Radical (10 page)

“Mark!” I yell after him, but it’s no use.

I put away the leftovers and wash the dishes, piling them high on the drain board to dry. Sometimes slamming a cabinet or drawer just to feel better.

I can hear Uncle Skip join Mom and Dad on the porch, and smell his pipe after a while.

When Uncle Skip comes inside, he gets a glass out of the cabinet and some ice out of the freezer.

“You’re going to join this Clearview, too?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

He hands me the glass to fill from the tap. “I know that you’re worried about the future. That you think there’s going to be some big war or plague or something. I know the training is important to you. Just don’t be so ready to throw your lot in with strangers, okay? At least until you get a better idea who they are.”

“Okay.” I smile at his grumbly face.

“I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

“I know,” I say.

“You be careful.”

I just nod.

When I’m about done, Mom comes back inside. I know I’m sulking, but I can’t make my face stop.

“Look,” Mom says, grabbing my arm before I can leave the kitchen. “When training was you and your father and Mark camping out and shooting some, well . . .” She thought it was like Girl Scouts. “But the sneaking around, the packs, the . . . blowing stuff up. It’s scaring me.
You’re
scaring me. But I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to see what about this, the training, makes you happy. Your father says there are nice girls in this club. That would be nice, right? Having girls who like what you like?” She rubs my arm. “You’ve been isolated out here, no friends, not even school with the distance learning — maybe this will be good.”

I want to rant at her about how this isn’t for fun, it’s not what I “like”— that this is serious and that maybe, hopefully, those girls are more like me than Hannah. That I’d take strong over nice.

“So, we’ll give this a try,” she continues. “And I’ll try to keep more of an open mind.” I stare at her face, waiting for the
but
. “And since I’m meeting you partway, I want
you
to keep an open mind about school. And read the books. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, and she pulls me into a loose hug.

Upstairs, I unpack my backpack, carefully unrolling the shirt I used to wrap up the bundle from Boyd.

A lot of people probably think Boyd’s a loser. But he’s never treated me like a kid, or a girl. He talks to me about stuff and listens when I talk. He has skills. I had him on my unofficial MAG list, if the shit hit the fan and I had to assemble one on the fly.

Now he’s headed to Montana. That’s one less person who might have my back. One less person who might help me get my family to safety.

Maybe my last friend.

I take a few minutes to look at the Bobcat properly. To hold it in my hand. I wish I could carry it all the time, the weight of it just enough to be a comfort at my hip or ankle. Not yet.

I double-check to make sure it’s unloaded and then wedge myself between the wall and the dresser so that I can slide the boxes of ammo and the Bobcat behind and under the dresser. No one else is small enough to get back there, even if they go snooping. It’s fine for now.

Tomorrow, when everyone’s out, I’ll hide them under the floorboards in my closet, with the rest of my stash.

Clearview has been busy. There’s now a sign, small but official, just before the turnoff. And there’s a new gate. A stronger, more serious gate, one that is closed across the road. And now there is barbed wire on top of the gate, and on top of the fence from the gate to where it disappears into the trees. Dad punches a code into a keypad in the center of a metal box and waits, staring at the gate. When nothing happens, he tries again. Still nothing. After a few clicks and a beep, static, and then, “Yeah?” an annoyed voice says.

“Uh, hi,” Dad says, leaning toward the metal box. “I tried the code, but —”

“Name?”

“David.” He leans a little closer and looks up, where I see a camera pointed toward the car. “Mullin. David Mullin,” he says again, friendlier. When still nothing happens, he says, “Oh, and my daughter, Bex. Rebecca, but she goes by Bex. I’m supposed to —”

A loud buzz and then the metallic clanking of the gate slowly sliding open in front of us.

“There we go,” Dad says, smiling at me. “Thank you!” he shouts toward the box.

After we drive through, the gate closes behind us. Locking us in.

There are more cars and trucks in the large gravel parking lot. And someone has added two more picnic tables. And a gazebo. White, with big open arches and low railings, like for parties. Kind of cheesy, really, especially next to the other buildings, including the new one that was just poles in the ground last time I was here.

Dad waves to someone. Two women walking into the new building pause and wave, but they don’t look very friendly.

Outside the truck I can hear some shots off in the distance, from more than one gun, different guns. Voices from somewhere nearby.

And another new sign, this one big and fancy. Carved wood, snooty enough for any rich-boy club.

We cross the grass, and by the time we’re walking across the road, I can see there are also more trucks and campers parked on the other side.

“Are there people living here now?”

“Camping out. Families on vacation. Members who’ve driven in for a few days. Some of the young people who have the summer off. Work crews. We hope to have some shelters up by winter. It’s starting to come together.”

He smiles like he had a part in it. Not like he just got here less than a month ago. On a guest pass. A charity pass.

“You were the one saying we needed to train harder, right?” Dad asks. “Take preparation more seriously? I didn’t get it until Jim laid out their heightened response plans. You were right,” he says, glancing at me. “We
do
need to be more serious.”

Serious is good. But are they
really
serious? Serious about training, about being organized and prepared? So far this is all still just buildings and talk about squads and organization and more serious prep. And Dad talks about Riggs and the other men like they’re his friends. Mark, too. The guy with the MAG in Virginia says screw friendship — select your members based on maximum survival, for what each can offer the group. How does Clearview choose? Can anyone buy in if they have enough money? And if membership
is
about money, and we don’t have any, then what do we have that they want?

We walk past the first building. Dad says hellos to the people we pass. They mostly nod or say hello back, but it’s forced. They’re distracted by my hair.

“Good morning,” Riggs says, coming out of one of the buildings and walking down the steps. Dad stands up straighter, grins bigger. His new best friend.

“Hello, Shelley, Myrt,” Riggs says to two women passing by.

Then we’re just standing there, Riggs smiling, waiting for what, I don’t know. “So, Bex,” he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Usually when Dad goes anywhere with me, he looks down or to the side and keeps a body’s space between us. He doesn’t look at my head, except when someone else does, and then he’s embarrassed all over again. But now he has a hand on my shoulder. I’m Riggs-approved, and he’s proud. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“Are you going to the open training session?” Riggs asks me.

“Yes,” Dad says. “I was going to walk Bex over and then check in with Steven.”

“I know where it is,” I say.

“You sure?” Dad asks.

“Yeah. I can find my way there.”

“I’ll meet you back at the lot after,” Dad says.

“Excellent. Then we can get to work,” Riggs says.

By the time I make my way out to the range, they’re already readying to shoot. Most of them are clustered around the first six firing points, with Carl and Karen supervising. But Randy has a small group all the way at the other end of the range, guys and girls.

“You’re with Randy,” Carl says when I start toward his group. Karen gives me a welcoming nod, but Cammie looks through me like I’m not even there.

In a lot of ways, it’s just like last time I was here, at least for my group. Randy makes everyone start with rifles and prone, even though a few of them are over eighteen and last time we were allowed to stand or sit. I glance at the other firing points. The others are shooting more or less independently, with Carl and Karen offering only tips and corrections. They’re upright and selecting their own targets. But there are more of us now. Maybe Randy’s nervous at the numbers, or maybe someone made him nervous at one of the sessions I missed.

“We’re going to be moving on to other weapons and exercises in the coming weeks,” says Randy. “I just want to be sure everyone is ready.”

So Randy
is
evaluating us. When it’s my turn, he gets close and watches every move I make. Even more intent than Carl was last time.

I take a deep breath and then smoothly run through my safety checks and setup. I’m confident in my skills. He needs to see that I know what I’m doing. Once he gives me the go-ahead, I try to block him out and shoot. Maybe not my best accuracy, but smooth, easy, and better than the rest of them. After prone, we repeat sitting, kneeling, and standing. When I show clear on my last round, Randy gives me a curt “Good.”

There’s one more to go in my group. Instead of watching him, I inch over so I can watch Cammie shoot. And then a girl with short hair. Karen steps in to give her some correction, but it’s about accuracy, not safety. Karen’s good: encouraging but correcting. And she can flat-out shoot. Maybe I should have just joined her group last time. I assumed the girls wouldn’t be as serious. They are, or at least most of them are, and they probably don’t ever have the wannabes to deal with.

“Bex.”

Randy’s standing there with two of the others. I walk back over to them.

“You three are cleared for all of the open training sessions. Bex,” he says, holding me up as the others go over to where their friends are, “there are a few sessions and drills that will use handguns. Those will be marked on the schedule. You can have a parent attend, or you can observe. We’ll work you in as much as we can with a long gun or at least positioning, once we move on to maneuvers. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. The “sir” was a good move. Randy’s pleased.

“Good shooting today. See you next week.” From Randy, that’s like a personal invitation.

A group of the older guys, with Daniel at the front, intercepts Randy as soon as he moves away from us. Lobbying, I’d say. I can’t really hear, until one of them says, “But we can start that
now
. We don’t need this stuff,” he says, pointing toward the rest of the group. “We can train as a patrol unit now, and then patrol the land, look for trespassers, and map —”

“We already have surveyors and —”

“Then on a trial basis,” one of the others says.

“Hey,” Randy says. “You can take it up with Riggs if you want, but he was clear. Under twenty-one, you’re here. At least for now.” Again with the “for now.”

“But we shouldn’t have to be with the children,” one of them says.

“And you’re not,” Randy counters. “Sixteen and older, and there are at least two sixteen-year-olds who could probably outshoot half of you. Now, you want your own sessions? Recruit more members. But for now, it’s this or you’re on your own.”

“Sucks,” I hear Mark say behind me.

“Only three percent,” I hear Wannabe say, just like Mark. He’s even using that stupid three-finger gesture. “The next time, we’re going to need . . .”

He parrots the same spiel Mark’s been doing lately. Wannabe drones on and on about how no one is telling him what he can shoot, and how not even Riggs is telling him he can’t carry — next year, when he’s old enough for a permit — and police states, and how the next “war” is going to start with someone like him stepping up and blah, blah, blah. These guys don’t know anything. Not about what would really happen if the shit hit the fan. Yet here they are, talking their bullshit about how they will “light the match.” Like they would know what to do once the world was on fire. And then they think what, they’re just going to come here and hunker down? Total BS.

“What did you say? Hey,” Wannabe says. “Hey!”

I look up. He’s pointing at me.

“What?”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Zach,” one of the others says, trying to pull him away.

“Bullshit, nothing,” Zach says, moving closer. “You said ‘Total BS.’”

I look at Zach, at the guys around him.

Mark’s not there anymore. He’s over by Daniel, not paying any attention.

“Too chickenshit to say it to my face?” Zach asks.

Okay. “It’s bullshit to think your big survival plan is getting here.”

They stare at me.

“Right now, there’s nothing here to sustain more than a few people long-term. No shelters. No food. No organization. This place isn’t remote enough to be safe long-term.”

“So we go somewhere else,” Zach says.

“How?”

“We’ve got trucks.”

“Damn right,” the tall kid says. “Fully loaded. Or will be.”

Will be. Typical. “When? You can’t know when a crisis scenario will erupt. And if a massive four-wheel-drive truck stocked to the rims is your ‘bug out’ plan,” I say, with finger quotes, “then you’re done. Roads might be barricaded, clogged, or unsafe. And trucks are loud. Especially when the ambient noise dies down. There’d be no finesse or stealth to them.”