Strike by Delilah S. Dawson

bully from school who made my computer class hell.
    You’d think the fucking dystopia would free us from bullies, but now they just have guns and more ammunition.
    â€œCitizens, I’m proud to report that last night’s meeting brought ninety-three new recruits for the good work we’re doing here.” Leon pauses dramatically, and Tuck and his boys start clapping, so everyone starts clapping. It feels uncomfortably like a church revival. “Our cause is a beacon to those who suffer under Valor and its corrupt ways. I hope you’ll all join me in giving a warm welcome to our new friends and in helping them find comfort and camaraderiearound our fire.” He gives a lopsided grin. “Although that fire must remain metaphorical, as we don’t want to send any smoke signals to our friends at Valor, now, do we?” The crowd laughs, slightly uncomfortably. Guess nobody wants to be reminded of how vulnerable we are. “Now, if you’re one of our new folks, please join us in the kitchen for a home-cooked breakfast and a brief meeting on the role you’ll play as part of the Citizens for Freedom. Everyone here has to pull their weight, but when we all pull together, it’s a hell of a lot lighter.” He claps his hands and throws them out like a preacher. “And now, friends, let’s eat!”
    After the screen door slams behind him, most of the crowd disperses. The new folks file inside in about the same order as we approached the tables last night, which means our crew is last.
    The small girl is ahead of me as we wait to squeeze into the crowded hallway. I catch her sleeve, and she spins on me, gun in hand. It’s a Valor Glock—I can see the gold stamp. So I was right. She is one of us.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” she says, her voice calm and flat.
    I hold my hands up. “Sorry. I just wanted to introduce myself. You look a little lonely.”
    She looks me up and down, then glances at my friends. Her eyes are dark brown, her hair light blond, and she can’t weigh more than ninety pounds.
    â€œDon’t talk to me, or I’ll kill your dog.” She turns back around,and I put my hand on Matty’s head. The look in the girl’s eyes—she’d do it too.
    So much for making friends.
    Wyatt’s hand finds my waist, protective, but not obviously so. “Don’t take it personally,” he murmurs in my ear, finishing with a kiss on my cheek. His breath smells like mint.
    I know he’s right. The world, as it is—it’s messed up. I can’t imagine what last week would’ve been like without Wyatt at my side, without Matty’s unwavering love. If this girl did it alone or, worse yet, lost whoever was helping her through it . . . I imagine her nightmares must be worse than mine. I want to believe that there’s still a good person inside her, too, but I could definitely be wrong. When I look in the mirror or catch Chance’s eyes, I see a crust of hardness over liquid pools of heartbreak and regret. In this girl’s eyes, I see only a bottomless, murky swamp. But was she always that way, or is she another sin to lay at Valor’s door? Did they break her, or was she already broken?
    Everyone inside finally shifts enough to let us through the door, and the house is overly warm and smells like old people and fatty breakfast. There’s a line in the kitchen, and we pick up paper plates and ladle on what’s left of scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, and biscuits.
    â€œI’m a vegetarian,” Gabriela says, and an older lady in a housecoat grunts and dumps lumpy grits all over her plate, drowning her biscuit.
    Once we’ve got Styrofoam cups of crap coffee, we follow the line to a den, but Tuck blocks our path.
    â€œY’all go on down to the parlor. Leon wants to talk to you, special.”
    Two doors down, we find a room with an old piano and older sofa, already taken. There’s