After the screen door slams behind him, most of the crowd disperses. The new folks file inside in about the same order as we approached the tables last night, which means our crew is last.
The small girl is ahead of me as we wait to squeeze into the crowded hallway. I catch her sleeve, and she spins on me, gun in hand. It’s a Valor Glock—I can see the gold stamp. So I was right. She is one of us.
“Don’t touch me,” she says, her voice calm and flat.
I hold my hands up. “Sorry. I just wanted to introduce myself. You look a little lonely.”
She looks me up and down, then glances at my friends. Her eyes are dark brown, her hair light blond, and she can’t weigh more than ninety pounds.
“Don’t talk to me, or I’ll kill your dog.” She turns back around, and I put my hand on Matty’s head. The look in the girl’s eyes—she’d do it too.
So much for making friends.
Wyatt’s hand finds my waist, protective, but not obviously so. “Don’t take it personally,” he murmurs in my ear, finishing with a kiss on my cheek. His breath smells like mint.
I know he’s right. The world, as it is—it’s messed up. I can’t imagine what last week would’ve been like without Wyatt at my side, without Matty’s unwavering love. If this girl did it alone or, worse yet, lost whoever was helping her through it . . . I imagine her nightmares must be worse than mine. I want to believe that there’s still a good person inside her, too, but I could definitely be wrong. When I look in the mirror or catch Chance’s eyes, I see a crust of hardness over liquid pools of heartbreak and regret. In this girl’s eyes, I see only a bottomless, murky swamp. But was she always that way, or is she another sin to lay at Valor’s door? Did they break her, or was she already broken?
Everyone inside finally shifts enough to let us through the door, and the house is overly warm and smells like old people and fatty breakfast. There’s a line in the kitchen, and we pick up paper plates and ladle on what’s left of scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, and biscuits.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Gabriela says, and an older lady in a housecoat grunts and dumps lumpy grits all over her plate, drowning her biscuit.
Once we’ve got Styrofoam cups of crap coffee, we follow the line to a den, but Tuck blocks our path.
“Y’all go on down to the parlor. Leon wants to talk to you, special.”
Two doors down, we find a room with an old piano and older sofa, already taken. There’s nowhere else to sit but in folding chairs. I count nine of us kids, and I sit as far as possible from the girl who just threatened to kill my dog. She’s tearing her biscuit into tiny shreds and swallowing each shred one by one. Everyone eats in silence, eyeing each other as we balance breakfast on the laps of brand-new jeans. No one speaks. Matty stays at my knee, tail wagging politely, but she doesn’t try to make friends. Because no one here is friendly.
“Good morning!”
Ugh. Heather. She’s extra perky and dressed in a velour camo tracksuit.
“So did everybody get everything they need at the store? And a good night’s sleep?”
Dead silence.
Heather’s big, glossy smile turns into a sneer, and she knocks the little blond sociopath’s plate to the ground and plants a foot in what’s left of her biscuit. “I asked you a question.”
The girl looks up at her. “I’m not ‘everybody.’ ”
“No. You’re Beatrix Kiddo, according to your form. Do you really expect anyone to call you that?”
A flat, reptile stare. “You can call me Bea.”
Heather’s smile is sweet as poison. “Did you have a good night, Bea?”
Bea’s mouth widens in something that seems like an alien pretending to smile. “Oh, yes. I was a good little do-bee. I used my card and bought all sorts of lovely things. I feel like a princess. Now, who is it you want me to kill?”
Heather sighs. “No one. We’re not Valor. But we do have jobs for you. And we think you’ll actually find it pretty fun. First off, we’re going to do target practice today. Does anyone have experience with survival skills?”
“Considering we’re all alive after a week with Valor, yes,” Chance says, and everyone smothers their laughter because Heather looks like she’s going to have a tantrum.
“Can you find water in the woods? Can you start a fire without matches? Can you forage food? Can you survive, alone, with no money and no way to get money? Because that’s where you’re going to be if Valor raids Crane Hollow. And most of you bought fancy tents that you can’t break down and throw on your back, so you’re going to need to know how to make shelter, too.”
Wyatt gives me an apologetic look and a shrug. I elbow him in the side to let him know that there’s no way he could’ve anticipated the need to buy a smaller tent in case we became mountain men.
“I thought this was a briefing,” Gabriela says. “I don’t feel briefed.”
“I’m getting to it,” Heather snaps. “So, Crane Hollow. You have your tent. We provide food at meal times. You get one scheduled shower pass per week, so anything outside of that you’ll have to cover on your own. The line starts early for the downstairs bathroom and can get long. There’s a lake out back, or you can buy a solar shower or double up in the shower, if you have a buddy, so that you each get two showers. We’ve got porta-potties on the far side of the field, hidden in the trees. Don’t mess with the food animals. Don’t hunt squirrels on property. Don’t steal the eggs. Don’t steal from your neighbors or their tents, or they’re in their rights to shoot you. If we catch you stealing, we’ll shoot you. Don’t leave the compound unless you’re on a mission—”
“Don’t leave the compound?” Gabriela says.
Heather’s smile is so fucking patronizing. “We can’t have people screeching in and out of here all the time. It draws too much attention. That’s why there are guards. And they will take you down.”
“For the Citizens for Freedom, y’all don’t seem too big on freedom,” one of the other kids drawls, and I can tell by looking at him that he’s rich, or was. Or, at least, like Wyatt, his family pretended he was.
“We’re fighting for freedom. That doesn’t mean we have it right now. So shut up and listen. Where was I?” Heather looks at a sheet of paper. “Okay. So. You don’t need to be in this house unless it’s a designated meal time or you’ve been summoned. Don’t hang out here, don’t try to sneak into the bathrooms, and no one goes upstairs.”
“Why not?” Gabriela asks.
“Because it’s off-limits.”
“Well, now, see, that just makes me want to go up there more.”
Heather’s grin disappears. “There’s going to be a big ol’ Crane boy with a gun at the stairs every moment of every day. They get real bored. Don’t give ’em a reason to shoot.”
“I want to see Clark.”
“Well, here’s the thing about Crane Hollow. If you want something, you’ve got to earn it.”
“We’ve got to earn the right to see our friend?” I say. “That’s bullshit.”
Heather looks at me, all innocent. “That’s funny, coming from the person who shot him.”
Every kid in the room turns to stare at me.
“I didn’t know him at the time,” I mutter.
“Badass,” murmurs one of the other kids.
“Yeah, we were breaking into her hideout at the time. Not her fault,” Gabriela says, and I feel like I’m going to owe her for life for not blaming me.
“Still. Do good work at the range today, and if the weather holds, we’ll have a job for you soon. Do it well, and you’ll see your friend. Who, I assure you, is upstairs and doing great.”
Nervous looks pass between me, Wyatt, Chance, and Gabriela. Matty burrows her face among our knees, her tail thumping. One thing I know for sure? I’m not letting this dog out of my sight.
Heather leads us to the front porch and points us to a trail in the woods. “Follow that. Brady’s waiting for you in the field.” She disappears inside, and everybody eyes
everybody else.
“You heard the bitch,” Chance says. He takes off with Gabriela at his side looking fierce. She must’ve kept some of her own makeup after Valor, as her eyes are striped with electric purple today, surrounded with heavy black liner.
Wyatt’s hand curls in mine, and Matty wiggles at my side, all ready to go. The small, terrifying girl, Bea was what Heather called her—she’s directly in front of us. I can’t even hear her sneakers on the path, like she doesn’t weigh anything. Her hair is in a tight French braid, her outfit entirely in camouflage. I know from the Valor records in Alistair’s trailer that she has to be at least sixteen, but she looks like a murderous doll. I slow down when it feels like we’re walking too close to her.
It’s a beautiful morning, full of birdsong, with the last of the leaves softly drifting down through the sun-dappled autumn forest. Matty’s practically dancing on her fat paws, and Wyatt swings our hands, just a little, as if he’s forgotten where we are and why we’re here. He has some ability that I lack to forget the past and the future and live in the moment. I envy it. He’s barely spoken of his father’s death, but I can’t forget it. I can’t stop thinking of the thousand different ways Valor might’ve already tortured and killed my mom. I begin to see why she sank into painkillers after her car accident. She said the nightmares would wake her up, like she was reliving it, trapped in the crushed car and bleeding, and her heart would pound so high and fast that her fingers and toes would go cold, and then she was gulping down pills in the dark with trembling hands. If I could numb myself to what I feel in the night, I would do it. I would totally do it.
But I can’t. Even if Chance has the pills, I can’t. I have to be ready to run and fight, every second of every day.
The path opens up to a field like any other field, except that there’s a line of makeshift targets at the other end and a big, built kid with a rifle over his shoulder at this end. He’s at least seven feet tall, wearing overalls and a non-ironic trucker hat, and he’s staring at us like he’s trying to decide which duck to shoot in a barrel.
“Tie that dog up before she gets shot,” are his first words to us, but they’re spoken less like an asshole and more like a country boy who would feel really bad if Matty got hurt. I nod and tie her leash around a tree. She promptly starts rolling around on a mushroom.
“Now, y’all gather up over here, and keep your hands off your guns.” We crowd up around him. The preppy kids are clustered together and snickering, as they always do when they think they’re going to have to listen to someone who doesn’t have as much money as they do. “I just need to see how good a shot y’all are. We don’t want to waste bullets, and you’re going to have to repack ’em later anyway, so just step up when I call your name and take five shots. Easy, right?” Everyone nods.
“What if we don’t have a gun?” a hot Asian emo kid asks—the one who called me a badass. He looks to be alone, like Bea.
“Maybe you can borrow one from a girl,” says the lead prep.
The hot emo kid gives a little snort of a laugh and barrels into the prep kid, taking him to the ground and basically pretzeling him around until he’s got the kid in some sort of choke hold. The prep kid is turning purple and sputtering and flailing, and his friends don’t know what to do. Guess they don’t have guns either. Brady watches the scene and pulls a notebook out of his back pocket to take notes.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Chance shouts, and Gabriela smacks his shoulder.
“Tap my arm if you’re done.” Hot emo kid isn’t even out of breath, but the prep kid frantically flaps his hand against the kid’s shoulder and is released. Hot emo kid stands up with a sly grin. “That’s called jiu-jitsu, dick. And it means that I don’t need a gun to kill you.”
The prep kid stands, his face red. His polo is askew, the collar no longer popped. Giggles ripple through the crowd. It’s nice to see a douchebag laid low, new world order or not.
Brady gnaws on his pencil. “What’s your name, killer?” After a pause, he points a finger and adds, “Your new name. Nobody here wants your birth name.”
Prep kid looks like he wants to respond but can’t speak. Of course, no one cares about his name.
The emo kid gives an amused grin and tosses his hair. “Rex.”
I know it’s a fake name, but it suits him. Rex looked cool as hell before he choked the prep kid out, but now there’s a certain deadliness to his ease. His hair is dark and shoulder-length, his shirt black, and his jeans faded gray and slim fitting in the way that only certain rock stars can pull off. His boots ride the line between face stomping and fashion, and I suspect the brown stains on the worn leather are blood. As if sensing the up-and-down I’m giving Rex, Wyatt slides his arm around my waist. But Gabriela sees it too and mutters, “Meow,” under her breath.
Brady scribbles some notes and points at the prep kid. “And you?”
Prep kid’s finally got his voice back, but it’s raspy. “Tyler.”
Looking down at his notes, Brady smirks. “Oh, good. Tyler Durden. That’s pretty cute. Let’s see if you can live up to that name.”
“I’m out of bullets,” Tyler says. “So . . .” He looks around like we’re going to offer him ammunition.
“This is stupid.”
The quiet girl, Bea, steps past him, whips the black revolver from under her hoodie, and fires five rounds at the line of targets. Five Coke cans jump off the board. It’s funny—the sound of gunshots doesn’t even register anymore.
“Can I leave now?” Bea’s voice is flat. I’m pretty sure she’s actually a reptile.
Brady eyes her up and down. “What’s your name, sugar?”
She points the gun at him, casual as you please. “My name’s not ‘Sugar.’ It’s ‘Bea.’ ”
“Fine. Bea.” The big redneck shrugs and grins when she lets her gun fall to her side. “You can leave if you’re done. But you’ll need to report to the house at lunch. Leon’s got a little job for all of y’all. Unless you have any questions about how things are run in Crane Hollow?”
Bea’s smile curls into itself like a dead bug. “I do have a question, actually. What sort of justice system do you have?”
I realize I’m holding my breath, because she’s acting really goddamn creepy, and I can feel it in the air. Wyatt’s arm tightens, pulling me to his side.
“Somebody steals from you or threatens you, you can kill ’em. But make sure you have proof or witnesses. Ain’t a single Crane on the property that ain’t armed to the teeth. Why?”
Bea raises her gun and, as if in slow motion, ever so casually shoots Tyler in the chest. We’re all perfectly still and silent as he drops to his knees and his face lands in the dirt.
“Because I hated Fight Club,” she says. “And that boy grabbed me on my way to the latrine last night and said he wanted to fuck me.” She pulls back her sleeve to show a fresh bruise about the size and shape of a boy’s hand. “Is that fair?”
Brady just nods and scribbles in his notebook.
She turns and walks away.
“What do we do?” one of the prep kids asks, all cockiness gone.
Gabriela hurries over, drops to her knees, and starts pumping the kid’s chest, but . . . it’s clear that he’s dead. After a few tense moments, she stands, shakes her head, and tucks herself back into the crowd between me and Chance.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Brady says. “He’s gone. This is a good lesson for y’all about how things work around here. You do bad things to anyone on our side and bad things are gonna happen to you. For now we’re going to shoot, because that’s what we were told to do. You got a problem with that?”
“Yes, I have a fucking problem with it! He was my friend, and you’re just going to let that little tease shoot him and walk away?” The prep kid is crying, his lip trembling. He looks barely sixteen, and in his terror and fear I see what I must’ve looked like standing outside Wyatt’s door, waiting for his dad to answer my knock. This kid—he wasn’t a Valor kid. Wh
atever test they used to determine who to choose . . . he wouldn’t have passed it.
“Yeah, I am,” Brady says. “Unless you know for sure he didn’t touch her.”
In response, the kid whips out Tyler’s gun and holds it, outstretched and shaking, pointed sideways at Brady. In one fierce, hard move, Brady smashes the gun to the side and drives the kid to the ground, where he sits on the smaller kid’s chest and slaps him, hard.
“You done, son?”
The kid just blubbers, his eyes squeezed shut like he hit the end of his rope a long time ago. Tyler’s gold-stamped Glock is on the ground, and Brady picks it up and checks the clip, which is empty. “That’s what I figured,” he mutters. And then he hands the gun to Rex.
The crowd murmurs and looks around. I suspect they’re all as concerned as I am that they might lose their guns. Now, in this world, my gun feels like an extension of my body, and I don’t want to see it just handed to somebody else. Again.
Brady stands up. “Enough fooling around. Y’all line up and start shooting. Bullets are in the box. If your gun ain’t a forty-five, let me know. We don’t have time for this shit.”
The prep kid stands up and moves to whisper with what’s left of his friends, who look decidedly less brave.
Strike Page 8
