by Kody Boye
It is a nightmare made real.
Beside me, Patrice leans forward from her place against the wall and turns her head toward me before saying, “Listen closely. Your life may depend on it.”
All I can do is nod.
At the head of the room, Dusty McGee walks back and forth before a large projecting screen, upon which a map is displayed. A home—which is not marked specifically as Rosanna’s Mansion—lies to the far north of the Ceres Farmlands, and is surrounded by a two-dimensional representation of a fence. The gates are to the east and west respectively. They, too, are clearly marked.
“Listen up!” Dusty calls to the group, lifting his eyes to face them. “Because I’m not going to say this twice. What we’re about to do is something that could get us all killed. However, it is something that must be done.
“Tonight, we will attempt to storm First Lady Rosanna’s home and take her into our custody.”
The room is quiet. There are no gasps, no murmurs of question, no exclamations of awe.
Dusty clears his throat and continues by saying, “The plan will be dangerous. There is no guarantee that we will all make it back. And it hinges on one person’s involvement throughout.” He turns his eyes to face me from across the room. “Mrs. Cross.”
Members of the crowd pause, then turn their heads to face me.
“Will you please step forward?”
Walking across the room feels like I am advancing across a boneyard, and crushing beneath my feet the hopes and dreams of young girls like me. Fortunately, I am alive. But them? Their bones are ash, their flesh nonexistent, their blood and matter wiped from this world.
In the span of a few hours, a tower had fallen—and with it, nearly one-hundred lives had been lost.
You could’ve been one of them, my conscience offers. You could be dead just like them.
We all could be. All three of us. And yet, it was a chance declaration that had secured my fate, a stroke of luck that had carried me throughout.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I come to stand at the front of the room, then turn to face the crowd.
Their faces are blank.
“Is that—“ one person starts.
“Kelendra Cross?”
“No. It can’t be. She’s blonde.”
“This is a different girl. Surely it is.”
Fighting back tears is the easy part. Facing them is utterly nightmarish.
Dusty McGee turns his eyes back to the crowd and says, “Everyone. This is Kelendra Cross. The city’s ambassador to the war.”
Like before, silence rules the room.
My declaration has been made accordingly.
All I need do now is wait.
The man beside me clears his throat and says, “We need the help of seven brave men and women to protect Kelendra as she lures the First Lady out of her home.”
“Why?” someone asks. “What’s going on?”
“Why do we need to take the First Lady?”
“Is something happening?”
“Is war coming?”
“War is already here,” I say, raising my voice in an effort to be heard. “What happens next will be catastrophic.”
“Ashton,” Dusty says. “Please play the recording taken in the Countess Aa’eesha Dane’s office.”
The map is replaced.
A still image takes its position.
Ashton taps the screen.
The video begins to play.
The people watch in rapt attention.
When it comes time for her to state her intentions, she turns her eyes toward the SAD agent whose headpiece recorded the video.
When asked if she’s sure, the Countess only says one thing: I’m sure.
Then, the video goes dead.
“The Serenity Configuration,” Dusty then says, “is a series of bombs which, if launched, will change the course of the world’s history forever. The only way to stop it is to prevent the First Five from meeting and delegating on its launch. This is why we must capture the First Lady of the Glittering City.”
“But don’t we want the North gone?” a woman asks.
“Yeah!” someone cries. “We want them gone!”
“If they fire their own weapons of mass destruction in retaliation,” Dusty says, “then there will be no hope for us here in the capitol, or maybe anywhere in the South. There will be nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and nowhere to run. You, and your families, will die.”
No one offers a response.
I tremble as I muster up the urge to speak—as I summon the courage to make myself and my position clear. Then I say, “I will lure the First Lady out of her home as Ashton works to disable the security system surrounding it. Then we will attempt to capture her.”
“Won’t there be guards?” someone asks.
“SADs? Drones?”
“This is why we need your help. But we can only take seven of you. I…” I pause. “I can’t promise that you will make it back alive. But this is our future—not only for us, but our friends, our families, our loved ones.”
A tear slips down my face. I reach up to bush it aside without much thought.
A woman steps forward. “I’ll go,” she says.
“Honey!” a man cries, hobbling forward with the assistance of a cane. “You can’t!”
“I have to, Charles. Think of our children and what will happen to them if the North retaliates. Do you wish our girls to be sold into slavery? Or worse? Be killed?”
“I—” the man starts. “I don’t—”
The woman turns to face me. “My name is Essa Dorsey,” she says, her lip trembling, her hands balling into fists. “I will go with you, Kelendra Cross, and help you capture the First Lady of the Glittering City.”
“As will I,” another man says.
“Me, too,” another woman offers.
We have all of our volunteers in less than a minute.
Is this really it? I think. Is this what it means to be an ambassador to the war?
I had sworn to uphold our country upon declaring my Purpose—to represent our people and their wants and needs.
Now, seeing this, I can’t help but wonder:
Was this really what I was meant to do all along? Save my country from itself?
I realize, now, that only my actions can determine what will happen next.
With that in mind, I turn to face Dusty and say, “Let’s go over the plan.”
The seven Saints who have chosen to do the seemingly impossible join Dusty, Ashton, and myself at the far end of the tunnel. It is here, near where the businesses have tapered off into empty storefronts and deserted interiors, that we will speak of what we will do come time night falls in exactly five hours.
Five hours, I think, to change the world.
The thought is daunting. The reality, though? It is beyond my wildest dreams, and the measure of my carefully-preserved sanity.
For so long I had considered myself a good person—who, with a smiling face and honest disposition, would never harm or help to harm another human being.
Now, though, I realize I am about to become the very person I never wanted to be.
You changed your hair. Your clothes. Your position. How couldn’t you have anticipated this happening?
I hadn’t, and yet, a part of me knew that I would always go down the untrodden path—one whose roads were carved not by glittering shoes, but combat boots.
And now here I stand, waiting for Dusty McGee to make his declaration.
“So,” Dusty says. “This will be our greatest test of all.”
Essa Dorsey stands beside me, her arms crossed, her lips pursed. Her gaze is determined, and though I cannot tell what she is thinking, I imagine she is likely contemplating what future her girls might have if this does not succeed.
Fiery rain. Destruction.
I close my eyes to exhale the breath I’ve been holding in and then open them to face Dusty.
“Kelendra,” he says, setting his gaze sole
ly on me. “Do you believe that the First Lady of the Glittering City will respond to your voice?”
“Without a doubt in my mind,” I reply.
“Good. Then that leaves only breaking in and apprehending First Lady Rosanna herself.” He straightens his posture to look at the people in the crowd. He then says, “This is where the next phase of our plan will come in. After Kelendra calls to the First Lady and attempts to lure her outside of her home, Ashton Marks will disable the property’s security system remotely via a computer virus that will be unleashed upon the home’s mainframe. This should open the gates automatically, at which point those remaining outside will storm the property.
“Now… I will admit that this will be the most dangerous part of our mission. We have no idea how many SADs will be within the First Lady’s property, or if there will be any at all. It would be foolish to think that there would not; and for that reason, we must use the utmost scrutiny come time we arrive. We will not, under any circumstance, recklessly harm or open fire upon First Lady Rosanna. Her death would result in the chain of command being needlessly shifted, and leave us at a complete loss and failure.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes sir!” the men and women standing present say.
“Good,” Dusty says. He turns his eyes on me and offers a short nod as he looks me up and down. “We have a long coat with a hood we can give you to disguise your body. The less you look like yourself, the more likely she will be to either come investigate, or to send someone to investigate. Tell me: do you know how to act?”
“Act?” I frown.
“Can you fake an injury if you think it will get the SADs to open the gates?”
“Yes. I can.”
“How are you about walking in the dark?”
“I—” I start, then stop before clearing my throat and saying, “I’m… I’m okay with it.”
“Good.” Dusty straightens. “We will arm everyone but Kelendra accordingly. You are to report to Eugene at the armory at exactly six o’clock PM.”
Three hours.
That’s all we have left before we are to leave for the First Lady’s mansion.
All I can think, as I turn and begin to walk off, is how I will manage come time we get there.
“You’re confident you can do this?” Ceyonne asks after I’ve repeated the plan to both her and Wu.
“No,” I admit, “but I have to at least pretend I do.”
“You’ll be fine,” Wu says. “You’re resourceful. You’ll figure out how to lure someone out of the compound.”
Maybe, I think, but decide not to voice my thought outright.
Rather, I draw the shawl I am wearing further around my shoulders and try my hardest to keep from succumbing to panic, but find myself doing just that.
A part of me wishes I could just give in and give up. It would be so easy to just lie down and not do anything—to remain here for the rest of my existence in pure and utter ignorance. But the fact is: it’s not just my life that’s in danger. It’s Ceyonne. It’s Wu’s.
I swallow.
My mother’s.
What would she think of me now, in this moment, in the face of it all—when, before the eyes of many, I had declared that I would lure an ignorant woman to her own kidnapping? Would she be ashamed? Or would she realize that I was doing the right thing?
It’s not fair, I think, to let other people suffer just because I’m scared.
But even then, is it right to hurt one person if many are saved in the process?
I don’t know—and that, in the end, is what troubles me so.
As I stand there, looking out at the darkness beyond the bar, I find myself wondering how I’ll manage to ever forgive myself if I survive this ordeal.
You’ll learn to live and forget. That’s what Father used to say.
“Father,” I whisper.
A single tear rolls across my cheek, down my jaw, then lands upon my thumb.
The stinging sensation of grief has not yet left me.
But, then again, it probably never will.
They say grief is a pain that never leaves. In the end, they say, it only gets better.
At this point, though, I can’t help but wonder:
Is it worth it to save a world where everything is so wrong?
Truth is: I don’t know.
And that is what compels me to do what I feel is right.
Eight
It is nearly six o’clock in the evening when Patrice shakes my shoulder and says, “Wake up.”
I am at my feet almost instantly. Filled with fear, and plagued by apprehension, I stand ramrod straight as I consider the woman before me—knowing, above all else, that I am to initiate the very conflict that will occur tonight.
Patrice asks, “Are you ready?”
And I, scared out of my mind and unsure what to say, simply respond with, “Yeah.”
“Good. You’re to leave in approximately ten minutes.”
Patrice exits the bar the three of us girls have been sleeping within and waits for me at the threshold, her arms crossed and her gaze set.
I have just started forward when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn to find Ceyonne looking back at me.
“What—” I start.
She pulls me into her embrace before I can finish. “In case something happens,” she whispers, tightening her hold on me.
I embrace her in kind, then accept Wu into my arms as the girl comes forward.
“Have faith,” she whispers into my ear, then withdraws a short moment later.
Faith, I think.
The one thing I’m not sure I have.
Rather than consider its implications in my life, I swallow the lump in my throat, nod, and say, “If I don’t come back…”
“You’re gonna come back,” Ceyonne says. “You have to.”
“If I don’t,” I say, “and that’s a big if I’d rather not think about… you have to promise me something.”
“Anything,” Wu offers.
“Promise me you’ll carry out the mission. Promise me you’ll try and save our world.”
“We promise,” Ceyonne says. Wu merely nods in response.
With that said, I turn and begin to follow Patrice down the hall.
“You feelin’ okay, kid?” she asks, turning her head to look at me.
“I don’t know,” I manage.
“I wouldn’t either if I were you. Hell—” she chuckles “—you’re doing something most grown men wouldn’t dream of doing. Be proud that you have such strength.”
While I don’t know if I’d call it strength, I offer a brief nod and continue to follow the woman down the corridor—where, distantly, I can just make out the sight of people congregating about the entryway to the massive underground train system.
Don’t be scared, I think as we continue our approach. Everything will work out as it should.
Would it, though? Would it really?
I don’t know, and that’s what truly scares me.
Frowning, I reach up to part my now jet-black hair from my face, then follow Patrice up to where the four female and three male volunteers are waiting silently for Dusty to begin.
“Ah,” Dusty McGee says as I approach. “There’s the woman of the hour.”
“Are we ready?” I ask.
“We were just waiting for you.”
“You’ve already gone over the plan?” I frown. “Without me?”
“You shouldn’t have to worry about what the rest of us are going to do. Your goal is simple: to lure the First Lady or the appropriate SAD agent out of the compound. What we do to infiltrate and then capture the First Lady is not your concern.” He pauses, then says, “Now, with that in mind: let us go.”
“Here you are, girl,” Patrice says, wrapping a thick hooded shawl about my shoulders before pulling the hood over my head. “Remember: don’t take this off unless you absolutely have to. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Patric
e claps her hands on my shoulders and says, “Godspeed.”
Then she turns and pushes me toward the crowd.
As I come to stand by Dusty’s side, I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “Where are we going?”
He simply points into the darkness. “There.”
At first, I cannot see where he is pointing; and as such, narrow my eyes in an attempt to gaze through the darkness. But guided only by lantern light, I can see nothing; and as a result, find myself struggling to make out the finer details of the area ahead of us. However, it is quickly made apparent, as we cross toward the gorge where the railroad tracks run, that we are headed deeper into the subway system.
“We can’t go out through the city,” he says, holding his lantern steady as he continues to guide us forward, “so we’ll have to resort to exiting through the tunnels on the outskirts of town.”
“I assume we have someone there waiting for us,” I say, matter-of-factly.
“We do,” Dusty replies.
“And once we apprehend the First Lady, we’re supposed to bring her back how?”
“We have a cart we can place her in that’ll run alongside the tracks. It won’t exactly be comfortable, but it’ll save us the issue of having to lug her back by force.”
“All right,” I say, and close my eyes as we continue walking.
There’s no way for me to really say whether or not this plan will work. Though I had anticipated there being difficulties once we reached the surface, what I hadn’t considered were the ones that would exist once we returned through the subway system. Fact is: there is no realistic way we could carry the First Lady however many miles we would have to walk through here, nor can we force her along with a bag over her head. It would just be too difficult.
Which leads to my next thought:
What will happen once we are finished with her?
You can’t think about that. Not now. Not while we’re still in the process of reaching her.
My worst fear is that they will simply execute her come time we have orchestrated our plan. While that would be the easiest method of control, it would also be the messiest. And what kind of people would we be if we did that?
Cruel. Barbaric. Savage.
“Murderers,” I whisper, in a voice so low that even I can barely hear it.