Strike Read online

  “How long does it take until it stops hurting?” the kid asks.

  “I’ll tell you when I find out,” I say.

  That’s not what he meant, but it’s what we all want to know, really.

  Wyatt’s in the corner, filling Chance in on the Citizens for Freedom, or whatever Alistair and his group are calling themselves. I don’t know what was said in the hall, but they seem to have an uneasy truce now. I scoot back against an armchair and slide bullets into the clip of Chance’s gun. My vision is wavering, and I almost nod off before I’m done. The kid—I still don’t know his name and haven’t asked—his meds kicked in, and he’s on his back, snoring hard, his glasses askew. His leg stopped bleeding and crusted up, so I guess it’s fine for now. Matty is stretched out by his side, paws twitching as she dreams. Whenever the kid tries to move and cries out, I flinch and swallow down the guilt. Gabriela’s on the squashy couch, perched over him like an awkward angel.

  Chance looms over me, his stare hard. “I sleep light,” he says.

  “Congratulations.”

  “You try to take my gun or hurt Gabriela or that kid, and you die. And so does Beard. And that dog.”

  But I don’t believe him anymore, not really. At least he wouldn’t hurt Matty.

  “I’m too tired to care,” I say.

  Wyatt returns from whatever he was doing outside and stretches out on the least nasty part of the carpet. Strong arms pull me close.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Which is a lie.

  My eyes don’t want to close, and my fingers are clenched around Chance’s gun. I can see my gun, likewise clamped in his hand. He’s in the middle of the room, between us and Gabriela. In sleep, his smirk has stretched into a grim frown. His gun feels wrong, but why should any gun ever feel right?

  I breathe out and settle back, ever the little spoon curled against Wyatt, both of us facing them as if for battle. This truce—it was the only choice that didn’t end in somebody dying. But Wyatt’s not happy. I can feel the tension in his chest, the gruffness of each exhalation. I keep trying to match my breathing to his so that I can get some sleep, but the air is full of unwelcome, unfriendly scents. Gabriela wears a patchouli perfume that mixes with the scent of old weed and the crust of black mildew and the hard tang of a kid who’s soaked in piss and blood because of me.

  So many people have bled because of me.

  But I can’t fall asleep like Chance, still and hard and unmoving.

  All I can do is cry as quietly as possible, when everyone else is asleep.

  3.

  We sleep in—all of us. No one’s anxious to be awake, I guess. The first thing I hear is the kid groaning and whimpering. He sounds like a baby trying to get attention, but then again, I guess he did get shot yesterday. Because I shot him.

  Repress, repress . . . God, it’s hard to repress shit when it’s whining across the room.

  I peek from under Wyatt’s arm as Chance yawns, stretches, tucks the gun in his waistband, and rummages in his bag to get the kid some more pills. He looks concerned and worn down, not at all the cool-guy drug dealer I saw last night. The weak daylight filtering in through the dirty windows reveals the purple circles under his red eyes. He’s wearing a shirt with the Joker on it. After glancing around to make sure no one is looking, he spreads a sweatshirt more carefully over Gabriela.

  My got-to-pee squirming is probably what wakes Wyatt up, and then we’re all up and moving around the room as if there were something to do. But there’s not. Matty runs from person to person, sniffing hands hopefully for food that isn’t there. I really do need to pee, but I’m not chancing whatever’s left of the bathroom, and I forgot to bring any toilet paper while I was fleeing for my life. With a heavy sigh, I head for the door. Gabriela joins me, and Matty pushes past us into the kind of crappy day that has a white sky, an unfriendly chill, and the promise of a cold butt after peeing in the forest.

  “Bushes?” She points at a patch of laurels, and I shake my head.

  “Car graveyard. You can’t see through a car, plus no surprise raccoons.”

  “Good point. Car graveyard it is.”

  There are at least twenty cars, a camper, and a few small boats out here, all rusted through on flat tires. I head between two tall trucks and hate every moment of it. Finding new undies and toilet paper is now a top priority. Poor as my mom and I were, I never considered the frustrations of being homeless. I own literally nothing, outside of the clothes on my back and a couple of guns. Even my knitting bag got left behind in my old Valor truck. If I had it, I would be wiping with a ball of yarn, because that’s where I am in life.

  “So that sucked,” Gabriela says with a friendly smile as she emerges from beside an old camper.

  I nod. “All hail Valor.”

  “Y’all got anything to eat?”

  I shake my head. “We’ve been living on fast food, but we’re almost out of cash.”

  “Us too. You got a car?”

  “Yeah, that we’ve got.” She perks up, so I add, “But you’ll have a snake in your lap.”

  We use the last of our cash to buy crap off the discount bread shelf at Shop N Save. Turns out that eight dollars can buy a lot of messed-up cake. As Wyatt checks out, we fill our water bottles at the fountain and use the bathroom. I shove two rolls of toilet paper in the waistband of my jeans, under one of Wyatt’s hoodies. Walking out between the security scanners, I wait for someone to tackle me, to call the cops. I expect to see Valor suits blocking the doors.

  But very little has changed in the capital of capitalism. Business as usual. There are definitely more men than women around, and I don’t see a single kid or baby. Everyone at this Shop N Save always looks desperate, but now they look desperate and wary. How many of them have seen neighbors gunned down? How many have heard the Valor voice mail after calling 911? Whatever they know, they need food as much as we do, so they’re here, selling and buying. Just like Valor wants them to be.

  We drive back to the house in the woods and eat a ton of stale cake with our hands, since nobody thought about forks and the kitchen was ransacked long ago. I take a walk with Matty deep into the woods and crap behind a log, expecting something horrible to happen all the while. It’s like The Walking Dead, basically. Thank heavens for Shop N Save’s single-ply toilet paper.

  Most of the day, honestly, is spent fidgeting. No one knows what to do, but no one wants to talk about it. Every time someone tries to start a conversation, it just tapers off like we’re all waiting for a phone to ring, listening for some far-off sound. By the time we need to leave for the Citizens for Freedom meeting, I’ve learned that the kid I shot is named Kevin and that Chance and Gabriela are the closest things I have to friends now. Chance is kind of a dick to everyone but cool to Gabriela, and Gabriela is cool to everyone and hates to be called Gabby. Wyatt and Matty, of course, are family now.

  Sometime in the afternoon I realize that I left my gun sitting out by the sleeping bag and no one took it. Maybe trusting them is actually the right choice and not just me buying off my guilt.

  There are five of us in Wyatt’s Lexus, all silent and tense on the way to the meeting. I guess I lied about the snake. Wyatt left the aquarium at the old house and brought Monty along, tied up in a pillowcase in his backpack so he won’t get cold and die in an empty house with no electricity for his lamps or whatever. Here is my advice: If you’re ever on the run from the government, don’t bring your pets. Especially not the creepy ones.

  Matty is in back, wedged between Chance’s knees and the front seats, her tail beating my elbow. Kevin is strained and pale, and we all know he needs medical help, and soon. We didn’t have enough money to buy spare shorts or Bactine at the store, so it’s just water and pills, water and pills. Maybe the Citizens for Freedom will have a doctor. Or some antibiotic ointment, at least. We tried stopping by the vet who helped Matty, but a sign on the door said CASH ONLY, AND ABSOLUTELY NO HUMANS, so we kept driving.r />
  The meeting is supposed to be at Bear Creek High School, which is down a road that hasn’t seen much action since the school closed when I was little. The asphalt is falling apart, and the streetlights are spotty. Red brake lights ahead tell us we’re not the only ones here. A guy in a reflective yellow vest points us to the side, like at a concert, and we turn off the road and park the Lexus in an overgrown parking lot. Figures hurry toward the school, and I can feel my heart beating in my ears as we get out of the car and slam the doors. I have Matty tied up with a chunk of rope from one of the boats at the old house—I couldn’t leave her there alone, so I can only hope we can pass her off as a service dog, if service dog laws still exist. She’s way too excited to be of any actual service.

  Kevin grunts with every painfully slow step, and Chance finally sighs in annoyance and picks the smaller kid up, carrying him like a baby. Wyatt is suddenly at my side, tall and solid, his backpack over his shoulder. My gun is flat against my back—Chance was okay with trading, once his had bullets too. There’d better not be a metal detector, because I’ll turn around and walk right back out. Everything I saw in Alistair Meade’s trailer tells me that this group, the Citizens for Freedom, or whatever they call themselves, is legit, but up until a few days ago, I thought that Valor Savings Bank and the police were legit. When you don’t know what’s real anymore, it’s always better to have a loaded gun.

  Whatever history they have, Wyatt and Chance seem like they’re on the same team right now. Wyatt’s in front, Chance is in back, both in gorilla mode with Gabriela and me between them. Everyone’s twitchy. I subtly move my gun around to my hip in case I need to draw it. Carrying my Valor gun feels right tonight, but everything feels so wrong. Now that we’re around people, I’m twitchy and raw, an exposed nerve. My skinny jeans feel like a layer of hardened sweat, and I know I look and smell as bad as I feel.

  Another guy in a yellow vest is guiding people to an open set of double doors, and it’s fucking terrifying. There are no outside lights, but an extension cord shows a chain of lanterns going in, almost like we’re descending into a cave. It doesn’t even look like a high school; it looks like the pit to hell. I would’ve gone to Bear Creek, but they closed it and built Big Creek when I was a kid. It was a big deal—what to do with this land. For whatever reason, no one was allowed to get rid of it and build parks or houses, so here it is, a broke-down school that’s been empty for ten years. The guy by the doors has an assault rifle, which sets my blood cold.

  “G’won in,” he says with a thick Southern accent.

  Wyatt turns to meet Chance’s eyes, and I can almost read the conversation.

  What the hell are we going in to?

  Can it possibly be worse than where we’re coming from?

  Too late. More people are behind us with more headlights turning in all the time, and we don’t have a lot of choice. It reminds me of being in line for a roller coaster. By the time you decide you don’t want to ride it, they’re already snapping down the harness.

  We step into the hallway, and the scent is what hits me first—mildew and animal piss overlying that same weird smell that every school has that tells you you’re in trouble, or at least that you’re going to be miserable for a while. The classroom doors are closed, their glass windows pitch-black. All we have to guide us is the string of lanterns, one every twelve feet or so.

  The lights lead us around a corner toward the sound of a crowd trying to be quiet. A line of people waits at a set of double doors, and at first I can’t place the swoopy robot sound.

  “Metal detectors? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wyatt murmurs, and my gun feels red-hot against my skin. I’ll run before I let them take it from me.

  “You’re clean. Find a seat,” says the woman holding the wand, and then it’s our turn.

  “We’re not giving up our guns,” Wyatt says quietly, and the woman barks a smoker’s laugh.

  “Then maybe y’all deserve to live,” she says. “You can keep your guns. We’re checking for wires and tech. Gotta make sure Valor ain’t listening in. Arms out, please.”

  Wyatt holds his arms out, and the woman swoops the loop over him. It bings loudly when it hits his backpack, and she gives him a sharp look.

  “What are you carrying, son?”

  Wyatt shakes his head, furious. “Nothing from Valor.”

  A bearded guy in his forties who looks a little like a bear yanks the pack off Wyatt’s arm. “You’d better hope that’s not what it sounds like, kid,” he says, all gruff menace. I take a step toward Wyatt, wanting to comfort him or defend him, and the guy with the beard stops me with a hand. He looks at me closely, eyebrows drawn down. “Stand back, honey. You don’t want to get hurt.”

  Another guy shows up and points to his eyes, then his gun. I’m watching you. Kevin starts to quietly cry, and Gabriela mutters, “Goddammit.”

  As the first guy opens the backpack, the second guy points his gun on Wyatt, who reflexively puts up his hands. “That’s not necessary, man. We’re on your side,” he says, as if that’s not exactly what you would say if you weren’t on their side.

  “Oh, shit. Where’d you get these?”

  The bearish guy holds up Alistair’s laptops, and I glare daggers at Wyatt. We never talked about them, but I assumed the laptops were in the trunk of the car or maybe back at the house. We couldn’t figure out the code, and then we got too busy putting up with our new friends and trying to stay alive on eight dollars to worry about a bunch of green numbers on a black screen.

  But we’re busted. There’s no point in lying to someone who has a bigger gun.

  “From a guy who went by the name Alistair Meade,” I say. “Same place we got this flyer.” I reach for my pocket, and the gun swings to face me.

  “Slowly, girl.” The guy with the gun is a big country boy with crazy eyes.

  I nod and—slowly—hand the bearded guy a poorly folded piece of paper, one from the stack of hundreds I found in Alistair’s trailer, along with a ton of maps, notes, and a list of the names of local kids who would make good Valor assassins. He reads it and looks at me carefully from a nest of black hair and mustache and beard streaked with gray.

  “What’s the story?” he asks. But not Wyatt—he asks me.

  “Valor showed up at my house. Alistair was on my list. He told me to look in his trailer. I—we—didn’t mean to shoot him. It was an accident. He told me the password before he—” I gulp down a cold stone of fear and regret, remembering that moment. “We just want to help. I swear.”

  After considering me for a few moments, he nods and says, “Get Leon,” to the smoker. He tosses the pack back to Wyatt but holds on to all three laptops. “You got anything else we need to know about?”

  Wyatt groans. “I’ve still got a Valor credit card. Does that count?”

  “It very much counts, if you want to stay alive. Hand it over. Again, slowly.”

  I look back at Chance and Gabriela and join them in giving Wyatt the Death Glare. This is not the way I wanted to start out with the group that might be our only allies. Wyatt pulls out his beat-up chain wallet and holds out his card, and the guy pulls something out of his own pocket—looks like a battery pack. He runs it over the card both ways, throws the card in a box with dozens of others, and nods at the woman with the wand, who runs it over Wyatt again. No beep.

  “You’re in. But sit up front. We’ll have questions for you after,” the guy says. I must look as terrified and trapped as I feel, because he gives me a small, quick smile and adds, “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.”

  Wyatt waits as the rest of us pass the boop test, and we all sit where the guy told us to, because what else are we going to do? It’s weird to sit on gym bleachers again, and the wood creaks with every movement. Nobody said anything about Matty, although they did scan her with the wand. A couple other people in the crowd have dogs, and one lady has a beaver-sized cat on a leash. Our area is mostly kids, ranging from country boys in overalls to prep kids
to this tiny little blond girl who looks like she’s ten. I’m between Wyatt and Gabriela, and although I didn’t want these three jerks to show up at our hideout last night, I’m glad I’m not one of the confused loners. It feels safer to be in the middle of my herd. Wyatt reaches into his backpack and pulls out Monty, rolling the pillowcase between his hands without actually releasing the snake.

  “Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. “I forgot. I just wanted to keep the laptops safe.”

  “It’s fine. We weren’t getting anything out of them anyway.”

  But I’m pretty pissed, and I know he can feel it.

  As I look around, I decide we’re probably going to get ax murdered. The old gym is lit up with bright, cold lights like the kind they use to work on the roads at night. The corners are strung with cobwebs, and old decorations hang dejectedly from the walls, hearts and graying doilies, like there was a massacre at the Valentine’s Day dance and they just locked up the building forever. The stage has glittery red bunting around it, the curtain halfway pulled and black beyond. I can detect movement on the stage, but not clearly.

  There must be at least a hundred people in here with even more entering after the wand does its work. I look over every time it beeps, and I mostly just see confiscated credit cards getting deactivated and chucked in the box. Does that mean Valor can track a body with a credit card even if they’re not using it? Jesus. Nobody ever mentions that in the TV ads.

  A spotlight blasts on, bathing the stage in light. A thin man stands there alone before a podium, but it’s clear that he’s no high school principal or teacher. The dude is utterly self-possessed, oozing confidence. He’s thin, wearing an overcoat and rolled jeans over boots, with the Southern version of a lumbersexual look, faded hair that’s long on top but shaved on the sides and a well-kept beard; he’s in his forties, probably. And he looks like he’d smile at you, so sweetly, and put ten rounds in your chest. I’m terrified of him—and fascinated by him. This must be how cobras die when they’re staring at mongooses. Mongeese? Shit.