Dad clears his throat. “Rebel, this is Wade Kissop, our militia leader.”
The gun. It suddenly all makes sense. He’s not a robber. He’s the guy who invited us here. Wherever here is.
Wade sneers as he slides the rifle from his shoulder and rests the bottom of it on the ground. “You two done playing hide-and-seek, or should I wait until you hand out the lollipops?”
I wince.
“Let’s go,” Wade says.
Dad’s heels slide together, his spine straight, arms to his side. “Yes, sir.”
It surprises me how fast he snaps into Marine mode. Still not a drop of coffee spilled.
But Wade doesn’t even acknowledge my dad standing at attention. Doesn’t he know he’s an American hero? I clench my jaw as Wade hops into his truck instead and rolls down the window. He jerks his thumb toward the darkness. “Follow me up the mountain.”
My gaze follows the direction he’s pointing. What mountain? I don’t see any mountain.
“Yes, sir,” Dad repeats.
Wade’s engine rumbles as he edges away. Smoke curls from the tailpipe.
“Get in,” Dad orders.
In no time, we’re speeding along a two-lane highway. Wade’s in front of us, driving like a maniac. Dad presses the accelerator; the needle on the speedometer climbs over eighty miles per hour. We zip past the occasional shack in a blur, but there’s mostly blackness. It’s so dark; it seems like the lights on our trucks are the only ones on the whole planet. Maybe the entire universe.
As my eyes adjust, the grays and blacks around us become more defined. Straight ahead, I spot the black outline of a mountain, set against a starry sky. There are billions of stars surrounding us. It’s like we can see the whole galaxy out here. I wonder if they can see us.
“Did you really have to embarrass me like that?”
My shoulders sink.
Dad lowers his empty coffee cup into the cup holder and jabs his finger at the floor of the truck, where I’d been hiding. “What were you even doing down there?”
I rub the last of the sleep from my eyes. Angry Dad is back.
“I asked you a question.”
Oh, not much. Just hiding from your new friend with the assault rifle. I shift in my seat. “I—”
“Never mind,” he snaps, cutting me off. He gases the engine; the truck begins to climb. “I don’t want to know.”
I bite my bottom lip and turn away. The trees thicken the higher we head up the mountain. Maybe Aunt Birdie was right: Maybe I should’ve stayed in Amarillo.
My ears fill with the sudden change in pressure as we take the switchbacks up the mountain. We’re probably about two-thirds up when a dull glow appears through the trees to my right. It must be the town below. If I squint, I can almost pick out the Dairy Mart & Gas.
We make another turn, and the town is gone. The rest of the world is gone. I hold my breath.
Dad slows only slightly before our tires squeal, peeling off the paved road. We bounce in a rut, forcing me to exhale. Someone has cut a dirt road just wide enough for a truck to fit between the trees. Dad is going so fast we jolt and dip against the uneven ground. Ahead of us, Wade’s taillights bounce erratically. My teeth chatter from the force.
I will myself not to scream as we almost crash into a tree. Dad shifts into four-wheel drive, his face tight with concentration. The engine groans from the strain.
My fingers reach and wrap around the grab bar. I clench my jaw shut so I don’t crack a tooth. A branch scrapes the side of the truck, and I’m thankful we ate hours ago or I’d definitely be covered in puke.
After several minutes of bumping and swaying and dropping, we finally reach a clearing with a line of parked trucks. Dad swerves in next to them and kills the engine. He’s not even breathing hard.
I’m a mess—sweating, panting, shaky hands.
Dad jumps from the driver’s seat. Leaves crunch where he lands. He grabs our bug-out bags and slams the door closed.
“I’m fine,” I grumble to the empty truck. “In case you were wondering.”
I open the door and hop to the ground. The sudden chill in the air makes me shiver. I grab my gray hoodie with the Man Vs Robot silhouettes on the chest.
Without waiting for me, Wade and Dad march uphill, disappearing between the trees.
Heat flushes my fingers. Oh sure, no problem. Don’t wait for me. It’s only the middle of the night, and I really wanted to go on a nature hike. Thanks for asking.
I pull out my phone to text Aunt Birdie to let her know we made it (barely). But there’s still no service. I wave my phone around—like that will help—but it’s no use. I nearly throw it against a tree, but then make myself stop. I force a deep breath and shove it inside my jeans pocket instead. I’ll text her when we get to wherever it is we’re going.
My shoes brush through the leaves as I climb. The smell of decay rises as I hurry to catch up. But I’m already winded from the altitude.
My lungs burn. I bend over, breathing hard, my hands on my knees. Who am I kidding? It’s not the altitude: I’m totally out of shape.
And I’ve lost them. We’ve been here less than five minutes, and I’ve already lost them. My heart thuds as I try to catch my breath. Dad’s going to be so mad.
From out of nowhere, a brisk shadow slips between the trees. My breath catches. I look harder but don’t see anything. Was it a bear? Do they even have bears in Oklahoma? I don’t stick around long enough to find out.
I pick up the pace, willing myself to keep moving uphill in the general direction I think they’re headed. Eventually, I hear the low grumble of voices and cut toward the sound.
The moment I exit the trees and move into another clearing, a light shines straight into my eyes, blinding me. I come to an abrupt halt, almost falling and tripping on my own feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a harsh voice asks.
I put up my hands and could swear my fingers brush against the tip of a gun.
SEVEN
My fingers jerk back from the gun as I try to shield my eyes with one hand, but it’s no use. I can’t see a thing.
“It’s okay,” someone says from off to my right. “The boy’s with us.”
All of a sudden, the flashlight clicks off; I see a million stars. But these aren’t in the sky.
“That’s my son,” Dad says, and I’m both surprised and relieved he’s claimed me.
There’s movement in front of me. “Name’s Dwight.”
“Rebel,” I say weakly. The stars slowly fade when I see the tall, hairy guy—hairy arms, hairy head, hairy hairs sticking out from the top of his black shirt. He drops the flashlight in a loop on his belt. With all the brown hair and his overbite, Dwight reminds me of Chewbacca, except this guy carries an assault rifle.
I take a step backward.
Several feet in front of me I can make out the outline of a long building with yellow lights glowing on the corners. Moths flit around the dim bulbs. It almost feels like a dream with everything hazy along the edges.
Then my gaze fixes on the words painted on the gray siding: FLAG BEARERS WHITES ONLY. Not a dream. Make that a nightmare. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
I take another step backward, wondering if I’ll be able to find the truck if I make a run for it. Will they shoot me if I try?
“Boy’s not exactly how you described him, is he?” The scar along Wade’s jawline tightens as he gestures at the Man Vs Robot on my hoodie.
I fold my arms over my chest, hiding the logo.
“Seems scared of his own shadow.”
There’s a snap as a massive light comes on at my back. A shadow appears on the ground before me, making me jump and proving I am, in fact, scared of my own shadow.
There’s a tall watchtower behind me. The lantern at the top swivels on a stand, sweeping the camp with a wide beam of light. A few cabins sit scattered throughout the woods. Off to the far right, there’s some kind of maze and a firin
g range with human-shaped targets. Closer in sits the large building with the racist sign.
The man behind the lantern glowers at me. I promptly look away.
“What’s he searching for?” Dad asks, pointing to the man in the watchtower.
Wade spits in the dirt. “New World Order scum.”
I open my mouth to ask what that is, but Dad throws me a sharp look. I press my lips closed.
Wade points to the dark sky. “He spotted a helicopter flying over camp the other day.”
“Unmarked?” Dad asks.
“Of course,” Wade says. “Flat black paint.”
“New World Order,” they both conclude before Wade looks to the tower. “See anything, Karl?”
The man in the tower shakes his head. “All clear, sir.”
“Good, then come on down so I can introduce you to our new recruit.”
The lantern immediately goes dark. It pops as it cools. In less than thirty seconds, Karl is on the ground, standing in front of me. He’s got an assault weapon, too. They all have guns. Karl is about the same age as Dad, but even more muscular with light, light blond hair. The only thing he’s missing is the Nazi uniform they wear in those old war movies.
Instead, the three of them are wearing camo pants with long-sleeved black T-shirts, black boots, and an automatic weapon. I shiver. Why did I think this was a good idea again?
Karl smirks like he can see right through me. “What the hell’s this kid doing here?” His icy blue eyes stay locked on me like I’m some kind of prey.
“He’s with me,” Dad says.
Karl’s mouth twists in disgust. “Is that right?” He turns to Wade. “This kid clearly doesn’t belong here. Look at him.”
I flinch.
“He could get hurt, or worse, injure someone in the unit.”
Dad surges toward him. “Who are you to dictate who can and can’t stay?”
“Dad,” I say, not knowing what else to do.
Karl shoves him backward. “You’re out of line, soldier.”
The muscles in Dad’s neck tighten.
Dwight rubs his hairy hands together, like he’s ready for the first round bell to sound.
“Alright, gentlemen,” Wade says as he moves between them. A cruel smile stretches the scar against his cheekbone. “Nathan, meet Karl Thompson, head of security.”
Karl lifts his chin.
Dad’s fists loosen.
“I’m sure Karl will come around,” Wade says to Dad and then gestures to me. “Once he sees your boy shoot.”
Sees me what?
“You did say Rebel was an excellent marksman, right?”
My mouth falls slack. He said what?
Karl looks at Dad likes he doesn’t believe a word of it now that he’s seen me. Which is totally legitimate.
“Of course,” Dad says, extending his hand to Karl. “Shake?” It seems like a friendly gesture, but it feels like a bull stomping his foot before he attacks.
Karl takes Dad’s hand and they shake, veins popping in their necks. I can practically smell the testosterone pulsing between them.
I cross my arm over my chest and squeeze my skinny bicep.
Karl releases Dad’s hand. “Karl Thompson, gunnery sergeant.”
My shoulders stiffen another notch. He’s a whole rank above Dad.
“Karl was in the Marines like you,” Wade adds.
“Nathan Mercer, former staff sergeant.”
Dwight smacks his lips, like he can taste the fight rekindling. I almost expect him to let out an excited Chewbacca gurgle.
Karl scoffs. “With what the New World Order’s been up to lately, I think we’re all former U.S. military here, don’t you?”
“Not me,” Dwight says. “I was a cop over in Chisom County.”
Karl’s face relaxes a bit. “And you won’t ever let us forget it, either.”
Wade slaps Dad on the shoulder with his scarred hand; Dad winces. “You must be exhausted. What do you say we get some shut-eye and exchange war stories in the morning?”
I shake my head. That’s the last thing Dad needs to do.
“I’ve already had the boys unload and bring your things to the cabin. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dad says.
“Karl will show you there now.” Wade glances over at me, his eyes narrowing. “See you soldiers in the morning.”
I swallow hard. This guy definitely wants to kill me.
Wade slowly turns away and, with Dwight as his hairy shadow, they disappear into the trees.
“Follow me,” Karl says, clicking on his flashlight. He marches the opposite direction and begins the uphill climb.
Dad grabs the bug-out bags before he nears, handing one to me with a whisper. “I think this is going to work. You?”
I take the heavy bag; my arms drop from the weight. “Y-yes, sir,” I say to his eager face. I don’t have the heart to tell him these guys are total lunatics.
As he turns to follow Karl, I promise myself I’ll try harder not to embarrass him again. I heave the backpack over my shoulders, holding my groan inside my mouth, and bend from the bag’s weight as I walk.
The beam on Karl’s flashlight sweeps across the bark of the surrounding trees. Tiny leaves brush against my arms and face.
Focused on trying to keep up with Karl’s moving light ahead, I trip over a branch and drop, smacking my knee against a sharp rock.
I gasp from the sting and bite the inside of my cheek, falling backward like a turtle on its shell. I draw my leg against my chest. The rock sliced my jeans. Of course it did. My knee is bleeding. It’s definitely going to leave a bruise.
Leaves rustle with footsteps. I tense against the cold ground, praying it’s not Karl.
“You alright?” Dad asks as he approaches. I exhale as he crouches next to me. So much for not embarrassing him.
I nod, forcing myself to be tough. I roll onto my side and then manage to sit, propping the bug-out bag against the branch I tripped over, trying to leverage the bag’s weight. “Yes, sir,” I say, hoping I sound stronger than I feel.
“Take my hand,” he says, and I do. He easily uproots me from the ground. “Karl says it’s only a little farther.”
When he releases me, I slump forward from the bag’s weight. My knee aches, but I don’t dare let on. “I can make it,” I assure him, ignoring the throbbing in my knee, the sore muscles in my back.
We continue uphill through the trees. The rushing sound of water grows louder with each step until we reach Karl. He’s standing on the edge of a creek, waiting for us.
I close my mouth to keep from panting.
“Where now?” Dad asks, not even winded.
Karl levels his beam on a flat rock about the diameter of a dinner plate in the center of the creek. “Watch your step,” he says.
“What are we doing?” I ask. Because I know they don’t expect me to leap across this river, especially not with this bag on my back. Not when I’m the one who always eats sand when I’m forced to do the long jump at school.
“You can do it,” Dad says and hops across easily. Of course he does. His dark silhouette watches from the other side of the creek.
Karl instantly turns to me and points the flashlight into the woods behind us. Away from us.
I think he’s about to push me like my PE coach does. “Does your mom know you’re here?” he says under the sound of the running creek.
“My mom?” I ask, surprised. No one’s asked me about her for at least six months. I shift uneasily, feeling Dad’s stare from the other side.
“What’s going on?” Dad shouts.
Karl leans in, and I can feel his hot breath on my face. “You don’t belong here.” He touches his gun. “You’re not safe.”
My legs give a little. What does he mean I’m not safe? The darkness masks Karl’s face; I can’t tell whether it’s a warning or a threat. I don’t want to find out.
I spin toward the water and leap.
EIGHT
My foot actually makes contact with the rock in the center of the creek. And then, it slips. The weight of the backpack pulls me sideways. I overcompensate, jerking the opposite direction, trying to right myself, but it’s too late. I fall into the water with a splash.
I gasp from the cold shock. The creek engulfs my arms, my legs. I gulp a mouthful of silty water. My muscles seize; bubbles rush against my eardrums. My arms flap wildly, palms smacking the surface until a hand snatches my wrist.
Water pushes against my chest. The creek is trying to whisk me downstream. There’s a muffled voice. The hand tightens around my wrist and yanks, straining my shoulder. My face surfaces for a second. Karl shouts from the rock, holding on to me, but my mind doesn’t compute what he’s saying.
My face plunges beneath the surface and then bobs up.
“Rebel!” Dad yells from the bank. “Stand up!”
Stand?
With Karl squeezing my wrist, I work to swing my legs against the current, pushing my feet until they find the rocks at the bottom.
Water rushes from my body as I stand. I hack and cough, trying to clear water and dirt from my lungs. With my free hand, I swipe the dripping hair from my eyes and spy Dad staring at me from the bank. It’s too dark to see his expression, but I can already feel his disappointment.
The rushing creek only comes to my waist. If I weren’t so cold, I know I’d be feeling the warmth of shame across my cheeks. While I was flailing like a helpless moron, I could have stood this whole time.
No wonder Dad lies about me.
“Can you make it to the other side?” Karl asks from the rock I should be standing on. My knees sway in the moving water; the creek nudges my waist. I paw at the air with my free hand, trying to keep my balance, and nearly topple over. This stupid backpack!
Karl’s grip tightens. Like I’m a toddler who can’t be left alone in a swimming pool without his plastic floaties.
With his other hand, Karl loops the gun strap over his head, making the strap fit diagonally across his chest with his gun across his back.
“Walk across!” Dad shouts from the shore.
The Inside Battle Page 5
