by B. C. Tweedt
The boy gave a disdainful curl of his lip. “So you is militia." He cursed under his breath. "Why didn’t ya tell me in the first place?”
Greyson cringed at the boy’s language and let him believe he was militia. There was too little time to explain. “I don't advertise it.” He sheathed his slingshot and its ammo. “We need to hurry. They’ll be…”
A new rumbling sound drowned out all the rest as a winged drone suddenly streaked overhead, not far above the smoke. The boys followed its flight as it disappeared over the roof. Finally, the sounds of squealing tires spurred them both to action.
Mullet surged past Greyson and came out from behind the Bradley with his worn, red backpack. Without a word, he dropped it at Greyson’s feet and marched to the glass doors with a sort of strut.
Still trying to figure him out, Greyson picked up the bag and hurried in – whether he was invited or not.
Though the boy’s house had been mostly spared from the disaster, the inside was a disaster in and of itself.
No wonder he isn’t afraid of the train wreck in his backyard. He already lives in one. There was little room on the floor; it was being used by trash and broken furniture. A few nails stuck from the walls where picture frames may have been knocked loose, but it was hard to tell. The walls were bare, a bland white color streaked with liquid stains waist high and below. The only thing that appeared to have had attention paid to it was the recliner in the corner and the TV propped up by two-by-fours and cement blocks. Beer cans surrounded it with crumpled wrappers in between.
Limping quickly on his bloodied leg, Greyson maneuvered through the maze of trash to the front door. He opened it and peeked out to the street. Lights had turned on throughout Mullet’s neighborhood and a few of his neighbors had wandered outside, dressed in pajamas and robes, sleepily staring at the train wreck across the street. Others began running toward one fire or the next to lend a hand. No sign of Plurbs or soldiers yet.
“I need like a car or something,” he asked, in a hurry. “Do you have one? Can I borrow it?”
“Naw. Pa took it. ‘S’pose he’s part’a this.”
His father’s a Plurb.
Greyson peeked out the window’s drapes. He closed the drapes and turned back to Mullet. “Aren’t you going to go find him?”
“Heck no!” Mullet declared, but he didn't say heck. He checked the window as well. “He bites it, the world’s better off.”
Greyson bit his lip. He’d never met someone like this kid before. Who would want his dad dead? “But he’s your dad…”
“But the truck – I’s worried ‘bout her. Silver F150 – 365 horsepower, V8…”
Greyson remembered seeing it hit the train. He cast his eyes downward. Now wasn’t the time. “The truck. Is that your only one?”
Squinting his disgust, the boy put his finger against Greyson’s chest. “You’s one of those spoiled pansies from Atlanta, a’int ya? Two cars, big frickin’ house, bigwig ma and pa.”
“No. I’m not.”
The boy scoffed. “Sure ya is – go find y’self someone else’s truck ta steal.”
Greyson nodded and tried to steady himself from an onslaught of wooziness. The pain reverberated in every muscle. “How about water?”
Mullet gave him a look and locked the front door. “What ‘bout it?”
“You got any?”
He laughed. “Is that what ya thinks o’ us? We’s so poor we ain’t got no water?”
“I—I was just…”
“You’s just bein’ all prejudicial. Beer?”
Greyson sighed and peeked through the sliding glass doors in the back. An orange and red glow flickered through, casting flowing shapes on the dark walls, but there was still no sign of the military or the Plurbs.
“Sure. I’ll take anything. Just hurry.”
The boy strutted to the kitchen. Greyson followed, eyeing the caked dishes, molded chunks of leftovers, and greasy pizza boxes. There was some crust left in one box that didn’t look too bad. Suddenly his stomach felt painfully deflated. Before he could make a move for the crust, Mullet handed him a glass and motioned for the sink.
“Pa’d beat ya brain-dead if ya jacked his beer.”
“Water’s great. Thank you!” Hands shaking, Greyson filled the glass at the tap and drank it greedily. He instantly felt better, a wave of clarity clearing his head.
“Slow down, Gulpy,” the boy joked. “It a’int goin’ nowhere.”
Greyson took a few more gulps despite the look Mullet gave him.
“Your militia still do their fancy mark, huh?”
Breathing hard from the excessive drinking, Greyson set down the glass. “Yeah. You don’t got a Plurb mark.”
The boy stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Ya’s still call it Pluribus? Ain’t no’un calls it Pluribus anymore. Name’s gittin’ heat.”
Greyson shrugged and glanced around, trying not to wince from the pain in his shoulder and hip. “Thanks for the water – and for taking me in. But we go to go – now.”
“You’re all kinds of crazy – acting all polite one second n’telling me what to do the next. You want to get kill’t on the street, that’s your choice. This is my home. I’ll defend it ‘til I die.”
Greyson’s eyes bounced around the room, thinking of what to do. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was that the Mullet’s death wish would come true. He had to go.
But then they heard it. Like a child’s fireworks, popping outside. He recognized the sound of gunfire instantly. Greyson quick-limped to the front window, pulled back the drapes an inch, and drew back with shock.
A truck full of Plurbs – or militia – or whatever they were called – raced by. Another one followed.
“I need to hide!”
The boy opened the drapes and then gave him a look. “This place is as good as any ‘nother. Pa and his buddies will be back an’…”
“You don’t understand! They’re all after me! All of them!”
But it was too late. A sound came from the glass doors.
Chapter 43
The sound came again, but this time Greyson recognized it. It was the scrape of a dog’s paw.
He rushed to the glass doors, pulled them open, and knelt to Kit’s level.
“Kit!” To his surprise, Kit held his red hat in his jaws. Greyson was speechless.
But when Kit dropped the hat at Greyson’s feet and held his paw in the air, Greyson gasped. “Geez, Kit!” His leg was covered in dark blood.
Kit licked at Greyson as he reached for the paw, examining the leg. Mullet eyed the dog over Greyson’s shoulder.
“I’ll git some wrappings.”
Greyson turned back and they shared a look. “Thank you.”
Mullet nodded and sped through the living room to a narrow hall that led to the bathroom. Greyson put his hat on and stayed by Kit, holding the paw and petting his shaking body. The wound was a pretty nasty gash and it was still dripping on the linoleum. Greyson’s own leg wound had already begun to dry, but not before the streak of blood had reached his sock.
As Greyson poked at the fur around the wound, Kit nipped at Greyson’s hand. But he stopped his nipping with a sudden jerk, and his ears perking up.
Greyson followed suit. He sensed movement outside the glass doors. Someone else was coming.
Thinking fast, he motioned Kit to the kitchen and hid him behind the counter with the ‘stay’ hand command. Kit obeyed, and his gaze followed Greyson expectantly for the next command as he scurried to the kitchen window.
Greyson tried to calm himself. Sapere Aude. Nothing stupid, Greyson.
His fingers found the edge of the greyed drapes and pulled it just an inch.
A single soldier, the same one who had confronted him on the train. But he was badly injured, hunched over and dragging one leg. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, swinging like a pendulum with each of his steps. He approached the Bradley and swept his eyes over it, checking its condition.
A
moment later, tires squealed out front.
Greyson dropped the drapes and swung around.
Plurbs.
He was surrounded.
-------------
Sam inserted his keycard and pulled the hotel door open. With an extended sigh, he threw off his suit jacket and dress shoes and plopped himself on the fresh sheets.
Alone at last.
The event had been an enormous fundraiser dinner. Fancy food, fancy chandeliers, fancy everything. He had been forced to smile pretty much the entire time, and even though he’d had to go to the bathroom, his bodyguards hadn’t let him. It would have offended everyone if he had left during one speech or another. It would have offended others if he hadn’t laughed at their jokes or shaken the hands of hundreds of people he didn’t know. At least they hadn’t made him stay for the after party.
Suddenly remembering his last lesson with Calvin, he took out his laptop and opened to the program that would allow him to eavesdrop on Calvin’s screen.
A little nighttime entertainment. If it would work.
After only a few seconds loading time with code scrolling across his screen, the window opened. It was another screen. Sam laughed at Calvin’s computer desktop which had background picture of a mother Husky pawing one of her puppies with a caption underneath saying, “You’re not fat. You’re just a little husky.”
Sam moved his mouse around and, to his joy, found that his mouse was now acting as Calvin’s mouse. Could Calvin see it move? Sam did spirals and made the cursor pick the dogs’ noses – but there was no response. Calvin must not be around his computer.
Deciding to take it a step further, he clicked on a word-processing document and typed in a message.
I’m here. Whatcha doing?
He gave it a minute, but again there was no response. Shrugging, he bit his lip and maneuvered the mouse to the icon for the webcam. Remembering that Calvin mentioned he might be with his girlfriend tonight, Sam crossed his fingers and clicked.
The camera popped to life and the inside of Calvin’s room came into focus. Trying to make sense of it, Sam figured there was a piece of clothing covering most of the camera, but not all. He could see half of a frame and make out Calvin’s bed, art pieces on the wall, and someone sitting on a chair.
And then he realized it was Calvin. He leaned in and gasped. He was tied to the chair. Something covered his mouth. And someone else was in the room.
Panic swelled inside his chest, but as fast as it came, Sam forced it away.
It’s a joke! Of course! Calvin knew that he would be peeking in. This was a pretty cruel set-up. He would have to let him have it the next time he saw –
The other man stepped up to Calvin and put a gun to his chest. The shots were muffled, but Sam watched in shock as his body shook with the blasts. Calvin’s head slumped down and a dark, red stain formed where the gun had been.
Sam’s lungs had stopped working. And then it all came out at once in panicked breaths. This can’t be happening. It can’t!
His eyes shot around the room, hoping Calvin would jump out, but no one came. He glanced back at the video to see a blurred figure walking to and fro in the room. It was a bulking figure – male, wearing gloves. He checked under the bed, in the dresser, throwing drawers around.
And then he turned and saw Calvin’s computer. The man rushed toward the camera and peered at it, within inches of the screen.
Suddenly, the mouse cursor on Sam’s laptop moved and the word-processing document reappeared. The letters appeared as the man typed.
Who is here?
Sam pounded a few buttons to close the programs and slammed the laptop shut.
-----------------
Greyson dropped to his hands and knees and skidded through a pile of beers cans behind the recliner just before the front door burst open; three armed men kicked open the door, watching their backs and shutting the broken door like they were shutting out a pursuing animal.
“Frick!” one of the men cursed. “How’d they get here so fast? Cael! Get your…”
“I’m here!” Cael came rushing into the room.
“We gots to go – now!”
“I’m not goin’ nowhere. Where’s my pa?”
Greyson gingerly lowered himself to the carpet, careful to avoid the beer cans. Once low enough, he peeked underneath the recliner at the men’s feet; he could just barely make out a faint reflection on the dark TV screen as a man’s figure approached Cael and stood square with him, putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders. There was a period of silence when only faint gunshots and the crackling of fire could be heard. Greyson glanced at Kit, who stared at him from around the kitchen corner, out of the men’s view. He gave him another ‘stay’ motion just in case.
“Your pa’s a hero,” the man spoke softly. “A frickin’ hero. But he’s not coming back.”
“He’s a martyr,” another one added. “Should be proud.”
Cael shook his head. “No, he’s not. Don’t tell me lies.”
Greyson watched the boy’s reflection. His jaw was firm and his knuckles clenched on his shorts. He knew the signs. Cael was fighting the emotion. Fighting hard.
“They’re here!” one of the men’s walkie talkies erupted. “Juniper and Oak!”
“Frick!” The man released Cael’s shoulders with a push. “He is now. And now you best act like one, too. Got your gun?”
Cael nodded.
“We’s lookin’ for a boy. Or judgin’ from the wreck – a boy’s body. About your age. Find’m before theys do.”
Greyson gulped a lump in his throat. Please, Cael. Don’t do it. His hand reached around his slingshot’s grip and the other removed two ball bearings from the pouch.
Cael was struck silent. He glanced at the recliner. “What we want a boy for?”
“It don’t matter. Them’s the orders. Now come with us.”
“Wait.”
No…
The men stopped in the doorway and looked to Cael. His eyes went to the recliner.
Don’t! Don’t do it!
“I think I seen him out back.”
“Out back?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what we waitin’ for? Truck’s running outside, Cael. Go git in. Won’t take us long.”
The men jogged to the sliding glass door and Greyson breathed out a slow sigh of relief. He didn’t know why, but Cael had saved him.
When he heard the sliding glass door open, he peeked over the armrest; Cael had stopped. He gave Greyson a sly look, still holding the bandages for the dog.
Greyson motioned Kit over as he watched the militiamen make their way into the backyard with guns raised. They were encircling the Bradley.
Cael knelt and bandaged Kit’s leg.
“Why?” Greyson asked in a whisper.
The boy held his frown. “I like ya more than them. Ain’t saying much, though.”
Greyson paused, watching him wrap. “Thanks. I’ll pay you back somehow.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
He stared at Greyson, his hands still wrapping. “Nothin’, no more – now that he’s dead.” He tore the tape and secured it. “I’m free now.”
Greyson eyed the bandages. It was well done, and Kit seemed pleased as well. He didn’t quite know how to respond to Cael, so he shrugged it off. “Thanks again.”
Shouts erupted outside and they both jerked their necks toward the noise. Gunshots banged in the backyard, and bullets ricocheted off the Bradley’s armor with firefly sparks. The light from the house reflected off the four foot high treads as they began to churn, tearing up the grass and dirt.
The injured soldier had managed to start the thing.
Cael jumped to action first, racing toward the backyard.
“Wait!” Greyson yelled.
Cael stopped and turned.
“Come with me.”
Cael shook his head. “When everybody’s tryin’ to kill ya? I ain’t
stupid. You’re on your own, pretty boy.”
With that, Cael darted into the backyard with his shotgun drawn. Greyson took in a deep breath and darted the other way – toward the running truck. He had bounded all the way to the curb when he suddenly remembered he had left without his backpack. He looked back at Cael’s front door. It was inside.
He had to get it. Everything he had was in it.
But headlights flashed on the house’s siding, bouncing hard as if the vehicles were traveling at high speeds.
Leave it! Greyson ducked behind the running truck just as two trucks came flying around the corner from his left, squealing and honking. Another two approached further down the street to the right, full of ragtag men, armed and angry.
Two left. Two right.
A few of the neighbors who had wandered outside to view the mayhem panicked and ran back inside, slamming and locking the doors. Lights behind windows went out.
Desperate, Greyson fought with himself, opening the passenger door of the running truck, but deciding against it. He’d never make it that way. He’d have to cut through the alleys and yards to escape – like Dan had done in Meyer’s Crossing.
But he never got the chance to run.
He heard the trucks on the left squeal to a stop two houses down. He heard the men’s shouts and the click of guns. Somehow they spotted him.
“There he is!”
He knew the next thing he’d hear would be the shots, but they never came. Instead, he heard Kit’s low growl. But Kit wasn’t growling at the men – his nose was pointed toward the sky, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
Greyson had seen that look before.
It was a drone.
Chapter 44
Greyson followed Kit’s gaze, squinting at the tiny fire in the sky. But before he could cover his ears, a screaming sound came from heaven.
EeeeeeeeeeEEEEEOOOOOOO!
And then he heard nothing, like his ears were jammed with tuning forks ringing in a soprano’s note. Like a strike of lightning, the drone’s missile had hit the second truck on the left, disintegrating it from within and blasting shrapnel outward with a thunderous explosion that rippled and burst the block’s windows as it ripped the other truck into the air, men and all. Greyson was swallowed by the shockwave and flung into Cael’s yard as the burning men were tossed like dolls, crashing to the asphalt and skidding in all directions.