimes. I admit we egged them on in the summer so we could get sprayed with that cool water.

I rose and limped away from the heat of the giant fire. The wet, manicured, early October grass was ice cold on my feet. My thin, hand-me-down, red and blue pajamas failed to ward off the cold so I moved closer to the fire. I watched as the orphanage burned, choking on the smoke when the wind shifted, and now and then getting a nose-slamming whiff of sulfur. Even so, I gasped less. My back was freezing, while my front was almost melting from the heat of the fire.

Ms. Bitch was out on a date with some poor unsuspecting codger. She always stayed out until about three a.m. on Friday nights.

I pretended the orphanage was a burning Viking funeral ship, and I was saying goodbye to Tiny Tim, the mighty Viking Warrior. Timmy was part Swedish and liked reading about Vikings. I did too. They were some mean suckers. I bet those guys wouldn't have taken any abuse from Ms. Bitch.

I heard a car coming up the driveway, so I backed out of the firelight. When you're a bad boy, you learn little things like, if they can see you, it's your fault. I figured I'd get blamed for burning the orphanage. Never mind I was pretty sure the earthquake broke the gas line, and a spark from the last tremor set it off.

Why would they blame me for burning the orphanage? Because that's what I threatened to do last week, dummy that I am. I didn't mean it. I was mad because I got blamed for something Fart did. But I didn't tattle on him. Fart didn't even thank me for covering for him. Friends, who needs them, sheesh. Well, except for Timmy, anyway.

The car stopped two hundred feet from the fire, and some old geezer got out and opened the door for Ms. Bitch. Fart ran up to the car as Ms. Bitch stared at the burning orphanage. She waved her arms up and down like she was practicing semaphore. I could hear her voice, but I couldn't make out the words. That was good. I seldom liked what she had to say anyway.

It was colder away from the fire. I shivered. I didn't know what to do next.

Ms. Bitch enveloped Fart in her arms. Ms. Bitch never had a hug for me, not once since I'd been at the orphanage. Not that Ms. Bitch was a hugger, you understand, but even one hug would have been nice. I missed my mom.

I read a Louis L'Amore book of Timmy's. His aunt sent him things sometimes, maybe because she felt guilty for not taking care of him. The book was in a box of stuff she sent.

The book was about some kids who ended up on their own in the Old West. That sounded like fun to me. I decided I'd run away and be on my own. Heck, I was thirteen, almost a man grown, too old for hugs and stuff anyway.

If I left, they'd think I burned up in the orphanage like Tiny Tim. I had no relatives, not a one. If I went, I'd be on my own, no more blame for things I didn't do, and some I did. No more tasteless institutional food. No more hand-me-down clothes that stank of age and other things better left unsaid.

I took shanks' mare out of there.

---

The Monster-Buy was three miles away. I liked the Monster-Buy. It was hands down, my favorite place to steal stuff and right now I needed stuff. I wasn't the only boy at the orphanage who stole from there, but I was the only one who never got caught.

I never stole anything before my parents died. I'm a relative newcomer to the light-fingered-brigade, but I'm good at it. When you're a kid who's allowed no money, and can only have two changes of clothes, not counting a monkey suit for church, and no personal items not paid for by relatives, of whom I had none, you better get good at either thievery or Zen. I preferred thievery. The only rule was we boys didn't steal from each other. I never broke that rule, but some of the older boys did.

I light-footed it along the edge of the dark woods. I was glad the stars were out so I could sort of see through the smoky haze. I passed close to the codger's car to get to the road. I saw Ms. Bitch's shiny, ball earrings dancing in the dim light and the fire reflected in the thick lenses of her black-framed glasses. In the firelight, her silver and pepper hair, cut short in a boy's haircut, looked almost nice. I pitied the old coot who was comforting her. Apparently, he hadn't yet been the recipient of her stare of continual disapproval. But he would be. Sooner or later, they all got to see it.

On the way down the lane, it occurred to me that I was the problem, not Ms. Bitch. I threw that thought away as fast as I'd drop a lit firecracker. I needed to focus on the future, not the past.

I tripped over buckled pavement several times. Once I slammed into a place where the pavement was offset vertically by several feet and bruised my toes and knee.

The geology book I read in the public library called the break in the pavement a scarp. I climbed over the three and a half foot high scarp and kept going. As my eyes became accustomed to the faint starlight, I made better time. I developed a passing admiration for the old codger's driving skill. He was pretty cool to get his car through this obstacle course, poor doomed SOB.

---

Asingle police car squatted next to the Monster-Buy like a giant electric toad. Its whirling blue and red lights gave fleeting glimpses of the parking lot and the wad of confused customers and employees clustered nearby. The streetlights were out. That made it easy for me to sneak around to the back of the store.

This wasn't the first time I'd visited this store in the wee hours. I usually came this time of night when I needed something. Some of the high school guys who worked here left a piece of trash wedged in one of the back doors so their buddies could come in and steal stuff. I discovered that by watching the rear doors one night when I couldn't sleep.

With