Maverick
With the last of the moving boxes packed, I stand next to my old man and observe the fruits of our labor.
We’ve spent the last few months going through the house and sorting items into different piles: sell, donate, keep.
Going through Mom’s stuff was cathartic for both of us since almost every item had some kind of story behind it.
She was never one for material possessions, so the things she did keep all had meaning.
Dad kept a few of her favorite shirts and her wedding band that he wears on his pinky finger.
I chose to keep an old bottle of her perfume.
It’s empty, but it still smells like her, which always brings me an indescribable amount of both comfort and sadness.
Everything else we’ve either sold or donated.
Unfortunately, the house is still on the market, though I can’t say I blame anyone for their hesitancy. I wouldn’t want to move here either with everything the Brotherhood has accomplished, especially considering no one really knows what their end goal is.
Maddie and I ended things amicably when she decided to move to Europe right after graduation, and I deferred my enrollment for next year after the university I was set to attend caved and followed suit with the new national standard of firing all female professors and banning female students from attending.
While some men on the teaching staff quit after that announcement, most stayed, which tells me all I need to know about their character.
Why the hell would I want to get an education from some pretentious asshole who thinks he’s better than his female peers just because he has a dick between his legs?
While it took some convincing to persuade Dad to leave, we both know it’s the right move.
We can feel it in the air like you feel a storm before it rains, the change happening across the country.
America used to be celebrated for its diversity and inclusion of people from every corner of the world, but the last decade has created a culture of hatred and prejudice against anyone who’s different.
Neither of us wants to get caught in the middle of a fight, thus the move.
We’re not the first to have this idea. Countless people have fled north or south, getting out while they still can. Horror stories of people being stopped and questioned by law enforcement before they even reach the border have been circulating, so the sooner we can leave, the better.
I haven’t spoken to Gabriel since the day of my mom’s funeral, but from what I can tell from his social media accounts, he’s officially joined the Brotherhood’s leadership team.
Not that anyone on the outside really knows what that means, but he’s posted pictures of himself meeting several high-up government officials; he was even in the Oval Office with the president and several other Brotherhood members when they repealed the nineteenth amendment.
His caption is always the same: Brotherhood above all.
The changes happened quicker than any of us could’ve imagined.
It started with a noticeable social shift toward women, men making misogynistic comments toward their coworkers or strangers they met in a bar.
Women took to social media of course, unfortunately finding that their experience was somewhat universal.
Meanwhile, large corporations and government officials were making changes behind the scenes and doing away with policies that protected women from discrimination based on sex.
Eventually, enough people—mostly men, but some women who proudly believe their husbands and fathers should decide how they live—got on board with the Brotherhood’s sexist ideas, giving them the push they needed to do things like pass the bill that prevents women from joining and serving in the military or law enforcement positions.
That, and the repealing of women’s right to vote were the events that woke a lot of people up.
But now, it’s too late. Protests and social media rants can’t do anything against a government who’s abandoned half its population to appease the other.
“You comin’ kiddo?” Dad yells from the car, snapping me out of the trance I was in.
“Coming!” I yell back, grabbing my backpack off the floor and slinging it over my shoulder.
With one final look at the house I’ve called home my entire life, I head outside, prepared to do whatever it takes to get my dad out of this country safely.
???
“What do you mean it’s closed?”
The police officer stands with his arms crossed while his mirrored aviator glasses prevent me from seeing his eyes. “You need a dictionary, boy?”
I resist the urge to ask him if he needs a breath mint. “Respectfully, sir, shouldn’t Border Patrol be the ones deciding who gets in or out?”
He spits his tobacco juice onto the ground. “Go home, boys.”
“We have documentation.” I reach for the papers. “We’ve been granted temporary legal residency.”
“Do I look like I give a shit? Go home.” He turns to walk away.
“Wait!” I call out. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
He pauses and turns back around, jerking his chin at me. “I’m listening.”
I dig into my pocket and pull out my wallet, grabbing the wad of cash I brought with me. I hand it to him, waiting patiently as he counts the bills.
“Maverick,” my dad whispers. “What are you doing?”
Officer Asshole pockets the thousand dollars—a good portion of my savings—and then leans down to speak to us again. “Leave.”
“What? But you said—”
“I didn’t say shit,” he sneers, moving his hand and resting it on his holstered pistol. “Now turn around and go home, before I make you.”
“Fucking grifter,” I mumble as I turn the truck around, already brainstorming a way around this dilemma.
“We could try another checkpoint,” my dad suggests.
I shake my head. “They’ve probably got officers at every location from here to the East Coast.”
“Maybe we should just go back home, like he said.”
“No way.” I speed toward my new destination, hoping there won’t be any cops on the backroads. “We’ll cross the border on foot.”
“That’s illegal,” Dad protests.
“So is what they’re doing!” I argue, turning onto the unpaved road that leads to one of our favorite campsites, though we haven’t been up here since well before Mom passed.
“Maverick, this is probably some kind of misunderstanding. I’m sure the courts would agree that—”
I cut him off, slamming on the breaks and turning toward him, heart pounding.
“Enough, Dad!” I’ve only ever yelled at my dad one other time in my life, and that time—I was angry about losing a game and took it out on him—I regretted it immediately.
This time, I hope it communicates how dire this situation actually is.
I take a deep breath, loosening my grip on the steering wheel.
“The time for doing things the right way has passed. We can’t put our trust in a government that’s no longer putting its citizens first.”
My dad stares silently out the window for a long time until he finally turns to look at me, a solemn expression on his face. “You’re right.”
My relief is palpable. “I’m sorry for yelling.”
“I needed it.” He shakes his head, chuckling sadly. “Since your mother died, I feel like I’ve been in a fog; like my soul and my body aren’t quite connected anymore. I know things are bad, know you’ve been keeping things from me to protect me.”
I sit silently, letting him say what he needs to say.
“But you don’t need to protect me, son. If anything, I should be protecting you.”
“It’s okay, Dad.” I reach over and grab his hand.
“I feel like I’m failing you as a father,” he confesses, voice tight.
“Are you kidding?” I ask, holding my own tears at bay. “You’re the best dad I ever could’ve asked for.”
We both lean across the bench and hug, squeezing each other tightly as tears slide down our cheeks. “I love you, son.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
We pull away and wipe our tears with our shirts, both of us laughing softly. “All right, kiddo. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I nod, accelerating once again. We navigate the twists and turns of the dirt road until we come to a downed tree blocking the path.
I put the truck in park and jump out to see if I can lift it out of the way.
I squat, hook the trunk with my forearms, and lift, grunting with strain.
Dad notices me struggling and gets out to help, but even with the strength of two full-grown men, the tree won’t budge.
“Dammit,” I pant, wiping my brow.
“Maybe there’s another access road,” Dad suggests.
I shake my head. “We’ll have to continue on foot.”
Dad looks like he wants to argue, but then nods in acceptance.
I move the truck—a 1989 single cab I bought off an elderly neighbor a few years ago—off to the side and cover it with some branches from the fallen tree, hiding it from view and praying I’ll see it again someday.
We grab our backpacks and anything else we can comfortably carry out of the bed with a plan to retrieve the rest of it once we’re settled.
After an hour of hiking through the forest, we come to a paved road and spot another checkpoint.
My father and I exchange a look, hoping these are actual border patrol agents and not some more corrupt cops.
Luckily, they accept our papers and listen empathetically as we explain what happened with the other officer.
“You guys are lucky. Most people haven’t made it past their blockades, even on foot.”
“What are the chances of us being able to retrieve our vehicle and belongings?” Dad asks.
The agent shakes his head. “Unlikely, sir. I wouldn’t recommend returning for material possessions. It’s simply not worth the risk of getting caught.”
The agents are nice enough to arrange transport for us to the city where we take a cab to a hotel for the night.
Since the house hasn’t sold, Dad didn’t feel comfortable purchasing something here right away.
But even without selling the house, he’ll be okay financially for the foreseeable future thanks to Mom’s life insurance policy.
For now, we decompress in silence after our insane day. Dad’s got the TV playing reruns of some cheesy sitcom while I scroll on my phone, though it does nothing to bring me actual comfort. Laughing at a dumb video seems trivial when the entire country has gone to shit.
Gabriel’s most recent post fills my screen, and my stomach drops.
It’s a screen capture from a video of a bunch of guys wearing ski masks.
They’re surrounding a woman—Gabriel’s ex-girlfriend I think, though it’s hard to tell with a black censor bar over her eyes—while one of them holds her head up by her hair.
The caption of the video is a link to a website, and while I already feel sick from seeing the photo, I know I have to see it for myself.
I click the link, and an age verification box pops up, citing explicit content.
I enter my date of birth and click “verify”, granting me access to the site.
Bile snakes its way up my throat as I witness my best friend—and three other men—assault an unconscious woman, laughing and joking all the while.
I jump off the bed, spouting some lame excuse about needing to get some air.
Dad calls after me, asking if I’m alright, but I’m out of the hotel room before he can come after me. The video is burned into my brain, making everything seem distorted as I catch a cab. “Get me as close to the border as you can.”
The older man doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry.
The drive goes by in a blur as I try to plan a speech in my head, try to figure out what I’m supposed to say to my best friend of twelve years after seeing him commit such a heinous act.
The cab driver drops me off near the checkpoint we came through earlier today, but I take the long way around to avoid detection.
I retrace my steps—much quicker this time since I’m not carrying anything—all the way back to the spot where we hid my truck. I continue up the road on foot, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I walk toward the main campsite.
I text Gabe: Can we talk?
He responds almost immediately: Where?
I text back: Our spot.
Be there in an hour, he responds.
The campground is a ghost town. It’s peak season, yet it’s completely unoccupied. I stand on the pebbly beach and stare out at the lake as the sun dips behind the mountains.
An hour later, I hear footsteps crunching on the gravel behind me, but I don’t turn my head—can’t bring myself to look at him. “So, you’ve finally come to your senses, then?”
He comes and stands next to me, and I finally turn toward him. Without a word, I send my fist flying toward his face, catching him right on the jaw and sending him stumbling backwards. He goes down hard. “How could you?” I yell.
Teeth stained red, he spits a wad of bloody saliva onto the ground, looking up at me with a maniacal smile. “I had to, Mav. Initiation and all.”
“You’re a fucking coward.” I’m shaking with restraint, fists clenched at my sides.
Gabe stands on shaky legs. “Amanda broke my heart, man. I vowed to myself I would never be weak enough to let any woman have that kind of power over me ever again.”
I turn to walk away. “We’re done. This friendship is over.”
“Fine!” he calls after me. “Fucking waste-of-space bitch got what she deserved.”
I turn around and charge him, fueled by rage and grief and confusion. I tackle him to the ground, pummeling him with my fists over and over until the man I once called my closest friend is unrecognizable. His head lulls to the side, unconscious, as I start to sob. “You were my brother.”
I roll off of him, sitting on the beach as I collect myself. Gabe’s chest rises and falls, though his breath sounds shallow. Maybe I broke his ribs or punctured a lung. Maybe he’s going to die, alone on this beach, at the place we both once cherished most in the world.
I stand and look down at him, unable to scrounge up even an ounce of regret for what I’ve done. “Goodbye, Gabriel.”
The trudge back through the dark woods feels like floating through a dream. My knuckles are bloody and my limbs are heavy, but I barely feel anything, numb down to my bones.
All I know is that if this is what the Brotherhood is capable of, I can’t just sit by and watch it happen. My mother’s words echo in my mind, and I know I have to fight back. One person can always make a difference for someone.