by S. F. Henson
Nothing.
When we get back to the cabin, I hole up in my room and call the number Agent Torres gave me. I still don’t trust the FBI, but what have I got to lose?
722
There’s this pocket of space where the earth meets the pre-dawn sky, a whitish line on the horizon where the world splits open in a gap-toothed smile, that I always thought I could catch. As a kid, riding all night in a stolen car with Mom at the wheel, I used to think we could get there. That if we could only go fast enough, far enough, we could catch the gap and tumble into it, and disappear forever. No more neo-nazis with ugly tattoos, no more fear, no more running. Just eternally falling into a perfect nothing.
As I walk away from the cabin, away from Dell and Bev and Brandon and Lewiston and all the problems I’ve caused, I find myself once again facing that gap, and once again wishing I could somehow dive through it and fall off the earth.
The longer I walk, the more my cheap tennis shoes rub blisters on my heels, and the more the reality of my decision rubs a blister on my soul.
I could steal a car and reach The Fort faster, but I’m afraid I’ll flub it and get caught. Enough cops are already after me and I should have plenty of time before the Feds are ready to take it down. Instead, I walk as fast as I can, and focus on the physical pain to distract me from the carnage inside.
I’m six again, watching that slip of sky, hoping I can eventually tip into it and vanish.
728
The blare from of a speeding car narrowly escaping an accident jolts me awake. I sit up against a tree, rub the sleep from my eyes, and yawn so hard the muscles under my chin cramp. Overhead, traffic whooshes by, close enough that diesel exhaust and burning rubber have replaced the oxygen in my body, but far enough away that I can’t be seen. My back is stiff from another night of sleeping on the ground. The rocks are as unforgiving as the people of Lewiston.
I stretch and twist to work the kinks out, then roll up my stolen sleeping bag and strap it to my duffle before eating a stale, stolen gas station cinnamon roll. I’ve stolen plenty of things in the past—books, alcohol, candy, all the stuff The Fort didn’t let me have—but I felt a strange sense of guilt this time. Compared to all the other shit I’ve done, it’s surprising I can still feel bad over something so trivial. The first time I stole water, I almost left a note with Dell’s address.
Then I thought better of it.
I’m hoping what I’m about to do will start fixing the things I broke a long time ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to live with myself, but this is the beginning. And really, it’s not about me. All this time, I just wanted to be able to escape my past. But it doesn’t work that way. I don’t get to forget the damage I’ve done. I don’t get to move on or “start fresh.” I do have a duty. To do what I can to make people like The Fort stop. To make the world a little bit better.
Once I’m packed and ready, I pull out my phone and stick the battery back in. I don’t know how tracking works, but I figure the police need power to find a phone signal. I turn it on just long enough to check my messages. The voice mail box is full of the usual. Dell and Bev: Where the hell are you? Are you safe? Get your ass home. The police: Mr. Clemons, we warned you not to leave. There’s a warrant out for your arrest. And reporters who somehow got my number: We’ll pay for your first televised interview. Let us subsidize your tell-all book. Give us an exclusive.
Same old, same old.
Except for the last one.
This message is for Nate Fuller. This is Agent Michelle Torres. Return my call at 555-655-3446 extension 979.
Her words are short and clipped, all business, just like last time I spoke with her. She answers on the first ring. “Agent Torres.”
The knots in my back swing around to my stomach. For a second, I’m afraid I’m going to vomit old cinnamon roll on the phone.
“This is Nate. You left a message.”
“Yes, Nate. Our investigation coupled with your statement has given us sufficient probable cause to apply for a warrant. I just need some additional information first.”
I brace myself against the tree. It’s actually going down. I knew that was the goal when I called the FBI, but it was distant, then—at an unknown point in the future that may or may not have ever arrived. Now, it’s here. Quicker than I’d expected.
“I need you to describe the places containing evidence of the crimes: the exact location of the mass grave site, murder weapons, hate speech, and any other means of domestic terrorism. Be specific and give me as much as possible. The warrant has to state exactly what we’re after if we’re going to nail these bastards.”
My head spins. There’s so much information stuffed in my brain that I don’t know where to start. “The meeting hall is the prep site. That’s where you’ll find the flyers, signs, posters, bats, guns—everything. It’s the large building on the left edge of the big field. Every house there will be chock-full of stuff, too. So will all the vehicles.”
“And the graves?”
“In the woods. The place is hard to find. Best way is to go to the second row of houses and take a right into the woods. There isn’t a real path, but the brush should be cleared enough to follow. The bodies start about five miles in and keep going up. I don’t know how far they’re up to by now. At least another couple miles. They tried to space them out so they wouldn’t … so they wouldn’t smell.”
Computer keys clack on the other end of the line. “Is this information based on your personal knowledge?”
Intimately personal. “Yes.”
“Can we use your name in the affidavit?”
The hairs on my neck bristle. “I’d rather keep my name out of it.” It doesn’t matter now that everything is out in the open, but I’ve been burned too much.
“We can seal the affidavit. It will carry more weight with the judge than if I said ‘confidential informant.’”
Bark digs into my palm. “If it means you’ll get the warrant …”
“It will.”
“Then fine.”
I feel like I just signed my life away. This better not come back and bite me in the ass.
“Thank you for your cooperation. The federal prosecutor will apply for the warrant today. Our team is assembled and ready to go as soon as we receive it.”
“And when will that be?”
More typing echoes through the phone. “Should have the warrant by tomorrow afternoon, and be ready to serve it by tomorrow evening.”
“To-tomorrow evening?”
“Yes. We’ll be in touch.”
Bark scrapes my back as I slide down the trunk. This is real. The tree is real. The pain is real. The call was real. Soon, the warrant will be real, too. I hang onto the phone for several more minutes after she hangs up. Then I remember the Lewiston police are after me and pop the battery out.
Tomorrow night. Less than thirty-six hours before I can close the coffin on The Fort.
It’s time to stop messing around.
729
It takes all of my willpower not to speed down the highway in the car I stole. “Car” isn’t quite accurate. Minivan. I walked for another solid day before I found it, and that was only a happy accident. I stopped at a Walmart this morning to use the facilities and spotted an unattended purse in a shopping cart. I snatched the keys and hightailed it out of there.
I felt bad about leaving the baby seats and diaper bag in the parking lot, but I didn’t have much choice. I have to reach The Fort before the Feds. I have to make sure they find everything. The bodies. All those people who deserve real graves.
After I’ve put enough distance between me and the Walmart, I pull over into another shopping center parking lot and, using a tool kit I found in the van, switch plates with the car beside me. Then I scrape off the bumper stickers and hit the highway again.
My heart threatens to jump ship every time blue lights appear in my rearview. I stay under the speed limit, obey all the traffic laws, and make it to Kentucky without incident.
/> The winter sun has given up and died by the time I reach the Farmer city limits. I ease the van past the jail where they almost killed me, past the courthouse where I hid from the cameras, past the dumpster where the police found me, and the bookstore—Kelsey’s and my safe place. It’s now out of business.
Every building, every stoplight, every inch of pavement wakes the beast up more and more. I grip the steering wheel and force myself to drive slowly, to drink in every miserable inch of this shithole.
Then I’m on the other side, fifteen minutes from Hell. The closer I get, the angrier the beast grows. This is the place that broke me. That broke Dell, and Mom, and Kelsey. And Brandon. That robbed me of my innocence, my freedom, possibly my soul. And it’s finally time for this place to pay.
When I spot the dirt road, I pull over and kill the engine. Kelsey and I had planned to run from this very spot. I slip on my jacket, pocket my knife, and start through the woods.
Cold stings my cheeks. I pull my jacket tighter and zip it up to my chin. My tennis shoes crunch on the thin layer of frost that now covers the ground. Slivers of ice slip through the mesh toes, tiny daggers that stab my ice-cube-cold feet before melting into my socks. Boots would be nice. Not combat boots, but the farm kind like Dell wears.
I walk faster to keep warm. The cold is more penetrating in Kentucky than in Alabama. The intertwined tree branches overhead let the moon slink through, but I don’t need its light to navigate these woods. I don’t need light for anything right now. I need the darkness that’s coursed through me for so long, begging to be set free. If I’m spotted here, the beast is the only thing that will keep me alive.
Dr. Sterling’s voice echoes in my ears: Don’t let it overtake you, Nate. Close your eyes and find the light. I see Ms. Erica’s face, bright as the sun, nodding as the doctor says it.
Shaking my head, the memories vanish with the breath puffing out of me. I reach the tall fence and fumble with the freezing metal. There’s an opening here somewhere if they didn’t mend it after I ran. I work down the fence, shaking it in different places. My fingers are so numb, I’m afraid a wayward barb will rip open my flesh before I notice it.
A section of the fence is looser than the others. I give it a kick and it pops free of its pole. I drop to my knees and squeeze through the hole. I’m definitely wider than I was the last time I did this. My foot hits something hard.
No. It can’t still be here.
I kick up the dead, frozen leaves. Sure enough, a mound of canned food hides under the earth.
She left it. Does that mean she’s been keeping it here, just in case, or that she hasn’t thought about leaving again? I re-cover the stash and keep moving.
The blisters covering my feet still hurt, but the cold is at least numbing them. I take a deep breath, hoping it numbs the rest of me. These woods smell different. Familiar, but off. They aren’t my woods anymore. They’re his. I swear I taste gunpowder and blood mixed with the evergreens.
I close my eyes and feel the weight of the gun again. It wasn’t far from here. Does his blood still stain the trees? Did they scrape the bits of his brain off the roots? Are pieces of him still here, tangled with the new trees that have sprung up in the last two years, born from his flesh and blood?
If I could burn the whole thing down, I would. Cleanse the earth with fire.
A strong breeze shrieks around me. Nathaniel.
“You’re not real.” I open my eyes and give my leg hair a sharp tug through my jeans. “Not real.”
I forgot my meds on the battered dresser at home. Just as well. If I’m going to do this, I want my mind sharp. I want to feel everything, even if it hurts. Especially then.
Nathaniel, the wind cries.
I trudge onward. Through the skeletal trees, over the ridge where the root trapped me, past the holly bush. A shadow slides over the frost. I freeze, my hand on the knife in my pocket. It could be a deer or some other animal.
The shadow shifts so slightly I almost miss it. I flick the blade out.
A head pokes out from behind a tree. Long brown hair blows in the wind.
“Nate?”
“Kelsey?”
She steps into a shaft of moonlight. Her flight jacket has been replaced with a black leather one, black fatigues, black boots, black laces. She crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture as cold as the ground beneath us. Despite everything, my first impulse is to wrap my arms around her. But I still don’t know where she stands. With The Fort, or against it.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Me?” she laughs. “You show up out of nowhere in the middle of the night and you ask me what I’m doing here? I’m always here. Every freaking night I’m here.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. We’re off. Stiff as wet clothes in the snow.
Kelsey shifts, jutting her hip to the side. “Did you come to kill them?” She asks it matter-of-factly, like we’re discussing stops for the road trip we’ll never take.
“No.” The thought of taking another life makes me want to throw up.
“They deserve it.”
They deserve worse than death. I can’t give them the easy out the gun gave him. Regardless of how much as I’d love to see them in the same agony they caused Brandon.
Kelsey tucks her hair behind one ear. “If you’re not here to kill them, then what are you here for? Why come back now?”
“Justice.”
She laughs again. “‘Justice.’ What does that even mean?”
“It means they have to pay.”
“And what about us?”
I meet her eyes. “We have to pay, too.”
She steps back into the shadows. “I’ve been paying, Nate. Being trapped here, pretending for all these years. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
She backs up farther. “What are you going to do?”
What side is she on? Do I believe her? Has she really been pretending this whole time? I want to start seeing the best in people first, but damn it’s hard. Only one thing is clear: things have shifted between us. We’ve become different people, for better or worse.
I step toward her. “I should’ve taken you with me, then.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
She reaches in her pockets and tugs on a pair of fingerless gloves. “I don’t need saving, Nate. Not anymore.”
That’s when I notice the backpack strapped to her. “You’re finally running.”
“Finally?” she scoffs. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time, quilting? I come here every night planning to leave. I stand by our holly bush and try to make my body keep moving, try not to let myself remember what happened the last time I didn’t stop.” She straightens her spine. “Tonight is it. I’m doing it. I’m out, Nate.”
I drop my gaze to my frozen feet. “But … you looked so happy. On the street, with the Skynbyrds.”
“I was surviving. After you abandoned me, I tried to run. I made it to the fence before they caught me, dragged me back, Indoctrinated me, watched every move, forced me to testify against you. Testify or die.”
My chest swells. “You didn’t want to testify?”
“Honestly?” She digs her toe into the frost, carving out a divot. “Sort of. You deserted me. I was angry. I hated you and I loved you and—”
I notice the past tense there. Loved. Hated.
I loved her, too.
What are we now?
I think we’re also past. I think it’s time we both let go and let ourselves grow into the people we need to be. For me, that’s making amends for all the horrible things I’ve done—as much as those things can be amended for anyway. For Kelsey, I don’t know. I think she has to figure that out. I do know this: I didn’t help her get out before. I won’t stop her now. I choose to believe she’s not like them. That she’ll be better once she’s gone.
“Here.” I toss her the van key. She catches it in her gloved hand. “It’s stolen, but it
’ll be good for a little while.”
“Thanks.” She starts toward the fence. “Don’t die,” she says over her shoulder. “If anyone gets to kill you, it should be me.”
She melds with the shadows, heading for our stash of food and the gap in the fence and the freedom we both should’ve grabbed years ago.
The wind taunts me with the sounds of The Fort before see it.
“… conscious of its blood can never be enslaved by the antiracists. In this world, we must fortify the future of the White people and the White people alone.”
I only catch pieces, but I know the mantra well enough.
I crest the hill and there it is, spread out before me. Not much has changed in the last two years. The big field is lit up like the Lewiston High football field on a Friday night. A couple stragglers dart under the lights and into the meeting hall. Must be newcomers. Everyone else knows better than to be late to a gathering. The Feds should make it before the members throw a boot party on those two miserable beings.
The voices swell for an instant as the door opens wide enough for them to dart inside.
“White Power! White Power! White Power!”
A couple hundred men, women, and children, united in their ignorance and hatred. It’s terrifying and depressing at the same time. Every one of them would rip me apart if they got their hands on me. No more cat-and-mouse games—just death.
I pick my way down the hill, sticking to the long shadows cast by the trees. The FBI should be here by now. I press against a wide tree and snap the battery back into my phone. Maybe the Feds called to say there was a problem with the warrant, some administrative delay.
There’s no messages from them.
I dial Agent Torres’s number, but it goes straight to voice mail. Maybe they’re assembling outside the gates right now.
Now is the perfect time, before the gathering ends, so they can catch all the skinheads in one place. I make sure my phone is on vibrate and slide it back into my pocket. Let the Lewiston police find me here. Maybe then they’ll believe my story.
Steeling myself, I creep all the way to the edge of the field. All the houses at The Fort have motion sensor floodlights except the ones on the edge of the field. Those are constantly on to light night marches.
