by Tom Isbell
But where is Chancellor Maddox?
With all these soldiers here—the president’s soldiers—the chancellor has no choice but to stick to back alleys. Hope does the same. She limps through town, searching for any sign of the woman who just shot her. Who scarred her face. Who ordered the deaths of billions of innocent people.
She reaches the endless prairie at the edge of town, and her spirits drop. There’s no sign of the chancellor anywhere. She’s gotten away. Hope is about to turn around and head back when she spies a small figure stumbling across the snow-covered grasslands. The figure has blond hair and wears an ankle-length coat.
Hope wonders where she’s going. Why run blindly across a frozen field? What good will that do?
Then Hope spies a vehicle on the far side of a ridge. A Humvee, just waiting to take the president-elect wherever she wants to go. Hope can’t let the chancellor get inside that vehicle.
Hope gives chase as best she can but grows winded quickly, the horizon tilting wildly. Her right pant leg clings to her skin, and blood squishes in her shoe.
As she limps along, her eyes scan the snow-stubbled field. For all the effort Hope is putting into the chase, the chancellor is getting farther and farther away.
Hope comes to a stop, defeated. She could maybe return to town and try to persuade some soldier to drive her across the field, but by the time she could even hope to make that happen, Chancellor Maddox will be long gone. Disappeared for good.
Hope crumples to the ground—not just from loss of blood but from bone-racking despair. Her unfinished business will remain just that—unfinished.
She slips into a deep sleep.
59.
EVEN IN MOONLIGHT, THE blood was easy to spot. I crouched down and examined the red droplets on the white snow. They were fresh enough to convince me of their source: Hope.
I got up and followed the trail.
It led me through the back alleys of the small town, and I expected to round a corner at any moment and come face-to-face with her, standing victorious over a slain Chancellor Maddox.
But somewhere in the middle of town I lost the trail, and when the buildings abruptly ended, I found myself on the edge of the prairie. No Hope. No Chancellor Maddox. No indication of where they’d gone.
“Where are you, Hope?” I whispered, my eyes sweeping the vast expanse of rolling hills. Behind me, all the way up to the Eagle’s Nest, I could hear the clatter of gunfire as soldiers battled soldiers. Every so often, an explosion shook the ground.
I retraced my steps until I came to a convoy of Humvees waiting to ascend the mountain. I began running from vehicle to vehicle.
“Excuse me! Do any of you know James Heywood? Have you seen him anywhere?”
If I could find him, he could talk a soldier into driving us in search of Hope. But no one responded. The few soldiers who met my eye either shook their heads or looked in another direction.
“Anyone?!” I called out.
The Humvees rumbled past.
I was running out of time. There was no other option but to return to where I’d been. Racing through the back alleys, I reached the far edge of town, my eyes once more sweeping across rolling hills and endless prairie.
I scoured the ground and found what I’d missed before: the trail of blood. The droplets were as purple—and fresh—as ever. I followed them. I was so focused on the perfect circles of red on white that I nearly tripped over the object at my feet.
It was Hope, curled in a fetal position. With her black clothing and makeup, she blended in with the darkness. I crouched down beside her and shook her shoulder.
“Hope, can you hear me?”
She didn’t budge.
“Hope,” I cried again. “Please wake up.”
Relief surged through me when her eyes fluttered open.
“Book,” she said groggily, trying to focus. When she attempted to get up, I reached out my hands to her. She slapped them away. “Don’t stop me, Book. I need to get to Chancellor Maddox.” Her words were slurred and hard to understand.
“I know—”
“I’ve been waiting for this—”
“I know—”
“I need to do this one thing.”
Even in her weakened condition, she looked at me with eyes blazing, spoiling for a fight.
“I’m not stopping you, Hope,” I said. “I’m going to help you.”
Her eyes pinched close together, studying me.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I raised her to her feet, and only then did she realize I wasn’t kidding. Of course, I knew that I was putting her life in danger—that by going after Maddox she was basically sacrificing her life. But I also knew she wouldn’t allow someone else to finish her job; no gunshot to the leg was going to stop her.
My eyes fell on her tourniquet. I reached my hands to her thigh and placed them there.
“May I?” I asked.
She nodded, and I cinched the belt tighter. When I stood up, our eyes locked.
“Do you know where Maddox is?” I asked.
She pointed to the sweeping prairie. In the far distance was a Humvee.
“You think you can make it?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
Another nod.
“Then let’s get going,” I said.
She draped an arm around my shoulder and we took off, hurrying as best we could. We were both in awful shape: bruised, bleeding, exhausted. As sore as I was from my sleigh ride down the mountain, Hope had it worse. Even with the tightened belt, she was losing blood at an alarming rate.
She suddenly withdrew her arm and began to run.
“Are you sure?” I said. “I don’t think—”
She didn’t respond, just took my hand and squeezed it, and soon we were both racing across the plains together.
And that’s when it hit me.
It was like I was in the very place from my dreams—surrounded by rolling hills and desolate prairie. It was the stench of gunpowder, the whine of bullets, the pop of guns. But instead of my grandmother’s hand clutching mine, it was Hope’s.
Was that it? I wondered. Was that why I had this dream for all those years—to prepare me for this moment?
But the sad reality was that we weren’t fast enough. We could spy Chancellor Maddox in the distance … and she was nearly to the vehicle. Our wounds were too crippling. I could feel Hope straining against her leg—her limp more severe than ever—and when I looked, I saw that her face was covered in a clammy sheen of perspiration. There was no way we were going to catch up in time.
“I could go on ahead,” I suggested, but Hope wouldn’t hear of it. She gritted her teeth and we pressed on.
At the same time we realized we weren’t going to reach the chancellor before she reached the Humvee. Hope’s chest was heaving up and down, and her hair was damp from sweat. But most telling of all was the look of defeat in her eyes. It was an expression I’d rarely seen from her.
“It’s okay,” I said. But I knew it wasn’t.
Catching Chancellor Maddox wasn’t just a game; it mattered. For the country. For the Sisters and Less Thans. For Hope.
“Maybe we should return to town,” I suggested. “Convince some soldiers to go after her.” And get a doctor to look at that leg, I wanted to add.
Hope gave a blank nod. She seemed a million miles away, and I could only imagine the thoughts swirling through her head—things having to do with her mom and her dad and her sister, Faith. We turned to go.
And that’s when the most remarkable thing happened.
Just as Chancellor Maddox was about to be free and clear of us—a small speck on the far horizon reaching a waiting vehicle—a series of forms appeared out of the smoke. Just one or two at first, but then more. And then more after that. They rose from the far hills, wreathed by mist, and at first I couldn’t make out who or what they were. All I knew was that there was a line of them. Dozens at first, the
n scores, then hundreds. They straddled a distant ridge and advanced, hand in hand, as they approached Chancellor Maddox.
The chancellor stopped, saw them on one side of her, and Hope and me on the other.
“Come on,” I said, and Hope and I limped forward.
For reasons we couldn’t understand, this group had mysteriously appeared. It was a miracle. A barricade of people springing up from nowhere, preventing the president-elect from reaching her vehicle.
Only as we got closer, and pale moonlight caught the faces of the people forming the line, did I realize: it wasn’t a miracle. It was an act of friendship.
For standing there was Flush. And Red. And Helen and Twitch and Diana and all the Less Thans and Sisters we’d rescued along the way. And not just them, but the Skull People, too. Hundreds of people standing hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder along the ridge, blocking any escape for Maddox. They’d followed us, come all this way to help. Argos was there, too, scarred and limping from all the injuries he’d endured these many months.
As we approached, the chancellor yelled at Hope and me. “Tell your friends to get out of the way! I need to get to that car.”
We said nothing.
Our friends weren’t the perfectly built soldiers who made up the ranks of the Brown Shirts. They were the flawed, scarred, damaged human beings who the Western Federation Territory wanted nothing to do with. They were blind and missing limbs and blotched from radiation. They had witnessed the deaths of their sisters and the slaughter of their friends. They were Sisters and they were Less Thans. They were Skull People, who had committed no crime other than having a different belief system from the government. Every single person standing there had gone through the fire—and was now hardened and stronger because of it.
They were the outcasts. The throwaways. Less Thans, every one.
They had no business being alive, making it these twenty years when so many wanted them dead. But by standing there that night, they proved they hadn’t just survived—they had prevailed.
They continued to advance, and the ends of the line slowly arced inward until they’d formed an enormous circle—a circle with Chancellor Maddox in the very middle of it like a bull’s-eye. Then some of them stepped forward, as though they’d choreographed this all before, and formed a smaller circler. It grew tighter and tighter, until, finally, Chancellor Maddox had nowhere to go. That’s when they stopped.
The chancellor was like a trapped animal, running from person to person, trying to break through: pushing, slapping, spitting, yelling.
“You can’t do this!” she screamed. “I’m the president-elect of the Republic of the True America! You have to let me through!”
Our friends didn’t fight back, didn’t say a word. They just linked arms, suffering her blows and insults. Their faces were without expression.
Chancellor Maddox ran faster and faster around the circle, trying to squeeze through, trying to wedge her way between Less Thans and Sisters. Spit flew from her mouth. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared with desperation, like some dying, desperate horse. The Less Thans and Sisters just stood there.
When Hope and I arrived, a section of the circle pulled apart and formed an aisle. We limped down it toward the defiant former leader. Once we were inside, the circle closed back up. I looked at the Sisters and Less Thans, at all the friends we’d traipsed across the country with. Others, too. Goodman Dougherty. Goodwoman Marciniak. All standing there, arms linked, holding firm.
Chancellor Maddox had fallen to the ground and was writhing on the snow and dirt. Mud plastered her knees, smudged her face and hands. She looked up at us with a sneer.
“Is this what you wanted?” she shrieked. “You want to carve up my cheeks so we’re even? Is that it?” She was yelling. More spittle flew.
“So get it over with! I’m here, aren’t I? Carve any damn thing you want. Carve your initials for all I care.” She angled her face upward, waiting for Hope to tattoo her face.
Hope said nothing.
I studied Hope for the longest time. Despite all the sleepless nights and battles, I’d never seen her so spent before. It was utter exhaustion. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. After everything we’d seen the past year, how could Hope—how could any of us—not be wiped out? It was too much to take in, what human beings had been doing to other human beings, and at that moment, I was sure Hope realized that. That was why she just stood there, arms hanging limply by her side.
Finally, after a long moment, she reached into the folds of her hoodie and pulled something out. Not a knife or a gun, but a syringe. The clear liquid in the plastic tube caught the moonlight and prismed outward.
Chancellor Maddox recognized it immediately.
“Where’d you get that?” she snapped.
“Dr. Gallingham’s lab,” Hope said flatly. “I didn’t think he’d mind if I borrowed it.”
“You can’t use that. You have no idea what it does.”
“Actually, I do. I’ve seen. We’ve all seen.”
The other Sisters and Less Thans nodded.
“Then please, I beg you—don’t do it!” Like a cornered animal, Chancellor Maddox began to back away on hands and knees.
“Don’t worry,” Hope said. “I’m not like you. I’m not going to do that.” Maddox’s face relaxed, and then Hope added, “But you are.”
Hope took a step toward the cowering chancellor. She extended her hand, the syringe squarely in her palm. That was when Maddox began to scream.
“Shoot me! Knife me. Anything but that!”
Hope didn’t respond, didn’t say a word, and the chancellor rose to her knees and began to beg. Her long, slender fingers were clenched tightly in prayer.
“Please. Don’t do this. I beg you.”
Hope still said nothing.
“For the love of God, show some mercy.”
“Funny,” Hope said. “I don’t remember mercy being something you showed my friends and family.” She inched her hand forward.
When Chancellor Maddox realized Hope wasn’t backing down, wasn’t changing her mind, she reached a tentative hand forward and plucked the syringe from Hope’s hand.
“This is what you want?” she asked.
“It’s what I want,” Hope answered.
Chancellor Maddox studied the needle: its razor tip, its clear liquid in the plastic capsule, its lethal contents.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” she said. Tears and snot stained her face. “I was just trying to make the world a better place.”
Neither Hope nor I dignified her comment with a response.
“But you’re fooling yourself if you think the Final Solution will die with me,” Maddox said. “The movement will go on, and won’t stop until all of you are utterly wiped out.”
Hope gave her head a shake. “The movement’s over. Now that Gallingham’s dead, you’re the last one who still believes in it.”
It was impossible to read the chancellor’s expression. The only emotions I could see were desperation and seething anger. She took the syringe and slowly raised it. She placed its tip against her arm and readied her thumb. Her hand trembled.
“Do I have to?” she asked.
“You have to,” Hope answered.
“Then if I go, you go with me.”
Chancellor Maddox leaped to her feet and lunged for Hope. The needle flashed through air, and those of us watching couldn’t help but gasp. The world seemed to come to a crawl as the poison tip sliced through night and made its way toward Hope.
But Hope was ready—had been anticipating the attack, it seemed. She shuffled to one side, extended her arms, grabbed Chancellor Maddox by the wrist, and stopped the chancellor’s hand midstrike. Hope turned the syringe around. For a brief moment, the needle was directly between the two, a compass point stuck between directions. Then Hope turned the icy tip and plunged it into the chancellor’s neck. She thumbed the evil contents from the plunger straight into Maddox’s blood.
The c
hancellor’s eyes grew large, even as Hope ripped out the syringe and flung it to the ground. The former leader of the Western Federation Territory sat there a moment, breathing heavily, panting like a thirsty dog. Then, slowly, she pushed herself to her feet and unfolded her body.
“It didn’t work,” she crowed triumphantly, addressing everyone who circled her. “You think it’s that easy to bring me down? I’m Chancellor Cynthia Maddox, president-elect of the Republic of the True America! You can’t just—”
A leg went slack, and she plopped to the ground. She tried hauling herself to her feet, but she was limping badly, walking in an aimless circle.
“You think … a bunch of Sisters and Less Thans … can topple …?”
Foam bubbled from her mouth, running down her chin. Blood erupted from her nose and ears. She had the crazed look of a rabid dog, unable to comprehend what was happening. Her words became gibberish.
“There’s no … you can’t … me!”
She tripped over her feet, bouncing against the wall of Less Thans who pushed her back into the circle. When she fell splat into the slush, her body twitched, the milky foam erupting from her mouth like lava. Her eyes bolted left and right, unable to focus. Only at the last, when her arms and legs went into one final convulsive fit, did her eyes fix on a single person.
Hope Samadi.
Chancellor Maddox’s mouth opened as though trying to cry for mercy, but no words came, not even sound, and when life left her with a blubbering sigh, it was with that final look of horror painted across her face.
We stared at the chancellor a long moment, and then I looked at Hope. There was no joy in her expression, no self-righteous satisfaction, no taunting pleasure. She turned, briefly met my eyes and walked back the way we’d come. The aisle opened up and the others let her pass.
Chancellor Maddox was dead, and we could finally get on with our lives.
60.
THEY TAKE CAT’S BODY back to Libertyville. A group of Brown Shirts—President Vasquez’s Brown Shirts, whose goal is to protect and serve its citizens—take them there on horseback and in wagons. These soldiers never met Chancellor Maddox, nor followed a single one of her orders. They have no desire to implement any Final Solution.