by B. C. Tweedt
“Violent?”
“Yeah. Do you really need to know…?”
“No. We understand violence.”
Chapter 48
Four days later
Election Day
A storm was coming. Some forecasters were calling it a blizzard, but others were more cautious with their words. All agreed, though, that the snow that was falling would only get worse as the day wore on. Partly because of the incoming weather, polling stations had been busy all morning, especially in Colorado, one of the most significant “swing states” that could swing to any candidate.
Though most of the camp’s workers, including Rachael, had voted absentee, and many of the camp’s residents were either fugitives or without ID, there were still a few who came in with ‘I Voted’ stickers attached to their coats or shirts.
Greyson watched from Asher’s dormitory window as an older couple with such stickers walked through the boulevard hand in hand through the flurries. He massaged his scarred hand and then his shoulder. Even days later, the events of Dallas had left him sore. Each sore muscle, tight joint, and bruise reminded him of the perils that he had narrowly escaped.
It had been months since he’d had new images to add to his nightmares. And they’d make quick time in catching up. Riot rhinos with their insect-like expanding jaws were near the top – but swooping Scorpions, the woman picking up the dead man’s gun, and the man on the skybridge saying ‘E Unum Pluribus’ were all present as well. Needless to say, he hadn’t slept much the last few days.
Thankfully, Asher had let him board in his room, with the heat, shelter, and soft bedding meant for a king. The nap he’d just woken from had left him refreshed, ready to take on the world again.
The flurries kept falling, white and slow, like the dust twirling from the top of Thanksgiving Tower, past the spiraling stained-glass pictures. He entered his daydream again, closing his eyes, reimagining the shaking building. The quiet it had provided amidst the chaos outside. The words emblazoned on the wall: Enter His gates with thanksgiving…for the Lord is good. By Psalm, in the year 100 something.
The words were pretty and all, kind of like poetry, but there was more to them that intrigued him. The word ‘good’ seemed to pop in a new way, now that he was reconsidering it as the word behind the G on his hat.
He took his hat off, examining the white stitching. Good had become more elusive recently. It had been difficult to determine who were the good guys and who were the bad. It had also been difficult to know if he was good or he was bad. He so wanted to be good and to fight for good. He wanted the G to be bold and clear, to declare his standing; but with all the violence he’d committed, the lies he had told, and his enemy often being his own country’s soldiers, he wasn’t so sure if he stood for Good anymore.
But then he had seen the word etched into the wall, like something permanent – something adults thought was important enough to design and put on display.
For the Lord is good…
Greyson didn’t know who Psalm was, but his name seemed like one belonging to the Greek Philosophers like Aristotle or Plato – guys who knew what they were talking about. But was it true? Was the Lord good? It certainly didn’t seem that way – especially when, moments after Greyson had seen the quote, the building was nearly destroyed.
Wait. Psalm isn’t a person. Greyson had seen it somewhere else.
Greyson retreated from the window, glanced down the hallway. No Asher yet. He was showering.
Greyson returned to his bedding on the floor and took a seat. In a moment he had fished out his Bible – the little one that had been meant for Liam – and opened it to the inside cover. His Payback List filled every space with line after line of things he owed other people. It had grown over the last year to six or seven pages. He had tried to count the money he needed to repay others; at times it was easy to count – for things like the Transformers sheet he’d acquired for his hut. Other times determining exact cost was difficult – the food the camp gave him, the surgery they had done on him, hospital time, pool hours, et cetera. The total was well over a hundred thousand dollars to dozens of different people. And that was only the money.
There were some things that couldn’t be repaid with money. Liam’s life that he owed Liam’s parents. The 8,000 lives in Des Moines that he could have saved. How many others? Did he count the victims at the fair? The soldiers on the destroyer? Those lost in Dallas? Though he hadn’t felt as responsible for those lives, if he had done something different, he could have saved more. So he had added them to the list as the death toll mounted on television.
How was he supposed to pay that debt? No amount of money could do it.
The only thing he could think of was to pay back a life for a life. If he could only save as many as he’d let die, he could pay it back. So far, he’d saved a few dozen that he knew of. Just a drop in a bucket.
On the list there were the names of Drake’s squad that he had demanded Rubicon save. Windsor, Beep, Grimes, Ankeny, and Drake. Five.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.
He sighed, staring at the page with a hardened yoke of responsibility around his neck, weighing him down. He hated the guilt like it was a disease, eating away at him.
But then he saw it. Psalms.
It was one of the words in the Table of Contents – the page where he’d squeezed in Drake’s squad’s names.
Psalms was a book of the Bible. And 100 wasn’t a year, it was the chapter.
Duh.
Curious, he turned to the correct page, thumbed through the first 100 chapters and found Psalm 100, verses four and five.
And there it was. Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. For the Lord is good and his love endures forever.
He read it again and again.
For the Lord is good and his love endures forever.
Greyson wanted it to be true. He wanted something or someone as big and powerful as a god to be good. To be really good – and to fight for it with all his power. An ally greater than Rubicon, greater than StoneWater, or any army of any country. And he wanted a love that endured forever.
He shivered he wanted it so badly. A love that lasted no matter what. A love that didn’t betray, that didn’t run away.
A love greater than his father’s.
“Started snowin’?” Asher asked, still wiping behind his ears.
Greyson slammed the book shut, but saw that he had been caught. “Yup, flurries.”
Asher paused inside the room, in shorts and sandals but still with dripping bangs. He wiped at them, giving Greyson a surprised look. “That your Bible? Whatcha readin’?”
Greyson was blushing. He wasn’t sure why he was so embarrassed; maybe it was the way people on the news talked about the Bible and the people who read it. They were hypocrites. Bigots. Science-deniers, backwards, radical, and sexist. Greyson wasn’t any of those things, but neither was Drake. Drake had offered to read it with him. Neither was Asher. And Asher often read it.
“Um…” he opened it up again, as if he needed reminding. “Psalms.”
Asher hid a smile. “Psalms. Not P-Salms. The P is silent.”
Now Greyson really blushed. “Whatever. I was just skimming.”
Asher wiped hard at his hair and threw his towel over his bedpost, where his fanny pack hung. “That’s cool. Did you find my favorite verse yet?”
Greyson arched his brow. “Huh?”
“I underlined it when we were on the plane.”
And then Greyson remembered. It had been a year ago, and he still hadn’t found it. He hadn’t looked, but still he felt bad. “No. Sorry. What is it?”
Asher pulled a shirt from his drawer. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s in the book of Romans.”
Romans? They have their own book? Like Julius Caesar’s Romans? Like the ones who had a huge empire and a civil war? That might be an interesting book.
“Kay. I’ll look for it some time.”
Asher pulled his shirt over his head, and Greyson stood to straighten the boy’s frizzy hair. The boy smiled at him. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Cuz it has the word ‘love’ in it.”
The way Asher said ‘love’ all drawn out made Greyson crack a smile. “Talking about love, how’s it going with Chloe?”
He pouted, plopping on his bed. “She’s going to watch the results tonight at the C-Center with all the adults, but I have to stay at stupid day care.”
Greyson gave a sympathetic nod. “That sucks. But the results are boring. Just a bunch of old people talking about numbers.”
Asher kicked his sandals away and lay back on his pillow. “You still miss Sydney?”
Knocked by the change of subject, Greyson shrugged, thinking. “Uh, I guess. Not as much…” he cut himself off. “Sometimes, I guess.”
“Well, I miss Chloe like every day. Is that weird? Am I a creeper or something?”
Greyson laughed, putting Asher’s sandals back where they should be. “I think that’s on the border of cute and creeper.”
Asher laughed back. “Oops.”
“You’ve been hanging with Jarryd too much.”
“Your mom has been hanging with Jarryd too much.”
Greyson stalled, his face the definition of offended. Asher recoiled in guilt, ashamed of his lack of sensitivity. But before he could apologize, Greyson snagged the pillow and whacked it across the boy’s face.
“Your face hangs with Jarryd too much,” Greyson retorted with a smile.
It only took a moment for the pillow fight to erupt, and another few moments before others down the hall heard the commotion and joined the fight. For a long while it was Greyson versus what seemed liked a hundred children. He didn’t have enough pillows, or enough endurance to take them all. Eventually he surrendered, curled into a ball, and took their doggy pile like a man.
Amidst the tangle of limbs and giggles, Greyson caught the time on his watch.
“Asher! We’re late!”
He heard Asher’s shrill response. “Bomb drill! Bomb drill! To the showers!”
The boys and girls scrambled to their feet, falling over each other as they darted toward the shower in the familiar drill. The retreating footsteps pounded down the hall, leaving Asher and Greyson alone once again, sucking in air and staring at each other. Greyson sighed. “Meeting’s in the war room. Get snow gear on.”
“Kay. What’s it about? Are you leaving again?”
Greyson could only shrug. Then he thought of his Payback List – his debt. There was only one way to pay it back. “I don’t like to leave, but I want to help.”
“Me, too! But I just stay here…every time.”
“Maybe this time they’ll need you,” he said, helping Asher to his feet and walking to the sock drawer. “You just have to keep improving yourself so they’ll want your help.”
“I know. I do. But I’m too small – and I can’t do anything about that.”
Greyson handed him a pair of socks and reached for the boots in his closet. “Yes, you can. Drink milk. Exercise.”
“I have. But I’ve only gained an inch and three quarters in a whole year!”
“And like two shoe sizes,” Greyson added, pulling out his boots. “You’re starting to catch up to…” he looked at the name printed on the label, “…Zander.”
“But it’ll be years before I’m big enough to go on a mission. They’ll probably even choose Jarryd before they choose me.”
Greyson laughed. “That’ll be the day.”
Chapter 49
Jarryd was annoyed. Peeved. Frickin’ bothered.
After months and months of waiting and waiting, he was finally allowed to visit the war room. But…so were Greyson’s other “friends.”
From his spot on the elevator, Jarryd eyed the black kid who kept smiling at him. What was he smiling at? People should have a reason to smile – otherwise it’s just creepy. If he smiled at Avery one more time, Jarryd would turn his smile upside down – then throw it off a cliff with the body it came on.
The scrunched nerd with the backpack full of clinking metal kept breathing. Not just breathing. Breathing hard. And when Jarryd had asked him to push the down arrow on the elevator, he’d freaked out. Freaked out because he was a freak. Maybe that was too harsh, but sometimes truth is harsh.
Then there was the pissy Asian. She was alright. She’d even be pretty if she had someone else’s face.
But the girl with half a head of hair was the most annoying of all. She’d hugged him, commented on his cheeks, his teeth, and his hair. Of course she should be jealous of his hair – but coming from her, it wasn’t much of a compliment. She probably envied anybody with any kind of hair – no matter how thick and luxurious.
Finally, the leader was a tool. He was the taller one with braces with a guitar strapped over his back. Was he hoping someone would stop him in the hall and beg him to play an impromptu concert? If so, boy was he ready!
Jarryd squirmed in the cramped compartment. At least Avery was with him.
“Drake, right?” Avery asked breaking the silence. “You could totally pl’ie us a concert right ‘ere in the elevat’uh!”
Jarryd palmed his face.
“Some real elevat’uh music!”
Drake smiled his wide-braced smile. “Sure! How ‘bout on the way back up?”
“That’d be bonz’ah!”
Jarryd squinted at her. She caught his look and shrugged, swiping his bangs back in place.
DING!
The elevator opened and Greyson was there.
Jarryd ran to him and tried to lift him into a hug. Though he was a little too heavy to lift, Greyson returned the hug with a smile.
“Jarryd!”
“Sup, G-man? You miss me?”
“Yeah! And I gotta tell you – your balls are awesome!”
The silence struck fast with laughter in quick succession. Avery snorted and slapped her mouth to contain it. The military men at the war room table had all turned to observe the middle school party at the elevator doors, and now shook their heads in disgust.
“Well, thank you,” Jarryd said with a chin pump.
Greyson caught on and sighed. “You know what I meant. You have any more?”
Jarryd put a hand on his shoulder. “For you, my friend. My best friend.” He glanced over at Drake’s group. “I would get you anything.”
“Great! Thanks, bro!”
“I’ve been working on a new one – just a prototype, though. Call it the Hottie.”
Greyson laughed, but his attention had been drawn to the others. “Cool, cool. Tell me about it later. I got to…you know,” he said, side-stepping to Drake and giving him a man-hug. “Hey, Drake.”
A frown creased below Jarryd’s large front teeth as he watched Greyson make his way down the line. He pulled Avery away and found a seat in the corner by Asher. The boy was making notes, but covered them as Jarryd peeked.
“You drawin’?”
“Yeah,” the boy said, slipping the paper in his fanny pack. He said nothing more.
Even the kid was shunning him.
Greyson finally finished with his new friends and ushered them to the table. When everyone else was sitting, he gestured at the soldiers. “Guys, this is Rubicon. You may have seen them on the heli, but it wasn’t the right time for introductions.” He pointed to Grover and then the others as he introduced them. “This is ButtHole, ButtWipe, ButtCrunch, and…” He eyed Diablo, “…Diablo.”
Drake’s squad let out nervous laughs as Greyson then reintroduced them with the correct names. They were given seats and handouts. As soon as he could, Forge started in.
“Thank you for all you did in Dallas. Securing that hard-drive and keeping Greyson alive was heroic. Your actions, someday, will be honored more appropriately. But as you�
��ve been told, for now, it never happened. You’ve been taken in just like the hundreds of others here. The directors will take care of you.”
“Thank you,” Drake said, followed by the others. “We’d really like to help in any way we can.”
Forge smiled. “Thanks. You never know when you could be of service – as Greyson can attest. But for now, you’ll stay with Greyson. Help him around here. But, getting to the point, our analysts in Denver had a breakthrough with the hard drive. They discovered what they believe is Pluribus’ plan and how to stop it.”
The kids wanted to be excited, but the soldiers weren’t. So they held back.
“They call it Operation Cicada, named after the insect that lives in the ground waiting for thirteen to seventeen years until it emerges to mate.”
“Hey, sounds like me,” Jarryd blurted. Avery gave him a look of disgust and the others’ glares made him slump down into his seat.
Forge cleared his throat. “The cicadas all emerge at once, and although they make easy prey, their sheer numbers are more than their predators can handle. Then, after a couple months, they die, leaving only their offspring to return to the earth.”
“Enough bug talk,” SmokeStack complained.
“Anyway,” Forge continued, “it won’t be bugs that emerge – it will be drones, in overwhelming numbers.”
Jarryd had guessed as much. Dallas had been a way to test Pluribus’ plan, and it had shown the potential destruction that only a few drones could cause. It was hard to imagine what a nationwide swarm of drones could do.
“How many?” Greyson asked.
“Potentially, over three thousand.”
He lowered his head as Forge continued.
“If Emory follows through and attacks cities that vote against Reckhemmer,” Forge said, falling into a solemn whisper. “The casualties will be immense.”
Jarryd watched as Greyson fumed. He knew what he was feeling – a familiar fire in his gut – a boiling mixture of hate and justice that would bubble into belches of daring action.
