A New Day in America

by Theo Black Gangi

  “Just me and you, motherfucker. I’ll put trademarks round your fuckin’ eye.”

  The porch door opens. They all turn. It’s that big burly black man that liked her drawing and said she could be a tattooer. Jaz. He doesn’t see Nay. He gazes off toward the sound. Another man comes out. He’s pale, bloody, and creepy. He limps and squints in the sun. There’s something wrong with his finger, like her Uncle Tommy.

  Jaz keeps looking toward the sound.

  “Shit!” says Jaz. He turns to the pale fat man. “Now, yo. We gotta do this shit now,” he sounds frantic. “It’s them. Stormtroopers.”

  “Fuck.”

  As Jaz turns to go back inside, he sees her. Naomi wants to smile, but she won’t until he does.

  “Oh shit,” he says. “This one.”

  Chapter 10

  Cut the Chord

  Jaz stands in the bedroom doorway, his massive silhouette outlined by hallway light. And then another small shape appears beside his leg. She steps into the bedroom, a spry, hooded cherub. Her face brightens, and the hood falls off her head. She bounces up and into the bed. Didn’t die.

  He can’t believe it.

  Nay. It’s her. She’s home.

  They hug and they stay like that. She’s back—twice as skinny and pale and green and sticky with sweat. Nos inhales as if he could smell where she’s been, what she’s been through. She made it, on her own. Maybe he isn’t the generator that keeps her fuse alive. I wasn’t even there, and yet she keeps on breathing.

  Nay touches the tube that runs through his rib and the stitching that holds it in place.

  “You’re hurt,” she says.

  “And you?”

  “Sick, Pa,” she says, sucking back through her nose.

  He takes off her sweatshirt, wet on the inside, and then takes off her T-shirt, completely soaked through. He gasps. The rash is maybe three times as large as the last time he saw it. It’s eating her alive. And I have nothing to treat her.

  “I hate to break up the party,” Jaz announces, his tone like anything but. “But we’re rolling out.”

  “Now?” asks Leila.

  “Stormtroopers on the move, yeah, right now.”

  Nos gets up, and the dogs spring to their feet. He tucks the puss-filled canister attached to his lung into his waistband. He holds Naomi by the hand, and they walk out to the porch. They hear the brash march of soldiers. Nos walks out to the edge of the hill and sees it.

  The army.

  Revelation Guard Corps fill every winding street and alleyway by the hundreds, roads invisible beneath the mass of tan camo uniforms and flaming chalice flags.

  Decepticons pour from the neighborhood with assault rifles and climb into the U-Haul trucks. Jaz is strapped up like a mercenary with a flak jacket and a grenade belt. Art is shaking, like he isn’t just scared, but a touch palsied. They climb in the U-Haul, and Jaz takes the wheel.

  Leila goes up to the window.

  “The pier?” she asks.

  “Docking Bay 13,” says Jaz, like he can’t be bothered. “Meet you there.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “We’ll be there. Got to go handle something.” He turns to Nos. “Thanks for the tip on the Chef. We’ll see what we can bag, and I’ll hit you off. Finder’s fee.”

  “I’m coming,” says Nos.

  “No room. Plus, you’re too banged up to be any use.”

  “The Chef,” Nos says. “I need him.”

  “Forget the Chef,” Jaz responds. “Chef’s dead.”

  He starts up the truck and backs away and pulls off.

  Leila leads the way to the NYPD van. Nos catches up.

  “They’re going to rob the Chef. Going to kill the only guy I know of who might be able to cure Naomi,” Nos growls.

  “I don’t care what they do—as long as we make it to the boat.”

  “Leila—we can’t get on a boat without treatment.”

  Leila opens the van door and then pauses.

  “Look, what can I tell you?”

  Naomi looks weaker and weaker, like she’s having trouble standing.

  The pain throbs in his ribs. He doesn’t know if he’s up to it. It’ll be utter chaos. But there’s no choice. He eyes the Suzuki in the back of the van. No choice.

  “Grab me some bandages from the back.”

  Leila fishes out a roll of tape and a handful of gauze.

  He grabs the canister in his waistband. He wraps the tube around his fist. He closes his eyes. Holds his breath.

  The anxiety before is always worse than the pain after.

  Nos rips out the bloody tube.

  He bellows with pain. The tube drips with blood. Christ, that’s a new agony.

  This time, the pain after is far worse.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Leila says, cleaning his bloody wound and taping it up with gauze.

  “Take her to the dock,” he grunts. “I’ll meet you there.”

  She wants to protest but knows it’s no use.

  “Make fucking sure you come back.”

  “Take care of her, I’ll be in touch on the Motorola,” says Nos, cupping her hand. “She doesn’t have much time.”

  “Docking Bay 13,” says Leila, taking Naomi’s hand now. “The ship is called The Ana Maria. Huge ship, powder blue. You can’t miss it.” She grips his forearm. “Don’t miss it.”

  He bends and kisses Nay. Her eyes are fluttering closed. Her eyes barely follow what’s going on now. Her knees shake.

  No time. No time at all.

  Chapter 11

  The Hills

  The U-Haul trucks go barreling up the winding Berkeley Hills. The trucks roar and disappear and reappear from the cover of trees. Nos rides after them, just far enough away so they won’t notice. The massive trucks have to slow to take the narrow turns. They make an easy tail.

  They stop outside the gates of a huge estate at the top of the hills. Nos pulls over off the road, leaves the bike, and follows up to the house in a crouch, holding the AUG. The night darkens. He’s glad. Easier to stay out of sight. Pain stabs him in the chest.

  He gets a good view of the estate. Seems quiet, until he checks the thermal scope. Men are on patrol everywhere, likely hired guns.

  Art limps up to the house. The trucks wait. Nos bides his time. He wonders if Art will follow through and cut the generator. Even if he doesn’t, there are enough Decepticons to take the house, regardless, and plug him for his troubles.

  The lights of the house shut off. He followed through.

  They’ll probably kill him anyway.

  The U-Haul doors open up. Noise bangs from the U-Hauls. Gets louder. The Decepticons make chit-chit-chit-chit sounds and clink gun barrels together, until the clinking becomes gunshots that blasts through the roof of their own trucks.

  Shock and awe. Overwhelming force. Sensible strategy.

  Now the Chef’s mercenaries come on to bring the fight. Bad move.

  Nos slides behind and heads to the house. The Decepticons will be in full raid in moments. No time.

  The house has four stories. Nos checks every window through the thermal scope. Four guards stay put in the house—two at a staircase, two in the basement. Could be they guard the Chef, could be they guard the product. Nos circles around back and climbs up from ledge to ledge to reach the high ground. He wheezes. Ribs kill. If the Decepticons come upstairs, they’ll flush the Chef right to him.

  The third floor shades are drawn. Nos hears voices from the other side, barking orders to pack up and guard the door.

  There’s a patio right above Nos. Two legs hold it up that are attached to the side of the house. He holds onto one of the legs, the hole in his ribs burning. His feet find the window ledge. A shorter man would have no chance.

  Nos takes the gun off his back and holds the heavy metal and fiberglass beast with his free hand. Steady, now. He checks the scope. One man is on his knees. The other stands by the door with a gun and talks into an earpiece. The one on the flo
or has to be the Chef. Finally.

  Nos shoots the man by the door in the solar plexus. Better not be the Chef. The other screams. For some reason, he thinks the shots came from inside the house. Panicked, he backs up toward the window. Nos sees the man’s back come closer through the bullet holes in the shades.

  Nos flips the gun back on his shoulder, holding onto the patio legs above. He reaches his hand through the bullet holes and hooks his arm around the man’s neck and tightens. He pulls the man straight outside through the shades, his bicep and forearm under his chin. The man’s full body weight is dangling by his neck. The weight rips into the hole in his ribs. It’s a hanging, and Nos’ arm is the noose.

  He’s heavy as fuck.

  Nos’ mouth is in his damp gray hair. He speaks into his ear.

  “I need the cure, the real cure.”

  “There…is…no…cure.”

  “I need the cure!” Nos squeezes. The man’s head feels like it will explode.

  “No…cure…treatment…inside…plsss,” he hissed out.

  He’s about to pass out. If he hasn’t already. Nos heaves him back inside. He thuds and rolls on the floor.

  The Decepticons are inside. The firefight is on. Mercenaries are probably holding some ground. They’re sure to be better trained. But they’ll be overrun. Matter of time.

  No time.

  The Chef stumbles, snot running down his bright red face. “The treatment, here—take it!”

  He grabs a backpack, opens a large cooler, removes a long plastic cylinder, stuffs it in the pack, and piles in four more. Nos recognizes the fluid in the cylinders—the treatment.

  Footsteps are coming.

  Nos points his gun at the gray-haired man’s head.

  “Can you cure it?” Nos demands.

  “No—I don’t know, I didn’t solve it, I only sell it, I swear. They’re working on it. I’m not the chemist, I’m a businessman.”

  “Who then? Aren’t you the Chef?”

  “That’s what they call my son.”

  “Who’s the chemist?”

  “My son!”

  Footfalls stomp toward the door. Guns brrrap from the hallway.

  Nos grabs the knapsack.

  “Come.”

  “But—”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “You’re not with them?”

  “Come!”

  Nos ducks out the window and grips the sill and begins to climb down.

  The businessman looks down. Pauses. Too long.

  Gunfire blasts and rounds go through his chest. Blood flies on the shards of glass.

  Nos hears Jaz’s voice from inside.

  “Shit, why is this guy dead?”

  “Dead like you,” says a gravelly voice, and another gunshot pops.

  A heavy thud falls to the floor.

  Jaz.

  “You ain’t running shit, you fat motherfucker.”

  Nos knows that voice. Doom. Another gunshot.

  Jaz now. More dead.

  More footsteps.

  Not about to join them.

  Chapter 12

  March on Cisco

  The tan men are everywhere, like a river. They are in big trucks with big guns like the one on the boat. They look at everything. Naomi sees through her heavy lids. She goes black and then sees and then goes black.

  “Hold on, honey,” Leila tells her.

  Gunshots blast all over. Loud explosions. The dogs bark and bark. They’re scared and angry. They hate being scared.

  She goes black. Noisy engines run all around the van.

  “Shit,” Leila mutters.

  A big car with no roof and four tan men block the street. Two get out of the car with yellow goggles. They stare at Leila and Naomi. They look hungry.

  “Be cool, Nay.”

  Nay holds her head down in the hood. She’s queasy, like her stomach is running on the river, and the rest of her body is still on land. She’s so hot. She wants to take the hood off so bad. She wants the window down. She wants to feel the breeze, just a little breeze.

  “Be cool, now,” Leila whispers.

  Nothing is cool.

  ***

  Nos lays facedown in the grass, pointing the thermal scope at the house and watching the chaos in white silhouettes. It’s almost comical. Decepticons run from the house carrying garbage bags of cash, drugs, and crates to the U-Hauls. The Chef’s mercenaries get wise and surrender. Some are executed while on their knees. Some run off into the hills. Some carry loot as well.

  Then he sees the silliest of all—Art Braun limping off with three others, two are skinny, and the other is a dwarf. Nos checks the scope again. They’re all carrying equipment in boxes. Art limps on his cane, only slightly faster than the trailing little man. The four of them are running toward the garage.

  Nos is closer. He beats them there.

  There are three cars in the garage. A BMW M6, a Range Rover, and a lime Lamborghini. The Range Rover would be the smartest car to take: the Lambo the dumbest. So Nos gets inside the Lambo.

  Nos slinks in the passenger seat.

  The two skinny men load their boxes into the Range Rover and drive. Nos doesn’t bother with them. It’s Art he wants. If he is the Chef. If anyone is.

  The trunk opens, and the boxes drop in and the trunk shuts. The doors rise open like wings.

  The dwarf pauses.

  “Boss—”

  Art just gets in the car. It’s a moment before he sees the gun barrel aimed at his forehead.

  “Hmmmm,” grunts Art.

  “Get in,” Nos yells to the dwarf.

  The little man slides into the back.

  “Drive.”

  ***

  The tan men see something off to the right and talk to one another and then get back in their car and drive off. They rush to a fight where men in raggedy clothes hit men in uniforms. Leila turns and drives and Nay watches out the window. The soldiers force people into a huge truck. Nay calms down. Then she goes black.

  Street light hits the window. They’ve stopped moving. The engine makes a cranky noise like it wants to run but can’t and gets mad. The dogs shuffle and press their noses against the glass and stare. There are cars everywhere. Cars behind, cars in front, as far as Nay can see. The air is blurry and seems to crease like fabric.

  “Shit.”

  Leila keeps saying ‘shit.’ People get tired of waiting and leave their cars in the street. She turns to Nay and looks like she wants to cry.

  “Come, honey. We’ll never get anywhere like this.”

  Leila takes Nay in one arm and wraps the dog leashes around her other wrist. They leave the van and walk. A breeze outside the van cools her sweat. The dogs lead like one three-headed beast. They walk for blocks and blocks, and the streets are filled with parked cars and people running and shouting. They all move out of the way when they see the dogs.

  On one corner a man in black with a white collar passes out flags to anyone who will take them. He looks like the ogre at the amusement park tower who was always talking about God. This one talks about God to everyone who takes the flags and everyone who doesn’t. Three soldiers stand around him.

  Leila walks up to them. Nay wishes she wouldn’t. Nay wishes Leila would run the other way. But she can’t say a thing. She wants to speak but can’t even mutter a word. A moan comes out instead, and she wants to cry. Nay clings to Leila’s chest. She’s not like Pa. She’s soft. But she’s safe like Pa.

  The crazy man in black takes a step back when he sees the dogs. Then he stares at Nay. Nay stares back. She hates him. She thinks of the other boy and girl from the amusement park tower and hates and hates. He can see that she hates him.

  “Tell the nice man you want a flag, honey,” says Leila.

  Nay doesn’t understand why Leila says this. She doesn’t believe she can even speak. The man in black stares. The soldiers stare.

  “I want flag,” she says. Her words are clear. She feels her eyes become clear. She hates speaking
to them. “Please.”

  “Of course, my child,” says the man in black, giving her a flag. “Glory, glory for all of God’s blessed creatures, welcome the coming of the Revelation.”

  Nay holds the flag in her hand and waves it. The flag is yellow and has the image of the flaming chalice painted in black.

  Crowds of people are thick, like the parking lot of cars. They all look in the same direction. They clear for the dogs. The dogs sniff at people’s heels, and people jump back. Feels like forever that Leila carries her through the crowd. They reach the end of the crowd. Soldiers with guns and helmets and clear shields covering their faces stand shoulder to shoulder. Another line stands on the other side of the street. The road in the middle is completely empty.

  Then the trucks come, carrying more soldiers. The crowd waves flags and cheers.

  “Wave your flag, hon,” says Leila, and Nay waves hers, too, yellow and black flying on the endless crowds of people like a swarm of bumblebees on a flowerbed.

  Then the tanks come. Huge dinosaur creatures rumble and roar very slow, and the crowd roars even louder.

  Leila keeps moving through the crowd in the same direction as the vehicles. More soldiers march through the street in perfect rows with guns on their shoulders. Their black boots shine under the street lamps. Leila keeps moving.

  A shiny silver vehicle drives slowly through the street, and the crowd roars so loud Nay hears nothing, so it sounds like quiet. Pounding quiet.

  The car gets closer. It has an open top, and two people stand as it moves and wave. The front of the car has huge silver smiling teeth and a small shiny statue that looks like angel wings in the wind. It’s a woman that’s standing, waving. She is beautiful, and Nay wants to look at her closer. A man stands next to her with a beard wearing white. He has kind eyes. Small yellow flags are on all four corners of the car. A soldier holds up a long pole with the emblem of the flaming chalice.

  ***

  Nos has never been in a Lamborghini before. Scared as Art may be, he relishes taking the car down the winding hills. The Lamborghini is low to the ground and takes the turns like nothing and accelerates in a sneeze. Gunshots echo from behind and echo from down the hill where they’re headed.