by B. C. Tweedt
But all he needed was to find Asher and his pilot father. Then, if he could manage to talk with them alone, he would have his chance to either convince them or to steal the plane keys.
“Calm down, all of you! We can’t win a war if we’re off doing what we want in Georgia, and Texas is doing what Texas wants to do and so on. We follow orders here. If you don’t like them, just shut up and do them anyway. If you don’t do them, well, you can go and join the Camden militia.”
This time there were laughs, and those who had been angry cooled down.
“Speaking of orders, we have new communication if Marv here can get it working.”
The man still tinkered with the television and his laptop while making an obscene gesture toward Wayne. As the crowd laughed and watched the television, Greyson leaned his head past the bottom of the railing and into open space. Craning his neck, he could just see the last pew in the back of the sanctuary. A stoic man sat with elbows on his knees. Next to him was the small boy Greyson recognized as Asher. He’s here! The man was the pilot. The man that would take him to his father.
There were cheers and claps from the crowd, so Greyson pushed himself back from the edge and watched the television flicker. There were more moans of impatience, but eventually Marv got it working, adjusted the volume, and sat back to watch.
The black screen flickered again, and this time there was a man’s face. It was a face set for war – horrible, yet handsome – appealing and frightening at the same time. Silence struck the crowd in anticipation, but no one was more silent than Greyson. His breath had stalled in his throat and his fingernails scraped at the stiff carpet, sending fragments of dirt in little hops toward the edge of the balcony. He couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s.
“To the men and women of this once-great country. To the men and women meeting together, who may be scared, who may fear for their future, but who brave the opposition and risk to hear from me today, I want to thank you. Though I can’t see you now, and most of you I’ve never met, I feel like I still know you.”
Greyson’s face burned with hatred and fear. Oh, he knows me alright. And Greyson knew him. The Eye of Eyes. The world’s most wanted terrorist. Everett Oliver Emory.
Chapter 36
Jarryd’s silent inhales and exhales pulled and pushed at the dust balls under the bed. His eyes were bigger and whiter than his large front teeth, and his fingers were tense with anticipation. His lips mouthed please, please, please.
Baldy was sitting on the bed, right above him. The springs creaked in his ears, and he could sense the man’s weight almost sagging into his shoulders. Don’t fart. Don’t fart. If the man did, it would seep straight through the mattress and into Jarryd’s face.
But another kind of stink came from the man’s socks as he slipped his shoes off. Jarryd eyed the man’s feet with disgust, just inches in front of him.
And then his socks came off. And then his fake-barf-covered shirt plopped onto the carpet.
Oh…my…frickin’…goodness.
A small panic came over him and he shifted, trying to stifle a groan that fought hard to escape. It escaped instead through the hideous grimace on his face.
Next came the man’s pants. Jarryd covered his eyes, though all he could see were the man’s ankles. But those were hairy enough; he could only imagine how nasty the rest of his body was.
When he heard the man’s underpants hit the carpet, he peeked out, watching the feet tread to the bathroom.
Whew.
“Nickel. This is Jer-Bear. Baldy’s about to get wet. Should I go?”
“Wait. Make sure he doesn’t come back. Can you hear the water?”
He listened.
“No. But I hear other noises. I think he’s dropping the kids off at the pool if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, gross. But wait. Once the shower starts, you go.”
“Got it. I’ll just wait and listen,” he said, dripping with annoyance. “Just what I like to do on my evenings, Nick. Listen to other guys poop.”
“Dude. Use code.”
“Fine. Listen to him build a log cabin. Coil a rope. Release the chocolate hostage. Take the Browns to the Super Bowl.”
“That’s enough.”
“I have more.”
“Please no.”
---------------
“They have gone too far,” Emory said through the video recording. “Lying is their second language. They tell you they are looking out for you, the people, but really, they are lining their own pockets with money and setting themselves up in positions of power. They say they want equality for all, freedom for all. But what about those freedoms guaranteed in our Bill of Rights? Where went our freedom to worship as we please? Churches are closing all over this country because they call out sin for what it is and refuse to kneel down to the Almighty Government. If churches don’t conform to Big Brother’s changing morality, then they are forced to close through ridiculous tax laws and litigation.”
Greyson was seething. This man was setting himself up as some holy preacher, telling his followers how immoral the government was. Oh, yeah? Look who’s talking! Who is the immoral one? Why are they listening to this guy?
“Freedom to bear arms? Not anymore. You cannot protect yourself. Nanny Government will do it for you. Don’t want to work? Nanny Government will give you other hard-working people’s money, all while ignoring the trillions of dollars of debt that our creditors are now calling to the table. You’ve lost your freedom to do what you want with your money, and your children and all the children that follow are already in debt to China as well. In chains.”
Greyson could sense the crowd’s grumbles. They were tracking with Emory, following his every passionate syllable – sipping at the truth he was filtering to them through a straw. But Greyson wasn’t fooled. He knew the true Emory, the liar - the one who set off a nuclear bomb in Des Moines – the one who didn’t care one iota about these people in Georgia.
“But as they lock your wrists in chains, they do so with a smile, telling you that the chains are meant to give you security – like you are some patient in a psych ward who may hurt himself. But many believe it. And you know why? Because of fear. Fear is their first and most powerful tool.”
--------------
When he heard the shower start, Jarryd crawled out from underneath the bed, narrowly avoiding the man’s undies, and stretched his aching back. After a few toe touches and a crack of his neck, he jumped to work, searching the man’s things for the watch.
He hadn’t set it on the end table or kept it in his pocket. It wasn’t on the bed, and Jarryd hadn’t heard him open the room safe. The more he searched, the faster he realized that his fear had been realized.
Baldy had kept the watch on.
“Bad news,” he reported in the walkie with a whisper.
There was a pause on the other side. “You have to check the bathroom.”
Jarryd’s head collapsed to his chest. “Come on…”
“You have to. He might have taken it off and put it on the counter.”
“How do you expect me to get in there without him noticing?”
Another long pause. Jarryd grew fidgety, glancing from the bathroom door to the balcony door where he would escape if the man suddenly came barreling out. Finally a response came.
“I dare you.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Your mate dares you, too. She wants to see what you can do.”
“Don’t use her like that.”
“I just did.”
------------------
Anger simmered in Greyson’s eyes, so hot that he almost cried. He hated the man so much. If Emory were actually in the sanctuary, he would have put a bolt-arrow in his knee minutes ago. But he still contemplated blasting the TV screen to pieces.
“If you are afraid, you allow them to grow stronger. They convince you that more of them is what you need. More security, more supervision, more government. But what we need is more tru
th.”
Truth?
“If you knew them for what they really are – liars, frauds, want-to-be-kings, then you would not be afraid. You would be angry. But they are deceitful beyond our imagination. And they have grown far too good at it. So I tell you, if you want to survive, if you want to prevent our little American heaven from becoming an American hell, then you must listen to me. Don’t trust the politicians. Don’t trust those who claim that a ‘miracle compromise’ or some great new states’ convention will bring peace. We don’t compromise our principles or our freedom. It is mere talk, more lies, more manipulation and delays – don’t trust any of it. Do not be deceived!”
Amen to that! But he was the deceiver. He was the greatest threat to America.
“So, let me tell you the truth.”
----------------------
Jarryd’s fingers pressed against the wooden door and pushed ever so slowly. Hot steam swirled through the open crack and the volume of splashing water increased above the sound of Jarryd’s crashing heart. Breathing in the steam in short gasps, it was harder and harder to keep his cool.
As the door opened wider, he saw more and more of the room. The foggy mirror, the porcelain sink counter, the toilet. He paused, letting out a deep breath, listening for signs he’d been discovered, but there were only off-tune hums that Jarryd hoped would not transform into off-tune lyrics.
He stood for a long moment in the doorway, letting the steam join the beads of sweat on his forehead. Gulping, he fought the fear by convincing himself that it would earn him at least a hug from Avery. Perhaps even a kiss on the cheek.
His foot wavered in the air before finally setting down on the tile. Pause. No change. Another step. Pause. No change. Again and again, until he finally found it. He was standing in the middle of the bathroom, but he saw it – just above the towel rack on a little shelf. The smart watch.
---------------
“The truth may sound crazy, but that is what they want you to think. They put labels on it. Conspiracy theories are mocked, discarded. Fake conspiracies are promoted in hopes of colluding the truthful ones. Deceit. It’s all their deceit. But know this. We did not nuke Des Moines.”
The shock set a burning sensation through Greyson’s lungs. It tickled his eyes and pricked his heart.
“The government has no proof, only speculation. Their witnesses are children who have never been interviewed by the public nor their names made known. For all we know, they are fictional. Just like their fantastic story about the governor who shoots a missile at his own kid in a valiant effort to save the city.”
Greyson’s anger grew too large - he couldn’t bear it. His fingers tore at the edges of the hard carpet and his teeth ground against one another. I have to say something. I can’t let him get away with this. Lies! LIES!
“On the one hand, they say that those of Pluribus are backwoods, bitter people who are clinging to their guns and their religion. On the other hand, they say we are sophisticated enough to steal a nuclear weapon and hateful enough to destroy a Midwestern city – something very anti-religious. They can’t have it both ways. But we make a very convenient enemy. A very convenient tool to increase fear.”
Emory paused for effect, and it worked. The sanctuary was quiet. But Greyson was steaming, like a teakettle about to scream. His breath came out like it did before a great sob. The veins on his neck bulged, his cheeks glowed as red as his hat, and tears pooled in his eyes. He had to say something, but he couldn’t.
“Watch this video. A missile comes in, shot from an American F-16. A moment later – a nuclear explosion. This is the evidence they have been withholding. They nuked Des Moines. They killed 8,000 of their own citizens, to give themselves an excuse for more power. That is the truth.”
“Liiiii----EEEEES!”
His scream had come out in the worst way possible. A squeaky pubescent voice-crack the likes of which no one had ever heard. Like deer suddenly sensing a hunter, heads turned and latched onto him with steeled focus. One of the men stopped the video, but the rest were frozen, still trying to make sense of the boy who stood in the balcony.
Greyson wanted to crawl back under the pew, or just run through the window, but he had gone this far. He cleared his throat and tried to sense if it would crack again.
“Lies,” he said timidly. “He is lying!”
The men began murmuring to one another, some frantic, others jovial – laughing at the absurdity of it all. But Wayne, the leader at the front, slowly reached for his cell phone.
“I…I was there. At the fair…and in the truck…with the bomb…”
This is a mistake. This is a mistake.
The men grew restless and began shouting at him. “Who are you?” “What’s your name?” “How’d you get in here?”
But he held firm, hands gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.
“My name is Greyson Gray. And I’m telling the truth. He is not. He killed 8,000 people. He killed my friend. He killed my mom.”
Down below, the room reached a fever pitch. Some shouted obscenities; others began yelling commands at Wayne, who ignored them, waving them off with one hand as he held a phone to his ear.
But the pilot, Dan, remained calm though his son, Asher, tugged at his jacket, whispering, “That’s him! That’s the kid!” After a few seconds of letting the situation sink in, Dan spoke succinctly, face to face with his son. “Go home and get the bug-out bag. Know where it is?”
“Yes, but…”
“Take it to the truck and wait in the passenger seat for me. I’ll be right there.”
“But…”
“You will not stop for anyone but me. You understand?”
Asher wanted to question him again, but he knew better. “Yes, sir.”
“Now go.”
Just as Asher scrambled out the side door, Dan pounded out a text.
Found kid. Breaking cover. Need extract ASAP.
“EVERYONE SHUT UP!” Wayne’s booming voice shut them up in an instant. “Now looky here, boy. What you are saying is very interesting, but it also happens to be the very thing we would expect a government agent to say.” He eyed the two men he had sent to the doors behind the stage. They’d be making their way around to the balcony in no time.
“And sneaking into one of our meetings here is also something a government agent might do.” Wayne smugly stroked his goatee. The other men nodded to themselves.
Greyson shook his head, confused. “But I’m not…”
“I’m not saying you are, boy. I’m saying we don’t know. So why don’t you come on down here, and we can talk it out, and you can give us some more evidence.”
Dan took a few steps toward Wayne so that he could see up to the balcony. Greyson noticed him and they shared a look.
“I-I can’t,” Greyson told Wayne. “I’m not staying. I just wanted you to know that Emory is bad. He’s a liar!”
Wayne smiled condescendingly and put his hands on his waist – near the holstered pistol he kept at his side. He shook his head and prepared to say something, but someone cut him off.
“Thank you,” Dan said to the surprise of the audience. Even Wayne cocked his head. “Thanks for having the courage to speak up.”
Greyson nodded slowly, feeling the warmth of Dan’s gaze. It was oddly comforting to have the praise of a stranger. At least it was someone. “You’re welcome.”
“Now you’re going to have to run for your life, Greyson.”
The room was tethered together, tense and ready to snap. Greyson held his breath, his mind moving faster than his legs. Had he…? Did he…?
“RUN!”
He heard the footsteps on the stairs behind, sprinted toward the window and braced for the jump.
Chapter 37
Greyson judged the wooden grate covering the window. It was old – the slats were thin. They’ll break, right?
Only one way to find out! He leveled his shoulder and smashed into it. T
he wood bent and broke around him, flying in dozens of directions as his body flew through the opening and into the night air. His feet hit the roof’s shingles, and suddenly the edge was only a few feet away. He dug in, stopping his momentum. Wood debris bounced from the roof and fell to the alley two-stories below as Greyson tiptoed to the edge, swinging his arms behind him.
He took a cautious step back. The voices coming through the window were loud and angry.
An idea sprang to his mind, and he quickly removed the device from his pack that he had made for just this type of occasion using a Ziploc, aluminum foil, and drain cleaner. The memories of his father’s experiments with the homemade bomb sprang into mind. The goofy way they looked in goggles and gloves as they shook the device, mixing the drain cleaner with the aluminum. Running from the device, laughing. Watching from behind the kitchen window. His mother’s scowl. The explosion.
It had taken ten seconds.
He darted to his left along the edge of the roof, glancing behind for any followers and shaking the explosive.
Six, five…
A man was stepping through the broken window. They caught eyes.
He pulled back and pitched the device toward the man like they were playing catch.
And the man caught it, stopping in bewilderment.
One second.
POOOOOSHHH!
The bottle burst, sending out a plume of caustic chemicals.
“AAAGGGH!” The man jerked back and dropped to his knees on the angled roof, his face and hands distorted as the acid burned his flesh. His body tumbled down the shingles and over the side.
Grimacing, Greyson turned back to find his target – the dumpster below. Half of it was open, revealing the trash bags that would soften his fall. The other half was covered with a hard, plastic lid. He’d have to be accurate.
“Stop! Don’t do it!”
Another man had joined him on the roof. More were streaming around the back of the alley entrance. Greyson hovered at the edge, eyeing his chasers and the opening below. He’d just cliff-dived from a further distance into a waterfall not long ago. He could do this.
He stepped off and plummeted.
