by B. C. Tweedt
“I bet he’s in the computer room with his shirt off again,” her mom said with a faint look of disapproval, leaning in toward Sydney. “You know what he’s been looking at dear?”
“You – you’ve spied on him?”
“No – well, just over his shoulder. He was looking at the Bahamas – some tourist site.” She held her tea tightly. “It’s like he’s planning to leave…”
Sydney’s heart dropped in fright. “He’s just dreaming, Mom,” she lied, trying to keep her composure. “We’ve been talking about places we’d rather be.”
Her mother nodded to herself, thinking. Much to Sydney’s relief, she seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Oh, that makes sense, I guess. Letting him dream couldn’t hurt.”
“Right,” her dad said with a smirk. “Sometimes I look at our old wedding photos and dream of what could have been.”
Before his wife could retaliate, Sydney’s dad looked at his watch and shot up from his chair. “It’s about time to go!”
Sydney breathed a silent sigh of relief, but realized something as she pushed in her chair. If her parents did catch on to Greyson’s escape plan, and they stopped him…he’d have no choice but to stay. They’d have more time together…as friends.
Friends. Sure, they’d kissed a couple times, but both times weren’t exactly romantic. They were more like reactions. They both hadn’t been in their right minds – with people trying to kill them and all. It was almost as if they had been about to die, and they’d been given one last chance at getting kissed before kissing the world good-bye. Who wouldn’t have kissed him?
But that didn’t make them girlfriend and boyfriend. That title involved more than kissing. She wasn’t exactly sure what else it needed, but they didn’t have it, whatever it was.
So, as a just-a-friend, she was supposed to let him escape, and he was supposed to go find his dad.
They only had a few more days together.
“Dear, you sure you’re okay?”
Her mom was staring at her. She shook free from her thoughts and smiled her perfect ‘I’m okay’ smile. “Yup! Have fun at the funeral.”
Her mother gave her a skeptical look.
“I mean…you know.”
“I know. We’ll video-call you when it’s about to start. And we’ll put you on mute, just like you showed us, so you don’t interrupt the service if you speak.”
“Thanks.”
“Keep talking to him, honey. Get him to laugh.” Her mother came over to her and held her arms. “He needs a friend like you.”
Chapter 3
“Where is my frickin’ hairspray?” Jarryd asked, his chest puffing out almost as far as his lips. He was looking directly at Sammy, who was hunched over the largest of dozens of cardboard boxes around the living room. Sammy shrugged and went back to dumping the contents of the smaller boxes into the bigger box.
“Don’t…ask me,” Nick said, doing push-ups in the midst of the boxes. “I packed…all my things…already. Besides…who…would steal…hairspray?”
Jarryd swung his bangs out of his eyes. “I don’t know, genius. Maybe someone who wants some?”
Nick scoffed and kept going, beads of sweat starting to drip from his brow onto his glasses. The new frames were a pain, but he had returned home from his time with the Pluribus faction to find out he was out of contact lenses; and now with the move, his mother had said they’d have to wait until they got to Texas to get more. Until then, his childhood red frames would have to do.
But maybe he would keep them. They covered the eyebrow mark the Plurbs had given him while he’d been one of them. After the two Plurbs had rescued him and Sammy from the fake cops in the SuperMart, they’d taken the boys to their headquarters – a church’s basement. They’d stayed there a week, where half a dozen Plurbs had taken care of them despite the hazards that came with the bomb’s aftermath. The Plurbs had explained their beliefs. They’d tried to recruit Nick. But after a week, they had sent Nick and Sammy to a nearby FEMA refugee shelter.
Nick’s family had nearly given him up for dead. But once he’d showed up at the shelter and explained himself, the FBI and Homeland Security had interviewed him and his parents repeatedly, as if they were suspects. It was the incessant interrogations that pushed his family over the edge, convincing them to rid themselves of FBI protection with a move to Texas.
“Thirty!” Nick collapsed to the carpet and let his limp arms rest for a moment.
“Wow! Barely more than twenty-nine!” Jarryd mocked. “I could do thirty while clapping.”
Sammy smirked, pushing his mess of curly hair back out of place. “Show us! Do it and I’ll give your hairspray back.”
“You took my hairspray?”
His lazy eye rolled away, like it was hiding. “No. I misspoke.”
Jarryd glared at him. He’d punch his stubby face, but his parents would find out as they always did and he could kiss his video game privileges goodbye. Plus, they would lecture him on being nice to their new brother, because it’s been oh-so-hard to be Sammy – who had lost his parents and now his Grandma. And now, being adopted to another family, he supposedly deserved a little compassion. But Jarryd knew what Sammy really deserved, and it wasn’t compassion.
“If I find that hairspray in one of your boxes, I’ll eat your soul.”
“I’m turning on the TV,” Nick said abruptly, punching at the remote. He clicked through the channels.
“You can’t do any pushups, can you Bucky?” Sammy asked Jarryd, sucking at his saliva.
Jarryd scowled, and pushed his lips over his front teeth. “I don’t feel like it. But what about you? You were Plurbing-out with Nick. Why aren’t you doing pushups?”
Sammy shrugged. “They told Nick to get stronger. They told me to never come back. We’re both doing what we were told.” He stuck out his tongue and went back to dumping a box full of silverware into his own box.
Jarryd sighed, still angry. “Dude, that’s our silverware.”
“What else will I eat with?”
Jarryd jumped up and looked into Sammy’s box. “Nick! He’s put our pantry in here. All the peanuts of course, but also the Cheez-Its, Oatmeal Crème Pies, and yeah…even the Spam.”
“Spam’s for the war,” Sammy explained.
“The war?”
“Yeah,” he whispered through the saliva pooling on his lips, as if it were a secret. “The Civil one.”
“There’s not going to be a Civil War, you Dipwad.”
Nick tapped Jarryd’s leg from where he was doing sit-ups. “Don’t be so sure.” He gestured toward the TV and turned up the volume.
The news anchor spoke over images of jammed-pack roadways and airports with ridiculously heightened security. The anchor told of the thousands of people who had been displaced by the bomb and how several states had offered the refugees homes, including Texas. He also mentioned that others besides refugees were heading south in increasing numbers.
“Just like us,” Jarryd said. Nick nodded, continuing his sit-ups. Even Sammy was watching the screen.
The anchor explained that there were many possible reasons for the migration south. Many reasons were political or religious, with citizens choosing to live in states that were battling much of the newer policies of the Foster Administration. Some cited feeling safer further away from population centers, others noted the southern economies were faring far better than their northern counterparts, but a small percentage of travelers gave a very disturbing reason – fear of secession and a coming war.
The boys gave each other a grave look and then followed Nick’s glance toward the window where a U-Haul had pulled into their neighbor’s house. Another ‘For Sale’ sign was only a few houses down. Eyeing their moving boxes, Jarryd asked the question he hadn’t directly asked his parents yet. “Why are we really moving?” He moved to the window and peered out.
Nick shrugged. “Judging by what I’ve heard - all of the above.”
Jarryd scanned their saf
ehouse’s peaceful neighborhood. A kid rode past on a bike and a man was tending to his gutters across the street. War seemed the last thing that could happen there. “It’s kind of scary, you know? Just think of it.”
Sammy and Nick both nodded, thinking. They both found it difficult to piece together the images of war they’d seen on the news, and the peaceful images of their American homes. They didn’t mesh.
“It’s not really going to happen, is it, Nick? They won’t let that happen.”
The TV droned on as Nick collected his thoughts. His brother was actually scared. It was a rare moment. “Not any time soon, Jarryd.”
“How soon? Like ten years?”
Nick chuckled, but Jarryd kept looking to him as if he really knew.
“I don’t know! At least one or two. The Plurbs don’t even have an army and the states haven’t…”
“Good! So I still have time!”
“Time for what?”
“To make-out with a chick.”
Nick rolled his eyes and quickly turned up the volume. The anchor was introducing a guest. The title at the bottom of the screen read Corwin Greer: Pluribus Congress member. He appeared smug with small glasses hanging on the end of his nose, a short beard, and a skinny tie accentuating his tweed suit coat.
The grey-haired anchor looked to his papers and cleared his throat. “Thank you for joining us, but I have to begin with the pressing question. “What do you have to say regarding the suggestion that Pluribus be labeled a terrorist organization by the federal government, the infamous SDN list, which of course would lead to the arrest of anyone – including yourself – who has worked for or funded the organization – including those who harbor Plurbs in their homes?”
The Pluribus Congressman smiled, paused to collect his thoughts, and then spoke calmly. “Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t happen after the Foster Administration accused Pluribus of backing the failed terrorist attack at Morris College. It doesn’t surprise me then, that they would accuse us of the August attacks as well – even the sickening accusation of trying to destroy one of our own cities.”
“But there is evidence – ”
“Please let me finish. Of course there is evidence when the investigation is run by the very administration that is accusing us. And what do they give us as evidence? A few amateur videos and testimony of unidentified juvenile witnesses. But you know what? There very well could be Plurbs who backed the attack.”
“Really? On the record?”
“Of course. Pluribus is not just an organization. Pluribus is an idea. It can’t be bound by a title. Everett Emory, though he may claim such on his Internet videos – is not our leader. There are many out there who may call themselves a Plurb, but who want to destroy the government – like Emory. I, along with most Plurbs, despise those who would do such a thing and give us a bad name.” He sighed. “Just as it would have been wrong to label all Muslims as terrorists after the attack on the twin towers, we can no more call all Plurbs terrorists for the actions of a few.”
“Isn’t Pluribus calling for violence when it’s calling for secession? Do you remember what happened in the Civil War?”
“Secession can be achieved without war, and that’s what Pluribus was created to do. This idea, of a new American Republic of the Constitution, or ARC, is a natural consequence of our current government’s actions. The Pluribus declaration, just like the Declaration of Independence, states that whenever a government deprives its people of their right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, it is the right of man to alter or abolish the government, and to create a new one.”
“The Declaration of Independence was written shortly before the Revolutionary War….”
“Don’t keep spewing the same fear that the government is spewing. Listen, if there were a war, we’d lose. The government’s taken from us every type of weapon that could possibly stand a chance against their drones and tanks – and we know it. It’d be a slaughter. We’re not calling for war – we’re calling for a new government.”
“Getting back to what you said earlier – you say Everett Emory is not your leader, but the FBI says otherwise. His videos get millions of hits…”
The Pluribus Congress member shook his head. “Emory is a soulless, lunatic arms dealer wanted by every lawful government. He tortures, recruits child soldiers, and murders for the highest bidder. While he has an attractive face and an attractive message, his tactics are despicable.”
The anchor smirked. “Some of your tactics are debatable as well. While our debt is ballooning and our foreign enemies smell blood, when we seem to need unity most, why do you incite protests and boycotts?”
“On August 17th, we woke up to a different world, where people felt as if their lives could be taken from them at any instant. They were afraid. But Brother government was happy to open their arms wide. The problem is, they won’t let go. The Never Again Act restricts our freedom. Pluribus wants the government to let go. We want security without sacrificing our freedoms to attain it. And that’s why this southern migration is only a trickle. The government will find that if they label all Plurbs terrorists, despite their support of violence or not, that the ensuing chaos will only lead to a fire that will burn until they, too, plead for secession.”
The anchor was struck speechless and an awkward moment of silence spilled over into the boys’ living room. Nick had stopped doing his sit-ups, but he suddenly turned off the TV and started again.
“Uh…I don’t think I understood half of that,” Jarryd said. “But the half I did sounds frickin’ scary. But how can that Pluribus guy lie like that? We’ve told ‘em that the Pubes did it all! I mean come on! Every Pube I’ve met is a psycho!”
Nick’s brow furrowed, and he shared a knowing look with Sammy. He stopped his workout to talk with Jarryd. “It’s not that simple. He’s right. Pluribus is…well…it’s not what you think.”
Jarryd sucked in air and crossed his arms. “Oh, yeah? You a Pube now? Hang with them for a week and now you’re on their side?”
Scoffing, Nick tried to calm his brother. “No, it’s just…the ones me and Sammy were with didn’t want anything to do with what happened.”
Jarryd smiled. “Ah. So you were with the good Plurbs. That’s like saying ‘I was with the good Nazis’.”
“No, it’s not. The Nazis were Germany’s government. And that Pluribus guy didn’t even mention half of what our government’s doing. Do you know that the Never Again Act allows the government to launch drone attacks inside the US on United States citizens if a secret council thinks it will stop an attack? They’ll kill us to protect us.”
Jarryd rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Keep doing your sit-ups. You’ll need a lot more to catch up to Greyson.”
“What?”
Jarryd laughed. “You heard me.”
“I am not trying to…whatever.”
“You’re wearing a fanny pack.”
Nick looked down at his fanny pack. “So? It’s practical! I can keep all my– ”
“You’re pretending.” He pointed at his fanny pack. “You’re like a kid. You keep your toys in there and pretend to be Greyson.”
It took a few moments for Nick to restrain himself. Despite having a similar face, his twin brother couldn’t be more different. Jarryd was thicker all around, especially in the cheeks and calves, and would almost always come out on top in physical fights. But he also had a thicker skull. Verbal fights wouldn’t achieve much either.
Instead, Nick drifted into thought.
He imagined himself with Pluribus faction. The leader, Thomas, handing him a stack of books. His cot in the church’s basement. The fast-food meals they brought him and Sammy. The nightly discussions. The knife, cutting hair from his brow, drawing blood.
“You’re right. It’s easier being a kid, and pretending.”
Jarryd swung his hair out of his eyes and pumped his chin. “You said I’m right. That’s weird.”
“But there comes a time you ca
n’t pretend anymore.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
“When we need to step up and do our part to stop tyranny.”
Jarryd nodded. “Stop tyranny? Geez, dude. Remember when doing our part meant staying in school and not doing drugs?”
Nick laughed. “Yeah.”
“Now I can’t even do that – the staying in school part. Can’t even have friends. Saw a kid coming over the other day – the FBI idiot turned him away.” Jarryd gulped. He’d stopped packing, holding a stuffed ostrich in his hand.
Nick eyed his brother. He’d slipped back into his old self for a while – when things were not always a joke and they could be real with each other.
“We should just adopt Greyson, too,” Jarryd said. “He’d protect us from the terrorists – I mean the bad ones.”
“He says he already has a real family – and he’s about to go find him.”
Jarryd was only half-heartedly rearranging a box, distracted. He gazed at the stuffed ostrich for a moment and then turned to Nick. “Why does he got to run away? It’s like he’s always looking for trouble.”
Smiling, Nick knew he was worried about Greyson, as they all were. “Helen Keller once said, ‘Life’s either a daring adventure, or nothing.’ He must think the same.”
Jarryd nodded thoughtfully – so thoughtfully that Nick felt like they had taken a step forward as brothers. In the span of a few minutes, his brother had been inquisitive, vulnerable, and concerned for others. His brother had matured.
And then Jarryd laughed. “Helen Keller? She was deaf and blind! Crossing the street was an adventure for her!”
Nick rolled his eyes with a sigh.
Baby steps.
Chapter 4
Agent Gavin greeted Sydney with a stare outside her room. The new house wasn’t that large, but this was the last place she had looked for Greyson – the second floor landing with her bedroom, her parents’ bedroom, and a bathroom. Why Greyson would be up here was beyond her.
“Hey. Greyson in my room?”
Agent Gavin nodded without a hint of a smile, standing still as a soldier in front of her closed door. He was serious about his job, but not about her privacy. She took the last step to the landing slowly, waiting for Agent Gavin to move.