Runner Boy | Book 2 | Rider Kid

by Mackey, Jay

  “Who’s Mack Delaney?” I ask.

  “He’s a soldier. Was in your scout squad that first day of the Battle of Lafayette.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Big guy. Overweight. Kind of a florid face.”

  “Oh, yeah. Fat Guy. I remember him. What did he tell you? That I nearly knocked myself out trying to shoot my rifle?”

  “No, he says he and a couple of guys were giving you a hard time, trying to get you to take a ridiculous shot, but that you hit a gunner sitting on top of a Stryker from a half-mile away. That you could only see the top of his helmet.”

  “What? No. I don’t think I hit anything with that shot. It was the first time I’d ever fired that rifle. I had no idea what I was doing.”

  “Well, he says you made the shot.”

  “It was luck, bad luck. I never should have taken that shot. Then maybe nobody would have seen where we were, and maybe our squad leader, Radio, would still be alive. His death still haunts me.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I saw you in action in that firefight down by the river. You have some skills, my boy,” says Jake.

  “And there’s that little skirmish you were in over in Juniper a little while ago,” says Flip. “I hear you put on quite a show.”

  I shake my head. “Nothing anybody else couldn’t do. I just happened to have weapons, to be in the, well, not the right place. Maybe the wrong place.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just take the ammunition. Practice if you want. Shoot some squirrels or something, or learn how to calibrate your sights. Just for fun,” says Flip.

  “Yeah. Whatever. Thanks.”

  17

  80 days until the Pulse Anniversary

  I’m in a foul mood after the meeting with Jake and the other resisters, and I’m not sure why. I should be happy, I tell myself. Those guys want me to join them in something important. Trying to make the world better for all of us. Having elections. It’s all good stuff, right?

  But the problem is that I feel like they’re just using me. I feel the same way I did when Governor General Wayne told me to spy for him. Now it’s somebody else asking me to spy for them. And maybe shoot people.

  Why can’t people leave me alone? I’m doing just fine, running my delivery service, not hurting anybody. I’ve got a girlfriend I get to see two or three times a week. Life is good. Not like life before the pulse. Life now is hard, maybe. But I feel good about where I am. Or I did until all these people started trying to get me to do stuff for them. If they’d just leave me alone, then . . .

  I feel bad for feeling bad. Jake is one of my best friends. Or, not a friend, exactly, because he’s so old. Not as old as my dad, but old. So, maybe he’s not a friend, but he’s somebody I really respect, and, maybe more importantly, I think he respects me. And likes me, I think. Why else would he invite me to join the resistance? He must trust me, must think I have something to offer. And I do. I could totally be a kick-ass resister. But I still feel crappy.

  I don’t tell anybody about my meeting, or about the resistance. It’s secret. Jake didn’t even have to tell me not to talk about it. It was obvious.

  Things get a little awkward when Rachel asks me about my meeting. I’d told her that Jake was going to introduce me to some people, so when I get to her place she asks about it. I make something up, telling her it was just a couple kids from Purdue, students, but I’m stammering a little, so I’m not sure she buys it. I change the subject and then ignore her and go to get water from the well, even though I’m not sure we need any.

  When I get back with the water she calls me an asshole, and we don’t talk until after we’ve all eaten something. Not dinner, because we all scrounge for ourselves. Rachel and I basically ignore each other as we munch on vegetables, me on carrots and her on tomatoes. Then she makes a peace offering, cutting in half the one apple that’s sitting on the kitchen counter and offering me a half. I take it and smile. I’m about to say something when Wilson comes banging in carrying a gallon jug of something that’s almost clear, but not quite.

  “Payday,” he says with a grin. It seems a customer had given him this jug of what he says is corn liquor, or “moonshine,” in payment for some major work he did on the customer’s bicycle.

  Rob and his mother arrive home soon after Wilson, and it isn’t too long after that we all find ourselves on the back patio—a small, concrete pad behind the kitchen—sitting in rickety folding lawn chairs and sharing Wilson’s moonshine. The sun is just disappearing behind the row of tall trees that line the riverbank and are just visible over the tops of the houses across the back alley. The night is cooling a bit from the heat of the day, although it’s still humid. It feels like a normal summer evening, normal being pre-pulse, of course. The whole scene makes me even more melancholy than I’d been before.

  Rob is also in a bad mood. The group has been drinking and chatting awhile, mostly about how bad the moonshine tastes—“Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be used as fuel?” I ask Wilson at one point—when Rob blurts out, “Life sucks so bad.” And it’s clear that he means it.

  His mother asks him what’s bothering him, but he shakes her off. Nobody says anything for a minute, and then I say, “Up until a couple weeks ago, I was thinking life wasn’t so bad. Even with the pulse and everything. My life seemed okay.”

  “What changed a couple weeks ago?” asked Mrs. DuBonnette.

  “That’s when Governor General Wayne asked me to do stuff for him, and I had to report in every week.”

  “What did you have to report?”

  “Just stuff. People. The new laws. That stuff.”

  “No, Brady, what really happened a couple weeks ago was that Pounds came to town,” says Wilson. “With his goons and his agenda. That’s what changed everything.”

  “Maybe you were feeling good about things, but I’ve never been okay,” says Rob. “I mean, being in the military right now is what’s feeding us, but it’s not where I want to be. I had a plan, get a degree and a job, a real job. Travel. Do all that with someone you love. And now, shit.”

  “Thanks,” says Wilson.

  “No, I didn’t mean anything about you,” says Rob. “It’s the other stuff—the future, my future, our future—that’s disappeared.”

  “Well, I will add that living in a time and place where even being in love is against the law has certainly been a kick in the balls,” says Wilson.

  The five of us are arranged roughly in a circle. I’m sitting between Rob and Rachel, and I can see that she’s getting worked up. She’s been quiet so far, and I know she’s still in a bad mood, ever since my bad mood set her off. She puts her now empty glass of moonshine down on the patio beneath her and grips the arm rests of the chair tightly before she stands and looks at me.

  “I don’t know about you,” she says to me. “Maybe living like we’ve been has been all you’ve ever wanted in life. But I’m like Rob. I want more than this. I don’t just want to help out in the hospital, I want to be one of the doctors. And how can I ever get that? Huh? How?”

  “Well, yeah . . .” I start.

  “And now we’ve got a thing, a law—no, more than that . . .” She’s pacing now, looking off into the distance and then back at me. “. . . It’s an attitude. Women are not equal to men. Women have to be protected because they’re so weak. Next, women won’t be able to become doctors, because, you know, it’s just too hard for our fragile minds. It won’t be long before we’re like some of those African and Middle Eastern countries where it will be illegal to even educate women, because they belong in the home, taking care of their big, strong men.”

  She plops back down in her chair, picks up her glass and waves it, ready for someone to fill it with more moonshine.

  Wilson stands to bring over the jug, and says, as he’s filling her glass, “Hear, hear, sister. I’m with you.”

  Mrs. DuBonnette, sitting on the other side of Rachel, reaches over and pats her on the arm. “Calm down, honey. Things aren�
��t that bad.”

  From where I’m sitting, I’m struck by how much Rachel looks like her mom. Both very pretty, tall and thin. They have the same slightly pointy nose and sharp chin. Their eyes are dark, both glowing in the fading sun.

  “Yet,” says Rob.

  “Right,” says Rachel. “Yet.” She takes a big gulp of the moonshine, makes a face, and asks, “What about you, Mom? Are you happy with your life?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what do you want in life? Where do you want to go?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I want.” She drains the last of her glass and leans back. “I want a man. Someone I can make a life with.”

  “Oh, Mom. You’re always looking for a man.” Her upturned nose gives away her disappointment. Or maybe it’s disgust. “You had a man, once, you know. And you lost him.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah. Dad. Who else did you think I meant?”

  “That wasn’t my fault, you know. But that’s water over the dam, or whatever.” She holds her glass out for a refill now. Wilson, who like me is pretending not to listen too closely now that the conversation has gotten so personal, jumps up to fill her glass.

  Mrs. DuBonnett takes a sip and says, “You know, it’s easy for you to be so judgmental. You’ve got friends, got a boy”—she looks at me—“and yet you’re crying about some dream that’s been taken away. Well, I don’t even have dreams anymore. You know that. And I’m lonely. Yeah, I’m lonely. So pardon me for wishing for a little companionship. That’s all. Just someone to spend time with. Someone who cares about me.”

  She stands, looks at Rachel, takes her half-full glass and walks into the kitchen.

  The rest of us sit silent, each sipping away at the moonshine. I’m definitely feeling it, and I don’t think I like it, but it doesn’t stop me from finishing what I’ve got.

  Rob is the one who breaks the silence. “Like I said, life sucks. And what makes it worse, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  18

  79 days until the Pulse Anniversary

  When I get up in the morning I decide to take a run to clear my head. Since I started my delivery business I’ve cut way back on my running, and I miss it. Yeah, riding a bike is good exercise too, but nothing gets the blood flowing and cleans out my system like running. I’m up and out before Rachel stirs, so I’m surprised when she shows up while I’m doing some pre-run warmups. She stretches and goes through her routine without saying a word to me, so I’m pretty sure her mood hasn’t improved since last night when we went to bed in different rooms, her in her room, me on the couch. That’s okay though. My mood isn’t any better either.

  I set a reasonable pace for her, planning on a ten-mile run. We’ve done this plenty of times before, so I know a seven-minute-per-mile pace is one that works for both of us. It pushes her a bit and is fast enough for me to get in the work I think I need.

  We run over into West Lafayette, winding through the Purdue campus where the scenery is better than what we get running through town, where there are so many abandoned and burned down buildings that it gets depressing after a while. We run through the parts of the old golf course that aren’t occupied by the refugee tent city, much of that abandoned now too.

  We don’t talk, except for a couple grunts about which direction to go. That’s unusual for us; we normally chat about something or other. It helps pass the time, especially since we can no longer put in our ear buds and zone out on music playing on our phones. But today neither of us feels particularly chatty, I guess.

  As we near home, Rachel starts pulling ahead of me. I pick up my pace, but then she goes ahead again. She’s clearly trying to beat me home. It’s almost funny watching her run—she’s got such long legs that it seems as if she kicks her feet out sideways. It’s not a classic running form, that’s for sure. But it seems to work for her. And she’s really kicking it now.

  My strength has never been sprinting. I’m not fast; I just have great endurance. For me to win a race, I have to wear down my opponents. I guess I haven’t worn Rachel down today. Not that we’re racing. We’re not. But on the other hand, she seems to think we are.

  I run a little faster. So does she.

  This is stupid. She was never really a runner until I started taking her out on some of my training runs. I decide to end this silliness, and push myself about as fast as I can go, pass her and keep going strong. I can see her house not too far down the street.

  I’m going fine, thinking I haven’t sprinted like this in a long time, when she goes by, her legs flying all over the place, her head up, pumping her arms. Shit.

  She beats me by about ten yards.

  When I get to the house she’s bent over, trying to get her breath. I walk past her, not able to say anything either. I circle back and manage to get out, “What the fuck?”

  She doesn’t answer. She just straightens up and says, “Good run,” puts her fist out for a fist bump, and then walks to the door. “Have a good trip back to the farm,” she says as she disappears inside.

  I hadn’t planned to head home quite yet, but, what the hell. Might as well. I’m nice and warmed up, anyway. And I won’t get a second set of clothes all sweaty if I just go now. I walk to the door to get my backpack and my stuff, but the door opens before I can turn the knob. Rachel is standing there, holding out my backpack. I can see that my clothes have been stuffed inside, as one sleeve of the shirt I was wearing yesterday is sticking out.

  “Thanks,” I say as I take the backpack. “See you in a couple days.”

  She smiles, but doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure if I detect a little nod there before she shuts the door.

  19

  74 days until the Pulse Anniversary

  My mood doesn’t improve much over the next week. It isn’t just that I’m feeling used, it’s a general sense of hopelessness. It’s what Rob said: “Life sucks.” I don’t know. This seems like something new, that everyone feels that way. Back right after the pulse, everyone was just trying to stay alive. I didn’t hear people complaining that life sucked. Well, except for my little brother and sister. And then the winter hit, and we’re finding ways to stay warm, trying to find food, trying to survive the Pulse Flu. And we did. A lot of people didn’t, so those of us who did survive should be feeling pretty good about it, it seems to me. Some, like me, who kind of found a purpose in life that we didn’t necessarily have before are almost happy.

  That’s what’s pissing me off. That I said I was in a pretty good place in my life and everybody—Rob, Wilson, Mrs. DuBonnette, and even Rachel—got all pissy about it. They’re not in a good place and don’t think I should have been either.

  But of course nobody is in a good place anymore. It’s fucked up. We actually have some leadership, some government that says it’s going to make our lives better, but instead they make things worse, and now everybody’s saying life sucks.

  I guess my mood is fairly obvious, because Mom tells me to stop moping around the house. She threatens to find some chores for me if I don’t have anything to do.

  And then on Thursday Dad comes in after spending three days in Lafayette working with Pounds’ people on the currency issue again, and his mood seems to match mine. So Mom gets on his case too. She says she’s tired of all the long faces and sends us both out to muck out the barn and feed the chickens.

  While we’re working in the barn, Dad’s talking about how messed up the currency thing is. I tell him I don’t understand anything about what he’s talking about. So then he says, “It’s like this. We’ve been negotiating with these people for weeks. At first they refused to honor our chits. We were just supposed to throw out any that we had. Which meant that money you put into the bank for safekeeping . . .”

  “Yeah.” I’d put some of the payments I’d gotten from PedEx customers into the bank because Dad said it would be safer there than under my bed.

  “. . . Well, it would disappear.”

  “Wait. That�
�s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not. So we’ve been able to get an agreement to exchange their dollars for our chits.”

  “Okay. That’s better. Where did they get the dollars?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, and they’ve been a bit vague. But probably from several of the Federal Reserve branches. Maybe Chicago. Cleveland.”

  He stops mucking and leans on his pitchfork. “So, anyway, now we’ve got to get them to agree on an exchange rate. We want a one-for-one exchange. They offered two-for-one.”

  “Huh?”

  “They want us to give them two chits for every dollar. So then your money would be worth something, but it would be just half of what you have.”

  “No way. I worked hard for that money. They can’t just come in here and say my work is only worth half of what it was. I wasn’t charging people much anyway, because nobody has much. But to just take away half of what I’ve earned, that’s fucked.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Maybe I should have you come to the next meeting. We could use a little of that righteous indignation.”

  “Fuck yes. I’ll come.” I know he’s not serious about taking me, but at least he didn’t say that my thoughts were stupid, which is what he usually does when I say something, especially if I say something with any emotion.

  After we finish our chores I go out to do some shooting, just to burn off a little of the new anger I’ve built up. There’s a good spot not too far away near the river where I can shoot downward into the riverbank. My rifle is too powerful to just shoot it into the air. The bullets could come down somewhere a mile or two away and kill someone if I’m not careful.

  Flip said something about learning to calibrate my sights, but I already know my sights pretty well. The basic concept is that if you aim at something and miss it by three feet to the right, then you adjust your sights so that when you sight on that something, the gun is aimed three extra feet to the left. The real skill is in adjusting the sights for different distances and wind conditions. That can take some time, and some good shooting.