by B. C. Tweedt
“If I were you, I’d keep that secret, too.”
The officers finished their search quickly, secured the door, and waved the van on. Jarryd caught a glimpse of his stepdad in the driver’s side mirror. He looked frustrated to say the least. But he knew better than to flip the bird at a police officer – whether or not they had a Bradley Fighting Vehicle pointing a missile launcher at them.
“Our turn,” their mom said, driving to where the officers were waving them down. “Be calm.”
The first officer had buzzed hair and a thick neck. If he’d had on a different uniform, he could have been a Marine. Cops in general had become more and more militarized – with military vehicles, weapons, and tactics. They’d needed it to control the protests and riots, but they’d earned a dubious reputation for their heavy-handedness. It seemed every other day a protestor would die from a cop’s gun. Nick didn’t trust them anymore.
Setting his jaw as if he were bored, the officer motioned waited for their mother to roll down the window.
“Mrs. Aldeman, correct?”
They know that already? From the license plates?
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry for the delay. We are conducting a few routine traffic stops just as a precaution, keeping the terrorists on their toes,” he explained, with a smirk. “I have a few questions for you tonight. Reason for traveling?”
“Moving to Texas with the refugee housing program. I’m following my husband and he has the papers. He was in the moving van – ”
“Who is the third child?”
“Uh…” their mom looked back at the sleeping Sammy, as if she had forgotten about him. “That’s our adopted son. It’s not finalized yet, but…”
As his partner scanned their trunk, the officer took a step toward the back window and motioned to Jarryd to roll down his window. Jarryd pressed the button and tried not to tremble. “Hey.”
Ignoring Jarryd, the officer glanced at his handheld device and examined each one of the boy’s faces, comparing it to the picture he had on his device. Looking for Greyson?
“You are Jarryd?”
“The one and only.”
The officer’s face did not change. “And him?”
He pointed to Sammy. Jarryd slapped at him until he woke with a gasp, his lazy eye floating around and the line of drool flopping to his t-shirt. His hair looked the same as it always did – like a hyena had been electrocuted.
“Sammy. He’s talking to you.”
Sammy sucked at his slobber and rubbed at his eyes until he could focus on the officer. “Who’s the buff dude?”
“Who are you?” the officer asked, getting impatient.
“Your worst nightmare.”
“Sammy!” their mother scolded.
Nick shook his head and laughed. “He’s so funny. Our new brother.”
“Are these your brothers, Sammy?”
Sammy swung his gaze from Jarryd to Nick to Jarryd, and back to Nick again. “They do look familiar.”
Jarryd and Nick laughed and shrugged. Jarryd leaned into the skeptical officer. “He’s a little slooooow.”
“Right. You,” he looked to Nick. “Why are you moving to Texas?”
Why is it your business? “Uh…’cuz my parents are taking us there? I’m just a kid. But, boy, I can’t wait to see the Alamo, where rebels stood up to a much superior force.” Nick adjusted his glasses, making sure the frames covered the scar over his eyebrow.
“Right. Before they were all slaughtered,” the officer replied snidely. He then typed something into his device, exchanged a look with the other officer, and waved them on. As fast as it had started, it was over. The traffic picked up and nothing was said for several beats, as if they didn’t want to jinx it. Sammy drifted back to sleep and their mother called their stepdad. Her voice was strained and they could hear their stepdad’s anger. He said something about being justified in leaving, telling her they’d made the right decision.
Soon enough, a sign welcomed them to Oklahoma. Nick watched it fly by, getting lost in his thoughts as the power lines drooped up and down between each pole like drapes. His thoughts were just about to fade into a daydream when another sign caught his attention. At the edge of a fence, just visible in the starlight, was a homemade sign made of plywood and painted white. In red spray-painted letters it read: Future Home of the ARC. Those who come will be saved.
The drooping power lines dipped and rose, dipped and rose. Nick’s lips did the same, until the smile won out.
Chapter 19
Greyson tried to eat slowly, but he had never been so hungry. It seemed like he grew hungrier with every bite. As soon as his first bowl of soup had only a few drops left, he wanted another; but the old man was occupied making something else for him.
“There, you have yourself your very own sling-bow.” The man, who had asked to be called John, held up Greyson’s slingshot. He had provided two new bands of his own, connecting one band to each side of the slingshot’s Y frame. He had said that two bands were needed to stabilize the new ammunition.
John held up the homemade arrow he had fashioned in only a few minutes. It was a six-inch bolt as thick as a marker and threaded like a screw. The tip was sharp, and the other end had a nut screwed on for a grip. Toward the back, two tiny wings, like an arrow’s fletching, were made from duct tape and would keep it steady in the air. And finally, a wingnut was threaded up to the middle of the bolt for the bands to hold.
“So, just put one band around this side of the wingnut, and the other around the other side,” John narrated as he showed Greyson what to do. “Then, you pull it back, and…”
Greyson scooted his chair back.
John pulled it back until the rubber creaked, then he released it slowly, still holding the nut of the arrow. “I think it’ll do what you want it to do.”
After John had asked whether or not he really was armed, Greyson had shown him his slingshot. One thing had led to another, and Greyson had mentioned its failure to pierce car tires. After a quick trip to his basement workbench, the man had returned to the kitchen with a vigor and purpose.
“How’d you know how to make that?” Greyson asked, impressed. He had a guess, but he wasn’t sure. While John had made his run to the basement, Greyson had perused the pictures on the wall. One had been taken of John in full military uniform from a long time ago. It wasn’t very good quality, but he could see what looked like a jungle behind him. The jungle, combined with the automatic rifle he had slung over his shoulder and the cigar hanging from his mouth, made him look like an impressive man.
“I’ve always been good with those type of things. ‘Suppose engineers should be. You keep it and the supplies. Should be able to make one on your own.”
“Really? Thanks. So cool.” Greyson put the bolt-arrow and the supplies to make another one into his fanny pack and immediately removed his Payback List. He scrawled in the supplies.
John eyed the book and Greyson’s writing skeptically. He started to say something, but changed his mind. Instead, he stood and pushed in his chair, making his way to a side door. “You asked about the traps, right?”
Greyson had to smile. He’d never had a grandpa before, but if he had, John would have been a good one. Maybe John had never had a grandson before either. He sure seemed to enjoy teaching him things.
Though his belly still felt empty, Greyson listened intently as John showed him another deadfall he had built for the side door, explaining each mechanism and how it worked. Most of the time, Greyson was intently listening, but at times his attention would fade and he would find himself admiring the wrinkles folding into each other at the corners of John’s eyes. It made him wonder what the old man’s eyes had seen. He had seen war. Real war. If what Greyson had seen gave him nightmares, what did John have to deal with? He eyed John’s shaking hand as he pointed at a notch he’d cut into the trigger plank. What had that hand done? How many times had it pulled a gun’s trigger while pointed at another man?
&
nbsp; “But it’s the idea behind a deadfall that makes the booby trap work.”
Jarryd would be launching into a laughing fit with this talk of booby traps. Greyson smiled at the thought, but when John turned his gaze to him, his smile vanished. It wouldn’t be smart to get on John’s bad side.
“Deadfalls play on whatever drives you. Food, water, love, duty. In ‘Nam they knew we had to do our duty, and the Viet Cong used that drive to make traps for us - deadfalls. For one, they knew we never left a man behind. So they’d give us a perfect opportunity to do our duty – lay out the body of an American soldier with a live grenade primed to go off when we moved him. We’d think we were doing the right thing by retrieving our friend. A good thing. But duty left us open to deadfalls.”
Vietnam. Of course, that’s what he had meant by ‘Nam. The jungle picture was taken during that war. And from what Greyson could remember from his history lessons, it was an awful war that led to an American retreat. Tens of thousands of Americans had died, and hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese. He remembered fragments about massacres, napalm, and pesticides that caused disease. John had lived through all that?
“The traps ever get you?”
John grunted and gestured Greyson back to the dining table where he pulled out a chair. The old man groaned as he sat, both hands on his knees. “They got me. Just not my body.”
Greyson squinched his brow.
John rocked in his chair. “They’re still getting me to this day. I see them take my friends. Worse, I see what I did to ‘em after we caught ‘em. That was another trap I fell into. Revenge. I did some bad things I regret. I wish I could take ‘em back, more than anything.”
The old man sighed. “But I can’t. I’m stuck with them. My demons.”
Demons? The word struck Greyson. It was an odd word – and it evoked a twinge of fear. He watched John as his eyes closed, crinkling the wrinkles on his cheeks into more folds. “You…you said ‘demons’?”
John looked up, suddenly out of his reverie. “Oh. Yes…I did, as metaphor. You know much about them?”
Greyson shook his head.
“Well, then. Let me tell you a story.”
“About demons?”
“Yes, about the non-metaphor kind. It took place many years ago. It’s a story even older than I am.”
Greyson gave him a polite laugh and leaned back, preparing for the story. He eyed Kit who lay in a corner, stomach full and ears perked.
“A long time ago, there was a small town by the lake. Some of the townsmen fished on the lake, but others kept pigs in the vast countryside, to eat or to sell for their livelihood. It was quiet back then – no electronic gizmos or cars or what not; but still, their world was not immune to crazy.”
John nodded with a smirk. Greyson smiled back.
“There was a man, known by all in the town,” John said with a sinking voice, leaning forward with intensity, “who was possessed by demons.”
Greyson winced. He didn’t like the word.
“Many of them. So many that the man called himself Legion – the name for a Roman army made up of over five thousand men.”
“He had five thousand demons in him?”
He nodded. “The townspeople were so afraid of him, they often tried to chain his hands and feet; but he would break through the iron chains with incredible strength. No one in the town was able to subdue him – even the strongest of the strong. Eventually he escaped, tore off all his clothes, and lived in the tombs outside of town where he would cut himself with stones and cry out day and night…a chilling sound.”
Kit lifted his head and looked at Greyson. Perhaps he could smell Greyson’s fear. “Geez. Naked dude cutting himself? That is crazy.”
“Yes, though the man was still human just like us, he was haunted, controlled by those demons that did awful things to him. Made him act horribly. Hurt him. Just like our metaphorical demons can do. And no one could help the poor man. He was shunned – too dangerous and full of evil to let close to the children. Then, one day a traveling teacher came from the other side of the lake. The demon-possessed man saw him coming and ran at him.”
Greyson listened intently, ready to hear what happened to the teacher. He imagined the violence the man could do, the fear on the teacher’s face, the…
“But as soon as the man got to the teacher, he fell on his hands and knees and begged – begged – the teacher not to torture him.”
Greyson drew back. “Wait. The demon-guy asked the teacher not to ‘torture’ him?”
“Right. The demon-guy was afraid of the teacher. The demons asked the teacher, ‘What do you want of us?’ And then they begged him over and over to let them go, because they knew the power the teacher had.”
“But he’s a teacher? He sounds kind of beast for a teacher.”
John smiled. “And the demons knew it. Finally, the teacher commanded the demons out of the man and gave them permission to enter the herd of pigs. The poor pigs, now possessed, ran themselves into the water and drowned. But the man…he was freed.”
Greyson alternated between a frown and a smile. It was the weirdest story he’d ever heard – but he liked it.
“The man was himself again. The townspeople came out and were surprised to see him in his right mind; but they were also afraid. They’d seen what the teacher had done to the herd of pigs – their livelihood. He’d changed everything they knew, and that scared them. When they asked the teacher to leave, he agreed, getting into the same boat he came on.”
“What? That was dumb. He just like…saved that guy.”
“You’re right. And the guy was thankful for it. He wanted to go with the teacher on the boat, but the teacher said no.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be on a boat with a naked guy either.”
John’s laugh caught Greyson off guard, but he laughed along. “No, no. The guy is clothed now, and he is so grateful, he travels to city after city to tell everyone how amazing the teacher was.”
“Cool. That’s a happy ending, I guess. What does the teacher do after that?”
John stretched his back and pointed at Greyson’s fanny pack. “You’ll have to read to find out. That story is one of many in that little book of yours.”
Greyson felt at the pack, thinking. “Really?”
“Yeah. You read it much?”
“Uh…no. Not yet. It’s not even mine, really.”
“No? Whose is it?”
John’s question hit a nerve. “It’s…” Greyson started, his eyes darting around the room. He grew nervous. “My…friend’s. He…never mind.”
John took in a long, deep breath. “I understand. We all have demons of our own.”
Greyson’s eyes shot up with a glint of fire. “I don’t have demons.”
“You don’t?” he asked with surprise. “That’s great. But, tell me then. What are you running from?”
“I’m not running from anything.” Offended at the thought, Greyson shot to his feet and began pacing about the kitchen, suddenly anxious to leave. He’d forgotten his mission. “I’m not running. I’m not. I’m looking for my father. And I gotta go. I’m going to find him no matter what it takes!”
John kept calm during the outburst. “I believe you.”
“No matter what!” Greyson started putting away his dish, but he felt lost in his urgency, pacing back and forth.
John shifted in the hard chair and rubbed the ends of his knees, examining Greyson’s determined face. “You’re determined. Strong headed. I get it. But be careful. Remember those traps? They work best on the strong headed ones.”
Greyson stopped his pacing. “What’s wrong with being strong headed?”
John thought to himself, folding his hands together. “Nothing. It’s a very good thing. But just be careful; don’t lose yourself while finding him.”
Greyson let the words sink in, fighting his conscience. A flash of memory passed before his eyes – a memory of leaving Sam in the abandoned house, giving him to the terro
rists so that they would tell him where to find his dad. The guilt that never seemed to go away nagged at his insides. Maybe he did have demons.
He turned with a wavering chin. “What happens if I do…lose myself?”
The old man stood with a groan and a few creaks from his knees. He joined Greyson by the refrigerator, placed a rough hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly. “Then you’d need a new self.”
A new self? John was as bad as Pastor Whitfield had been when he’d said Greyson was sick, infected with a disease with a mystery cure. It’s as if they had teamed up against him, rubbing his guilt in his face – pointing out his demons and saying he was so beyond fixing that he needed to start over.
Suddenly, Greyson had had enough of his new teacher. He’d distracted him from the mission.
“Thank you for the soup and the milk and the arrows.” He swung his backpack onto his shoulders and headed toward the side door; but he stopped suddenly. “What’s your address?”
John seemed about to say something else, but instead gave his address. Greyson took the small Bible and pencil from his fanny pack and jotted it down. “I’ll put you on my Payback List.”
John cocked his head and stared at the book. “But – you can stay. You’ll need more food and…if I said anything…”
Greyson had already disabled the trap; he turned to look at John as he opened the door, but John’s face curled into horror. Greyson’s heart leaped into his throat as he turned to the open doorway.
Ten feet away, illuminated in the motion sensing light and pointing its camera straight at his face, was a hovering drone.
Chapter 20
BANGGGGGGGGG!
The gunshot exploded inside the kitchen and rung like crashing cymbals in Greyson’s ears. At the same time, the drone ripped apart in a burst of sparks, two of its rotors whirling into the darkness in directionless retreat. The rest of its body collapsed onto the mud, whirring and twisting as if in agony, shaking off the rain. Greyson was stunned motionless.
“Get in!” John grabbed his shoulder and yanked him inside.
