Chain Reaction Read online

  “Hey, loser!” My stepfather has a nasty sneer on his face. “Your mother tells me you’ve volunteered for the school’s First Aid team.”

  I nod, keeping my face carefully neutral although this is the absolute last thing I want to discuss today.

  “In my time only the sissies who were too scared to play rugby did that kind of thing,” he continues, before stuffing his mouth with mashed potato, spit dribbling out the sides of his mouth. “What a bloody waste of time.”

  My stepfather goes on and on about how useless I am – what a dud, what an absolute disgrace – but I find it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. Because now he’s made me think of Alexis, and thinking of Alexis is so painful that it makes my brain shudder.

  Once the zombie apocalypse begins, girls like Alexis will be glad to be walked home. They’ll be grateful for my protection, they’ll think I’m a hero, they’ll admire me. But I can’t even think about this now. I just can’t.

  “. . . seems to think that life under my roof is nothing but a paid holiday. You treat this place like a bloody hotel – eating my food, watching my TV, using my phone . . .”

  In order to keep myself from thinking about Alexis, I try concentrate on what my stepfather is saying. The gist of it seems to be that I am a disappointment to my mother and basically an all-round sad excuse for a human being. Same old story, in other words.

  “. . . work hard all day, and then I have to come home to your ungrateful face glaring at me across the dinner table . . .”

  It’s surprisingly difficult to focus on what somebody’s saying when food flies in all directions every time he opens his mouth. Also, have you ever tried not thinking of something? Well, let me tell you, not thinking about something is far more difficult than thinking about something. I don’t know why, but trying to block a thought from entering your brain somehow just makes you think about it more. So, although I’m trying not to . . .

  Alexis Thomas.

  Ouch. Just her name is enough to make me flinch.

  What is wrong with girls anyway? Why are they all so crazy insane? All I wanted to do was walk home with her. Spend a few more minutes in her company. Maybe cheer her up because she’s been looking so down lately.

  And then she calls me a slimeball and a creep, and looks as if she wants to cry.

  I mean, what have I done? Absolutely nothing. I just really, really like that girl. She always seemed so nice, and so real. But that didn’t stop her from grabbing my beating heart from my chest, and stomping on it, until all that remained was a mangled, bloody piece of dead flesh.

  And people think zombies are dangerous!

  “. . . it’s your fault too, Cheryl. You’re spoiling him rotten with all your. . .”

  I hate it when my stepfather starts picking on my mom. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that she’s twisting a napkin round and round in her hands, worried about the inevitable fight. And the worst is that I can’t do anything about it. Anything I say or do will only make it worse for her, so I look down, trying hard to remain calm, even though every muscle in my body is tensed to the point of actual pain.

  “Shane. Please. Not tonight.”

  “Not tonight? Why not? What’s so bloody special about tonight that I can’t say what I want to in my own house . . .”

  The real reason a zombie apocalypse would be a good idea, I think, is because the world clearly deserves some kind of disaster. I mean, I can’t be the only person to have noticed that everything is such an utter bloody mess.

  People suck. And nothing good ever happens. The strong keep hurting the weak. People with power keep hurting those without it. The rich keep hurting the poor – sucking them dry, like fat, disgusting leeches. And everyone pretends that everything’s okay. We all just go on, every day like the day before, pretending that we’re good people, while under the surface everything is disgusting and evil and full of hate. Men keep hurting women. Girls keep hurting boys. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing.

  Some days I wonder if it’s all worth it. If I really want to be a part of all this. What’s to say I won’t end up just like everyone else?

  It’s not even that I want to commit suicide or anything like that. It’s just that sometimes I want it all to stop.

  My mother is biting an already bloody fingernail. She seems to be close to tears, and suddenly I’m filled with a hatred so intense I almost choke on it. If only there was a way to get rid of this monster my mother married. If only the zombie apocalypse would start already. If only I had the courage to go get a gun and –

  What the hell?

  My stepfather suddenly drops his knife, clutching the table in front of him. And then – I swear! – he begins turning into a zombie.

  A zombie!

  I know it’s crazy, but in a matter of seconds my stepfather changes from the bulldog-faced bully I know and despise to an actual member of the living dead! His face becomes blotchy, he wheezes and sweats, grunts, turns red. He flails around brainlessly, turns purple, clutches his own throat with both hands.

  And then I understand. He’s choking.

  My whole body buzzes with adrenaline as I realise that my stepfather can’t breathe. That he has about four minutes before brain damage sets in.

  And then death.

  The thing to do when a person is choking, of course, is to stand behind them, place your hands above their navel, just under the breastbone, and then to do the Heimlich manoeuvre. I know how to do that too – we just learnt it in First Aid.

  But some terrible, dark thing inside me keeps me rooted to the spot.

  I don’t move. I look at him.

  I look at the man responsible for the bruises on my mother’s arms, for the terrible tension in her body and the fear in her eyes.

  I look at my stepfather coldly. I look at him as the seconds tick by, trying to make a decision. Then I look at my mother.

  She looks right back at me.

  Fifth Link

  Jessica Odendaal

  35 minutes ago

  Sad, sad day . . . Remember guys, theres a vigil for Dillan at the boys school tonight. Everybody must please bring a candle or lantern. And don’t wear black people. A white dress will be better, or school uniform if you don’t have one.

  Brenda Walters and 48 others like this

  Lisakhanya Hlope Who’s Dillan? And why’s there a vigil?

  30 minutes ago · Like

  Jessica Odendaal Dillan is Stephanie Adolphus’s little brother. He ran away from home a couple of weeks ago, during the June holiday. We’re going to burn candles and pray for he’s safe return tonight.

  27 minutes ago · Like

  Lisakhanya Hlope Oh. That’s terrible.

  26 minutes ago · Like

  Alexis Thomas Don’t wear black people??? Are you serious???

  25 minutes ago · 17 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal Yes I am. Its not a funeral. Their trying to remain optimistic that he’ll come home safely.

  24 minutes ago · 4 people like this

  Alexis Thomas Dude, you really have to figure out this comma thing. #justsaying

  23 minutes ago · 15 people like this

  Joan Paterson Not to mention the apostrophe.

  22 minutes ago · 9 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal I know I’m not that good at punctuation but thats so not the point now!! Stupid grammar nazis.

  20 minutes ago · 9 people like this

  Lisakhanya Hlope Why did he run away?

  20 minutes ago · Like

  Jessica Odendaal Nobody knows.

  18 minutes ago · Like

  Alexis Thomas Although I think most of us can probably take a wild guess . . .

  17 minutes ago · 12 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal What are you trying to say? Because if your saying Stephanie had something to do with it thats a terrible and completely untrue accusation! Stephanie would never bully her brother until he runs away. Never!

  16 m
inutes ago · 4 people like this

  Alexis Thomas You said it. Not me.

  14 min ago · 16 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal What? What did I say? I don’t understand.

  13 minutes ago · Like

  Alexis Thomas No surprises there.

  12 minutes ago · 8 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal Do you think I’m stupid? You take it for granite that I don’t understand your sarcasm but I do!

  11 minutes ago · 3 people like this

  Joan Paterson Okay, now I’m confused. What do countertops have to do with anything?

  10 minutes ago · 6 people like this

  Alexis Thomas I think she’s trying to say that her ignorance is set in stone.

  9 minutes ago · 14 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal Everybody stop liking their posts! Their just trying to be clever!!!

  8 minutes ago · 3 people like this

  Lisakhanya Hlope Guys, I think you’re all missing the point. A little boy is missing in this big, terrible world. Have a little respect.

  7 minutes ago · 25 people like this

  Joan Paterson Point taken, Lisakhanya. Sorry – the whole thing got a bit out of hand.

  6 minutes ago · 12 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal Oh please. An apology won’t help now Joan. Everybody can see your just being hippo critical.

  5 minutes ago · 1 person likes this

  Alexis Thomas Yes, Joan. What did the hippos ever do to you?

  4 minutes ago · 7 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal You can try to joke Alexis but it just shows what absolute trash you are. If my mom came to school drunk I would of died of shame.

  4 minutes ago · 2 people like this

  Alexis Thomas Dude, if I had your spelling and grammar skills, I would have died of shame.

  4 minutes ago · 6 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal Whatever Alexis. I’m unfriending you after this. I’m board with you now.

  3 minutes ago · 3 people like this

  Alexis Thomas Guess I’ll just have to chalk it up to experience . . .

  3 minutes ago · 11 people like this

  Lisakhanya Hlope Really, guys. Let it go. I think we’re all better than this.

  2 minutes ago · 9 people like this

  Jessica Odendaal Not Alexis. She and her whole family is garbage!

  2 minutes ago · 2 people like this

  Alexis Thomas *are

  1 minute ago

  Sixth Link

  Cape Town teenager caught smuggling drugs

  September 14 2014

  Indonesia – Cape Town schoolgirl Krystle Thomas (17) was arrested yesterday for allegedly attempting to smuggle 1.8kg of methamphe­tamine (Crystal meth, also known as “tik”) with a street value of almost R2.8 million into the resort island of Lombok, Indonesia. The country has some of the strictest drug laws in the world and prescribes the death penalty for drug trafficking. Given Thomas’s age however, she might only face a lengthy jail sentence if found guilty.

  It is not immediately clear why Thomas, daughter of acclaimed television producer Steven Thomas and a pupil at a prestigious Cape Town school, agreed to transport the drugs. School records show that Thomas received special permission to absent herself from school for five days in

  order to complete a modelling assignment in Indonesia. Her model­­­ling agency, however, denies any knowledge of the assignment.

  According to some sources Thomas is pleading innocence, claiming that the briefcase in question does not belong to her and that she was merely trans­porting it as a favour for her boyfriend and manager, Joe Murphy. Murphy has denied any close ties to Thomas, as well as ownership of the briefcase.

  Others have also expressed some doubt about her inno­cence. School friend Stephanie Adolphus (17) said that a few months ago Thomas “lost her way in life”.

  “Krystle has always been wild and irresponsible, but – and I’m sorry to say this – she became a real brat once she started modelling. I think she just became too full of herself, you know, believing that she’s better than others and that she doesn’t have to play by the rules. To hear that she has been caught as a drug mule simply breaks my heart, but I can’t honestly say I’m surprised.”

  According to Patricia Gerber, director of NGO Locked Up Abroad, the rate at which South Africans are arrested for drug trafficking is “shocking”. Police spokes­woman Alicia Methuso agreed, saying that in the past year they had noticed a “marked increase” in the number of South Africans who have been arrested for possession of methamphetamine.

  “Meth can be cooked up anywhere with everyday ingredients such as flu medication, drain cleaner and battery acid. Because it is relatively cheap, it could be given to a ‘decoy drug mule’ to divert attention from the mule transporting the more expensive drugs such as cocaine.”

  Thomas is expected to be charged within the next couple of days. Neither of her parents was available for comment.

  Full Circle

  You have an hour before the bus arrives to take you home. You kill time by reading the newspaper in the school library. On page two there’s an article about a girl at your school. She was caught trying to smuggle drugs into Indonesia, and may be facing the death penalty. It’s the biggest scandal this school has ever seen, the only thing anyone at school could talk about all day. But you didn’t join in the gossip and speculation. You feel bad for the drug mule’s sister, a funny, loud-mouthed girl in your hockey team whom you’ve always kind of liked.

  There is something else that bothers you about this story. You remember a certain incident – it tugs at your conscience, won’t let you go. It was nothing, really: a desperate look she once gave you before you turned and walked away. It happened months ago, and it really wasn’t that big a deal. You probably imagined it.

  Still. The memory makes you feel strangely uncomfortable.

  You shake off the feeling, continue reading the paper.

  The world, as usual, is a complete mess. Poverty – Pollution – Injustice – Racism – Sexism – Greed – Crime – Stupidity. You put the paper down in disgust.

  You walk outside towards your favourite spot: a patch of grass surrounded by some old trees at the very furthest end of the school grounds. At times when the world gets you down you like to sit there, quietly. You don’t know why, but it usually makes you feel better.

  The sun is warm and lovely against your skin. You close your eyes and try to relax. It is very peaceful and very quiet. You are about to fall asleep when you hear a gunshot.

  Could it be a car backfiring? No. You live in Nyanga. You know what a gunshot sounds like.

  You open your eyes. You have a bad feeling about this. You sit up and look around.

  Nothing.

  But then you hear a whimpering sound coming from the direction of the fence that separates your school from the boys’. You walk towards the fence. Then you hear the sound again. You run.

  It’s not easy to clamber over the fence, but you are suddenly full of adrenaline. On the other side you find a boy with a big red wound in his chest. He has a gun in his hand and under his brown skin his face is a horrible, ashy grey. He’s making small whimpering noises.

  You make an emergency call on your cellphone and wait for the ambulance to arrive. You have no idea what to do for the wounded boy. You are deeply distressed.

  The boy is trying to say something, so you kneel down next to him and put your ear close to his lips.

  “I let him . . . die,” is what you think he’s saying. “He . . . choked to death.”

  “Shhhh,” you say, “just try to relax.”

  “I’m . . . evil,” the boy whispers, “just . . . like . . . everyone else. ”

  You look at the boy. He does not look evil. He looks like any other boy. You realise you are crying.

  When the rescue workers finally arrive the boy is still breathing. But only just. You see one paramedic shaking his head at his colleague. />
  A small crowd gathers. Every­body wants to know what happened. You tell them you don’t know, and then you leave.

  Nobody tries to stop you.

  You’ve missed your bus, so you have to wait for the next one. When it finally arrives there is standing room only. You put your school bag down and grab hold of the hand rail. You realise that you’re very tired.

  When the bus pulls away, you look out the window but you don’t see much. You are thinking about the world, about how much sadness there is. How much tragedy and how much ugliness.

  The bus comes to a stop at the last traffic light before the highway. Your feet are hurting already. Your back is hurting. You don’t feel well.

  You see that someone has written graffiti on the wall of the bridge towering above you. You frown, trying to make out what the big red letters say. After a while you realise that it’s some kind of slogan.

  OUR CHOICES SHAPE

  THE WORLD WE LIVE IN

  EVERY DAY

  You shake your head at such nonsense. How can one person, someone small and powerless like yourself, shape anything in this horrible world? It’s all such a mess. Such an utter bloody mess.

  As Table Mountain fades into the background, you close your eyes and you fight against the sudden sense of hopelessness that threatens to overwhelm you.

  The Decision

  You have a pretty boring life. There’s nothing particularly special about you.

  You do well at school – you have to, because you attend your better-than-average school on a scholarship. But you are not the top student in your grade. You are not even in second place. (You are third.)