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by B. C. Tweedt

  Part of him was relieved and excited for their return, but another, less familiar part was disappointed. Despite the looming threat, he’d grown happier, stronger, more content month by month. Focusing on training and helping the camp, he’d focused less on his past. He found the less he thought about his dad, his mom, and Sydney, the happier he was. He’d also found that the only way to forget them was to never give himself the time to think about them.

  Forge opened the door for him and let him survey the fitness room. He walked him past the free weights, the stationary bikes, the steppers, the treadmills, the weight machines, the mirrored fitness room, and the punching bags.

  He nearly cried right then and there. After months of physical therapy, his body was ready.

  Forge put his hand on his shoulder and gazed with him at the room’s choices. “What do you want from this room, Orphan? If you come here, do a little lift here, a little there, you’ll go nowhere. You need discipline. And before that, you need direction. If you ever happen to meet a Plurb again, what do you want from your body?”

  Greyson took in a deep breath, remembering. “I don’t want to have to run anymore.”

  “We all have to run sometimes.” Forge looked down at him.

  “Then if they catch me,” he contemplated, “I want them to regret it.”

  He let out a deep groan as he pulled himself up to the top of the chin-up bar. His left shoulder ached as always, but he fought through it. He saw himself hanging on a balcony’s rails on the American Dream, the water crashing at his back, Sydney laying in front of him, beyond the bars. Orion kneeling over her, putting his hands around her neck.

  “Ughhh!” he pulled himself up again, marched to the punching bag, and pummeled it until sweat ran down his goggles. He imagined Orion on the other side of his punches, though he knew he was dead, swallowed by the sinking cruise ship. Then he imagined Emory, speaking his lies. Each punch drowned out his words, robbing him of his power.

  After his workout he sat in the sauna with Jarryd, talking about life and what they had been learning. Jarryd expounded on his newest achievements in the workshop, Murray’s latest discoveries, and his own complicated relationship with Avery.

  “I’ve dieted when she’s around. Worked out. Waxed and all. And we’ve been dating for almost a year, and I’ve barely bunted. She throws me out at first every time! But I’m cool with that in a way. It’s weird, but I could like, just sit with her in the dugout and be happy.”

  Greyson smiled, encouraged him, and avoided the sprays of sweat he threw at him. He even traded a few swipes of his own. Despite the seriousness of his training and the tense atmosphere that had fallen over the camp with the looming election, Jarryd kept him sane and young. Jarryd had “lost” Nick to the cause just as he had “lost” Sydney. But in the year’s absence, they had found depth in their friendship rather than the casual camaraderie they had held before.

  “I got Avery a new snowboard for her birthday. Maybe Asher’s girl would like one, too?”

  “Maybe. But he only has twelve bucks of free spending money.”

  “Oh. Well, what have you gotten Sydney before? Anything that cheap?”

  Greyson thought. He’d actually never gotten her anything. Ever. Not flowers, chocolates, or even a sappy card.

  Fail.

  After Greyson admitted his failure, Jarryd stood and wiped the condensation off his watch. “Maybe you should, like, do better.”

  “Oh, thanks. Good advice.”

  “You’re welcome. Anytime. But I gotta go. The workshop calls. Murray hates it when I’m late. You helping at the physical therapy place, G?”

  “Yah. But I’ll stay a couple more minutes. Peace, bro,” he said, pounding fists.

  The extra few minutes in the sauna he spent thinking, staring at the coals. Operation Cicada. Cicada. What was it? Why the name of an insect? Dormant sleeper cells? Why hasn’t Rubicon been able to stop it? If they don’t come, when should I go? How? Where?

  And then he relaxed – drifting into a dream-state, letting down his guard just long enough for a memory to assail him.

  She turned on the jet-ski, the rain and mist from the waves splashing against her. Her smile. The seat open behind her. Her voice. “Act like you like me.”

  Jumping up, he searched for something to do. In a flash he poured water on the coals, sending a plume of hot steam to fog his goggles. He then sat and tried to wipe the fog away with the memory. But then he stopped. Despite the fog, he could still see his HUD and the red dots that appeared on the mini-map. Several of them, bunched together, zooming above camp. His chest heaved with excitement.

  It’s them.

  Chapter 18

  The crowd was stifling. Though the debate was still hours away, the swarm of protesters were growing. Uncomfortable around people, any amount of them, Cael shoved those who invaded his personal space. But a push and a sneer would only intimidate some of this diverse crowd – like the man in front of him who let his sign hang too low, obstructing his view. Cael furrowed his brow as he read it.

  Was Jesus a bigot?

  “There is no way to the Father except through me.” – Jesus

  The churchies were out in force. So were the conspiracy nuts, the anti-taxers, and the terrorist sympathizers. There were also the fierce patriots, the race-baiters, and Peace At All Costs hippies. They all had their signs and their loud outfits to match their message, making the crowd even more lively as they began to siphon into scores of lines to pass through security.

  One man’s sign was deemed too provocative. Security was tussling with him, pinning him to the ground, ripping his sign, and escorting him to one of the several police vans ready for mass arrests. A portion of his sign was visible, with a part of the off-limits word “Pluribus” visible.

  What a moron.

  Emory had officially disbanded the group three months after the VSA in a video worthy of an Oscar. Claiming Homeland Security was on his tail and most of the organization’s members imprisoned or disheartened, Emory had apologized to his followers on a YouTube video with hundreds of millions of views. He’d urged them to support the ARC and vote for Coates if he wasn’t “assassinated” before the vote. When Cael had watched it with the rest of the Wolves, he’d laughed. Anyone with any real knowledge knew it was all a ploy, but Foster, Reckhemmer, and the media ate it up.

  Cael caught sight of the whole poster before it was ripped and ripped again. ‘Pluribus Lives’ had been the protestor’s message.

  Even if he’s right, he’s a moron.

  Cael turned his attention back to the mission.

  Finding Humpy in the crowd, he tapped his conductive coat sleeve, lined with touch-sensitive graphite, to turn on his radio. “Hump is at the door,” he relayed as he watched Humpy ride his scooter to the security checkpoint. An officer questioned him, waved a wand over him, and bent down to inspect the scooter made for the disabled.

  Cael matched the officer’s face to the photograph in his memory. Jameson Lammer. They’d gotten leverage on him months ago. A condemning photo, that, if made public, would ruin his marriage and career. They had told him the only thing he had to do to prevent the photo’s release was to wave the wand, inspect the vehicle, and let it pass.

  Let it go, Lammer. It’s not worth your life.

  Officer Lammer waved Humpy through. Tipping his Vietnam Veteran hat, Humpy zipped along, humming toward the Indianapolis Convention Center.

  Cael celebrated with a smirk.

  -------------------------------

  Sydney looked on as the Herdsman wrote on the marker board, his broad shoulders blocking the word from view. Sydney leaned to try to see it, but only heard the squeaks.

  Finally, he moved for the big reveal.

  SpyCatcher

  The kids cheered and Katelyn especially perked up. Nick took in a deep breath but didn’t return Sydney’s look.

  “The SpyCatcher badge – who wants it?”
<
br />   Everyone raised their hands, including Nick and Sydney.

  “Great! And as many of you know, Katelyn here has already earned hers.”

  Katelyn stood up with a broad smile, showing off the circle badge on her vest. The symbol was the word “SPY” behind prison bars.

  “Tell us how you earned your badge, Kate.”

  “It’s Katelyn. But anyway, I turned in my granddad. We were at the table and he was grumbling about gays and transgendered people. I tried to explain we’re free to do what we want and be who we want because it’s a free country, but he just shook his head.”

  The Herdsman rubbed his goatee. “Major red flag, huh?”

  “Yeah, totally. Then he said he wanted to move away, to some other country, and he wanted us to go with.”

  “Wow,” the Herdsman replied. “He’s offending everybody now.”

  “So my mom said, ‘I thought you loved this country’, and he said, ‘I fought twenty years for America. I love America.’ So I was confused. Thought he was going senile or something, you know?”

  “Right, right.”

  “But Mom asked, ‘Then why leave it if you love it?’ and he said, ‘this isn’t the America I fought for.’”

  “Whoa,” the Herdsman exclaimed, holding up both hands. “Two red flags – enough to warrant an investigation.”

  “Yup. And good thing! They found an illegal firearm, inflammatory posts on social media, and something else I can’t remember. Oh – an illegal flag. Old Confederate one, I think. But he’s put away now.”

  The class cheered.

  “Wow,” the Herdsman began, “that’s excellent. One less person trying to tear the country apart. But how’d it make you feel, turning in someone in your own family?”

  Katelyn shrugged. “I was sad at first, because he was really nice – or at least I had thought so before I found out he was a bigot. He always gave me great gifts and said he loved me. And he visited a lot, even when we’ve had to move a lot.”

  Sydney was pushing back the emotion. She couldn’t imagine turning in a family member. It would even be hard to turn in Jeremy or Harper. They had parented her for a year, with ups and downs like any parents would have. Harper had walked her through some tough girl issues, Jeremy had tutored her in advanced algebra, and they’d both grounded her when she’d misbehaved. Weirdly, she was thankful for that.

  “But then I got to thinking,” Katelyn continued, “he probably didn’t want to be with us anyway. If he wanted to leave the country, he’d be leaving us. And if he hated the country, he hated us. So, yeah. It was for the greater good of the community.”

  “Thank you for sharing, Katelyn.”

  She sat down with a smile.

  The Herdsman’s eyes were in awe. “It’s incredible that you kids live in a time when your country needs you more than ever. It’s neat to see how a young Shepherdess like Katelyn can keep our community safe from enemies within. That’s what we’re all about! Now, keeping Katelyn’s example in mind, turn to page 43 in your manuals to find out how you can do the same.”

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  Sam sipped the Mountain Dew from a straw and set it down on the end table. He knew it was bad for him, but nights like this demanded a little caffeine. The adults in the watching room were all sucking down their coffee, and he was pretty sure one of them had slipped the contents of a flask into a mug, but it wasn’t Sam’s business. Besides, he was too busy watching the giant television that would be showing his father debate with the other two parties’ candidates.

  There had been many debates in the last year. At first the debates had been with those in his father’s party who were vying to be their party’s candidate to replace President Foster; but ever since his dad won the nomination in August, the debates had been against the other parties’ candidates. Sam knew them well by now, but he knew their families even better.

  Across from him sat Matthew, the eleven-year-old son of Senator Audrey Raines. She was Sam’s father’s greatest opponent. She was a firebrand with a consistent record of opposing every one of Foster’s actions in the name of small government. That made her vulnerable to the accusation of being light on terror, ignorant to the real danger of secession, and sympathetic to the ARC – even though she had founded a peace organization.

  Then there was the hotheaded businessman from Arkansas, James Michael Coates. Sam was getting annoyed with the chants, “Gimme Freedom, Gimme Jimmie!” Coates had held massive rallies full of the ignorant and gullible masses who worshipped the ground he stepped on, even if he changed his mind every few days, relied on the vague promise of making ‘America free again’, ignored facts and evidence, belittled his critics, and walked the line of racism and sexism. His rallies were scary, and his followers had clashed with protestors in many violent riots.

  The fact that Coates had won his party’s nomination spoke volumes about the state of the country. His awful campaign had convinced Sam that the country would fall apart if his dad wasn’t there to keep it together.

  Over the last year, Sam had learned more than he ever thought he could learn about politics, about the government, and about his father. The more he learned, the more he knew he was made for it. He was meant to be in the midst of it all. The drama intrigued him. The issues compelled him. And the corruption angered him.

  His father was corrupt. He’d learned that a year ago. But he was still working on how deep his corruption went. With all his digging, he was beginning to understand that eventually he would find an end – either the dirt would collapse beneath him, sending him to a hole from which he would never emerge, or he’d find the source of it all. And the source would explain, finally, why his dad was working with the enemy.

  Until then he could only root his dad on with a mixture of love and fear.

  “Are you nervous?” Matthew Raines asked in a hushed voice.

  Startled at first, Sam smiled, thankful to interact with a peer for once. He shrugged at the question, scooting up in his seat to hear him better. “A little.”

  Matthew nodded, straightening his tie. He was a frail kid, dark brown hair parted on the side without a hair out of place.

  “All the threats and everything…” Matthew said, referring to the regular death threats and thwarted assassination plots.

  Sam didn’t know how to respond. He’d been scared, and still was, but not nearly as much as he had been. StoneWater had intercepted dozens of plotters, stopping them in the planning stages, mostly. They’d been more effective than Secret Service by far. Their presence had come to give Sam comfort, even knowing there were many more nuts out there, looking, hoping for an opportunity. It only took one. “It freaks me out sometimes. You?”

  Matthew hadn’t learned the art of a politician’s poker face. He was scared. Death threats had crossed party lines. He only needed a small nod to communicate his fear.

  Sam put his elbows on his knees and leaned toward Matthew as distant music echoed from the auditorium. Matthew leaned forward, too, ready to listen, though his leg twitched with his nerves. Sam began with a sigh, “If you’re scared now, imagine if you win.”

  Matthew’s eyes widened, but he looked away, watching others mingling, eating hors d’oeuvres. When he looked back, his fear had stiffened. “If my mom wins, I’ll be afraid – for sure. But if your dad wins…” He gulped. “…we should all be afraid.”

  Chapter 19

  Nick pedaled harder, keeping his bike in the middle of the pack. Katelyn and her brother Jordan were always at the front, everywhere they went. Even Jordan submitted to his sister’s leading, despite an occasional butting of heads. She was the head. And if she was the head, Nick was content being the appendix, or some other mostly ignored body part that could lay quiet until the proper time to make itself known.

  “Mr. Herdsman wants to be friends with you, Kate,” one of the boys joked.

  Katelyn laughed. “He’s totally a creeper.”

  “
Well, duh. He has a goatee.”

  The group laughed as they cycled past the Woodland Estates welcome sign, which was appropriately made of logs with vines curling around its rocky border. The gates were open and the guard waved at them as they passed. He wasn’t much of a guard, but it made the community feel safer. Nick had snuck out past curfew at least once a week without so much as a close call.

  They were riding down the main street when Katelyn pointed toward a house where several bicycles had been haphazardly dropped about the yard, next to a yard sign reading, “Make it Raines”. They all knew whom the bikes belonged to – those who had refused to join the Shepherds. There weren’t many, and their refusal was often hushed, excused away by adults – but Katelyn and the other Shepherds took their rejection personally.

  Katelyn swerved into the yard and led the charge. In seconds, the abandoned bicycles’ tires were thrown in the street, the yard sign ripped in pieces, and the curb spray-painted with “RECKoning”. Nick had half-heartedly removed one of the tires, and Sydney had rolled it away with a kick, smiling at Katelyn as she did so. She was a much better actor than he was.

  Laughing in whispers, they rode away, watching over their shoulder for retribution. But none came.

  After another block, Marshall was the first of the group to come to his house, riding up his driveway to the garage. Katelyn stopped with a squeal and the rest of the group followed suit, still laughing.

  “Where’s your American flag, Marshall?” Katelyn asked.

  The group stopped laughing.

  Marshall held his bike helmet under his arm as his garage door pulled up, casting light from the inside into the dusk. He cocked his head and peered at the empty flag holder by their front door. “Oh, yeah. Mom thought it was going to rain.”