by S. F. Henson
I’m not sure what to say. My cheeks flush with guilt. This is all my fault. “What can I do?” That was the wrong thing to ask. There’s nothing I can do now. Except maybe tell the truth.
“Oh, now you want to help? Then start by telling me what the hell is going on! What do you know?”
I hesitate. Cling to my button. This is my chance.
“Don’t even think about lying to me, man,” Brandon says.
People flow past, many I don’t recognize from the church. Could they be from The Fort? Weaving through the crowd, waiting to lash out from the inside? Even though the cops are here, they’d still be outnumbered if The Fort showed up in force. We aren’t safe.
Brandon especially isn’t safe.
“Not here,” I say.
Brandon glowers. “No bullshit, Nate. Or is it Nathaniel?”
A few people look up. My hands start shaking. This is so much worse than finding the flyers. I can’t keep my cool this time. There’s too much to lose. The Fort probably knows what I look like now—assuming Kelsey told them. If they see Brandon with me, what will they do to him?
“Can we go somewhere more private?”
Brandon chews his bottom lip. He looks like he’s going to say no.
“Somewhere safer.”
He rolls his eyes. “Hold up.”
I follow him back to the nurses’ station and hang back as he pulls Henry aside. Henry shakes his head, waving wildly, but Brandon grabs his arms and says something else. Henry steals a glance at me, relaxes, and nods.
Brandon marches back. My muscles are so tight my right calf is cramping.
“You get five minutes.”
We slip between two nearby houses where it’s quieter, but still in view of the church. An engine rumbles somewhere behind us. The flashing emergency vehicle lights fade away, giving way to moonlight. The air smells like smoke and the threat of rain.
Brandon crosses his arms. He looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him. More than when he saw the flyers at school. But there’s a hint of fear there, too.
My throat feels knotted, trapping the words behind my tongue. How do you tell someone you’ve been lying for months? That those lies injured his mother? Terrorized his town? I cough, and the words come up like phlegm. “This is all my fault.”
I can make out Brandon’s glare in the dim moonlight filtering through the clouds. “You did this?”
“No. Not exactly, I mean—” Thunder rumbles behind us.
“I don’t have time for this shit. Spit it out.” His voice is all sharp corners.
My mouth works like that damn ventriloquist dummy from the Psych Center. I can’t say the words out loud. I can’t.
Thunder growls again, closer. If only the rain could wash everything away. This entire day. Hell, my entire life. “They’re neo-nazis,” I blurt. “Skinheads. And they’re here because of me. For me. They’re from back home.”
“I know you’re not about to tell me you’re a Klansman or some shit. After all we’ve been through this year. What the f—”
“I’m not! Not anymore.”
“Uh-uh.” Brandon holds up his hands and starts to back away. “I can’t hear this.”
“I was born there,” I say quickly. “Grew up there. I ran away after I …” I take a deep breath. “After I killed my father. Their leader.”
Brandon’s eyes widen. His hand flies to his throat, fingers clawing at his shirt buttons. He doubles over, heaving.
“Brandon—”
He pukes in the gutter. My eyes sting. Thunder roars again.
Headlights wink down the street. Brandon wipes his mouth with his sleeve and straightens. “You’re him,” he gasps.
Now I feel sick. He knows.
“You lied to me. I knew I recognized you. You asshole.” He yanks off his tie and shoves it in his pocket. “I trusted you, and you’re that guy?”
I nod and try swallow away that knot in my throat. Rain sprinkles around us. The headlights get brighter as the oncoming vehicle closes in. It needs to turn, to go away before the light shines on Brandon’s face. I’m terrified to see his expression. He turns away.
“Brandon, wait. Hear me out.”
“No. You had weeks, months, to tell me this, and you wait until we’re attacked? I don’t owe you shit.”
“I know. But I owe you.”
The thunder sounds closer. The rain picks up. Brandon waits.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have to do this. “I wanted to tell you, but I’ve been hiding. The people who did this, they want me dead.”
He glares at me over his shoulder. “Oh, so they attacked us to flush you out.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“It’s not about what you meant, Nate. It’s about what happened.” Brandon looks at me dead-on. “Could you have stopped this?”
Rain falls heavier. Cold drops spread across my shoulders, stinging my skin. Smoke billows from the church. Back on the street, people scatter, crowding under the emergency tents.
“I’m getting soaked,” Brandon says. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.”
“Can we go somewhere else and talk?” I plead. “You deserve the truth.” And you need to get out of sight. Just in case. I can’t decide if it would be more dangerous to squeeze under one of those tents, where a blade could slip out of a pocket and into Brandon’s flesh without so much as a glint of steel, or for him to be separated from the group, alone. I just want us both to get behind closed doors somewhere.
“You put me, my family, in danger to save your own ass. So, no. I’m going home.” He starts between the houses, away from the church, toward the next street over.
“Brandon.”
“Keep my name out of your mouth,” he snaps. “I’m done, Nate. You and me? We’re done.” He has to raise his voice to speak over the thunder.
Except it’s not thunder. It’s the truck that just passed. A giant black truck. One I’ve seen. One I’ve ridden in.
It skids to stop, then starts to turn around.
Oh my God.
“Brandon!” I yell it this time.
“I don’t care, Nate.”
The truck faces us, idling. High beams flash, petrifying me, like a deer.
“What the hell?” Brandon asks.
Tires squeal. The truck accelerates, snarling like a hungry bear.
“RUN!” I grab Brandon’s arm and take off, dragging him behind me.
It’s going to run us down.
I bodycheck Brandon onto the sidewalk. He stumbles, but manages to stay upright. We sprint into a yard as the truck smashes through a mailbox. We cut between two houses, a gap too narrow for the truck to follow.
The engine grumbles as it reverses. Voices shout after us, but the rain and the waterfall pulse rushing in my ears drowns the noise out. Headlights sweep the yard as the truck swerves back to the street.
Brandon and I take off again, weaving through yards. We emerge on a side street and I recognize where we are—near the path to the river, and so close to Brandon’s house that I swear I see his back porch light up ahead.
Our feet slap the pavement, each step drawing us closer and closer to that light.
The truck roars onto the road in front of us, blocking our path to the house. We turn back the way we came, but three figures emerge from the darkness.
Behind us is only woods and river. The truck squeals to a stop, inches away.
“Nate.” Brandon manages between gasps. “What do we do?”
We break for the woods, trying to lose them.
“Looky here, boys,” says a voice from my nightmares.
Too late.
Thomas Mayes jumps to the dirt. He balances a metal rod or bat across his shoulders, draping his arms over it. “If it ain’t Nathaniel Fuller and his little darkie friend?”
Boots crunch on the other side of the truck. Jeremy Connor and his brother circle around, stopping in front of the headlights beside Thomas Mayes. I can’t see th
eir faces, but their ugly sneers are imprinted on my brain. The three guys behind us spread out. Brandon and I are surrounded, outnumbered, and there’s no telling how many more assholes are crammed in that truck bed.
“You been a bad boy, Nathaniel,” says Thomas Mayes. “We’re gonna have to teach you a lesson.”
The beast stirs in my gut. I straighten up and puff out my chest. “Is that right?”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Brandon stand taller. He clenches his fists.
Aside from Dell, my last fight was back in jail. And I lost.
But I’m stronger than ever now, thanks to Brandon making me play basketball. I’ve never seen Brandon fight, but he’s about my size, and he’s strong. If one of us can wrangle that weapon away from Thomas Mayes, maybe we stand a chance. “Too afraid to take me alone? Or can you still feel the knife I slid in your stomach, Tommy?”
He stiffens. He hates that name almost as much as he hates anyone who isn’t white.
“Don’t you sound just like your daddy?” Thomas Mayes hawks a wad of chewing tobacco in the dirt at my feet. “It ain’t right to hear Jefferson’s voice comin’ outta his murderer’s mouth. I think we’re just gonna have to make it so you cain’t talk no more.” He strides forward and the headlights glint off his dented silver bat. God he’s gotten big. Huge. A low hum comes from beside me, almost like a cat’s purr.
Brandon closes the space between us. “I’m calling the police,” he whispers. Faint light glows through the fabric of his pants pocket. Hopefully too faint for the skinheads to notice.
Thomas Mayes is quickly closing the distance. He’ll be on us before the dispatcher even answers Brandon’s call. Green flight jackets, black combat boots, bald heads, and baseball bats were scary enough when I was part of their group. But being on this side, staring down the barrel of a bloodstained bat, is more horrifying than I ever could’ve imagined. The Connor brothers are scrawny little shits, and so is one of the new guys, but the other two are as big as Thomas Mayes.
“Look,” Brandon says, his voice steady. “We can work this out.”
Thomas Mayes laughs. “Ain’t that cute?” He points the bat at Brandon. “You know what I wanna hear? I wanna hear you beg, black boy.”
A tinny voice speaks from Brandon’s pocket, but the skinheads don’t seem to have heard.
The guy closest to Brandon grins, making the swastika tattoo on his neck ripple. He hocks up a loogie and spits it at Brandon’s feet. “You gonna die tonight, boy.”
Brandon’s hand twitches for his phone. Does he have time to pull it out? Can the police track us with just the call?
Thomas Mayes circles me, stopping inches from my face. “Tell you what, Nathaniel. We’ll do your friend here first. Give you a nice blood shower before we send you to Hell.”
“HELP!” Brandon yells. “I’M ON ELM STREET AND I NEED HELP!”
“God cain’t help you now, boy,” Thomas Mayes says.
I lunge for Mayes. Strong arms grab mine, pinning them behind my back.
A jagged bolt of lightning breaks the sky. Thunder crashes. Brandon raises his fists. Jeremy Connor takes a swing at Brandon’s head. Brandon ducks and buries a punch in his stomach. Connor stumbles back. Brandon swings at his head, but its wild and misses.
Come on, Brandon. You can take this asshole.
I flail against the guy holding me. He jerks me sideways, off balance, but I see Brandon’s fist connect with Jeremy’s nose. He hollers and dives at Brandon, knocking him to the mud.
Thomas Mayes laughs. “This has been fun to watch and all, but I think it’s time to end it.” He and the other big guy approach Brandon. The other guy yanks Brandon to his feet.
Oh God no. No, no, no! It’s the woods and Kelsey and everything all over again. I kick at the dude holding me but he’s damn strong.
Mayes raises the bat.
“NO!” I scream. “Take me! Leave him alone and take me!”
Brandon kicks at the guy holding him. Lightning whips across the sky. I can see Brandon’s determined, pissed off expression.
Then the bat zooms through the air and I swear I feel the wind from it on my face. There’s a sickening crack, followed by the most haunting scream I’ve ever heard.
Brandon falls. The guy raises the bat again.
“NO!” I thrash, breaking the grip holding me down, leaping for Thomas Mayes, tackling him. His face makes a satisfying crunch under my fist as I punch again and again and again. Someone pulls on my shirt collar, jerking me back. A steel-toed boot smashes into my ribs.
Metal pings and Brandon howls again.
I roll toward the person kicking me and knock him into the dust. “Brandon! Run!” I scream, even though I know good and well he won’t be running anywhere for a long time. We only have one shot to make it out of this alive.
The beast.
“Shut him up!” Thomas Mayes yells.
The guy on the ground scrabbles for me. I stomp on his fingers and dart between the Connor brothers. Brandon lies on the ground at their feet, clutching his leg. He’s covered with blood and dirt.
I move between the skinheads and Brandon. The guy who kicked me first sits a few feet away clutching his face, dark, thick blood gushing between his fingers. The bat lays between us.
I lunge for it, but Thomas Mayes gets there first. I duck and bury my shoulder in his gut. I dig my fingers into his stomach, into the scar I gave him when I was eight. He grunts and stumbles back, falling hard.
The bat rolls away and I dive for it.
The Connor brothers and their asshole friends have descended on Brandon again. Kicking and jeering. The beast is full-on awake now. More than awake. It’s all I am.
I grip the bat and level a swing at the closest head. Jason Connor. It connects with the back of his skull and he crumples to the ground. The bat whirs through the air again before anyone can process what just happened.
I catch one of the new guys in the back. Something hard hits me in the side. I pivot and swing again. The bat strikes flesh and something snaps. Everything is a blur. Lightning cracks and the sky breaks open. Blood mixes with mud.
A fist smashes into my jaw. I shove the bat handle toward the fist and end up smacking into a face. I can’t even tell who’s who anymore. I whirl and find Thomas Mayes crouching over Brandon.
With a roar of rage, I propel myself at the son of a bitch. We hit the ground again, rolling, fists flying. I punch and punch until I can’t feel my hand or my arm or anything at all. Nothing exists anymore. I’m on autopilot, doing what I was trained to do—what I was born to do.
I’m vaguely aware of a rumble to my right, then whoever I’m on top of—I’m not even sure it’s Thomas Mayes anymore—is being pulled out from under me. I rocket to my feet, ready to attack.
But no one’s there.
I hear the peel of tires and then I’m looking at taillights.
Panic lurches in my stomach. They took Brandon.
But, no. Brandon’s still here. On the ground.
Not moving.
Water puddles around him.
I drop to my knees, cradling his head. “Brandon.” He doesn’t make a sound. “Brandon, please. Oh God. Oh please. Brandon, oh please!” Tears roll off my nose and splash onto his face, making little splotches where his dark skin peeks through the dirt covering him.
And that’s how the police find me. Bloody and broken and crying over my best friend’s body with a bat beside me and the rain washing all the evidence away.
The Lewiston Learner
Town Faces First Racist Attack in Decades
By Darlene Sampson
Staff Writer
Police are labeling an attack on Lewiston A.M.E. Church last night as a hate crime. The attack occurred during a community togetherness service.
Church leaders held the service after a string of incidents of racism around town, the most recent being a noose hung around the neck of Herschel Kingsley’s statue downtown.
The service, intended
to unite the town against these acts, ended in terror when bricks smashed through the church’s windows.
“We’d just lit our candles and started to sing when we heard glass breaking,” said Nakia Reid, who led the singing. “It didn’t register at first, then people started screaming and running. It was chaos.”
Outside the church, eight crosses had been set on fire. No one witnessed the crosses being placed or lit. The volunteer fire department got the blaze under control within minutes. This marks the first cross burning in Ridge County in two decades.
While the crosses did not cause any injuries, the bricks did. Several people sustained injuries fleeing the scene. Only two individuals, Clark Green, 45, and Brett Hawkins, 51, were struck with the bricks. Green suffered head trauma and Hawkins was hit in the back. Both were taken to Baptist Memorial Hospital for treatment.
Eight bricks were found at the church. All had notes attached to them with the message, “We said you’d burn. Courtesy of Nathaniel Clemons.”
The message is similar to the one graffitied at Lewiston High School. Lewiston Police have traced the notes back to 16-year-old Nate Clemons, a Lewiston High student who started attending the school in the fall.
Clemons was found near the woods several miles from the scene beside the injured body of classmate Brandon Kingsley, grandson of Herschel Kingsley.
Kingsley was unconscious, and had a broken leg and fractured arm. He was taken to Baptist Memorial Hospital where he remains in a coma. Witnesses overheard Clemons and Kingsley arguing just after the attack on the church, and Clemons was found with a baseball bat, a weapon that doctors say matches Kingsley’s injuries.
Clemons was detained and interrogated but no formal charges have been filed at this time. Police say they are still investigating.
718
It’s happening again. Misinformation, jail, blood on my hands. Everyone blames me, hates me. Even my own conscience is against me. I can’t think about Brandon too long without feeling like I’m about to shatter into more pieces than the church windows.
Only one thing holds me together: revenge.
It’s hiding under that damn shell I’ve grown so accustomed to wearing, biding its time, waiting until I can slip away from the cops’ watchful eyes and get out of this hellhole.
