Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  Goose bumps prickle my bare skin. This is the coldest I’ve been since that night when it all went down at The Fort. I breathe deeply and can almost feel sharp snowflakes stinging my nostrils. A metallic scent rides the wind. It’s probably just rust from the truck, but it smells like blood.

  My hand goes to my cheek where Thomas Mayes hit me by the holly bush. His knuckles had split the thin skin over my cheekbone. Blood poured down my cheek, leaving a trail in the snow that I’d followed when I ran later that night. God, I want to pay him back one of these days, to—

  “Nate, you okay?” Brandon yells.

  My eyes snap to his. Brandon’s brows are furrowed. A prickle of panic tingles in my stomach as I realize how dangerously close to a flashback I just was. “Yeah,” I say, but my fingers find my button through my shirt.

  Before long, Griff cuts his lights and pulls to the side of the road. Fletch and Mateo are the first on the ground.

  “Load up,” Mateo whispers.

  I arm myself with as many water balloons as I can carry and stick a can of shaving cream in my pocket. Brandon takes the feathers and a dozen eggs. Griff motions for us to follow him into the woods.

  Of course it’s the woods. It couldn’t be a nice house-lined street. I’m tempted to put some balloons back so I can hang onto my button, but it’s too late. Everyone is already jogging ahead of me, and I don’t know where I’m going.

  So stay here, a small voice whispers in my head.

  I can’t. I’ve already come this far. I take off after the shadows cutting through the trees.

  After a couple hundred yards, lights wink into view.

  That’s good. There was no light that night. Nothing but darkness.

  I zero in on the light, watching it get closer.

  Feral screams whip through the air as we burst into the yard where the freshmen are hard at work. Water balloons fly. Several kids are drenched before they realize what’s happening.

  Their mouths hang open, their eyes wide with fear. I’ve seen that look too many times. I stop mid-throw and a balloon breaks by my feet, splashing my shoes.

  Shrieks pierce my ears. The freshmen run for cover. All I see is terror. And blood. Cracking eggs sound too much like breaking bones. Everything is in slow motion and hyperspeed at once. The world is a blur of light and dark, color and cold.

  Damn cold.

  Freezing water seeps into my sock.

  Someone nails me with a stream of shaving cream, but I barely notice. The pfft pfft pfft of a low-caliber gun fires to my left. I hit the dirt. Water soaks into my shirt. A blossom of red spreads near my arm.

  I’ve been shot. Oh my God oh my God oh my God. The Fort is here. They found me.

  He’s coming.

  There’s nothing I can do. Except give in. Let him finish the job and kill me. Be free.

  “Nate!”

  The cry is so close, practically on top of me.

  No. He doesn’t get to win. I push myself upright. Someone grabs my arm. I twist, breaking the grip. My body tenses to fight. The figure in front of me laughs. Freaking laughs.

  Wait, that’s not right.

  I blink and the night comes back into focus. Brandon turns to face me, but his smile shrivels like a slug under salt. “You okay?”

  I scan the yard. The sounds around me aren’t the panicked screams of fear, but happy cries, like kids on roller coasters. People race past, whooping and hollering. Almost everyone is splattered with blue, yellow, green, and red splotches. Red. My fingers tentatively graze my arm. Paint. The freshmen have paintball guns.

  “Dude.” Brandon’s at my side. “What’s wrong? Are you having some kind of episode?”

  I shiver and the scraps of flashback fall to the damp earth. “No. No. I just—” I just what? Was bombarded with memories I thought I’d put behind me? Reminders of all the damage I’ve done? “That was fun.” I manage. “I’m just afraid my uncle will be pissed that I ruined my clothes.”

  I mentally pat myself on the back for coming up with that one. Brandon doesn’t look like he buys it, though.

  Feet thunder on the ground, and then Mateo darts in between us. “They’re reloading,” he yells. “Go, go, go!”

  “Better run,” I say before Brandon can speak. He trots alongside me back to the truck, where our paint-covered classmates have all congregated. They look like they’ve been fighting a unicorn. A handful are even coated with silver glitter. They’re all laughing and throwing their remaining balloons at each other.

  Their happiness zooms past me, leaving a jet stream of jealousy behind. I’d give anything to be normal. To be able to have a water balloon fight without being thrust back to the night I murdered my father. I’m overwhelmed by sudden hate for them and their silly, simple lives.

  Brandon climbs into the truck bed. I intentionally hang back and squeeze in the corner by the tailgate. I don’t want to talk. I don’t even want my woods right now. I want to curl up someplace warm and quiet and soft and sleep away this flashback hangover. Too bad that place doesn’t exist.

  The ride back is livelier. I turn my back on everyone and train my eyes on the asphalt zipping away behind us, wishing it could carry me to another place, another world. One without racism and hate and evil fathers.

  Too bad that doesn’t exist either.

  690

  Dell and I are up before dawn, like every day since the flyers first appeared. He hands me a thick jacket to block out the cold that dropped over North Alabama like a winter bomb. A thin layer of frost covers the grass. Fog dances off our shoulders as we cross the yard to the truck and my breath hangs in the air like dust motes in a slant of sun, shimmering in the sliver of light parting the sky.

  We drive to town in tense silence, but the tension draws us together now instead of pushing us apart like it used to.

  Surprisingly, he’s been on my side lately. He hasn’t mentioned calling the police again. At first, I thought he was holding off for me, but maybe he doesn’t exactly trust cops either.

  I’ve never had a good experience with police. All the ones in Farmer were lying, racist bastards. They threw me in that hellhole of a jail and turned their backs while the other inmates ganged up on me. From what Dell’s told me, the cops where he and Mom grew up weren’t great either. Dell said their neighbors called the police a few times when their parents’ drunken drugfests got out of hand. The cops would drive by, tell them to keep it down, but not one of them ever noticed the frightened kids curled in the corner. Not one ever took Mom and Dell away.

  Besides, we’re handling the situation well enough on our own. Thanks to her recent downtime, Bev even figured out how The Fort found us—they must’ve used the picture that ran with the article. In the upper left corner, WISTON TOWN GROCERY is visible. Bev did a search and came up with four Lewistons: Idaho, Maine, New York, and Alabama. An image search of those towns and bam, there’s Lewiston Town Grocery for anyone to see.

  I could kill that damn reporter. Circle my hands around her thick throat and—

  The truck rocks to a stop. I shiver and pretend it’s from the cold.

  I’ve been pent up inside too much. I’ve avoided Brandon since homecoming so that he won’t try to make me talk. That means no running, no weight lifting, no breaking branches. The beast needs a release. Soon.

  We’re parked at one end of Main Street, same as every morning for the past week.

  But something feels different today. I can’t put my finger on it: the weather, the predawn light, something. I ease out of the truck and close the door as quietly as possible, keeping a look out as I approach the street. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing at attention.

  Dell shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and starts down the street. We walk slowly, keeping close to the empty buildings. The rubber soles of our shoes whisper across the cracking sidewalk.

  “I think we’re good today,” Dell says. “The flyers would be up by now if—”

  “Shh.” I hold up my hand and stop
. There’s something ahead. A hint of red in the fog. I take a step and stop again. Another pop of red appears down the street, closer. Flyers. Going up now.

  We’re not alone.

  I press against the dirty glass store window behind me, grateful for once that my clothes are old and faded. I blend with the grungy buildings like we were painted together. Dell squishes beside me.

  “They’re—” I begin.

  He nods. The fog is thinning; the sun is rising. The truck’s a couple blocks away. We can leave now and reach it before the Skynbyrds notice us, but we’d have to leave the flyers, too, and our efforts to protect the town—my efforts to keep the cops out of it—will have been for nothing.

  We could duck in the abandoned diner where I met the reporter and wait them out, but I only know how to get in the back door and the Skynbyrds will see us before we get to the corner. I can already make out their white and red laces against their black combat boots.

  “We’ll have to come back,” Dell whispers. He turns toward the truck and stops.

  Flyers hang on the poles between us and the truck.

  They’re on both sides of us.

  Every store is closed.

  “We’ll jimmy a lock,” Dell says.

  “What?”

  “Follow my lead.” He turns up his collar and walks quickly to the closest business. He stops in front of a door and jangles his keys.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  “I hate this damn lock,” he says louder. He scrapes a key against the door. “It always sticks. I’m breaking down and buying a new one this afternoon.”

  Boots stomp on the street.

  Look down, look down, look down.

  I look up.

  My stomach drops to my feet.

  Two girls walk toward me with armfuls of flyers, but I’m only staring at one of them. Her brown ponytail swishes from side to side as she walks. Her green flight jacket is zipped up to her chin. She smiles at the other girl and, all of a sudden, my skin feels hot. I’m flooded by the desire to rush to her and sweep her into my arms, to hold her, protect her, love her the way I should’ve years ago. But she looks so … happy.

  That’s not the girl I knew. The one who was bitter as unsweetened chocolate every time she had to put up flyers. The one who would only smile at another Skynbyrd if she was punching her in the face. The girl walking down the street is a stranger to me.

  Then she looks up, too.

  Her smile droops, like a time-lapse video of a wilting flower. Her friend hasn’t seen me yet. I tense. Is she going to alert everyone else? Call for help?

  She shakes her head so slightly I almost think I imagined it, almost as though she can read my mind. She probably can. Her eyes go cold and flat for an instant, then she drops her gaze. Her friend finishes taping her flyer and says something. I whirl toward Dell and dip my head. The girls pass us, talking in cheery voices. They could be two regular teens chatting about their classes, if it weren’t for the propaganda in their hands and the weiss & stolz patches on their backs.

  As soon as they’ve passed, Dell takes off down the street, but I hang back. I glance over my shoulder, willing her to look at me, wanting to see her face once more. Her unbruised, unbloodied, beautiful face.

  Kelsey.

  As I watch her back, I try to convince myself that she didn’t finally drink the Kool-Aid. That she’s just pretending, passing the time until she can get out. But I know better. They got to her. I knew it a little over a year ago when she strode into the courtroom at my trial.

  I remember her testimony too clearly. Her words that stung like a thousand angry bees.

  “Nathaniel hated his father,” she’d said. “His father. Nathaniel couldn’t wait until he didn’t have to deal with him anymore. It’s all he talked about.”

  “Tell me about your personal relationship with Mr. Fuller,” the prosecutor had asked.

  It was the only time Kelsey looked at me that whole day. Her brown eyes flashed. “I hate him.” Her stare had burned through me.

  The prosecutor’s flustered reaction told me Kelsey had gone off script. He floundered for something to say, but Kelsey simply leveled her gaze at the jury and shrugged.

  “He murdered an amazing leader. Why wouldn’t I hate him for that?”

  She never technically lied, but she didn’t tell the truth, either. Not that I blame her. I left her at The Fort. I ran away and left her behind with them.

  I watch her brown hair swish away now—not a trace of the blue she always wanted. They may not have killed her body, but they certainly killed her spirit, same as he killed Mom’s. And it’s all my fault.

  I’d hate me, too.

  Dell and I circle around until the Skynbyrds are gone. I don’t say anything about Kelsey. He’ll freak if he knows I’ve been spotted. I don’t know why she let me go. Maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as I thought. Or maybe she was as shocked to see me as I was to see her. Either way, Dell will find out soon enough if she tells. No sense in worrying about it now.

  Once we’re certain the coast is clear, we jump out of the truck and race back and forth, tearing down flyers. By the time we’ve gotten them all, I’m regretting wearing my jacket, sweating despite the cold. We shove the flyers into a plastic bag to burn later tonight and then Dell drops me off at school.

  I’d started tricking myself into thinking I was turning into the guy everyone at school sees. But that’s still a lie. This past week has shown that to me. My outer shell is still as fake as ever.

  I can’t let myself forget that again.

  I pause outside the school’s front doors, pushing thoughts of Kelsey and the flyers to the back of my mind.

  They don’t stay there long, though.

  When I open the door, red flyers assault me from every angle, taped to the walls, covering the floor, in students’ hands.

  Hot bile surges up my throat. I choke it down before it spews across the gray tile. It burns like Kelsey’s stare, leaving an acidic taste in my mouth.

  This is why the Skynbyrds were late getting to Main Street. Where else did they hit? Who else has seen them? Doesn’t matter. The entire town will know now. Everyone. My classmates, the police, Brandon. My bones turn molten and I start to sink into a puddle on the floor.

  A hand claps me on the back and I bolt upright. “What is this shit?” Brandon shoves a flyer in my face.

  Oh God, he knows. The flyers have my name and picture and a list of what I’ve done. He’s going to hate me now, too. I should’ve come clean to him a long time ago.

  “Who would do this?” he asks.

  I train my eyes on the flyer and relax a little. It’s the standard crap. Nothing personal. Not yet.

  Brandon crumples the paper and slams it into the closest trash can. “Disgusting.”

  I help Brandon throw away as many flyers as we can before the bell rings.

  “Attention, students,” a voice crackles over the intercom, “proceed immediately to the gym for an assembly. I repeat, proceed immediately to the gym.”

  Everyone’s whispering about the flyer as we file into the gym. Several people have their phones out, and are looking up the white extinction website. I want to knock the phones out of their hands and scream, but it’s too late. They’ve already given the site hits. They’ve seen The Fort’s message, which is what the Skynbyrds were after. The Fort won this round.

  I find a seat with Brandon and Fletch. Brandon’s still seething. So is the principal. Her cheeks are the same color as the flyer in her hand. She clips a small microphone to her blazer lapel and scowls at the crowd.

  “I’m sure you have all seen the disturbing messages plastered across the school this morning. This is unacceptable. It isn’t funny. It isn’t a game. It’s hate speech and it’s a criminal offense. Come forward and your punishment will be less severe. If you know who is responsible, speak up now.” She scans the student body. I slump lower in my seat. I’m certain her gaze stops on me a beat too long. “You will n
ot be in trouble for holding the perpetrator accountable.”

  Everyone exchanges glances. Daggers of speculation fly around the room. I want a flashback to whisk me away. Reliving past horror has to be better than this present one.

  “I wish I knew who did it,” Brandon says, “but I wouldn’t turn them in.” There’s a menacing look on his face that I’ve never seen before.

  I can’t imagine Brandon so much as yelling out of anger. He didn’t even raise his voice when he ranted about his friends the day he came clean about Henry. But he looks like he wants to straight up murder someone right now.

  I have to tell the principal about the Skynbyrds. I’ll start with seeing them downtown today. Except that will invite too many questions. She’ll ask how I know about the Skynbyrds, how I know they’re behind the flyers, why I didn’t call the cops as soon as I saw them. She’ll have to inform the police, or at least the town council, that there’s a hate group in Lewiston.

  They’ll definitely connect me to the article then. I’ll be shunned. Or arrested. I’ll lose Brandon. Dell will lose everything.

  I should speak up.

  I shouldn’t keep quiet again.

  Except, last time I said anything about my past it backfired. That’s the only reason the Skynbyrds are here right now.

  It all comes back to me. That damn snake is still eating its tail.

  So I keep quiet.

  Dell and I will figure this out. We have to.

  The flyers are all anyone can talk about the rest of the day. My history teacher even cancels her planned lesson, launching into a discussion on racism and the ugly pasts of Alabama and Lewiston—including Brandon’s grandfather and his work in the Civil Rights Movement.

  She pulls up the white extinction website and projects it onto the board. “I want to have a dialogue about this and make sure you know why it’s wrong and why it’s not funny,” she says.