Bright Eyes

14.2. What We Talk About When We Talk About Last Night

    A hand raised up, slowly. "Uh, dudes," Max began, all eyes turning to him, "I've got something to say."

    "I didn't mean it," responded Jack.

"I know, but hear me out," said Max, giving each one of his friends a glance, the look in his eyes trying to convince them to listen. "Trust me, it's important."

Jack nodded. "A'ight. Spill."

"Those guys we saw last night, I've seen other guys like them before. They didn't look like Slender Man, though—they weren't tall and pale like those guys from last night. They were shorter, brown skin, black hair . . . kinda like Damien. No offense," said Max, raising up both hands toward Damien.

Damien shrugged, leaned back. "None taken."

"And they had the same, um, air, vibe—the dark, creepy, dangerous kind of vibe. And they dressed the same way, too. Dark clothes, sunglasses—even at night."

Jack flitted his eyes over to Damien, who was looking right at him, brown eyes under thick eyebrows telling Jack, Yeah. I'm thinking about that night, too.

Lyn bit her lip. "What happened?"

"When did you see them?" asked Sander, remembering his own first encounter. "Where?"

"Months ago. March this year. Back in Florida." Max paused, sipped some hot chocolate, and went on to say, "The night of the talent show back in my old high school. We took a cab home because the car wouldn't start. Dad left it with his mechanic friend that night. And we didn't think—" Max breathed in, preparing himself to say this out loud. He hadn't thought this through. But they needed this. They had to know. "They were waiting all this time," he went on. "Both of them standing right at our front door, waiting for us to get home. It was all planned out, and we didn't know—I didn't know."

"Max," said Sander, seriously concerned, "what happened?"

"Because by the sound of it, I can tell this isn't going to be good," added Jack.

"Because it isn't," replied Max. "But we're trying to get to the truth, right?"

Jack nodded. "Go on."

"That night," continued Max. But then he took another pause, another deep breath. "That night, one of them had a gun, and he started shooting—first, the tires; then a bullet straight to the cab driver's head. I tried to tell them even before it happened. I told Mom and Dad that there were a bunch of guys right in front of our house, and that we needed to get away from there. But they said they don't see anyone, that I shouldn't be joking about things like that. So I told the cab driver the same thing, but he just chuckled—until we heard the gun shots, until we saw the cab driver die before our eyes. That's when Dad told us to duck and stay low.

"They stopped shooting, though. So it was quiet for a while, until we heard footsteps coming our way. So Dad told us to sneak out the doors, quietly. And we did."

"Then you made a run for it?" guessed Lyn. "You and your family escaped unharmed?"

Max shook his head. "No. Because the second we got out, someone was there to stop us. And it was that guy we met last night, the dude who helped us. He told us to be quiet. 'Don't be afraid. I'm here to help,' that's what he said. But we could still hear the other guys  making their way to us, and this guy said—Hang on, let's give him a name, just to make things clear and a lot less confusing. So Mister Brighteyes said—"

"Mister Brighteyes?" questioned Jack, his face screwing up. "You serious about that?"

"His eyes are pretty bright when you see them up close," explained Sander. "Bright blue, like really-really-hot-fire-in-the-dark kind of blue."