Back to Zero

By Franklin Ard

With his small-town high school overtaken by a tyrannical new principal and his home in shambles after his mother's death, Ty plans to hit the road with his best friend and never look back. However, during a botched attempt to steal supplies, Ty witnesses an event that changes everything: his neighbor, a grizzled war hero and martial artist, vanishes into thin air. Believing he's found the solution to all his problems, Ty convinces his neighbor to teach him how to fight. During training, Ty learns that the mysterious power to disappear is more perilous than he ever imagined. Hounded by an intrepid student journalist, relentless bullies, and even the military police, can Ty keep the secret safe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Owl Press
• Release date: Jun 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201369538

Franklin Ard

Franklin Ard's writing encompasses many genres, from science fiction, fantasy, and mystery to magical realism and Southern gothic. His fiction and poetry have appeared in a number of venues, including Nightmare Magazine, Suspense Magazine, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Deep Magic, and others. He is a graduate of Clarion West Writers Workshop and the University of Southern Maine's Stonecoast MFA program, and he currently teaches writing at the University of South Alabama. He and his wife, Stephanie, reside on the Gulf Coast.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

First and foremost , I’d like to thank my wife, Stephanie, for being by my side through the years of writing on this book. I love you, Steph. Thank you for always encouraging me to put one foot in front of the other no matter how difficult the challenges may seem.

I’d also like to thank my parents for their unconditional love and guidance. Mom and Dad, thank you for instilling in me the belief that I can do anything if I’m willing to work hard to make it happen.

I owe an enormous amount of gratitude to my close friends in the Tiny Chair Writers Workshop for cheering me on and giving me honest feedback through many drafts of this book. I’m so lucky to be able to call you all my very best friends.

Part One

We Were Doomed

Chapter One

If high school was a public swimming pool, then I would have been the soupy filter water. For one thing, I had the distinction of being the only ROTC cadet to ever drop the flag during the Presentation of Colors. So, I wasn’t too thrilled about starting tenth grade. My uneasiness was amplified by the fact that my best friend Jude wasn’t in homeroom. It seemed as though he’d disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Mrs. Middleton called Jude’s name four times in homeroom, looking at me over the top of her glasses as if I knew his whereabouts. Jude had been my friend since middle school, but I hadn’t seen him in three months. It made me nervous. I thought maybe he’d decided to stay at his dad’s place, where he spent the summer. Jude’s dad had horses and thirty acres of land near Huntsville, Alabama. And he let Jude drink beer.

Before Mrs. Middleton could call Jude’s name a fifth time, assistant principal Fogerty announced a pep rally over the intercom. His voice made me cringe. Ms. Sandy, our principal, loved pep rallies, and I wondered why she hadn’t made the announcement. Holding a rally on the first morning of school was also super weird, but that was only the start of what would be a pretty strange semester.

I searched for Jude as I weaved between other students in the hall, but he was nowhere to be found. When I got to the gym, the marching band was playing Eye of the Tiger, out of sync. The cheerleaders did high kicks, and I stared at their tanned legs. Any one of the cheerleaders would’ve kicked me in the face without a second thought. Still, I couldn’t resist checking them out.

Coach Henry shouted at me to keep moving, and I started up the bleachers. Clusters of more popular students gave me the side-eye. As I passed each group, they snickered at me. I had buck teeth that were spread apart like tines on a melted fork. Eppie Jackson, the biggest bully on campus, had nicknamed me Donkey because of it. I was a frequent target of that brainless turd. Walking up the steps, I felt like a zoo creature.

I passed Cynthia Woods and her gaggle of young socialites. They called themselves the Southern Butterflies. Cynthia sat proper and elegant, legs crossed, hands on her lap, floral dress tailored to her skinny frame. She looked me up and down, as if doing a quick mental calculation of how many feet she needed to keep away in order to maintain her social status.

I found Marty, my other best friend, sitting on the row with the math and science nerds and other undesirables. Marty was editor-in-chief of the school paper, The Blakeley Bugle. She wore big headphones and held a portable CD player flat in one hand to keep the disc from skipping. As she slid the headphones off, I heard Third Eye Blind, her favorite band.

You seen Jude? I asked.

Marty frowned, pushing a lock of hair from her tawny face. Not yet, Ty.

My name is Tiberius, but my friends call me Ty. My mom loved Star Trek, so much that she gave me Captain Kirk’s middle name. She was awesome, and I miss her a lot.

The marching band stopped mid-note as Mr. Fogerty coughed into his microphone. He paced the basketball court’s center circle, wearing a dark brown blazer that was too small. Your attention please, he said into the mike. Before we get started with today’s festivities, I have some news to share. He lifted his gaze from the floor to the bleachers. Regrettably, it’s my duty to report that after many years of service as principal of this fine school, Ms. Sandy is no longer with us.

The news hit me like a punch to the gut. I slumped in my seat. One day, someone was there and the next they were gone, as if everyone was part of a big vanishing act.

MY CLASSMATES CHATTERED with the news that our principal had passed away. Even the jocks down front glanced at each other, worried. The geeks on our row held their breath. Marty stared at the floor, rubbing her temples. I felt like crying, but I couldn’t do that because I would have been slaughtered later on by Eppie Jackson or some other bully.

The only ones who didn’t seem to care were the skate kids on the top row. The majority of them were thoroughly baked, lounging in wide-legged JNCOs. The goth kids stared forward with melancholy frowns, but they always looked that way. It was 1997, and Marilyn Manson was at the height of his fame. The goths all wanted to be just like him.

Although I’d only been in high school for one year, I knew that Ms. Sandy really cared about students. Several times during the past spring, she called Marty and me to her office just to talk about which books we’d like the library to order. Every title we suggested, Ms. Sandy asked about the plot and characters. It was like our own little book club. 

Mr. Fogerty stood in the center of the court, adjusting his round glasses, as if trying to zoom in on each of our faces. He sucked in a big breath and then continued. Ms. Sandy has been promoted to district superintendent.

The gym went silent.

That means we have a new principal at Blakeley High. Mr. Fogerty jutted his thumb toward his chest. And you’re looking at him.

Marty raised her eyebrows. Shit.

Mr. Fogerty had followed us from middle school, where he had also been assistant principal—kind of like Mr. Feeny, the principal from the TV show Boy Meets World. Except that Fogerty was a colossal pain in the ass. If all the hot air that man spewed was put into a balloon, it would’ve had its own gravitational pull.

With a new sheriff in town comes a different way of doing things, he continued. Mr. Greer is now your assistant principal, and together we will implement my agenda on this campus. I intend to encourage each of you to reach beyond your current plateaus. From now on, I will tolerate nothing less than your absolute best. He paused for effect. I expect you to embrace this change with enthusiasm and gratitude.

In other words, his ego trip was going to be epic. A few of the teachers on the first row clapped. None of the students did.

And now, Mr. Fogerty continued, raising his right hand in the air, let’s show some alligator spirit!

He followed it up with a loud holler as the marching band’s drummers started up again, followed by squawking horns. Everybody but the goths and skate kids rose to their feet. The cheerleaders flipped. Marty and I stared ahead. I held my breath, still in shock that Ms. Sandy was in fact alive, yet Fogerty was now in charge. I scanned the faces in the crowd for Jude’s but didn’t see him.

As I stood up, something flew up from under the bleachers and hit me in the back. It felt like a smooth rock. The impact sent a leg-tingling jolt of pain up my spine. I yelled and sprung up and lost my balance. I fell sideways, tumbled into the aisle and then landed on Cynthia Woods. She squeaked. The other Southern Butterflies recoiled, squealing like they were being attacked by rats.

Mr. Greer and Coach Henry rushed up the bleachers, took hold of me, and dragged me down to the stairs. They dropped me on the gym floor like a rotten banana peel. The commotion got Mr. Fogerty’s attention, and he dropped his microphone with a loud thud. A couple of the female teachers patted Cynthia, telling her to take deep breaths.

I sprawled on the shellacked floor, heaving with embarrassment, until Mr. Fogerty stood over me, hands on his hips. I saw up his nose. It looked like fuzzy caterpillars had crawled in his nostrils and died.

He yanked me up by the collar, stood me upright. Congratulations, son. You’ve broken the record.

I rubbed my lower back. Sir?

This is the fastest anyone has ever earned detention in a semester.

As Mr. Greer dragged me away, I caught a glimpse of a person hiding under the bleachers.

Chapter Two

Ifelt like gouging my eyes out with a toothpick by snack time the next day. I’d spent the morning in detention with assistant principal Greer. I was the only student in the room. Mr. Fogerty came by for the first fifteen minutes and gave me a guilt trip, saying I had a lot of potential and could really excel if I’d stop hanging around with Jude. After he left, Mr. Greer asked me about my hobbies, and I told him about my collection of Old West figurines and the stories I wrote about bank robbers. 

I’m also a connoisseur of history, he said, and then told me about collecting coins, rare ones that weren’t in circulation anymore. He pulled a catalog out of his desk drawer and made me look at it with him. All two-hundred pages of it.

I ate snack with Marty. She was still flipping out about Fogerty being in charge. Chewing limp French fries, I zoned out watching Tasha Stipe, a fellow ROTC cadet. I had a major crush on her. She had cinnamon-colored hair and freckles on her cheeks, and her smile made my heart drop to my feet. She ate carefully, half a tater tot at a time, laughing with some of her friends who were in the color guard. I felt sick, figuring I’d never be brave enough to talk to her outside of training. Lost in thought, I didn’t finish my fries before the bell rang.

The second half of the day, I was on cleaning duty. The French teacher, Mr. Marjoram, took over for Mr. Greer. Mr. Marjoram was dangerously skinny and talked in a fake French accent. Ms. Reese, the economics teacher with piercing eyes and a pixie cut, assisted him. They were obviously an item. Their P.D.A. was stomach-turning.

According to Mr. Fogerty’s explicit directions, they put me to cleaning the men’s bathroom. They sat outside, side-by-side in desks they’d pulled from a classroom. The bathroom door was propped open, and I could hear Ms. Reese giggle as Mr. Marjoram told her jokes sprinkled with French words. She had a laugh like a cartoon character, and he sounded like a frog being stepped on.

The bathroom was sweltering, one of the few rooms in the school that wasn’t air-conditioned. It smelled like foot fungus. Balls of sweat formed on my forehead as I flushed the shit-stained toilets and dumped pounds of Comet cleaner into the bowls. Then I grabbed the toothbrush Mr. Fogerty had left for me and went to work. The toothbrush had my name on it, written in permanent marker. I had just started scrubbing when I heard someone walk in behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I’m working as fast as I can.

What are you, like, Mr. Fogerty’s janitor now?

The voice was a little deeper than I remembered, but I still recognized it. I looked over my shoulder. Jude leaned against the stall and watched me, his expression somewhere between curiosity and disgust. His black shirt was too big on his frame and his dark hair had gotten long, ear-length, and curly. It was clippered short underneath. Bangs hung in front of his tan face, partially covering a welt on his cheek.

I dunno, I said, a heartburn feeling of excitement rising in my chest. I tried to keep my voice level. Where’ve you been, anyway?

He looked at me with wide hazel eyes. At my dad’s.

Yeah, over the summer. But you weren’t in class today or yesterday.

He shrugged. I found a good hiding place behind the fieldhouse.

The fieldhouse was where the football team lifted weights and the coaches drank Bud Light. But it wasn’t being used until practice started up in a few weeks.

Jude moved over to the bathroom window and fished a bent cigarette from his t-shirt pocket. Fogerty caught me lighting up, so now I’m in detention the rest of the week.

Must not have been too great of a hiding place after all, I said.

Jude opened the window, struggling with the swollen wood frame. He lit his cigarette, puffed the smoke outside. I examined the graffiti beside the toilet I’d been cleaning. There were a lot of gross jokes, and someone had drawn a picture of a kid in glasses and couple of gargantuan teeth. My home phone number was written above the doodle.

You hit me in the back with a rock, I said, at the pep rally.

Actually a baseball, but yeah. Jude laughed so loud that I was sure Mr. Marjoram and Ms. Reese would run in. Sorry, man. I was trying to throw it out on the court to scare Mr. Fogerty.

I crossed my arms. And it just coincidentally hit me in the spine.

Like I said, I’m sorry about that. Feel terrible and all.

It fucking hurt.

But it was funny, right?

I went back to scrubbing the toilet bowl. The last of the stains weren’t coming off. Since when have you smoked?

He mumbled around the cigarette between his lips. Look, when important people discuss serious shit, they smoke. Calms the nerves and stuff.

What are we discussing that’s so important?

Mr. Fogerty. Jude blew smoke from his nose. Him being top dog.

There was no one Fogerty enjoyed busting more than Jude. Ever since sixth grade, Mr. Fogerty had been laser-focused on Jude’s indiscretions, and there were many. But Fogerty had never succeeded in getting Jude expelled.

Yeah, I said. It sucks hard.

Makes me wish I could just disappear, Jude said.

I gave up scrubbing and sat the grimy floor, resting my head against the stall.

Like in this book, man. Jude reached in his back pocket and pulled out a bent paperback.

It was On the Road by Jack Kerouac. I’d given it to him as a going-away present before summer. I didn’t actually expect him to read it. Jude never read books. I just gave it to him so he’d have something to remember me by while he was away.

Who are you and where’s the Jude I know?

Just had to find the right book. And this one’s good shit, he said between puffs. You remember when we talked about hopping a train?

Jude and I had discussed it a lot last year, especially whenever Jude’s stepdad laid into him. To me, it was just a fantasy, but it seemed to help Jude feel better, having the option to bail if it ever got bad enough.

Has your stepdad gotten hold of you again? I asked.

He dismissed the question with a flick of his cigarette. This book, it’s pretty much an instruction manual for blowing in the wind.

He paced. The bottoms of his jeans frayed out over his DC skate shoes. Last year, the skate kids had labeled him a poseur because of those shoes, but Jude didn’t stop wearing them. A similar thing had happened to me. I wore a black Punisher t-shirt almost every day. Last spring, Eppie demanded to know which issue of the comic was my favorite. I’d never read the comic—didn’t even know I existed. I’d found the shirt at Goodwill and just thought the skull was cool. That earned me a series of punches to the ribcage.

But I didn’t stop wearing the shirt. I guess that’s because I wanted Jude to think I was worth something, that I was somebody he should be hanging around with. I wanted him to see that I didn’t give a shit either, that I could be carefree and break rules too. I was tired of being a doofus ROTC idiot dork with messed-up teeth and a bad haircut.

In some ways, I wanted to be Jude. Jude may have been an outcast, but he was an outcast for what seemed like better reasons. He was like Billy the Kid, a boyish outlaw burning through the frontier setting of our high school.

He spun around to face me. Where would you go if you could take off anywhere in the world?

It took me less than a second to answer. Tombstone, Arizona. Well, that’s where I’d start.

Sounds like a rad place, Jude said.

I furrowed my brow. That’s the understatement of the century, man. Tombstone is one of the coolest places on Earth. Do you even know what happened there?

He shook his head sheepishly.

Only the most famous gunfight in all the West.

Jude blinked.

You’re telling me you’ve never heard of the O.K. Corral?

No, but it sounds okay to me, Jude said, his lips curling into a grin.

Very funny. I shook my head. From there, I’d probably head north to Utah, to the Robber’s Roost, then over to Virginia City to hang out in the saloons.

Dude, we have to do it! Jude gazed off into space. Nothing behind us, everything ahead, a crazy adventure under the stars.

I dropped the toothbrush. Run away? Come on, you’re really serious about that?

Bonjour! Mr. Marjoram’s terrible accent echoed from the hall. Almost time for inspection. Are you finished in there?

No, I yelled back, jumping up and moving closer to the bathroom door. We need a few more minutes...please.

Mr. Marjoram said something to Ms. Reese and she cackled. He was probably mocking me in French.

Jude took a leak in the toilet I’d just cleaned. I’ll be Butch Cassidy, and you can be the Sundance Kid.

He knew the outlaw angle was a sure bet to sway me. Maybe it’s strange, but I admired outlaws like Cassidy and Billy the Kid because they faced conflict head-on. I, on the other hand, did anything I could to avoid confrontation. It was one of the things I disliked most about myself.

For example, one time I broke a clay unicorn that my sister Evelyn had made for Mom. Breaking it was an accident, but then I hid it under the couch. I didn’t say anything to anyone, and I planned on throwing it away after everyone went to sleep. But I forgot about it, and Mom found it weeks later while cleaning. I felt like a piece of crap, wishing I’d just told her the truth in the first place.

So what do you say? Jude asked, zipping his fly.

I crossed my arms. Why do you get to be Butch Cassidy?

I HAVE THIS THING FOR the Old West. Ruthless outlaws and one-horse towns and cutthroat saloons and all that. Butch Cassidy is my favorite outlaw because my grandma used to say that he was part of our family tree. He and the Sundance Kid were the smartest outlaws in all of the West. Together, they managed the Wild Bunch gang and pulled off more successful stickups than any other outlaws in American history. Cassidy himself meticulously planned all the heists, mapped out each getaway, made sure the plans went off without a hitch.

A picture of Cassidy and Sundance hung in my bedroom. I also had a lamp by my bed that used to belong to my mom, before she died. The lamp was shaped like a wagon, wood-stained and shiny. Pulling the wagon’s tongue clicked the lamp on, and its cloth cover was the shade. When Mom first saw it at a yard sale, her jaw dropped like she’d struck gold. She called it a beautiful piece of kitsch. I didn’t know what that meant.

Sometimes it felt like my family lived in the Old West. Our property was way out in the country, about an hour’s bus ride from school. We lived in a single-wide trailer on ten acres of woods. My dad tried to keep the trailer from falling apart, but he couldn’t work fast enough to keep up