Strike (6 page)

Leon holds out a hand to her, as if she could take it from fifty feet away. “Every rebellion needs their Betsy Ross, my friend. We need Florence Nightingales and Harriet Tubmans. There are children without families, wounded without doctors. Helping those who can't help themselves is as true a calling as striking back at those who strike at us.”

Another person stands, this one a guy in his thirties, maybe. He's disheveled and looks like he's been drinking.

“So what do we do?”

Leon smiles and throws out his arms. “All you have to do is meet us at these tables over here and help us find the best way to use your unique skills. Just like the Declaration of Independence, you sign your name and become a member of the Citizens for Freedom. Easy as that.”

“And what if we don't want to join you?”

Whoever said that did not stand up. The crowd stills. Leon's eyebrows draw down, and he looks like he wishes he could call down lightning into the bleachers. His dark eyes go darker.

“If you're an unpatriotic coward who's too scared to fight Valor or support those who do, you're free to walk right out that door.” He points to the open double doors where we entered. “And try not to slip on that traitor's blood on your way out.” Because they took country-club kid's body away like Leon asked, but they left a big puddle of blood, which trails away into the darkness. The lantern light is gone. It's a yawning mouth into hell.

In this moment, there is no amount of money you could pay me to walk out that door, and I'm pretty sure Leon knows it.

“But I will tell you this.” He's in front of the lectern now, his arms crossed and his smile wide and welcoming. “We have land. We have money. We have medicine. We have food. We have fellowship. We have weapons. And, most important, we have the fair rules and order that a free country requires to flourish. No one deserves to be murdered because they took out a loan. We hold these truths to be
self-evident: that all men are created equal. And a bank, ladies and gentlemen, is not a man.”

The gym erupts in applause and whistles as everyone stands. I feel it, too—a swell of pride, of fellow feeling, of belonging. Of fighting for what's right. But I'm smart enough and hardened enough to know that Leon Crane is an actor. This speech was planned. Hell, maybe that kid who died with a Valor recorder in his pocket was a plant. But everything that's happened since we walked into the school was staged to serve Leon's purpose. Whether he's good or bad or right or wrong, we have only one choice: to join him.

When Leon heads for the door, the crowd follows. It's not a rush—they clearly feel anxious and are whispering excitedly in clots. No one wants to go first. Our little group sits back down and hunkers together, heads almost touching.

“We're in, right?” Wyatt says.

“Not much choice there.” Chance scratches the dark stubble on his chin. “What do you figure is on the other side of the Unpatriotic Coward doors? Execution?”

We all nod.

“He said they had medicine,” Kevin says.

“What, my meds aren't good enough for you?”

Kevin takes a deep breath, as if emboldened by Leon's speech.
“No, actually. I got shot, and I'd prefer a real doctor to your stupid Vicodin before I die of gangrene.” It's the most I've heard him speak yet, and he has more confidence than I would have expected. I notice for the first time that Chance didn't bring his bag of drugs, and now I'm curious about where he hid his contraband. Because he must've known they would confiscate it for the CFF if they found it on him. He's smarter than I had first assumed.

Gabriela laughs. “You get 'em, tiger,” she says to Kevin.

Across the gym, they have three folding tables set up, with two people in chairs at each one and several clipboards and pens lying around. The people in the chairs look nice and friendly—they must've been chosen for their charisma. The scarier people are ranged around the room with AR-15s slung over their shoulders, fading back into the shadows against the walls so we can all pretend they aren't there. Funny how five days ago that would've completely unhinged me, and now it's the new normal.

I haven't seen anyone go through the double doors back out to the hallway yet, but as I watch, a figure detaches from the crowd and scurries that way. It's a heavy lady in her fifties, maybe, with a big bag clutched to her side. She glances around the gym before disappearing into the hall. I hold my breath as I wait to hear the pop of a gun, but there's no sound. Did they really just let her leave? What if she takes this knowledge to Valor? It's kind of scary to realize that I'd feel safer if I'd heard gunfire that signaled a problem put to rest. If
she's not on our side after hearing Leon's speech or doesn't get that his offer isn't really a choice, she's definitely a threat.

I chew my lip as people leave the tables and head out into the other hallway, Leon's well-lit hallway, laughing easily. That hallway doesn't lead to where our cars are. So where are they going? When Wyatt stands, I stand too. We're about to find out.

Wyatt leads, and I slip my hand into his. Something about his size is comforting, and even though I've killed more people than he has this week, his physicality is still a shield. We're the last group to get to the table, and the small blond girl I noticed earlier trails us like a ghost. Her eyes seem dead, and something about her feels wrong to me, but everything is wrong now.

Before we get to speak to anyone, they've handed each person a clipboard and a pen. The first line is
ALIAS (NOT YOUR REAL NAME. WE DON'T WANT TO KNOW.)
I have no idea what to put. I've always been Patsy. I skip it and start marking off the other answers—age, prior work experience, skills. I feel like I'm filling in a job application to be James Bond. What kind of weapons can I use? Am I a computer hacker? What languages do I speak? Have I been in the army or the Police Academy? Do I have martial arts training? What is my size and build, and do I have a face that blends in? Do I have rock-climbing experience or institutional-cooking knowledge? Do I do cardio? Ugh. My answers are bland and totally forgettable, right up until it asks me how many people I've killed. Then I really have to think back.

Robert. Eloise. A rapist thug. Ashley. Dr. Belcher. Sharon. Three more rapist thugs, give or take. Alistair, kind of. That was more Wyatt. Amber. So . . . ten? Jesus.

Chance grabs my clipboard while I'm trying not to cry. “Ten? Dang, Zooey. You're a beast. I only have eight. But if Kevin dies, you get one more. Dial it up to eleven.” He writes something and hands it back. In the space for my name, it says
ZOOEY GODDAMN KARDASHIAN
. I scribble out the last two parts, then, after a moment of annoyance, the first part. In my own writing, I put in Zooey Hemsworth and hand the clipboard to the sweet-faced blond girl at the table. Any wrong name is as good as another, right?

She scans it and turns the full force of her whitened teeth on me. “Hi, Zooey! How'd you find out about us?”

I try to remember how to smile. “Oh. Um.” I look for Wyatt, for answers. But he's busy answering his own questions. “I found a flyer.”

“Did one of our members approach you, or did you see it on a wall downtown, or . . . ?” She blinks, so unnaturally perky, and I suddenly don't want to tell her anything. She looks like she's maybe in her twenties—like a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys.

“I just saw it.”

“That's great, Zooey. So did you like what you heard tonight? Leon's pretty amazing, right?”

“Sure.”

“And it looks like you brought friends, so that's great.”

“Uh-huh.” I look away to see how Wyatt is doing. It's starting to feel like a cult. “So what's through that other door?”

She smiles, blinks, blinks again. Her face changes completely, and suddenly she's all business. “Show me your gun.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you killed ten people, and that means you got tapped by Valor or Second Union, and that means you have a gun. Probably around front, in case things got dicey tonight. You can pull it out, nice and slow, and put it on this table, or I can have Tuck and Hartness frisk you.” Two big guys materialize out of nowhere, one with a pirate beard and the other covered with tattoos. Both carry guns that could turn me into a puddle of soup.

“It's in front,” I mutter, slowly pulling my Valor 9mm out of my waistband.

“On the table, honey.”

I give her the same flat stare she's giving me as I place my gun on the table, Valor stamp up. “Don't call me ‘honey.' ”

“Any more guns?” the tattooed guy asks.

I shake my head. “I only need the one.”

The girl picks up my Glock and gives it a thorough inspection. On either side of me, Wyatt and Chance are going through the same process. Gabriela yanks a freaking machete out of her jacket—that I didn't know she had. Even scrawny little Kevin pulls out an apple knife.
There's a lot I don't know about these kids I spent one night and half a day with. Any one of them could've slit my throat while I was asleep.

A figure appears behind Gun Bitch Barbie, his hand on her shoulder. It's Leon Crane, and up close, by the light of the lanterns, his eyes are pools of black. “Please return this young lady's weapon. All these fine young citizens are coming with me,” he says, and when she looks like she might have a comment to make, he adds, “You might recall they brought the laptops. Al's laptops.”

Her smile returns as she looks up at me, my gun held out grip-first. “Lucky you.”

Leon Crane walks toward the door and stops to face us, hands in his coat pockets and face inscrutable. “If the five of you will join me, I believe we have some opportunities to discuss. And some medicine for the young man with the unfortunate bullet wound.” With a nod, he deliberately turns his back to us and walks out of the gym. Wyatt moves to my side, Chance scoops up Kevin, Gabriela shoves her machete back home, and Matty wags like crazy, like this is the best party ever. Tuck and Hartness move into position behind us, and we have no choice but to follow our new leader into the dark.

Well, okay, so it's not that dark. The lanterns have been moved from the other hall to this one, and old posters of atoms flutter on the walls as we pass. Leon Crane doesn't look back, and his boots are weirdly silent.

“That looks like a good dog,” Tuck says, and Matty's tail wags harder.

“She is.”

“I used to have a black Lab. Name was Bear. Best dog I ever had.”

Crane stops and spins. “Will you ever learn the power of silence, Cousin Tuck?”

Tuck shrugs, unapologetic. “Nothing wrong with a good dog.”

With a sigh, Crane rubs his temples. “Nobody talk. I'm unpleasant when I get a headache, and you're giving me one.” He turns down another hall.

“Yeah, no talking,” Hartness says, prodding me in the back with his assault rifle.

I flip him off. And why not? It's not against the rules.

All of the doors have been closed up until now, but one rectangle of light streaks across the dusty hall. The door is open, and the light isn't the cold, watery sting of the lanterns—it's warm and cozy, like somebody's den. Crane turns in to that one, and we step in after him. The room has all cinder-block walls, no windows, and it's not a classroom. It's the teachers' lounge, with musty couches and a few circular tables. The fridge and microwave are fossils, and the clock is stuck at six thirty. A bouquet of extension cords is plugged into a bunch of cheap, garage-sale lamps. Crane sits on the couch and throws his arms across the back.

“Sit, friends. Pull up a chair.”

Wyatt and I head for one table, while Chance deposits Kevin at another. He and Gabriela bracket the poor kid, who looks like he might pass out soon, whether from pain or fear, I don't know.

Crane shakes his head. “Now, when I say pull up a chair, I do mean literally. Right up here, where we can see the whites of one another's bloodshot eyes.”

We exchange glances and reluctantly do as he demands. It's Chance, Kevin, Gabriela, me, and Wyatt, all lined up in old plastic chairs in various positions of unease. I recall reading about how taking up space makes you feel more powerful, so I untangle my crossed legs and arms, spreading my legs, planting my feet, and leaning one arm over the back of my chair. The effect is mostly ruined when Matty sits between my knees and butt wiggles.

“Now, which one of you had the laptops?”

Wyatt raises a thumb, wags it between us both.

“And how did they come to be in your possession? By which I mean that whatever bullshit you told Myra is something you can skip. I'd like just the facts, if you please.”

His voice is full-on Southern gentleman, slow and sweet as honey, but with the hardness of a bee's sting underneath it. Almost lulling, if there weren't such an undercurrent of menace. Avoiding his question is not an option. Wyatt looks to me.