Radical (14 page)

“Problem?” Cammie asks, right next to me instead of back by the others, maybe because Karen is sticking close to JoJo.

“Actually, yeah,” I say. “I can’t get my left arm right.”

She studies me. “Give it here,” she says. She takes the rifle, pushes the stock in a notch, and then hands it back. “Try that.”

I adjust my firing hand, move my left hand back a little, and try again. It’s better. Not quite there yet, but better. “Thanks,” I say.

She barely acknowledges it and steps back. Not all the way back, but enough so she’s not right on top of me.

I shake them all off and just practice. I focus on my hands and arms, sight down the barrel at the uppermost target, and pull the trigger. The snap doesn’t have the force of an actual shot. I pull back the charging handle and then sight on a different target, again adjusting my arms and body, sighting and then pulling the trigger. Over and over, different targets, focusing on how it feels. I look up and Cammie is watching me, with no smirk or sneer, and then just a twitch of a nod.

“Ready?” Cammie asks.

And then Randy calls, “Clear downrange.”

I insert the magazine and slap it home. Then I slap the bolt release to chamber a round and pull back on the charging handle just enough to see the chambered round. I get my elbows and arms and all in position, sight down to the targets, adjust, and then wait for Carl’s okay.

I glance over at JoJo, to my right, to see if she and Karen have their earmuffs in place, and then down the line to the others. We’re all ready. The signal comes from Carl, and the pops start around me. I take my time, focus on the targets, and everyone else fades away. It’s just me and the sight down the barrel at the first target, nearly level with me and straight ahead. I squeeze off my first round. There’s almost no kick at all, and I squeeze off two more, but I can see they were way off. I adjust my body, then reposition to shoot. I adjust my support hand and then concentrate on the largest center target. This time the feel of the shot and recoil is familiar, and I focus on the targets. One, then another. I run through my mag without interruption, eject it, and slap in the second. Then Cammie hands me a third, already loaded. When we break to reload, Cammie resets some of my targets to give me different angles and distances, just like she and Karen do for each other.

When I’m done, I hold position with the gun pointed down toward the dirt while the others finish. When Carl calls the range cold, I eject the last magazine, check the chamber, and engage the safety. Karen collects my rifle and checks it again, to be sure, before moving over to the storage locker on the back of the ATV.

I put my gear away and then pour some water over my neck and the side of my head, use the water to slick my hair away from my face, and wipe my face and hands with a bandanna. I’ll need a shower as soon as I get home.

“Good job,” Carl says. “All of you.”

Cammie and Karen are walking back to get their lunches, and it’s easy as anything to just fall in beside them.

“What are you doing Monday?” Karen asks. “Bex?”

“Oh, me?” Karen nods, while ignoring Cammie’s look. “I have to work.”

“How late? Some of us are meeting out here around six to try the new crossbows,” she says. “Just us, not all the idiots. Come on out, if you want.”

“I don’t think I can get a ride.”

“Where do you work?” Karen asks. “I can probably swing by and get you.”

I tell her, and we exchange numbers.

“Stop pouting,” Karen says, bumping Cammie’s shoulder while we walk. “One more won’t make a difference. You can have the compound bow, and the rest of us can share the others.”

Karen’s playing with a green-tip bullet she found near the table, nowhere near where those guys were told green-tips are banned.

“I wish they’d get rid of those guys,” Cammie says. “It was better before they started recruiting all these jerks.”

“Why don’t they?” I ask. “I mean, at least Devon and Neal.”

“Riggs,” they both say.

“He’s big into giving people a chance,” Cammie says. “Building the membership.”

I can’t help but feel she’s got me, and maybe my whole family, lumped into that category.

“What happened?” Uncle Skip asks, grabbing my arm so I can’t get away.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Like hell.” He touches my jaw with one finger, turning my face to look at the scratches and bruised cheek. “Your dad seen this?”

“Yeah.” I pull free and continue to the front counter.

“And?” Uncle Skip asks, following me.

“And what?” I say, sitting down and getting ready to take the messages off voice mail. “I tripped during training. No big deal.”

Except I tripped over Zach’s foot, so, not so much of an accident. But to call him out would be to play right into his hands. Besides, I beat all those assholes on the timed hike and successfully evaded them on the scouting exercise. All in all, I’m fine with it.

“I’m fine. Really. Just training.” Serious training. If only they focused more on survival and mobile readiness, it would be perfect training. But it’s better than nothing, and Riggs does seem to be adding more skills training.

“Just be careful.” I roll my eyes, but he catches my sleeve. “I’m serious. I don’t like you out there messing around with those wackos. Whole lot of them are wackadoodle, if you ask me.”

“Is that the technical term?”

“You know what I mean.”

I know he thinks they’re crazy or dangerous. I’ve heard him and Dad, what passes for heart-to-hearts between brothers who have spent a lifetime mastering nonverbal communication with each other. But the people at Clearview aren’t crazy or dangerous, not even Devon and them. They’re not afraid to think practically about ammo rationing and regulations, to be planning now for the next phase of disarmament, or to organize into training units. I would be happier if they were primarily about mobility, but I get that for now they’re focused on getting the club ready and recruiting. Not sure I like that people — maybe whole families — can just buy in if they have enough money, without any proof they have skills or can learn. Every good MAG and group out there says to be wary of leeches with money. But more paying members means more facilities, more equipment, better ranges, and better preparation. It makes sense, so long as you don’t take on more dead weight than you can handle.

Dad’s happy to have Riggs’s attention. Stupid happy, like he’s got a new best friend. More and more meetings he has to go to. More and more certain that a paycheck — a “good one”— is right around the corner. Riggs’s hand on his shoulder when they walk together.

Mark’s all in. He looks more in every time I see him, which is only when we run into each other out there, since he’s crashing with some of the guys now. Puffed up with how cool and in he is — and I’m not. He acts like he doesn’t even know me. Like he’s finally, finally moved past me, or like he’s won.

People still stare at me when I’m out there. I can feel them watching sometimes, even when I don’t see anyone, like on the walk from the parking area, past the buildings to the trails.

I know there are probably training sessions happening beyond the open sessions. I’m not sure when or where, how official they are. For all I know, none of the girls are allowed. Maybe that’s how they’re placating the guys.

The bell rings and I look up. Another shiny tourist SUV and two over-dressed richies out for an afternoon drive. Inside, they blink in the dimness, look around like they were expecting some big fancy store. She needs the bathroom. He needs directions. She comes out, scowling, coating herself in hand sanitizer like even the soap and water were dirty. He studies the drink case. She browses the snacks. She’s scrutinizing the labels, frowning and muttering. He’s ready to go.

Ultimately she decides on Twizzlers, which makes no sense after whining about the “additives” in the granola bars. They continue to talk like I’m not there. He prepays for gas, and I can’t imagine what this leisurely drive will cost. They’re miles from home, and that thing gets no more than fourteen miles per gallon highway. Less in the city, where they probably live.

I watch them drive away, knowing they are asleep. By the time something wakes them up, it’ll be too late. Their money will be useless. That shiny SUV will be an albatross. Their fancy clothes and need for comfort and fear of hunger will cripple them. They’d last a week if they could hide at home. Less if they’re caught out.

For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m in this alone, like I’ve got to research and plan because no one else is. Clearview may look like a club, but at least some of them are thinking like a MAG. Maybe better than a MAG.

While I’m on hold with one of the suppliers, trying to find a part for Mike, the bell dings. I’m all ready to be helpful until I see Mark and Zach.

Mark struts in like he owns the place. Every time I seem him, he’s strutting harder — makes me want to trip him. His too-cool routine is getting old.

“Where’s Skip?” Mark asks.

“
Uncle
Skip is under the Chevy in the first bay. Why?”

“None of your business.” Mark puffs up bigger, like whatever he’s here for is important, like he’s on a mission.

“What’s your problem?”

“No problem,” he says, but he looks smug, like he knows something I don’t know. He wants me to ask. He used to do this when we were kids, pretend to know some big secret, but refuse to tell. Made me nuts. He knows it makes me nuts.

“Zach, have a pop or something. I’ll be right back.”

Zach makes like he’s going to jump at me, and then snort-laughs like he’s hysterical. He wanders around, picking up one thing and then another.

“You going to buy anything?” I ask.

He knocks a whole row of snacks off the shelf. “Oops,” he says, stepping over it all with a slight hesitation, like he was going to step on them.

I can hear Mark in back, but the supplier comes on the line, and I have to pay attention to ordering the part. I try to keep an eye on Zach and watch the door. Mark’s been back there too long, given that Uncle Skip’s in the service area.

Mark comes out with a bag and hands it to Zach. There’s a six-pack of pop sticking out the top, but also probably some of the beer Uncle Skip has in back for poker night and when he and Mike have to do paperwork after hours. “Take this out while I talk to Skip.” Maybe something else, too. The bag is bulging and heavy, not just two six-packs and snacks. It’s solid and full. Mark takes a cold can of pop from the case, opens it, and takes a gulp.

“You gonna pay for any of that?” I ask, playing along like it’s just pop and snacks.

“Shut up.” Mark pretends to toss the can of pop at me, and then laughs when I react. He laughs all the way to the service bays.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark bursts back through the door, slamming it into the wall. He forces a smirk when he sees me looking and resumes his strut, but it’s for show. For Zach. He’s pissed.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says into a cell I’ve never seen before. “It’s handled. I . . .”

When did he get a new cell? He’s out the door, still talking, but I can’t hear. He stands there in the parking lot for another few seconds and then flips the phone the bird before shoving it in his pocket. He climbs back into Zach’s truck. Zach stares at me through the window, letting me know he can see me watching them, and then he guns the engine and peels out of the lot.

Mark’s whole “handled” bit leaves a weight in my stomach. What was in the bag? I could ask Uncle Skip what Mark wanted, but he’s back under the Chevy, so not now.

A few people come by to pick up their cars and trucks, and then Uncle Skip pulls me in back to look up parts and codes so we can get stuff ordered before closing. When the bell rings that there’s a customer at the pumps, I jump up to check if they’re paying cash and see a familiar station wagon in the lot.

It’s like the air changes when she comes in the door, hot and cold and thin all at once, leaving me lightheaded. She’s wearing those perfectly worn-in jeans with a crisp white cotton shirt. She glances at the counter and then oh-so-casually around until she sees me and smiles. Not even hiding what she’s doing.

“Hey,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel as I walk toward the counter.

“Hi.” She touches her hair and then smooths her shirt down over her stomach. She’s soft under the shirt, breasts and curves and belly. I want to touch her, to run my fingers over her skin and see if my hand fits as perfectly above her hip as I think it will. “I’m gonna,” she says, pointing to the snacks. She touches candy bars and chips and, in between, her hair or her hips.

The more I watch, the slower she moves, the more her body moves over her legs, like the start of a dance. I should feel weird watching her. I should feel nervous, but I don’t. It’s like she gave me permission. Or I didn’t need it.

Finally she picks up some candy and walks back toward the front, even slower than before. My nerves kick in all at once.

She seems quieter, less silly than last time. But the way she looks at me, tucks her dark, curly hair behind her ear, it still feels like we’re doing something here.

“I have a burned-out taillight. What would it cost for you guys to fix it?”