Rubicon

by B. C. Tweedt

  Something about what he had said didn’t come out right. Jackson’s face was fearful, unconvinced. Even Greyson hadn’t been convinced.

  Greyson hated the guilt that had dirtied him. He was gray through and through now, and he knew it. Who else would pummel three boys in the street without a second thought? He’d become something else – the kind of person Rubicon had wanted him to become. Even if he wanted to be as white as the snow that was falling, he could only fight to keep the white he had left. To fight for the remnants of white, the good, even as he played in the mud.

  And there was something good he needed to fight for inside the school building.

  Greyson wiped the snow from his goggles before sprinting inside.

  He slowed down once inside, pausing only to look back as the group still watched him from their bikes. Large flakes obscured their faces. Greyson sighed and turned back to the empty hall, listening to the music echoing from the far end where he saw a makeshift concession stand.

  He wiped the snow from his hat, breathing heavily from the bike ride and looking at names on the lockers. Many students had decorated their nametags; childish things like video game characters, name brand shoes, and movie quotes abounded. Educational posters lined the walls above, extolling virtues of acceptance, sharing, diversity, and equality. In the classrooms he passed, he eyed the neat rows of desks, mugs of pencils, and student projects.

  He was in school.

  A real school.

  It was a jarring realization. It had been so long.

  It was such a normal place, where normal kids did normal things. There was an odd innocence that made him uncomfortable. A familiar feeling oppressed him – that he didn’t belong – but he kept his head down and plodded forward.

  His boots squeaked on the clean floor as the music grew louder.

  A sign reading “VOTE THIS WAY” led voters toward a stairway where the steps had been etched with campaign slogans, but he kept forward. Voting was closed, the results being counted, Pluribus’ attack being readied, but he was here, in school.

  Five hours and fifty minutes.

  He hung up his combat vest, his gaiter, his goggles on a coat hook. His items didn’t fit in with the rest. Kept his hat and fanny pack. Felt more normal now, walking to the doors. Through a thin window, he saw dancers, a vast audience.

  Taking a deep breath, he readied himself, and entered.

  A few turned to look at him, but they looked right back at the show.

  They didn’t know.

  They hadn’t seen what Jackson had seen. They didn’t know what he had been doing just half an hour before. How violent he was.

  The dancers pranced, the piano music plinking and plunking.

  He scanned for a seat, but there were none open.

  He wandered down the aisle, trying to avoid those that were staring at him.

  Then he found a seat, finally, on the aisle, next to an older boy. He took it and glanced at him. The boy gave a nod.

  Greyson nodded back, but turned to the performance. He watched the dancers twirl and leap, flex their bodies this way and that to the music. It was a patriotic song he recognized, but couldn’t place the name. But it didn’t matter, he was eyeing the girls’ faces trying to see some semblance to Sydney – any at all, but the make-up was thick, their hair was tight in buns, and they had eyelashes that couldn’t be human.

  But he was sure of it. None were Sydney.

  He was thinking about leaving when the music ended with a flourish, the dancers danced off the stage, and the curtain closed. It was over.

  Now what? Maybe he could find her back stage. He had to do it quick or the crowd would suffocate him.

  He jerked to his feet, once again ignoring the stares, and plodded up the aisle toward the back.

  But it wasn’t over.

  A swell of voices – high, angelic voices – began humming behind the curtains.

  Greyson turned as the curtains opened, revealing one single dancer with her arms curled above her head, legs crossed and head bowed. The light from a single spotlight above her bathed her in a blanket of white.

  The chorus continued, a riser full of boys behind her humming the notes to “America the Beautiful” in a slow, soothing pace. The audience hung on every note, waiting for the dancer to move.

  Still in the aisle, Greyson took a step closer, examining the dancer’s body because he couldn’t see her face. If it was her, she had changed – grown. It was a more womanly figure, mature.

  And then, when the singers hit the first word in subdued whispers, the dancer untwirled her legs and arms, slow and majestic, bent her knees, and reached for some imagined beauty.

  O Beautiful for spacious skies

  For amber waves of grain,

  For purple mountain majesties

  Above the fruited plain

  Greyson watched the dancer making sweeping gestures. She outstretched her leg, parallel to the floor, balancing only on her toes; her movements were a perfect match to the lyrics, leaping for the mountains, twirling through the waves of grain. Mouth agape, he was captivated by the song and its beauty.

  America! America!

  Earth gave its best to thee

  And crowned thy good with

  Union hood

  From sea to shining sea

  After so much destruction. After seeing death, there was something profound about seeing such beauty and goodness. It reminded him that America was beautiful. There was so much good to be fought for. In community after community, there were boys like these with voices singing for their country. There were girls like this who could move hearts with their bodies.

  He took another step forward, transfixed.

  O Beautiful for patriot dream

  That sees beyond the years

  Thine alabaster cities gleam

  Undimmed by human tears

  The way her body moved. So limber. Agile. Strong. The curves she could make. His whole body was so tense he was shaking. The music sung inside his flesh. His blood pumped with joy. He wasn’t just captivated by the song; he was captivated by her – her beauty.

  America! America!

  May we thy gold refine

  Till all success be nobleness

  And ev’ry gain our shrine!

  He wanted to cry. An orchestra chimed in, and the dancer – Sydney – flew around the stage, pulled the audience in, pulled Greyson into her space, mesmerized him. He hadn’t seen her in a year, but he was certain it was her. He was certain of more than that. She was absolutely beautiful. There was no doubt about it anymore.

  Had he seen her like this before? Maybe only glimpses. When she danced with him at camp. When she held his hand at the fair. When she drove him on the jet ski. When she stayed by him at the Med Center. How had he missed her?

  His knees wavered as he stood as the tallest statue in an audience of heads. Still, he wasn’t aware of any looks. The audience didn’t care much anyway. They were just as captivated as he was as the song swelled to a conclusion in which the dancer drew back to the center and withdrew herself, curling to a ball as the curtains closed in front of her.

  The audience stood to cheer, the applause and shouts and whistles deafening. Greyson wiped a tear from his cheek, his mouth still open in awe. He hadn’t wanted it to end. He still held out hope there would be more as the applause continued and continued. He wanted to see her out there again. Just a little more.

  But the lights clicked on and the applause died out, replaced with the shuffling of preparations to leave.

  He sniffed and wiped again at his face.

  His heart slowed again and he slapped himself to break out of the spell.

  Is that what love felt like? Like whipped cream.

  If so, he could stand some more.

  No, wait. Love was not just whipped cream. It took commitment, too.

  But gosh, maybe it was worth it. Maybe he was ready. After a year, he’d chang
ed. He could care for her with a whole pie filling of love. And he’d be up for the whipped cream, too. But could he commit to her? What about his commitment to Rubicon? And hadn’t she chosen Rubicon over him?

  Maybe it was time for them to choose each other.

  Knock it off, Greyson. Get it together.

  He turned and marched up the aisle; he pushed out the doors, found a route around, and jogged toward back stage.

  He heard the girls’ murmuring, found their back hall with all their bags lining the sides. The girls stared at him as he passed, but he ignored them, obnoxiously analyzing each one of their clown-faces for the one he knew. But she wasn’t there.

  Frantic, fears began popping in.

  They are still here. They’d been waiting to snatch her. I was too late!

  He raced toward the stage, peeked on the other side of the curtain.

  It was her!

  His heart skipped a beat as the relief flooded his system. He would race to her, take her in his arms. Surprise her. Who knows what would happen next? Maybe she would surprise him with something.

  But he stopped after his first step. She was waiting for someone who was walking down the aisle. She leaned over and helped him up. He had a dozen roses in his hand. He held them out to her. She took them, a big smile on her face. When they hugged, Greyson recognized him as the boy he had sat next to in the auditorium. An older boy, taller than he was.

  The boy saw Greyson standing off to the side, arched his brow, but said nothing. He talked to her, praised her, hugged her again.

  He couldn’t describe the feeling that wracked his soul. Heartbreak, maybe? A sinking, humiliating shame? Maybe that as well.

  But he stood there, taking in deep shuddering breaths.

  It had been a year. What had he expected? That she wouldn’t change and move on? That she would be that held back – that even when he let her go, she couldn’t let go of him?

  He had been kidding himself. Of course she would find someone who wasn’t off playing soldier, getting in the mud and nearly getting killed while doing it. The boy was probably a good kid. She wouldn’t choose anyone otherwise. She had always been good herself. Her goodness had rubbed off on him for awhile, but it hadn’t been enough.

  “Who are you?”

  He swung around – glanced at the girl who’d spoken to him– then swung back to Sydney.

  “I’m Katelyn,” the girl continued despite the rebuff. “You new here?”

  “Kind of,” he whispered.

  She put her hand on his shoulder, playing short as she peeked over his shoulder. “You know Sydney?”

  It took everything he had not to snap her wrist. “I’m her cousin, Nolan.”

  “Nice to meet you. Have you been vaping?”

  “What?” he turned, offended. “No.”

  “Well, you kinda smell like smoke. You smoke the real stuff?”

  Smoke? Oh. The explosions…

  Greyson rubbed at his shirt as if that would remove the scent. “I don’t smoke. Must’a been my fireplace.”

  “Sure it was. If you weren’t so cute, I’d report you.”

  He studied her face. She was kind of cute herself. It was a dangerous kind of cute, though, as if his HUD would be sending him all kinds of warnings.

  “I’ve got some flavors in my bag. Want to try a few while we wait for the new lovebirds to get done?”

  Lovebirds… Greyson turned back to Sydney. She kept tugging at her outfit, nervous, but she was smiling enough. “Who’s the guy?” he asked.

  “That’s my brother, Jordan.”

  Her brother? Is he dangerous, too?

  “Are they dating?”

  Elated by the question, Katelyn pulled him onto the stage behind the curtain, a mischievous smile plaguing her. “Now, keep this between us, but something happened a few days ago. They ran off together – skipped a meeting and went back to my place. Now today they’re all lovey lovey, you know? Kinda gross it’s my brother, but…hey…what’re you doing?”

  Greyson stepped to the curtain, pulled the bottom up, and stepped under. As it fell behind him, he emerged next to the two lovebirds, a statue frozen by Sydney’s surprise. Her eyes wobbled in examination, her mouth agape in disbelief. He was surprised, too, by how much he had missed her. He wanted so badly to take her off her feet in a bear hug, but her surprise was about to explode in exuberance. He couldn’t let it.

  “Cousin Sydney,” he said, matter-of-fact. “It’s time to go.”

  He glared at Jordan, daring him to say otherwise. Greyson’s fists clenched, as did his jaw.

  Concerned, Jordan turned from Greyson back to Sydney, his eyes moving last. “Your cousin?”

  Sydney played along, not missing a beat. “Yup! He’s a farm boy from Iowa. Boy of few words.”

  Greyson continued to glare, then he grabbed Sydney’s hand. For some reason, he was just as mad at her as he was at the guy.

  “See you tomorrow?” Jordan asked as Greyson yanked her away.

  “See ya!”

  He continued pulling her through the hall, past the other dancers, disregarding their stares and complaints as he pushed by them.

  Sydney pulled free with a hidden sneer and stopped at her bag. “Hold on, Nolan. I should change.”

  “We don’t have time. Come on.”

  “I can’t go outside like this.”

  He took a guilty side-glance at her outfit. “You’ll survive.”

  Maybe something inside him told him to reject her just so it wouldn’t hurt so much to have been rejected by her. Did that even make sense?

  Other girls had begun to notice them. “Who’s this, Syd?”

  “Nice fanny pack.”

  The other girl pointed at it. “Oh, yeah! I heard those were comin’ back into style.”

  Greyson didn’t crack a smile, peeking at his watch and then Sydney. “Hurry.”

  “Fine,” she said, setting down her flowers and putting a coat over her outfit.

  Greyson took the opportunity and picked up the roses Jordan had given her. He turned and gave them to the girl who had complimented his fanny pack. “These are for you.”

  “Thanks!’

  Sydney gave him her familiar glare, but it only made him smirk. He’d missed that look. But then he remembered that he was mad at her and turned it back into a frown. He grabbed her hand, cursing as he pulled her down the hall.

  She started off with him but rejected his hand. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered when out of range of the girls. “Cursing? Is this part of your act?”

  “What? We have to go,” he said, reaching for her hand again, still lunging down the hall.

  She retracted it. “I’m coming. But this isn’t like you.”

  “It’s been a year. I’ve changed.”

  “No, you haven’t. Maybe you’re tying to be someone you aren’t, but I know you. You’re not like this.”

  He sighed extra loud to make his point. He was done with the conversation.

  They turned to the next hall only to run into the audience still swarming out.

  Frick.

  Parents were lining the hall, waiting for their sons and daughters. There wouldn’t be any parents waiting for them, but he would have to get through the crowd to retrieve his vest and goggles.

  “There you are!” came a man’s voice.

  Greyson froze, still with Sydney’s hand in his. Her grip was so hard, his knuckles cracked.

  Chapter 63

  Asher held one of the stretcher’s sides, slipping on the brick boulevard as they trekked toward the Med Center. It wasn’t really a stretcher they were carrying – it was an inverted computer desk minus the legs, just large enough for Ashanti, one of the injured children, but it worked. Grimes had thought of it and Rachael had taken over from there, making two more for the other two children.

  The trek wasn’t far, but it felt like a mile. Ashanti kept moaning at every bump, forcing
them to slow, letting the others pass them with Rachael at the front. Before long they were well behind, glancing over their shoulders through the dark, imagining sets of four orange eyes glowing where there were none.

  When they finally approached the Med Center, a group of adults rushed to them, asking questions in a flurry, taking the stretcher from them without asking. Drake stammered out answers, caught in the whirlwind of confusion and panic even as the adults took the stretchers inside. Before they knew what was happening, they were ushered inside and pushed to a side room where the rest of the daycare kids were already huddled. A few women were looking kids over, comforting them and keeping order as a few parents were yelling in the halls, claiming their children.

  Asher knew many of the children would not be claimed, though, like himself – the ones with yellow lanyards.

  “What now?” Windsor asked amidst the chaos.

  “Where’d Rachael go?” Beep asked.

  “I don’t know,” Drake answered to both questions. “Evac is on its way. I guess we wait here.”

  But Asher had a different answer. He was leaning into the hall, inspecting the adults pouring into the Med Center – some with injuries, others shouting the names of loved ones. He thought of Chloe. He pulled on Drake’s shirt. “We have to help somehow.”

  Drake looked down on him, pondering it. Asher wanted to remind him of what he had said about helping others, but it wasn’t needed. In a few minutes they had found the same door they had used as a stretcher, wiped the blood from it with snow, and trudged back down the boulevard toward the Convention Center with Kit at the lead.

  Trailblazers.

  They huffed with the weight of the door, blinking away the flakes that pestered their numb cheeks. Huhhh…Huhhh…Huhhh…

  The cold had finally set in, visible in the puffs of vapor coming from their mouths. And as they traveled further from the Med Center and its safety, fear began to nip Asher as the cold nipped at the tip of his nose. The dimming lights of the boulevard and distant noise from the Med Center were soon behind them, and new sounds and light were up ahead.