The Inside Battle

by Melanie Sumrow

  Dad gestures for me to follow her. But I thought he was going to be the one to teach me. Go, he mouths.

  Somehow, I manage to move my feet. Maybe Dad gave me a little push. I wipe my fingers against my hoodie.

  Kids part as I near the platform. It’s about chest-high with a rifle that looks like Dad’s AR-15 propped on the flat surface. My heart thrums.

  A human-shaped target with red lines and circles stands about the length of five robotics tables from the platform. Morgan is to my right. Karl to my left. The woods rustle behind me; everyone else presses in on me.

  My knee bangs the metal stool in front of the platform. Pain shoots down my leg as the scab rips open. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

  “Shot one of these before?” Karl asks.

  I quickly shake my head.

  “It’s been a while,” Dad corrects.

  But he’s wrong. It wasn’t like this one. It was a bolt-action rifle, bigger than this. And I was hoping I’d never have to think about it ever again.

  “Center up,” Dad instructs.

  For the millionth time, I wish he’d be happy with me being me. Instead, he’s hovering behind my right shoulder, nodding with suffocating encouragement.

  Karl taps the top of the gun. “You can keep it on the table or carry it, whichever you prefer.”

  I eye the big black killing machine I’m supposed to touch now. There’s no way I’m picking this thing up. My hands are already shaking. I weakly slide onto the stool. But that doesn’t keep the rest of me from trembling. I clench and unclench my hands. It’s hard to breathe. There are too many people. Too many guns.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Karl prompts.

  “Shoot the damn gun already,” Wade says.

  Morgan snorts a giggle, reminding me of Ajeet.

  Chill bumps race along my sweaty arms. I close my eyes and hastily pull the trigger. Nothing. I pull again. Nothing.

  “Might help if you flip the safety,” Wade says from over my left shoulder. Everyone laughs; I can sense Dad shrinking behind me.

  “Come on, Rebel,” he barks. “Quit joking around.”

  I stiffen and what I really want to do is spin around and tell him: So I’m a joke now, too? Because I’d rather go fishing than fire one of these things again? I know what a gun can do!

  “Safety’s there,” a tall, skinny boy with acne and a huge overbite says as he reaches around Karl and points to the left side of the gun.

  “He knows where it is,” Dad insists.

  But I don’t. Or, at least, I didn’t. “Thanks,” I whisper to the boy.

  “Don’t mention it. Name’s Justin by the way.” He gives me a goofy grin. Like we’re meeting at GameStop and not in the middle of a band of armed racists. “You play Minecraft?” he asks, pointing at the pixelated Creepers on my T-shirt.

  I nod, my hands slipping from the gun.

  “What console do you have?”

  “Xbox.”

  “Cool,” he says. “I play on a Wii U.”

  Yikes. Not one of Nintendo’s finer moments.

  “Enough!” Wade barks.

  Justin drops his head like a scolded puppy; he suddenly won’t look at me. “Flip it when you’re ready,” he adds, pointing blindly to the safety.

  The tremors in my hands return as my fingers move from the table to the weapon. I carefully flip the black switch and hold my breath, forcing myself still.

  Karl touches my shoulder. My breath escapes my chest as he pushes me toward the gun. “I think you need to wrap around it a little more this time,” he says.

  The gun presses into my shoulder. Blood beats inside my ears. My finger slowly slips in next to the trigger.

  “Left hand down a little,” Karl instructs. “Eyes open.”

  I’m light-headed.

  “Look through the ACOG for your target.”

  I don’t know what that means. Every nerve in my body is on alert.

  I hold my breath and bang! There’s a loud echo, pulsing through the woods. Pulsing through me. My ears ring. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. My whole body’s shaking. I can’t even force myself still. I stand, wanting to get away from it.

  My earplugs muffle people’s screams.

  Fear seizes Morgan’s eyes. I’m practically convulsing.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Wade asks and snatches the gun from my hands.

  I didn’t realize I’d pulled it off the platform.

  “You never point a gun at somebody you don’t intend to shoot!” He switches the safety and slams the gun onto the table. I flinch as he turns to Dad. “I thought you said this boy knew about guns.”

  My pulse races; Dad won’t look at me.

  “Boy’s a disgrace,” Wade adds. “Look at him.”

  Dad follows orders. He looks, and I can see the shame in his eyes.

  Morgan jabs her finger into my chest, forcing me to stumble. Her face is tight with fury. “You could’ve killed me, jerk!”

  I grit my teeth, forcing back tears. She’s right. And that’s exactly the problem.

  Before anyone can stop me, I spin toward the trees and run.

  TEN

  I dash between the tree trunks, yanking the earplugs from my ears and letting them drop to the ground. My breath comes in short gasps. Narrow branches crisscross before me, but I keep pushing forward. Green leaves reach from the twigs, brushing and tickling the skin on my face and arms, taunting me.

  The creek rages in front of me. The sun glares from between the trees. I stop before I cross, daring to look. But no one’s there. No one’s chasing me. Especially not Dad.

  Why can’t I have a normal relationship with him? Most dads I know shoot hoops, not guns. They watch football or play video games with their sons.

  My fingers curl inside my hoodie; I dry my eyes on my sleeve. What now?

  My body’s trembling. Too many nerves. Too many words pinned inside my brain. Too many memories.

  I shake my head. I don’t want to think about any of that now.

  Gunfire begins to pop again in the clearing. I have to keep moving.

  After crossing the creek, I follow the curve and bend of the water, away from our cabin on the hill. Boulders jut from the ground between dried leaves. Clover-shaped lichen swallows the rocks and crawls around the tree trunks. Branches lay scattered and broken at my feet.

  Sweat beads along my forehead and trickles down my back the longer I walk until I finally take off my hoodie and tie the arms around my waist. But I don’t stop.

  Touching the damp and spongy lichen, I climb over the waist-high boulders until, eventually, the trees thin around another bend in the creek and the water flows down a small waterfall.

  From the top, I peek over the edge. There’s a wall of rocks next to the waterfall, leading to a smaller stream.

  I slowly and carefully descend the rocks. Mist from the waterfall dampens my face as I use each rock like a stairstep until landing at the base.

  The creek is calmer down here. Clearer. Fish swim along the center of the stream in groups. Their iridescent fins glow as they catch the glittering sunlight through the branches on the overhanging trees.

  I follow the fish a few feet downstream, twigs snapping beneath my feet. The breeze sighs through the leaves. There’s the smell of something sweet.

  “You look lost,” a girl’s voice says, stopping me in my tracks.

  I immediately duck behind the nearest tree trunk, scanning the woods behind me.

  Light laughter echoes along the creek. “Do you think I can’t see you now?”

  My fingernails dig into the peeling bark as my gaze slips around the narrow trunk until I find her: a girl, fishing on the other side of the creek. She smiles and waves.

  I stiffen, because her skin is black. Doesn’t she know about the Flag Bearers? What would they do if they found her? What would they do to me? I scoot from my hiding place and immediately tumble over a fallen branch, smacking my messed-up knee against sharp wood.
/>   Heat spreads throughout my body. My fingers dig into the ground, crunching handfuls of leaves before I angrily toss them in the air. Why are there so many stupid things to trip on?

  “So, are you?” She casts the red bobber on the end of her fishing line into the creek with a plunk.

  In spite of the pain, I rise, brushing off my jeans. “Am I what?” I grunt.

  “Lost.”

  I shake my head and limp toward the wall of rocks, ready to climb them and disappear.

  “You don’t have to go, you know. What’s your name?”

  Out of habit, I answer.

  She eyes my Minecraft T-shirt and laughs a little, making me instantly regret answering.

  “How old are you, Rebel?” she asks, pronouncing my name like she’s making fun.

  “Thirteen,” I say, defensively folding my arms over the Creepers on my chest. “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen and a half.” She raises her chin like she’s one-upped me.

  I scoff. We stopped counting half years when we were in kindergarten. “And your name?”

  She props the end of the fishing pole against the hip of her jeans; the line swishes to the right. “Calliope.”

  I snort. “And you think my name is bad.”

  Her nose wrinkles, and I almost regret insulting her, because it’s actually a nice name. But then she jams her fishing pole into the mud alongside the bank, leaving the bobber floating on the water’s surface.

  With both hands, Calliope tugs on the hem of her shirt and starts downstream. I assume she’s walking away so I don’t see her cry, but then I realize she’s nearing a fallen log that bridges the water between us.

  What’s she doing?

  She steps onto the log.

  Oh, no.

  Within seconds, her red sneakers are scooting sideways across the fallen tree and moving toward my side of the creek.

  Oh, God. She can’t come over.

  I glance uphill, toward the Flag Bearers. “I take it back,” I say, nearing the waterfall. “Your name’s awesome.” I try to get a foothold on the damp rock and slip. This didn’t seem so steep before. My hands are too sweaty to get a good grip. I try again and actually find my footing, climbing a bit before slipping again. I really should’ve gone to that wall-climbing place when Ajeet asked.

  “At least I’m named after the goddess of epic poetry,” she says.

  I check over my shoulder. She’s now on my side of the bank, nearing with her hands on her hips, the way Aunt Birdie sometimes does.

  I manage to scale a few more rocks.

  “For your information, Calliope was one of the nine muses in Greek mythology.” She stops beneath me at the base of the rock staircase, glaring at me. Her hair is an angry spray of curls around her face. “Who are you supposed to be named after?”

  I stop climbing for a second. I’d never really thought about it before.

  “Because you sure don’t look like a rebel to me, especially in that shirt.” She lets out a dry laugh. “I mean, no offense, but what thirteen-year-old still wears a Minecraft T-shirt?”

  My face goes hot. “My mom gave it to me.” It was way too big for me then, and now it barely fits.

  Calliope grins, her teeth white like a toothpaste commercial. She’s making fun of me.

  I face the rocks and run my tongue across my gritty teeth.

  “Did you know the Navajo attribute powers to their names?” she says, completely random. “Like a name may be considered so precious it’s only used during ceremonies.”

  What’s she talking about?

  “So, a conversation may go something like, ‘Father, ask daughter for bread.’”

  “That’s nice,” I say, my breath huffing as I resume climbing.

  “Can you imagine how confusing that could get?” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, and traditionally Hawaiian families believed an ancestral god would deliver a name to an unborn child’s family through visions or dreams.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mutter. Who is this girl?

  “Names are pretty important,” she says as I finally reach the top of the waterfall.

  My chest heaves, short of breath. “Yeah—well, I don’t know what my name means—so . . .” I scowl down at her for ruining my perfectly good walk. For making fun of the shirt my mom gave me. For hating my name, which was actually one of the few things I halfway liked about myself.

  She looks up at me without flinching. My face heats. She wouldn’t be so confident if she saw Wade and all his armed Flag Bearers.

  I clench my fists, barking, “Don’t follow me if you know what’s good for you.” My voice cracks on the last word. Of course it does.

  She scoffs.

  My neck prickles. I can’t even make a threat without screwing it up.

  I march the opposite direction.

  “Where are you going?” Calliope calls from the base of the waterfall.

  My feet keep moving, but this time I’m careful, watching for downed branches. I glance over my shoulder every few seconds, expecting her to pop over the edge of the rocks. But there’s nothing but an army of trees. I huff, convincing myself the threat worked. That’s right: Don’t follow me.

  I continue along the creek when my stomach growls, nagging me. I really should’ve thought this through before I left. I’m not a hunter, obviously. And it’s not like I’ve ever foraged for berries. I haven’t seen any berries and, even if I did, I wouldn’t know if they were poisonous. The only other option is tree bark, but that’s a hard pass. I can only imagine the splinters on the way out.

  I sigh, knowing I have to go back to the cabin.

  About a half hour later, I’m slip-sliding up the gentle slope to reach it. The porch steps creak beneath my feet and, with a breath, I open the door.

  “Dad,” I call.

  Nothing but the gentle hum of the generator.

  The cabin smells musty, unlived in. I open and close the cabinets again, but they’re still empty. I snatch another protein bar from the box, gobbling the tasteless, glue-like glob. After a few gulps of water from the sink faucet, I’m still hungry and dreaming of real food.

  Think, think. I spot my phone charging on the table, and wonder if there’s pizza delivery out here. With sudden, desperate thoughts of doughy crust, tangy sauce, and melty cheese, I grab my phone. My mouth waters as the screen brightens, but there’s still no service. No Wi-Fi. Nothing.

  Heat surges through me. I pound the table with my fist; QUEN-10’s parts bounce and scatter.

  There has to be food around here someplace.

  I throw my useless phone against the table, shattering the screen. Holy! I have to get out of here. I storm outside and slam the cabin door shut.

  The sun tilts in the sky; it’s probably after noon. My stomach grumbles, mocking me again.

  “Fine!” I yell to the woods. “Fine!” I yell even louder, scratching my throat. “I’ll go look for him. Is that what you want?”

  The only answer I get is the whine of mosquitos swarming the porch. I swat the air and move from the cloud of bugs before managing a breath. And then two breaths.

  “Fine,” I say to myself and move downhill and across the river, trudging through the thick trees.

  I’m soon at the clearing again, where I almost shot Morgan. I swallow the lump in my throat.

  The sound of gunfire is gone. The smell of gunpowder and ammonia, gone. Birds call to one another from the branches, one high-pitched and sharp, another like a low thrum.

  Where is everybody? Then, I remember the watchtower. My gaze darts to the wooden structure overhead. Empty.

  “Hello?” I say.

  No answer.

  Slowly, I leave the cover of trees and move past the obstacle course, the straw men’s heads scattered on the ground. I slip past the shooting range, the paper bodies shredded by kids’ bullets.

  As I creep toward the FLAG BEARERS WHITES ONLY sign on the side of the gray building, I hear a man’s voice coming from inside. I edge around the long
side of the structure to the end, where the gravelly voice grows louder: “We’re heading into a revolution. It’s time to stand up like men and slaughter our enemy.”

  It sounds like Wade.

  “We need to take our country back from those soulless coloreds and reclaim our way of life that’s under attack.”

  I think of how I hurt Ajeet and cringe. He wasn’t soulless.

  “It’s time to destroy those who would sully our bloodlines and the so-called government that supports them.”

  I wonder if Dad’s in there, listening. I scoot around the corner of the building and duck next to a pair of screened-in doors.

  “Death to the New World Order!”

  Men shout and holler their approval.

  “Hear anything good?” a voice whispers.

  I look up; my heart drums when I see his rigid face.

  ELEVEN

  “Karl,” I choke, looking up at the head of security.

  He clutches the gun slung across his broad chest. “And here I thought you had enough sense to get out of here.”

  I gulp. “I came back,” I say, stupidly stating the obvious.

  “Ah, there you are,” Dwight says as he rounds the building. “All clear on that side.” He stops short when he spots me and then grins his Chewbacca grin at Karl. “You were right.”

  “About what?” I ask, looking between them. The back of my head slowly slides up the side of the building until I’m standing, but still several inches shorter than both of them.

  Karl’s expression tightens. “That you’d come crawling back.”

  Dwight runs a hand under his baseball cap. His shaggy hair sticks out over his ears. “What should we do with him?”

  “What do you think?” Karl snaps. “Take him to Wade.”

  “I’m good,” I say, my voice weak, but they’re already nudging me toward the door.

  Through the screen, I can see Wade standing in the center of a circle of about twelve seated men. The room is dark, except for the beam of light surrounding Wade. “We must draw our enemies into the sea. We are the last of the patriots! We must—”

  The door creaks as I’m shoved inside. Wade stops ranting when he notices us in the doorway.

  Dad rises from one of the chairs in the circle. “Rebel?” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but I think he looks relieved to see me.