Desperation Reef

“I’ll attack first next time, and you’ll see how it feels to get cold-cocked. I saw you put the gun in your waistband, by the way.”

Brock nods, gets a thought. More than a thought: an idea that floats in on Aamon’s air of violence, mixing with the smells of the food trucks.

“Why exactly are you here?”

“Let’s just say we’re here to shoot video for the Riverside County Sheriffs. To help them close this slum down. We’ve done our due diligence with the clerk’s office. You got no permits for those ratty homemade septic tanks. You got no current registration for half of those trailers. You got no legal camping facilities, which means these tent people can’t be living here — county rules, check ’em. Your electrical isn’t to code, the well is old and illegal, the propane tanks are rusted and dangerous. You house filthy illegals here. You got women fornicating and giving birth in unsanitary conditions. Venereal disease. A crummy clinic and not even a nurse. You’re behind on the property tax. You got no handicapped access anywhere. You don’t even have any hydrants in case of fire. Very dangerous, Brother Brock — no fire prep.”

Brock nods, looking down from the scaffold, considering the flamethrower. “That’s bullshit. Nobody’s given birth here. We have a nurse in the clinic, full-time.”

“Abortionist?”

“No. So at least get your facts straight.”

“You’re housing third-world breeders, Brock. Fleas, lice, and a free ride in America.”

Four Go Dogs march from the church, squaring off with Aamon and his crew not twenty feet away. One carries a carbine pointed at the sky, the other an AR knock-off. Four more Dogs come in from the parking lot. They draw and kneel, guns pointed at the dirt.

Brock senses the violence to come as he watches most of the last of his Thanksgiving congregants hurry past the Right Fight dune buggies, down the dirt road toward the highway, parents carrying children, a woman in a wheelchair that skids and slides as the big man pushing it tries to get up some speed.

He knows he should have prevented this. Knows his belief that Kasper Aamon would stop short of an armed invasion was wishful thinking. Born of some ancient idea that men could change, better themselves, pass on the breath of life instead of the breath of death. Born of holy men like Jesus and Pastor Mike.

Not surprisingly to Brock, he feels fully energized by his long odds here. By the notion that he can nudge Kasper and his Right Fighters off course.

Surprise and redirect them.

Show them they can change.

Even if just a little.

“Kasper, you hungry?”

Mahina gives Brock a disappointed scowl, then climbs down the stage stairs and stalks toward the church.

Brock hops offstage, sticks the landing. Hears his canvas slip-ons hit the gravel, then the metallic clicks and clacks of safeties going off and rounds being chambered. His scalp tingles and he notes the exact location of his gun, and he feels that cool surge of adrenaline that he gets taking off on a big wave, a surge that washes his vision clear and makes him feel strong enough to fly.

Aamon stares at him silently. Looks like he’s expecting Brock to leap ten feet and punch him again. He turns to his fighters on either side. Some nod, others shake their heads.

“Gentlemen,” says Brock. “Please be seated. I’ll be right back.”

He hustles into the chapel and the door clunks shut.

Two minutes later he’s back, with a heaping plate of food in each hand. He offers a plate to Kasper, who looks at him, then to his fighters, knowing he’ll have to take one hand off the flamethrower to accept it.

Which he does. Standing there with a flamethrower in one hand and a plate of turkey in the other, Kasper looks like a grizzly confounded by a bear-proof dumpster. He’s just not sure what to do. So he cautiously sets the plate on the nearest table and takes a full grip on the flamethrower handle again.

Mahina comes from the church, big plates of food on one arm, and her pistol-grip shotgun slung over one shoulder. Gives Brock a look that assures him she’s doing this for him, against her better judgment. Thus the shotgun. In her loose hibiscus-print muumuu she looks to Brock — not for the first time — like some island goddess of war.

She’s a genius, Brock thinks. A scary genius.

Next Casey comes from the chapel with two big doubled-up paper plates of chow in each hand, and two more balanced on one forearm, his years of serving food in the Barrel coming in handy here.

Holds out an offering to one of the Right Fighters, a stout woman in a Right Fight trucker’s hat and a blond ponytail coming through the back.

She rests her carbine over one shoulder, then Casey places a platter in her right hand.

“Have a seat,” says Casey.

“I’ll stand.”

“Cool, totally.”

Casey gets two refusals, then one more taker who holsters his pistol to take a plate.

Bette gets one taker, offers her second plate to another Right Fighter.

“Who’s the China girl?” Aamon asks Brock.

“A friend of my brother’s,” he says, noting the calm resentment on Bette’s face.