Dad’s boots squish onto the shore; he’s bulging—his muscles, his veins. He rips Calliope’s fishing pole from the ground and snaps it in two over his thigh. I wince as he tosses part of it aside; the bacon hook and half of the pole float downstream in the current. Dad grips the other half of the wooden pole, the broken end sharp like a spear. “I told you to stay away from her,” he barks. “What did you tell her?”
I edge backward.
“You’re feeding her information, aren’t you?” His eyes dart.
I quickly shake my head.
“When are they coming for us?”
“Who?” I ask, totally confused.
He scoffs. “Oh, you really are good. You know who I’m talking about.”
From the corner of my eye, I spot Karl shuffling across the log. All of a sudden, I realize who. “The New World Order?”
“Ha! I knew it!”
“Dad, please. I’m not talking to them.” I put a hand against my chest. “It’s just me: Rebel.”
“You’re a traitor,” Dad says, raising the pole over his head, ready to strike.
I close my eyes, bracing for the blow, forcing myself to stay still. I can’t run. I can’t lead them to Calliope and Josiah.
I hear the high-pitched whip of the pole through the air, followed by a smack. There’s a grunt and scuffle.
“Nathan, stop!”
My eyes fly open as Karl grips Dad’s wrist. There’s a red whip mark along Karl’s pale arm. He shakes the pole to the ground, disarming my dad.
Dad reaches, but he’s not fast enough.
Karl snatches the remaining piece of Calliope’s fishing pole and flings it into the creek with a plunk. “Enough!” Karl yells.
Dad digs his boot into the shore, the mud squelching before he shoves Karl in the chest. Karl staggers, but holds his ground.
My heart races.
Dad turns his narrow focus to me.
“Stand down, soldier,” Karl commands.
Dad looks ready to charge.
My knees buckle; my butt’s on the ground. The comic slips from my hand. My fingers dig into the cool mud as I try to scoot away.
“That’s an order, Sergeant!”
There’s a sudden shift in Dad’s expression. He blinks as if he’s been awakened. He examines his surroundings—the sky, the water, the trees.
Me.
My heart is beating so loud, I can’t even hear the creek.
With one eye on Dad, Karl carefully approaches and offers me a hand.
I’m shaking, but I take it—he holds on tight—and I let him pull me from the ground. I can sense Dad staring at the comic book, full focus. I want to hide it. Protect it.
“You okay?” Karl asks, still holding me upright.
I nod, even though I’m not. It’s all I can do not to collapse again.
Dad is breathing heavy; his chest heaves as he bends toward my comic book.
No, don’t touch it. I don’t want him to touch it. To spoil it.
He snatches it. “Did she give this to you?” he asks, his voice low and accusing.
I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer.
“These things make you soft. They brainwash you into thinking the world’s full of heroes.”
I want to tell him he was my hero. But before I get the chance, he throws my comic book into the creek.
The pages sag from the weight of the water. The colors begin to run. The words disappear.
“You will never see her again, that’s an order,” he barks as I watch the current sweep part of me away.
***
The side of my rib cage presses against the hard futon as my brain revolves between embarrassment over what Dad did at the creek into anger and finally into fear of what he might do next. What would have happened if Karl hadn’t stepped in?
When we returned to camp, Karl made Dad stay away from me until he knew I would be safe. It took several hours.
I’m seething again.
Dad is pacing upstairs. He’s been pacing all night. Each of his footfalls lands with a thump, followed by a shuddering creak, like the cabin is complaining about our lack of sleep.
I huff and roll onto my back, glaring at the wood ceiling. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the muted sunlight lining the outer edges of the blackout curtains.
I can’t believe he scared off Calliope and then threw my comic book into the water. So what if it makes me “soft”?
I’m tired of being on edge all the time, not knowing which Dad is in front of me. I’m tired of the whirlwind, set to rapid repeat in an unpredictable cycle of anger, fear, sadness, love, anger, fear, sadness, love. . . .
I want to talk to him. Tell him how I feel. But every time I try, I either don’t have the heart to ruin the rare moment he seems happy or it’s like I’m not looking at my dad at all, but a soldier who’s decided I’m another enemy in need of destruction.
Thump, creak. Thump, creak.
My hands cover my face in frustration as I think about what Calliope said: If you remain silent, you’re telling the hater you’re okay with what he’s saying and doing.
I exhale. But I’m not okay with what he’s doing. We came here so he’d get better. So he could see the real me. But I’ve never felt more hidden.
And now I’m worried I’m in way over my head here. I have to do something.
I throw off the thin blanket before I can change my mind. “Dad,” I call, sitting up. I push the balls of my bare feet into the wood floor.
Within seconds, footsteps thump across the ceiling and move toward the stairs. “What’s wrong?” Dad asks, looking stressed as he reaches the bottom floor. He’s fully dressed and carrying our bug-out bags.
“Nothing,” I say and take a deep breath, trying to stay calm, hoping he’ll take a hint and do the same.
He drops the packs at the base of the stairs and flips the light on over my futon.
I squint and spot his uneasiness from a few feet away. I’m sweating already; the backs of my knees stick to the sheet.
“Are you hurt?” Dad asks as he nears.
I rub my damp palms onto my shorts. “I—I need to talk to you.”
Dad’s body remains tight, defensive, as he approaches the table with his war scene and pulls out a chair. He turns the chair and sits, facing me with his arms crossed over his chest. “Talk.”
I take another breath, shifting on the mattress. “I think we should leave.”
“Leave,” Dad repeats, his voice monotone.
“This place is not what I thought it was going to be. I thought we were going to—I don’t know—do stuff together.”
Irritation flashes across his face. “Didn’t I take the entire day off to go hiking and fishing?”
“You did,” I say with an abrupt nod. “But you’re always doing stuff for them.”
“Them?” he asks. Dad crosses his ankles to match his arms, closing off completely. “Those men are our comrades.”
“Maybe they’re yours,” I say. “But they’re not helping you.”
Dad pokes his tongue against the inside of his mouth, pushing out his cheek, like he’s trying to control his temper.
I snag my pillow from the head of the bed and squish it onto my lap.
“So you’d have me go back to being jobless, unable to support my family?”
“We were doing fine with Aunt Birdie.”
“It’s not her job to support us,” he says, his voice rising.
“But I miss her, and I want to be able to go to school.” My fingers curl around the edges of the pillow. “I miss the real world.”
Dad sucks in his cheeks for a second and points to the floor. “This is the real world. We’re preparing for a takeover the rest of the world is too blind to see.”
I roll my eyes.
“You’re so naive,” he chides.
I hold my pillow like a shield. “I’m not naive,” I say and then toss it aside. “I just don’t see how any of this is helping y
ou get better. You still don’t sleep. You’re angry all the time.” I stop myself from saying: I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid of you. I sigh. “You don’t get it: I’m never going to be like you.”
“So you’d rather give up than survive?”
My muscles tense; heat courses through my veins as I jump from the futon. “Everything isn’t about surviving.”
In an instant, he pops up, knocking over the chair. My feet slide backward across the floor; the backs of my knees hit the edge of the futon. Dad stomps into the kitchen, snatching N8TE from the counter. The cord dangles from its charging port.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Dad looks at N8TE with disgust. “The first thing the New World Order is going to do is cut the power grid. Do you think this thing will help you when that happens?” He yanks the trash can from under the sink.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a little louder.
He chucks N8TE, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the chest. First my comic book, now this? I press my lips together as he tips the crate, and all of my spare parts fall. They rattle and clunk until everything has been dumped in the trash.
Dad tosses the empty crate into the sink with a clang. “You don’t listen. You’re too wrapped up in your own make-believe world of comics and robots to see what’s really happening.” He rubs his temples, as if working to calm himself, but I can still see the veins popping along the sides of his neck. “If you’d pay attention for a few seconds, you’ll see I’m trying to show you how to survive.”
Angry heat rushes from the top of my head to the tips of my toes; it feels like I’m about to boil over. “Like you?” I ask, my hand cutting the air. “You call this surviving?”
Shock tightens his face.
“I want to do more than survive: I want to live. And so should you.”
Dad shakes his head. “I thought you were happy here.”
“I only pretended I was.”
He flinches; something like hurt creases his face.
I take a breath and lower my voice. “Most of the time I was pretending,” I say, backpedaling. “Not always.”
But it’s too late. “Why would you pretend?” he asks.
“Because you like it here,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. Trying to keep the anger from taking over.
Dad looks me straight in the eye, and for the first time, it’s like he actually sees me, instead of the me he wants me to be.
And I don’t think he likes it. His face twists—Angry Dad.
I put out my hands in surrender. “Dad, I’m only trying to help.”
The front door bursts open, startling us both.
“Attention,” Karl commands.
Dad straightens automatically, his eyes fixed on a point in space over my shoulder.
I clench my hands, relieved and annoyed they’re here.
Wade marches into the cabin. “At ease,” he says, and Dad relaxes only a bit. Wade looks between us, as if assessing the situation. “I’ve come to inform you both the time has come.”
I shift uncomfortably.
Wade grips the gun slung across his chest. “I’ve made the decision to activate Operation Mutual Defense.”
My gaze flicks between Wade’s stern expression and Karl’s blank one and Dad’s hopeful one. “What’s that?” I ask.
Wade’s knuckles go white around his weapon.
“It’s our next mission. There’s been a call to arms,” Karl explains. “We’ll be meeting in a few days with other militia groups around the country.”
Wade turns to Dad. “Everyone needs to be packed—only the essentials—and be ready to leave by nightfall.”
Nightfall? “Where are we going?”
“We need you on the front line,” Wade says, “building more weapons.”
I open my mouth to ask, Weapons for what?, but Dad shoots me a death glare.
Wade lowers his voice, speaking only to Dad. “I’d like to discuss something with you in private, soldier.” His thin eyebrows lift and fall. “I have figured out a way to deal with the problem we discussed earlier.”
What’s he talking about? “What problem?” Dread curdles my stomach.
Wade gives a curt nod. “The war has finally begun.”
TWENTY-ONE
War? What war?
Wade is the first to leave our cabin, followed by Karl. Dad trails them, stopping in the doorway for a second and glances over his shoulder. “Looks like you got your wish.”
As usual, I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“We’re leaving,” he says and then exits, closing the door behind him.
“I didn’t wish for this,” I say to the closed door, which is pretty much the same as talking to Dad. Neither is listening.
Another flame of frustration spreads throughout my body. I stomp toward the blue-and-white-checkered cloth and yank it across the rope. I flip on the overhead light bulb. It flickers and buzzes.
The bathroom faucet squeaks as I turn it, releasing water—brown and smelly at first—into the sink. When it clears, I splash cold water across my face and, with both hands clutching the sides of the sink, stare into the hazy mirror. What now? Water drips from my chin as I try to think what to do next. We need to go home, not on a stupid mission.
I need to make Dad listen. Tell him how crazy this all is. I don’t know how, but he needs to hear me out.
I quickly brush my teeth and get ready. After pulling on my clean soldier outfit, I open the door to fresh air when I spy Karl, sitting on our porch. Without even looking at me, he pats the place on the step next to him. The butt of his AR-15 is visible, barely extending past his hip.
My heart skips a beat. For a second, I consider retreating and locking myself inside the cabin. But what good would it do when he could shoot open the lock?
I carefully sit next to Karl.
He takes the gun from his lap and hands it over. “You do good work,” he says.
I slowly take his weapon, willing my hands not to tremble. I drop the magazine from the gun, disarming it. Then I set the magazine on the porch and check the chamber to make sure it’s empty. It is.
“For someone who hates guns,” Karl adds.
The gun snaps shut. “Who says I hate guns?”
Karl’s head tilts with a long laugh, putting me even more on edge. “Please,” he finally says. “When I hand a weapon to most guys, they’re looking for the nearest target. They can’t wait to shoot.” He shakes his head. “Not you.”
I nervously hand him the empty gun. “So?”
“So, you’re a thinker. I like that about you.” A wide smile spreads across his face. Karl is scary enough when he’s not smiling, but he’s absolutely terrifying when he grins. He looks like he’s about to pull another weapon and kill me.
“I need to go.” I quickly stand and hop to the ground; dry leaves swish at my feet. I only hope I can outrun him before he draws, but I seriously doubt it.
“What has your dad told you about Operation Mutual Defense?”
My dad? I stop and carefully face him. The gun is still in his lap. The bullets remain on the porch. I shrug. “Nothing, why?”
“How about this information Wade has for your dad? Do you know anything about that?”
It feels like he’s toying with me. Shouldn’t he know the answers to his questions? He is the head of security. “The first I heard of it was just now,” I say, suddenly jittery. “Why? What’s going on?”
He purses his lips, looking toward the woods.
I shake my head. He’s exactly like Dad, ignoring my questions. “Hello?”
Karl shifts his weight on the step. “Are you sure you don’t know why Wade’s gathering all the militias outside of Washington, D.C.? Your dad hasn’t mentioned anything to you?”
“Shouldn’t you know?”
“One would think.” He mindlessly slides the gun on his lap. “I was hoping since you and your dad disappeared the other day, he told you something about the mission.
”
Every one of my nerves is on high alert. “How’d you know we were gone?”
“It’s my job to know,” Karl says without blinking.
“Then isn’t it also your job to know what Wade is planning?”
He laughs. “You’re not as timid as you look, kid.” He stands and walks through the leaves until he’s only a few feet away, his voice a little softer. “Look, if he told you something, I really need to know.”
“We were just hiking and fishing.” I ball my hands. “Dad doesn’t really talk to me much about this stuff. About anything, really.”
“So I’ve heard,” he says.
The hairs on my neck stand on end. “Wait a minute,” I say, wondering if our cabin is somehow bugged. Has he been listening to us? I shake my head, forcing my mind to stop spiraling down the paranoid trail of the Flag Bearers.
“Go ahead and ask,” Karl dares. “It seems like you have pretty good instincts.”
“Is our cabin bugged?” I ask and immediately wish I could take it back for how ridiculous it sounds.
Karl gives a swift nod.
No, this can’t be right. “Did the Flag Bearers do it?”
“I did.”
I point to him. “But, you are a Flag Bearer.”
Karl gives the slightest shake of his head.
Wait, what? “Then who are you?”
Karl moves closer. When he’s only inches away, he checks our surroundings, taking an extra second or two to look between the trees until his cool eyes land squarely on mine. “FBI.”
“FBI?” I shriek. “Yeah, right, and I’m Jabba the Hutt.”
“I need you to keep your voice down.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I say with a short laugh.
“I’m serious.”
“Oh, you’re really good.”
He puts a hand out, shushing me as he cranes his neck to listen. But all I hear is the quiet flow of the creek and the wind moving through the trees. Karl’s hand drops to his side before whispering, “I’m an undercover agent, assigned to investigate the Flag Bearers.”
I wipe my hands across my pants. “I don’t believe you.”
“Think about it,” Karl says, pointing the direction of the training grounds. “These guys hate the federal government. They’d kill me in a heartbeat if they knew who I was. Do you really think I’d tell you I was an FBI agent if I wasn’t?”
The Inside Battle Page 16
