It was, if you looked past the Aryan tattoos and ever-present Nazi memorabilia, a quaint type of community.
Except as the years went on, the agenda got more and more hostile. All a sudden, one summer, the stockpiling of weapons increased enough for me to start paying attention. And then I walked into the barn one night to see a circle of the men sitting around someone who was, quite obviously even for someone who had never seen it done before, compiling pipe bombs.
No one had heard me come in so I stood there and listened, either too curious or too stunned to move.
"... Fucks will never see it coming," one of them said. "Martina can put them right under their God damn cribs," he added and I felt myself stiffen.
Martina had recently, for reasons that weren't clear until that very moment, gotten a job at a local day care center three towns over. It had raised brows among all the families; especially seeing as the population was largely black. Everyone figured her husband, Bobby, had gotten them into some heavy debt and she was doing what she had to to keep food on the table without asking for handouts. Handouts, it went without saying, were a big no-no in our community. Being that there weren't a whole helluva lot of jobs in our town, it made sense that she had needed to venture out.
But it was all planned.
They were going to blow up the fucking day care center.
"Well, fuck. Cat's out of the bag now," another of them said and his eyes were on me.
My father's head turned and he gave me a smile that showed just how evil he truly was. I wasn't sure I ever saw it until then. A stupid, hateful man at times? Sure. But I never saw evil until that moment. But he was, right down to his dark soul.
"Well, you're seventeen now," he said, holding an arm out, inviting me in. "I guess you're old enough to be in on these missions."
Missions?
Plural?
More were planned?
Had others already been executed that I didn't know about?
My gut said yes.
So then I moved forward, sat with them, and felt my gut twist into a thousand becket knots.
Because I knew two things in that moment:
One, I could not, under any circumstances, let them put mother fucking pipe bombs under the cribs of sleeping babies.
And two, if and when I warned the daycare, everyone would know it was me who was a traitor.
Life as I knew it was over.
My family would never speak to me again.
My community would fucking lynch me if they ever saw me again.
So as I sat there, nodding and making noises that sounded like interest, I made plans.
I needed to grab a bag and stuff it full of whatever would be useful, hide it, and sneak out when everyone was asleep. The only way out was with a car. We were too far from anywhere I could disappear in. So I had to steal my Pops' truck, the one with the shell. That could be useful for storage and sleeping if it came to that. Which it likely would.
"Alright, so you'll hand these off to Martina. She knows what to do?" my father asked, standing, indicating the meeting was all but over.
"Yep. She's loyal to the cause."
The baby killing cause.
Jesus fuck.
"Great. You and your wife will be rewarded for your loyalty," my father said, clamping a hand on my shoulder and leading me outside with him. "We're making a safer world for the next generation," he informed me as we walked back toward the house.
"How so?" I asked, because I knew that was what he wanted.
"We are taking out all those fucks before they can grow up to be criminals. Selling drugs. Raping our women. Raping the taxpayers to keep them in jail..."
"Right," I said, every ounce of me coming fully to terms with the foulness of my ancestry. Three God damn generations deep of lowlife scum. What the fuck did that say about me?
I felt it then.
I felt it coating every single inch of me.
I felt it seeping into my pores and polluting my insides.
Filth.
I had never wanted a shower so badly in my life.
"Tomorrow is the first day of a new era, son. Get some rest. We will be doing some celebrating."
With that, I went into my room, cranking up my music as was my usual, and locking my door. I grabbed an old Army issue duffel bag and started stuffing it full of clothes. It was summer, but I knew enough through the survivalist training we went through, to always prepare for any inevitability. Chances were, I wouldn't be able to get myself accommodations for a good long while. At the very earliest, six months from then. When I turned eighteen and could legally do that kind of shit. So I could be roughing it, living in a tent, or sleeping in the back of the car until then. I needed winter clothes.