by S. F. Henson
“Let it go?” he scoffs. “It’s that easy for you, huh?”
Skunky hops between us. “Guys, chill.”
Traitor talks over her. “It’s that simple to forget all the evil you’ve done? All the people you’ve hurt? Lives you’ve ruined?”
“You don’t know anything about it!” I yell. The beast claws me, scraping its way out. I shove Skunky aside. I can’t unleash on her—I don’t want to. I want it to be him. “You have no idea what I’ve done, what I have to live with.”
We’re nose to nose. As close as we can be with our height difference, anyway. My fists beg to be unleashed on Traitor’s face.
A few hours ago I was fine. Almost normal. Running and playing like a regular guy. Now, here I am. Feeding Traitor’s opinion of me the way kids feed ducks bread at the park. He’s baiting me. He wants me to lose control. Then he’ll have an excuse to get rid of me.
Just when I was starting to think I don’t want to go.
“Think carefully about what you say next, boy.”
I sneer down at him. “Take a trip to The Fort. See that hellhole for yourself. See how long you last there, you self-righteous, know-nothing prick.”
Traitor throws his beer against the wall. Glass shatters. Skunky screams and covers her head. “Get out of my house,” Traitor yells.
I hold my ground.
“Dell,” Skunky says. Frothy beer puddles on the floor at her feet.
“Now!”
Spit flies out of his mouth as he screams. The veins in his forehead bulge. This is it. We’re about to throw down. I picture my fist connecting with his nose, shoving him over the island, smashing his head into the counter, blood spurting from his face. I even take a step.
Then I stalk past him and outside, slamming the front door behind me.
The night air carries a chill that raises goose bumps on my skin. I expect it to bring a flashback with it—arguing with a family member and storming into the woods should be enough—but the medicine does its job. The flashback is a timid cat, lurking on the fringe of my brain, refusing to come any closer. I don’t know if I’m relieved or not.
I storm to my clearing in the woods and smash branches until my fingers are sore and blisters start to rise on my palms.
I thought I was done with this. Letting the reporter in on my past was supposed to calm the beast—to help me get on with my life—but I’m still stuck. Rooted in it like that damn tree in the hole. Every time I try to grow, my roots hold me down.
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I hold me down.
Should I have done things differently? Told him no when he commanded me to unleash holy terror on innocent people? Taken whatever punishment he handed out? Run away sooner? Talked to reporters? Tried to expose all the shit that happened at The Fort?
No one would’ve listened to me. I was just a kid. How much power does one kid have? Besides, as soon as I opened my mouth, The Fort would’ve weaseled out of it like they always did. They would’ve destroyed me instead. It wouldn’t have been a boot party, or even an Indoctrination. It would’ve been so much worse. I might have even ended up in the body farm. And my scumbag father would have been alive to ruin more lives.
Should I have at least tried?
I busy my hands with the tiny twigs, repeating 660 over and over until a weird vibration comes from my left front pocket. Oh, right, the phone. I reach my dirty, blistering hand into my pocket and pull it out. A message scrolls across the screen:
BEV: COME BACK, NATE.
She used my name. Not nazi or the probably worse things they call me when I’m not around. Whatever. I’ll live here in the woods before I go back to that asshole’s house.
The phone buzzes again.
BEV: DON’T MAKE ME DRAG YOU BACK. IF I HAVE TO COME AFTER YOU, I’LL BE SERIOUSLY PISSED.
Like she could drag me anywhere. I don’t want her trying, though. These woods are the only thing I have that’s all mine. Even the button is technically Mom’s.
Skunky is waiting at the tree line when I emerge. “Five more minutes and I was coming after you.”
“What’s the point? He kicked me out. Where else am I going to go?”
“Nate,” she starts, then takes a deep breath.
Fear whips across my chest. This is it. She’s taking me away. A group home or some other place where I won’t have a choice but to let the beast live on the surface to protect myself.
“He’s not kicking you out.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why not?”
“Does it matter?” she snaps. “Just be grateful for a place to live.”
She starts for the house, pausing long enough to make sure I’m following.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Believe it or not, I’m on your side this time.”
I stop suddenly. “Are you high?”
Skunky whirls. I wish I could see her face better, but the porch light barely licks the edge of the yard where we’re standing. After several seconds of silence, she sighs. “You’re trying. I see that.”
“He doesn’t.”
Skunky looks over her shoulder toward the cabin. “Dell has … he’s … he’ll come around. Just don’t stop trying.”
She turns her back to me and walks to her truck.
“Why are you being nice to me? You hate me.”
“You use ‘hate’ too much,” she says. “I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t want me here.”
She pauses, one hand on the truck handle. “I’m coming around, too.”
I shouldn’t push this. I should accept her answer and let it be enough for now. “But why?” I want to understand her sudden shift—how she can change her opinion so easily. Though, now that I think about it, it’s not really that sudden. The dinner, the phone. She’s been softening like butter left out of the fridge.
“Let’s just say I have a soft spot for reforming assholes.”
The porch light flips off. The truck door creaks open and headlights wash the yard before my eyes can adjust to the dark.
“Get in there and finish your chores before you piss him off more,” Bev says. Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the yard alone.
Of all nights to sleep in the woods, this is the one. I’m torn between going back out there and going inside. Bev stuck her neck out for me tonight. She’s making an effort. Maybe I should, too. If she, of all people, can believe in me, then maybe I’m not a lost cause.
I want to prove her right this time. Prove that there is some good in me. Prove that Traitor’s wrong.
I turn and climb the rickety porch steps. Least I can do is try to make this work. Try harder. For her.
664
When I first see the red flyers on my way to school, I think they’re for the fall yard sale and don’t give them a second look. Then the wind tears one free from a light pole. It tumbles down the sidewalk before getting caught against a trash can long enough for me to glimpse the bold, white words.
STOP WHITE EXTINC—
I catch the red paper before it blows away and glance up and down the quiet street. Someone could see me with this. They could think I hung it up. Main Street seems to be abandoned, but the few remaining stores will open soon.
When I’m certain I’m alone, I pick up the piece of paper, even though I already know its message by heart.
STOP WHITE EXTINCTION! DID YOU KNOW THE ANTIRACISTS ARE TRYING TO ELIMINATE THE WHITE PEOPLE?
It’s one of the messages the Skynbyrds plaster all over a target area. Standard message. Standard link to their “white extinction” website.
This is Step One. Try to recruit more people to the cause.
The paper slips through my fingers like fresh blood. Its meaning slowly seeps in as the page drifts to the pavement.
They found me. The Fort has finally found me.
I don’t know how, but they did. That’s the only possible reason for this flyer. Another hate group randomly targeting Lewiston is too coincidental. This is a warning.
Are the Skynbyrds still here? Lurking? Waiting? They usually work in packs, hitting a targeted area without the men first, but they rarely travel this far from home. If this is a message—intimidation or worse—they could have backup.
My heart’s suddenly a hummingbird thrumming inside my chest, beating its wings against my rib cage. The bird migrates up my throat to my head, twitching it from side to side. My instinct is to press myself against the bricks of the closest building. Protect my back. Keep someone from sneaking up on me.
But red and white pages flutter on every pole in town. I catch the one I dropped and shove it in my backpack. I can’t stand seeing those messages everywhere I turn. I run from pole to pole, ripping down the signs until I have them all. All the ones I find, anyway. A man arrives at the grocery store as I’m pulling down the last flyer. He gives me a curious look. I ignore him and shove the papers in my backpack. He couldn’t have seen anything. And even if he did, even if someone else saw the flyers before me, I have them all. I stopped the Skynbyrds from spreading their message.
Now what? I can’t go to school with a backpack of hate, and I can’t throw these away here where anyone could find them. I can’t throw them away anywhere. My hands shake as I pull out my cell phone. I’m scared to go home. Afraid I’m being watched.
Did the reporter finally drop the blade and give up my location? Does The Fort already know about the cabin?
I can’t go back there alone. Safety in numbers, that’s what they always taught us. I linger near the store and autodial the number Bev programmed for Traitor.
“This better be an emergency,” he growls. “I’m elbows deep in pipe slud—”
“They’re here. The … The Fort. They found me.”
He doesn’t respond. Did he not hear me? Did he pass out?
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” Traitor asks.
“The grocery store.”
The phone goes dead. The nervous bird in my head flaps harder. Veins throb in my forehead. I struggle to keep my face calm, my hands still. If they’re watching, I won’t let them see me react. Won’t let them think they scared me. I wish I hadn’t taken my meds this morning. I need to be sharp now, not hazy and slow.
An unfamiliar truck putters down the road. I stiffen, clenching my jaw, steeling my gaze. The driver passes without looking my way. Seconds stretch like a rubber band. I constantly press the phone’s power button to check the time. Where is Traitor? Is he even coming? Or did they find him first?
After what feels like an hour—but is only five minutes—the rubber band of time snaps back. Traitor’s truck rounds the corner. He slows enough for me to jump in the passenger seat then roars away from the curb.
“How do you know?” he asks.
I unzip my bag and pass him a flyer. He sucks in a sharp breath and turns down an unfamiliar road.
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so. I kept a lookout as I tore them down.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. “That’s just going to piss them off.”
“I killed their leader and got away with it. They’re already more than pissed off.” They’re murderous. Hungry for blood. Fear breaks through the dam that I’ve built and crashes over me. I can’t stop my hands from shaking now. Wave after wave of memories roll through my head. Those bodies in the woods. That’ll be me.
I can’t breathe.
I roll down the window and suck in cool air.
We fly down back roads turning so suddenly I’m afraid the truck will flip. I cling to the oh-shit handle for dear life.
“How the hell did they find me?” I say, the panic rising like acid up my throat.
“I think we both know the answer to that,” Traitor replies through clenched teeth.
I hug my backpack to my chest. “But … but the reporter didn’t say where I am.”
“As far as we know. Either way, they figured it out. The how doesn’t matter.” He glances over, and I see my fear mirrored on his face. I’ve never seen him look afraid. “The question now is are they still here and, if they are, what are they going to do next?”
The truck bursts through the trees and into a field. We’re at the back of Traitor’s property. It looks different from this view. Bigger. He slams on the brakes and idles at the edge of the field, his gaze sweeping the yard like radar, taking in every corner, before he guns it, tearing across the field until we reach the back door.
“Get your ass in that house, lock the doors, and don’t come out until I call you.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
He yanks the backpack out of my arms. “Clean up your mess, again. Someone has to make sure there isn’t any more of this shit in town. This is it, Nate. Threatening me is one thing, but threatening the safety of my town, of the innocent people here? I’m done. Get inside and pack your shit.”
My hands automatically ball into fists. “You can’t be serious.”
Traitor reaches over me and throws open the truck door. His face is inches from mine and the beast is going wild. Resisting the urge to head-butt him takes everything I’ve got.
“Where am I going to go?”
“I don’t care.” He shoves me and I fall sideways into the mud. He slams the door and roars away back over the field, leaving me in his dust.
Traitor thinks he’s so much better than me. Like he doesn’t have a past? He obviously did something so bad Mom forgot he existed. So bad he can’t even think about her.
My fear gives way to searing anger. Screw him. Screw walking the line. Screw being worried about what he thinks. Screw trying to make this work. It’s too late for that. If he’s kicking me out, I’m getting some damn answers first.
I storm to the shed. An ax hangs from a hook. I tear it off the wall, knocking a box of nails off a shelf, scattering them across the floor. If any pierce my thin shoe soles, I don’t feel them.
In fact, I feel nothing but anger. I’m a ghost hovering outside my body, not in control of my own hands.
I watch myself march upstairs. Watch as I fling open Traitor’s closet door and swing the ax at the trunk. It buries itself deep in the wood. I heave it out and the beast swings again and again and again. Splinters fly. The lock thuds to the closet floor. I hack and hack until there’s no lid left.
I’m raising the ax again when I see it. The boxy, black scar that’s plagued me all my life. My legs vanish from under me, and I’m on the floor, not feeling the chips of wood that must be digging into my skin. Not aware of anything except that symbol.
Why am I seeing that symbol?
Why am I four hundred miles from The Fort staring at a swastika?
I’m repulsed by it, but I have to touch it. Have to be certain it’s real. My hands push the fragments of trunk lid away and remove the red and black flag. Why does Traitor have this? This can’t be Mom’s.
It can’t be.
The fabric burns worse than my anger. I fling the flag away as though it’s a venomous snake, watching it warily, as if it will bite me at any moment. Then I turn back to the trunk, unsure if I even want to know what else is in there.
My ghost hands move on their own, tearing through the contents of the trunk: a metal nazi eagle, a swastika armband, black combat boots, a green flight jacket.
No. This can’t be her stuff. This can’t be all she left.
No, no, no, no, no!
I tear through it all, digging, hoping.
My fingers hit something flat and cold. For a second, I’m afraid it’s a gun. But when I look down, I realize it’s a metal picture frame. Three people stand beside a jacked-up black truck that has a swastika flag hanging off the antenna. I know that truck. That’s his truck. More importantly, that’s him.
I haven’t seen his face in 664 days. Not outside the memory in my mind—but that image is tainted with fear and blood. This one is clear and sharp and steals my breath. I almost drop the frame. There’s something off about him. I see the same cold eyes, the s
ame closed-off stance, the same hard, thin nose.
But his mouth is different. He’s smiling. A real smile. Not the one I always saw—the one as laced with danger as his combat boots. His arm is around a girl, one with deep-set eyes and long brown hair that’s blowing in an invisible breeze.
Mom.
My finger trails down her tiny, frozen cheek. One side of her mouth is lifted in a half smile. She’s leaning into him. One hand is behind his back, the other’s on her swollen belly.
Holding me.
Water plops on the glass over the picture, making her image waver. Is there a leak? I glance up, but the ceiling’s clear.
It’s me. I’m leaking.
I’ve missed her face. Until this moment, I didn’t realize that I could barely remember her smile. I hate that I’m seeing it now with him.
I wipe the tear away with the tail of my black T-shirt.
My eyes fall on the guy on the other side of Mom. He could almost be her twin. He’s the only one not smiling. I know that scowl pretty damn well by now. But that’s not what makes me hurl the picture against the wall.
No, it’s the giant swastika tattoo on Traitor’s bare chest that allows the beast to take control.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in the closet, surrounded by splintered wood and shattered glass and smashed memories, trying to figure out what to do now.
Boots thunk beside me. “What in God’s name—”
I’m on my feet in a flash, slamming Traitor into the gun safe, holding him by his throat. He claws at my hands. I squeeze tighter.
“Nate,” he squeaks. His face is bloodred. His toes scrape the floor.
I let go with one hand and rip open his shirt, popping the first few buttons. Instead of the boxy tattoo I expect, I’m met with gnarled gray skin. My grip on his throat loosens.
Traitor roars and buries his shoulder in my stomach, tackling me into the busted trunk. Clothes fall around us. A metal hanger scratches my forehead, and the jagged lip of the trunk digs into my back. I bring up a knee, aiming for Traitor’s crotch, but he swivels at the last minute and my knee glances off his thigh.
I’m at an awkward angle, half-in, half-out of the trunk. I punch him across the jaw. There isn’t much behind it, but enough to knock him off balance so I can scramble upright. He moves to attack me again, but suddenly stops.
