“I’m doing a nature study.” He raised his camera for extra emphasis. “Then heading to Lyles Station for a visit.”
“Humph.” Monteleone felt empowered to intimidate, but he’d picked the wrong one today.
“That a problem?” Rashad went about his business, shooting pictures despite the snide tone.
“Maybe not for you. They’re trying to erase us. Forget whose values built this country. Before we descend into complete degeneracy.”
“Have we stepped into some weird parallel universe?” Jerald said.
“That’s funny.” Rashad was about to click the shutter on his camera when he leveled his eyes at the forester. “I was just looking to get out in nature and learn some history.”
“We’re about protecting our history, real history, and prevent the spread of lies. Including that Lyles Station.” Monteleone held up three fingers, an enigma without a hood determined to ruin moments of peace and joy. “Diversity, your multicultural new world order, is your dog whistle for white genocide. You will not replace us.”
“Right now, there’s no we. Just you. And me.” Rashad’s free hand twitched near his Defiant, just in case shit jumped off.
A wave of heat emanated from Jerald.
The wind shifted, and Monteleone recoiled. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”
“Maybe something died recently.” Rashad glanced over at Jerald, who adjusted his cap. And shrugged.
Monteleone relaxed, but only slightly, in the awkward dance of professionalism masquerading as hospitality. Wiping theaccrued sweat from his forehead, he pivoted to usher him back toward a more obvious path. “I can show you some of our best trails. Hell, I seeded most of them.”
“Nah, I’m good. Thank you though.”
“Just don’t head that way.” Monteleone nodded toward a wood fence with rusted barbwire above it that cordoned off the path. The militia members were careful. Nature shielded them from prying eyes, the dense cluster of trees closer and foreboding. Not even a mat of crushed leaves indicated a path in. The fence blocked off a rickety guard tower of sorts. A sign swung in an unfelt breeze.NOTICE: Government Property—Do Not Trespass. The words “courage,” “identity,” and “virtue” had been carved into the wood posts. “It’s all power lines and rubble back there.”
“No problem. I was about done here anyway.”
Monteleone raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll let you be on your way.”
“Deuces.” Rashad flashed two sideways fingers at him. Despite his upbeat tone, Rashad hard-eyed Monteleone as he sauntered away. The way one might study a dog skittering past to make sure it was no longer a threat.
Jerald stared down the path toward the Three Percenters’ camp. “You’ll get yours, you bastards.”
Rashad pretended not to hear him.
Just outside of Princeton, Indiana, scattered houses, barns, and silos dotted the landscape, with less and less open farmland as small towns sold off bits of their soul in the name of development. The quaint town’s rural charms didn’t fool Rashad.
“Welcome to Lyles Station.” Jerald craned about, excitedly taking in as much as he could. “My family goes back five to sixgenerations round these parts. This side of the river used to be the promised land.”
“How down bad did someone have to be to want to come to southern Indiana?”
“Folks escaping slavery.”
“Damn, man, didn’t mean to get all deep,” Rashad said.
“It’s like we can never escape it. Them.” Jerald’s voice took on an otherworldly aspect. “Even though Indiana was a Free State, after 1831, black settlers had to register with the county authorities and post a five-hundred-dollar bond as a guarantee of good behavior and to be able to buy land.”
“The Black Bond.”
“My people came up from Virginia in 1838. Settled at the intersection of the Wabash, White, and Patoka Rivers. Prime farmland. At first they called the place the Switch Settlement but renamed it after a founding family.”
“Seems all kinds of deserted now.” Rashad studied the empty sidewalks and scattered buildings.
“But in its heyday, Lyles Station was bustling. Had a railroad station, a post office, a lumber mill, two general stores, and two churches. And an elementary school. After the flood of 1912, too much of the town was destroyed. Most folks fled, leaving only a faithful few families still farming. And their descendants.”
The haunting stench rose again, and Rashad’s world faded into shadows, the way inky storm clouds obscured the sun. His mind fogged, his consciousness flailed, tumbling down a steep, bottomless cavern. He traveled farther down the tunnel this time, a cord tethered to the spirit of his friend in a terrible intimacy of a pain risking being shared. When his vision returned in a haze of baleful violaceous incandescence—the malignant sort of predawn light stabbed through the gray veil—he was on…
