Dad pulled around the back of the building near the service entrance where there was a narrow stretch of cracked asphalt, a half-full dumpster, silent AC units, and not much else. To our right was an expanse of slightly overgrown lawn roughly two acres wide.
“Looks like a good spot,” I said. Dad agreed. He drove the Humvee over the curb, parked, and got out.
The old man—who really was not old at all—opened the back so I could crawl inside and dig out our two rubber-tipped practice spears. When I tossed him his full-length faux weapon, he caught it one handed, spun it deftly around his body, and assumed a fighting stance, knees slightly bent, haft close to his hips, rubber tip pointed in my direction.
My own weapon was only half as long, the handle shortened to my specifications. The blade on the end of mine was wider, heavier, and longer than the one my father wielded, although also formed of the same vulcanized rubber. I held it with my hand choked near the blade, the bulk of the handle protruding over my shoulder. In the years since I’d developed this unique fighting style, Dad had never quite sorted out all my tricks.
“You’re too traditional,” I said for the umpteenth time as we circled each other. “Too stiff. You need to innovate.”
“Don’t worry, kid,” he said, a determined look on his face. “I’ll figure you out yet.”
“Why are we still fighting with spears anyway?” I asked. “Wouldn’t knives or machetes make more sense?”
The answer was predictable; I had heard it a thousand times. “Spears were the infantry rifle of the ancient world,” he said. “You’ve probably read volumes about swords, but the truth is spears were the deciding factor in countless battles throughout history. They’re easy to forge, durable, and extend a warrior’s reach by meters without requiring an undue amount of resources to manufacture. Swords, axes, and maces are pretty to look at, but spears, halberds, and billhooks were the preferred weapons of the soldiers of old. And with good reason.”
I nodded along, too tired to argue the merits of modern weapons over ancient. “All right then. Let’s see what you got.”
I barely had time to dodge the tip of his weapon as it whipped past my head. One second my father was standing twelve feet away, and the next he had closed the distance, his spear extended in a two-handed grip. Dad was many things, but slow was not one of them.
Fortunately for me, my boxing coach always insisted I learn and practice the fundamentals of head movement. It is less about being fast than it is about understanding body mechanics, watching your opponent, and knowing where the next attack is coming from. My dad was a competent boxer, among other fighting styles, but he did not start as early as I did. The muscle memory was not as deeply ingrained in him as it was in me. So when he swept the spear to the side after missing with the initial thrust, I had already ducked it and circled away.
“Nice,” he said, grinning. He adjusted his footwork and began closing in on my right. I switched my spear to the other side, having long ago learned the value of being able to fight with either hand.
Keeping my head low and my feet moving, I harassed him with eerie-looking over-the-shoulder thrusts with my spear’s shortened handle, aimed at batting his weapon aside.
“How the hell do you do that?” he muttered, backing off. “It’s like you have a scorpion tail or some shit.”
Rather than answer, I used the distraction to aim a kick at the mid-point of his spear shaft, closed the distance, whipped my weapon forward, and let it slide through my hand. When I felt the slightly flared pommel hit the edge of my palm, I ducked, leapt forward, switched hands, and rolled to my right.
As expected, my father predicted the kick and the thrust, and was ready with a counter-attack. He let his arms go limp to absorb the blow to the spear, executed a spin move like a dancer’s pirouette, and slashed at the spot where my head should have been.
But I wasn’t there.
Instead, the last second dive-and-roll had allowed me to pop up behind him and gently press the blunted rubber edge of my practice spear to his kidney. “Checkmate,” I said.
“I hope you enjoyed that,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “It’s the last time you’ll get away with it.”
He whipped his spear through a blurring figure-eight motion, nearly knocking my weapon out of my hands and forcing me back a few steps. He pressed the attack, the wooden hafts of our spears clacking loudly against one another. Seven moves later I lay on my back, disarmed, the point of my father’s practice weapon aimed at my throat.
“Okay,” I chuckled. “Point taken.”
“No pun intended?” He helped me to my feet, smiling broadly.
We faced each other, bowed, and set to in earnest.
No more messing around.
An hour later, we had fought twenty bouts. I won nine. Two were a draw. That put us even. Dad called a halt to the action, leaning heavily on his spear, breath coming quickly. I tossed my weapon to the ground and put my hands on my knees. There was a swelling over Dad’s right eye where I had caught him with an elbow in an attempt to knock him off balance. It didn’t work, and he had skewered me in the ribs for my trouble. The attack left a bruise under my arm I would feel for a week. Other than that, a few minor scrapes aside, we were uninjured.
“You’re getting better,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just slowing down.”
I stood up and stretched, feeling a few vertebrae pop back into place. “If this is what you look like slow,” I said, “I’d hate to have fought you in your prime.”
We both jumped when we heard clapping behind us. Spinning around, I spotted Morgan standing on a second-floor balcony, applauding.
“Nice work, fellas,” he called down. “That was some hard-core kung fu shit. The hell did you learn how to do that?”
I smiled and was about to say something witty, but then I caught my father’s disapproving glare from the corner of my eye. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked, irritation in his voice.
Morgan held up his hands. “Sorry, man, didn’t mean to snoop. The clickity-clacking woke me up. Came outside to see what the noise was all about.”
Dad glared a moment longer, then motioned for me to get in the Humvee. “Come on. Let’s go check on the others.”
I gave Morgan an apologetic shrug, then followed.
“What was that all about?” I asked as we drove away. In response, rather than driving toward the brewery, Dad pulled down a side street and stopped. He left the engine running, the air conditioner laboring against the increasing temperature outside.
“Caleb, there are a few facts of life you need to understand,” he said. “Things I’ve never discussed with you because I didn’t think it would be necessary.”
“Okay,” I said warily. “Like what?”
Dad breathed out through his nose, staring frustratedly out the window. I thought about Lauren, and the trouble he’d been having with her, the tension and arguments and distance between them, and my heart went out to him.
“Dad,” I said gently. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
He kept his gaze averted for a while, then said, “Caleb, you don’t understand who and what you are. What you represent. What you’re capable of.”
“Okay …”
He reached out and closed his calloused fingers over my forearm with a grip like iron. My father was not a big man, but his strength was a force of nature, muscles hard as oak rippling under sun-browned skin.
“All the training you’ve had,” he said, “the skills you’ve learned … it’s rare, Caleb. It makes you dangerous. People like us, people who can do the things we can do, we’re going to be in high demand very soon. There will be factions vying to round up as many of us as they can get their hands on. The world we knew is over, now. A new world is being born, and it is going to be a dark and violent place. There are people out there who will try to use you if they can. You can’t let them. Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. People will try to make a tool out of you. Bend you to their will. If they can’t win you over with charm, they’ll find some leverage, some way to hurt you. They will try to own you. Believe me, son. I know.”