The Inside Battle

by Melanie Sumrow

  There’s lots of it. Like lots and lots of money. Why would he do it?

  They rip the bandannas from their faces as Wade speeds along the highway. He pulls a gun from his waistband. “Pirate booty,” he says with a laugh, and I realize it must be the gun he took from the armored car driver. Wade waves it like a prize before tossing it onto the money on the seat.

  But that doesn’t make any sense. If he had her gun, why did he order Dad to shoot?

  Wade looks to the money and then over at Dad with a slimy grin. In the rearview mirror, I can see the look of triumph in Wade’s eyes. I shiver as he turns toward the mountain, gassing the engine. “Soldier, welcome to the Flag Bearers.”

  TWELVE

  It’s long past midnight; my arm tingles beneath the weight of my head. I shift under the thin blanket and follow the sliver of moonlight with my eyes, up the wall from the futon to the NEW WORLD ORDER sign with the red line running through it. I close my eyes again.

  We’re still here, living in the woods with the Flag Bearers. My dad’s a thief.

  After the robbery, he told me to take the groceries to the cabin, get something to eat, and go to sleep. That’s it. No explanation. Nothing.

  I tense up, hearing the thunk of footsteps on the porch. The cabin door swings open and, by the way he moves in the dark, I can tell it’s Dad. I’m used to hearing him pace.

  I keep my back to the cabin, not daring to turn over, not knowing whether Angry Dad will be there to yell at me since I’m still awake.

  There’s a click. A light glows dimly behind me, and suddenly it sounds as if there’s a large stream of water. I quietly turn over on the futon to my other side. Through barely open eyes, I spot Dad pouring a gallon-sized baggie full of sand across our table. He’s too focused on what he’s doing to notice me.

  Then I spot the open liquor bottle in his hand. When the first bag is empty, Dad takes a long gulp. I curl my fingers against the thin mattress as he grabs another bag of sand and pours it across our table. He reaches into a box and retrieves a plastic soldier. I bite my lip, realizing what he’s doing. Unable to watch, I immediately turn over and face the wall, praying for sleep.

  ***

  The high-pitched chatter of birds awakens me. The room is dim except for the line of sunlight peeking between the black curtains near the front of the cabin. Dust motes float in the bright stream of light.

  The sound of heavy breathing is coming from nearby. Dad is asleep, slumped in a chair next to the table. Last night’s liquor bottle sits on the floor against the leg of his chair. It’s been emptied by at least a third, and I definitely don’t want to be the one to wake him.

  I slowly roll off the futon, stiff from the thin, hard mattress, and stretch my arms overhead. A cardboard box marked in Dad’s scratchy handwriting—REBEL CLOTHES—sits on the floor to my left beneath the REBEL COMICS crate. Quietly, I slide my comic books to the floor and open the box underneath, digging until I find a clean pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt from last summer’s robotics camp, where Ajeet and I were both counselors for the younger kids. I hold the T-shirt to the light; a knot forms in my throat before I toss it inside the box and find a bright yellow one that doesn’t remind me of what I’m missing.

  Dressed, I slip toward Dad, stalling a second to make sure he’s sound asleep. QUEN-10 and my shattered phone have disappeared from the table, replaced by a completed battle scene.

  From what I can remember, it looks the same as the one in our basement at home. There are the same tanks, the same shooting soldiers. The road through the center of it all. The trucks in a line behind the tanks. The smoke coming from a ruined city. The dark-skinned men, sprawling and limp in the sand.

  But there’s something else, too. Something I’ve never noticed until now: a girl. She wears a headscarf, waving on the side of the road. She’s holding what looks like a white plastic grocery bag. Why would there be a girl in the middle of Dad’s battle scene?

  Dad snorts, startling me. I ease backward with my hands up. I hold my breath, noticing the two days of dark stubble across his cheeks. He snores again; his heavy breathing resumes. I exhale before tugging the blanket from my futon and then carefully cover him with it.

  My stomach rumbles as I shuffle over to the refrigerator, snatching a Dr Pepper from the fridge. The can opens with a pop, making me jump. But Dad doesn’t move.

  With continuous gulps, I empty the can and hurry to close my mouth, holding in my massive belch, only to burn the lining of my nose when it finally comes.

  I wipe my watery eyes; the chair creaks as Dad shifts and smacks his mouth. His eyelids are still closed, but it looks like he’s waking. No time to find the box of Pop-Tarts, I snatch the closest thing—a few slices of white bread from the sack on the countertop. I shove them in the pocket of my hoodie and hurry outside.

  The trees sway in the morning breeze, as if they’re breathing in and out. I take a deep breath, too, and round the cabin.

  “Rebel!” Dad screams.

  My heart jumps. There’s no way I’m stopping now.

  Birds chirp as I slip-slide downhill and move fast downstream. The creek gurgles and splashes to my right. Suddenly, I realize I should’ve used the bathroom before I left.

  To keep my mind off my full bladder, I tear pieces of bread and roll them into tiny balls before popping them inside my mouth. I wish I had some butter or jelly, but we didn’t buy any.

  “It’s fine,” I say to myself. I’ll take a little walk and return after Dad’s had a chance to eat some eggs. He’s always better after he eats.

  The thought of food makes my mouth water, but I shove another ball of bread between my lips to absorb the spit.

  Before I know it, I’m at the waterfall. The pressure in my bladder is getting worse by the second; I know I can’t ignore it much longer. I kneel in the leaves and check over the edge of the rocks, making sure that Calliope girl isn’t there. That’s just what I need—something else for her to laugh at me about.

  There’s a tiny rustle; I jump at the sound. But it’s only a squirrel, skittering across a branch before jumping to another tree. I stand and, with one last check, relieve myself against a large boulder.

  With the pressure gone, I descend the rocks, step-by-step, until I’m at the base of the waterfall where the creek flows into a calmer stream. I crouch and slip my fingers beneath the cool water. Tiny fish scatter in twenty directions. I shake my fingers above the surface and dry them against my hoodie.

  My stomach growls. Even with the balls of bread in my stomach, I still feel empty. I think of Aunt Birdie’s cooking: her chicken fried steak and peach cobbler. I shake my head. “No,” I say aloud, stopping my train of thought.

  I keep moving until I reach the fallen tree, the one Calliope used as a bridge. I put my foot on the gray log, testing it. The dry bark rasps against the sole of my shoe. With my arms out to my sides to keep balance, my left foot joins my right on top of the log. I sway a little but check myself before starting the slow sideways shuffle.

  Midway across, I peer down. I’m a few feet above the water and catch my reflection: hair sticking out in all directions. Aunt Birdie would have never let me leave the house looking like this. I attempt to smooth my hair with my hand, but it’s no use.

  The leaves whisper and, from out of nowhere, the smell of something earthy and sweet draws my attention away from my reflection. My stomach rumbles again. The smell seems to be coming from beyond the trees. I shuffle a little farther and hop off the log, next to the place where Calliope stuck her fishing pole.

  The delicious scent is stronger on this side of the creek. I hesitate, knowing I could get lost if I wander away from the stream. But the smell is so strong; it can’t be far.

  Inside the web of trees, twigs snap beneath my feet as I follow the sweet scent into the sunlight. On the edge of the tree line is a wide-open meadow, carpeted with clover and thousands of little white flowers. I bend over and take a whiff, but it’s not exactly the same inviting sme
ll.

  Shading my eyes with my hand, I scan the horizon, where the mountains rise again past the meadow and notice a dark green shed to my left, along the edge of the field of flowers. The white blossoms gently sway in the breeze; the smell grows stronger.

  Without thinking, I start across the valley, moving toward the shed, but stop mid-step when I hear bees buzzing nearby. They flit and hover from flower to flower. I give them a wide berth and continue to move across the meadow—toward the scent.

  Without the cover of trees, the sun bakes the top of my head. Sweat slicks my forehead. I wipe it with the back of my hand and pull off my hoodie before tying it around my waist.

  As I approach the green shed, I try to memorize where I’ve been and notice how the woods gradually slope upward, reaching for the sky. Cloud-shaped shadows crawl across the valley. It’s so quiet here. I take a deep, sweet breath and smile.

  The shed’s wide planks are painted a dark green, matching some of the surrounding trees. I round the building and, on the other side, find another field of flowers—short red ones.

  The delicious scent is so strong here, my mouth waters. On this side of the shed, there’s a round sign with a sprawling bee in the center of the words: PASTOR WILKES’ 100% PURE HONEY & JAM.

  I lick my lips and notice the low humming sound coming from outside the shed, when I spot the stacks of pine boxes. I near them; the sound and smell are almost too much to bear.

  Bees ignore me, buzzing and zipping from the flowery fields into the boxes and out again. Beehives.

  Beneath one tower of boxes is a crate, full of mason jars. I pull one from the crate and hold the liquid gold up to the sunlight: honey.

  Bees continue to move in and out of the boxes as I slowly twist the brass ring and then pop the lid from the jar. I dip two fingers into the thick liquid and stick them inside my mouth: sweet, spicy heaven.

  “What are you doing?” a high-pitched voice asks, startling me.

  I drop the jar, oozing liquid heaven across the dirt.

  Calliope is standing there with a handful of labels that look like the sign on the shed.

  Bees buzz over the spill; my cheeks flush. Guilty, I bend to retrieve the jar.

  “No, don’t,” she warns.

  A sudden, sharp pain shoots through my arm; I cry out. On instinct, I slap. There’s a bee stuck to my skin. It falls off, dead, floating in the pool of honey at my feet.

  “What are you doing?” Calliope says again. “They release an alarm pheromone when you crush them.”

  I can hardly process what she’s saying. My arm is throbbing and turning red. The bees are angrily buzzing. My heart hammers.

  From out of nowhere, there’s a shot of cool mist in the air, dampening my face and skin. “Move,” she orders, pushing me aside. She’s dropped her labels and is holding a spray bottle.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer as she releases another rapid shot of mist in the air. The humming softens a little.

  My arm is swelling; I feel woozy.

  “Are you allergic?” she asks.

  I stumble a little, seeing the red welt on my arm.

  Calliope shakes her head. She’s looking at me like I’m a complete moron—which I’ve already figured out, thank you very much—and snags my hand. “Come on,” she urges, gently pulling me away from the hives.

  I’m too dizzy to protest—partially from the bee sting, partially because a girl other than Aunt Birdie is holding my hand.

  She draws me through the field of red flowers; the soft petals bend as our shoes brush against them. Calliope’s hair bounces as she moves.

  I glance at my aching arm; it’s swelling even more. I put my free hand on the place where the bee stung, and it’s warm to the touch. That can’t be good.

  We soon reach the edge of the field, where there’s a caramel-colored cabin. A heavy coat of lacquer makes the wood shine in the sunlight. On the right side of the roof, a tiny satellite dish angles toward the sky. Below the dish, a minivan sits on the short driveway next to the cabin.

  “Where are we?” I ask as we clomp up one of the zigzagging ramps that leads to the front door.

  Calliope drops my hand. “This is where I live,” she says without stopping.

  I grab the handle on the side of the ramp. “Your parents are going to kill me, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t think so.” A smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “I don’t have any.”

  Huh?

  “Come on,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her as she opens the wide red front door of the cabin.

  I don’t move.

  Calliope stops in the doorway, pointing to my arm. “Are you going to let me fix that for you or not?”

  I think of how I treated her before: I was horrible. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “No idea,” she says and goes inside.

  I shuffle the rest of the way up the ramp until I pass through the doorway into the living room.

  The cabin smells of bacon and coffee. There’s a blue plaid sofa and an overstuffed leather chair. One wall is covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, full of all kinds of books, and a stone fireplace that looks dormant for the spring. From somewhere else in the cabin—it must be the television—a woman gives the daily weather report.

  “Is that you, Peanut?” a man calls from the next room.

  I stiffen. “I thought you said you didn’t have any parents.”

  The TV voice suddenly stops.

  Calliope shuts the front door. “I don’t. Josiah—he’s sort of my grandpa.” I wonder what she means by that, but then she turns toward the direction of the voice. “We have company,” she announces.

  There’s a rubber sound—like bike tires—rolling against the wood floors. Through the wide doorway emerges an older black man in a wheelchair. “Who do we have here?” he asks when he sees me.

  I swallow hard. His legs have been amputated from the knees down. His gray pant legs are tied in large knots.

  “This is Rebel,” Calliope says.

  The man offers his hand for me to shake.

  I think of Dad and the Flag Bearers. What would they think of me being here? What would they say if they saw me shake this man’s hand?

  Josiah pushes his hand toward me and smiles. “Promise it’s not contagious,” he teases, eyeing his missing legs.

  My face goes hot with embarrassment; I promptly take his calloused hand and shake. “Rebel,” my voice squeaks. “Rebel Mercer.”

  “Good to meet you,” he says with a squeeze before releasing me. “Josiah Wilkes.”

  “Pastor Josiah Wilkes,” Calliope adds, like she’s proud.

  Josiah smiles in response and rolls toward the fireplace. “True, true.”

  “He’s the pastor of the AME Zion Church over in Mercy.”

  “AME?” I ask

  “African. Methodist. Episcopal,” Josiah answers. “So what brings you to our valley, Rebel Mercer?”

  I clear my throat. “I, uh . . .” I shift between my feet. “I was following the sweet smell.”

  Calliope snorts a laugh.

  “Enticing, isn’t it?” Josiah says. “‘Eat honey, my son, for it is good.’ That’s from Proverbs.”

  “And if we don’t get the stinger out, it’s going to get infected,” Calliope adds.

  I glance at my arm and, for the first time, spot the black stinger embedded under my skin. My stomach turns as I look away.

  “I’m sorry,” Josiah says. “That’s strange. Usually they don’t sting.”

  I hold my breath, expecting Calliope to rat me out for my stupidity, but she shakes her head. “I’m going to get the first aid kit.”

  I try to breathe.

  “Won’t you sit?” Josiah asks.

  “Thanks,” I say, easing onto the cushy plaid sofa. Suddenly, my eyes feel heavy. If only the futon was this comfortable, maybe I’d sleep a little better. Or maybe if it weren’t for the guns and war cries, maybe I
would.

  “You can ask me, you know?” Josiah says, and I realize I’ve been staring at his missing legs.

  I shift, uneasy. It’s probably rude to ask, but I am curious. “How did you—” I ask, pointing.

  “Vietnam,” he says matter-of-factly. “Land mine got me.”

  “You were in the Vietnam War?”

  “Yes, sir. Joined for the GI bill. United States Marine Corps,” he says with a firm nod. “Lance corporal.”

  “My dad’s a Marine,” I say. “Staff sergeant.”

  “Really?” Josiah sounds impressed.

  I lift my chin a little.

  “Active duty?”

  My chin sinks. I don’t want him to think any less of my dad for being on forced medical leave, so I nod.

  “Bet your mom’s happy to have him home.”

  I check over my shoulder. What’s taking Calliope so long?

  “She’ll be a second,” Josiah says.

  “My mom died a little over a year ago,” I admit under my breath.

  “Oh.” Josiah’s voice falls. “I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry.”

  By the way he’s looking straight at me, I can tell he means it. Most people look away.

  “You’re enjoying a little vacation with your dad, then?”

  I press my lips together and nod. Something like that.

  He thumbs behind him. “You staying on the other side of the pass at the old Holloway campgrounds?”

  I don’t want to keep lying to him—he seems like a really nice man—but what choice do I have? It’s not like I can tell him: Oh, no, I’m staying at the camp full of racists who’d kill us both if they knew I was sitting in your living room.

  “Found it,” Calliope says, saving me from another lie. She carries a white box with a red cross on it and a glass of fizzing water with a skinny potato in it.

  “Here,” she says, handing me the glass.

  I turn up my nose. “Potato water?”

  She laughs. “It’s a stick of ginger, silly. It’ll help with the nausea.”

  Josiah nods, gesturing for me to try.

  I lift the glass to my nose and sip: spicy and refreshing. I drink a little more before she takes it from me, placing it on a corner table. She sits next to me on the sofa.