“Item 415,” the auctioneer says.

            Mary Hayes, her hands shaking as they often do, can’t believe it.  She’s been attending these police auctions since Paul passed.  It’s a way to pass time, she tells herself, a way to get out of the house and do something.  Otherwise, she sits around and worries about the neighbor’s dog getting loose.  Worrying too much about what it’s like to be alone.

            So she sits at these things and hopes something catches her eye.  Last week a nightstand, three weeks ago an ice cooler.  But what the auctioneer holds up is something she never looks for but hopes is held up every time she attends.  She never expected today is the day she finds it.

****

            Ken Ramirez stood next to his locker waiting for Gerard Halsey to show up.  The halls were crowded, freshman pushing their way through the crowds.  Most of the upper classmen didn’t care about getting to class, but even now, in late May, the frosh still looked nervous.  Where the fuck was Gerard?  They should have been in the parking lot ten minutes ago smokin’ up. 

            He scanned the crowd some more.  Mr. Teasley, fifth period Algebra shot at Ramirez with his thumb and forefinger.  When the teacher had his back to Ramirez, Ken flipped him off.  Fail me, mother fucker.  I’ll show you.

            Gerard pushed his way through the crowd, with some shrimp behind him.  Ramirez had seen the kid before, but didn’t know his name. 

            When he reached Ramirez, Gerard punched his fist.  The kid stood next to them expectantly.  Gerard smiled at Ramirez, then looked at the kid.

            “Get the fuck away from me, I told you,” Gerard said.

            The kid paled, but stood his ground.  “But you said . . . “

            “Don’t you have any fucking friends?”

            “You.”

            “I ain’t your friend.  Come on, Ken,” Gerard said.

            They turned away from the kid and headed down the hall.  Ramirez turned back once and saw the kid sag against a set of lockers.  The kid’s chin hit his chest, and he crossed his arms.  What annoying, whiney shit.  Act like a man.

            “What’s that fuck’s name again?”

            “Bart Morrison.”

            Ramirez shook his head.  “Not anymore, man.  He’s Wagon Train.”

            Gerard laughed.  “I like that.  Followin’ me everywhere.”

            “Bothers you, huh?”

            “No shit.”

            Ramirez looked over.  “I got an idea.  You gonna see him eighth?”

            “If I gotta be there.”

            Ramirez smiled.  “Yeah.  Go, tell the kid we’ll pick him up tonight, like nine.”

            “What?  Come on, you shittin’?”
            “Kid wants to be a part of something.  We’ll make him a Holy Terror.”

            “D-More ain’t gonna like that.”

            “Don’t worry about D-More,” Ramirez said.  

            Gerard’s eyes widened, and he started to smile.  Ramirez knew he understood. 

            “Let’s go light a blunt,” he said.

****

            “Whoo hoo!” Ken Ramirez shouted, slamming his foot on the gas.  “Wagon Train, we are comin’ for you!”

            “Yo,” Gerard Halsey said.  “Slow down.  We don’t need to get pulled over.”

            Ramirez stepped on the brakes and let the car slow to the speed limit.  The clunky Toyota Tercel shuddered at the sudden change in speed.  Jay-Z pumped on the radio.

            “This shit’s old,” Halsey said.

            “Stop complaining.  Tonight’s going to be fun.”

            “Yeah,” Halsey leered.  “Wagon Train is gonna get his.”

            Ramirez punched the steering wheel and felt the entire chasse shake.  “He’s not going to know what happened.”

            They rolled on to Fair Hill Road, stopping in front of a two story, blue aluminum sided house.  Ramirez leaned on the horn.  The door swung open and Bart Morrison held up a finger.  Wait a minute.

            “How the fuck you meet this kid anyway?” Ramirez asked.  “I just know he’s in your eighth.”

            “Eighth period?  That’s how I met him.  Miss Lancaster’s.  Put us in alphabetical order, kid sat behind me.  Never shut up.  Thought I was the shit, I guess.  Started talking to me, annoying the hell out of me.”

            “Asshole, he’s been hanging around for three weeks.  Why didn’t you beat the shit out of him?”

            “Tried.  Didn’t work.  Kid wants to be with us.”

            “He’s gonna find out what that’s like tonight.”

            Halsey and Ramirez punched fists.

Bart Morrison swung the door open, said a quick goodbye to someone.  Probably mommy, Ramierez thought.  He bounded down the steps, dressed in what he probably thought looked badass.  Blue jeans, a Metallica shirt, and a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off.  What a dumb shit.

Halsey, as planned, got out of the front seat and into the back.

“You’re letting me sit in the front?” Morrison said before getting in.

“It’s your night.” Halsey gave him a smile and slapped Morrison on the back of the neck as he sat.

“Is this part of the initiation?”

“Shut the fuck up and don’t ask questions,” Ramirez said and floored it.  The car hestitated then accelerated fast, like a bullet out of the barrel.  Next time he found one in a parking lot, Ramirez would take it for a test drive.  Make sure it worked.

The drove up Van Houten Ave, making a left on to Valley Road.  At this time of night, just after nine, the streets were basically empty, and the closest speed trap was in the Masonic Temple behind them on Van Houten.  Ramirez didn’t see a cop car, so he did fifty.

Morrison bounced up and down in his seat, looking both nervous and excited.  Halsey would alternately squeeze his shoulder and smile or pop Morrison in the back of the head and tell him to calm the fuck down.  Ramirez hung a left into the St. Phillip’s Church parking lot. 

The church always reminded Ramirez of an IHOP.  It didn’t have several steeples and wasn’t made of stone like most of the churches in Clifton.  Instead it came to a triangle peak and seemed to be made of wood.  The lights in the adjoining elementary school were out, and there weren’t any other cars. 

Ramirez turned toward Morrison, who had to be shitting his pants about now.  But it seemed like he was doing it with excitement. 

“We’re here,” Ramirez smiled. 

“This is it,” Morrison mumbled, looking around.

“Yeah,” Halsey said.

“So what do I gotta do?”

Ramirez smiled and reached in the compartment next to the driver’s seat.  He pulled out a silver rosary.  Handed it to Morrison.

“Here you go, Wagon Train.”

“What?”  Morrison picked the rosary up.  “What am I going to do with this?”

“Well,” Halsey said, his voice about as sweet as Frosted Flakes, “what’s the name of our gang?”

“Holy Terrors.”

“Fuck, yeah.  So before the terror comes?”

“Holy.”

“Exactly.  So the first part of this initiation, we need you to pray.”

Morrison let the beads of the rosary fall through his fingers.  “Pray?”

“Yeah.  You know, ‘Our father, who art in heaven . . .’”  Halsey’s voice scared even Ramirez, which, at the same time, excited the hell out of him.

Morrison closed his eyes, as if he understood now.  Started to whisper.  Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Halsey now had the thick leather belt in both hands.

Thy kingdom come.

The belt came over the backseat and wrapped itself around Morrison’s neck.  Morrison’s eyes bulged in shock and the air whooshed from his body.  He tried to inhale, but the air wouldn’t come. 

“Come on, keep praying, Wagon Train.  This is all part of it,” Ramirez said, lips parted in a smile.

Thy . . . will . . . be . . . done.

Halsey must have loosened his grip for an instant, letting Morrison get some air. 

On . . . earth . . . as it . . . is . . . in . . . heaven. 

Now Morrison’s hands went up to his throat, the beads still running through his fingers.  He scratched at the leather, but it wouldn’t give.  Halsey was flat out laughing now.

Give us . . . this day. . . our . . . our. . .

“Daily bread,” Ramirez said.  “You’re doing good Wagon Train.  Just thought I’d help you out.”

Morrison’s arms flailed now, reaching out for anything, punching at the closed window, the rosary clattering against glass.

“It’s almost over,” Halsey said.

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.  As if finding some inner strength, Morrison got the words out in one full push of air.  Probably some of the last he had in him.  His face turned purple.

Ramirez could see from the angle Halsey held the belt, he was pulling it even tighter.  The rosary beads fell from Morrison’s hand on to the floor.

“Last line,” Halsey screamed.

Ramirez could see relief in Morrison’s eyes.  It was almost over.  Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

“Amen,” Ramirez whispered.

Halsey pulled the belt tighter and Morrison’s eyes bulged again.  No sound came from him.  His feet kicked out against the dashboard, his mouth hung open in a silent scream.

“You know why we’re doing this, you little shit?” Ramirez got in his face.  “Same reason we call you Wagon Train.  You can’t stay away.  You follow us around.  You don’t leave us alone.  You think you’re Holy Terror material?  You ain’t even short bus material.  You’ll never follow us around again.  You won’t follow anybody.”

Morrison’s body gave one last shudder, feeling much like the Tercel did just minutes early.  Then he went limp, eyes lifeless.  The body didn’t flinch, didn’t move.  Bart Morrison, mother fucking Wagon Train, was dead.

Once they got the fuck out of the car, Halsey called D-More on his cell phone.

“Yo,” he said.  “We got in a little shit.  Need you to pick us up.”  He gave the address.

The walked to Valley road and leaned against the St. Phillip’s sign.  Ramirez, adrenaline coursing through his body tried to stay cool.

“We should do that with everybody.”

“What?”

“Make ‘em pray.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.  We are the Holy Terrors.”

“Hell yeah,” Halsey said.  They punched fists.  “That little fuck ain’t gonna follow me around no more.”

D-More pulled up ten minutes later in a sturdy Mazda.  Getting in the car, Ramirez said, “Fuck man.”

“What?” Halsey asked.

“We forgot to wear gloves.”

“Fuck it.  Clifton cops ain’t gonna find us.  They’re dumb as shit.”

****

            Mary Hayes eyes light up as she places her first bid.  Paul and she would pray every night.  She still prays the Lord’s Prayer. 

            The auctioneer notices her bid, records it.  He looks around the room and doesn’t see anyone else bidding.  Calls for a little more.

            When Paul died, Mary stood at the wake and dropped the silver rosary they prayed with onto the casket.  It was buried with Paul. 

            Now Mary prays without a rosary.  It’s uncomfortable but she can’t just buy another one.  She needs on that was silver, the same as Paul’s so they can pray together, Paul in heaven, Mary at home. 

            The auctioneer holds the silver rosary over his head and tells Mary she bought it inexpensively.  Mary smiles to herself, rubbing a tear away from her eye.

            She wonders, as she places the rosary in her handbag, who the good person was who prayed on it last.  Someone, she is sure, who is at God’s right hand now.  Someone who can do no evil. 

            Mary Hayes takes the bus home, smiling the entire way.  She isn’t alone.  Not anymore.