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Dallas Winston didn’t believe in God.
That was all he could ironically think about as he sat in a dusty, abandoned church in a hodunk, middle-of-nowhere town in Oklahoma called Windrixville.
He’d never heard of it before today. However, that wasn’t saying much. He hadn’t heard about much of anything west of New York City in all his fifteen years.
He’d stowed away on a freight train for over two days. But when he started running out of food, he had no choice but to hop off during a service stop to look for something to eat, only to come back and find the train gone.
He’d hoped to get all the way to LA. Dally didn’t remember much of his mother before she’d died of an overdose, but he remembered that was where she came from. It was as good an idea as any. As far away from New York as possible.
He kept looking over his shoulder, like his gang really would have followed him this far. But why shouldn’t they have? It was his fault that their youngest, their little brother, was dead.
Dallas would die before admitting that out loud. But he knew it as well as the rest of them. That boy had followed him around like a little puppy, looked at him with stars in his eyes. Dally would be lying if he said it hadn’t bolstered his ego a shit ton.
But he’d become too prideful. Tried to play God, which felt wrong to think about in a church. He’d sent a kid in his place to take care of his dirty work in Queens. All because what? He just felt like it?
That flippant way of thinking had cost Eddie his life. Dally had watched him die in Anthony’s arms as their gang leader looked on helplessly, cradling him like a small child. Dally’s careless words had led to his gang’s fourteen-year-old getting beaten to death. All because he would have done anything to impress Dally.
He had been small for his age. Made his big, black eyes look like they were almost popping out of his head. His skin had been a bit darker, his hair black and shaggy. He had been slight—a good fighter, but not built to take on too many in a rumble.
The kid’s bloodied and broken body haunted Dally every time he closed his eyes. His cruel words had caused the death of not only the boy but also of his relationship with his gang. He could never go back.
In the entire world, Dallas had nobody.
On the surface, that sounded tough. He didn’t need nobody. But as he sat on a rotting pew in the abandoned church he’d taken for a hideout after following an old dirt road, listening to the complete silence, something he’d never heard in all his life, the loneliness started to creep in.
He must be the only soul for miles. He could hear his own breath, his rushing blood, his screaming guilt. He heard the faint bird call of “whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will.” A trail whistle blew. The cry of what he could only guess was an owl sounded.
He’d hop a train again in the morning. While the solitude was safe, it was suffocating. He wasn’t built for the country.
In the pew in front of him sat crumbling hymnals with loose pages. A broken stained glass window with the image of a cross let a little orange, yellow, and red light stream through above the altar. Something felt spookily reverent about the place, as if some remnant of worship lingered in the air.
If God did exist, Dallas thought ruefully, he’d hate that someone like Dally had taken up residence in his old house. Someone who had a boy’s blood on his hands. Someone who’d never done a good thing in his life.
“It’s just for the night,” Dally promised under his breath, like speaking any louder might break something important.
And yet, as the sunset drew into night, for the first time in days, Dally felt strangely protected. No one would find him here. It was the perfect place for laying low. He’d have to keep this in mind, if he ever had the misfortune of doing something else so irredeemable or passing through the sleepy town of Windrixville in the future.
He hopped another train early the next morning with a stash of food, ready to hunker down for days more to get to LA. But the train stopped sooner than expected in a city which the street signs identified as Tulsa.
As Dally waited out the service stop, he peeked out the car doors, taking it all in. The area looked rough, urban. Not quite home, but much more than that Windrixville had been. Dally hadn’t known Oklahoma had any big cities. He’d imagined it would all be farmland.
He was about to hide himself back completely in the car when something—someone—caught his eye.
No.
Dally felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. That was Eddie. That was Eddie.
But no. That couldn’t be. That was ridiculous. Eddie was dead and in the ground in an unmarked grave in the Bronx.
Looking closer, it became clear that this was a different kid. But, man, did they look similar. That small, slight build, like he hadn’t been eating enough. Those big, black eyes. That dark skin and shaggy, black hair, though this kid’s was greased.
This kid also had one hell of a shiner. Had he gotten in some street fight? He was walking at the edge of the train yard, scuffing his sneakers in the gravel, like he had nothing better to do.
Dally should’ve stayed on the train. He should’ve ignored this boy and kept for LA. But then the boy looked at him, and he knew there was no going back.
If a God existed, this couldn’t mean anything but Dally’s second chance.
Dally looked both ways for railyard workers before hopping out of the train car, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking toward the boy as nonchalantly as possible.
The kid jumped, backing away so fast that he slipped in the gravel. He regained his footing and held up his trembling hands, casting nervous glances behind him, like he’d make off in a mad dash any moment. “I ain’t got no money,” he stammered in a soft, rough voice.
“I don’t want no money,” Dally said, matching his volume. “Wondered if you knew a good place to eat ‘round here. I’m new in town.”
The boy didn’t put his hands down. He eyed Dallas warily. “You talk funny.”
“Yeah? So do you. Well, I’m new in town, is all. Now, maybe you know somewhere a guy could put up for the night?”
The boy’s hands slowly came down, but he didn’t get any closer. His gaze stayed all shifty. “If you jump me, my gang will come. They’ll break you so bad you’ll wish you weren’t born.”
Dally already wished he hadn’t been, but he didn’t say as much. “Kid, I swear, I’m not gonna jump you. I—I just got out of a bad situation. I’m tryin’ to start over, that’s all. I swear.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to talk this way, almost like he was begging. There was something about this kid. Something so much like Eddie, Dallas knew he had to give anything to keep this one safe. Anything up to his own life, as illogical as it seemed. “What’s your name? How old are you?”
“Johnny Cade. M’fourteen.”
Fourteen. Dally’s gut sank again. Eddie’s age. This was anything but coincidence. “Cool,” he said, trying to play it off, but even he heard the waver in his own voice. “I’m Dallas Winston. Dally. I’m fifteen.”
The boy’s impossibly large eyes somehow got even wider. “Fifteen? You look…”
“Older. I know.” The years with his gang had done that. He’d taken pride in the fact that he looked hardened and tough, frightening and unsafe. But suddenly, standing in front of this kid, he worried what Johnny Cade thought of him. He wanted him to like him. But at the same time, he didn’t want this to go as far as Eddie had. It would scare him to pieces if this Johnny came to idolize him that way. Because what happened before? It couldn’t happen again. Dallas wouldn’t let it. Dallas shrugged. “Which comes in handy. Don’t worry, Johnny Cade. I can scare off all the big bads for you.”
The boy’s shoulders hunched to his ears. “It’s just Johnny,” he said. “And they’re called ‘soc’s.”
“Soc? The hell is a soc?”
Johnny smiled a little, and that tiny gesture switched up his whole face. “Socials. Our ‘big bads’ around here. Rich kids who like to beat up us greasers for fun.”
“That how you got that shiner?”
The amusement immediately left Johnny’s eyes. His gaze dipped back toward the ground. “Naw. This was… somethin’ else.”
Dally didn’t know how he knew. But he immediately did. His own folks had left similar marks on him. “And… and greasers?”
Johnny looked back up, and some of that shame in his eyes was chased away. He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s me and my gang and the other gangs here on the east side. We grease our hair, like so. Tuff, ain’t it?”
Dallas chucked. “Sure. Tuff enough.”
Johnny cocked his head, looking almost like a curious puppy. “You know what? I know just the place for you. Don’t matter that you’re fifteen, you look old enough. Guy called Buck, he runs a road house, lookin’ for some help. Darry don’t like me goin’ over there, but you’ll be fine.”
Dally didn’t know any of these names, but he had a feeling he might soon enough. “All right, Johnny Cade,” he said, grinning as the boy glared half-heartedly. “Lead the way.”