I manage a breath. “Hi.”
“So,” Wade says. “The coward returns.”
I flinch.
Some of the men chuckle, while high-pitched snickers come from the far side of the room. I squint, spotting the kids from earlier. They’re seated beyond the circle of men.
Wade gestures for me to come into the circle. “You’re just in time to witness your father take the oath.”
The oath?
My legs wobble as Dwight and Karl guide me to the edge of the circle of chairs.
Dad straightens to attention.
“Your father is quite the marksman,” Wade says over his men. “He made a kill with a single shot on every target. Five times in a row.”
I suppose that should make me proud, but my stomach tightens instead.
Dad stands expressionless.
Wade lifts a thin eyebrow, the one on the scarred side of his face. “Bring the boy inside the circle.”
I shake my head, trying to dig the soles of my shoes into the concrete.
“Don’t resist,” Karl whispers. “You’ll be safer if you do as he says.”
Safer? I shake my head again, but it’s no use. With Karl behind me, I’m walking whether I want to or not.
“Children,” Wade announces. “Apparently this boy needs some encouragement. Won’t you join him in the patriot’s circle?”
Chairs scoot against the floor, and the children, led by Morgan, are funneling between men into the center.
“Go,” Karl says under his breath, nudging me.
I glance at his gun and move, wedging between two men in order to reach the center of the circle. Small hands pull me by my arms through the group until I’m standing in front of Dad.
He stares at some fixed point behind me.
There’s a reassuring pat on my shoulder. I glance over, and it’s Justin, smiling at me.
“This!” Wade shouts, pointing to the center of the circle. “Is the future of the Aryan race!”
“Here, here!” most of the men chant.
Wade walks the full circle between the men and us. “Nathan Mercer.”
“Yes, sir,” Dad answers, short and loud, like he’s answering a true commanding officer.
Wade stops when he reaches us. “Are you ready to take the oath of the Flag Bearers?”
“Yes, sir,” Dad says without hesitation.
I swallow hard.
“Then repeat after me,” Wade instructs. “I make this covenant in my own blood.”
Dad parrots the words, almost like he’s in a trance.
This isn’t happening. I thought the point of us coming here was for him to get better. For us to get better.
“I will honor this brotherhood,” Dad repeats. “And enter into a full state of war against the government of the United States and all those who support it.”
My knees buckle; I stumble into Justin.
“Watch it,” he whispers.
Dad continues, “I promise to fight for a pure, white nation, as our founding fathers intended.”
No, this is wrong. These people are wrong. “Dad,” I say under my breath, trying to get him to snap out of it. Even if it means getting Angry Dad, I’d rather have that than this.
But he keeps going: “I promise not to lay down my weapons until we prevail.”
My gaze darts across the white faces of the kids and men in the room. I should say something, but I can’t. Most of the men are grasping their guns. Blood beats inside my ears.
“I solemnly swear to live and die for the Flag Bearers.”
Die?
“So help me God.”
Wade salutes my dad. “Welcome aboard, soldier.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dad returns the salute and shakes Wade’s scarred hand.
When he releases my dad, Wade calls his men to attention. All of them jump from their chairs, guns at their sides, standing perfectly still.
The kids around me smile and nod with pride. My stomach curdles.
I shouldn’t be here. This is wrong. We shouldn’t be here.
“Who watches the watchmen?” Wade barks.
“WE DO!”
Wade grins at his small army. “Then let the battle begin.”
***
I can’t stop thinking about the oath. He’d fight against our government; he’d fight for an all-white nation. How could Dad make those promises?
It’s late in the afternoon, and we’re driving the switchbacks down the mountain. Normally, I’d be happy inside Dad’s truck, heading toward the real world in order to finally get some real food. But I’m surrounded by militiamen. Dwight sits next to me in the back seat; Wade sits in the front with Dad driving.
Wade insisted on all of us going to the convenience store to get food for our cabin. I don’t know why. It’s like he refuses to leave Dad and me alone.
My stomach growls. Wade drums his fingers on the door as our truck sways side to side. “Did you pack the bandannas?” he asks.
Dad’s shoulders stiffen as he reaches the base of the mountain and pulls onto the main highway.
“Yep,” Dwight answers through a wad of tobacco. His hairy body is hunched over as he tinkers with a disassembled AR-15 on his lap. He struggles with one of the parts.
The rest of the parts lay on a towel between us. I scoot as far away from him as I can, my left leg pressed against the door, while he jams a large, key-shaped piece in and out of another section of the gun. “Dangit!” he says, bumping his head against the ceiling of the truck. “I can’t get the stupid charging assembly in the upper.”
Wade glances over the front seat, showing the clear profile of his face without the scar. “What’s your problem?”
Dwight pulls a white Styrofoam cup from his door and spits, adding to the brown sludge at the bottom. My stomach turns as he wipes his bottom lip with his hand. “I cleaned my gun, and now I can’t get it back together.”
Wade faces forward. “Moron.” He and Dad laugh.
“Here,” Dwight says, holding the parts over the seat in front of him. “You think it’s so easy? You try it.”
“Rebel, why don’t you take a look?” Dad says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
Me? But I don’t want to touch another gun. I can’t.
Wade scoffs, like he doesn’t believe I can do it.
I scan the parts; my breath goes shallow as I remember the feel of the rifle against my cheek. The loud bang. The blood.
“Rebel!” Dad barks, yanking me out of the past. His gaze switches from the road to the rearview mirror a few times.
“Y-yes, sir,” I answer, forcing my hands to stop shaking.
Dwight scoots the tobacco to the other side of his mouth with his tongue and hands over the black parts he was calling “upper” and the large, key-shaped part he was calling the “charging assembly.”
I take a breath and examine the charging assembly for a second, telling myself it’s only engineering. Like robotics. Just another problem that needs to be solved.
Then I close one eye, peeking down the hole of the upper, searching for the space where the tooth of the key should fit. I think I’ve spotted it and slide the key inside the hole and push toward the top, feeling the tooth click into the notch. I nod, satisfied. Okay, this isn’t so bad. It’s almost like building with oversized Legos.
“How’d you do that?” Dwight asks, spitting in his cup.
I smile without answering and glance at the remaining parts spread between us on the seat. I grab the rounded one and hold it out to him. “What’s this one called?” I ask, the part cold between my fingers.
“Bolt carrier assembly. How’d you know that’s next?”
Because this is like building with Legos, finding the parts that click. I shrug. “I like putting stuff together.” I slide the bolt carrier assembly inside the chamber where I’d inserted the key.
“This kid’s a natural,” Dwight says.
Dad nods. “Told you.”
My chest swells a little
.
I can feel Wade watching as I grab the lower part with the trigger and align the pins of the newly assembled upper with the lower before finally latching them together with a click, click. “Done,” I say, handing it to Dwight.
“Not bad,” Wade says.
Dwight puts a hand on the seat in front of him. “Maybe we should put the kid on the assembly line.”
In the rearview mirror, I spot Dad smiling at me.
I breathe. I actually did something right for a change.
Dwight digs the brass bullets from the seat pocket in front of him. I shift in my seat, pointing to the newly assembled gun. “Why do you carry a gun everywhere?”
Dad’s shoulders retighten. Wade glares at me. So much for doing something right.
“Because it’s my right to carry it,” Dwight says, returning the bullets to the seat pocket as he faces me. “And the New World Order is trying to take it away.”
“Damn straight,” Dad says with a nod.
Dwight spits the tobacco wad into his cup—the lump of brown bobs and floats in its juices—before he returns the cup to the door. He pulls a dollar bill from his wallet. “Look at this,” he says, pushing it toward me.
I take the warm, wrinkled dollar bill in my hand, faceup. George Washington looks at me like he has a secret.
“Flip it over,” Dwight instructs.
I flip it over in my hand, scanning for a clue. A pyramid. IN GOD WE TRUST. An eagle. I shrug. “So?”
“See the eye over the pyramid?”
I spot the glowing eye in the triangle above the pyramid and nod.
“That’s a sign.”
I smirk. “What do you mean?”
“America has been taken over by secret forces. They’ve taken control of the Federal Reserve.”
I snort an awkward laugh and immediately cover my mouth.
“You wait.” Dwight snatches the dollar bill from me and stuffs it inside his wallet. “You won’t be laughing when they come after you.” He switches his gun to the other hand, looking like he wants to shoot me.
I’m just happy he’s forgotten the bullets are still inside the seat pocket.
“Here we are,” Wade says.
Dwight stops glaring at me as Dad turns into the parking lot and pulls up to a plain brown brick building with the peeling red-and-white sign: DAIRY MART & GAS.
We hop from the truck. “I’ll keep watch,” Dwight grunts, unrolling his window.
All of a sudden, I notice how dirty Dad’s truck is. The license plates and doors are covered with mud. Strange. Dad usually keeps his truck so clean you can eat off the hood. I’m almost positive it didn’t get this dirty on the drive up and down the mountain. “We could get a car wash while we’re here,” I offer.
Dad looks at Wade and then opens the convenience store door; a bell rings. “Maybe,” Dad says as I start to feel the air-conditioning. It smells like popcorn and fried burritos. My stomach gurgles with hunger.
Out of nowhere, there’s a loud, high-pitched whistle. Dad jumps before tensing. We both turn toward the sound.
Next to the nearest gas pump, a man in a black T-shirt and camo pants pulls his index fingers from his lips. He’s wearing the same clothes the Flag Bearers wear at camp, but he doesn’t look familiar.
Wade gives us a nod. “Y’all go on in. I’ll be right back.”
Dad shuts the glass door but doesn’t move, his hand squeezing the handle tight. He’s sweating a little as he spies on Wade, who’s approaching the guy at the gas pumps.
“You okay?” I ask.
Dad clears his throat. “Let’s get a basket.” He wrenches a blue, plastic hand-basket from the stack and starts down an aisle, but I can tell his mind is someplace else. The veins in his neck and arms are bulging. His muscles remain tense as I shadow him around the store, grabbing the basics—bread, eggs, milk.
The bell rings as the door opens. Dad startles again.
Wade marches toward us. “It’s time,” he whispers.
“Now?” Dad asks. “But I’ve got my kid here with me.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Dad shushes me.
Wade scowls, making his scar pucker along his cheek. “You made an oath, soldier. Have you forgotten?”
“No, sir,” Dad says as he hands me our food basket.
Wade shoos me with his scarred hand. “The boy can finish your shopping.”
Dad quickly passes me a couple of twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. “Go to the truck when you’re done. Wait there. Understand?”
What’s he about to do? I want to ask him what’s going on. Instead, I swallow and nod.
Dad follows Wade like a loyal puppy; the bell rings as they exit.
Something’s not right. I reach for my phone, but then realize I left it at the cabin. Not that I could probably even get it to work, since I couldn’t get service last time we were here. Plus, now it has the newly added problem of a broken screen.
The heat of frustration creeps in on me, but I force myself to take a few deep breaths. My stomach growls with hunger.
Trying to take my mind off my shattered phone, I sweep the store for necessities: Pop-Tarts, Doritos, Dr Pepper, and, for protein, beef jerky. Finally, I pass the popcorn machine until I reach the glass case at the rear of the store. With one hand on the greasy handle, I reach under the heat lamp and grab a fried burrito by its paper sleeve. My mouth waters, but the clerk gives me the stink-eye, so I decide to eat while I wait for Dad in the truck.
After the clerk sacks our groceries, I step into the late-afternoon sun, scanning the horizon beyond the gas pumps. Even though it’s almost five o’clock and even though we’re in town, there’s only the occasional passing car. A small blue truck sits hooked to the gas pump on the end while its driver cleans his bug-splattered windows.
I eye Dad’s filthy truck. It would take a whole lot more than a sponge and a squeegee to clean this mess.
Where is he?
Dwight slumps in the back seat, his baseball cap pulled over his eyes. He’s snoring with the gun I’d reassembled propped against his chest. So much for “keeping watch.”
Moving to the other side of the truck, I open it and place my sacks on the floor in the back before grabbing my beef-and-bean burrito.
The soft whirr of an engine fan catches my attention. About a block away, an armored truck pulls up to GEO’S PIZZA & DONUT SHOP.
I take a bite through the flaky crust, savoring the salty beef and beans when, out of nowhere, two men with red bandannas covering the bottom halves of their faces race around the armored truck. One of them disappears behind the truck. Within seconds, the other drags the woman driver outside. She seems to be alone. I choke and cough as the man covers her mouth with his hand, bending the woman’s arm behind her back. He snatches her gun from its holster and holds it against her head.
My heart races. I cough again, dropping my burrito. The meat and beans splat against the pavement. From out of nowhere, the man who disappeared reappears, carrying a black drawstring bag. I open my mouth to scream, but the words are stuck to the burrito glob inside my throat.
The man with the black bag taps the guy holding the woman as he passes him. That one shoves the woman to the ground, facedown, yelling, “Don’t move!”
Then suddenly, they’re running toward me, bandannas sucked into their mouths with each breath. The man clenching the bag is out front. I gasp, recognizing the run. Dad.
Somehow, they’ve changed clothes. Both are in black, except for the red bandannas.
My heart skips a beat as I squint and spy the scars on the other man’s hand. Wade.
When they reach the convenience store parking lot, the armored car driver screams for help.
“Get in!” Dad yells, and I realize he’s talking to me.
My feet come unstuck as I dive into the back seat of the truck, waking Dwight. He sits up with a start, pulling a bandanna from his pocket to cover his face. He scrambles for his gun.
There�
��s movement coming from the direction of the pumps and, through the back window, I see it’s the guy with the blue truck. He pulls a shovel from the bed of his truck and runs after Wade.
“Shoot him!” Wade yells.
“What?” I shriek.
“Do something!” Dad yells.
“I’ll do it.” Dwight positions the gun I assembled in his open window. I cover my ears as he pulls the trigger. Nothing. He does it again. Nothing.
Dwight curses and screams, “The bullets!” He fishes in the seat pocket to retrieve them.
Dad’s almost to the truck. The man from the pump is closing in.
“Get my gun!” Dad yells.
Suddenly, I remember the handgun he keeps under the front seat.
Dwight pushes my shoulder. “Help him!”
“How?” I ask, shaking my head. I’m not going to shoot someone. I can’t.
Dad yanks open the passenger door and slides onto the seat, reaching. He plucks his gun from underneath and, with the door still open, points it at the guy.
“No!” I scream.
The guy immediately drops the shovel with a clang. He turns and runs toward his truck as Wade jumps into the driver’s seat, and glances back at me. “Put your hood up,” he orders.
Dwight jerks it over my head.
“What are you doing?” Wade asks. “Shoot him!”
The guy is getting in his truck; Wade turns the engine when Dad levels his gun.
My breath catches. No, don’t do it!
The tires screech as Wade throws the truck in reverse, Dad’s door swinging on its hinges.
A shot rings out. I jump a split second before the sound of exploding air. Another shot. Another explosion.
My heart’s about to beat out of my chest. And then I see: Dad’s blown the guy’s tires. The front of his truck sinks to the ground.
“You missed!” Wade shouts as he tears from the parking lot. The smell of burning rubber fills my nose.
Dad stretches for the door handle and slams it shut. “I’m sorry, sir.” But I know he didn’t miss. He never misses. “What the hell was that, Rebel?” Dad shouts, the gun still in his hand.
I’m shaking. My head’s shaking. My body’s shaking.
The bag in his lap has come open. Money spills across the seat.
The Inside Battle Page 8
