He’s down in the bed of the truck with Brandon, but he hears Jewel’s high scream, men yelling, a shotgun blast and at least two rifles chattering, could be more—he can’t tell where any of it is coming from, only that he’s sure he hasn’t been shot—and Chief Harris shouting, “Stand down! Stand down!”
Even before the firing has stopped, before Chief Harris yells the command, Jessup is pushing Brandon off his body, scrambling over the side of the truck and jumping to the ground, shouting, “Jewel!”
It’s pure chaos. Protesters screaming and running, somebody down in the road with a woman next to them, wailing, cops pointing pistols, the White America Militia at the gate already lowering their rifles, dropping to their knees, one of them—Brody Ellis, Jessup thinks, going by size alone—lying on his back, his face a smeared crater of blood, police officers in body armor running forward with M16s at their shoulders, others holding pistols raised, panic the only common element between the protesters, the church militia, and the police, Chief Harris continuing to yell, other cops joining in, drop your weapons, drop your weapons, on the ground, on the ground, but Jessup doesn’t care, barely hears any of it, doesn’t do more than take it all in with a quick look. The only thing he cares about is his family, and as soon as his feet hit the ground he’s sprinting, looking for them.
What he sees is Jewel lying still on the ground with David John’s body covering her, his body a shelter for hers, his mother right next to the two of them, on her side, crying, hysterical, reaching toward their daughter. For a frantic moment, Jessup is panicked—why isn’t Jewel moving?—but then he sees her eyes open, sees her looking at him: she’s fine, just scared.
“Are you okay?” he screams it, tries to calm himself down, catch his breath. A deliberate turn inward, not trying to make it worse for Jewel than it is already. Quieter. “Are you okay?”
There’s yelling all over the place. He risks a glance back, sees the White America Militia members being shoved to the ground, separated from their weapons, the Cortaca cops and cops from the sheriff’s department moving forward, aggressive containment now.
“We’re fine, we’re fine,” David John says. He is spooked in a way that Jessup has never seen. “Are you okay?” David John asks. “You went down and . . .”
David John stops, gulps air.
Jessup looks at his stepfather. Is he . . . ? He is. He’s crying. David John gets off Jewel, sits on the ground and buries his head in his hands. Jessup’s mom gets to her feet, and Jessup reaches down and picks Jewel up. All of this takes five, ten seconds at most, and it’s like being in the calm of the eye of the hurricane. He hears somebody screaming for an ambulance, two cops climbing up into the truck where he was standing with Brandon. Sees the line of men at the gate, guns on the ground, being shoved to their stomachs, hands on their heads with pistols and shotguns and M16s pointed in their faces, Brody Ellis bloodied and on his back, not moving, no point in offering medical help.
As he takes this in, he sees three cops in military body armor and carrying assault rifles barging toward him, fingers on their triggers.
“Down! Down! Down!” one of them screams, and Jessup complies. As he sinks to his knees, he sees the cameras trained on him, one of the reporters standing there with her mouth hanging open.