Fan Fiction ❯ Fade to Black ❯ Kevin Westfield and the Lincoln Trail Brawl ( Chapter 8 )

Chapter 8: Kevin Westfield and the Lincoln Trail Brawl

Kevin. Kevin Westfield: the asshole from Halloween. The guy who I thought spray painted my car. He was 18 years old and as I stared as his picture in the yearbook I bought last year, I recognized him from some of my classes even though he was a senior last year. He must have been some sort of fucking tard or something, because he was a senior again and he was in the classes I had with him. I closed the yearbook and exited my room, moving downstairs.

It was Tuesday evening and I had gotten home from school two and a half hours ago. I grabbed my coat and slid my feet into my combat boots, grabbing my keys off the hall table as I did so. Tonight the school basketball team was playing a rival team from Lincoln Trail, a school a few hours north of here. Now, I may be antisocial and shit like that, but I enjoy a nice basketball game once and a while. It gives me a chance to socialize with my friends on the other side of the social spectrum at our school. I exited the house into the chilly evening air and locked the door behind me. As my SUV pulled out of the driveway, I lit up a cigarette and mentally ran through my checklist: pick up Sarah, meet John in the school parking lot, and avoid killing the other team's fans. The evening was definitely going to be a challenge. I turned onto Sarah's street and saw her waiting outside. I pulled the vehicle up and she climbed in. She smiled warmly.

"Hey, Jo, "she said, rolling down her window and lighting a cigarette. I looked over and smiled at her.

"Hey, Sarah. Ready for the game tonight?" I asked. She snorted in disgust. I gave her a questioning look.

"People in this world take all this sports bullshit way too fucking far. If you're not good at basketball, then you're just another fan. And if you don't like to watch a bunch of stupid assholes mindlessly move a ball, puck, etc., up and down a field of play, then you're worthless. And the parents of these assholes? They are actually worse than the players themselves. Fuckin' yelling and shit… `Stupid call, Ref! Open your goddamn eyes!'…it makes me sick to watch these people interact with their environment," Sarah finished her tirade by taking an exasperated drag off of her cigarette. She looked over at me.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked. I smiled.

"Only I am lucky enough to have found a nice girl like you."

"Oh, shut the hell up."

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It was the second quarter of the game and it was as close as it gets: a tie at twenty to twenty. The Lincoln Trail fans were on the opposite side of the gym and they more closely resembled subhuman creatures than rational people right now. About every fan was on their feet screaming and shouting derogatory phrases at the players on the court and looking over at our fans and throwing the finger around and mouthing curses, which our fans dubiously mouthed back. I couldn't decide which side was worse. Even I was standing up and screaming. Most of the fans on our side have had two warnings already that if they didn't calm down, they would be ejected from the game. One of our players dribbled down the court and made a lay-up and our crowd went wild. I heard from behind me someone screaming, "Eat that, assholes!" I laughed and sat back down.

"So, Jo, we haven't seen you in a while. What have you been up to?" asked Jared, this kid I knew and was friends with from the popular fraction of our class.

"Pretty much trying to not fail school…I dunno…just a little of everything I guess," I replied.

"That's cool. It's too bad we never get to hang out that much. You should come to a party or something. I hear you throw really kickass parties, but I bet ours are better," he said, jokingly.

"My ass they are. All you people do is sit around and get drunk and smack each other around. Our parties are peaceful…mostly," I said.

"Yeah, emphasis on the mostly," John, who had been quiet most of the time, added to the conversation.

"Oooh, I actually heard you two had to stop a guy from knifing his girlfriend. Also heard there were guns involved. True?" Jared asked.

"I don't remember," I said, dismissing his question quickly. If it got around that John and I had our own private armory, it could be bad for us.

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The fourth quarter of the game was halfway over and we were up by ten points.

The other fans were absolutely livid with disgust. Our team just called a time-out and the fans for the other team stood up and started screaming some insult as loud as they can. I shook my head, thinking about what the athletes must put up with from their parents when they step off the court.

Our cheerleaders were out on the court doing some sort of cheer that a six year old could have written. The time-out was up and both teams resumed their on-court battle against each other.

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Students, faculty, and parents were filing out of the school entrance. The game was over and Western Heights High went away with the win, much to the chagrin of the Lincoln Trail fans. I met Sarah and John near where we parked.

"Fucking awesome game," John said, "Where to now?"

"Well, like usual we'll head to the park and hang out with everyone there," I said. The park I was referring to was the municipal park, a sprawling, lavishly green place meant as a recreational area during the summer. It wasn't much use to anyone in the fall and winter, especially at night, so after a basketball game or dance or something, most kids would head over to the park. Different people brought different things. Some brought beer, others brought music, and even others brought cigarettes. There was something for everyone and we would just sit around and talk and have a good time. I used to catch a lot of shit from my mother for coming home late during the week, but ever since she's been traveling a lot on business, I could pretty much come and go as I wanted.

"Sounds good, but are we invited?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah, it's mainly just a social function. Anyone welcome," John answered her. Sarah and I climbed into my truck and followed John down the winding, hilly drive to the school and took the main road through the darkened streets of town. Soon enough, we arrived at the park.

The huge, wrought iron gates of the park were opened as usual. Mist was rolling sporadically as we drove through the gates and continued up the gravel road that wound through the park and ended up at the rear parking lot. Assorted cars, SUVs, and chrome-bucket rice burners were circled around each other in the parking lot. A radio was blasting Blink 182. People were crowded in groups around the tailgates of their various vehicles, drinking and pretty much just enjoying themselves immensely. I wandered around the outside of the circles, catching bits and pieces of the conversations around me. John and Sarah had momentarily wandered off to check on some of their friends. People were tossing cans of beer back and forth, handing out cigarettes to those who smoked and gum to those who didn't. There was also a wide selection of soda for the people who didn't drink. I bet you can guess what kind of beverage I had that night. But since I was driving, it would probably be my only one.

"Yo, Jo! What the hells going on?" someone shouted in my direction.

"Not much," was my reply. I couldn't remember this guy's name.

"Dude, nice job on the principal's house on Halloween night." Somehow along the way, through my extensive high school career, I had obtained a bit of a reputation for knowing who did what when it came to acts of vandalism. After all, I did migrate from social circle to social circle, so I picked up interesting information on the way through. And it is merely a coincidence that I happened to be present for a good portion of these acts. I don't really like having this reputation, but not because it's unsavory. I could really care less what people thought about me. What I cared about was being implicated in crimes that about ninety percent of the time I didn't commit. So far I manage to dodge the attention of the boys in blue, but if I kept with this reputation long enough, my luck would run out.

"No clue what you're talking about, man. None whatsoever," I said and quickly walked away, suppressing a smile. Hey, I may not want the reputation, but I never said that the recognition wasn't nice.

Suddenly, a caravan of cars came screaming into the parking lot where we were milling around. Everyone looked over as the cars skidded to a halt, throwing up a cloud of dust in the still beams of the headlights. Someone turned the collection of car stereos and CD players off. The doors to the invading vehicles opened and people began piling out. I noticed these people were wearing letterman jackets. And I also noticed that, emblazoned on the breasts of the jackets in red and blue, were the initials "L T". Lincoln Trail had just crashed our victory party. Since the game was so heated and the rivalry between our schools ran so deep, I didn't think they were here to grab a few beers and sing a couple of songs. Their group massed together about ten feet away from our group. A quick head count showed that they numbers as many as twenty people. There were around sixteen or seventeen people from Western Heights. They had the advantage. One guy, about 6'2 and really broad, stepped forward. He walked about three feet from the rest of the group and stopped. We waited, anxious to here what this guy had to say.

"Well, hello assholes!" the guy shouted. Very eloquent, I thought. This was not going to go well for either of us. I idly played with the keys to my truck.

"Fuck off!" someone from our crowd shouted. The guys face turned red as both crowds started whispering. The girls from both of the crowds called on their womanly intuition and moved off to the sides, evening up the numbers a bit, making them more manageable. Somehow, they new what was about to happen. I felt someone standing by my side and looked over to see John. He gave me one of his "Oh shit" looks.

"Where's Sarah?" I whispered. John just nodded off to my left. Sarah was up in a tree, smoking a cigarette and sipping from a can of beer. I had to smirk at the sight of her, all nonchalant up in a tree when a brawl was about three seconds away.

"You know what? You would have never won that goddamn game if you pussies didn't pay of the refs! Talking about goddamn cheating! They didn't make one honest call the whole fucking game!" the guy from Lincoln Trail said. The two groups moved closer together.

I don't think that anyone could have told you who threw the first punch. Considering that a few of my classmates had already had enough drink to be quick to brash actions, I wouldn't be surprised if I found out tomorrow that a Western Heights kid threw it first. What followed was probably one of the worst cases of school rivalry gone awry. The two groups clashed with a fury, slamming into each other and becoming one, mixing around in a churning, frantic frenzy. People were throwing punches and kicks left and right and the sound of people shouting and the flat, meat-like slaps of flesh pounding flesh filled the air. I tried to move my way out of the crowd to get a bearing on things. I looked to where John was standing a few minutes ago and found him standing their, exchanging blows with this big guy. John landed a few good shots, but the big guy obviously had the advantage. He punched John twice in the head and John's nose spurted blood as he fell to the ground. I started to move forward to catch him before he hit the ground, but I was knocked to the ground by a seemingly immovable block of flesh. I tried to get up, but he was on top of me. He punched me three quick times in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. In a daze, I couldn't think very much. I remember noticing that the guy had a silver wristwatch on and when he raised his fist, it caught the headlights and reflected them back into my face. He raised his fist again and prepared to land the final blow, which I assume he meant for my face. I cringed and waited for it to happen. But it didn't. Instead, the guy was throw backwards as a trash can from the park collided with his chest at a surreal speed. I slowly picked myself up off the ground and looked for who had come to my rescue. Kevin Westfield stood a few feet away, not smiling.

"Don't get any ideas, asshole. I want you to myself, so I can have the glory of kicking your bitch ass up and down the street. But we got bigger problems now," Kevin said. I nodded in agreement then looked for John. He was lying in the dirt, unconscious and bloody. I ran over to him and started to drag him by his shoulders toward my truck. Sarah ran over and got his legs and we managed to lay him across the backseat. I took one last look at the brawl that was occurring about twenty yards away, keyed the ignition, and flew out of the park.

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John's nose was broken. It wasn't a serious break, but the nurse said it would be tender for a few days before it healed. He also had some scratches and bruises on his back, but at least he was away. We sat in the hospital and listened to the sirens scream by, undoubtedly in the direction of the park. John was finally well enough to walk without throwing up or falling down or whatever, and we went back to my truck. It had taken only twenty minutes to get to the hospital, and because he wounds were so minor (if you can call a broken nose minor), we were only there an additional fifteen minutes. So as we stood there in the parking lot, lighting our cigarettes, we knew that at that exact moment, a half a mile away, the cops were having a field day dragging in whoever else was still fighting.

"Man, we dodged a fucking bullet tonight," John said.

"Yeah, man. We could be in jail right now. We're just lucky your little ass got knocked out and we had to leave," I said, grinning at John, who punched me in the arm forcefully.

"Watch it asshole. Just watch it."

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It was Thursday, and we were supposed to be in sixth period, but instead we were in the auditorium listening to some motivational speakers. All of the seniors just sat in the back and screwed around for the most of it. About twenty minutes into the program, John tapped me on the shoulder.

"Wanna duck out and head to the courtyard for a smoke?" John asked.

"Yeah, I can't take much more of this `drugs are the tool of the devil' shit. Everyone already knows this," I replied. Sarah was sitting a few rows back and smiled and rolled her eyes when she saw John and I drop to a crouch in the aisle and make our way to the back. Sarah had recently made friends with this Janey girl, which is why she wasn't with John and me. We pushed through the auditorium doors and walked towards our school's courtyard. Time was, seniors could eat outside in the courtyard, but I guess a bunch of kids kept sneaking away to smoke weed or whatever and they eventually took the privilege away.

John pulled out his pack of cigarettes and handed me one. We sat there smoking in silence for a while before I started to talk.

"I take it you heard what happened to the people in the park, right?"

"Yeah," John said, "I hear they all got hauled off to jail and suspended or some shit like that, right? Does the school even have a right to suspend them?"

"Yeah, they went to jail and got suspended. And I guess since it was after a school function that the school does have a right to suspend them. Pretty gay, but I suppose it makes sense."

"Pretty damn gay, but what can you do about it? Anyway, what were you telling me about that Westfield kid?"

"Oh," I started, "Well, this big guy was kicked the shit out of me and Kevin just ran up and threw a garbage can at him. It was the weirdest thing, because I stood up to thank him and he just told me not to get any ideas and that he wanted to kick the shit out of me himself. I don't really know what his problem is, but I really don't know what I can do about it."

"Well, I guess we'll have to just wait it out. Besides, I heard he has a gang or whatever. Sure, it's a gang of stupid rich white boys, but still a gang of sorts. And I also hear they're having some troubles with the Fake Crips," John said. The Fake Crips was what John and I called the pathetic attempt at a gang that a few black guys from our school started. I mean, I still wouldn't want to mess with them, but it is pretty pitiful. Most I've heard that they did was committed a few thefts and a few muggings. But they never killed or shot anyone. John took a drag off his cigarette and then went on to say that the Fake Crips and Westfield's gang, which was just called "The Crew", both kind of battled each other over territory in town, wanting this alley or that, hanging out in slum tenements and doing drugs. Most people don't know that this seedy little underworld existed because they operated on such a small scale. And like I said, it's not like they're just these hardcore badass gangsters. I mean, there's this rumor going on that they carry around their fathers' guns, which I think is pretty weak. I still wouldn't want to be around when the shit hit the fan between them.

John and I put out our cigarettes and snuck back into the auditorium.

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Friday night was a night that all the kids from school cut loose and went out with their friends to relax, or drink, or whatever they felt like doing, so long as it didn't involve school. Since meeting Sarah, my Friday night routine didn't change much, if at all.

After the final bell of the day rang, the hallways were buzzing with activity. People walked briskly to their lockers, grabbed whatever stupid books they'd need for the weekend, and hurried out into the parking lot to get into their cars and drove off. The fall air seemed to carry with it a feeling of freedom, if only for a few fleeting days. Mostly, the parking lot was a pretty funny display on Fridays. Because of all the tension that built up over the week, people were a little stir crazy by Friday. A bunch of people I knew where running and vaulting off the hoods of cars in the lot, most of which did not belong to students. Another group of people sprinted to their cars screaming and yelling nonsensical curses that echoed off the building. I was a little bit of both: I vaulted off John's hood while screaming "Fuckadilly shittle piss!" John blew the horn and gave me the finger politely before driving off.

Sarah moved off to her father's car and smiled at me before driving away. Apparently her dad was being a better father because one night he was drinking and driving and ran over this tricycle that was in the middle of the street. He told Sarah that it was the weirdest goddamn thing, because it was the middle of the night and a child's tricycle was in the street. He was pretty drunk and he thought he had killed a kid. He stopped and got out, looking for a body, but he didn't find one. But after that he decided he needed to get sober and be a better father or some shit. So he goes to AA meetings and lets Sarah use the car on his days off.

I keyed the ignition to my truck and put my Anti-Flag CD into the player. The racing punk beats pumped through my speakers and I started my drive home, windows down, smoking a cigarette on the way. The smell of dead and fallen leaves mixed with my cigarette smoke as the scenery flew past as I drove from my semi-isolated school back into our town.

I pulled into the driveway and shut off my truck. After grabbing my bag and lighting a cigarette, I walked into the back door and dumped my books on the floor.

"Since when are you allowed to smoke in the house?" Oh, no shit…

"Mom? Holy shit, you're home. Holy shit," was all I could manage. Like I said, my mom works a lot as an accountant or consultant or whatever and she's always out of town. Also, we both came to the agreement that we see each other enough, and she should visit our distant relatives whenever she got a chance. So that's how the last year and a half has been, with her constantly traveling and me holding down the fort. It wasn't really a bad arrangement, mostly because it helped me get a feel for what the real world's going to be like once my schooling is over. But I think this recent trip was business.

"Yeah, I'm home. And watch your mouth, boy," my mom said smiling. I laughed and hugged her.

"So how long are you staying for? How was your trip?"

"Good. I got a lot accomplished for the client in California, but it was a bit of a bitch to get his accounts in order. No one seems to keep financial records anymore. But…your aunt called me from the road. Your Uncle Mark is pretty sick and she needs an extra hand around for a while. So I'm taking a leave of absence from work and heading to Kansas to help her out for a while. I don't know how long it'll be, but you know the number for the house and you got my cell phone number."

"Yeah, sounds good. When's your flight?" I asked, sort of hoping it wouldn't be for a few days.

"Tomorrow morning. Early flight. Sorry I can't stay longer," she replied.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm doing pretty well on my own here. I like coming home to quiet after the crap they put me through at school. At least you get a reminder as to what the house looks like, right?" My mother laughed in reply. We sat down and had an early dinner. It was the nicest dinner I've had in a while, way nicer than sitting down to fast food alone.

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After dinner, I called John and asked what he wanted to do that night. Sarah had plans with that Janey girl, so this would be pretty much the first weekend since we went out together. I knew I would kind of start to miss her, so I was counting on John to have something - anything - planned. He said he didn't really have any concrete plans, but he intimated that driving around town and just rolling with it wouldn't be too bad. So I grabbed my coat and keys, said goodbye to my mother, and went outside to my truck. Ten minutes later, I was at John's house and he was climbing in the passenger seat, a cigarette already in his mouth.

"Hey," John said, buckling his seat belt as I drove off. We headed towards the main part of town. Western Heights wasn't a sprawling metropolis, but it was definitely a sort of suburbia. A large, multi-block central area, appropriately dubbed "Downtown", surrounded by the outlying suburbs and housing developments. It sort of resembles an up and coming city. I turned the truck onto the main drag and turned south. We passed different small shops and a few apartment buildings. The main drag of town was just shy of two miles long, with side streets entering every few hundred yards, the pushing outward in a grid pattern. Your typical little shitty city. As we slowly passed one slummed-out apartment building, John gestured with his cigarette to the building, where loud music could be heard and silhouettes moved behind the windows.

"That's where those Fake Crips hang out. That's like their Batcave or Fortress of Solitude or whatever you want to call it. There's someone there all the fucking time, no matter what time it is," John said idly. The thing with John is, he may not have a lot of friends, but those friends he had also had friends, and so on and so forth, and if John had a good rapport with the friend, then he would hear stuff. Who did what, who hung out with who, when the next party was going to be, and so on.

"So like…what's their story?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and glancing over at John.

"Oh, dude, its total bullshit. So much so you wouldn't believe it. It basically breaks down like this: they believe they're some sort of big street gang and they can do whatever they want. They number only ten, but you'd think they were a hundred, the way they act. This isn't a really big neighborhood, so their activities pretty much range from getting high, vandalizing property, stealing car stereos, or loitering. Occasionally they fight over favorite hangouts with The Crew, you know your Westfield buddy, but nothing too serious. Hey, you want to see the HQ for The Crew? Shit, that rhymed," John said. I thought about it for a minute. I figured it wouldn't hurt to know where these guys were and what they were up to, in case I ever need to know.

"Yeah, man, sure. Not like we have anything better to do," I replied. John directed me down some side streets and had me make about twenty turns, before we entered this housing development. I drove slowly up the darkened streets, past the rows of million-dollar homes and spotless, perfect lawns. Obviously, John had led me to a rich neighborhood.

"I wish we had some party to go to," John remarked, flicking his cigarette butt out the window and reaching for another smoke. "Whoa, stop. Right there…"

We had stopped in front of probably the largest home in town. It was very ornate, the architecture modeled after those Victorian houses that you see down in the south. Like the previous gang hideout, this place was pulsing with activity. Cars were parked on the lawn and voices and laughter could be heard over the music being played inside. People milled about on the front porch and on the lawn, sipping from what must have been beer cans and smoking the occasional cigarette. No one seemed to care that we were parked in front of the house, like a bunch of criminals casing a joint before an armed robbery. I noticed the name on the polished brass mailbox: none other than the name of my new adversary, Westfield.

"Ok, so what do I need to know?" I sighed, fishing for my pack of smokes.

"Alright, here's this situation: as you've already noticed, this house belongs to Kevin Westfield…well, his dad really, and his dad owns this housing development. He's some sort of contractor or real estate kingpin or some shit like that, so he travels a lot. Kinda like your mom, but gayer. So anyway, he's away a lot, and he's divorced from his wife, so the house is pretty much your buddy Kevin's all the time. He has people spending the night pretty much every night, and on the weekend, there's always something going on here with The Crew. The Crew's activities are much lamer in comparison to the Fake Crips. They just basically bully people around, do the whole popular guy vandalism stint once in a while, and they like to drink a lot. Sometimes they furnish the younger grades with alcohol, but they never get caught."

"That it?" I asked.

"Yeah, pretty much. And again, they tend to fight with the Fakes for hangouts and haunts and stuff like that. Once every two weeks there's a fight between them. Never more frequently, because they're too pussy and too worried about getting caught," John said, finishing up his report.

"Alrighty then. I swear, man, you should be a police informant or something. You know so much shit, it defies reality. And you barely make the honor roll," I joked.

"I don't make the honor roll. And I wouldn't want to be an informant, cause I'd end up getting my legs broken by some badass mobsters after ratting out to the cops that Fat Tony iced Little Nicky," John laughed.

"Um, that was pretty gay."

"Yeah, I know."

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It was ten o'clock and John and I were pulling into the parking lot of the Vista Diner. It was this old, 1950's era diner that someone restored a few years ago, and it was a pretty popular place for kids from school to hang out in. We exited the vehicle and entered the diner. The booths of the diner were packed with people, mostly kids from my school. I scanned the faces of the crowd and noticed Sarah. She was sitting in a booth with that Janey girl smoking and drinking a soda. She waved me and John over. We slid into the booth and a waitress took our order of sodas and two plates of French fries.

"So, what did you two do tonight?" Sarah asked. I lit a cigarette and exhaled heavily.

"John took me for a tour of our town's less popular hangouts. Just a couple of places where the black gang and the white gang use as their respective hangouts. Nothing too enthralling," I replied. Sarah nodded her head and took a sip of soda. I looked over at John and saw that he and Janey were currently engaged in a conversation and were flirting a bit. Good for John, I thought. Sarah and I shared a glance then started to eavesdrop on their conversation. So we weren't looking when Westfield and his Crew came in through the front door and slide into a few booths. The only thing that made me notice was how loudly they were acting like assholes.

I looked up and Westfield was glaring at me from across the room. For a few seconds, we held gazes, staring at each other calmly from opposite ends of the diner. Westfield was the first one to look away, but with good reason. I followed his eyes to the entrance and noticed that the black gang had just walked in the door. So the situation was that we now had two rival "gangs" in a confined space, within mere feet of each other. Yeah, I thought, nothing bad going to happen tonight. Shit…

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Certain things are remembered in a small town, such as Western Heights. People remembered the good things and inversely remembered the bad things. I knew as I watched it happen that years later, groups of high school students walking the halls at WHHS would be talking about the confrontation that night.

For the better part of an hour, the two groups got along fine. They sat at opposite ends of the diner and exchange angry glances. You could tell by their pissed off expressions and animated hand gestures that each gang was talking about the other, and I don't mean in a complimentary type of way. Just the presence of the other group infuriated them. I watched them closely while still trying to stay in the conversation in my booth. My attention was held on Westfield. Everyone seemed to be quiet at his booth, except for him, which told me several things. First, he was the one who hated the other gang the most. Sure, the rest of his crew didn't really like the little fuckers either, but Westfield harbored the most hate for them. Everyone else just seemed to roll with it. Second, Westfield was the leader. He was the one who gave the orders, due in no small part to his father's standing in the community and his considerable wealth. The others followed him unquestioningly. And third, Westfield was probably racist against blacks. That sounds a little off the wall, but if you look at the situation, you have a gang of middle-upper class white kids led by a rich white kid who's biggest rivals are a bunch of lower-middle class black kids. And some people just have the "racist hatred" look to them whenever they get pissed off at a minority. Kevin Westfield was currently displaying that look.

The quiet went on for a while. I think other people could feel the tension too, because when I glanced around the room, I noticed several other people were looking back and forth from the two groups. You could just see the people trying to figure out the casualty rating of what was imminently about to happen.

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It didn't happen until everyone was filing out of the diner at around 12:30 as it was closing. John, Sarah, Janey, and I walked out into the cool night air and I lit a cigarette. People were milling around in the parking lot, chatting idly while others moved off to their cars and drove away into the night. Sarah turned to me and John.

"Hey, where'd those assholes go?" Before I had a chance to answer, someone shouted something unintelligible, but it must have been them pointing out a fight, because as soon as we looked in the direction the person was pointing, we knew what the cause for concern was all about.

Both groups were smashed together in a maelstrom of thrown punches. The whirled around each other like a hurricane cloud, viciously attacking members of the other group. Members began to pull out of the group or drop to the ground and crawl away. This went on for a few minutes before I heard the faint sound of sirens. I apparently wasn't the only one, as the fight broke up and everyone raced to their cars to flee the scene. Janey and Sarah had walked from Janey's house, so the four of us jumped into my truck and drove off. I dropped Janey and Sarah off, and then I dropped John off and headed back to my house. I left the car running and ran into the house and up to my room. I grabbed an old backpack with a change of clothes and a carton of cigarettes and went back to my truck. I angled my truck down the deserted street in the direction of the factory and slowly drove along, the streetlights above reflected in my windshield, bouncing off the dew that was forming on my hood. I made it to the turnoff point, and then took the route that I normally take back to the factory. I parked in the front parking lot, grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, locked the doors to my truck, and headed inside the darkened building. Tonight I would spend my time in the factory.