Selah said, “Hi.”
Mama B set down the kettle. She began to tremble, and then turned and crossed the room and buried Selah in her arms, held her close, pressed Selah’s head to her chest, her arms around Selah’s shoulders, holding her tight, so tight, and in her ear Selah could hear Mama B say over and over again, “Oh my baby girl, my baby, oh my Lord, thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Selah stood stiffly, and then by slow degrees melted into the hug. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of her grandmother, so familiar even after all these years. They stood still in the kitchen, a column of love, and then Mama B stepped back and held Selah by both shoulders and looked her in the eyes.
“I ought to whup your ass,” she said. Selah saw how red her grandmother’s eyes were. Had she been up all night?
Selah smiled awkwardly. “You might have to get in line,” she said, and her grandmother snorted and pulled her in for one last tight hug and then let her go.
“Girl, you’ve been in town one night and already you’ve aged me ten years. I need my coffee. You want a cup?”
“Sure,” said Selah, and sat on a small stepladder set in the corner. She watched as Mama B poured hot water into a second cup, and the smell of coffee redoubled. Realized that she had already put the coffee powder in the mug before she’d arrived.
“How do you take it?” asked Mama B. “Sugar? Milk?”
“Lots of both. Thanks.” It felt like they were both walking on thin ice, that this feeling between them was as delicate and new as a dewy spider web. Selah laced her fingers between her legs and squeezed them with her knees. “How,” she began, but paused to fight back a yawn, “how do you like your coffee?”
“Black.” Mama B put a tablespoon of sugar into the festive red mug, and then pulled a small jar of milk out from a cooler by her foot and unscrewed the cap. Of course, thought Selah. No fridge. Mama B poured in what was probably goat’s milk, and then stirred the cup and handed it over. She then took a seat at a small round table that was shoved in the corner, and turned the chair to face her granddaughter.
“Now,” said Mama B, “let me take a look at you.” Selah blinked, and sipped her coffee. It was good. Strong, a little harsh, and the milk tasted funny. But it was hot and sweet and absolutely delicious. She thought of Maria Elena’s cortaditos, and wondered if they’d tasted like this. Mama B was staring at her—she hadn’t been kidding—and Selah did her best to hide behind the mug, sipping continuously in sudden embarrassment. Finally, Mama B nodded.
“I’m not going to ask what happened last night. Probably none of my damn business. But you’re here, and you seem to be in a better mood.” Selah felt a brief flicker of annoyance, but promptly squashed it. “So I’m just going to thank the Lord and say welcome home.”
Home. Selah felt a pang in her heart. This was home now. It was true. Simple and final. Selah sipped the coffee. “Thanks,” she said. “And, well, sorry.”
Mama B made a tsking sound. “Let’s both agree to not apologize, or we’ll be here all day. What’s happened is in the past. Today is a brand new start. I’m heading over to Jackson Hospital today to pick up some supplies, submit some reports, stuff like that. You want to come?”
That rang a bell. “The embassy? Sure.”
“Good. We’ll be heading out in an hour. Why don’t you take that time to unpack and make yourself at home, and I’ll let you know when we’re about ready to head out.”
“OK,” said Selah, in no hurry to get up.
“Good, then. We’ll have lots of time to talk, but I need to make the rounds and check in on people before we go. I’ll see you soon, love.” Mama B stood, took a final sip from her coffee, and set it down. She walked out past Selah, touching her shoulder as she went, and Selah sat still in the kitchen, listening to her grandmother gather her things in the living room and then leave quietly.
She reached for her pocket, only to remember her Omni was gone. Damn it. She’d have to find a way to get online, if only to change her passwords, tell people she wasn’t dead. Maybe at the embassy. It was quiet in the kitchen. The light was slowly changing from delicate dawn to the warmer hues of early morning. She fought back another yawn. Maybe she’d rest just a little.
¬¬
Selah awoke with a hand on her shoulder. Blinked, looked up, and saw Mama B looking down at her. “You want to stay this time? Sleep in?”
“No,” said Selah, meaning yes, sitting up. She rubbed her face and saw that she had simply curled up above her suitcase. Swung her feet to the ground.
“All right. We’re leaving now. C’mon.” Mama B walked out, closed the door. Selah quickly changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a light yellow shirt. She badly wanted a shower, but that seemed too complicated right now. Came out, followed Mama B downstairs, and then met with Cholly and a lady called Laura Burns in the lobby. Where Mama B was large and solid and powerful, Laura was slender, energetic. They exchanged hellos, and then both Mama B and Cholly drew their guns and stepped out into the street. They paused to look up and down the block, and then motioned for Laura and Selah to come out get into the rose-colored jeep.
Selah got into the back of the jeep with Cholly and leaned her head back, watched the dawn city come to life for about five minutes as the two women chatted up front, and then fell asleep once more.
She awoke to the sight of armed US soldiers. Mama B had reached a checkpoint, and for a wild moment, Selah thought she was going free. That thought died quickly—they were in line at a large gate, and sticking her head out the window, Selah gazed at what had once been Jackson Memorial Hospital.
Large buildings rose around her, great white square blocks with aquamarine windows. Trees had been chopped down in large numbers along the pavement, leaving ugly stumps, and the broad street on which they idled had been savagely crossed by an imposingly high barbed wire topped wall. A broad gate was open before them, cars slowly filing through.
Selah stared with avid curiosity and then ducked her head back inside. “Why an embassy? What’s there to talk about?”
Laura beat Mama B to the punch. “Why does any country need an embassy, Selah?” Her English was perfect, but spoken with a clipped Spanish accent. “It provides a safe forum in which the Americans and the vampires can speak.”
“Yeah, but they don’t need a whole compound for that. This place is huge.” Selah stared out the window again. There were at least a half-dozen huge buildings within sight, one of them at least fifteen stories high.
“It is not just the embassy,” said Laura. “Many NGOs have their headquarters here—charities, Red Cross, Amnesty International, and so on.”
“And it’s still a hospital,” said Mama B, voice low. “If you get hurt, and you’re lucky enough to make it here in time.”
They moved forward another space. Vehicles were leaving the compound too. Selah watched with interest as what looked like a campervan drove out with the Red Cross logo painted on its side.
Something fundamental about all this didn’t make sense. She struggled to articulate it, and then simply shook her head. “Why? Why do the vampires let all these groups into the city to help?”
“Think it through,” said her grandmother. “Why do you think the vampires would let other humans do all the work in keeping the Miami folks alive?”
“So they don’t have to do it themselves?”
“You got it. They know there’s enough bleeding hearts out there that will work their behinds off to try and help out. So why not let them?”
“People like you?”
“People like me.”
“So they’re using you. You’re being used.”
“Sure. You think that should stop me?”
“Well,” said Selah. She was still struggling with it all. “In a way, you’re helping them. Doing their work for them. You don’t have an ID or work on South Beach, but aren’t you helping them run the city, anyway?”
Mama B laughed bitterly. “Maybe. But th
ere must be some forty thousand souls in Miami now. Down from, say, some three million five years ago. You tell me what’s more important: defying the vampires, or doing our best to make sure the remaining humans have food, medicine, religious services, and so on?”
The car before them was waved in, and Mama B eased the jeep forward, slipping her pistol into her handbag at the last moment. The guard apparently knew her, as they exchanged wry pleasantries while he checked her papers. Selah saw her grandmother pull out a white vampire ID, and the guard pulled out a military-grade Omni with which he scanned its barcode and then did a retina check. Selah stared. Mama B had an ID? He did the same for Laura and Cholly, and then looked in through the back window at her.
“She’s new,” said Mama B. “I’m bringing her in for registration. Here’s her passport.”
The guard read it carefully, and then stared at Selah. Scanned the passport, and then held the Omni up to her face. “Don’t blink,” he said. The Omni flashed green.
“All right, you’re good to go.” He stepped back and Mama drove in.
“You guys have IDs?” asked Selah. “I thought only the people who supported the vampires did.”
“We have to,” said Laura. “We wouldn’t be allowed into Jackson by the vampires if we didn’t.”
Selah processed that. Watched the street slowly roll by as Mama guided the car into the complex. It was huge. They passed a long brick building with National Parkinson Foundation emblazoned across its front. Took a right, and then drove into a six-story parking garage.
They parked and walked out into the sunshine. Down a few blocks and up to a building where Cholly elected to remain outside in the sunshine. Selah followed Mama B and Laura inside into a lobby filled with a large crowd of waiting people. Mama B explained that they were there for the same reasons: each was a designated leader of different pocket community, come to exchange census figures and evaluation forms for medical supplies and food. Mama B and Laura were in their element, spreading out and working the crowd, networking and connecting and greeting all sorts of people, many of them friends. Selah was a shadow at their elbow, watching, listening, studying, yawning.
It turned out to be a busy morning. Around midday, there was a community meeting orchestrated by several NGOs, a large affair with several hundred people seated in an auditorium. It lasted two hours, with a number of people getting up to make speeches, some angry, some impassioned, some truly heartbreaking. Mama B got up, and only then did Selah start to really get an idea how important her grandmother was. She spoke powerfully and to great applause about how inexcusable it was for services to not have developed further, how greater pressure needed to be placed on the vampires to allow more in-depth aid to be delivered right into the city, the need to liaison with community leaders in the rest of the US to pressure the government to work harder at creating more progress.
Selah tried to pay attention, but much of it referred to ideas and programs she wasn’t aware of. Acronyms were thrown around, legal precedents, and by the end of it she simply had a sense that a lot of the potential progress was being frustrated by bureaucracy and a lack of political will. At the end of the meeting, a number of organizations spoke, offering reassurance, promises, and hope, but Selah found most of it too inspirational and idealistic to believe.
The meeting adjourned, and attendees formed clusters to discuss things further, to seek each other out and exchange business cards, to praise each other and laugh, to speak angrily and grandstand further. Selah chose to remain seated. She watched Mama B at the center of a particularly large crowd. She was in her element. Listening, laughing, balancing a paper plate of food and a glass of orange juice, nodding, holding court.
“This seat taken?” asked a voice, and Selah looked up to see a young guy in a suit standing next to her. His skin was a rich caramel, his features racially ambiguous. Good-looking, though, clean-shaven and young. Selah looked at the long rows of empty seats around her, and couldn’t help but laugh.
“Not at the moment,” she allowed, and he slid into the seat next to her with a sigh of pleasure, as if he’d been standing all day. “Who are you?”
“Tim Hedges. I’m with Doctors Without Borders.”
“You’re a doctor?”
Tim smiled ruefully and rubbed the back of his head. “Oh no, not yet. I’m just interning with the organization. I’m in med school, though, so maybe one day. You?”
“Selah Brown. I live in Miami.” It felt strange saying that. After all this talk of survival and hardship, bravery and resolution, it was almost a badge of honor.
“You’re with Mrs. Brown?”
“Mrs. Brown?” Mama B. “Yeah. I’m her granddaughter.”
“I’d better watch my step, then,” he said, smiling again.
“Why? You scared of her?”
“You’re not? Even my boss is scared of her. She’s a force of nature.”
“Tell me about it,” said Selah.
Tim’s Omni rang. He dug it out, checked something, and went to put it away.
“Hey,” said Selah. “Can I use that real quick?”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “My Omni?”
“Mine was stolen last night. I need to change some passwords.”
He hesitated. “Sure. Let me close a couple of things.” He shut down some programs, and then handed it over in general browsing mode. It felt great to hold one again. She checked the connection. Alpha, of course. She resisted the urge to check her Garden or Shrine and instead quickly went through all her service providers, changing passwords everywhere and checking for changes.
Browsed back to her Garden. Stopped. Froze. It was wiped clean, just a concrete expanse. She jumped to her Shrine and stopped again. In its place was the base template, a simple house made of glowing yellow light. Everything had been wiped, deleted. She checked for backups. Gone. Checked to see if she could retrieve the data. Gone.
“Bastards,” she said in a strangled whisper. Her eyes stung, and she realized she was sitting stiffly upright.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tim. She ignored him. Her friends had left a number of concerned messages hovering over the concrete ground of her Garden, and she saw that Jairo had already laid down grass over a quarter of the space. A tentative offering. She couldn’t believe it. This was her Garden. This was her most cherished and sacred space. Where she communed with her best friends, where she posted the essence of her self. And her Shrine. Just gone. Gone.
Selah looked up, breathing quickly. She was going to kill them. That weasel-faced guy at the club. It must have been him. She quickly dove back in, ignoring Tim. Opened a hanging banner in midair, and wrote:
I am alive and well. The bastards who did this are going to pay.
Messages blinked into existence, people noticing that she was online and trying to ping her, open lines of communication. She couldn’t answer them, not now, not here. She realized she couldn’t take looking at her ruined home any longer, and was about to log out when a connection window opened up in midair by itself.
Selah blinked. That shouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. She had to accept an incoming message before it activated. She peered at the name at the top, and saw that there wasn’t one. That wasn’t supposed to be possible, either.
A guy’s face, about her age, light-skinned and cautious. “Hey,” he said, “you’re Selah, right?”
Selah shot a glance at Tim. He was starting to look really annoyed. She flashed him an apologetic grin that did little to hide her mounting fury, and turned away from him to look into the screen.
“Who the hell is this? What are you doing in my Garden? Did you do all this?”
“What? No! No way. We had nothing to do with this wipe. I just came in here to check if you’re OK.”
“Who are you? We? We who?”
The guy held up both hands as if to slow her down. “Look, we all saw that video stream you piped out of Magnum. We all saw you get grabbed, and we got worried. Then your Garden gets wiped. We thought
you’d been killed.”
“Who the hell is ‘we’? Who are you? How did you force your way in here?”
The guy paused, a mixture of embarrassment and pride on his face. “I’m—well, we’re here in Miami with you.” He peered at something off-screen. “Though it looks like you’re in Jackson Memorial embassy now. Did you get asylum?”
“No, I did not get asylum. Tell me who you are or I’m logging off.”
“Ah, I don’t really want to say who I am. Erm. It’s not safe. What we thought happened to you might happen to me if I get traced.”
Selah blinked, sat back. Stared at the guy’s face. The Resistance? “Oh. Oh! I think I understand.” She felt a surge of excitement. “Wow. And you guys saw my feed? My recording?”
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