“Where’s O’Malley going?” Jacob demanded.
James shrugged. “Just stomped off.” The tractor chugged noisily as he turned the ignition.
“What pissed him off now?” Larry asked.
Amy stuck her head out from behind the engine block. “Guess.”
“Where’s Marlin?” Jacob asked.
“Busy,” James replied, sparing Amy.
Larry just rolled his eyes. Neither man said anything further as Amy worked. James and his father weren’t so bad, but she could almost feel Jacob’s disapproval. Not that either of the Gatlins wouldn’t prefer Marlin. It made her so mad. Everyone knew she helped her father in the garage. Why didn’t they want her to do it out in the field?
She knew the answer, of course. The ranch had definite views about a woman’s place. The garage wasn’t it. As long as they didn’t see her, they could overlook it. They had no choice really. There was too much for Marlin to do by himself, and he had no son to help him. They were not about to admit that most of the work that came out of the garage was done by a woman, however. Amy’s face grew hot as she worked, and not from the fumes of the engine. The tractor continued to chug but not start.
A man came walking across the field toward them—nearly a man anyway. He was full grown: tall, lanky, and almost painfully thin. His brown hair was cut in a butch, exposing much of his scalp. His face was a study in awkwardness. It was lean and angular, having lost the roundness of youth, but still lacking the weathered lines that would lend it strength in years to come. His bright blue eyes shone with curiosity and youth.
Amy glanced at him briefly, favoring him with a slightly less disgruntled snort, and returned to her work.
“Thought I’d come see if you were planning on coming to class today,” Luke said.
Amy didn’t answer at first. She had missed two days this week already; it was a busy time. If she missed too many more, Amos would come have a talk with her father. Then there would be no choice; she’d have to go.
“I got to get this—” she began. The tractor roared suddenly, the beleaguered choke catching at last. She stared up at the tractor like it had betrayed her.
“Good,” Luke said. “I’ll help you with your tools and then we can walk up together.” He reached for her toolbox.
“I am quite capable,” she snarled, grabbing it away. She stomped off. With a sheepish look toward the men, Luke followed.
“Men!” Amy exclaimed as she threw her toolbox down.
“What’d they do now?” Luke inquired.
“Mark stormed off because it was me, not Dad, who came out to help,” she raged.
“Mark? He was probably just looking for an excuse to leave. He hates to work.”
“I hate men!”
“You shouldn’t judge all men by Mark. He’s an ass.”
“He’s the worst, but most of them aren’t much better.” Amy continued to fume. “Jacob barely tolerates my presence. James is civil enough, but he’s afraid to be seen with me.”
“I’m not.”
“I know, Luke, but you’re not—”
“I am eighteen.”
She stared hard at him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re not like them.”
Luke sighed. “Mark certainly has no sense of decency or honor,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder why they even let his dad in.”
Amy snorted loudly. “I don’t think they had a lot of candidates.”
Luke shifted uncomfortably. The ranch’s school taught that they were elite, sent up here to guard the Nations and their way of life from the infidels and the Jews. The ranch’s library had a handful of books, written by various founders of their movement, spoke of the New World Order, the Jewish Conspiracy, and the coming Race War.
Amy’s dad had come later, not one of the Nations at all. He told Amy and Luke that the Aryan Nations had, in fact, not been a popular cause before society’s collapse. He claimed the collapse had been brought on by a variety of environmental problems, not any race war. Nor was there any New World Order waiting in the ruins of civilization to attack them.
Luke couldn’t bring himself to say that the history they were being taught was a lie. Still, he trusted Amy and, more importantly, Marlin. Besides, he had read most of what was in the ranch’s library. A handful of general history books barely mentioned the Aryan Nation, or dismissed them out of hand as a small ideology believed by only a few people. Environmental problems, on the other hand, were mentioned frequently in almost every survival, backwoods, or gardening manual they had.
The ranch had been built several years before the collapse happened. By the time things started to unravel, their contact with the outside world was already limited. Could they have been misinformed? And if so, what did that mean for them? Had they lived up in the mountains for years, hiding from a threat that wasn’t there?
About half a dozen kids were already lounging in front of the community hall when Amy and Luke arrived.
“Well, look who’s joined us today,” Mary Gatlin drawled as Amy threw herself down on the steps. Mary was short with curly, brown hair that she wore tied up with a faded red ribbon. She had brown eyes and a short upturned nose on her rounded face. Her eyes sparkled with malevolence as she watched Amy. “The tomboy’s come to school. Did Mr. Deaton have to threaten your dad again?”
Amy glowered at Mary but didn’t answer.
“Amy did better than you on the last reading test,” Luke said in her defense. Mary just snorted.
“Today won’t be ‘so bad,” another boy put in. He was slightly taller than Luke and had the same lanky look about him. His hair was a darker brown; his face less angular. His name was Daniel. “After all, we have Mr. Deaton for third period.”
Both girls groaned. Education at the ranch was simple. They had one class where the older kids helped the younger ones. The first two periods were taught by Lucille Posch. She had been a schoolteacher before the collapse. She taught reading, writing, and math. Third period varied, with different people coming in each day. Adrian Posch taught Bible study twice a week. Larry Gatlin taught farm management. Matthew Zachary, Luke’s dad, taught social studies (the great American way of life), and once a week Amos Deaton, their leader, taught history.
After third period, they were released to go home for lunch. After lunch, the girls stayed at home and helped their mothers around the house. The boys over thirteen went back in the afternoon for combat training with Isaiah Hall.
“Hey, there’s something you agree on,” Luke joked, looking at Mary then Amy. “You both don’t like history.”
He was glared at from both sides. It was true; none of the girls liked history. Luke had read the one history book that the ranch owned. Actually, he had read it more than once. It was one of his best subjects. Amos Deaton didn’t often go by the book, however. His version of history was filled with lurid battles, often greatly embellished, and long rants about who hated whom and why. It was one of the most popular classes among the boys.
Luke realized that a few things were missing. He had read about the Civil War. The book mentioned nothing at all about the resistance after the war—the resistance that eventually led to the Nations, and by default, to the ranch. In fact, the book seemed to assume that the North’s victory had been complete, and even proper.
It was not a subject he was willing to discuss with Mr. Deaton, however. Surely in time their leader would explain this himself.
Two women were approaching the community hall. The short and plump form of Lucille Posch was flanked by Theresa Deaton’s taller form. They were talking in low, worried whispers. They stopped talking as they came up to the children.
Theresa looked at them uncertainly for a moment and then said, “Amy, your father needs you, up by the array.”
“But she has school,” Mary protested. Mary hated that Amy got away with things that none of the other kids did.
Lucille gave a disapproving look at Amy’s already retreating back. “She’ll be excused, for today only.” She shouted this last part. Amy had already broken into a run.
The second Theresa had spoken, Amy realized what was wrong. Her premonition came back to her full force. She knew exactly what hadn’t seemed right. She had subconsciously missed the razor-thin line of the lightning rod on the horizon.
She raced through the tiny settlement. She didn’t slow down until she was most of the way up the steep trail toward the array, and even then, it was only because she was out of breath.
Her face was beet red by the time she crested the ridge. There, she met her father’s face, almost as red as hers.
I just ran up here
, she thought,
but he has just been walking around.
She was worried about him. Even this small change in altitude left him out of breath.
His look brought her back to reality in a flash. “Is it bad?” she asked.
“Worse,” he replied.
He was right. The rod was down, blown down by the heavy winds. Without its protection, lightning had struck the array. About half the panels were scorched. Marlin was shuffling around attaching calipers to the sides of the panels and taking readings. He muttered darkly as he worked. “About half of them are still working,” he told her.
“Is that enough?” she asked.
He stood silent for a minute, staring up at the skyline. “That’s not all. The charge went through. Everything is fried: batteries, charge controller, inverter. Everything.”
“A meeting tonight?” Patrick asked as he faced off against Luke again. Patrick was a year older than Luke. At nineteen, he would be considered a man next year and no longer required to come to combat training.
That was just as well. Combat training had taken Patrick as far as it could. He was Luke’s height, but broader. He was lean and muscular. Sweat stood out on his bare chest. He was like a mountain cat in brown shorts.
His arm shot out. Luke sidestepped clumsily and swept the larger boy off his feet. Before the dust had settled, Isaiah Hall was among them shouting. “Faster, Luke, you have to finish him faster.”
Isaiah pulled Patrick to his feet. “Again,” he growled.
Patrick looked at the graying combat instructor. Isaiah’s hairy arms bulged with muscles and his wide girth carried no hint of fat. He wore the same brown shorts they all wore, and a faded white t-shirt. He wore his hair cut in a butch and his wide face bore a constant scowl.
Patrick’s eyes flickered, and his fist shot out. With a grace born of years of training, Isaiah sidestepped and swept Patrick off his feet. He dropped down, his elbow following Patrick’s progress. It stopped inches from Patrick’s face.
“This isn’t a game,” he snarled. “Do you think the terrorists think this is a game?”
“No sir!” Patrick and Luke sang out together.
Unappeased, Isaiah continued. “Do you think the enemy thinks this is a game? Do you think the New World Order is playing around? No. It’s kill or be killed. This training just might save your life someday, boys. Remember that. Free sparring,” he said, looking at Luke. “You and Patrick are up first.”
“Spring dance is coming up,” Patrick commented as they faced off again.
“Yeah,” Luke replied warily as the two circled each other. He wished he’d been partnered with Kurt or Daniel. That Patrick would win the match was a given. He was the best fighter they had at the ranch. Losing was not the problem.
Luke was never sure which was worse—the fact that Patrick’s concept of light-contact sparring often left bruises or that he was a master at taunting his opponent into making a mistake. He exploited Kurt’s fear, Daniel’s caution, and Shawn’s slow wit. Luke knew what was coming. He told himself not to rise to the bait.
“Taking the grease monkey?” Patrick laughed.
“Yeah,” Luke replied calmly, though he could feel the heat rising on the back of his neck.
Of course
, he wanted to say,
we’ve gone to every dance together since we reached “courting” age
. He hadn’t actually asked Amy, but they’d surely walk up together and spend the whole evening together.
“I hope you were paying attention. You’ll need hand to hand with that one,” Patrick joked. Somewhere in the background, Shawn sniggered.
Luke’s face burned. What was it? Patrick’s smug grin or Shawn’s snigger? The two always picked on Amy. They never gave her a chance. He wished, as he always did, that he could wipe that smug expression off Patrick’s face.
Patrick dropped his guard. He was midway through mouthing the word “feisty” as Luke darted in.
Luke hit the ground hard. Once again, Patrick had used his anger against him, leading him in and then sweeping his feet out from under him. Luke clambered to his feet chagrined.
Head low, he exited the circle. At a gesture from Isaiah, Kurt shuffled fearfully forward. “At least that won’t be the most embarrassing defeat today,” Daniel commented at Luke’s side. Luke nodded as Patrick squared off in front of his new opponent.
“Grease Monkey again, eh?” Shawn jeered from Luke’s other side. “Glad I don’t have to take an ugly girl like her to every dance.”
What a dumb fuck
. With so few kids at the ranch, teasing got pretty redundant. Shawn was too stupid to even see that he had left himself wide open. “You want me to ask Daniel’s sister for you?” Luke replied. “She’s what, twelve, this year?”
“Shut your face, ass wipe,” Shawn growled a bit too loud. Isaiah scowled in their direction. “Ain’t going with no twelve-year-old.”
“What about Elisabeth?” Jimmy Manualson piped in, referring to Amy’s sister. “She’s fourteen.”
“Kurt’s already asked her,” Shawn moaned.
They all looked at the scrawny kid trying to dance out of Patrick’s reach while still remaining in the circle.
“How did he ever get up the nerve?” Jimmy asked. “I thought he was terrified of the beast she calls her father, not to mention her sister.” He gave a worried glance toward Luke, Amy’s friend and chief defender, fearing he had said too much.
Luke, his anger spent, just shrugged. “He just did, I guess.” He had already told Daniel the true story; no one else needed to know.
In fact, Shawn had lumbered up and asked Elisabeth out. Elisabeth, unsure of how to get out of it, had told him that Kurt had already asked her. Then she tromped off to Kurt’s place and announced that they were going together. Kurt hadn’t disagreed.