by B. C. Tweedt
“You know me, Sam. Better than anyone in the world.”
“Yeah.”
“Then that is what you always go back to. When people are saying bad things about me, when you doubt me, when you don’t understand why I do what I do, always remember what you know about me. That you trust me and I love you.”
Sam nodded, hanging his head with the guilt. Of course he knew. He’d known for thirteen years. How could he let one thumb drive derail all of it?
“So my answer is…maybe. It all depends. Will it help our country? Will it help the greater good? Then sure,” he said, smiling when he saw Sam’s surprised face. “But you know who would come out on top in the end.”
Sam’s surprise didn’t falter until he forced out a fake smile.
“Now let’s go. Iowa needs us.”
They started off again, Sam’s mind still reeling. He would help the terrorists. He would. It was possible.
Perhaps the thumb drive was correct. Maybe he was a Pluribus ally. But why would their ally support the VSA?
“So you think the VSA is a good thing?”
The jet’s turbines whined higher, forcing his father to shout over their drone. “Yes, it’s a good thing!” Then he stopped at the rolling staircase leading to the plane and turned to his son. “It’s about time we take the fight to these scumbags!”
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Not waiting for the helicopter’s blades to stop spinning, a woman ran through the dust to the open door as soon as the heli’s rails hit the dirt. In a few moments Forge had helped her pull the stretcher out with the injured boy lying in its center. She was strong for a forty-year-old, and experience steeled her steps with confidence.
Together they carried him to the back of the jeep and set him down a little harder than they liked. The boy woke and grimaced in pain.
“Where are you taking him?”
The woman spun and gave the pony-tailed girl a cursory glance. “To the Med Center!” she shouted over the thumping blades, racing to help Forge strap the stretcher to the sides in the makeshift ambulance. “You his friend?”
The girl nodded, her brow furrowed in concern and her arms wrapped around her shivering body.
“Well, then get in!” the woman ordered as she slammed the rear hatch shut.
The girl smiled through her concern, turning to gather her friends with shouts. The soldiers were already transferring gear from the helicopter to another jeep on the trail, when two boys and another girl dropped from the helicopter’s center, the long-haired, buck-toothed boy still halfway in slumber. His woozy eyes bounced from the sun rising over the tops of snowy mountains to the valley below.
“Snap!” he exclaimed. “Where are we?”
The woman ignored him. No doubt he’d seen the smattering of wooden buildings and large structures, a parking lot, and sports fields – all surrounded by lush pines. Maybe he’d realized that the facilities were too nice, too friendly to be military.
“Where are you taking us?” he asked, putting out a sheltering arm to the taller, freckled girl. “Down there?”
The woman sighed as she rushed to the driver’s door and opened it. “Welcome to the Rockies! You’re safe now. Camp is just below.”
The boy stalled, watching as the others joined the lady in the jeep. His shoulders slumped. “Safe?” he thought out loud. “Because nothing can go wrong at camp…”
Chapter 3
The next day
It had been a mistake. Sydney shouldn’t have pulled the blanket over herself. She had wanted to stay awake until Greyson returned from surgery, but the fatigue had swept over her with the blanket’s warmth, even as she awed at snowy peaks visible out the Med Center’s recovery room. There was something about the mountains and a warm blanket to snuggle with that lent itself to deep sleep.
But she felt guilty now, waking to an empty room. Has Greyson come out of surgery yet? Did I miss it? Has something gone wrong?
She had just whipped off the blanket when a female nurse dressed in scrubs pushed open the door. They met eyes, Sydney’s wild with anticipation.
Nurse Rachael, the woman that had met them at the helicopter, made haste to ease her fears. “He’s fine. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Fine? What’s that mean?” Sydney asked, her mind quick to find fresh fears. “Did you have to amputate…?”
“No, no,” Rachael consoled, coming toward Sydney and removing a surgery cap. “His hand will heal, his shoulder will heal. It’ll just take time.”
Seeing Rachael come closer triggered a response that surprised Sydney. The emotion welled in her eyes and pushed her into Rachael’s arms. Though Rachael hadn’t seen it coming, she was nice enough to embrace the girl as she stifled a few sobs into her shoulder. Sydney was rarely so emotional, but she had rarely been as tired and overwhelmed.
When Sydney started to push away, Rachael bent close. “It’s okay. You’ll take time, too. All of you, I’m sure.”
The embrace had felt so nice. But Sydney still missed her mother’s shoulder; Rachael’s was harder – more toned.
“How long have you known each other?” Rachael asked.
“A few months.”
Rachael drew back, looking down at Sydney. “A few months?”
Sydney laughed and wiped at her tears, making her way toward the tissue box. “I know. I’m weird. You think I’m some clingy teenage girl with a …a crush or something…”
“Maybe,” Rachael admitted, beginning to fold Sydney’s blanket. “Or maybe not.” She gave Sydney a sly look. “You’ve gone through a lot together, I’ve heard.”
Sydney blew her nose and then nodded. “A lot.”
Rachael set the blanket in its place and began preparing the hospital bed. “Going through hell together can meld people together, fuse them to each other in a way that defies logic.”
Sydney smiled, thankful for her understanding.
“…or it can fry your brain so bad you don’t think straight, clinging to any set of biceps and jawline.” Rachael winked at her, continuing her work.
Blushing, Sydney smiled, surprised at the woman’s humor. Not knowing how to respond, she tentatively helped Rachael pull a sheet back. Without waiting for Rachael’s approval, Sydney continued helping, following the nurse’s lead. Together they readied the bed, brought in a few flowers from outside, and flipped through the TV channels for a channel Greyson would like.
Sydney stopped at a news station, reading the headline below the video of President Foster signing a document with children posed all around him. “What’s the VSA?”
Rachael rolled her eyes. “The Vigilant Shepherd Act. I see it passed. He didn’t even need an executive order. And of course there are kids there.”
Sydney eyed the smiling children of all races and ages. They seemed happy about the law. “What’s it do?” Sydney asked.
“Among other things, it declares Pluribus a terrorist organization.”
“Well, duh. Should’ve done that a long time ago.”
Rachael gave her a look and turned the channel. The look that seemed sympathetic to the Plurbs caused an uneasiness to curl into Sydney’s gut. Maybe she hadn’t cast enough suspicion onto this woman. She had no idea who she was. Perhaps she was a Plurb herself.
“It’s not so simple,” Rachael began. “The VSA gives the government power to arrest those who ‘support’ a Plurb in their activities. They’ll check everyone’s past, and I’m sure they’ll find an excuse to arrest them if they want. Maybe they donated to a Pluribus candidate, maybe they just went to one of their protests, or maybe they took in a kid who had a Plurb parent…”
“Oh,” Sydney added after a moment of silence. She didn’t know if Rachael was talking about Greyson, or someone else, but she was right either way. The bill sounded complicated.
“It’s going to pit neighbor against neighbor, sons against fathers, students against teachers. They’re even creatin
g a youth training program to train kids how to spot ‘terrorists’ in their own communities! Can you imagine…?” she trailed off, realizing that her voice had raised in volume. She took a long, deep breath. “Sorry, I…get fired up.”
Nodding, Sydney smiled. And then the screen flipped to SportsCenter.
“Sports?” Rachael asked.
Sydney laughed. “Much better.”
“Good,” the nurse said, returning the laugh. “And I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.”
“We’ve been shorthanded for months,” Rachael said, walking to the window. “Ever since Morris…and then the August attacks…”
Sydney joined her at the window, eyeing the wooden buildings across an expansive cobbled thoroughfare. Children were meandering by, laughing, playing. A few adults would pass, though less numerous and far less animated than the children. Sydney turned and examined her. She didn’t wear any make-up or a wedding ring. Her skin was tanned – a real tan – not the fake-bake kind, with enough weathering that Sydney would guess she had spent much of her life outdoors.
A sound of a child’s laughter brought Sydney back to the window. This place had surprised her. While it had been referred to as a ‘camp’, it had streets, a massive conference center that she imagined could hold more than a thousand people, and this two-story modern medical center equipped as well as a hospital. “What is this place?”
The woman smiled, still watching the children outside. “This is Camp Courageous. It’s just outside Estes Park, Colorado. For several decades it’s been a popular destination for conferences, getaways, and youth summer camps, but we’ve been…adapting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our needs are becoming…longer-term. Mostly for children, but for all kinds of folks that need to get away, for all kinds of reasons.”
Sydney thought to herself and read between the lines. Folks that need to get away? As in people who are hiding from the government? But Rachael interrupted her thoughts before she could verbalize them.
“We’re for peace here,” she added bluntly, swiveling to Sydney. “I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”
Rachael’s eyes were too intense for Sydney to question. She just nodded.
“And I could really use your help, if you’re willing.”
“But I don’t know much about nursing. Would they let me?”
Rachael smiled. “This isn’t a hospital. We don’t do things by the government’s book here.”
Sydney pondered the idea, realizing that Rachael was looking for help beyond the moment – perhaps for weeks or months. This was a long-term refuge, and she was looking to get away.
It finally sunk in. She’d been too worried about Greyson to think about her own future. With their parents gone and the government trying to kill Greyson, this could be their new home.
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Cael woke to the sound of his boots dragging behind him. Men’s hands were latched onto his armpits, digging in with callous fingers as they dragged his limp body down what sounded like a tunnel.
His head spun, and the pain came in throbbing waves.
Where am I?
Lights passed overhead, blasting rays in his sensitive eyes.
He tensed, began to squirm, and the men jerked him harder. His feet pushed at the gravely dirt underneath, trying to gain enough traction to stand, but he was being pulled too fast; his legs didn’t have the strength to resist.
He stopped struggling. It was painful, but he could wake up, get his senses back, his strength back. He had to. If these men were Plurbs, they were violent and merciless, and there was no way of knowing where they were taking him or what they would do with him when they got there.
Cael fought through his pounding headache and found something to anchor his focus. He had to form a plan. Think, Cael!
He drew a map in his mind with each turn, each landmark he passed. The earthen tunnel was well lit with snaking cables running along the walls, and wide enough for three lanes of traffic. Large cargo trucks chugged past wooden pallets with boxes neatly wrapped on top. One read “Baking Potatoes”. Then they took a right, dragging him into a narrower side tunnel. He heard deep thumping sounds through a door on the left, felt a breeze coming from the gap underneath. There was a fire burning to his right and celebratory shouts.
But his mapmaking was interrupted by a door ahead. The dragging stopped. A guard opened it. He had an AK.
They entered a dark and damp cave. The cave’s ceiling was shining with moisture that dripped, dripped, dripped into standing water that puddled in the aisle between two rows of jail cells where prisoners huddled in the back. The humid air smelled of urine.
They were going to put him in a cell with those people.
This is not good. Don’t put me here.
Before he could regret it, he had acted. Twisted free, kicked at one of his captor’s legs, drove his shoulder into the other’s. It was a heap and a mess. Shouts lapped at his ear, angry hands grasped and tore at his clothes and limbs. Though he was a hundred and twenty pound freshman, he was limber, spindly, and strong. He used his elbows, his head, his knees – whatever he could to pry himself free.
In a flash he was in the hall. The AK’s bullets ripped dirt chunks from the wall as he turned and dashed past stunned, innocent bystanders, knocking shoulders with one. And then he realized there were no innocent bystanders here. Every one of them was armed.
Another gun emerged from beneath clothing. He gasped for air in a panic, pulled over a tower of potato crates and disappeared behind its falling chaos. The map popped into his mind and he sprinted to the door with the draft coming from underneath.
When he yanked it open, a cool, fresh breeze pushed him away, but the scene pulled him in. They were in a massive crater, and he was on the bottom. Ledges were carved into the sides, like balconies overlooking a courtyard the size of a football stadium. Men and women paced the balconies above, a helicopter took off from the center, leaving behind a wake of dust that blew over forklifts, cargo containers, and heavily armed men. A few drones swooped about, but none had noticed him yet.
In fact, no one had noticed him at all. He was one amongst hundreds. How would he hope to escape from this pit?
And then it struck him. He couldn’t. And he didn’t want to.
With defiant, lumbering steps, he walked straight up to the nearest man and struck him full in his scarred face. As the bulky, wounded man staggered, Cael snatched his AK, pointed it in the air, and let off a burst.
Chapter 4
BANGBANGBANG!
Eyes and guns swiveled to Cael just as his pursuers rushed from the doorway behind.
“Don’t shoot!” he yelled, pointing the rifle to the sky.
Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, from the long bangs that fell over his fierce eyes.
No one said a word. Indecisive looks bounced from one man to another.
More men joined his pursuers in encircling him. He swung himself around, giving no one an excuse to tackle him from behind.
“You’s Plurbs? Yeah? Ain’t you?”
The men didn’t answer. Cael could sense each one was planning how to take him out – especially the one with a bloody nose and a chip on his shoulder.
“I’m Camden militia!” he shouted, sensing his own desperation. He fought it back, puffing his chest for confidence. “I fought the Merks today,” he said with pride, using the term that meant American and mercenary both. And that’s what the soldiers were. They were paid to kill for America. “Did you? Huh? All you hiding in ‘dis hole? Huh?”
A man emerged from the circled mob, holding a pistol and examining Cael. Besides having the only black epaulettes in the bunch, this man had no distinguishing features – nothing that set him apart from the average brown-haired Caucasian male in his late thirties. He was rugged, maybe, handsome, maybe. He could be anyone. And maybe that was what frightened so many
about him. He was the most wanted man on the planet – the most feared man on the planet – even more than the President, yet he looked like the next-door neighbor who washed his car too much. But while his normalcy frightened many, it also inspired many. To Cael, Emory was someone he could become. He was one of them.
Emory put out a calming hand to his men, his eyes, cold, detached, yet amused. He stared at Cael. “You’re the prisoner who fought in Camden.”
Cael tried to keep his cool. He cocked his head. “Yeah. I came here to keep fightin’ and your brain-dead cavemen tried puttin’ me in the clink.”
The man was unimpressed. “Let me get to the point. Why should I not kill you right now?”
A cold shiver ran through Cael’s veins. He searched for an answer.
The man cocked his head. “You failed your mission, did you not?”
Cael had no answer but a sneer.
He remembered the Camden militiamen, his pa’s friends, coming to him, asking him if he’d seen a boy. Their mission had been to capture Greyson – dead or alive – but Cael had led them in the wrong direction, giving Greyson the chance to escape. He hadn’t seen him since, but now he knew. Greyson had escaped.
“You have three seconds to give me a reason.”
Men began raising their guns.
“Three.”
Cael had a reason, but he hated himself for thinking it. It clawed its way up his throat, scratching at his Adam’s apple.
“Two.”
“My ‘pa,” he said, still sneering. “He rammed the train.”
Silence struck the group as they turned to Emory in expectation. His eyes were calculating, deep and introspective. A thin, sly grin spread across his lips. “A martyr’s son. Like father like son?”
Cael gulped at the bile boiling up to his mouth. He wanted to throw up. Never, never would he be like his pa. But if his pa’s brave, stupid act would give his son life, perhaps it would be the one redeeming act he’d ever done.
