Gunfire erupted from everywhere and I felt the impact of dozens of balls hitting me in the chest, arms, and head. I tried to stop running and tripped into the dirt.

“Nice one, Fisher,” said a voice I recognized. “Did you really think we didn’t hear you ten minutes ago?”

I rolled over and saw Oakland standing at the door to one of the bunkers, his gun still trained on me. There were people in two other doors, and one in a ghillie suit in the tall grasses at the edge of the clearing. I’d never seen any of them.

Clumsily, I stumbled to my feet, raised my hands over my head, and called out “hit.”

Another shot slapped the back of my head, and the wet trickling paint felt like blood. I spun to see Mouse.

“Hit!” I shouted again.

Another ball snapped into my back, just below my shoulder blade, and I turned back to face Oakland. Where was the ref?

“Think you’re pretty awesome?” Oakland shouted, and fired five more shots. They would have hit me in the groin if I hadn’t moved an instant before. I was glad that he couldn’t see my face, because I was having trouble hiding how much it hurt.

An instant later a Society ref appeared in the clearing, blew her whistle, and looked me up and down.

“Looks like overkill,” she said, frowning at the mass of paint spots on my body. “Did they shoot you after you called ‘hit’?”

I glanced back at Oakland. Maybe I could get him to lay off a bit. “No.”

The ref looked suspiciously at the Havoc team, and then back at me. “Head off the field.” She blew her whistle to resume play.

There was the loud hiss of a gun behind me—two sharp pops—and then Lily’s voice. “We win.”

I turned to see her hand on Rosa’s arm.

Mouse’s mask was dripping with paint, and Oakland had been shot in the neck.

Chapter Eight

Hey, Benson,” Jane shouted, catching up with us and bumping me with her shoulder. The gangs were slowly forming back together as the players trickled out of the forest.

“Thanks for healing me.”

“No problem,” she said, stepping back and taking a good look at my tan sweats that were now polka-dotted with red and blue paint. She grinned. “I go to all that trouble and look what you do.”

I tried not to smile. “I was being heroic.”

Jane glanced over at Lily and Mason.

“Don’t look at me,” Mason said, holding up his hands. “I wasn’t there.”

Lily, still looking ahead at the forest floor, smiled. “It was definitely something.”

Jane laughed and bumped me again. “I told you this place was fun.”

“Yeah.” I glanced over at Lily. I wondered whether she’d been playing for fun, too. The way she acted on the field, I’d have guessed it was for survival.

Soon, Curtis and Carrie joined us, holding hands, and in a few minutes almost all of the V’s were back together, joking and celebrating. Lily explained her actions several times, and the others relayed their stories. We’d probably been walking for ten minutes before I realized that I was actually having fun. I felt like I was with friends, and it felt good.

Jane told me about the party we could expect—it was the most regular of the rewards for winning at paintball. The school sent food in through one of the elevators, and it was always something amazing. Havoc did a pretty good job with the cafeteria food, but the food at the party was more like a five-star restaurant’s. They even sent the kinds of food that we never got through the cafeteria: soda, candies, cakes, brownies, and all sorts of snacks. The parties usually lasted long into the night, and the school waived the rules about curfew and uniforms. It sounded great.

We emerged from the forest and stepped onto the grass surrounding the track. My legs were sore as we walked—I could still feel the imprint of each paintball, and I knew it would be worse tomorrow—but I ignored it. I was having too much fun.

“So, Benson,” Jane said, talking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Lily gave her version of the win. How about yours?”

“It was Saving Private Ryan,” I said. “The massacre on Omaha Beach.”

As our eyes met she gave me a mischievous grin, and the crowd fell silent as they looked to me. We were entering the sculpture garden on the edge of the track, and I hopped up on top of the carved stump.

“Did you ever see the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” I asked, turning to face the V’s and preparing to tell my embarrassing story.

But I instantly knew from their faces that something was wrong. Their smiles were gone, replaced with blank and somber stares. Jane was holding her breath, and Lily bit her lip. Mason stepped through the crowd and grabbed my arm, pulling me down from the stump.

“What?”

Instead of answering he pointed down at the carvings.

Heather Lyon
Died in the war
Will be missed

On the side, shallower and less well carved, someone had scrawled, I love you.

I stared at Mason, too horrified to speak, and then looked at another of what I had assumed to be sculptures—this one a pile of basketball-size rocks. The top one was flat and someone had painted words on it.

JEFF “L.A.” HOLMES
SUMMER ’09

Curtis put his hand on my shoulder. “This is the graveyard. I’m sorry. Someone should have told you.”

“What do you mean?” I said, now frantically moving from grave to grave. “How are these people dying?”

Mason spoke. “What did I tell you? This place is dangerous.”

Curtis nodded, following me as I moved from a log to a small wooden plaque to a large smooth stone. The stone had fresh flowers on it that couldn’t have been more than a few days old. I read the name—some other kid, just like me.

“It used to be worse,” Curtis said. “Before the truce.”

“What was the war?”

“It was as the gangs were forming. Things got pretty bad.”

I stared at him and then at the faces of the other V’s. There were tears on a few cheeks. Jane had turned away. My chest felt tight and I could feel my hands balling into fists, almost on their own. These people hadn’t been killed by the school. They’d been killed by other students. There were a dozen graves, at least.

“Come on,” Curtis said. “Let’s get back inside.”

I refused to go to the infirmary, even though Mason pestered me for the rest of the day. When we’d gotten back to the dorm and I took off my shirt, the one small bruise from my failed escape had multiplied into at least fifteen welts on my chest and back, and eight more on my arms. There were two lumps on the back of my head, under my hair, and someone had hit me in the ankle—that one broke the skin.

After showering, I spent the evening in my room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and I definitely didn’t want to join the party. On the walk back I’d felt like maybe I was fitting in and that seemed like a good thing. Maybe this school, for all the craziness, was better than any other alternative. The food was good, the paintball was fun, and I was making friends—real friends. But the graveyard had changed that. I didn’t want friends and I didn’t want food. I wanted to get out.

Curtis dropped by as the sun was going down and tried to talk me into going to the party, but I told him I was too sore and too exhausted from sleeping in the window well. It was a lousy excuse—he’d been through worse yesterday and hadn’t gotten any more sleep than I had—but I guessed he knew the real reason why I didn’t want to go. Still, he played along.