Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  It should be noted that not all Skinheads are violent, and not all share Nathaniel’s hate. Al Bolton, a friend of Fuller’s father, said The Fort, where he lives, is a peaceable place.

  “We’re united with a common purpose, to stop the genocide of the White People, but we do it quietly,” said Bolton. “We’ve chosen to live separately from society. Occasionally, we distribute flyers to alert others to this growing issue and invite them to join our cause. We don’t condone violent acts like Nate’s.”

  How did Nathaniel stray so far from the peaceable path? It wasn’t without help. Bolton says there is a small subsect who strayed from Jefferson Fuller’s teachings. This group has all but disappeared in the wake of Jefferson’s murder and Nathaniel’s incarceration.

  Then there’s the mystery of his mother. Sources say Mae Fuller kidnapped Nathaniel when he was four. The pair drifted across the country, leaving a trail of fake names and unpaid bills behind them, until Mae was shot in a gas station robbery.

  Why was she alone that day? Where was Nathaniel? Was the death of Mae Fuller actually random, or did her son kill both his parents?

  Only one thing is certain: the devil is behind bars. We can only hope the court decides to try him as an adult, so he’ll stay imprisoned, and away from society, for a long, long time.

  610

  The bed is as hard and cold as a cave floor. Every time I roll over, a spring stabs me with its angry fingers. “You’re nothing,” the springs squeak. “You have nothing. You don’t matter.”

  I was actually good with nothing. Then Brandon came along and was friendly. He thinks he has me pegged, that I’m a “nice guy.” He doesn’t know shit. I’ve rocked from grateful that he looked closer at me than the others to pissed that he made me question the cage I’ve constructed around myself. I was doing fine on my own. I didn’t need a friend. Not until I realized how good it feels for someone to talk to me like I’m a human instead of a monster.

  Now I just have one more person to lose.

  I shove my pillow over the poky spring and roll over again.

  Brandon and his mom dropped me off at Traitor’s place around dark. He was waiting on the porch. When the car pulled into the yard, Traitor watched me get out, then went in the house and locked himself in his room.

  No dinner. No list of chores. Nothing but a slammed door.

  I fixed a bologna sandwich, did my homework, and went to bed.

  Instead of falling into my normal, hazy half sleep, I watched the dented metal clock on the nightstand. The hands methodically knocked me into a new day, calling out the time that has passed since that night—610, 610, 610.

  I stay on the crappy bed, listening to the stubborn clock until I can’t take it anymore, and get up, stuffing it under the curtains in the trash can, before pacing the room.

  “You’ll prove them wrong.” Brandon’s words rattle in my head like loose dice in a board game box.

  How can he be so sure? He barely knows me. Hell, I barely know me. I know the person my mother started to build in me, and I know the person The Fort twisted me into. I don’t know what I am now.

  A murderer?

  A victim?

  What does his blood make me?

  Certainly not a nice guy, but I can’t see where I fall on the scale, or where I fit in this screwed-up world.

  One thing The Fort did well was give people a place. They took your weaknesses and made them strengths. Most members had spent their entire lives being told they weren’t good enough, that they were dumb and worthless. The Fort turned that on its head. They’d tell recruits the problem was that they were too good, so good others had to hold them down. But The Fort, well, it would lift them up, make them what they were meant to be.

  Kids who’d been bullied transformed into the aggressors. People who felt like they didn’t belong suddenly had a group where they felt like they fit in. A safe place. A warped clubhouse.

  Only a handful of members were actually born in The Fort—people like me and Kelsey and the Connor brothers. Most, like Thomas Mayes, found their way there. They were runaways, kids whose parents were abusive or neglectful, or ones who didn’t have families at all. People who were young and hurting, who just wanted to belong somewhere.

  It seems kind of sad until you see what they became. Until you witness the damage they leave in their wakes.

  Not that it’s only kids. Lots of adults look for a home with the demented family at The Fort, too. Adults who had been those bullied, neglected kids once, or who had shared a cell with a bruder, or who’d joined the bruderhood for protection, either in prison or on the street.

  The recruiters are good. They don’t start off hocking hate like street-corner preachers. They spot the beaten and broken and gradually lead them along the path to Hell, dressing up hate as pride and rights.

  He forced me on a few recruiting trips, but he quickly learned I hurt the cause more than helped it, so he gave me other duties.

  The pitch always started the same.

  They’d spot some poor asshole and ask about his heritage. Irish or German or French or Swedish or whatever. If the potential recruit didn’t know, they’d prompt them. “You look like a good Irishman. Strong jaw and quick wit.” Made them proud of who they were, probably for the first time in their lives.

  Then they’d feed on the recruit’s weaknesses, searching for an old wound so they could dig their fingers into it, squeezing and scraping until it was fresh, oozing with all those feelings of worthlessness that drove him to whatever dump they happened to be sitting in. All leading to the source of all their problems.

  Jews, gays, blacks, Mexicans, Asians.

  If they stayed around other good Irishmen or Germans or Swedes, people who were the same species, they wouldn’t have those problems.

  The recruiters always slipped that last bit under the radar. According to the neo-nazis, anyone who wasn’t “White” was a completely different, and inferior, species, as valuable as mangy, stray dogs. And, of course they knew just the place where recruits could be around other strong “Whites.” Where they could matter and would be important. Where they would never have to feel weak again. Where they could help destroy those that led to all their problems in the first place.

  Except it’s all a lie. The people don’t matter. Only the cause does.

  I gradually learned that I was nothing.

  My mother had taught me I was smart and worthy of love and respect. That only I could dictate what I did with my body and mind. But I only got four years of her kindness. Important years, but short ones.

  And that power they preached at The Fort was intoxicating.

  Because I didn’t have control over my body there. Other people dictated what I had to do and when. Enough of that over enough time starts to eat away at your mind. In the end, I wasn’t any better than anyone else—same low self-esteem and loss of control, same fear, acted out in the same ways.

  I bundled all those feelings inside, and since I couldn’t unleash them on the person who caused them, I let them out on strangers.

  “You’ll prove them wrong.”

  Will I? Or will I prove them right?

  I’m afraid if I dig too deep, that nice guy my mother started creating will be gone, and all I’ll find will be the beast.

  Brandon has the luxury of living entirely on the outside, without fear of showing his true self to anyone.

  There was a guy at the Psych Center who loved old cartoons. He had a movie with a ton of them that he’d watch over and over in the common room. One was about this kid who swung over the swing-set bar and turned inside out. That’s Brandon. He’s Inside-Out Boy. In one afternoon, I learned his favorite smell is fresh baked bread and his favorite color is blue. I know he has a scar on his thumb where a fishhook got stuck when he was nine, and another at the base of his skull from when he fell off a slide on his fifth birthday.

  He knows I live with an uncle I can’t stand, pass out occasionally, and have a reporter hounding me, thoug
h he doesn’t know why. Surface things.

  A breeze comes through the open window, brushing my face with inviting pine scent and suddenly I can’t stay in this house anymore. I slip into the closest T-shirt and jeans and pick up my beat-up tennis shoes.

  I’m learning where the creakiest floorboards are. I step over them, shifting my weight to move as quietly as possible, and open my door. Traitor’s light is off and he’s snoring softly. I haven’t figured out how sound of a sleeper he is, so I walk carefully to the stairs.

  The top board groans and I stop, balanced on my toes. I have to grab the bannister to keep from tipping over. My pulse thumps so hard I can feel the veins in my wrist working.

  He was such a light sleeper that a loud thought would wake him. And he didn’t appreciate being woken up. He’d fly out of bed so fast I sometimes wondered if he ever slept at all. I was certain he stayed behind his bedroom door, waiting for me to make a sound so he could beat me with his wide belt.

  The last time I’d gotten up in the middle of the night was to sneak canned food into the woods. Not the hole under the holly, but a different spot closer to the perimeter fence where Kelsey and I could collect them quickly when we ran. We’d been hiding food and cash out there for over a year, waiting until we were both sixteen so we could legally drive and work.

  I was lucky he caught me before I picked up the food. No way could I have explained carrying four cans of Spam outside in the middle of the night. Lucky is a relative term, I guess. He whipped me so hard, I had to throw out the pants I was wearing because I bled through them.

  Traitor doesn’t seem to have that particular trait, though. He doesn’t run out of his room, belt looped in his fist.

  Still, I take my time going down the stairs, placing each step like it’ll crumble beneath me. When I hit the front porch, I shove my feet into my shoes without untying them and break into a run, careful to skirt the hole at the tree line. The woods aren’t so intimidating after my afternoon with Brandon. The trees reach their leafy arms toward me, welcoming back their old friend. I rush into their grasp without giving myself time to reconsider, ducking under branches and swatting brush aside. Brambles stick to my jeans and damp cobwebs cling to my hands.

  It’s glorious.

  I run until I reach a clearing barely big enough for two people to stand. The full moon peeks through the trees, watching me. I slump against a pine, breathing heavily, then sink to the dewy ground. Beads of cool sweat dot my forehead and under my arms.

  Most people at The Fort, as bad and scary as they were, were afraid of the woods at night, but I always felt more comfortable there than anywhere else. Until that night.

  Now I’m back home again.

  Night is the best time to be among the trees. When it’s most quiet and calm. When bats swoop and owls hunt and spiders spin webs, all hoping to catch a late-night snack. When I don’t have to worry about what I say or what people think or if my lies are consistent. It’s only me, and the other dark creatures, and the spying moon.

  The night woods are my river.

  It’s been tainted for long enough. It’s time for me to take it back.

  My fingers close around my button.

  I love the forest. Not just the one back home, or the place with Kelsey. All of it.

  And I like the color green. Vibrant green, like leaves after a heavy rain.

  I close my eyes and inhale the sweet earth, excited to tell Brandon something real about myself.

  The ceiling has a leak. Water drips on my face lightly at first, then heavier. I hate this old-ass cabin. Guess I can add “fix the roof” to my list of chores for today.

  I stretch and open my eyes to an awning of leaves reaching toward a halo of watered-down gray sky. Adrenaline bursts through my body, jolting me completely awake. I’m on the wet ground in the woods. Is he coming?

  I’m on my feet, quick as a snake strike, ears pricked for his angry scream.

  But there’s no snow beneath me, only fat raindrops from above.

  The air is muggy and heavy, not cold and thin. The branches are thick with leaves that are just starting to turn.

  This isn’t a flashback.

  Holy shit, it’s real. I fell asleep in the woods. It’s raining too hard to figure out where the sun is, but knowing how little I sleep, there’s basically no chance I slept through the day. It must be morning. Traitor might not be awake yet.

  I turn toward the cabin and run as fast as possible through the underbrush, so fast, I almost forget about the hole. I leap over it at the last second. The toe of my shoe slips on the soft dirt at the edge. I catch myself before I fall in, scrabble back upright, and take off again.

  When I get to the porch, I stop and listen. There’s no clatter of dishes or clomp of boots. I tug off my wet socks and shoes and ease the door open. Water rattles through the old plumbing.

  Traitor’s in the shower.

  I take the stairs two at a time, no longer caring if the boards creak. The water cuts off right as I’m closing my bedroom door. I strip off my wet clothes, shove them under the bed, and jump under the covers in case he decides to poke his head in.

  A few minutes later, Traitor pounds on my door. “Nate, get a move on. We’re late.”

  “I’m up.” I stay a little longer, though, catching my breath. That was way too close. I can’t do that again.

  As I slowly get up again, I try to forget that I feel more rested after my nap in the woods than I have in years.

  I linger at my locker longer than necessary, hoping to catch Brandon before class. I feel ridiculous just standing here, so I slowly open my broken backpack and unload my books, then arrange them in my locker.

  He’s usually here by now. I twist around and glance at the giant clock mounted on the wall. Five minutes until the bell. I rearrange my books again. Maybe he’s avoiding me. I don’t think I did anything to offend him. God, I hope not. But I didn’t think Oriental was offensive either, so who knows? The bell rings and I slam my locker. He’s probably late. People can be late. It happens all the time.

  Cutting through the crowd, I duck into homeroom. The morning slips by like rain sheeting off a tin roof. At lunch, I sit at my corner table, casting a sideways glance at the group Brandon always sits with. He’s not there. Worse, his friends are quieter. They’re usually the rowdy guys, cutting loud jokes and throwing food. Not today. Today they’re mellow.

  Oh my God. Did something happen to Brandon? A wreck or some other accident?

  I twist, ears pricked for a hint of conversation. A guilty feeling gnaws at me, even though it couldn’t have been my fault, because usually when people disappear after I’ve been around them, it is my fault.

  The intercom buzzes. “Nate Clemons, come to the principal’s office.”

  Dozens of faces swivel toward me. My muscles tense, ready for a fight. Or flight.

  This is it. Something terrible happened to Brandon and his mom. I was the last person seen with them. There will be cops in the hallway or waiting at the office.

  Run.

  I stand slowly and throw my lunch away. I can’t look guilty. I did nothing wrong. Traitor saw them alive and well last night. Surely, he’d vouch for me. Wouldn’t he?

  As I make my way down the hall, I rehearse what I’ll say: They were fine when I left them. My uncle is a witness. They were fine.

  The principal waits by the front desk, alone. When I enter the office, she holds out a brown box. “We are not a post office, Nate. Next time, have your packages delivered somewhere else.”

  I rock back on my heels, caught off guard. “My packages?”

  She sighs and thrusts the box in my hands. “Don’t play dumb with me. Your name is right there. And don’t do it again. We have the authority to search these things, you know.”

  I stare at the box, stunned. “Um, yeah. Sorry.” I stumble into the hall and tear it open. An envelope rests on top of a mound of tissue paper.

  Nathaniel,

  Sorry about the backpack. I
hope this is a suitable replacement. I’m serious about wanting to help you. Here’s my card. Call when you’re ready to talk.

  Shaw Holt

  A sleek black business card is stapled to the note. Shaw Holt, Senior Correspondent, News First Network. She’s awfully pushy. A random gift isn’t going to loosen my lips. I crumple the note in my fist. Inside the box is a new backpack, all black with red ribbing.

  I don’t want to use it, but it’s better than the crappy thing I’m lugging around. I dump the box in one of the big trash cans in the hall and reluctantly keep the bag. I’m about to throw away the letter and the business card, but shove them in my pocket at the last minute. I may need proof a reporter is hounding me, especially if Brandon doesn’t turn up soon. I don’t know if she’d do anything to him to get me to talk, but I don’t know that she wouldn’t, either. A little extra precaution never hurt anyone.

  611

  I walk into school wearing the new backpack, and feel like everyone is staring at it—at me—but it’s probably all in my head. Traitor grilled me about it when I got home yesterday. I told him my old one completely gave out so the school found one in the lost and found. He seemed to buy it. It’s not like he’s too eager to get me a new one himself.

  Brandon isn’t at his locker again this morning.

  I tell myself not to freak out, but this is what happens whenever I let someone in. They disappear. I shut my locker, trying to ignore the ball of worry knotting itself in my gut.

  “Nate!”

  I startle at the sound of my name, cursing the meds for making me jumpy. Brandon walks down the hall, waving something. The knot unwinds inside me. It takes all of my willpower not to sigh in relief. He’s okay. A grin spreads across my face. It feels strange.

  Brandon shifts his pace to a fast walk and catches up with me. “Check it out!” he says, brandishing a small rectangle of paper. “My parents finally caved. I got my license!” He smiles so wide I can count all thirty-two teeth. “My brother took me yesterday, then we drove around all day.”