As soon as we walked in, Layla’s mother pulled her away from the crowd to sit with a group of women, and Jude and I were left to watch the excitement from a distance.
“Thanks for keeping me company,” he said.
“Is this what it’s always like?” I asked. “Layla brings you here, and you hang out in the corner?”
Jude shrugged. “Traditionally, men and women aren’t really supposed to intermingle in Layla’s culture, unless they’re family. It’s hard to do that, down here, because there isn’t really space for people to keep to themselves. But Layla’s mother still tries to enforce the boundaries as much as she can.”
I nodded—another strange set of rules I didn’t understand. In this room full of Mohammed’s friends, Jude looked as out of place as I felt. I saw him stealing glances at Layla across the room whenever he could. “Seems weird for them to invite you here and then ignore you,” I observed.
He nodded—I’d clearly hit a nerve. “Mohammed’s Muslim allies disapprove of his rebellious daughter, but I think I actually help him with the secular vote, make him look more progressive. Now that the election’s over, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tells me to get lost.”
Instinctively, my heart soared. If Mohammed forbade Layla from dating Jude, then maybe he and I could pick up where we’d left off, without all this weird distance between us. But when I saw the sadness on Jude’s face, my heart came crashing back down. I would never want my happiness to come at the expense of his. “I hope that doesn’t happen,” I managed to make myself say.
Jude seemed grateful to hear that. “Thanks.”
Before I could say anything else, a man ran in shouting in Arabic, and the room went wild. Hugging, crying. “I assume he won?” I asked Jude, who looked just as unsure as I did.
But it was Layla who answered me in the affirmative, running up to us, beaming. “He won!”
Relief washed over me: nightmare averted.
Dr. Dupont popped a bottle of champagne—a nice gesture considering she was celebrating her own loss. Secular leaders passed around cups; a man in a Sikh turban handed me a glass, and I clinked it with dozens of strangers who suddenly felt like friends. As the room cheered around me, I finally felt a little bit like a part of something, for real this time.
Over the whoops of victory around me, I could hear other sounds outside. Shouting, clomping feet. Of course, I remembered, there were plenty of people out there who were less thrilled about this election outcome. People I definitely wanted to continue avoiding.
But something about those pounding footsteps felt familiar, felt dangerous. No, this wasn’t a few unhappy voters, this was something else. Something violent. As their voices grew louder, dread built inside of me, even as everyone else seemed oblivious, wrapped up in the glow of victory. In all my anxiety over the election and my silly little love life, I’d forgotten about the larger threats facing us—Joshua, and all the other prophets, gunning for us. It was like watching a tsunami in slow motion—dozens of people with no idea they were about to be engulfed.
I tried to find someone to tell, to warn . . . and then a gunshot rang out in the hall, and the room fell silent. Another, and then another, echoing as the bullets ricocheted off the stone walls. We could hear screams now, and pounding footsteps. It all seemed so clear now. It was happening—Joshua had found us.
Everyone else was already taking shelter behind furniture, in corners, but I was frozen where I stood.
Layla grabbed my arm, jerking me out of my haze and to the ground. “Get down,” she hissed. “Put your head between your legs and don’t say a word.”
8
What was happening? I couldn’t ask, I knew better than to speak—the whole room had gone silent. How had they found us? Despite Jude’s reassurances that we were safe, had Joshua tracked us down, tracked me all the way around the globe?
As the gunshots came closer, I heard voices accompanying them, though I couldn’t make out yet what they were saying. I heard crashing sounds—doors being kicked open, terrified screams. I scrunched myself into an even smaller ball, covering my head, hoping they would move past us.
Finally, the voices, deep and gruff, were right outside our door. I stole a glance at the others in the room—they were all just as terrified as I was. Shouts I couldn’t translate vibrated the stone walls. I heard high-pitched shrieks, footsteps running away.
The voices didn’t say anything for a moment. And then—BAM—our door crashed open, and two dozen heavily armed men burst in. “Put your hands up!” several people shouted at once, in multiple languages. Everyone complied.
As I threw my hands in the air, I peeked between my knees to try to see who these people were, and my heart sank to recognize a familiar face, half hidden behind tactical gear—Max. I recognized a few of his friends flanking him, fanning out, guns trained on our heads. This wasn’t Joshua’s army, it was Matthew Graham’s. I kept my face buried, hoping to conceal my identity as long as possible, as a man I didn’t recognize reached down next to me and grabbed Layla, pulled her to her feet. Her shrieks echoed in my ear, and I could smell, almost taste, her captor’s sweat.
“Let go of her,” Mohammed shouted, but the gun barrels pointed at his chest forced him to stay put. He changed his tone, imploring the man restraining Layla. “Don’t do this, brother.” As Layla’s captor snarled back in Arabic, I realized, this crowd wasn’t made up of just my Christian extremist friends. In fact, as I looked closer, I recognized other familiar faces from the debate crowd—two Hindu men, a Jewish one, a Buddhist one . . . these were all the Originalists of different faiths who had cheered on Reverend Graham. His army was even more formidable than I could have imagined.
Max stepped forward, his gun trained on Mohammed. “Reverend Graham is the rightful leader of this movement.”
But Mohammed kept his focus on the man holding his daughter—the one he believed he might be able to turn. “This is not Islam,” Mohammed implored him, voice steady. “Islam is peace.”
But the man didn’t release her, firing back a stream of angry Arabic.
After a moment, one of the Hindu men stepped forward, shouting over everyone. “Step down. Or we will start killing hostages.” Terror spiked through me. The man’s gun was pointed at Jude.
Mohammed looked at his daughter, at the tears streaming down her face, then back to the rest of his family. His older son shook his head, saying something in Arabic I could tell meant something like Don’t you dare step down.
Mohammed turned his gaze back to our attackers, keeping his voice level. “Your government will not be legitimate if you take this place by force.”
“The people are on our side,” the Jewish man said.
I stole a glance at Max and saw he was already looking back at me, his eyes cold. As Mohammed and the others continued their standoff, Max moved closer to me. “Grace?” he asked, his voice full of shock and distaste. “You are one of them?”
“Please don’t hurt me,” was all I could think to say.
As the other gunmen moved to tie up Mohammed and his family, Max stooped next to me, binding my hands. I could feel his anger as he dug the wire into my wrists. “You did not tell me you were friends with this man.”
“I just met him,” I said, an idea forming. “I just got here.” If I could convince him not to tie me up, maybe I could find a way to help the others.
Max didn’t buy it. “Only his inner circle is celebrating with him.”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” I said.
“She’s not with us,” Jude piped up from a few feet away, and I realized he’d been listening in; I shot him a thankful look.
Max moved over to Jude, who’d already been restrained by one of our other attackers. “Who are you?”
Jude took a deep breath. “I’m the one who brought her here. She’s only here because she doesn’t have any other friends in Turkey; I told her to tag along. She didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Max looked to one of his c
omrades, who shrugged his shoulders. “Please,” I said. “You want a Christian world. Why start by killing another Christian?” I forced myself not to look at Jude, knowing the reaction he’d have to hearing me describe myself that way.
Max pondered the question as he sized me up. I tried to look as timid, as useless as possible. Making a decision, Max pulled me to my feet. “This way,” he hissed, walking me out into the hallway.
As we emerged from the room, I saw a crowd of onlookers scatter—people who’d heard what was happening but were too afraid to intervene. Now that we were alone, Max pulled out a pair of wire cutters and removed my restraints. “Now, leave this place.” He turned to go back into the room.
“Wait! What’s going to happen next?” I called after him, hands shaking.
“That is being decided by the others. The fate of Mohammed’s family is not up to Christians.”
“Why?”
“Muslims police their own. I am responsible for Christians only. That is the deal we have made.”
I wondered if I could convince Max to turn against his compatriots. I’d already convinced him to let me go—maybe I could exploit his own prejudices. “Why are you working with them?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Max seemed genuinely confused.
“You think Mohammed has made too many compromises, but what do you think you’re doing?” I tried to think of the words most likely to sway someone who thought the way he did. “What’s the difference, him working with the secularists, versus you working with all those extremists, all those people killing for a god that isn’t your god?”
He seemed unconcerned. “Once we defeat the false prophets, we cannot risk having a new government with secular laws. Secularism is what caused the Revelations in the first place.” His matter-of-fact way of speaking about things that weren’t facts drove me crazy.
“Jesus never asked anyone to take up arms,” I pointed out, trying to keep my frustration in check. “In fact, I think he was pretty against it.”
Max shook his head, undeterred. “He asked us to spread his word. This is the best way. It will be worth it, when the whole world follows Christ. You worry now, but you will see.”
His stubbornness infuriated me. “All your talk about Originalism, it’s just an excuse, isn’t it?” I shot back.
“What do you mean?”
“All that time you spent studying ancient scripture, it wasn’t about finding the true meaning, it was about cherry-picking examples to help you find cover for oppressing everyone else.” As I finished, I was breathless, and terrified . . . I knew I’d just made a risky accusation.
But he took my words in stride, unmoved. “You have not studied like I have. If you do, you will see.”
I nodded, numb, realizing there was no way I could convince this guy of anything approaching sanity. I changed my tack. “Please, the other American in there. Jude, the one who spoke up for me. Please don’t let him get hurt.”
“He is also Christian?” Max asked.
I worried getting caught in a lie might make things worse for Jude, so I just said, “He’s a good person.”
My omission told Max all he needed to know. But he nodded. “I will keep watch on him.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I believed that he would try. And I hoped, desperately, that Max’s small-mindedness, his tribal outlook, would help keep Jude safe.
Max disappeared inside the room, closing the door behind him. Moments later, a gunshot rang out from inside, followed by screams and wails.
I ran to the door, pressed my ear against it—but I couldn’t tell what had happened. My nails dug into the wood; I wanted to weep, scream, collapse, but I couldn’t. If there was any chance my friend was still alive in there, I had to try and save him, and everyone else in that room.
I tore myself away from the door. I needed to find help.
9
I scrambled through the halls, stopping everyone I passed, breathlessly stringing together syllables. “They’ve taken hostages. They have guns. We have to do something.” But everyone turned away from me, walked away quickly with their heads down. Some of them might not have understood my jumble of words, but I think most were too afraid. Afraid to take sides, afraid to put themselves in the middle of yet another conflict. And some, I’m sure, must have been Originalists who supported the insurrection, even if they weren’t willing to take up arms themselves.
In a flailing haze, I started yelling down the dark halls. “Anyone! Can anyone help me?”
But no one answered.
My feet fell heavy on the stone pathways, my breath pressing against the silence of the fearful corridors. Doors slammed as I approached—everyone lying low until the coup had resolved one way or the other.
This place had never felt so huge, so barren, so empty.
I tried to think of where I might find allies. The atheist quarter maybe? I found myself walking in circles; in my panic, I couldn’t remember the layout of this place, and I didn’t know whom I could trust to ask directions.
As I pressed on, legs aching from exertion, I finally heard voices arguing ahead of me. Friends, foes, I had no idea, but I was just relieved to find anyone who wasn’t in hiding.
As the voices grew louder, I realized I’d arrived: this was the atheist quarter, buzzing with angry and terrified people. A woman holding a baby was near tears: “This is our home, our future. We can’t just let them take it.”
Another man bellowed, seemingly to no one, “They want to outlaw secularism. Outlaw it!”
The woman shook her head. “We don’t know who’s in there. We can’t mount a counteroffensive without some idea of what’s going on, on the ground.”
“I can help,” I blurted out. Everyone turned their skeptical eyes toward me. “You’re talking about the coup, right? I was in there, I escaped.”
A bald, burly man, who seemed to be the ringleader, pulled me into a nearby room, some family’s living quarters, and a few others followed, forming a hushed circle. “Tell us everything,” he said.
Invigorated, I quickly related what I’d seen: “They’ve got about thirty hostages, held by maybe a couple dozen gunmen. They want Mohammed to step down, so Graham can be the leader.”
“So it’s the Christians, figures . . .” the ringleader muttered.
“No, it’s everybody. It’s all the religious extremists working together.”
That floored the atheist wing. “Working together?”
“They’re saying it’s temporary . . .” I tried to cut in, but I was drowned out by all the other voices:
“There’s no way . . .”
“Graham rose to power by demonizing the other Originalists, they’d never team up with him.”
“You saw that debate, they already have.”
“To form an army . . . ?” asked a skeptical voice.
“That’s what Graham said he wanted, didn’t he?”
“Let those Originalist assholes kill each other,” one woman snorted. “When the dust settles, we’ll take over again.”
Another man concurred. “I’m not putting my ass on the line for some Muslim guy. Do you think he’d do the same for me?”
The woman with the baby shouted back, “You’re not fighting for ‘some Muslim guy,’ you’re fighting for us. They want to outlaw the secular party!”
The ringleader whistled sharply, and the room fell silent. “Save the politics. You said there’s two dozen? We can take on two dozen.” He looked around the rest of the crowd, fixing them with a hawklike stare. “Anyone willing to put their ass on the line, we’re going in.”
“Wait,” I interjected. “They’ve got really big guns. Scary-looking ones.”
He opened a closet, revealing dozens of assault rifles, just as big as the ones the extremists had been holding, and he couldn’t help but grin. “Scary enough for ya?”
I nodded, scared indeed.
He continued, “We heard the Originalists had a line in to a black market, and we knew they�
�d be secretly stockpiling weapons. We figured we oughta do the same.”
The guns made their way around the circle, followed by a bottle of pills—to guard against any sins we were about to commit. A tough-looking young woman extended a loaded rifle to me, but I shook my head. “I don’t know how to use it.”
She pointed. “Safety. Trigger. Now you do.” I reluctantly took it from her. It was heavier than I expected, the metal colder. Would I really be willing to shoot it? Would I kill one of those masked men to save Jude’s life? I’d been torturing myself over that guard’s accidental death . . . could I really take another life, on purpose this time? As I looked around the circle at this mustering army, an icy wave of terror washed over me. You should leave now, that nagging feeling in my gut said. But I shook it off. I had to save Jude.
“We don’t have long,” our leader said. “If they’re threatening hostages, we have to move now.” And despite that nagging feeling in my gut, we did.
10
None of this felt real. As I followed these strangers down the dimly lit halls of this underground city, I couldn’t believe I was really holding a gun in my hands, really going into battle with strangers I’d just met, against a group of quasi friends I’d just learned I should oppose. Was this what the pre-Revelation era had been like? All this hatred and violence and chaos? Constant fear, a constant struggle for power?
As we approached the Muslim quarter, I felt dread billowing up inside me. I’d been gone nearly an hour . . . who knew what might have transpired in that time? Who knew if Jude was even still alive in there? Maybe the gunmen had been joined by reinforcements. Maybe I was leading this secular army to their deaths. Maybe I was about to die myself. My finger shakily rested near the trigger, and I was terrified I would pull it too soon . . . but more terrified I wouldn’t be able to pull it at all.
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