The Inside Battle

by Melanie Sumrow

  The muscles in my legs quiver as I attempt to fight the moving water. I finally manage to move my leg and wedge my shoe against something hard on the creek bed, forcing my balance. I wrench from Karl’s grip.

  “Slow and steady,” he instructs.

  I carefully shift my weight and plant my other foot between a pair of rocks. And then I do it again. Karl remains on the rock as I slog through the water—my thighs burn with each slow stride—until I finally slosh onto the bank.

  On this side of the creek, the trees have been cleared. I shiver from the sudden breeze. The moon gives off just enough light where I can see the concern lining Dad’s face. He probably thinks bringing me here was a mistake. I know that’s what I’m thinking.

  I can’t believe I thought I could actually help him, or that I could actually make him like me. I can’t even cross a stupid creek without screwing it up. My bottom lip trembles.

  All of a sudden, Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. The unexpected weight surprises and steadies me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Karl clears his throat as he lands behind me. “We’re in the home stretch,” he says before moving uphill.

  Great, more climbing.

  Without warning, Dad removes the bag; my shoulders automatically rise. “Can you make it a little longer?” he asks, holding my wet backpack.

  I nod, because it’s easier than crying.

  Dad follows Karl, carrying both bug-out bags with ease.

  My dripping clothes hang from my body, and I’m pretty sure I smell like dead fish. But I keep climbing, determined not to disappoint Dad again.

  My socks squish with each step until we finally reach a level area where there’s a two-story plywood cabin.

  Tree branches wrap around the structure, almost like a web of arms supporting it. It looks like nobody’s been here in a long, long time. A soft mechanical hum charges the air.

  Light filters through the black curtains on the cabin windows. I breathe. There’s electricity. But how?

  The hum seems to grow louder. “Generator?” I ask, swiping the wet hair from my face. Yep, I definitely smell like dead fish.

  Karl nods. “In the shed,” he says, pointing. “Back there.” I can barely see the outline of a smaller plywood structure tucked behind the cabin.

  I wring the water from the bottom of my T-shirt. “Gas or propane?”

  Karl’s questioning gaze shifts to Dad.

  Dad shakes his head. “Kid’s into mechanical stuff,” he says, stomping up the steps to an uneven wraparound porch.

  Karl crosses his arms over his chest. “Solar with a propane backup.”

  “Nice,” I say, rubbing my hands together, trying to keep my fingers warm. “Where are the panels?”

  “Can we go inside?” Dad asks, interrupting.

  Karl nears the door. “Of course.”

  The creek is quieter from up here, lulling and soothing. Damp exhaustion suddenly hits, making me yawn.

  “You need to change clothes before you catch cold,” Dad says, sounding a little like Mom used to.

  I nod.

  “Everything should be in order,” Karl says as he leads him inside.

  My gaze moves up, up, up for a second, up through the black network of branches overhead until I spot the stars winking down at me. Maybe things will be okay after all.

  The boards on the porch creak beneath my wet shoes. Inside, there’s a set of stairs to my immediate right, leading to an open loft with a simple railing. The first floor is about the size of our den in Amarillo, but with a tiny kitchen, a table and chairs, and a futon shoved at the rear of the cabin. Above the futon is a sign with a red circle around the words: NEW WORLD ORDER. A diagonal line cuts through the middle of the circle.

  There it is again. “What’s the New World Order?” I ask.

  Dad shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says to Karl before facing me. “I’ve told you: It’s the group that’s trying to impose a global government. And once it does, the New World Order plans to turn the world’s population into its slaves.”

  I think I would’ve remembered if he’d told me something like that. I eye him, suspicious, expecting him to say, “Just kidding.” He doesn’t.

  “And the federal government is in on it.” Dad turns to Karl. “Right?”

  Karl gives a stiff nod.

  Apparently, they actually believe this stuff.

  Dad points to a blue-and-white-checkered cloth strung across a sagging rope along the rear wall. “What’s behind the curtain?”

  “Bathroom,” Karl says.

  “Water safe to drink?”

  Karl turns the tap in the kitchen. Clear water streams from the faucet. “Ought to be. It’s spring-fed.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of Dad’s mouth. Sudden warmth—the good kind—settles inside my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him smile like that.

  “A little better than what you had over there, huh?” Karl asks, shutting off the tap.

  No, don’t ruin this. Don’t remind him of his tours of duty.

  Dad nods. “A little.”

  “You’ll probably be more comfortable upstairs, then,” Karl notes, pointing to the loft. “There’s a full-sized mattress.”

  “You serious?” Dad says, his smile widening as if Karl told him he’d won a lifetime subscription to Field & Stream magazine. Dad grabs his gun cases and the bug-out bags, taking the stairs two at a time with his arms full.

  Our boxes line the kitchen countertop and table.

  Karl inches toward the front door. “Need anything else?”

  I spot my comics and then my crate with QUEN-10. Suddenly, I think of the competition. And my message across the lockers. The look on Ajeet’s face.

  Only a little bit of red paint remains crusted along the edges of my fingernails. My insides twist. I take off my soggy hoodie and toss it into the stainless sink with a splat.

  “Still cold?” Karl asks.

  “Nope,” I say, leaving puddles behind me as I walk across the raw wooden floor. If Aunt Birdie were here, she’d yell at me to clean up my mess. I’d roll my eyes as she made me clean up after myself, telling me I missed a spot. But there’s no one here to fuss over my messes now.

  I lift QUEN-10 from the crate, wishing I could turn back time. I push the power button. The battery is still dead.

  “Everything alright?” Karl asks, his voice a little softer.

  Dad stomps around upstairs. Probably finding the perfect hiding spot for his guns.

  “Needs a charge,” I say, pointing to my robot.

  Karl looks at me, like he’s expecting me to say something more—like he wants to know my secrets—but I press my lips together. That’s all you’re going to get from me.

  “Very well,” Karl says as he opens the door; the wind moves through the trees.

  I rifle through the crate until I find a cable and then an outlet behind the table. I crouch and plug my robot into the wall. The light flashes red—the battery is charging.

  “Good night, then,” Karl says, his loud voice filling the cabin.

  Dad grunts a response from upstairs.

  “See you in the morning,” Karl adds.

  I search another crate, checking to see if Dad packed my spare battery. As I’m wading through the wires and parts, my brain suddenly alerts that I didn’t hear the door shut.

  Karl is standing in the doorway, still staring at me like he’s assessing something. Or someone.

  QUEN-10 slips from my hand, and I nearly drop him. “Is there something else?” I ask. I glance toward the loft but don’t see Dad.

  “I was waiting for your response,” Karl answers.

  I shift, uneasy. “To what?”

  “See you in the morning.”

  “Me?” My voice shakes a little. Real smooth.

  “You are an excellent marksman, right?”

  QUEN-10 rattles in my hands.

  He gives me a half-hearted salute. “See you at weapons t
raining.”

  Before I can react, my robot hits the floor, shattering into pieces.

  NINE

  The next morning, my fingers brush across the broken pieces of QUEN-10 on the table. I lift my phone from the charger and groan. No service. No Wi-Fi. Aunt Birdie is going to be so worried. Frustrated, I toss my phone onto the table.

  My stomach growls as I huff into the kitchen and, one by one, open the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator looking for something to eat, only to slam them all shut. Nothing but a box of Dad’s protein bars. I snatch one from the box on the countertop and move outside onto the wraparound porch, gobbling the cardboard-tasting bar in three bites.

  The early-morning light has turned the leaves bright green; they tremble in the breeze. I rub my aching knee, careful to avoid the sticky gash where it struck the rock last night. I breathe in the smell of dirt and wood. It’s so peaceful here.

  Dad stomps from the cabin onto the porch, startling me. He’s wearing camo fatigues, his face tight as he covers his eyes with reflective shades. There’s a black assault rifle slung across his chest. He clomps down the stairs, checking the magazine on his handgun for bullets before shoving the gun into a holster on his hip.

  So much for peaceful.

  “When can we go fishing?” I ask, pointing over the edge of the slope to the creek bubbling softly below. I know they’re in there because I still smell like fish after falling into the water last night.

  “Later,” Dad says, adjusting the knife inside his boot. “Let’s go.” Dad walks around the side of the cabin and out of view.

  “Dad,” I call as I follow him, slip-sliding down the hill.

  He stalls, waiting for me by the edge of the creek.

  I can’t really see his eyes behind the shades, which actually helps me ask the question I’ve been meaning to ask: “You didn’t really tell them I’m an excellent marksman, did you?”

  Dad turns his head and chews his bottom lip. The only sound is the flowing water. Bad sign.

  “You didn’t,” I whisper.

  He rubs the brown stubble along the sides of his face. “Look. I didn’t have any choice, okay?” He shifts the rifle on his chest. “The point is I wanted you with me. That should count for something, right?”

  “So you told them I knew how to shoot?” I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Of course he told them what he wanted me to be. Not what I really am.

  He clears his throat and looks away again. “I didn’t think they’d let me bring you if I didn’t tell them something.”

  And I guess the truth wasn’t good enough. “You know I don’t know how.” It’s all I can do to keep from hurling at the thought. “I haven’t touched a gun since—” I stop myself from going there. I can’t.

  “Maybe it’s time you get over that.”

  Seriously? That’s the best he can do?

  He lets out a hard sigh. “Most boys would love the chance to shoot with their dads.”

  I want to say: In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not “most boys.” I don’t like football. I don’t like guns. Why can’t you see that’s not me? But I don’t say those things. I can’t.

  His gaze wanders to the other side of the creek. “Part of the idea in coming here was to try new things.”

  “I know,” I say, followed by a sigh. But I thought new things meant not showering for days without having to listen to Aunt Birdie complain about the stink. Maybe even riding four-wheelers or roasting marshmallows over a campfire like Mom and I used to do. I didn’t think it meant me having to shoot a gun.

  “I’ll teach you,” he says. “And if you don’t like it, you can quit.”

  “Promise?” I ask quickly. I guess too quickly.

  His face falls. “We’re late.” Dad turns and leaps across the water, landing on the exposed rock in the center of the creek and then on the other side. He pauses there, impatiently gripping the rifle against his chest.

  I carefully hop to the dry rock in the center before meeting him on the bank.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dad asks, talking to me like I’m four years old.

  I swallow hard. This is why I don’t try to talk to him.

  Of course it wasn’t so bad. Today. In the daylight when I can actually see where I’m going and when there’s not some Nazi-looking dude, threatening me with a gun.

  But I know better than to say anything: Dad doesn’t care about those kinds of details.

  The distant pop of gunfire makes us both jump.

  Dad curses and grasps his rifle like a madman in one of those war movies. He rushes downhill. Toward the sound. Why is he moving toward the gunfire?

  Every instinct in my body tells me to turn and run. Dad comes to a sudden stop and glances over his shoulder, gesturing for me to follow. If I run the opposite direction, he’ll be so mad. “Come on,” he urges.

  He asked me to come; I’m here. If we’re not ever together, how can I help him?

  I shove my fists into the pockets of my hoodie and follow. We slip-slide downhill through the thick trees, the echoes of gunfire growing louder. Dad stops several feet short of the clearing. Men shout commands. It smells like gunpowder and ammonia.

  “Here,” Dad says, handing me a pair of fluorescent-orange earplugs. He taps the blue ones in his ears. “You’ll still be able to hear, but they’ll help protect your eardrums.”

  I follow his lead, squeezing the plugs inside my ears. They rapidly expand, muffling the booming echo of gunshots.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  No, I think. “Yes.”

  Together, we exit the cover of trees and move into the wide clearing. Men in fatigues run though an obstacle course. Inside the maze, Wade drops behind a stack of tires, taking cover. His shiny scar stretches along his neck as he peeks over the wall of tires and, one by one, blows the heads off a straw family. Boom, boom, boom, BOOM!

  I startle with each shot.

  On the other side of the clearing, there’s a line of kids in camo—boys and girls, ranging anywhere from seven to seventeen-years-old. Karl, the creepy, Nazi-looking guy, supervises them as they shoot flat, human-shaped paper targets.

  “There are kids here?” I say, surprised.

  Dad nods. “Wade says, with it being almost summertime, you’ll see them here more over the next few weeks.”

  I shift uncomfortably. There’s so many of them already. It looks like these guys are training an army.

  In the very center of the group of kids, a girl with a pair of blond braids turns and stares at us. About my age, she’s wearing large, headphone-style ear protection and a tan, military-style vest. For some reason, I decide to copy Connor Green’s cool, one-finger wave hello.

  The girl smirks and pulls a gun from her vest. My heart leaps to my throat as she spins toward the target and fires, hitting the center of its forehead, then its nose, and finally its heart. I wipe my hands on my jeans.

  “You’re late, soldier!” Wade yells over the noise. His pink, puckered scar glistens in the sunlight.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Dad says. “Won’t happen again.”

  “My fault. I overslept,” I say, trying to take the heat off Dad.

  “We both did.” He slaps my shoulder. “It was a long trip.”

  I nod. Yes, we’re on the same team.

  “Well then, I guess you’re next,” Wade says.

  “Next?” I ask as Dad gives a stiff nod.

  Wade’s dark eyes narrow. “Cease fire!” he yells, his voice reverberating through the woods. Within a few seconds, the gunfire stops. The world goes quiet.

  The dry leaves crackle beneath Wade’s boots as he nears. With him this close, I can see the white lines running through the pinkish scar along his face and throat. It continues beneath his shirt and spreads out from under his sleeve onto his right hand. My stomach turns as he leans over me. “Where’s your weapon, son?”

  My mouth goes dry. “Uh.” The wind picks up; the trees creak around us.

  Dwight, the Chewbacca l
ook-alike, approaches. “Your son didn’t bring a gun?”

  My eyes fall to my running shoes. “I forgot,” I lie.

  “Doesn’t he know it’s disrespectful to look away from a senior commander?” Wade asks.

  I bite my lip. I’m embarrassing Dad already when I promised myself I wouldn’t. I look at Wade, straight into his sharp eyes. Sweat beads on my forehead.

  He’s gripping the tan gun strapped across his chest and spits into the dirt, like he knows how dry my mouth is. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to be here.”

  I bite my tongue, hoping to force it to make spit.

  Wade gestures at the line of kids. “These are the next generation of Flag Bearers. They come here to learn from the best.”

  By “the best,” I’m assuming he means Karl, who was supervising them seconds before and is glaring at me now.

  Wade paces. “We come to learn how to fight and defeat the New World Order.” Leaves crunch beneath his boots as he yells, “The white race is under attack! We are here to end the assault on our culture by these animals the government’s now calling immigrants.”

  I cringe. Aren’t most Americans immigrants or at least the descendants of immigrants?

  Wade stops in place, hovering over me. His breath smells like garlic and something sour. “We’re here to prepare for the revolution,” he says before shouting, “Who watches the watchmen?”

  The entire camp responds, “WE DO!”

  “Who?”

  “WE DO!”

  I’m hoping Dad can see how crazy this guy is, but he’s nodding along.

  “Morgan,” Wade calls.

  All of a sudden, the scary girl with the braids hurries to his side. “Yes, Daddy.”

  My hands clench. Figures this one is his daughter.

  “Boy needs to borrow a gun,” Wade says, his voice oily. “Seems to have forgotten his own.”

  Morgan stares at me for a second, like she’s sizing me up. Her eyes are blue as the sky. They’re kind of pretty and frightening all at the same time.

  I try Connor’s wave again. “I’m Rebel,” I say, my voice squeaking on the last syllable.

  She sneers, making me feel like the total idiot I am. “Come on,” she says, sounding annoyed as she turns her back on me and nears the line of targets.