Sydney
The tall façade of the sports arena looms into the morning sky, part of its roof missing, the entire structure battered and slumped. For as bad as it looks, it smells worse—a rancid mix of urine, feces, and rot. A shelter of last resort.
Several camouflage-painted National Guard trucks with canvas bed covers are parked near the main entrance. Armed soldiers blanket the area. To maintain order inside or to keep the wrong people out?
“The shooting was the last straw,” Anita says. “There had already been one murder, multiple sexual assaults, and a suicide. Not to mention the gang activity and drug dealing. They didn’t have enough food or water. The city just wasn’t prepared.”
“How many people are sheltered here?” We cross the parking lot toward the fortified entrance. Anita had parked next to a black Mustang she recognized as her contact’s ride, a good distance from the armed men. Give them plenty of time to see us coming.
“At the height there were 20,000—I think about half that sheltered during the storm, and afterwards they brought a lot of people who were rescued here. I’m sure you saw footage of people on their roofs.” I nod. “There were about 5,000 remaining when the shooting took place. Now there are only about a hundred left. They had already started moving people before the shooting but after…”
Barbed wire surrounds the trucks and entrance, creating a protected area. Following my gaze Anita answers my unasked question. “The National Guard is separating themselves from the citizens—a guardsman was murdered even before the mass shooting.”
“Terrible.” There is a heaviness in my chest. I left this city in a luxurious, private helicopter while people fought to survive in such desperate conditions. The world just might be totally fucked.
I grip the handle of Blue’s harness as he moves forward. Dark sunglasses shield my eyes, and I’ve got on a baseball cap. I appear blind to the casual observer. This alias is my least favorite—pretending to be blind goes way past tasteless—but also the most effective.
A man in a baseball cap with a press pass around his neck steps away from where he is talking with one of the soldiers and comes to us.
“Good to see you.” He smiles at Anita.
“Jack,” Anita greets him. “This is my friend, Sarah.” She introduces me. I put out a hand and Jack takes it, glancing down at Blue.
“This is my dog, Champion,” I say.
“Nice to meet you. Anita tells me you are considering donating to our site. I’m happy to hear it.” I’m pretending to be a wealthy heiress looking to support his investigative journalism website—specifically to cover the aftermath of the hurricane.
“Yes, the work you’re doing is so important—independent journalism is crucial to the survival of our democracy.”
Jack nods and then flushes—this happens a lot when I’m pretending to be Sarah. Jack assumes I can’t see him nod and is embarrassed by his inability to clearly communicate. Humans use body language almost as much as dogs—our bodies communicate in ways that are more trustworthy than our words. Same as dogs can be trusted more than most people.
“I agree,” Jack says, suddenly talking fast to make up for the nod. “The major networks left when most of the hurricane refugees cleared out. Those left behind are mostly poor, many of them undocumented. I’ve also heard from a source, though it’s not confirmed yet, that there are some men they didn’t want to move—gang members .” His focus shifts behind me. “My photographer is here.”
I don’t turn, keeping up the facade of sightlessness. An African American man in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a camera around his neck and a backpack, joins us. Jack introduces us and we move to the security checkpoint.
The guardsmen who checks my ID wears body armor. The AK-47 strapped to his chest is the same make as the one used in the shooting. A name tag over his heart reads Private Unrath. He chews gum, his stubble-lined jaw working hard. Unrath glances at my face with tired eyes but does not linger… or ask me to remove my sunglasses. He hands back my ID and waves me through.
As we step into the lobby of the sports arena the scent hits harder—it’s revolting. Main doors leading to the arena floor and its surrounding stands are flanked by guardsmen but Jack points us upstairs. “We can get a good picture of the whole situation from the balcony.”
We follow Jack to the top of the stands and look out onto a wide open space littered with trash about thirty feet below us. A small group of people—men, women and some children—crowd together at one side, separated from the guards by barbed wire. “The smell is so strong,” I say.
“There is a canal on the other side of the building that flooded part of the first floor,” Jack says. “The water, as I’m sure you’ve heard, is a toxic mix of bacteria, waste, chemicals and petroleum.” He clears his throat and glances at Anita before returning his attention to me. “Would you like me to explain what we can see from up here?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He describes the scene for the sightless Sarah and then continues. “The remaining refugees are supposed to be moved out today or tomorrow.”
“Where will they be taken?” I ask.
“I’m still trying to get that information,” Jack answers. “Have you heard of April Madden?” I cock my head, acting as if I’m not sure. “She’s a big Her prophet figure. Goes around the country preaching her gospel.”
“Oh, right,” I nod. “I’ve heard the name.”
“She is coming today, wants to make a point that she does not condone violence—is bringing supplies and donations.”
Fantastic, my mom is on her way. Just what this shit-show needs.
I step to the edge of the balcony, and keeping my head straight up so I don’t appear to be looking, scan the crowd below. There is something invasive about being so close but above them—like we are observing animals in a zoo from a safe distance.
“So there is no way in or out except through the guardsmen and their barbed-wire enclosure?” I ask. “That sounds like a prison.”
“There are other exits and entrances,” Anita tells me. “The National Guardsmen are protecting themselves, not imprisoning the people here. The people are staying because they have nowhere else to go.”
Louie, the photographer, is snapping pictures. He pauses to switch a lens. My eyes catch on a man below—at first I think it’s Robert Maxim. But he’s much younger…he smiles at me. I suck in an involuntary breath of surprise.
It must be Robert Maxim’s son, Fernando.
“You okay?” Anita asks.
Fernando ducks his head, a hat covering his face. He begins to move through the crowd, stopping at a clump of young men to speak for a moment and then disappearing under the balcony beneath us.
“You said something about gangs?” I ask.
“Yes,” Jack answers, but before he can elaborate, the clump of men Fernando spoke with begin to move toward the fencing at the main entrance, catching his attention. Tension spreads through the crowd like a gas. The powder keg is about to ignite, and Fernando threw the match.
Like father, like son.
Jack is looking down at the crowd, his face set in lines of concentration.
The men begin to pump their arms as they reach the fencing. “Be Brave!” they chant. Hearing the Joyful Justice slogan yelled with such anger and aggression sends a chill down my spine. They are trying to destroy everything we stand for…smart.
Families separate themselves from the chanting group, moving away; children cling to their parents, men wrap arms around women. “What’s happening?” I ask as Louie switches to video on his camera.
The guardsmen line up along the fence—their shoulders tense, weapons held tight.
“You should get out of here,” Jack says, turning to Anita.
I need to go after Fernando.
I pull on Blue’s harness and he turns us around. Anita takes my elbow and we start toward the stairs as the chanting grows louder. “Follow me,” I tell her when we enter the stairwell.
The sound of a gunshot freezes us both. Screams echo in the building. I start down the steps, taking them two at a time.
“Where are we going?” Anita asks as I burst out the emergency exit leading out the back of the building. The canal is straight ahead, almost a football field’s length away. There are two figures arguing on the edge of it.
“I just saw Robert’s son.”
“He has a son? What!” I start to run—Blue pulling me forward. Anita moves with me, her stride long and even. “Sydney, what is going on?” Anita huffs.
I should have told her about Fernando… but it seemed personal, like I'd be betraying Robert somehow.
The two men look up—the resemblance is staggering and disturbing. Robert must have gotten my messages. He came for José. Or is this a trap?
My feet slow at the thought. Robert frowns deeply. Anita is breathing heavily next to me. “What the hell is going on?” she whispers.
“Not sure,” I answer.
Robert says something to Fernando and then jogs the last 20 yards to us. He’s wearing a suit—the jacket buttoned, as if he’s walking into a business meeting. It probably costs more than the families we just left behind collectively have in the entire world. My teeth grit with the injustice of it.
“Take this,” Robert says, stepping in front of me, as if blocking me from his son, and pushing a pill bottle into my hand. “It’s the antidote.”
I glance down at it. “Why can’t you take it to him?” I ask, standing on my tiptoes to see behind him. A speedboat bobs in the canal’s putrid waters.
“I have to go with him.”
“He wants to kill you,” I point out, calm as can be.
Robert touches my cheek with gentle fingers, drawing my attention. “I’m not so easy to kill. Now go.” His voice is low and velvety soft.
“Sydney,” Anita says. I glance at her. She points to a bus pulling up to the entrance we ran out of…it has a giant picture of my mother on the side and the words “Release the Wolf #IAmHer” printed in bright red ink.
Great. My mom’s here.
Mulberry
I shift my weight, the tarp under me crinkling as I turn my attention away from the video on my tablet back to the scope on the sniper rifle. The one-legged assassin.
I’m a decent marksman, but never considered myself an expert. I don’t need to be for this task, though.
The national guard’s radio communication crackles—they are not prepared for this kind of revolt from the refugees. And why should they be? They’re supposed to be on the same side. But the soldiers are tired, angry, and scared.
Frank sits next to me, his nose in the air, sniffing the breeze coming through the broken window. Nila, her booties crunching over broken glass, circles the abandoned office space, checking for threats among the overturned desks and waterlogged carpeting.
Sun glints off the canal as I steady my crosshairs on Robert. This office building gives me the perfect view. Scanning the area, I see Fernando come out the back exit and start running toward his father.
“Be brave! Be brave!” The chanting of the crowd draws my focus back to the tablet. They are pushing up against the fence. A shot is fired; I’m not sure which side. “They are firing on us,” a voice announces.
My stomach clenches.
“Hold your fire!” a command comes back.
There are only two cameras still working on the building—one on the outside, which is how I saw Sydney enter, and another in the interior. It’s high up and angled toward the fencing, so I can see the skirmish line but not the rest of the cavernous space. There are bodies pressed up against the fence. I stare at the grainy feed, trying to make out if anyone is hurt.
“Fuck Joyful Justice,” a guardsman says over the radio. More shots are fired, and the crowd at the fence surges back. I pray the guardsmen are firing into the air to scare them.
Sydney and Anita come out the same door as Fernando and start running across the pavement toward the canal. Sydney’s hat is low over her face, and Blue runs next to her, Anita struggling to keep up. I lick my lips, fear tingling down my spine. I’m trusting Robert Maxim, that she won’t be hurt. That this will help her in the end.
“We’ve got a bus incoming,” a guardsmen says over the radio.
“Get them out of here!”
I glance at the tablet—April Madden’s bus is getting waved away from the entrance. Instead of turning around to leave, they pull around to the back of the building. Why aren’t they leaving? What the hell is she doing? That woman is as bad as her daughter.
Sydney is talking with Robert. He’s giving her the pills. Telling her to go. I breathe slow and steady. I can’t see Sydney’s face so don’t know how it’s going. All I can hope is that Robert’s plan works.
My gaze flicks back to the bus—April Madden climbs out, a tall woman in a long robe follows and grabs her arm. I recognize the outfit; she must be the witch Sydney told me about, Veronica.
I focus my scope on them to get a better look. It looks like Veronica is trying to convince April to get back on the bus. Good luck, lady.
April shakes her head vehemently and, turning to the bus, yells something. Women start flowing off, carrying supplies.
April pushes past Veronica and runs toward Sydney. The witch races with her. Shit.
I focus through the scope again—Robert and Sydney are watching her mother’s approach.
“Another vehicle is incoming,” I hear over the radio. “Unmarked bus.”
A smaller bus pulls around back and men start to pour off of it, one holding a flag with the male symbol on it. Fucking Incels.
They rush toward the Her prophet followers. The two sides crash into each other like waves caught in cross currents.
Robert made this happen, and I agreed to help.
Sydney
The Her prophet followers and Incels attack each other with the ferocity of fundamentalists. Inarticulate yelling and the solid thunks of hand to hand combat fills the air.
The men's rights activists carry clubs and tire irons. The Her profit followers, mostly women, have nothing but the supplies they brought the hurricane victims.
I stare at the melee, as my mother and Veronica run toward me—Mom in the lead, the younger woman following, her body a shield from the violence.
"Go," Robert’s lips brush my cheek—the light kiss surprising but not unwelcome. This feels like goodbye. “I’ll catch up with you. Get your mother somewhere safe.”
"What did he want for this?" I hold up the bottle of pills.
"There's no time to explain now.” His eyes are soft, the green warm and the blue bright—like looking up into a tree in spring, the new leaves dappled with sky.
The thwapping of helicopter blades cuts through the noise of the brawl.
“Oh shit,” Anita says, drawing my attention. I follow her gaze to where a helicopter thunders between two of the skyscrapers. “That’s media,” she says. “CNN, looks like.”
I can just make out the logo on the side of the helicopter.
“Sydney!” Mom grabs my arm and pulls me into a hug—the earthy scent of sage and a floral perfume breaking through the rot of the canal for a second. I break free of her. There is no time for this.
“Mom, what are you doing here?"
"Robert?" She’s looking past me to where he stands—Fernando and his speed boat ten feet behind him in the canal.
"April," Robert’s voice is low and calm, as if there isn't a massive brawl happening across the parking lot, or a media crew capturing it all. As if there are not people inside the stadium pretending to be members of Joyful Justice, causing a riot. As if this is a cocktail party and he’s greeting my mother over canapés.
"I've got to run." Robert gives my elbow a light squeeze before he turns and walks to the canal’s edge.
"We need to get out of here," Veronica says.
I nod, but don’t move, holding onto the bottle of pills, watching Robert…sensing that something is very off.
Fernando climbs into the boat and starts the engine. Robert stops and turns back to me. He raises a hand to wave goodbye.
Blood explodes from Robert’s chest and his eyes go wide as the echo of a gunshot ricochets off the surrounding buildings. He teeters for a moment on the canal’s edge.
I lurch forward.
He falls back into the water—the dark, putrid liquid splashing up, slapping against the boat and spraying over the bank.
Robert disappears into its murky depths.
In three strides, I’m feet from the canal, when a strong hand grabs my bicep and yanks me back. I twist to see Veronica gripping me, her dark eyes brilliant in the bright sunshine.
"You can't go in there." It comes out as a command.
"Let go of me," I demand. Blue growls, warning her that I am not defenseless.
"Sydney," my mom says. "That water is toxic. Think of the baby.”
The rev of the boat engine interrupts us. Fernando pushes the throttle and zooms down the canal, the dark brown water turning copper in his wake.
Robert doesn't surface. I can't even see any bubbles.
"We can't just let him drown!”
“We are not letting him drown,” Veronica says. "Someone shot him in the chest. He was dead when he hit the water.”
"We need to get out of here now, " Anita says.
Veronica lets go of me and takes my mother's arm instead, leading her along the canal, away from the brawl and the refugee center.
Blue barks a warning; the bus that the Incels arrived in is speeding across the pavement toward us. Veronica sees it the same time that I do. Blue barks again and taps his nose to my hip, nipping at my shirt, trying to herd me away from the oncoming vehicle.
It’s not coming for me.
The bus chases down my mom and Veronica. The younger woman pushes Mom to the side, taking the full impact.
Her body flies ten feet, skidding to a stop, the white of her robe stained with dirt and blood. She doesn’t move. Smoke plumes from the bus’ engine.
A horrible scream tears through the air as my mother runs to Veronica’s slumped form. A man gets out of the driver’s seat and starts toward my mom. Reaching down I pull the knife free from my ankle holster and move to intercept him.
“Sydney,” Anita’s voice fades as I close in on my prey.
Enough is enough.
Mulberry
The water takes Robert’s body, as if it’s been waiting for it. Veronica stops Sydney from going in after him—I expected it to be Anita or Blue, but this works.
The helicopter circles above, capturing it all on film. I sit back, Nila coming to stand by my shoulder, her nose sniffing at the air. I make a better one-legged assassin than a follower.
Frank’s booted paws crunch on glass as he paces behind me.
I may have just killed any chance of a future with Sydney, but I hope I’ve secured her safety—at least for a time.
Robert involved me in this drama to destroy my relationship with Sydney, knowing I’d do anything for her. I trust him in this matter only because I know how he feels. But I also know that Sydney will never forgive me once she finds out what happened here today. I’ve betrayed Joyful Justice, lied to her, and our friends. It is unforgivable.
But I agree with Robert Maxim.
We have to keep her safe, no matter the cost. If she thinks it’s better for Joyful Justice to hide, then she will and the only way to make her believe is to make it true.
I close the clasps on the gun case, roll up the tarp, and, carrying both, head for the stairs.