by Schow, Ryan
“Electromagnetic pulse,” the blond said without much enthusiasm. Looking at her phone, she said. “It’s all dead then?”
“Most of it.”
“What are you going to do?” Leighton asked.
“Same thing I always do,” she replied. “Paint my nails black, put on black lipstick, and then get pissed off at my father for sending me all the way out here just to get even.”
“What did you do?”
“So, I guess you’re not supposed to sleep with your father’s friends? But it was L.A., and in L.A. it’s practically normal to be soulless. Besides, he was super hot and bought me stuff.”
“You slept with your father’s friend?”
“More like father’s friends,” she said, licking her lips. “Plural.”
Leighton drew a deep breath in through her nose, blew it out her mouth, then bit into the pastry. She chewed like she was stressed out, like she was being timed, and then she swallowed hard. She then chased the breaded delight with a gulp of AJ and said, “What was it like?”
“The lapse in judgment, having such low moral standards, or being disowned by both parents and sent away to this redneck hideaway?”
“The sex part.”
She gave a laugh, then said, “Figures.”
“What does that mean?” Leighton asked, sitting up.
“You look like a virgin.”
She glanced away, took another bite from her pastry, chewed it more slowly, then got all glossy-eyed.
“Are you okay?” Chandra asked, suddenly regretting her disdain for the girl.
When Leighton didn’t respond, it was because she was trying to talk to a deaf girl who was not looking at her.
When Leighton turned those big, scared eyes on her once more, Chandra said, “When you do what I did, your aura changes and you start to feel…dirty. Like the world’s most tired cliché. You don’t have that same look. That’s what I meant. I guess it’s why I’ve been so jealous of you.”
“You’re jealous of me?” she asked with a laugh.
There was a knocking on the door that got her up off the bed. She opened the door, saw the RA, and said, “Yeah?”
“We’re meeting in the second-floor TV room in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll set my alarm,” she said, dry.
When the RA looked at her to see if she was joking or serious, Chandra just stared at her.
“Where’s all your stupid black makeup?”
“In your boyfriend’s lap.”
Rolling her eyes, the RA said, “Fifteen minutes.”
Chandra shut the door, then went back to her bed. “They’re ready to give us false hope upstairs in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m not going.”
That’s when Chandra looked down at the box in the center of the room, the one from Leighton’s uncle. The one Leighton refused to open.
“We go upstairs in fifteen, or we open that stupid box once and for all.”
“No,” Leighton said.
“Do you think you’re going to stop me?”
She shook her head, turned away. Turning away was like muting her. With a sadistic grin, Chandra pushed herself off the bed, grabbed her keys, then went and slid her sharpest key along the box’s plastic tape, opening the top layer.
The scream that erupted from Leighton was more like an enraged shriek. She looked up in time to see Leighton charging her. Chandra was still bent over when Leighton body-checked her. Chandra stumbled backwards, went to the ground. Her temper now flaring, she scrambled to her feet, keys out, and said, “I’m gonna cut your tits off.”
Leighton glared at her, breathing so heavy her chest was rising up and down in a fit. Then she looked down at her less than ample chest and said, “That’ll be easy.”
The two of them paused, then they broke out into laughter. Chandra got up and said, “That hurt my tailbone you know.”
At that moment, Leighton wasn’t looking at Chandra. Instead, she was looking at the half-opened box. Leighton wasn’t scared of anything that Chandra could tell, but when the subject of the box came up, her entire physiology had changed. It was startling. What in the world is she afraid of?
Chandra was there the day the Sheriff from Nicholasville hand-delivered the box. Before the lawman even left, Chandra’s curiosity had piqued. For a second, she thought of Brad Pitt in Seven.
“What’s in the box?” she had asked when the Sheriff left, a perfect impression from Seven’s final, gruesome scene.
Leighton later admitted to not having seen the movie, which Chandra felt was a travesty. Her curiosity had waned over the weeks, but it wasn’t gone entirely. Now she was about to find out what all the secrecy and fear was about.
Looking up, Leighton said, “Give me the keys.”
She handed the blond her ring of keys. Leighton cut open the side flaps, then pulled all four flaps back and peeked inside. Chandra leaned forward like she was looking into the Ark of the Covenant.
Inside the flaps, Leighton saw a heavy-duty backpack. Chandra looked in as well and said, “That’s a tactical pack.”
Leighton reached inside, grabbed a letter with her name on it, then shut the flaps, and walked back to her bed. When she looked up, Chandra said, “It’s been two weeks, Leighton.”
“I know.”
“Let’s just see what’s in it already.”
“I want to read the letter first,” Leighton said.
She opened up the envelope, slid out a sheet of paper, and started to read. When she was done, she looked up at Chandra and started crying.
Chapter Seven
Leighton McDaniel
The last time Leighton saw her uncle Walker, he was arguing with her father on the front porch of their home. She never knew what the fight was about, only that it got heated. Her mother pulled her back inside the house and said, “They’re just brothers hashing things out. It will be better if we let them have their privacy.”
Walker was her father’s older brother, and according to her mother, a war hero. Leighton had a different idea of how a war hero would look. Walker didn’t fit that ideal. For starters, he never smiled. Not once. But that day was different, almost like something bad happened.
When she later asked her father what was wrong with him, why Uncle Walker was so mad, her father said, “Some war heroes can’t let go of the war. And others…sometimes the war doesn’t let go of them. Your uncle deals with a bit of both.”
She wasn’t sure what happened to Walker, only that she knew him after he came home from the war and he wasn’t like that. He was a little distant, but not mad. When he became what she heard her mother called a “contractor,” everything changed. At first, she thought he was building homes, but then Rowan said, “A contractor is basically a mercenary for hire.”
She looked up the word mercenary. Had he really become a soldier for hire? Leighton went back to Rowan, unwilling to accept the truth, and said, “What kind of mercenary is Uncle Walker?”
“The only kind,” her older brother laughed. “He’s a paid killer. Cool, right?”
Remembering Walker that day, there was a darkness in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. It was like that darkness reached out with sticky fingers, aching to grab a hold of anyone and everyone in sight. Those fingers touched her, leaving something behind—a memory of something foul. War didn’t do this to him. Uncle Walker did this to himself.
Later, as she tried to string together the bits and pieces of the argument she had heard between her dad and his brother, she put it together. Walker had called her father names, alluded to him being soft, weak, a shadow of his former self. She didn’t know what he meant when he said that, only that Walker was chastising him for having a family, for leaving behind the military, for going soft.
Last year, at the end of high school, she asked her father about the conversation. His response was firm, curt.
“Your uncle Walker wants me to work for him, but I’m not a killer, and the war isn’t here in America.”
“I thought he was a soldier,” she said. She could tell her father was getting bothered by the conversation. He was usually so even-keeled.
“Soldiers kill people,” her father said, a nasty edge to his voice.
This stopped her. “You were a soldier too, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but not like him.”
“Did you ever have to kill anyone?”
He just looked at her, his anger simmering, something in his eyes now starting to resemble that dark look in her uncle Walker’s eyes. Leighton was fourteen back then. Not quite grown up enough to understand what that meant. Later, she asked her mother about this.
Faith McDaniel sat Leighton down and said, “Freedom isn’t free, even though you don’t always see the cost. If our soldiers don’t cover that cost outside of our borders, one day we’ll have to cover it inside the borders.”
“You mean like 9/11?”
“Sort of.”
“I thought the Constitution guaranteed our freedoms.”
“A piece of paper, a flag, a big idea. This is what the Constitution is to some. To others, it is a governing document, a way for us never to fall prey to tyrants, a way to prevent kingdoms and monarchies from turning us all into peasants. Law and order rules the day until the day rules over law and order. When that day comes, you might have to pick up a gun and fight.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Leighton said, feeling scared for her uncle, but also sad for him.
“That’s why we have people like your uncle,” her mother said. “And once upon a time, your father.”
Her uncle Walker fought on behalf of America in foreign wars, but having seen what was developing inside the nation, it seemed he was trying to fight that fight, too. This war might have gotten the best of him.
Her father, however, took a different direction in his life. He fortified his roots in Nicholasville when he took a job at the water treatment plant. Leighton had always known him to be kind, gentle, and patient. Since the day she tried to talk to him and he blew up, she hadn’t seen him so rattled. And as for her uncle Walker? Five years had passed since the incident on the porch. She hadn’t even thought about him this last year. Then Sheriff Lance Garrity from Nicholasville showed up at her dorm holding the heavy cardboard box.
Sheriff Garrity said, “This is from Walker. He said you need to take it.”
“So, no pleasantries then?” she had said.
“It’s good to see you,” Sheriff Garrity replied, even though he was carrying more stress in his eyes and face than she’d ever seen him carry before.
Now she couldn’t put Walker or his stupid box out of her mind. He had been right to try culling the insurgents that had gathered inside the nation. And her mother proved herself correct when she hinted that the war drums were beating and if no one stood up for the country, it would fall from the inside out.
For all of these reasons, Leighton was scared to go through the contents of the box. She didn’t know what was in it, why her uncle would send her anything at all, how he even had her dorm address. The box had been shuffled around the room, used as a coffee table, a nightstand, a place to stack her school books, something she planned on shoving under the desk so it wasn’t in the way. Unfortunately, Chandra’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. Now her curiosity had piqued as well.
She held the letter in her hand, running her fingers over the ink that scrawled out her name. Just seeing his handwriting made her sad. She no longer thought of him, but he had been thinking of her.
Had she just written him off that day as crazy?
At that moment, she was flooded with emotion. The things that happened to him, the things he did…what did they do to his head? His heart? Had they ruined him permanently? Was he aware he was broken? These were the kinds of thoughts she was trying to stop. Deep down, she missed him, who he was, how he used to be so much fun when she was a kid. Was he still angry? At war? Dead? She hated not knowing.
That was when she opened the letter and read it with shaky hands and an aching heart.
Dearest Leighton,
I’m so sorry that your father and I ended things the way we did. I didn’t want you to hear us arguing, but your father—as genial as he has become—has the heart of a warrior. He can use it offensively, or defensively. That day, he was using it defensively, to protect you and your family. He told me he never showed this alpha side of himself to you, your mother, or your siblings. That was not something I could do, which was why I stayed away. But lately, I have been increasingly saddened by the way I’ve become. I’m troubled by it every day. Part of it is that I miss you and your family, and I love you deeply. That never stopped. The other part that has plagued me has to do with the decisions I’ve made. Those decisions have caused more problems than I can fix in this life. Enclosed is my most prized gear, the only way I can protect you now, should you ever need it. I believe you will need help, sooner rather than later, for the war is here. It’s inside our country. Unfortunately, you might have to face an untenable enemy, and they may fight harder than you’d like. I wish I could offer more than just these things, but I have only these items and my love to give you. Inside my tac pack, you will see something familiar. The Glock 43. This is the handgun we trained with when you were younger. There are extra mags, extra rounds, a cleaning kit. In the backpack you will see some of my survival gear, things I’ve used in a pinch. There’s also something else—another gun. An old gun. This is not my gun. It belongs to a very bad person, a vile creature who wants it back and will do anything to get it. They do not know that you have it, but if someone asks you for it, shoot them. Don’t hesitate, just kill them and go. Inside the pack is a belly-band conceal-carry holster. Use this. If you feel awkward at any time, or if chaos breaks out around you, you need to start carrying whether you have a permit or not. There’s also a paint gun inside with a box of a thousand paintballs and two replacement CO2 canisters. This will get you out of a jam should you ever find yourself overwhelmed. Keep it in your car, along with your Glock. I know you’re a sweet girl, and I know your heart is full of curiosity, ambition, and love, but you also have your father’s heart, and my heart. We are the McDaniel bloodline, which means that in our DNA we possess a ferocity, an indomitable spirit matched by none. Never forget that. And when you need it, shed all your kindness, set aside that sweet side of you, and become the monster your enemies fear.
I love you in this life, and the next,
Walker
Instantly, her eyes moistened. She understood what this letter meant, what his belongings meant. He was gone. Dead most likely. She laid down on the bed, turned on her side, tried not to cry. She broke down anyway. A gentle hand touched her arm, and she felt Chandra bend over her. She felt her arms circling her in a rare hug.
The Californian quietly kissed Leighton’s cheek, just beside her ear, then gave her shoulder a light squeeze. For whatever reason, she understood the gesture from a girl who was never her friend but was there for her now. She reached up, took Chandra’s hand in hers.
“Thank you,” she said.
A few minutes later, she wiped her eyes and rolled back over. She hoped to see Chandra, but the room was empty, the silence unchecked. Did she actually go to the dorm meeting? Leighton didn’t blame her. The Californian was cast out of her home, her state, and shipped across the nation like unwanted cargo, far from everyone she knew, outside the reach of friends and family.
For the first time since she first moved in with Chandra, she actually began to feel sorry for the girl.
Leighton finally got out of bed and forced herself to open the box Walker had sent her. She lifted the tactical backpack out of the box. It was surprisingly heavy. She laid it out on the bed, then reached into the box and saw the handgun case and the paint gun, which looked like a compact, semi-auto rifle. She checked the recreational “weapon” and found it was loaded with pa
intballs and ready to go.
She then opened the gun case, saw the small Robin’s-egg-blue pistol and two loaded mags. She picked up the loaded Glock 43, turned it over in her hands.
She remembered the weapon well. Smiling, it brought back good memories of plinking rounds at the range with her uncle. She released the mag, pulled the slide, ejected a round. Checking the chamber the way Walker had taught her, she tilted the gun up and down, making sure to check her three clearance points.
When she was sure the weapon was empty, she set the slide, laid it down, then picked up the soft, neoprene belly-band holster.
She put the ComfortTac band on, pulled her pants over half of it, then loaded and holstered the Glock. There was room for two spare mags. She slid the extra mags in their respective pouches.
After she pulled her shirt over the weapon, she went and appraised herself in the mirror. She saw only the hint of a slight bulge. If she was wearing a coat, no one would know the difference.
As she stood there, looking at herself in the mirror, feeling her handicap—that bottomless silence—she began to wonder for the first time if this was indeed an EMP. It made sense. She slipped on her shoes and prepared to head outside to see what information she could gather on the situation. When she opened the dorm room door, she ran right into Chandra.
Are you leaving?
“I’m going to try my car,” she said.
I’ll go with you, Chandra replied. The meeting was mostly useless, which is why I ducked out, but they did talk about the dangers of being out there alone. As if us girls can’t protect ourselves.
“Okay,” she said.
The parking lot looked the same as the last time she saw it. It was as if no one left before the storm, during it, or afterward. Then she saw the gaping hole next to her own car. She’d parked next to an old pickup truck with mud on the wheels. It was hard to miss. But now it was gone, and that was hard to miss, too.
She clicked her keyless remote; it didn’t work. She glanced at Chandra, but the girl was like a lookout dog, keeping her eyes on anyone who moved. Using the actual key, she opened the door, saw a black dashboard where lights should have been—an odometer, a digital clock, the date, etc…