Borderline by Allan Stratton

officially out of the house, and his mom’s adrift in the rec room La-Z-Boy, tuned to the Home Shopping Network.
    So anyway, it’s one A.M. and the three of us are online. Andy and I are totally grossed out: Marty’s mooning the screen. I don’t know whether to laugh or gag. We’re talking fifty pounds of marbled lard with a couple of cherry-sized zits.
    Marty’s hands move his cheeks so it looks like his butt is talking: “This is your father, Sammy. I think I gotta sneeze.” The ass-puppet rips a fart.
    â€œYou pig!” I wave my hands like I can smell it over the ether.
    Andy goes for a pee break. Marty and I horse around while he’s gone. It’s weird. Hermit Island sucked so bad that we bonded again. Now we’re buddies again like in the old days.
    Suddenly, Andy’s back. “Sammy!” he gasps. “I looked out the bathroom window. There’s strangers down on the golf course, other side of your hedge!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAt least five or six of them. It’s dark, they’re wearing black, I can’t tell how many for sure.”
    â€œVery funny.”
    â€œNo kidding, bro. They’re facing your house. I think they’ve got dogs.”
    â€œIf you’re trying to scare me, Andy, quit it.”
    â€œI’m not. It’s what I saw.”
    My guts melt. “You said Eddy’d never come on my property.”
    â€œWho says it’s Eddy?”
    â€œWho else would it be?”
    â€œWant me to call the cops?” Marty asks.
    â€œNo,” I say. “They’re the last thing I need.”
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œI’m gonna check it out.”
    â€œI got your back,” Andy says. “I’ll be in the can with my cell. Any trouble, it’s 911, whether you like it or not.”
    â€œWhat about me? What do I do?” from Marty.
    â€œSit tight,” Andy says.
    I turn off my light, and feel my way to the basement stairs. I know my way to the kitchen by heart. Upstairs is completely dark, except for the spill from the street lamp, splashing across the hall floor from the baywindow in the living room. I tiptoe to the family room, back pressed to the wall.
    I have a flash of Andy and Marty laughing on their webcams. If this is a joke…
    The curtains on the French doors leading out to the patio are closed.
    I hear a sound. Can’t make it out. I stand stock-still. It stops. I edge forward, barely daring to breathe. Eddy. His gang. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Then I flash on them spray-painting our back wall.
    They could.
    I run to the French doors. Throw open the curtains.
    Nothing. Nobody. The yard’s empty.
    I back up toward the kitchen, go to the window on my right. I peek between the curtains. From the corner of my eye, I see a red dot appear on the fabric. It disappears. Where did it go? Suddenly, the beam hits my eyes. What the hell? Holy shit, I’m caught in a scope!
    I drop to the floor. “Mom! Dad! Help!”
    I roll to the French doors to close those curtains too. Two masked men leap into view. They boot the panes by the locks. The doors smash open. They charge in.
    Our alarm goes off.
    I scramble down the hall. “MOM! DAD!”
    I’m tackled, foot of the stairs. My arm yanks up behind me.
    I see Mom at the top. She’s caught in the beam of a flashlight.
    Mom screams. Men and dogs run up after her. She races toward the bedroom. Two of the men grab her and drag her into the office.
    â€œMOM!!!”
    A knee drops on my neck.
    â€œFBI! FREEZE!”

Eighteen
    T he world’s a blur of shouts. Shadows. Boots. Dogs.
    â€œFB—?”
    â€œI SAID FREEZE!”
    The knee jams into my face. It burns my left cheek into the carpet. Squashes into my eye.
    Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Except—
    Dad in a headlock. Men crowded around him. Attack dogs at the ready.
    Dad’s dazed from the Demerol. “Who—?