by B. C. Tweedt
What have I done?
He felt sick to his stomach. He had to leave.
Spotting an open table in the back, away from any of the suspicious men, he made a straight line for it. Thankfully, the men seemed to have stopped looking at him and weren’t following him. Some were watching the dance floor with intermittent looks around the perimeter. A few others were monitoring the front door where a small crowd had started to murmur. It seemed there was someone here that had gotten the attention of bystanders.
And then it clicked. These were bodyguards. They weren’t out to get him; they were here to protect someone else. Whoever it was at the front door must be famous.
A burden seemed to drop from his shoulders, but he still felt the pit in his stomach as he sat down. Maybe he was just hungry. But he knew one thing. Eating good food and being alone with his thoughts was always helpful.
A waitress, making the rounds and taking orders, stopped at the table in the corner where a single cowboy sat, slouched low against the wall. The man waved her away, his eyes hidden by the shadow of his drooping hat. But his smile was beneath the shadow – a wide, uneven grin with two long, peeling lips like two red snakes shedding their pink skins.
Greyson tried not to stare at the snakeskin-lipped Cowboy.
“What can I get for you, young man?” The waitress asked, holding her pen and notebook impatiently.
“Dr. Pepper, please. And one of those – no two – of those bacon burger things.” I could bribe her away from Sam. Or if that doesn’t work, I have two helpings of happiness.
“Got it, sweetie. I’ll bring those right out.”
Thinking of the food made his stomach feel better already. But it didn’t help being so far away from what was happening. What if Sam makes a move on her? What if she lets him?
“Something troublin’ it?” The raspy voice had gurgled from the throat of the slouching cowboy. His smile remained plastered on, tearing at the cracks and strips of skin on his lips. He pulled at one and wiped at his cheek, sending white dandruff-like flakes falling to his shirt.
“It? Me? Uh…yeah. Well, not really.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and licked at his own lips. Either the man was suffering from some medical condition or a mental condition. Perhaps both.
“Well, either it is…or it isn’t. It should admit it.”
“Oh, well, okay,” he played with the folds in his fanny pack and glanced around at the other tables of gabbing couples and half-drunk college kids. Where was Kip?
“It runs into trouble often,” he rasped.
Was that a question? Greyson looked at the man another time. He still couldn’t see his eyes, but he imagined them to be deep and sunken-in, bloodshot with large bags draping underneath. But whether insane, dying, or both, the man had a point.
He didn’t know what to say. How can I leave this awkward conversation? “I guess,” was all he could manage.
The man shot up from his slouch and Greyson jumped, nearly toppling backward in his chair.
“It should run away from trouble,” he hissed, grasping Greyson’s table with huge-knuckled hands. “Not towards it.”
“Sure, okay. Thanks. Gotta go.”
He stumbled away as the man with snakeskin lips chuckled behind him. He bumped into a few chairs on the way, his heart crashing in his chest and his head swimming from standing up so fast. Somehow he felt that he would see SnakeSkin again and the thought made him cringe.
Bouncing through the crowd, he walked onto the dance floor in the middle of a song and found the happy couple. He grabbed onto her shirt and began tugging her out.
“Nolan!” Sam shouted. “Going to join us?”
“Sorry. We got to go back to camp.” He tugged again on her shirt, but she wouldn’t budge. Instead, she frowned and shook her head to herself.
Sam saw her expression and tried to squeeze his hands in his tight pockets. “Bummer. I had a fun time, though. Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
Just then the song ended and the announcer blew into the microphone. “Whew! What a fine group of dancers! Give yourselves a hand!”
They clapped politely. The bodyguards kept their hands at their sides.
“Now, you may have already introduced yourself to our honored guest for the evening, but if you haven’t, I encourage you to do so. Everyone give a round of applause for our esteemed governor, and perhaps the next President of the United States, Governor Reckhemmer!”
The place erupted in applause and whoops and hollers. Sam whistled through his teeth and smiled wider than before. Sydney gave Greyson wide eyes and bounced on her toes. “Cool!” she whispered to him, looking around the crowd for the man.
“And also an honored guest tonight, let’s welcome someone who already showed us that he can get down with a hoe-down – the Governor’s one and only son, Sam Reckhemmer!”
Chapter 8
Greyson and Sydney stared at Sam in disbelief as the crowd applauded and he waved, flashing his winning smile. This was as close as either of them had ever been to someone famous – besides a famous terrorist.
When the applause died down, Sam turned to them. “Sorry about that. You were saying that you would like to do this again sometime?”
Sydney playfully hit him on the chest. “You said that, silly.”
Silly? What is wrong with her?
Sam laughed. “I know. But would you?”
She turned to Greyson. “Well, geez, Greyson. Do we really got to leave already?” She pitched in a glare at him when she felt Sam wasn’t looking, but Greyson cocked his head and glared back.
At least it was her fault.
“Greyson?” Sam asked. “Is that like your nickname or something?”
Sydney’s face dropped, but she picked it back up again, stumbling to save herself. “Yeah, I call him that. He does, too. It’s just a thing we do. Calling each other stuff.”
Sam couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, is that what you do?”
“Yeah.”
He turned to Greyson. “Then, should I call you Greyson?”
Greyson shook his head. “No. It’s only between us. Why didn’t you tell us you were the governor’s son?”
“I don’t like to shove that in people’s faces. If I make friends, I’d rather them like me for me, not for my father.”
Sydney smiled. Each of her smiles was like a dagger in his chest. “Well, we like you for you!”
The dagger twisted.
“Thanks. And why don’t you tell people you’re Greyson Gray, secret legend of Morris?”
Greyson felt the breath being sucked from his lungs. His knees felt shaky.
“Ah. It’s true!”
He felt like he was about to fall, but suddenly Sam had wrapped him in a big hug and squeezed. Confused, Greyson patted him on the back a few times until he finally released and smiled straight in his puzzled eyes.
“You rock,” he whispered, glancing around. “I know all about you. It’s secret, I know. But my dad gets to know those things. He shared the story with me and…well…actually. Want to meet him?”
Greyson looked at Sydney, wide-eyed. “Uh…”
“Well, I think he’d like to meet you. I’m going to go get him. Be right back.”
Sydney shot over to him. “What should we do? Is it okay?”
Greyson watched Sam talking with a tall, handsome man in matching blue, plaid shirt and jeans. Behind them, Kip was talking with one of the governor’s bodyguards. Catching Greyson’s eye, he gave him the ‘ok’ signal and a smile.
“Kip says it’s okay, but good one by the way – giving it away.”
Sydney furrowed her brow and lowered her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Yeah. Weren’t thinking straight, huh?”
“I said I was sorry.”
Her eyes pleaded with him, genuinely hurt. He felt awful, too. But he was mad. And not for the name mistake. “And I don’t know about this Sam kid.”
“What? What’s wrong with him?”
; Greyson struggled to find the words. “He’s…well, he’s too nice.”
“Too nice? Since when is that a crime?”
He sighed, avoiding eye contact by examining the large, neon sign pointing to the ‘food’ window. “It’s not. But I don’t trust him.” He eyed him again, still talking with his father.
“Well, neither do I, yet. But at least he wants to dance with me.”
Greyson scoffed. “I do, too.”
“No, you don’t. It’s not fun when I have to drag you into it, pouting.”
The comment struck through his defenses. She’s right. Who wouldn’t want to dance with her? Stupid! Look at her! She’s amazing. And I’ve been stupid enough to mope and complain about the opportunity to be close to her and make her happy.
I have to make this right.
“You’re right,” he admitted, taking a deep breath. “I would love to – ”
“Hello, there!” The governor’s booming voice came from behind and they turned. His massive hand swallowed Greyson’s and he shook it vigorously. “Nice to meet you…Nolan. It is really an honor.”
After a moment composing himself, Greyson couldn’t help but to be overtaken by a wave of pride. A governor said it was an honor to meet him. Imagine if my story hadn’t been hidden. What if the whole world had heard it? How famous would I be?
“And Sydney. It’s an honor to meet heroes like you.”
They shook hands as well and Sydney felt compelled to return a compliment. “My parents voted for you. Twice!”
The governor laughed and smiled a smile identical to little Sam’s.
“Now, I don’t mean to be blunt. But my son is already taken with you two, and I would love to hear your story straight from the source,” he leaned down to talk to them more directly. “Would you be available to meet somewhere more private tonight? After we get your parents’ permission of course.”
“Oh, wow!” Sydney exclaimed, grabbing Greyson’s arm. “That would be great, wouldn’t it? You could come back to our campsite.”
Greyson managed a smile and a nod, but visions of redeeming himself on the dance floor and Ye Old Mill suddenly faded and disappeared. Sam beamed from his father’s side.
As Sydney and the governor spoke through the details, Greyson’s eyes wandered to the back of the room. Past the dancers, past the tables of hot food, back to his table where a bacon burger sat next to a tall glass of Dr. Pepper. The other burger was in SnakeSkin’s lap. Watching Greyson, he took a big bite out of it and chewed with his mouth open in a wide smile.
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The campgrounds were a Secret Service nightmare. There were thousands of places to hide. Nevertheless, the governor’s secret service had been sent in advance to survey the kids’ campsite and to ask their parents’ permission to visit. While the security guards went door to door in the surrounding camps, the parents went into full-preparation mode. They draped white Christmas lights from the camper Sydney’s parents slept in to the camper they kept for guests. Between the two campers, a fire pit was started and s’mores materials were kept handy. Chairs were set up around the pit and the beverage refrigerator was restocked. The background music was chosen after much debate and finally phone calls were made to invite the Aldeman twins and Liam’s family over as well.
Everything was ready just as the guests arrived. Introductions were made, seats were chosen, and roasting sticks were handed out with large marshmallows pre-pierced. Sam offered to roast a few for Sydney while she shared her part of the story. While she and Greyson were used to sharing the story by now – they’d shared with their parents, the Jensens, the FBI, and several other government agencies – they had never gotten to share it together.
They started from the beginning – when Greyson had retrieved his hat from the kitchen – and worked their way to the bitter end. The twins chipped in and Liam as well, making the story complete and detailed. Sam’s face expressed every emotion Sydney spoke as she told of the despair she faced underneath the missile to the elation of waking up in the hospital and discovering that Greyson had lived.
“That’s quite the story,” the governor said over the crackling fire. “It’s too bad it may never be told in the history books. I’m truly sorry for that.”
“It’s okay,” Greyson said. “I’m sure there are stories better than ours out there that haven’t been told. Spies and soldiers and stuff.”
The governor nodded. “Absolutely. The sacrifices people make for this country are amazing. But they don’t do it for the fame or the honor. They do it for this country.” He noticed he had slipped into campaign speech mode and scaled it back. “But Greyson, I’m sorry we haven’t found him yet. The sacrifices you have to make are still coming, I know. We are trying with every available resource to nab him and this Pluribus. We’ll hunt them down and shut them down so we can all live in peace again.”
The adults nodded understandingly, admiring his conviction. They all knew this man could be their president if his party chose him as their nominee next year. The way the primary polls were going, it looked rather likely.
“Is he in charge of Pluribus?” Greyson asked. Everyone knew they were talking of Everett Oliver Emory, the brother of Dr. Jacob Emory, who Greyson had killed in the observatory control room – but no one dared repeat his name. There was no magic to it; they just didn’t want to give him any recognition of any kind. But Greyson couldn’t help but think that not saying his name might please Emory even more.
“We don’t know. But he’s connected. He’s mostly for-hire. If the Plurbs need him and they’ve got the cash…”
“And what’s so bad about Pluribus?” Greyson instantly regretted the question. Everyone around the circle seemed to judge him, shifting in their seats and exchanging glances. “I just…I don’t know.”
The governor smiled. Scanning the circle for facial expressions, he judged he had some political allies in the circle, though the Aldemans were more skeptical, slightly smirking to hide their skepticism toward his expected answer. They had not voted for him. “I understand you’ve been away for the last month or two. And that’s been for your good. Ever since Morris, our government’s been taking measures in Congress to address our domestic security concerns. There were way too many missed clues, too many loose ends that could have been prevented with…with slightly better monitoring and surveillance. The Plurbs resent these measures, claiming we are tyrannical. But would a tyrannical government work tirelessly for its citizens’ peace and well-being? If this government had been slightly more ‘tyrannical’, perhaps the Morris incident wouldn’t have needed to rely on 12-year-olds to defend our nation.”
He had a captive audience.
“So what’s so bad about Pluribus you ask? There have been several bombings, kidnappings, shootings, and even threats of secession. Most believe Pluribus is behind them all, though they continue to deny it. Innocent people have died and citizens are afraid. It’s getting really nasty out there. And it’s difficult to sort out the crazies from those who just hold to the crazies’ ideas, but would never resort to violence to do so. And to make it even worse, we’ve had an influx of foreign agents interested in stirring up trouble here, taking Pluribus’ side to weaken us from the inside – to divide us.”
Greyson gulped, humbled at the immensity of the problem.
“Thankfully, you put a stop to their plans at Morris.”
Dr. Jacob Emory had been a Plurb?
“That failure was catalyst enough. I can’t imagine what it would have done to our country and the strength of our enemies if it would have succeeded.”
“You’re welcome,” Jarryd said with a pump of his chin.
The group laughed and took a moment of interruption to refill drinks and put together their s’mores.
“So, Governor Reckhemmer,” Sydney started when they had settled again. “We’ve told our story. Do you have a campfire story of your own to share?”
“Y-y-yeah!” Liam said excitedly.
&
nbsp; The governor grinned and winked at his son to his left. Sam smiled at Sydney across the fire and she smiled back. The yellow and orange lights of the fire swirled on his dimples like frosting on a cake and his nose glowed red like a small, round cherry. Everything about him was gorgeous, including his smooth, chocolate-brown hair and his coffee-with-cream skin. She suddenly realized that she had a crush on him – and that she was hungry.
She turned to Greyson and a sort of dread swept over her. Deep down there was guilt, too.
“Okay. I do have a story for you. And it happens to be true; and it happens to have happened here.”
His audience smiled, still somewhat in awe of the man in their presence. He cleared his throat and waited for it to be still and quiet. The only noise was that of the crackle of the fire when he started, deep-voiced and clear.
“In the summer of 1918, America was buzzing with excitement. The end of the first World War was approaching, our economy was greater than it had ever been, and the American way of life as we know it today was only just beginning. With more money and leisure time than there had ever been before, Americans began flocking to the cities, to roller skating rinks, movie theaters, dance halls, pool halls, and amusement parks. Growing numbers of Americans were enjoying life together. And this included the Iowa State Fair. But something else was growing in 1918. Fear.”
Sam started coughing. It started as a little hiccup, but turned to a raspy hacking cough.
“Fear of the deadliest endemic in United States history.”
Sam coughed his last breath, collapsed into his chair, and put out his tongue for good measure. The audience chuckled at his performance.
“In a matter of months, worldwide, twenty million would die of the Spanish Influenza. In America, six hundred and seventy five thousand. As word spread of the new flu that could kill young or old alike and the healthy as easily as the weak, the Public Health Service worked hard to contain the disease. But it always spread too fast. So fast, hospitals could not hold all the ill, and morgues could not keep up with demand.”