Chapter XXX:
The Tragedy of the Big House

AVIDLY WE WATCHED the screens as events unfolded, switching between the dragon’s camera views, satellite images, and the SNN broadcast. Normally the event would have passed unremarked, but because SNN reporters had learned that Malory had been in the vicinity, the world’s eyes had turned upon humble—in the sick woman’s estimation, “hellish”—Sanctuary.

From our altitude, it appeared as if someone had poured Greek fire upon an anthill. The largest building of the district was engulfed in flames, spouting great gouts whenever another window exploded; the fires were now surging to consume other buildings, and people were rushing everywhere in a mad dance. Zooming in on specific sites revealed another chilling fact: some people were fleeing, while the rest were pursuing them, brandishing weapons. Occasionally a mob would overcome a fugitive, subdue him, and string him—or her—up in the nearest tree, leaving the victim dangling and kicking against the advancing flames. A flock of dragons were dumping water on the blazes but had yet to make any appreciable headway. Against this grim montage ran the SNN commentary in a serene female voice:

“President Malory Beckham Hinton to-day ordered Cavalry One to make an unscheduled landing inside Sanctuary, the one-point-eight-square-mile walled-off district reserved for the homeless people of Washington, DC; but she and her escort were obliged to leave suddenly when Sanctuary’s largest tenement, colloquially referred to as ‘The Big House,’ burst into flames. Cavalry One is circling the region at a safe altitude. It is unknown what prompted President Hinton’s visit, or why a military medical helicopter has been dispatched to a house in the fire’s path by her personal orders; the President is unavailable for comment. One patient, identity and condition undetermined, was observed being removed from the house, along with three body bags.” Cut to a live view of the dragonling ascending. “The helicopter’s destination is the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

“Early reports indicate the fire and resulting riot were started by three residents”—here flashed the photos of young men bearing a strong resemblance to the woman Malory and I had tried to help—“who claim to have been abducted and tortured by other residents identified only as ‘The Doglords.’” God alone knew whom they resembled; the faces displayed in these images had been charred beyond recognition. Around them, several people had gathered to laugh, dance, and spit upon the corpses. “As you can see by the reactions, resentment toward the Doglords apparently has been brewing for quite some time, and other residents are hunting down and dispatching their oppressors’ underlings.” Cue images of the hanged in all their grisly detail. “Casualty figures already number in the dozens and likely will climb higher until the fires are quenched. The arsonists have eluded capture, but the overwhelming sentiment among survivors has been unabashed gratitude.”

The face of a scruffy older man lurched into view. He said: “Arsonists, hell and damnation! Those boys should get medals for standing up to the Doglords and ending their unholy tyranny. But that ain’t enough, not by a long shot. These walls have to go! We’re not criminals—well, most of us, anyway. The Doglords were criminals of the vilest sort. The rest of us, we’re just down on our luck because nobody wants to give us a chance. The walls make everybody forget about us! Madame President, are you listening? Help us! Don’t forget about us!”

She was listening, and she would not forget; I could see it in the intensity of her gaze and the set to her jaw.

The President’s PR chief had denied all requests for interviews while working to craft a statement for Malory to broadcast. I said:

“Do not make public statements or grant interviews as the President yet. Continue being yourself awhile. What would you, not as the President, but as Malory Beckham Hinton, do now?”

“I would go to Walter Reed and find out what’s happened to that woman. I would also offer amnesty to her sons and reunite them with their mother.”

I approved. I sensed she needed the affirmation, as new as she was to the concept of behaving in a manner true to her inborn nature rather than attempting to project a “perfect,” phony façade that duped only those who were too stupid to discern otherwise, or too apathetic to notice—which amounted to a solid ninety-five per cent of her constituents; still, phoniness is never a sound policy in the long term, because it implies a character disorder of the deepest magnitude.

Malory’s thirty-second broadcast offered no explanations for her unscheduled visit to Sanctuary or for the amnesty she announced for the three fugitive arsonists, if they would surrender themselves to authorities to be brought to the hospital. This micro-speech set the SNN heads to buzzing with endless speculations about what the President was doing and why. I am not certain Malory herself could have explained it if asked; but acting as her full queenly self, she was nothing short of magnificent.

Outside the hospital a battalion of reporters was awaiting the arrival of Cavalry One. From their ranks, in an attempt to minimize disruptions within the hospital due to the President’s presence, one journalistic team was selected to accompany the President inside, along with myself and Malory’s guards: Alison Forester, the vibrant young blonde who had broken the SNN story, and her cameraman, Adam Bard. Together we learned that the Sanctuary woman’s name was Mary Annis, she was being treated in the Intensive Care Unit, and—as Malory and I had suspected from the start—she was dying.

ICU rules permitted one visitor at the patient’s bedside. By tacit agreement that visitor was Malory. The rest of us kept vigil from behind the glass. Adam recorded several images of tears sliding down Malory’s cheeks, and nobody present could doubt they were real. What words Malory and Mary exchanged we could not hear over the cheeping and beeping and whirring and purring of the machines, and out of respect I did not eavesdrop by magic. I discerned pleas from the afflicted woman, and Malory’s solemn nod of assent, followed by palpable gratitude from the former, though to what Malory had agreed I had no idea. When Mary’s sons arrived some hours later, when it was almost too late, Malory swiftly relinquished her post to them. All three piled into the tiny space around the bed and between the machines, rules be damned.

The reunion was tearful and far too brief, but Mary died with a smile on her lips and the reflection of her sons’ faces in her eyes, and for that I was immeasurably glad.

When the hospital staff began asking the brothers questions regarding the burial arrangements for their parents and sisters, another reporter—whom I had not seen until that moment—said:

“Let me help.”

“Who are you?” Malory asked.

“Marco Markson of the Washington Times, Madame President. I was covering the Sanctuary story on the inside when the Annis brothers approached me for help. They’d heard about your amnesty offer but didn’t know who else to trust.”

Malory turned a withering gaze upon the trio. “You three violated the terms of my offer.”

“We know, Madame President, and we’re very sorry,” said the oldest brother, “but people working for the Doglords often went about dressed as police, with fake badges and everything. That was one way they intimidated us into doing their bidding. Another way was…” He pointed to his grotesquely bruised and cut face; heaven alone knew what injuries were concealed beneath his tattered clothing.

Malory shook her head. “I had no idea.” She banished her reverie and addressed the brothers again. “Tell me what happened inside the Big House. How did you escape? Was the fire accidental?”

Again the oldest replied. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t an accident. The Doglords were going to kill us, see, as an example, because we’d dared to stand up to them and protect—and protect our—”

Here his countenance broke, and he covered his face with his hands. As his shoulders betrayed his silent sobs beneath the gentle hand of the middle brother, the youngest chimed in with: “The Doglords wanted to turn our sisters into prostitutes, and we wouldn’t let them. So we fought them, but there were too many. They took us to the Big House to work us over some more, for days and days. You don’t want to know what they did. Well, you can see some of it, I’m sure—still. It was terrible. They were going to kill us to-day, but Donny, there”—he pointed a nod toward the oldest—“noticed some greasy rags on the floor near where they made us kneel. He begged cigarettes for the three of us as a last request. Once our guard lit them for us, and we got to puffin’ on ’em real good, he couldn’t stand all the smoke, so he stepped out of the room for some air. We spat those things onto the papers and rags so fast they’d have made your head spin! And the trash lit up fast, too—foom!”

Donny, having regained his composure, nodded. “We used the flames to sear off our bonds.” All three brothers held up wrists bearing rope burns and scorch marks. “With all the trash laying about—everywhere you stepped, just about—it didn’t take long for the rest of the building to catch. We escaped in the confusion of the smoke and panic.”

Malory asked, “And these so-called Doglords—did you kill them?”

“We didn’t help them escape the burning building,” Donny offered.

The brothers exchanged a look before the middle one spoke: “Name’s Johnny, ma’am. Donny and Lonny have spoken the truth, but not all of it. The hand-to-God truth is that we knew which apartment was theirs, got to it while nobody was looking before the alarm got pulled, and blocked them in. From the fourteenth floor, it was either die in the fire or die from the fall. They must’ve chosen the fire.”

“So you are self-confessed murderers as well as arsonists,” said Malory.

“Ma’am,” began Johnny, “if somebody had tried to turn your sweet little sisters into sex slaves, can you please look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t have done the very same thing we did?”

The two locked gazes for a long while before Malory said, “If the truth be known, I probably would have taken similar measures under those awful circumstances. I can tell you one thing, however: to-day I have learned first-hand how deplorable are the conditions within Sanctuary, and you have my vow that I will make it right. I’m not sure how yet, but I promise this problem will get fixed permanently, and for the benefit—and betterment—of all Sanctuary residents across the nation. Furthermore, Johnny Annis, Donny Annis, and Lonny Annis, I exonerate you three of all wrongdoings in this incident. You may leave this place under no fear of arrest or prosecution, and I shall personally assist you in making arrangements for the honorable burial of your dead.” She extended her hand, and Johnny grasped it and pumped vigorously. His brothers did likewise and with no less enthusiasm.

Adam’s camera recorded every word and gesture save one: the unabashed admiration glistening in Marco Markson’s eyes.