“Wheeler!” you cry over the noise of the fans.
You’re expecting your grin returned, but as he runs over, you see his face is dark and afraid. He’s breathing heavy when he reaches you. “Keeper.” He sucks wind. “You gotta get out of here, man!”
“Huh?”
“You gotta leave. You need to take Rocky and Toby and get out.”
“Get out of where?”
“Outta the ’mart. Outta town. Just go.”
“Man, what are you talking about? You on something?”
“Just go.”
“Go where?”
“Wherever. Just don’t be here.”
“Casey, we ain’t even got a car. We got nowhere to go to. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
He looks away, the slanted sun lighting his face, and there are lines from a pillow, as if he’s just gotten out of bed. “I should’ve told you a while back, I just didn’t think Underwood was serious.”
Your stomach falls at the mention of this name. You’re suddenly aware of how little water you’ve had to drink that day. And it’s been so hot. “Told me what?”
“They’re coming down here. They’ve had this list for a while. I thought it was all bullshit, just a bunch of guys talking tough, but—I dunno, Dick’s always had it out for you.”
You can’t process everything he’s saying. “What list?”
“ ’Cause of Rocky. They don’t like that. They got a list of people. He showed it to me once. It’s like… if they ever get a chance to, you know—take care of folks.”
“Casey, what in the fuck does that mean? ‘Take care of’?”
Casey lifts his hat and scratches at the fuzz on his scalp. He went from running full-bore to now twisting his heel in the dirt like a shy kid who won’t cop to eating all the ice cream. Meanwhile, blood thunders in your temples.
“Just. Why’d you have to take up with that preacher, Keeper? You realize he’s a communist, right? That’s mostly what they’re pissed about. That’s who they wanted from the beginning.”
How much these rednecks know of what Andrade told you, hell, it doesn’t even matter. It was all crashing together one way or the other. You think of all the guns you saw in that shed at the compound. All the target practice. All the kids just shooting and waiting and itching.
“I didn’t think they were serious,” Casey pleads.
“Jesus Christ.” You can’t breathe. You feel like you’ve caught Toby’s asthma. “When are they coming?”
“That’s the thing. That’s kind of why I’m here.” He removes the cap again, scratches, replaces it. You snatch him by the collar, rage flooding.
“Motherfucker, quit dawdling your traitor fucking mouth and spit it out! When are they coming?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Dick called me. Asked where you was staying at. I said I didn’t know. But he asked about the Walmart. I said I didn’t think that’s where you were, but…”
You don’t wait for him to finish. You let go of his shirt and sprint through the roar of the fans.
Toby and Raquel are terrified. You tear the bags out of Raquel’s hands when she tries to pack, and you’re screaming at her that there’s no time, you have to leave right now, and Pierre comes over to try to calm you down, so you ask him for his gun, but he won’t give it to you. Raquel exchanges a look with Casey, who’s sheepishly followed you into the store. You sign to Toby, Take one toy, and he chooses a made-up dinosaur from the latest Jurassic Park xpere. He actually seems more in tune with the gravity of the situation than Raquel, who’s stomping her foot and refusing to leave, demanding answers that will simply take too long. Finally, you grab her by her cheeks and shake her head. You hiss into her face.
“They’re coming for us.”
She has no idea who you’re talking about, but the fear becomes a live current in her eyes, and this gets her moving. You grab one bag into which Toby has helpfully piled a few of his clothes and you lead them by the hand out of the Walmart. Outside, you pile into Casey’s old truck, all four of you stuffed into the bench seat, and you’re terrified of how fucking orange this thing is. You could spot it from space.
“Where are we going?” asks Casey.
“I don’t know, man, just get the fuck outta here, just drive.”
And he takes a left out of the crumbling asphalt of the parking lot.
“Keeper, what’s going on?” Raquel pleads.
Toby stares at his dinosaur, like he’s trying not to watch the lips of the adults.
“You’re scaring him,” says Raquel.
“You gotta tell me what the plan is here, buddy,” says Casey.
“You’re scaring me,” Raquel moans.
You’ve always hated coincidence. It feels wrong to you, not like God has a plan but like the devil has found the crack into which he can seep and saturate. Just when the Rev had warned you about them.
“Are they going after Andrade?” you ask Casey.
“What?” cries Raquel. “Who? Why?”
“If I had to guess,” says Casey.
Several notions flit through your head. You ask for Casey’s phone, but he’s never met Andrade and you don’t know the number. The Rev’s schedule is clockwork, though, so you know he’ll be at the church tonight. You search for the church’s number on the Web and dial. No answer. You try again with the same result. There are no good alternatives. “Pull up over here.” Casey does as he’s told. You grab him by his shoulder and look him in the eye. “Take Raquel and Toby. Go to the diner by the gas station on Route 16. You know the one?” He nods. “Stay there. If I don’t show up or call in an hour, you leave, okay? You take them anywhere but here.”
Raquel hits the roof. “What are you talking about?! Keeper, what the hell’s going on?”
“What are you gonna do?” Casey asks.
Toby is whimpering. Because he can’t hear his own crying, his moans are so very loud.
“I gotta warn him.”
“Who?” Raquel demands.
“Reverend Andrade. Casey’ll catch you up. I can’t just let him sit there.”
You pop the door handle and climb over Toby before she can object anymore. You pat him lightly on his cheek. “Be good for Mommy and Uncle Case. I’ll see you in a bit.” Then you fall, spilling out of the car and scraping your hand on the gravel. Getting to your feet, you motion for them to go as you break into a jog down a deserted street, trash like tumbleweeds, past abandoned homes disintegrating into nature.
You approach the Church of Christ from the field to the east, where a year and a half ago the reverend took you on a walk through the snow. By the time you get there, dark has fallen and you are soaked with sweat from your run across town. The outdoor floodlights that illuminate the church’s sign and steeple are dark, but the stained glass glows from within. You can also see the black SUVs turned sideways, acting as a roadblock to the parking entrance. Three more vehicles in the lot: two trucks and the reverend and Ginna’s minivan. You stand rooted in place. Of course they’re already there. You should turn and run. You know this, and yet you step forward, wishing you’d punched Pierre in the throat and taken his gun.
You see a man sitting behind the wheel of one of the trucks, the glow of his phone illuminating the interior. He’s wearing a balaclava, so only his eyes are visible. You turn into the woods to approach the church from behind. You don’t have a plan. You don’t know what you’re doing or why. You know you should take your family and run, but it’s the reverend. You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t try.
Behind the church are the storm doors with a combination padlock. You quickly twist and alight on the numbers of the code, snapping it open. You ease one of the doors open. It squeaks slightly as you lift it, and you wince, setting it down in the grass. You use the screen of the burner phone to find your way down the steps and through the darkness of the basement. When you get up the stairs to the door that leads into the reverend’s office, you wait and listen. Nothing. You put your ear to it. There are voices, but not from the office, you’re sure. Easing the door open, you can see the room is empty. You also see Ginna’s scarf draped over one of the chairs and a mug of tea on the reverend’s desk, the string and little square of paper hanging out. The office door is ajar and through it, filtering down the hallway from the main part of the church, you can hear voices. You listen for the reverend or Ginna, but these are all men chuckling to themselves and one talking loudly—something about a car running poorly. You close your eyes and breathe. Maybe the Andrades heard the cars coming up the driveway and knew well enough to run. As quietly as you can, you creep to the office door and down the hallway that leads through the changing room to the pulpit. The lights in the hallway are all off, as well as the array of LEDs that light up the pulpit, which means you can peak your head around the corner of the doorway and remain shrouded in darkness. You hope. Centimeter by centimeter, you slide your skull past the door’s frame until you expose one eye to the scene beyond.