Strike

by Delilah S. Dawson

  He clears his throat, and the room goes silent.

  Just in time to hear the wand beep again.

  “What you got, boy?” the smoky-voiced woman says tiredly.

  “Nothing.”

  The guy at the podium sighs as if sorely aggrieved and turns to watch the proceedings, and the entire gym full of spectators does too. The kid looks to be in his twenties, beefy and utterly normal. Country-club type in yacht shoes that have never seen a yacht. He looks nervous as the guy with the gun pats him down and yanks something out of his front pocket.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Looks like a phone, genius,” Gabriela whispers under her breath.

  “My phone,” the kid says, like he’s trying to act brave.

  “And what brand is it, dumbass?”

  “I—I don’t know. My dad gave it to me. It’s just a phone. Like, a normal phone.”

  The man at the podium leaps nimbly off the stage and stalks toward the door, his hands in his overcoat pockets. The guy with the gun throws the phone to the guy with the overcoat, who flips it open—a flip phone, really?

  “Well, son, congratulations. You’re the first malcontent to try to blow up our little tea party.” He turns, holds the open phone toward us. “Friends, here’s a little tip to ensure your longevity. Recall that Valor Savings Bank bought out Linkstream in 2009. So if you’re carrying a Linkstream-branded phone, you’re carrying a Valor company phone. And if you’re carrying a Linkstream burner phone like this one? Well, we’re going to have to assume you’re either working for the enemy or too stupid to live.”

  The country-club kid’s face is sweating like crazy, his hands up in front of him. “I didn’t know, okay? It’s just a phone. I’m sure my dad will—”

  Overcoat guy snaps the phone in half, crushes it under his boot, whips out a gun, and shoots the kid in the chest. The pop echoes around the gym, and half the people stand up, and the other half must feel like me, cold and mesmerized and full of outrage with what the world has become. We came here for help, for community, and they’re just randomly shooting kids with no warning? My face goes red-hot, and I want to scream and yell at the injustice of it. The country-club kid is on the floor now, facedown in a puddle that’s become all too normal. Overcoat guy squats, pulls something out of the mess of phone guts, and holds it up.

  “Oh, what do we have here? Why, it’s a Valor company SD card. That means they know where this phone is, who it calls and texts, and who ends up on the camera. Now, let’s see if the plot thickens.” He rummages around the kid’s body, and I have to look away. “Here we go! This fine young man was indeed carrying a Valor recording device.” I dare to look up, and sure enough, he’s holding a small black recorder. He stands and stomps it under a boot, again and again, until it’s a pile of plastic. “Anybody else got a Linkstream phone or an old SD card?” The crowd whispers and rustles, folks whipping out their phones just to make sure, just in case the wand somehow missed them. No one says anything. “Well, then, I guess you all get to keep breathing tonight.” As he turns and stalks back to the stage, he calls over his shoulder, “Clean that up, please.”

  Every eye stays with him as he hops onto the stage to stand again behind the podium as if nothing unusual has happened. My rage dissipates, and I go cold again. That kid wasn’t an innocent victim at all—he worked for them. For Valor. Maybe they made him do this like they made me do worse, but I stand with the guy in the overcoat. This is the world now. You bring danger to the group, you die.

  The crowd is as terrified as a flock of sheep with nowhere to run, and you could cut the tension with shears. Old women are fanning themselves, and little kids are crying. Whatever they’ve seen, they’re still not accustomed to this kind of violence, not like I am. The man—Leon, the smoker called him—takes a long moment, watching us. Judging us. His hands finally leave his overcoat. His gun has disappeared. Tattooed knuckles wrap around the lectern.

  “I’m so sorry we had to meet that way, but I’m Leon Crane. I hope you’ll take care to remember this about me.” He looks around the gym, meets every eye, and the moment his eyes lock on mine, it’s like walking into a wall of steel. “I will kill whoever I must to keep you safe. Once you’re on my side, you’re my family, and I protect my family, even when it pains me to do so. I stand, now and forever, against Valor Savings and anyone who joins them in their crusade to remove the God-given freedoms of good Americans. Now tell me, friends, who here has lost a loved one to Valor’s first wave of terror and anarchy?”

  Every hand goes up. Every single one. All shaking. Leon nods like a preacher who feels our pain.

  “So have I, friends. So have I. My cousin Lester was gunned down at his front door just a few short days ago, right in front of his young children. Now, as a veteran of the Iraq War, I know what it’s like to lose a comrade in a fair fight, and I know that what we have now, with Valor Savings, is not a fair fight. Fortunately, I also know how to find the enemy. As it turns out, a certain anonymous hacking group called Incog has been on to the Valor takeover for quite some time, and when you add their technological wizardry to my talent for guerrilla warfare and blowing shit up, that means that we’re one of the finest cells of the Citizens for Freedom in what’s left of the United States. And I assure you, there are hundreds of other cells, like us, secretly fighting Valor together.”

  The bleachers creak, and an old man stands. He’s wearing holsters like a damn cowboy, his thumbs tucked into his belt loops. His hand goes up, nice and slow.

  Leon smiles, showing straight white teeth. “Yes, sir. How can I be of service?”

  “That’s all well and good, son. And thank you for your service to our country.” Leon bows his head. “But I don’t understand what you-all expect to gain here. Computers didn’t make this land of ours free. I think we should take to the hills and wait it out.”

  Leon nods. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I can see your point there. But we do not all possess your gifts of survival. Looking at this crowd, I see widow women, old folks, and young children who’ve seen their parents shot in cold blood on the doorstep. Unless you’re willing to support these folks in their time of need and you feel capable enough to feed, clothe, and shelter them through a brutal winter, leaving for the hills is likely to kill them, or at the very least, leave them at the mercy of Valor.” Again, that grin. “And as I’m sure you’ll all agree, Valor is not known for mercy.”

  “What exactly is it you want us to do, then?”

  Leon steps around the lectern, hands in his pockets, and grins like Christmas. “I’m so very glad you asked. As it turns out, we’re in contact with hundreds of other cells of the Citizens for Freedom. All across the country, Americans of every age and breed are meeting, just like we are. The fine scholars of technology are joining forces with those of us who, for all our ignorance, are pretty handy with weapons and explosives. And we’re making plans.” He rocks back on his heels and laughs to himself. “Oh, yes. We do have plans. And for those willing to abandon their former life and join our fight, we can promise you one thing: the chance to strike back at the company that has taken so much from you.”

  “And what are your qualifications, Mr. Crane?”

  For just a second, Leon’s smile breaks into a sneer, but he catches it quick. “That’s an understandable question. No one wants to follow an unfit leader. I’ve lived in Candlewood all my life, as did my father and his father before him, all the way back to the War of Northern Aggression. I graduated from this very school and served my country during two tours in Iraq.” He rubs his hands together, looks down, and chuckles. “Now, normally I wouldn’t mention this part, but I want to be straight with y’all. After the war, I didn’t much know what to do with myself, and I put some of my knowledge of explosives to use in some shady-type operations. And I got caught. But my time in prison taught me several things: how to preach the good Lord’s word, how to lead men to the light, how to help the less fortunate, and how to control my anger issues. I sty
le myself a gentleman now. A gentleman with a mission. And that mission is fighting to save the people Valor wants to enslave.” He grins beatifically. “Now, does that answer your question?”

  The old man nods thoughtfully and sits back down.

  Leon eyes the crowd. “Anything else?”

  “What if we’re too old to fight?” This from an ancient woman, fat and wobbling.

  Leon holds out a hand to her, as if she could take it from fifty feet away. “Every rebellion needs their Betsy Ross, my friend. We need Florence Nightingales and Harriet Tubmans. There are children without families, wounded without doctors. Helping those who can’t help themselves is as true a calling as striking back at those who strike at us.”

  Another person stands, this one a guy in his thirties, maybe. He’s disheveled and looks like he’s been drinking.

  “So what do we do?”

  Leon smiles and throws out his arms. “All you have to do is meet us at these tables over here and help us find the best way to use your unique skills. Just like the Declaration of Independence, you sign your name and become a member of the Citizens for Freedom. Easy as that.”

  “And what if we don’t want to join you?”

  Whoever said that did not stand up. The crowd stills. Leon’s eyebrows draw down, and he looks like he wishes he could call down lightning into the bleachers. His dark eyes go darker.

  “If you’re an unpatriotic coward who’s too scared to fight Valor or support those who do, you’re free to walk right out that door.” He points to the open double doors where we entered. “And try not to slip on that traitor’s blood on your way out.” Because they took country-club kid’s body away like Leon asked, but they left a big puddle of blood, which trails away into the darkness. The lantern light is gone. It’s a yawning mouth into hell.

  In this moment, there is no amount of money you could pay me to walk out that door, and I’m pretty sure Leon knows it.

  “But I will tell you this.” He’s in front of the lectern now, his arms crossed and his smile wide and welcoming. “We have land. We have money. We have medicine. We have food. We have fellowship. We have weapons. And, most important, we have the fair rules and order that a free country requires to flourish. No one deserves to be murdered because they took out a loan. We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal. And a bank, ladies and gentlemen, is not a man.”

  The gym erupts in applause and whistles as everyone stands. I feel it, too—a swell of pride, of fellow feeling, of belonging. Of fighting for what’s right. But I’m smart enough and hardened enough to know that Leon Crane is an actor. This speech was planned. Hell, maybe that kid who died with a Valor recorder in his pocket was a plant. But everything that’s happened since we walked into the school was staged to serve Leon’s purpose. Whether he’s good or bad or right or wrong, we have only one choice: to join him.

  4.

  When Leon heads for the door, the crowd follows. It’s not a rush—they clearly feel anxious and are whispering excitedly in clots. No one wants to go first. Our little group sits back down and hunkers together, heads almost touching.

  “We’re in, right?” Wyatt says.

  “Not much choice there.” Chance scratches the dark stubble on his chin. “What do you figure is on the other side of the Unpatriotic Coward doors? Execution?”

  We all nod.

  “He said they had medicine,” Kevin says.

  “What, my meds aren’t good enough for you?”

  Kevin takes a deep breath, as if emboldened by Leon’s speech. “No, actually. I got shot, and I’d prefer a real doctor to your stupid Vicodin before I die of gangrene.” It’s the most I’ve heard him speak yet, and he has more confidence than I would have expected. I notice for the first time that Chance didn’t bring his bag of drugs, and now I’m curious about where he hid his contraband. Because he must’ve known they would confiscate it for the CFF if they found it on him. He’s smarter than I had first assumed.

  Gabriela laughs. “You get ’em, tiger,” she says to Kevin.

  Across the gym, they have three folding tables set up, with two people in chairs at each one and several clipboards and pens lying around. The people in the chairs look nice and friendly—they must’ve been chosen for their charisma. The scarier people are ranged around the room with AR-15s slung over their shoulders, fading back into the shadows against the walls so we can all pretend they aren’t there. Funny how five days ago that would’ve completely unhinged me, and now it’s the new normal.

  I haven’t seen anyone go through the double doors back out to the hallway yet, but as I watch, a figure detaches from the crowd and scurries that way. It’s a heavy lady in her fifties, maybe, with a big bag clutched to her side. She glances around the gym before disappearing into the hall. I hold my breath as I wait to hear the pop of a gun, but there’s no sound. Did they really just let her leave? What if she takes this knowledge to Valor? It’s kind of scary to realize that I’d feel safer if I’d heard gunfire that signaled a problem put to rest. If she’s not on our side after hearing Leon’s speech or doesn’t get that his offer isn’t really a choice, she’s definitely a threat.

  I chew my lip as people leave the tables and head out into the other hallway, Leon’s well-lit hallway, laughing easily. That hallway doesn’t lead to where our cars are. So where are they going? When Wyatt stands, I stand too. We’re about to find out.

  Wyatt leads, and I slip my hand into his. Something about his size is comforting, and even though I’ve killed more people than he has this week, his physicality is still a shield. We’re the last group to get to the table, and the small blond girl I noticed earlier trails us like a ghost. Her eyes seem dead, and something about her feels wrong to me, but everything is wrong now.

  Before we get to speak to anyone, they’ve handed each person a clipboard and a pen. The first line is ALIAS (NOT YOUR REAL NAME. WE DON’T WANT TO KNOW.) I have no idea what to put. I’ve always been Patsy. I skip it and start marking off the other answers—age, prior work experience, skills. I feel like I’m filling in a job application to be James Bond. What kind of weapons can I use? Am I a computer hacker? What languages do I speak? Have I been in the army or the Police Academy? Do I have martial arts training? What is my size and build, and do I have a face that blends in? Do I have rock-climbing experience or institutional-cooking knowledge? Do I do cardio? Ugh. My answers are bland and totally forgettable, right up until it asks me how many people I’ve killed. Then I really have to think back.

  Robert. Eloise. A rapist thug. Ashley. Dr. Belcher. Sharon. Three more rapist thugs, give or take. Alistair, kind of. That was more Wyatt. Amber. So . . . ten? Jesus.

  Chance grabs my clipboard while I’m trying not to cry. “Ten? Dang, Zooey. You’re a beast. I only have eight. But if Kevin dies, you get one more. Dial it up to eleven.” He writes something and hands it back. In the space for my name, it says ZOOEY GODDAMN KARDASHIAN. I scribble out the last two parts, then, after a moment of annoyance, the first part. In my own writing, I put in Zooey Hemsworth and hand the clipboard to the sweet-faced blond girl at the table. Any wrong name is as good as another, right?

  She scans it and turns the full force of her whitened teeth on me. “Hi, Zooey! How’d you find out about us?”

  I try to remember how to smile. “Oh. Um.” I look for Wyatt, for answers. But he’s busy answering his own questions. “I found a flyer.”

  “Did one of our members approach you, or did you see it on a wall downtown, or . . . ?” She blinks, so unnaturally perky, and I suddenly don’t want to tell her anything. She looks like she’s maybe in her twenties—like a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys.

  “I just saw it.”

  “That’s great, Zooey. So did you like what you heard tonight? Leon’s pretty amazing, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And it looks like you brought friends, so that’s great.”

  “Uh-huh.” I look away to see how Wyatt is doing. It’s sta
rting to feel like a cult. “So what’s through that other door?”

  She smiles, blinks, blinks again. Her face changes completely, and suddenly she’s all business. “Show me your gun.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you killed ten people, and that means you got tapped by Valor or Second Union, and that means you have a gun. Probably around front, in case things got dicey tonight. You can pull it out, nice and slow, and put it on this table, or I can have Tuck and Hartness frisk you.” Two big guys materialize out of nowhere, one with a pirate beard and the other covered with tattoos. Both carry guns that could turn me into a puddle of soup.

  “It’s in front,” I mutter, slowly pulling my Valor 9mm out of my waistband.

  “On the table, honey.”

  I give her the same flat stare she’s giving me as I place my gun on the table, Valor stamp up. “Don’t call me ‘honey.’ ”

  “Any more guns?” the tattooed guy asks.

  I shake my head. “I only need the one.”

  The girl picks up my Glock and gives it a thorough inspection. On either side of me, Wyatt and Chance are going through the same process. Gabriela yanks a freaking machete out of her jacket—that I didn’t know she had. Even scrawny little Kevin pulls out an apple knife. There’s a lot I don’t know about these kids I spent one night and half a day with. Any one of them could’ve slit my throat while I was asleep.

  A figure appears behind Gun Bitch Barbie, his hand on her shoulder. It’s Leon Crane, and up close, by the light of the lanterns, his eyes are pools of black. “Please return this young lady’s weapon. All these fine young citizens are coming with me,” he says, and when she looks like she might have a comment to make, he adds, “You might recall they brought the laptops. Al’s laptops.”

  Her smile returns as she looks up at me, my gun held out grip-first. “Lucky you.”

  Leon Crane walks toward the door and stops to face us, hands in his coat pockets and face inscrutable. “If the five of you will join me, I believe we have some opportunities to discuss. And some medicine for the young man with the unfortunate bullet wound.” With a nod, he deliberately turns his back to us and walks out of the gym. Wyatt moves to my side, Chance scoops up Kevin, Gabriela shoves her machete back home, and Matty wags like crazy, like this is the best party ever. Tuck and Hartness move into position behind us, and we have no choice but to follow our new leader into the dark.