The Eighth Guardian by Meredith McCardle

have called for backup. Panic screams in all directions from their eyes. This crowd is about to pummel them. One man yells to string them up, and I gasp. This is not at all how I remember the Boston Massacre from my history textbooks. Where are the soldiers firing on helpless, unarmed civilians? These colonists are a mob, and this is mob mentality. There’s no stopping this.
    “I can’t!” I shout to Zeta. “There are too many people!”
    A light-skinned black man bumps into me as he rushes to the front of the crowd. He looks back for a split second, as if he’s sorry, but then turns and runs toward a white man standing in the center shouting the loudest. The white man seems to be a leader of the group. He’s shouting cries, which the crowd echoes.
    “That’s Crispus Attucks,” Zeta says, pointing to the black man. “And that”—he points to the white man leading the crowd—“is the rope maker Samuel Gray. Both of these men are going to die today. Do you want to know who else?”
    My mouth falls open as I watch two of the soldiers shout at the men to back up and keep order. One man throws a stick that hits a soldier straight in the jaw, and the crowd cheers at the crunch.
    Zeta grabs my arm and points to two boys pushing their way to the front of the crowd. “James Caldwell and Samuel Maverick. Victims three and four.”
    One of the boys turns to the other. “Is there a fire?” he shouts. “We have to help!”
    He doesn’t know. Neither of them does. They’re about my age. Sixteen. Seventeen at most. They shouldn’t die like this. I try to break away from Zeta to run to them, to try to pull them back, pull all of them back, but Zeta holds on to me tight.
    “There’s number five.” He points to a man standing on the edge. “Patrick Carr.”
    I stop breathing when I look at Patrick Carr. He knows what’s about to happen. It’s written all over his face. But that’s not what gets me. It’s the young boy standing next to him. Patrick Carr is a father.
    “Go home,” he says to his son.
    “But—” the boy says.
    “Now. You go home now.”
    His son turns and runs away, as fast as his little legs will carry him.
    The crowd throws more sticks. Rocks. Whatever they can find. A big, burly man launches toward a soldier. “You sons of bitches to fire! You can’t kill us all! Fire! Why don’t you fire? You dare not fire!” he shouts. I gasp.
    “And there’s who we’re helping.” Zeta points to a man across the crowd. “Christopher Monk. He is going to be shot today but will not die for nearly ten years, during which time the city of Boston will pay an exorbitant sum to see to his care. We’re going to ensure the money gets put to a better use.”
    I barely notice the guy Zeta’s pointing at, a guy about my age holding something that looks like a small baseball bat and shouting at the soldiers. I’m still staring at Patrick Carr. The crowd swells forward toward the soldiers.
    “When I give you the signal, you are to run to Monk and pull him to the ground,” Zeta yells over the roar of the crowd.
    A shot rings out, and I duck my head, then look toward the soldiers. One of them has his rifle raised in the air.
    “What?” I yell to Zeta.
    “No!” Samuel Gray shouts in the middle of the crowd. “God damn you, don’t fire!”
    But it’s too late. Shots ring out, and the crowd screams as Samuel Gray falls. I squat down, but Zeta jerks me back up. “Hang on! Almost!”
    I can’t think. Men zip this way and that, ducking their heads and screaming. Soldiers are still firing. Patrick Carr waves to someone across the street and motions the person away, then steps out to cross.
    No! He can’t! His little boy is going to have to grow up without a father. I know what that’s like. And I can’t let him feel that pain. I twist away from Zeta and run just as the crowd reaches us.
    “Iris!” Zeta shouts. “Don’t do anything!”
    I block him out. I head right toward Patrick Carr. I’ll take