Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  We stand side by side and look down the mountain. A wide smile breaks out across his face. I’ve never seen him smile like that before. He looks like Mom, and I don’t exactly mind it. Almost as suddenly as it appeared, the smile slips back into his infamous scowl. “Oh, and you’re grounded for pretty much forever.”

  I hobble down the slope with my uncle, leaning on him for support. Agent Torres calls a medic and we wait in the field until someone can patch me up. The first rays of early morning sunlight show up as we’re finally leaving, breaking through the darkness shrouding The Fort, and bringing the start of a new day.

  730.

  Exactly two years to the day I shot my father.

  The Washington Times

  Over 100 Bodies Found in Kentucky Woods

  By Paula Alvarez

  Contributor

  Last night, the FBI raided a Neo-Nazi compound in West Kentucky.

  The raid was a result of an anonymous tip claiming that several assaults, missing persons cases, and unsolved murders could be tied to the compound, known by those in the area as “The Fort.”

  Federal authorities arrived at the compound around 9:30 p.m. and found a large crowd gathered in a central hall. As they attempted to detain the individuals present, Agent Andre Peters led a squad into the woods, where the informant stated they would find a mass grave.

  Agent Peters and agents Michelle Torres, Paul Tipton, Jon Carroll, and Special Agent Eric Dayton investigated the woods behind The Fort for several hours before locating the first victim.

  “I’ve never seen so many bodies in one place,” said Special Agent Dayton. “It’ll take a while to process them all, but a lot of families will finally have closure.”

  While the FBI has been silent on the details, The Times managed to gain brief access to the burial ground and can confirm that most, if not all, of the bodies are those of minorities, indicating a string of hate crimes. Local authorities were contacted but refused to comment.

  The FBI has apprehended at least forty individuals connected with The Fort, including their alleged leader, Joseph “Tire Iron” Stanton, of the famous Connecticut Stanton family.

  Stanton has been arrested five times for assault and battery in various states, and twice for larceny. He currently has three warrants out for his arrest in Indiana, Ohio, and Michigan.

  Agent Tipton said they were still excavating the area to ensure they located all the bodies. He expects DNA to identify the majority of them and that names will be released in the coming months.

  Continued C27

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  The phone rings four times before he picks up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.” I can’t keep the nerves out of my voice. I’m shaking more than I did when the Feds showed up at the cabin. “How’s it going?”

  “Hanging in there,” Brandon says.

  It’s good to hear his voice. I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear it again. Even after he came out of his coma, things were touch and go.

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Better. Almost back to a hundred percent. I should be able to play next season.”

  “That’s awesome.” This is our third conversation since he woke up, but it’s not any less awkward than the first. “How’s the family?” I ask.

  “Good. Henry got all As this semester, so of course Pops is happy.”

  I laugh. I miss them. I’m not sure if it hurts more or less to keep in touch. “Brandon, I know it doesn’t change anything, but I really am sorry.” I can’t undo anything, but I can do better going forward.

  “I know, man,” Brandon says.

  “I’m glad we’re talking.”

  Brandon sucks in a breath. “I am, too.”

  He didn’t take my calls for two months. I eventually stopped trying. Mrs. Kingsley is the one who reached out. Shocked the hell out of me. She said they were slowly piecing things back together, but she wanted me to know that they didn’t hate me. She also wanted to make sure Dell and Bev and I were okay in North Dakota. I told her that we’re making it. Best we can in this place.

  I swear, Dell picked the only town smaller than Lewiston in the entire country.

  With good reason. Hawaii and Alaska are the only states without a hate group, but Hawaii’s way too expensive, and Bev straight-out refused to move all the way to Alaska, so we settled for the state with the fewest. I don’t see how North Dakota is much better than Alaska, though. Maine was another option—apparently extreme racists hate extreme cold—but there were too many in the surrounding area. Forty-seven known groups in New York State, fifteen in New Jersey, forty in Pennsylvania.

  There are ten in both Montana and Minnesota, and seven in South Dakota, so we’re about isolated from them as we’re going to get. Other than Alaska.

  “I hope …” I hesitate, afraid to say the words. Afraid of what the answer will be. “I hope we can be friends again.”

  Brandon pauses and my stomach drops. “I hope so, too. One day. I’m just not there yet.”

  “I know.” I’ll take “one day.” It’s better than never. I push my desk chair in front of the laptop Bev bought me for a belated seventeenth birthday present. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I’m ready to go public and stop hiding.”

  “Brandon!” a girl yells in the background.

  “Hey, man, I’ve got to go. Maddie and I have a hot date in an open field.”

  I smile. “Have fun.”

  “Good luck, Nate,” Brandon says. “I mean that.”

  I hang up and lay the cell phone on the corner of the desk. I don’t think we’ll ever be the same, but I won’t stop trying. Not unless he tells me to. I owe my freedom to him. The first thing he did when he woke up was tell the Lewiston cops, and the whole town, that I was innocent in the attack.

  That was right after the bust at The Fort, so it didn’t take much for the police to corroborate Brandon’s story. They decided not to press charges, and dropped the fresh charges for skipping town, but Dell and Bev and I didn’t exactly feel safe going back there, all the same. Better if we moved somewhere new. Started over fresh. Fresh as we can, anyway.

  The FBI offered to put us in witness protection, but none of us wanted that. I’m tired of hiding. We took down the biggest hate group in the country. The others are pissed, but disorganized. Thanks to Thomas Mayes, I suffered two broken ribs, a stabbed kidney, and a bruised spleen. The Fort, itself, caused me more mental scarring than anyone should be allowed to live with, but there are people who think I got away with no consequences. I’ve decided those people will always exist. I can’t be afraid of them forever.

  It sucks that we had to start all over, but it’s actually not so bad the second time around. Dell had a nice pot of money stowed away in case he had to move again—turns out he was a cheap-ass for a reason. He and Bev have their own construction business and I’ve actually made some new friends. Friends I’ve been honest with about my past. They were surprisingly understanding. I guess the whole “taking down The Fort” thing helped.

  And that’s why I have to do what I’m about to do. I have to tell the world my side of the story, once and for all. I have to admit to the things I’ve done. That shadow is still there. The beast still stirs—and probably always will—but I can at least cast full light on the shadow. Even if that means going to jail for what I’ve done. After all, I always had the chance to say no, I was just too big a coward to do it.

  I’m tired of living in the darkness.

  Martin, the big bloodhound we rescued after I got out of the hospital, noses my bedroom door open. “Not now, buddy.” I pat his head and try to push him out of the room. He winds around my legs and jumps on my bed, laying his head between his paws. “Okay, you can stay, but keep quiet.”

  He sighs and stretches out. It took a few months for Martin to adjust to us—we’re pretty sure his previous owner abused him—but once he realized we weren’t going to hurt him, he thawed. He’s still nervous around strangers, but we’
re getting there.

  I sit at the desk and adjust my shirt. I can do this. I have to do this. I’ve relied on other people to tell my story for far too long. It’s high time I find my own voice. I touch the photo of Mom on my desk. I don’t have her button anymore, but I have her. Within me. “Love you, Mom.”

  Beside her photo sits a postcard with no note. The picture on the front says, “See Rock City.”

  I take a deep breath and face my laptop camera. I can do this.

  I turn on the camera, run a hand through my shaggy hair, and hit RECORD.

  “I have a lot to say, and this will probably take a while. But let me start here: my name is Nathaniel Fuller, and I’m sorry.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In 2013, I read an article about a ten-year-old who shot his father in the head while he slept on the couch. His father led a white supremacist group in California. That story stuck with me. I’d seen documentaries that showed “baby’s first cross burning” and the like, but until that moment, it never occurred to me to wonder what these kids went through growing up in that kind of environment, surrounded by hate from birth. A character started to form in my head, but I didn’t find the courage to tell his story for another year.

  I grew up in Alabama, “The Heart of Dixie,” and the cradle of the Civil Rights Movement. I’m no stranger to what racism is and how it can look, but this was a different level. I had to learn what the main white supremacist groups are, where they’re located, how they recruit and operate. Things I never wanted to know. But the more I learned, the more I had to tell this story.

  The Fort and the neo-nazi group that lives there are fictional, but they’re rooted in fact. They’re amalgamations of several different groups that currently operate in the United States and abroad. A real compound like The Fort exists in Alabama, and in other parts of the country, and the methods The Fort uses to spread its hate—the white extinction website, racist notes in Easter eggs, flyers, media training, boot parties, red laces—are all real.

  The hate incidents in this book are also real. I relied heavily on data and research collected by the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC), whose website is full of informative resources—like their hate map, which shows the number and location of every hate group in the United States. All the statistics in this book are accurate as of the date of publication, but this is not a static number. These groups move, shrink, grow, and change. If you want to know the most recent numbers, and be aware of hate groups in your area, visit: www.splcenter.org/hate-map.

  The SPLC also keeps a running list of hate crimes. I used this list when writing about the hate crimes that appear in this story. I had some trepidation in doing this, but the one piece of writing advice that has stuck with me the most was Stephen King’s admonition to “write honestly.” So here it is. These things are real. They’ve happened, and are happening, to real people, in real places. A noose was actually hung around the statue of James Meredith, the first African American to enroll at the University of Mississippi, a year before I started writing this book. Racist graffiti, cross burnings, and physical attacks on people of color occur across the United States every day, in almost every state. These aren’t isolated incidents or holdovers from bygone days. They are, sadly, current events. The SPLC’s list of hate incidents can be found at: www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/hate-incidents.

  I was in the middle of writing this book when Eric Garner was killed in Staten Island, New York, followed by Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri. I had just finished writing when the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal church in Charleston, South Carolina, was attacked. I saw the way the media biased public opinions of the individuals involved. The way they cherry-picked which pictures of Michael Brown to use. The way they called him, at age eighteen, a “man” but the Emanuel AME shooter, at age twenty-one, a “boy.” I tried to weave this media bias into the book because it’s important to look at the lens through which news is being told.

  It’s also important for me to say this: no part of this book was easy to write, but the story needed to be told. I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell this story. I’ve questioned my ability to write this book from day one. However, it’s not the job of people of color to educate white folks on how they deserve to be treated and on what is and isn’t racist. This is a burden we’ve been putting on their backs for far too long. And here’s the thing: there have been too many times in my life when I’ve sat silent while people around me made racist and derogatory comments. Too many times when I should’ve stood up, but didn’t. So, I’m standing up now.

  Additional research, resources, and information can be found on my website, www.sfhenson.com/

  I hope you’ll continue to read, learn, and talk about these issues. Education and discussion are the first steps to opening hearts and changing minds.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve always considered writing to be a solitary endeavor, with the majority of my writing time being spent alone with a computer or notebook while the images in my head slowly make their way onto the page. But when I look back, I realize that I haven’t been alone at all. I’ve dreamed of being a published author since I was four years old. That’s thirty years of people guiding me to this place, which means it’s impossible to list every single person who helped make this dream a reality, but here’s my feeble attempt—and if I leave anyone out (which I’m sure I have), then my sincerest apologies.

  First and foremost, I have to thank God. Everything I do is through and for Him.

  Mandy Hubbard, my agent, ledge-talker-offer, and gif queen, you are extraordinary. You’ve been listening to my weird ideas and reading my wordy drafts for five years now. You’ve believed in me when I haven’t believed in myself, and you’ve made me a better writer. This book absolutely would not have happened without you. Thank you for reading and editing, and building killer bonfires to have strange late-night discussions over.

  To my editor, Alison Weiss, and the entire team at Sky Pony Press and Skyhorse Publishing, I can never say thank you enough. You took on a risky book with an eyebrow-raising premise and you never balked. Alison, your vision made this book so much better than I ever could have on my own. Thank you for your support, your encouragement, your countless hours spent hunched over my manuscript, and your incredible ability to shape my words into something I’m proud to put my name on.

  To Alison Kemper, my first critique partner and the first person to ever read Nate’s story, thank you for your time, your patience, and your feedback on so many very rough pages. Because of you I found my agent, I grew more confident in my abilities, and I gained my first author friend.

  I also have to thank all of my other readers, critique partners, and writers who have helped me over the years: Nic Stone, Ronni Davis, Leah Henderson, Misa Sigiura, Rachel Simon, Courtney Gilfillian, Mary Dunbar, and everyone at Absolute Write who ever critiqued my pages or queries. Huge thanks to my local writing group, WYSIUR, and to the Word Girls. If I left your name off of this list, please know that it absolutely wasn’t intentional and I’m grateful for all your help. I seriously wouldn’t have had any success as a writer without all of you.

  To the Southern Poverty Law Center and Tyler Roe, thank you for the research and information you provided that made this book more honest and realistic. Any errors or inaccuracies are mine alone.

  To J.F. Sargent, Frank Meeink, John Haltiwanger, Lawrence Otis Graham, and Susie Rodarme, thank you for the articles you wrote, which opened my eyes to experiences and stories that I wouldn’t have had otherwise and that helped me shape this book.

  I also have to thank all of the Civil Rights leaders who fought, and who continue to fight, for equality. Your work, and your resources, influenced this book immensely. Special thanks to the “Big Six”: Roy Wilkins, A. Philip Randolph, Martin Luther King Jr., Whitney Young, John Lewis, and John Farmer, and to Dorothy Height. There are references to all of you sprinkled throughout this book. I also want to thank James Meredith, who was the in
spiration for Brandon’s grandfather.

  To all of my teachers, especially Janet Wallace—who slaughtered my papers until their pages were bloody with corrections (sorry for reviving some of the words in your word graveyard!)—thank you for all your time, your guidance, and your wisdom.

  Thanks to my family for all of their support. That list would be almost as long as the book itself, so just know that you are all loved and valued and I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know.

  Emily, Sister Sledge, thank you for reading my first novel and for supporting me, even though you don’t particularly enjoy reading. I promise if any of my books ever become movies, I’ll push for a Beyoncé song on the soundtrack, just for you.

  Coleman, a legend in your own mind (and mine if I’m being honest), you have no idea how much I appreciate your help critiquing my pages and working through plot snags. Your journalistic eye made the articles in this book read like actual news. I’m lucky that my little brother is such an excellent writer.

  Momma, thank you for pushing me to be not only the best student and writer I could be, but also the best person. Thank you for teaching me (sometimes, literally), for encouraging me to be civic-minded, and for forcing me to think critically about the world. You taught me how to form my own opinions and how to lead. The person and writer I am today is because of you.

  To my grandmother, Karma, my earliest memories of reading are all with you. You are the reason I ever dreamed of being a writer. You fed my imagination, made up stories with me, and held my hand through so many steps in life. Thank you for all that you’ve given me, for all that you are, and for all that you do.

  This is the hardest one. Thank you, Daddy, even though you’ll never read these words. You put my first favorite book in my hands (and most of my favorites to follow). You gave me the idea for the first book I tried to write, and you helped me plot the first book I ever finished writing. You’ll never get to read the first book I publish, but I want the world to know that I achieved it because of you. You supported my dreams and taught me how to fight for them. You raised me to be the independent, strong-willed person I am. You were my best friend and I miss you every single day.