by B. C. Tweedt
Greyson would have taken them down and rehung them the correct way as a favor to them, but he didn’t have the time. The meeting was supposed to start in fifteen minutes, but he hadn’t seen anyone go in yet.
Perhaps Kit was right. He should just go straight through the front door that was covered with a sign reading “FOSTER CHURCH” and see if anyone was home. Be confident. Pretend he was one of them. He had the shaved gash in the eyebrow to prove it, too. Or perhaps he should try to sneak in and avoid any confrontation at all.
Sapere Aude. Dare to be wise, he told himself. Dare to be wise.
Finding a good hiding place in the bush, he stored his backpack.
“Kit. Stay. Protect the bag until I get back. Okay?”
Kit sat obediently.
“Good boy.”
Kicking himself in gear, he bolted across the street to the alley beside the church and began the search for an alternative way in. It didn’t take long. Hanging over a backdoor was a piece of plywood with an upside-down pyramid sketched on it. When he examined it, it swung loosely, revealing a gaping hole in the back door. Looking over his shoulder, he stepped through the hole, letting the plywood swing back into place.
Chapter 34
“Going in. Radio silence,” Jarryd uttered into the walkie just before he put it away. A voice from his pocket replied, “Roger that,” just as he approached the cleaner’s cart outside room 1303’s open door. The cleaner was emptying a small trashcan into a larger one attached to the front of his cart. He smiled at Jarryd as he approached.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” the cleaner replied with a wide smile.
He looked very friendly. His nametag said his name was Sal from the Philippines. This one didn’t have a smart watch or a Plurb mark. But Jarryd didn’t stop; he kept walking, as if his room were further down the narrow hall.
On cue, Sammy came stumbling around the corner, clutching his stomach. “OOOHHHHHHhhhhh,” he groaned, his face a mask of anguish, his eyes rolling about as if they were bobbing in water.
The cleaner looked up and froze.
“I’M GONNA BARF UP A BUFFET!”
Jumping to action to spare the cleanup, the cleaner grabbed a fresh garbage bag and ran to the nauseous boy. Jarryd was inside room 1303 with ease.
But now what?
He probed the room. It was gently used, with a few clothing items around – but nothing too suspicious. No guns, knives, counterfeit money, or anything. A little disappointing, but also quite a relief. But he’d have more time to search later.
“IT FEELS LIKE I SWALLOWED A FOUNTAIN!”
Jarryd had to find his place before Sammy drew even more attention. The closet was an option and so was the balcony, but underneath the bed was clearly the best if he happened to have an extended stay.
He slid under the bed and fingered the ‘talk’ button on the walkie. “The stud has reached the stable.”
“Roger that.”
Nick’s voice rose in the hallway. “Ross! Come on, bro. Thanks for getting him the bag, sir. I’ll take care of him now.”
The cleaner responded kindly, offering more assistance, but Nick declined. After the footsteps had faded, Jarryd listened to the crinkling of a garbage bag and the jostling of bottles on the cart.
And then he saw the cleaner’s feet coming straight for him.
----------------
Greyson stepped inside the hole and didn’t even have a chance to see his captor. The hulking man snapped his hand over Greyson’s arm and pulled him into a bulging belly that hung over his belt like a sideways cupcake.
His heart racing, Greyson blinked rapidly to adjust to the darkness. The man’s face came into view. It was drooping and tan, with a goofy smile that revealed a few missing teeth. His greasy hair swept over his bald spot, stains plagued his massive polo shirt and cloth shorts, and he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in days. Bathed in sweat, maybe – but not water.
“Hey,” the man said gruffly.
Must be a smoker.
“Who are you?”
Greyson tried to remain calm. Confidence. You are one of them, he told himself. If he knows me, I’m already dead. “Who are you?”
The man’s folded cheeks jiggled as he scoffed. “Terry Humphreus. People calls me Humpy.”
Greyson didn’t laugh, though he nearly let one burst out. “I’m Jarryd,” he lied. He would have to change it every time lest they catch on. “People call me lots of things.”
Humpy sneered. “Is that right?” His eyes settled on Greyson’s – or maybe they were examining the mark on his brow. “Who are you with?”
“Just me.”
Doubtful, Humpy scrunched his forehead. “Who told you to come?”
“The cops, who do ya think?”
“Oh, yeah? You’s a smart guy, huh? But really? Who?”
This is stupid. This is stupid! “Asher.”
“Asher? Dan’s boy?”
“Yeah. Dan was talking about taking me up in the plane sometime. Know him?”
Humpy didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to intimidate him with his stare. He must have not thought fondly of Dan.
Greyson shrugged him off. “Now, where’s this meeting?”
“You’s first one here. It’ll be down the hall. To the right. But I gots to check you first.”
“Check me?”
“That’s right.” The smile on Humpy’s face frightened Greyson. “Against the wall. Spread your legs and arms up.”
No. Part of him told him to run. He’d have a chance against the man, though his massive body took up most of the hallway.
But Greyson did as he was told, trying to think of how a Plurb would respond. “I thought this is what the government does.”
Humpy laughed off the argument and began searching Greyson’s body for something – weapons, cameras, or whatever else he might have as a spy. He cringed as Humpy’s rough hands followed the curve of his hips and found his fanny pack under his shirt. The man’s fingers pulled his shirt up and unzipped the pack. He could hear him rustling through all of his goods.
Don’t take the slingshot. Don’t take the slingshot.
Humpy pulled at the slingshot and felt the makeshift holster and the ammo pouch. Greyson cringed, anticipating some angry reaction, but Humpy just grunted and zipped the pack back up. “Hunting squirrels?”
Greyson took a deep breath. “Uh, yeah. And other stuff.”
“Me, too. But I gots a pellet gun back home – just as good as any .22 out there and you’s don’t got no Feds breathing down your neck. My baby girl, she has problems with men, you know? Has to fight them off with a stun gun sometimes. I gots to tell her ‘bout your pack there. Pritty fancy.”
Greyson kept facing the wall, legs spread, listening awkwardly. “It gets the job done. Can I turn around now?”
“Oh, yeah. My bad, Squirt.”
Greyson turned and attempted a smile. The man smiled back, not as intimidating as before, but just as unappealing. Humpy looked as if he wanted to talk more, but Greyson was already stepping toward the hall. He could hear more voices outside, and the last thing he needed was more inspection.
“Down the hall, to the right?”
“Yeah,” Humpy took a few lumbering steps toward him, like an obese penguin, but Greyson was moving too fast. “See you in there.”
“See you,” he said, disappointment in his voice.
I hope not.
Greyson slipped down the hall. When Humpy wasn’t looking, he turned to the left.
-----------------
Asher held his dad’s hand and waved at the two men on the other side of the street, walking toward the church. It was Mr. Avery and Mr. Halverson. They waved back.
“Bringing Ash along again, huh, Critter?” Mr. Halverson hollered across the street.
Asher’s dad smiled and winked at his son. “Yup! Couldn’t convince Lucas to come?”
“Nah. Can’t drag him away from that stupid computer. Teenagers.”
“Think people will call me Cwitt’ah, too, someday?”
“Maybe. Would you like that?”
Asher had never really thought about whether or not he liked his last name. Critterdon. There was nothing special about it. But then again, he’d never change it for the world.
“Yeah. But it might get confusing if we’ah both a’wound.”
“We’ll just ask them to call me Mr. Critter.”
“And why doesn’t Mr. Halverson make Lucas come if he wants him to?”
His dad shrugged. “A boy becomes a teenager, most parents start letting them make more and more decisions on their own. Even important ones. And Lucas doesn’t feel the same way as his dad on this. But the Halversons aren’t the only ones with a divided house, so don’t be looking down on them. There’s good people on both sides – just like Lucas and his dad.”
Asher tried to imagine a time when he would disagree with his dad on something super important. It was hard. And actually, it was hard to imagine anyone disagreeing with his dad. He was the smartest one in Meyer’s Crossing and probably all of Georgia. Most people knew it, too. His teacher had even said that he would have won the Senate race if he hadn’t dropped out. That was when he was born. And when his mother had died.
Now, even though he wasn’t a soldier anymore or a Senator, he was still an awesome dad.
“What are you thinking, Ash?”
Asher sighed, thinking of what he was thinking. Then he noticed the flags stretching down the avenue. “Why do some people put the flag on upside-down?”
Long pauses were typical with his father, and he took an extra long one. Quick to listen, slow to speak he would say.
“Well, they’ve given up, I think.”
“On what?”
“On America.”
“Why?”
Together they examined the nearest upside down flag, trying to peer through closed window drapes as if trying to understand the inhabitants’ motives by looking inside their homes.
“If you ask ten people, you might get ten different reasons. Some say we’ve stopped following the Constitution – what our first founding fathers wanted us to do. Others, they want any excuse to shoot their guns. They get excited thinking of war.”
“Why?”
Dan tried not to smile at his son’s incessant curiosity. “Well, they’ve never been in a war I imagine. Or something’s wrong in their heads.”
“Wa’h was w’eally that bad?”
“It was bad.”
“How bad?”
“Remember when you broke your arm?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember how scared you were? How much it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Increase that by a million. War brings that much pain, and that much fear.”
“Then why do they want it?”
“I guess they don’t have any idea of what it’s like. They think it’s like the movies or the video games that end when and how you want them to.”
There was movement behind the Andersons’ curtains. Critter imagined them to be shaking their heads – perhaps calling the police again. Fiercely patriotic, Mr. Anderson often yelled at those walking to meetings, shaming them. Critter had avoided getting into shouting matches with him, but others had nearly struck the elderly man. Critter admired the man’s conviction, and secretly thought him to be right, but he could never reveal his true thoughts while attending the Fellowship meetings.
They reached the alleyway, now following the two men ahead of them. Asher whispered so as to not be overheard. “Do the men in Fellowship want wa’h?”
“Some do.”
“They’ve given up?”
“Some. But most are just hoping for change. They want to give it another year.”
“’Til the elections?”
“That’s right.”
“So who do we want to win?”
Dan took another long pause, shaking his head and laughing to himself. “I don’t know.”
They stopped in front of the back door’s plywood, a sense of foreboding passing from father to son. The breeze that had come with the dark nipped at Asher’s arms, but the church offered a wave of warmth from within. It was almost as if they could feel the body heat from the men inside. They could hear the shouting, the crude language, and the call to order.
The meeting had begun.
Chapter 35
“Nickel,” Jarryd whispered into the walkie. “I’m scared.”
The cleaner had made the bed, taken out the trash, and replaced used glasses, and he was now working in the bathroom. Several times Jarryd had decided to abandon the plan and make a run for it, but each time Nick had talked him out of it.
“I know, but you’re doing good. Any time now he’ll be done and you’ll be alone.”
Jarryd watched the bathroom door from under the bed. He heard a flush. “But I got to go to the bathroom. Like now.”
“No, hold it, dude.”
“No, no. You know when I get nervous man…I gotta go now. I gotta bail.”
“A pail? Geez, dude, just wait and use the toilet.”
“Not a pail, moron. I need to bail. With a ‘b’.”
“A ‘b’ as in ‘bladder’ or a ‘p’ as in ‘pee’?”
Jarryd cringed. “Jerk, how about a ‘B’ as in be quiet.”
“Good one.”
“Thanks.”
“Now just keep your cool. Hold on.”
Jarryd gripped the walkie and surveyed the dirt and dust by his nose while he waited.
“Jer-bear. Baldy is on the move. Sydy-Cat is about to pounce.”
--------------------
Sydney hurried to her place on the mezzanine, directly above her target’s path to the elevators. She’d only have one shot to hit the shiny, bald mark.
Gripping the glass of broccoli-cheese soup mixed with clear soda, bits of shrimp, and garlic sauce she had made at the buffet, she watched him walk, analyzing his pace. No obstacles were in his way. He wasn’t looking up. Wind was not a factor. She could do this.
Making her final judgment, she dumped the glass over the mezzanine rail as she made her best vocal impression of a seasick vomit-launcher.
The mess hit its mark with a splash as she clutched at her stomach and stumbled away. As she radioed in, she could hear the gasps from below as people rushed to help.
“He’s going to be headed to the shower, boys. And he’s going to be mad.”
------------------
Greyson inched closer, crawling on his stomach to the edge of the balcony overlooking the church’s sanctuary. He was alone up here, but dozens of men were below, scattered around the pews facing the man with a goatee who stood at the podium. Though the goateed man held a gavel and had a commanding voice, he seemed amused when the audience blurted out. To the man’s left was an organ in the corner, with gold-painted pipes towering toward the ceiling. To his right was an old television on a mobile cart, which another man tinkered with. Behind the podium and against the wall, a giant cross rose tall and proud, big enough to crucify the jolly green giant and gold enough to capture anyone’s attention.
But Greyson’s attention was on the evil men below. They were surprisingly diverse. Some wore overalls, others wore suits. Some looked to be in their twenties, while there were several with white hair. Though many didn’t sound as if they had been well educated, there were a few whose eloquence seemed out of place.
Greyson hadn’t imagined that terrorists would be so diverse, yet he knew that they all wanted to tear the nation apart and were willing to kill innocent people to do so. Maybe some of the ones below had already killed. Or was this the meeting where they planned who to kill next?
Someone said his name.
“…but he will most likely go by a fake name. Possibly Nolan. But keep your eye out. He is wanted
alive, if possible. So shoot for non-violent organs.”
The men laughed at the joke – except for Humpy, who shifted in his seat, uncomfortably glancing around the room. Greyson tried to shake off the fear by rolling his eyes.
“Next item. There’s another train headed to the interior. Passing by tonight in fact. Destination’s probably Fort Leavenworth. It’s the third one this month. We’re nearing what we’ve been planning for. There is no doubt they are gearing up for raids and martial law.”
Humpy jumped up from his pew and addressed the crowd. “And the FEMA camps in Iowa with them huge fences and guards armed to the teeth. They says it’s for displaced peoples or whatever, but yous can bet that’s where they’s take us when they’s label us all terrorists.”
“Right on, Humpy. But it’s not just Iowa. Every state is having one built – as an act of disaster readiness, they say. But really, as soon as they label Pluribus a terrorist organization, they will be filled with our friends and neighbors, brothers and sons.”
There was murmuring in the crowd. Another man stood up. Greyson reached the end of the railing and squinted into the dark sanctuary. Is it Dan, Asher’s father? How am I supposed to tell?
The man, wearing a denim hat, spoke up. “Why don’t we hijack one of these trains, Wayne? Show them they can’t move weapons past our town without giving us a say in it?”
Many of the men gave shouts of approval, but Wayne waved them down. “Not yet, boys. Not yet. We have teams monitoring it as we speak, but those are not our orders.”
“Screw orders! I’m done taking orders!”
Others joined in and the shouts grew louder, making Greyson uncomfortable. The men’s anger sent a buzz in the air, as if it were a beehive ready to erupt. He took a moment to collect his fading courage. Yes, he was in the lions’ den. But no, they didn’t know he was here. Plus, he had an escape plan. A window to his left, leading to the roof. Just in case.