Easy target, p.1
Easy Target, page 1
Easy Target
© 2021 Tim Shoemaker. All rights reserved.
A Focus on the Family book published by Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188
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Cover design by Michael Harrigan
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The characters and events in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-64607-019-0
ISBN 978-1-68428-306-4 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-68428-307-1 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-68428-305-7 (Apple)
Build: 2021-01-12 08:43:30 EPUB 3.0
Dedicated to you, my readers.
May you have the strength to stand strong—even when you feel weak.
May you have courage to be kind—even to those who aren’t kind back.
May you have wisdom to help the hurting—even those who don’t seem to want help.
And to those who feel despair pressing in on you.
Hang on, my friends. There is always hope.
“There is always a way, if the desire be coupled with courage.”
ROBERT E. HOWARD, CONAN THE BARBARIAN
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Epilogue: Saturday
Special Thanks . . .
CHAPTER 1
HUDSON DIDN’T ACTUALLY hear anyone in his bedroom. But he woke sensing someone was there. He held his breath and listened. Crickets. Cicadas. The usual night sounds drifted through his open window. But something felt off.
Dim light filtered in from the hall—enough to know the door was definitely open wider than when he’d gone to bed.
Terrific. He wasn’t imagining this.
How often had he dreamt of being a hero? Imagining how great it would be to fight off some sicko who’d busted into the house? But now he didn’t feel so courageous.
Barely opening his eyes, he scanned the shadows of the room without lifting his head. I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t want to be a hero. He struggled to keep his breathing steady.
Lizzy. He had to make sure his little sister was okay. Mom, too. With Dad working late at the second job, Hudson had to step up. Had to. God help me.
He slid one arm off the side of his bed and reached for the Louisville Slugger on the floor. He’d grab it and bolt—and if anybody got in his way he’d swing for the fence. He felt the cool maple handle. Slid his fingers around it.
A faint rustling noise. Hudson tightened his grip—and someone stepped on the bat, pinning his hand to the floor.
Jerking free, Hudson kicked off the covers. “Ahhh—”
A hand clamped over his mouth. “Easy—it’s Dad. I don’t want you waking everyone.”
Hudson twisted away and stood—his whole body shaking. “You trying to scare me to death?”
His dad raised both hands and motioned for him to stay quiet. “So, you’re awake?”
“I was going for the bat. What if I’d hit you?”
Dad laughed in a whispery sort of way. “But you didn’t. Come with me.”
“What?”
He tapped a finger to his lips, motioned for Hudson to follow, and headed for the door. Even in the faint light he could see Dad was still wearing his Lowe’s work shirt. Hudson trudged after him.
Dad tiptoed through the kitchen to the basement door. He looked back once as if to be sure Hudson was following, and then disappeared down the stairway.
Hudson stood at the top of the stairs. “Why down there?”
“I need to show you something,” Dad whispered. He bypassed the light switch, and used the flashlight on his phone instead.
Okay, this was getting weirder by the second.
Hudson took the steps slow—scanning the blackness of the basement as he did. The dank smell seemed especially strong, and the dampness circled and clung to his legs. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. The chill from the concrete floor seemed to go right through him.
The flashlight swung around, blinding him for an instant. “You coming?”
“What are we doing down here?”
Without answering, Dad wove his way around stacks of boxes still waiting to be unpacked from the move. He made his way to the furnace and turned off the flashlight.
Dark as a cave. And just as creepy.
Hudson heard the ratchet of the pull string, and a single bulb flicked on. He squinted and looked around for any clue as to what Dad felt was so important to show him at this hour. Furnace. Slop sink. Hot water heater. Nothing looked different.
Dad stepped in front of Hudson and squared his shoulders. “Hit me.”
He looked dead serious.
“What?”
“Keep your voice down.” He patted his gut. “Right here. I want to see what you’ve got.”
What I’ve got? Hudson took a step back. Okay, a lot of stuff had changed for the family—especially Dad—but he’d seemed like he was handling it alright.
Until now.
“I’m not going to hit you.”
“Yeah, you are.” He motioned Hudson toward him. “You’ve never gone to a public school before. I have to make sure you can defend yourself.”
So that’s what this was all about. “Seriously?”
“We’ve raised you in a bit of a bubble, and eighth grade can be brutal. I haven’t slept good in the last two weeks since you started.”
Hudson snickered. “You woke me up—because you can’t sleep?”
“C’mon, wise guy. Let’s see what you’ve got. Hit me.”
There was no way. “I might hurt you.” Might? No, he definitely would.
Dad laughed quietly. “What do you weigh now, one-twenty?”
“One thirty-two.” Maybe more after the spaghetti tonight.
“Okay, so I still outweigh you by sixty pounds. Trust me, you’re not going to send this guy to the hospital.” He tapped his stomach. “C’mon. Right in the breadbasket. Take a swing.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“Made any friends yet?”
Hudson shook his head. Not that he hadn’t tried.
“With no friends, some will see you as an easy target.” Dad shrugged like the solution was obvious. “You’ve got to know how to take care of yourself. Just in case.”
For some reason the whole thing struck him as incredibly funny. “You always taught me to solve problems without fighting. Does Mom know you’re doing this?” Dumb question. Why else would Dad be doing this in the middle of the night?
“Stop stalling. Hit me.”
Hudson pictured Dad going to school in a day when hallway or cafeteria brawls would break out. He was so out of touch. “It’s different now.”
Dad’s face got dead serious. “Times change. People don’t.” He hesitated. “I’ll bet you already know who the alpha male is at Southfield.”
He pictured a wolf. Zachary Wolfe to be exact. PTO president’s son. Brainy. Charmer. All-around jerk.
He’d seen Wolfe torment Steve Adashek just because he smiled too much. Adashek hadn’t done much smiling since. But Wolfe did—along with Mitch Zattora, Brett Scurto—aka Skirt—and others he’d seen following Wolfe like a pack. It made Hudson want to puke. “I haven’t seen one fight. Nothing physical like that. Just verbal stuff.”
“It may not come to this,” Dad said as he made a fist, “but there’s a social order—and the kids in power expect you to respect it . . . or they’ll make sure you do.”
“It’s not like that,” Hudson said. “But if something changes I’ll sign up for your self-defense lessons, okay?”
“That’ll be too late. Be nice. Be kind. I’m all about that. But when somebody gets all in your face—you have to deal with it right then. It’s a pop quiz. It comes without warning—and the grade will stick. If they push, you need to push back. You never let them get the last word in. That’s all I’m saying.”
Hudson had no intention of becoming a casualty. But Dad had to be wrong about all this. “How do you know so much about it?”
“Dads know, okay? Maybe I’ve been there.” He took a wide stance and bounced a couple of times on the balls of his feet. “Let’s say one of them shoves you.” He pushed Hudson’s shoulder with the flat of his hand. “What are you going to do?”
The hot water heater kicked on with a whoosh—casting an orange glow on the pale concrete floor.
Dad poked him. “Stay focused when somebody faces off with you. Don’t let him score a sissy shot on you.”
This would be a perfect time for Mom to walk down the stairs. Hudson glanced behind Dad.
“Never take your eyes off him. Ever.”
Hudson laughed. “I was just looking—”
“For help? Forget about it. Don’t look for a teacher. Don’t look for a friend. This is between you and the bozo in front of you. Right here. Right now. You’ve been shoved. What are you going to do?”
Hudson shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe—”
“Listen,” Dad said. “You can’t look like you’re lost. Stay confident—even when you’re outnumbered. Like you’ve got a secret weapon they don’t know about. Show no fear.”
“They’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Good. It’ll make them wonder if they really want to take you on. Confident or crazy—either works.”
This whole thing was crazy.
He jabbed Hudson’s shoulder—harder this time. “Now hit me.”
Hudson took a step back. Maybe Dad hit his head at work. Maybe he was helping some guy load a bunch of two-by-fours and he got clocked. That would explain—
“Don’t back up.” Dad inched closer. “Step into him instead. And the closer you are to him, the harder it will be for him to hurt you with a sucker punch. He can’t haul off and get a full swing on you.” Dad leaned in.
Hudson held his ground this time, his chest against Dad’s rib cage.
“Good. Perfect. The instant he moves to swing at you, you’ll feel it and you can react.”
Dad raised his hand to tag him again. Hudson swung his arm to block him.
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. Nice job.” Dad got in his face. “But now what? It isn’t enough to block, buddy.”
Hudson didn’t budge. “You told me not to back up. Okay. I stood here. I blocked your shot. What more do you want?”
“Play offense, Son. Defense isn’t going to get them to leave you alone.”
The kitchen floor creaked above them. It had to be Mom. Dad held a finger to his lips. “Sometimes you have to fight. And when you do, remember what I’m about to tell you, because everything will ride on this. Everything.”
Clammy fingers seemed to crawl up Hudson’s spine. There was something about Dad’s face. Totally intense—and with that same pained look Hudson had seen the day Dad announced he’d lost the job at Northrop. Hudson rubbed down the goose bumps rising on his arms.
Dad held up one hand and looked at the ceiling. The footsteps were moving toward the basement door.
“Hudson?” Mom’s voice called from the top of the stairs. “Are you down there?”
Dad looked totally disappointed. “We both are.”
“What on earth are you doing down there—at this hour?”
“Teaching Hudson some middle-school survival skills.” Dad gave Hudson a half-smile.
“Right.” She laughed. “Okay, boys. Time for bed.”
Dad took a deep breath and blew it out quick. “Okay. Lesson over for tonight.” He reached for the pull string.
Five minutes earlier Hudson would have welcomed the interruption. Now he wasn’t so sure. “What about the thing I need to remember—you were going to tell me—”
“Tomorrow night.” Dad motioned toward the stairs. “I promise.”
Dad flipped on his flashlight app and pointed it at the stairs ahead of Hudson. “Middle school can be brutal. I worry about how you’ll adjust.”
“You worry too much.” Hudson stood. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“You won’t have to,” Dad whispered. “Trouble will find you.”
CHAPTER 2
THE SHORTEST DISTANCE BETWEEN two points is a straight line . . . but that isn’t always the safest route. Especially not in the Southfield Middle School cafeteria. Hudson stood at the lunchroom entrance and eyed the empty table in the back, near the windows. Perfect. Now the trick was getting there. No sign of Wolfe, Zattora, or Skirt. So far, so good.
Hudson looked for a friendly face. Lots of faces—no friends. Nobody motioning to come have a seat.
Starting eighth grade a month late totally stunk.
The teachers tried to make Hudson feel welcome, but when the bell rang and the period ended, he was invisible.
He could live with being a loner. What he didn’t want was to become a target. “Trouble will find you.” Dad’s words looped in Hudson’s head.
Move, Hudson. Waiting in the doorway would draw attention. He moved with purpose, navigating around students clogging the aisles, like he was meeting up with friends.
The octagon-shaped cafeteria tables reminded Hudson of giant stop signs. But he couldn’t stop.
Keep walking.
He passed Katrina, Alexa, and that girl with the heavy black eyeliner who hung with them. If Wolfe was the alpha male at Southfield, Katrina was the alpha female. All three girls sat at the same table, faces glued to their phones, no one talking to each other. None of them even noticed him—which was a relief. Phone zombies.
Halfway through the cafeteria and still there were no closer options for a place to sit. His empty table stood near the windows, giving a teasing view of the parking lot. Freedom.
Just stick with the plan, Hudson. He closed the distance, dropped his pack on the table, and swung a leg over the bench.
Out of his peripheral he picked up a group of guys heading toward him.
“Uh . . . we got this table.” Zachary Wolfe’s voice.
Hudson’s stomach tightened. Swirled. Adrenalin?
Wolfe set his tray on the table.
“No problem.” Rushing away would show fear. Slow and easy, Hudson. He held out his hand to Wolfe. “We’ve never officially met. My name is—”
Wolfe didn’t extend his hand. “You’re the homeschool freak. Keep moving.”
Zattora and Skirt laughed. Puppets.
Hudson felt his face getting warm. “Have a nice lunch.” Actually he’d like to see Wolfe choke on it.
Find a seat. Fast. They’d be watching him. He headed for the very next table.
Even with their backs to him he could tell the girl at the table was Maggie, and the big guy with the orange cap was the quiet one from history class that everyone called Pancake—even Mr. Cutter. The two of them were hunkered together over a phone, watching something.
