by B. C. Tweedt
“As if Reckhemmer might need the message?”
“I don’t know.”
There were sounds of a notebook closing, papers folding. “That’s enough for now.”
The tired boy looked relieved. “Do you know?” he asked. “What it means? The message.”
The man replied. “It encourages evil. Justifies it. Convinces the tempted. But good doesn’t come from evil. It comes from good people defeating evil.”
Chapter 68
The morning after the election
Greyson woke with a gasp and racing heart to radio murmurs from the cockpit. As his nightmare died, his head still bobbed with the floating movement of the aircraft; two buckles clanked together like a calm musical interlude in the otherwise peaceful passenger space. Stretching his eyes open as far as they would, he forced away the remnants of the nightmare and yawned, thankful that he’d been able to sleep. It was still dark out, but nips of the sunrise were peaking up beyond the cockpit’s windshield.
Diablo was sleeping across from him, strapped in, his arms wrapped around his rifle, and Forge was busy speaking to someone through his helmet’s microphone. It looked like he was alone with his thoughts.
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Audrey Raines stood before a crowd of thousands. The teleprompters blazed her opening statement from two angles, but she paused, waiting for the applause to die down, collecting herself as she always did before a speech. She liked to ponder her audience, quash her pride, and come in at the right speed and with the right tone. And today, the speed and tone needed to be just right. This was an historic moment that deserved reverence.
The setting wasn’t especially profound. It was the beginning of a marathon. Sponsored by Peace At All Costs, the marathon was symbolic of the efforts that peace demanded. When all obstacles seemed surmountable, as does 26 miles in a marathon, the road to peace often seems too far to accomplish, the sacrifice too much. And it was all too true. Peace would not be won with an election. Not even with a new country. It would take the determination and discipline of an entire people.
So, as she looked out at the crowd of peace-lovers, she contemplated her tone. The obstacles were many. The election had not gone the way many peace-lovers had wanted, and they were fearful. A nuclear plant had been attacked overnight, striking painful reminders and bringing fresh fears from those who had witnessed the devastation in Des Moines. And a man who many had revered had been assassinated. Confusion reined. Who would do these things? Many wanted answers, justice, or vengeance. Others just wanted out.
And they were all in front of her. Cameras, too. The nation would be watching.
As the applause faded and the sun rose behind her, she eyed her notes and took in a deep breath.
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When the first hint of sun hit Ryan’s eyes, he blinked awake and rubbed away the sleep. Yawning, he sat up and regained his bearings with a smile. He liked to look at his trophies when he woke – the ones on his dresser. There were the participation ones, but those weren’t as tall as the one he’d gotten for the Pinewood Derby for best design. It was a cool gold car pointed into the sky like a rocket. His favorite, though, was the giant fish trophy he’d won with his dad at the Father-Son Fish-a-Thon.
His eyes passed by his others, including the Morris College Sports Camp paddle with his enthusiasm brand on it, but he was already enthusiastic enough about the day.
He threw off the covers and meandered past his grandparents’ room and down the stairs to the familiar sound of the morning news and the smell of coffee. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except his dad wasn’t searching the “Help Wanted” section of the newspapers or arguing with Grandpa about money; he was just staring at the TV.
Ryan shrugged it off. “Morning. I’m starving!”
His dad would usually say, “No, you aren’t. Kids in Detroit are starving,” or something like that. Not today. He was glued to the television, just holding his coffee mug, not drinking it.
Again he shrugged it off, pulling his cereal from the cabinet. Tastee O’s weren’t nearly as good as the name brand, but even his grandparents had cut back because of the Depression. He poured himself a bowl and sat next to his dad, just waiting for him to notice that he’d joined him at the table – and served himself for once. But he got no thanks or applause. It’s not like he was expecting a trophy or anything…
“You seeing this?” his dad finally said, not taking his eyes from the screen.
Ryan shrugged again, eating his Tastee O’s.
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Still sleepy, Greyson leaned his forehead against the side window and watched the color begin to seep into the giant billowing clouds in the night sky. Oranges and reds and yellows stained the gray – only a hue in the dark. He could already see the sun’s touch, even without seeing the sun.
A minute later he saw first glimpse of the sun. An orange glowing ball.
Four glowing orange eyes.
He turned away, his heart set racing again. But then he sighed. Rubbed his neck. Played with his fanny pack’s zipper. Anything to distract himself. But he needed something else. He stared at his pack. Thought about it. Then he thought some more before giving in.
He pulled out the tiny book and the tiny pencil with it. Finding the page where he’d written what he owed Sydney, he crossed it off. Then, he added PAID in big capital letters. Though he wasn’t entirely sure how the currency worked, he figured the rescue had been worth her time taking care of him in the hospital. There was some doubt, but it felt great to cross something off.
Satisfied, he held the leaf-paper in his fingers, examining the information written in a young boy’s handwriting. It was Dan’s cell phone number, written by Asher. Greyson remembered with a smile the time he’d written it. The boy’s tongue had stuck out as he wrote, just before Greyson had jumped from Dan’s plane over Nassau.
But then Greyson remembered that the boy had flipped through the pages and circled something.
Amused at the memory, Greyson found Romans in the table of contents then thumbed through the pages, searching for the circle. There weren’t any other marks inside, so it didn’t take too long to find it. Asher’s favorite verse.
Feeling guilty for reading the book again, Greyson eyed Diablo and the back of Forge’s head. Still sleeping. Still busy.
Satisfied he wasn’t being watched, he read the verse.
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A pristine Escalade pulled in front of Redmond’s facility, its image reflecting in the glass front that rose like a mountain, with peaks and valleys, beautiful and unique. The driver, SmokeStack, was dressed as a hulking security guard with sunglasses that hid most of his face. He crossed the vehicle’s front and opened the side door as he scanned the perimeter.
Avery stepped out, her long legs making the step down a little easier. She thanked the guard and stepped away from the door, admiring the building with a blazing smile. Her red dress was striking against the backdrop of snowy mountains, and her jewelry just as golden as her hair that was wound in lush curls. With her hand on her hip, she appeared to know how beautiful she was.
Behind her, Jarryd stumbled out, blaming his dress shoes. His snazzy shirt collar was popped, but Avery flattened it out; while she was at it, she straightened his stray hairs and inspected his teeth for food. When finished, she flicked his front teeth and gave a flirtatious smile. Finally, after a shared look and audible sigh, the two turned to the building and made their way to the doors.
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“I prepared two speeches for today,” Audrey Raines began, letting the speakers echo her voice over the crowd. “One for each outcome of the vote.”
The early-morning laughter was polite.
“But today I’ve decided on a third. I’ve found in life, we often can’t plan for every outcome. No one could have fathomed what has happened to our country’s
beloved Jimmie and his sons.”
She eyed a few signs being held up in Jimmie’s honor and then glanced back at her own son – Matthew – who stood backstage.
“We woke up to a new world this morning. Such horror, pain, and loss are hard to imagine. And though the culprit is not yet known, it is difficult to imagine such evil exists, that would choose to murder in cold-blood for some god-forsaken gain. The same evil, though perhaps not embodied in the same person, has taken thousands of our people from us over the last few years. Sadly, it seems that the more we experience evil’s effects, the more numb we become to the horror, the pain, and the loss.”
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Ryan tried to tune out the television, but he couldn’t. The news anchor was blabbing on and on about some assassination. A guy named Coates was killed. The wrecked SUV was kind of cool, though.
But then they changed subject. Smoke coming from the sky around Pantex. This was all while election results scrolled underneath with percentages and a map of the US in red and blue.
“Who won?” he asked. When his dad didn’t answer, Ryan tried again. “Who won?”
“Oh, uh, Reckhemmer.”
He shrugged again. “That’s bad, right?”
His dad rolled his eyes, sipping again. “You been talking to Grandpa?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t understand. His generation didn’t have the same problems.”
“Ah.” Ryan took a big slurp of his cereal, bored with the conversation and the news coverage – choosing instead to read the back of the box and do the mazes.
“Let Pharaoh out to get the paper, would you?” his dad asked.
“I’m wearing my pj’s.” he said, taking another bite.
“Ry, you’re not going to school today. Just let him out.”
He dropped his spoon. “What? Really? Why?”
“Shh!” his dad hushed, turning up the television’s volume. “Things are…just a little too crazy. People don’t know what’s going on yet.”
Ryan watched the news again as the anchors interviewed other boring looking people who used big words. They showed pictures of drones and pictures of terrorists. He knew the one named Emory – every one did. And then they showed a sweeping picture of thousands of people at a sunrise rally, watching a woman speak at a podium. Her voice replaced the anchor’s.
“Those of you who will run a marathon today will experience numbness. After being overworked, your pain receptors will begin to adjust. Your mind will cease to acknowledge the pain, though the stress and work are just the same. In the same way, our country is in the midst of a marathon. And our numbness has set in. But I warn you. Our numbness does not make the evil any less evil. And it doesn’t make the journey any less difficult or the energy and perseverance needed any less significant.”
“She sounds funny.”
“Ryan. The dog.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Fine. PHAAAA-ROAH!”
He heard the click of the dog’s nails on the tile and didn’t even bother to look at him. Instead, he marched to the door and opened it just enough for the terrier to squeak through. A splash of cold hit him, making him shiver.
“Geez. It’s cold,” he complained, watching Pharaoh run toward the paper at the end of the driveway.
But the dog stopped, sniffing for a place to pee.
Ryan sighed at the stupid animal. It was cold, even by the doorway. He didn’t want to wait much longer.
“Hurry up! Just pee. It’s not that hard!” he called out. But the dog circled, starting to pee, and then stopped. It let out a sharp bark.
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Greyson strained to see the verse’s tiny letters. In all things, God works for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose. He read it again, squinting in deep thought. This was Asher’s favorite verse?
He read it again. In all things, God works for the good…
All things? Like, all all? Even bad things? Evil things?
He blinked, thinking hard.
If the verse was right, God uses all the bad things for good. A rush of painful memories swelled in Greyson’s vision. His father leaving. Shooting Emory’s brother. Kip getting shot. Letting go of Liam. The nuclear explosion. The sinking cruise ship. The woman picking up the rifle in Dallas.
God used them all for the good? For whose good? Who would benefit from all of those things? The terrorists?
Then he remembered. Forge had said that Los Fuertes, as evil as they were, had taught him to endure and to hope. What men intended for evil, God intended for good, he’d said.
Is God really using the bad things in my life for good?
For a moment, he saw the hope in thinking so. If God had a plan for all these things, it meant that someday Greyson would see how they all had worked out for his good. If he could trust in God, he would never give up. He would never blame God for the bad, because he knew it was for his good.
Relief shot in his veins and he read it again.
In all things, God works for the good…of those who love him.
Those who love him? Oh, that’s great. He’s playing favorites. But if all the bad things that were happening were really benefitting the terrorists, like it seemed, did that mean that they are the ones that love God?
No. That doesn’t make sense.
Breathing out a sigh with a furrowed brow, he eyed the Texas landscape. Wide and open, it stretched as far as he could see in both directions. There were many who wanted this land for their new country. Many wanted it for religious freedom, thinking America had turned godless, persecuting them for their faith. For a moment, he thought maybe that it made sense that God would use all this bad stuff for a new, better country. He’d done it before, in the first revolution, right?
Maybe God wanted another revolution.
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Amidst the marathon crowd, a child, riding piggyback on his father, waved the small American flag with the fifty white stars. His father had told him what the stars stood for, and the thirteen stripes, too. He’d been confused with all the other flags he’d seen in his neighborhood – the one with a rattlesnake on it, the red one with a cannon on it, and the one like he held now but with its stars colored blue – and wanted to know why there were so many.
“Unity. Peace. That is our finish line,” the woman on the stage declared. “The road is long, treacherous, and full of those who would rather see us fail. But it is also full of other runners. Those who have hearts and passions aligned with your own. Though you will race today, our pursuit at PAAC is not to distinguish winners from losers. It is the salvation of America.”
The boy applauded with the crowd and even tried to whistle as his dad did.
“There is no greater calling than to sacrifice for your country. And we in the peace movement know the sacrifice it takes, to stand between two opposing forces enflamed with hatred for one another. But we are not the first to take on this great calling. Our founding fathers called for peace, petitioning to the government over and over, urging for representation, compromise, and peace. Men like John Tyler and John Crittenden, who worked tirelessly to prevent the Civil War. Their commitment to peace was extraordinary. Their love for America as great as any patriot’s today.”
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Greyson shook his head, checking if Diablo had woken yet. Though he rustled, he appeared to still be asleep. Greyson returned to the verse, reading it one more time.
In all things, God works for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.
The last phrase took his attention this time. There were those who were called according to God’s purpose. How did that work? How did God call them? Did God choose which people he wanted? If so, how did he choose? Was he as selective as Rubicon was? Only the strongest, braves
t, most dedicated?
And what was his purpose he called them to? Rubicon’s purpose was to stop civil war. That was a pretty great purpose. Was God’s any better?
Greyson stopped to think. He felt again how proud he had felt when Forge had called him to a mission. The giddiness and joy and pride had all collided at once. To be called to such a worthy cause was amazing. He still couldn’t believe they let him on the helicopter and called him a special name – even if it was Orphan.
If Rubicon’s calling was so amazing, how amazing would God’s be? Could God ever call him?
The breath caught in Greyson’s throat. He felt the same emotions he had when Forge had wanted him. But he reasoned with himself, beating down the feeling.
Greyson didn’t love God. He barely believed in him. And if God knew everything, like a god should, he would know how much bad he had done. The likelihood that God would call him was the lowest of low.
He shut the book angrily, like he often had. It was so confusing. And it seemed to cut into him every time he read it, making him feel like he was on the knife’s edge. He could read the same verse and feel as high as a kite one time, and then feel angry, frustrated, and defeated the next time. He could see why some people hated it and others loved it. It depended on whether or not they really loved and trusted this God or not – whether they really believed that verse in Psalms that said God is good and that his love endures forever. If they trusted God’s heart, even when they couldn’t see his hand, it would be amazing. If they didn’t, it would be nothing but a misguided myth.
But Greyson didn’t know what to believe.
He slipped the book back in his fanny pack and zipped it shut. When he looked up, he saw Diablo staring at him, his arms flexed as he gripped the rifle.
Had he seen him reading it?