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R.U.S.A. by Erin Tyler It may seem like we were ignoring it, but we weren't. It was an ever- present thought, always in the back of our minds. Each of us continued our day-to-day affairs to distract ourselves: The Mistress taught me her craft; I learned from her, and kept up with my other friends; Alan watched his daughters; the ABCs explored their little world; Gary watched the store; Miki-chan kept her body steady and her mind sound; and hundreds of other stories like ours played out in Parkside, and in the ruins of Boston surrounding it. On the morning of February 1, 2451, however, it announced itself loud and proud, and no longer willing to be ignored. It arrived like an earthquake, shaking the walls of Mariel's Clothier. In my half-asleep fugue, that's what I thought it was at first. ...A little temblor, I thought. Unusual... but harmless. Maybe that's what I thought; I'm not really sure what went through my plastic-wrapped brain. It lasted for a while, though. A long while. Then it lasted longer. Then it kept going. And when Bee sat up straight, wide awake and breathing hard, followed by her two equally-frightened sisters, I knew for certain that it was neither an earthquake nor harmless. The hardware hung on the walls and placed around the stockroom's periphery jiggled with the same slow, steady, rhythmic beat of the ground below us. Boom-boom-Boom-boom. It was as low at the deepest bassline (except for the clatter of the hardware, of course), but it was undeniably there. Boom-boom-Boom-boom. We could feel it against our rear ends as we sat there- -BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!! The four of us screamed in fright when something slammed against the door to the stockroom, rattling it violently in its frame. "It's me!!" Gary called from outside. "Open up!!" "...'S just Gary," I said, trying to sound relieved, without success. I stood up, unlocked the multiple padlocks, and opened the door. Gary pushed his way in before I got it completely open. "Are you okay?!" He looked as rattled (pun not intended) as we were. We nodded. "What's going on out there?!" I asked breathlessly. "It's coming from town," he said. "It's almost noon." Gary breathed in and out, and in and out. He looked me straight in the eyes. "...He's here," he said. I knew what he meant. The earthquake was nothing natural. It was 16,000-plus footfalls, all marching in lock-step. I felt my entire body tense up with fear. "Are they in the town?!" I trilled, trying not to frighten the girls, but again, without success. Gary shook his head. "I don't hear fighting," he said. "But I can't see from out there." I looked at the ABCs, then back at him. "...Your dad wanted to see the girls," I said. "Ah! Are you crazy?!" "It's what he said!" His face twisted up. "...W-well... Dad's not here!! I'm not letting you take my sisters anywhere near-!" And there was Annabelle. She tugged on his shirt. "...We wanna see them," she said. "The president's army." "...Yeah," Bee agreed, but without her usual vigor. Charlotte was completely silent. She was sitting up, however, and looking ahead, and not disagreeing. Gary huffed. He wasn't used to exerting authority, even with his baby sisters. "...Well, I say no!!" he warbled, his breaking, young adolescent voice expressing as much fear as annoyance. "You're staying here, where it's safe!!" Charlotte whispered something. I didn't hear it. Gary didn't hear it. Even Annabelle didn't hear it. But Bee heard it. For a kid who could do the twist on the roof of a house without breaking a sweat, she sure looked anxious. All eyes were on her, and she quickly realized it was up to her to share what Charlotte said with the rest of us... "...Nowhere is safe," she said. Gary was Charlotte's older brother, but he was never able to contradict her. Little Charlotte, full of subtlety, possessor of a wisdom far, far beyond her years. It must be terrible sometimes. Even from a distance, Grant's Gate was an impressive sight. Forty feet of hardwood boards, five feet thick and 18 feet high, held together by an iron frame and reinforced with sheet metal, stretched across the length of Parkside's western entrance. Worn-out tires attached to its base allowed it to move left and right. A set of shiny steel clamps, mounted on a high brick wall that bordered the left edge of the entrance, were fastened to a metal rod on the side of the gate, preventing its movement. The house to the immediate right of the gate was one part checkpoint, one part police station, and one part mechanical room for the gate's operation -- within the house, a set of weights were positioned to pull the gate open. To do this, two levers needed to be pulled: one to disengage the clamps, and another to engage the weights. As the ABCs and I approached Parkside, we saw the gate had been closed for the first time since it had been finished 14 years ago. Although I didn't know it at the time, this meant that both levers were up; the clamps were shut tight, and the weights were kept from falling. We heard, and felt, the reason from the other side of the gate. The pebbles on the road trembled with each reverberation. The trees shook. As we got closer and closer to Parkside, the stomping got louder and louder until it was nearly deafening. Annabelle pressed her hands to her ears. Charlotte clutched my leg, and I kept a hand on her. Bee stood ahead of us, but kept very close. Nobody noticed as we crossed the threshold and entered Parkside once again. Nearly everyone's attention was focused on the gate. Children clutched their mothers and men checked each others' rifles. Husbands and wives boarded up their doors and windows as if they were expecting a big storm. The corpulent man who had given Alan trouble the day before, and two younger, similarly dressed men, was now rushing to disassemble a stall purporting to sell "The Best In Home Repair Supplies Anywhere!" in a street that was otherwise devoid of all mercantile activities. A chime came from my hip, and I realized it was the smart phone The Mistress had given me. I held it up close to my mouth, aware of the girls, and whispered, "Hello?" "Natsuko!" snapped The Mistress on the other end. "What the hell are you doing?!" I slowly turned to face Sky Tower, and I looked up toward the top story. I couldn't see her, but she could see me. "Alan wanted to see his daughters today." "Then drop them there and get back here!! I'm serious!!" There was anger in her voice, yes... but also fear. Lots and lots of fear. "...How does it look?" I asked. A moment passed. "Get them to Alan," she said a little more calmly, "then get back here pronto." The smart phone cut out, and The Mistress was gone. The ABCs looked amazed by The Mistress' ability to project her voice into a small box that fit into my hand, but only mildly, and it was quickly squelched by the loud stomping. "...C'mon," I said, and we continued our own march through town. Oddly enough, the closer we got to the gate, the more distant the sounds became, as if they were backing away from us. I heard men barking orders at the top of their lungs on the other side, and large groups of men calling back. "Full stop!!" I heard being bellowed from the other side of the gate by a single voice, then echoed by other individuals. "Sir, yes sir!!" yelled back many, many more men, over and over, more and more distant each time. On the rampart at the top of the gate, in its dead center, stood Alan in the same clothes he had been wearing the day before. His expression was stern, but his face was pale, as he gripped the metal railing of the rampart hard. I thought I saw blood trickling from his palms. I could be wrong, but knowing him like I do, I probably am not. Men and women were rushing to and fro behind him, pausing occasionally to ask him questions in low voices as they peeked over his shoulders. He gave them terse answers - - about one or two words each, on average -- and they would run off. A narrow wooden staircase ran diagonally across the gate, from the rampart up top all the way to the ground below. There was no bashfulness on that staircase as Parksiders would grip and grope each other to get past each other on their way up and down. "...Uhhh... okay girls, single file," I said, pushing Annabelle behind me. Charlotte didn't want to let go of my leg, so I compromised by letting her piggyback me. Before I could get Bee behind me as well, she was already ahead of me. We made our way up the stairs slowly, and I encountered my first stares since entering town. Only one person looked genuinely displeased by my presence, and even he couldn't spare the time to do anything about it. As a result, I got pushed and shoved several times, but not because of what I was, but only because of space limitations. Two-thirds of the way up, Bee lost her patience waiting for us and scrambled up all the way. "Bee, stop!!" I called. "Bee!!" She didn't listen, and disappeared behind a cluster of people at the top. I picked up the pace, pushing back a little more, and made my way to a point where my head could just barely see over the edge of Grant's Gate. If my hair hadn't been a wig, it would have stood on end. A river of gray uniforms had washed over the road beyond Parkside. Men, thousands of men, white men, all dressed the same, all in formation without a hair out of place, stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Grant's Gate, with their numbers stretching down the road, far down the road, to the west. A ripple was spreading away from us down the endless rows of men, from the group standing at attention just a few feet from the gate, all the way down to blocks away and beyond, as they all came to a halt. I could hear orders being called out one-by- one from other streets, side streets, alleyways, and even inside some buildings. They hadn't just marched into the city; they had flooded it. With rifles at their shoulders, and many with sidearms, they stood at attention and dutifully awaited further instructions. Flying over their heads was their flag, which made me immediately think of the Confederate flag, only on a white background instead of a red one. Overlaying the blue crossed bars lined with white stars was a bright red cross. It was a stark reminder of the army's origins in a religious commune. Or maybe it was a reflection on the kind of power held over these people; each individual soldier was so tightly wound, they made the LP robots look chummy in comparison. Just as I reached the top with Annabelle and Charlotte, Alan took four steps and took hold of Bee. She buried herself in her father's shoulder as he lifted her up. He looked down at me and an angry expression flashed across his face, as if he were asking, "How could you bring my daughters here?!" It was so very brief, however, as he had such bigger things to worry about. He wordlessly carried Bee back with him to the middle of the rampart and continued his watch. Against some of my better judgment, I joined him. There was a line down the middle of the rows of men. A smaller group of men and women, clad in filthy white and light yellow shirts and pants, and without any shoes, slowly marched up through the soldiers. The first thing I noticed about this group was how raggedly tired they all looked. The second thing I noticed was that they were all either black, Asian, or Hispanic (with one exception). In the front of the line, a group of these downtrodden individuals was dragging a large white platform behind them. Behind them, a black limousine was being carried on the shoulders of 16 people. Behind the limo were innumerable brawny but exhausted men and pregnant women. Before the line got to each regiment, its commanding officer would bark an order, and the soldiers would split into two groups, turn toward each other, then take a quick step back. The rows of gray-clad men were parting as the line of slaves approached the gate. The army was so coordinated, so efficient, that it was like watching a single organism pulsing below me. As I watched, the great beast opened its maw to display... what? What is this, I only pondered for a few seconds... ...Before I realized... it was its brain. "Bellows," Alan croaked under his breath. I looked up at him and saw a man who was trying to look resolute, but couldn't help but look sickly in the process. He was stroking Bee's hair, and she was watching the army over her shoulder with fear in her eyes. "...Alan," I whispered. He didn't hear me. "Alan." Still no clue that I was even there. "Alan!!" I snapped. He turned his head quickly and looked at me. "Breathe," I said. He stared at me for a couple seconds, then nodded as his chest heaved up and down. Up and down. He ducked down low and set Bee back on the rampart, then gave her a light push toward me. I let Bee and Annabelle grip my legs as Charlotte held onto my back. As men and women were filling in the spaces in the rampart around us, I heard a chime from my smart phone. I pulled it out and immediately heard The Mistress hiss, "You've had your fun!! Now come back here!!" "We need to know more," I whispered. "You said so yourself." "We know plenty!! Now get your ass back here!!" The Mistress sounded even more fearful than before; she was approaching a full-blown panic. I tried to keep calm, and I thought about what to do. "Call Sea," I said. "What?!" "Call Sea," I whispered right into the mouthpiece. I noticed a few people were staring at me, and one of them was Roger. I gave him a quick, subtle nod, and that seemed to satisfy him. "Tell her to broadcast where I'm standing." "Are you freaking kidding me?!" she wailed. "You did it-" I looked around. "You did it when I was threatened by Father Fitzpatrick. You don't have to come down here this time. I'll handle it. Call her!" I switched off the smart phone before she could protest any further. "What are you doing?" Alan mumbled. "If he's showing up in force, then so am I," I replied. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" "Nope. Making it up as I go along." I flashed him a half-hearted grin as I rolled my sleeve over my metal arm. Best-case scenario, I thought, Alan gets Bellows to turn around and leave, and Sea's appearance is nothing out of the ordinary... for a woman who's ordinarily a giant, floating, weather-forecasting head in the sky. Worst-case, I can use the Sea Witch to scare Bellows into leaving... ...I think. I wasn't sure. How do I talk to her? Hm. A gawkish group of soldiers and slaves made their way up the periphery of the army, parallel to the line of slaves carrying the platform and limousine. This strange bunch, lead by a sweaty, pug-nosed soldier carrying a tuba, were carrying even more brass instruments, a drum set, cymbals, and a dingy triangle. The band leader planted himself 20 feet from the gate and watched the platform move into position near him. Once it stopped, he watched the limousine come to a halt. "Get ready," he said. When the slaves weren't able to instantly set up their instruments, he started bleating at them, "Now!! Now!! Now!! Now!!" He kept going until they were ready to start playing. They then waited another several seconds, with the band leader watching the limousine. A regal-looking officer stepped out from the side of the limo and placed one hand on the back door. He nodded toward the band leader, who saw the signal. "And-a-one, and-a-two, and-a-" The band leader placed his lips on the mouthpiece of his tuba at the same exact moment as the officer opened the door. What followed was the worst rendition of "Hail to the Chief" in history. Bad timing, flat harmony, and excessive tuba combined into a cold, dripping version of the song that only I recognized. The slaves tried their hardest and sounded the best among the group, but nobody can march for God-only-knows how many miles and be expected to put out a decent performance on a trumpet. My imagination compensated by substituting the Shinra Corporation theme song for their miserable tune. It worked perfectly. It was then and there that I had my greatest epiphany of my true identity: No matter who I was in my previous life, I thought, be it bicycle messenger or survivalist... ...I was a geek! A man stepped out of the shadows inside the limousine and placed two shiny black shoes on the ground. His black suit looked clean, pressed, and starched, like he had somehow managed to find a dry-cleaner in the post-apocalyptic ruins. He looked up at the sky, adjusted his bright red tie, then turned sharply to us and extended one hand in the air with a smile, like a U.S. senator greeting a crowd. Indeed, I could have mistaken him for a standard, run-of-the-mill politician -- he would look right at home in Congress -- if he didn't have a freaking army behind him. That was the first time I saw President Bellows. "Hello!" the president called out. His sonorous voice certainly lived up to his name -- he could be heard clearly by all, even without a megaphone on hand. "Ha-ha! Yes! Hello!" The tall, bald man with the aging, sagging face strode confidently down the rows of men and up to the white platform, which he nimbly stepped upon, all while looking up toward the people watching him from the rampart of Grant's Gate. "Hello, hello! Ohhhh!" He clapped his hands once, then looked over to the band and nodded. They stopped playing instantly. "Ahhhh!" he breathed in relief, then sniffed. "Mmmmmm! Smell that ocean air! I can taste the salt already! Mm!" Alan took a quick, deep breath. "State your business!" he called out. Bellows cocked his head a little to the side. "Mmm?" he inquired. "State! Your! Business!" Alan repeated slowly. The big grin on Bellows' face parted into a bigger smile. "Ahhhh! Where are my manners? Ha-ha!" He puffed out his great big chest and held his mighty arms out in a friendly greeting. "Hello, Parkside! I am President Julian Gilbert Herman Bellows of the Re-United States of America! I am here to welcome you as fellow citizens of my new nation!" He gestured toward us. "Hello, people of the new State of Parkside! Hello, citizens of the R-U-S-A! Hello!" An enticed rumble spread among the people on the rampart, and among the people below us. "Bullshit!" Roger hissed in response. "Detroiters were citizens!" That shut several people up. Alan didn't look like he needed to be reminded; he remained solely focused on the president below him. "You say we're citizens," Alan said, after some thought. "What do you mean?" Bellows chuckled. His smile didn't leave his face. "Why, it means you're entitled to all the rights and privileges of all my other citizens, of course!" Bellows focused his eyes. "...I don't believe I got your name, friend." "My name is Alan Carson. I'm..." Alan considered his words carefully. "I'm a citizen of Parkside." "A citizen! Well." Bellows nodded. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alan. May I call you Alan?" Alan looked irked by this (to say the least), but regardless, he replied, "You may." "Alan... you know why I'm here. I'm certain you've heard of the nation I've been building out west. I know you've received...," Bellows turned his head just a little and loudly spoke out of the side of his mouth, toward his limousine, "news," and back to Alan, "of my arrival! Right now, you're probably thinking that I've arrived earlier than anticipated." He shrugged. "I'll admit, I didn't expect to get so far so fast, either! We really just..." He pumped his arm in front of himself. "Slid right through, real easy!" Alan's eye twitched. I doubt I'd like to know what he was thinking at that moment. "You're saying you cut through the region?" Something menacing appeared in President Bellows' smile. Maybe it was the way the edge of his mouth curled up a little, revealing his canines a little better. His teeth were thin and unblemished. "Hnnn... that's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Not my way. But I digress." He sniffled and stood proud. "Alan... citizens of Parkside... you may or may not know that I have been expanding my nation's borders in an ongoing effort to perform..." He put one hand on his chest, above his heart. "...My sacred duty! I wish for no less than the restoration of America's greatness, without all the..." His lips turned down in a pout. "...The weakness, and sinfulness, that brought the old United States to her knees!" His smile snapped back like a rubber band. "No, I am building a new nation, a better nation, one that The Lord can smile upon, and one that we can be proud of." Alan raised one eyebrow. "And you want Parkside because...?" The president's manner turned businesslike. "Right now, my nation's lands are limited to Michigan and Ontario. I could go west like the old United States, but...," he looked thoughtful, "I'm not quite ready to do that just yet. Given the problematic nature of expanding northward into R-O-N territory, and the push-back I've encountered every time I've tried expanding south, my primary focus has been expanding east. In anticipation of this, I've extended offers of citizenship to all of the towns and cities between here and the R-U-S- A. Alas, I have neglected you, but I'm here to make up for that! I am, on this day, formally extending an offer to you, Alan Carson, and your fellow citizens of Parkside, to become citizens of the newest state in the R-U-S-A!" He smiled broadly and patiently awaited an answer. Alan turned to look at the people who stood around him, then down at the people in town below him. There were hints of temptation in many of their faces, but reluctance in all of them. He turned back to the president and replied, "You still haven't told us what that means." Bellows looked bemused. "Yes, I have!" "You said we'd get the same rights as your other citizens. What rights do you mean?" There was that slightly too-toothy smile again. "American rights." Alan wasn't bothering with his own fake smile. "You'll have to specify," he said sternly. Bellows hesitated very briefly, but his smile didn't leave his face. "The Lord's Natural Rights!" Okay, that's all I need to hear, I thought. I looked up at the sky. C'mon, Mistress! C'mon Sea! Where are you?! The senator from the great State of Crazytown needs to go bye-bye now!! No lights, no giant growling head with fireworks and bears, nothing. I was deeply disappointed. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that," Alan stated bluntly. One thing President Bellows had going for him was, he never, ever seemed angry. He could be serious and/or gently disapproving, but never anywhere close to angry. The idea that The Mistress could take a lesson in anger management from him occurred to me a microsecond before I realized how terrible that idea was. I saw a tiny-tiny display of irritation flash across his face with a slight click of his teeth, and then it was gone. "There is nothing better, Alan. The Lord Our God has sent me, his servant, to reunite us all. I can't... imagine...," he chuckled in a mildly dumbfounded way, "what more could you want?" Alan hesitated and measured the crowd around him. "...What I want... and what we all want... is for you to leave! Turn your army around and go!" Bellows looked up at Alan, silent for a moment, and a little hurt. His full smile reappeared after that moment, softer than before. "Ahhhh. I see. All you've heard about me are bad things, spread by my detractors, no doubt. I have many!" He shook his finger and laughed. "Oh my, do I have ever so many! There's a few simple facts you should know about me, however: I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm building a nation. I've built roads, my friends." He pointed west. "I've re- paved many of the old state routes in Michigan! I've brought back shipping and trade between those cities! My goodness, you should have seen the place before I came along! It was riddled with bandits and sin!" He swept both hands out. "I got rid of all of that! The country I've built, and am continuing to build, is more efficient than anything the C-I-S could create, and more disciplined than anything the R-O-N could muster!" He smiled and held his arms out wide again. "I know pride is a sin, but... well, I just can't help myself sometimes! I just gotta... toot my own horn, you know?" He pointed at the band leader, who blew a loud farting noise out of his tuba. Bellows slapped his own stomach and laughed out loud, and several officers joined him. The soldiers standing in front of the gate and all around the platform -- over a hundred, maybe -- burst into a chorus of synchronized laughter. The crowd on the rampart was a touch stirred, and a lot more freaked out. Alan was not charmed at all. "And what about Detroit?" Bellows hesitated. "Well, I have to maintain unity, y'know? I can't have anyone going off the rails. Plus, they were harboring a witch! I understand there's one behind you, in that big tower back there?" There was that gentle look of disapproval. "I hope you're not doing the same." Alan sneered. "Forget about her. What about your slaves? Are they citizens, too?" "...The slaves?" Bellows looked puzzled. He turned and glanced at the line behind him. "Do you mean the lesser-folk? Of course not." He actually said it with a smile: "Animals can't be citizens!" A very troubled sound emitted from the mouth of nearly every Parksider. "Half our town is minorities," Alan said slowly as he leaned forward. "Do you really think we're going to sell out ourselves?!" And again with the slightly too-toothy smile. "...Frankly, Alan, I don't care what you think. You're just one citizen. I serve The Lord first, and the people second. That's 'the people,' plural." "We all agree: we're not your citizens! Turn... and... leave!" President Bellows paused. At the time, I thought he was going to start screaming at any second, because I didn't know him very well. His smile never left his face, however, and instead turned into something kind of like pity. "I never told you what happened to those offers I sent out to those other towns and cities," he said after a few seconds. "They were all rejected, every one. I figured I could strike a deal myself with the R-O-N -- something Detroit never cleared with the rest of us, by the way! -- but it didn't pan out. Again, I wasn't expecting us to move through New England this quickly. I thought we would encounter more resistance than we did. Here!" He turned and waved toward one of his officers. "Bring Albany to the front, please!" The officer nodded, then reached into the line of slaves and roughly pulled one out. I had seen the Hispanic man with the tiny mustache above the corners in his mouth in the line, but I thought he was just another slave. Unlike most of the others, his neck and wrists were bound together in a medieval wooden stockade, and his ankles were shackled. Also, once he was out of line, I saw that he was rounder than the others, like he had eaten well, and eaten more recently. He was filthy, and his black hair was matted with sweat. The officer dragged the man toward the platform and threw him upon it. "...Oh Jesus, it's Kirk," Alan breathed. "How the fuck did he get a hold of him?" I heard Junior mutter. I was shocked to find him right behind me, and completely without any interest in me. "Kirk's got ten times our manpower." "Please state your name," President Bellows said like he was about to interview the prisoner for a job, who muttered something disparaging under his breath in return. The president nodded at the officer, who had taken a position behind the prisoner on stage. The officer drew his sidearm, cocked it, and pushed it into the back of the prisoner's head. Some people on the rampart let out a distressed sound. Alan looked sick. "Please state your name," Bellows repeated, in a slightly lower, more serious tone. "...Kirk van der Hoof," the man uttered. There was blood on his lips. He had been so mistreated, he could barely stay conscious. "Kirk van der Hoof," Bellows repeated. "What is your occupation, Mr. van der Hoof?" Kirk breathed in, then out. "...I'm... I... was... the Mayor of Albany." "Can you repeat that, please?" Bellows dipped a little lower to get closer to Kirk's right ear. "And louder?" he enunciated. "The Mayor of Albany! I was... the Mayor of Albany..." "Now, you say you were the Mayor of Albany." Bellows crossed behind the man. "Did you lose your office?" Kirk breathed in, then out. "...Yes." "Did you lose an election?" The president glanced at Alan. "...No." "Oh?" Bellows paced back the other way. "Then how did you lose your office, Mr. van der Hoof?" Kirk said nothing. He stared down at the stage, at the ground, at nothing at all maybe, but the misery in his entire body -- the defeat on his face; the way his limbs sagged, held aloft only by the stockade -- was palpable. He muttered something. "I can't hear you," Bellows said. "More importantly, though, the folks up there can't hear you." He pointed toward the rampart. "Look up, please? And speak clearly." Kirk slowly, oh so slowly, raised his head. He looked Alan directly in the eyes... and I can't even imagine what passed through Alan's head at that moment. "He crushed Albany, Alan." A breath. "...It's all gone." "Thank you," Bellows said graciously before turning back to Alan. "Now, as you can see-oops, wait." He pivoted back to the officer, pointed at Kirk with his index and middle fingers, and nodded. And the officer shot Kirk point-blank in the back of the head. The Mistress was standing at the edge of the 70th floor of Sky Tower when she saw it happen. "Hokay!" she exclaimed, slapping her steel telescope shut and pivoting on one foot. "Hokay!" She marched into her radio room, then held the microphone up to her mouth. She twisted a dial on a black box next to the monitors. "Sea? Come in, Sea!" A few seconds passed. She pushed the call button on the microphone harder. "Come in, Sea!!" A scream went up across the rampart. Kirk's body lurched forward and fell with a wet splat against the platform, blood pooling out of the hole in his forehead. Annabelle and Bee were gripping my legs like their lives depended on it, and Charlotte let out a squeal as her father emitted a knee-buckling moan of horror. Junior said nothing, but then again, he might have seen the execution-style murder coming. He remained completely silent, his reaction a mystery; I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not, or even if he was still back there, and I didn't get a look at his face. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way," Bellows said, "let's talk shop. How about we all get together and have a little town hall, hm?" Alan's jaw hung open. "...Fuh-wh-what?!" he cried. Maybe it was just me, but it didn't sound like there was a trace of menace in Bellows' voice. Instead, he sounded casual, like you would if you were to pause in the middle of a conversation with a friend to swat a fly. "Please open the gate. I can't talk to everyone if I'm out here, and you're all in there!" "...A... a-are you fucking kidding me?!" "...No. I really do need to come inside." He looked a little self- conscious, then fake-whispered, "Number two!" and chuckled. Everyone around the rampart, including me, had backed away, with the exception of Alan. "We're not letting you inside, you psychopath!!" "...Eh?" "You just murdered Kirk van der Hoof!!" Alan sputtered. Bellows froze, like he hadn't noticed this. He looked down at Kirk's body, which lay bleeding on the stage, then back up at Alan. "Who, him?" "Yes!!" Bellows looked bemused again. "Do you mean the rebel leader? The one who took up arms against me after I claimed Albany in the name of The Lord?" He waved his hand at Kirk's body with an indifferent gesture. "This little lesser-folk?" Alan's face contorted with disgust. "You... sick fuck!!" "Now, now. There's no need for name-calling, Alan. I just wanted to prove to you that I'm not a liar. I've been given a power to bring all into the fold of The Lord and the R-U-S-A, and I intend to use that power to defend Parkside." "You mean attack her!!" Bellows chuckled. "Now why would I want to do something like that?" "You've attacked every other city!!" Alan roared. Bellows shook his head. "No, no. Parkside means... so much to me. I intend to turn this village into a port city, my friends. Parkside has people. It has infrastructure in-place. Why would I throw that out?" "To enslave us!!" Alan spat. "This is a freeman city, and you want to crush that!!" Bellows slipped the fingers of one hand in his jacket pocket, like he was a really easy-going guy. "Do you really think I'm going to expend resources over some petty display of power?" Alan was livid. "You just did!! You've been doing that for months!!" Bellows openly and loudly laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Out of context, it sounded charming, like a man joking with friends at a cocktail party. In context, it was terrible and weird. I felt horrible for Alan. He was getting a harsh lesson in why he should never wrestle with a pig. I wished I could do more than just stand there gawping, but there was still no sign of the Sea Witch. I couldn't decide if I should start krumping or break out in the Macarena, but if her aurora appeared, I'd just pick one and ignore my inevitable humiliation. "Ohhh, Alan! You are a real gem!" "It's Mr. Carson, you son of a bitch!!" Bellows' smile grew broader, because that was apparently possible. "I think I'll call you whatever I want, Alan. You're not the boss of me." He hesitated. "Why, you're not the boss of anybody!" ... ...I wondered what that meant. I had a suspicion. I felt breathless. I hoped I was wrong. Alan stopped talking. Bellows looked back at the limousine. "Ahem!" he fake-coughed out loud. "Walter! Could you step forward, please?" A chorus of hushed, distressed grunts came from the throats of the slaves holding up the limousine. "Please step forward, Walter!" The president's secretary, Walter Matheson, was shouldering the burden of the left front corner of the vehicle. He was the only white man I saw in the line of slaves. "Sorry!" he grunted to the others, then pushed up the limousine and stepped out from under it. With one of their number gone, the other slaves silently, but arduously, shouldered the extra burden. Walter plodded forward, unable to walk very fast on his bruised and swollen feet. An officer stepped out of line for a second to slap a clipboard into Walter's chest. The smaller man forced a grin, quietly thanked the officer (who sneered back), then proceeded to the stage. President Bellows did not bother to greet or even look at Walter. "Walter," he said slowly, "can you please give me the details on the man to who I am speaking?" I glanced at Charlotte, whose face was buried in my shoulder. She said nothing. Not one thing. "...Huuuhhhh...," Walter wheezed, then adjusted his glasses. "Let's... see..." He flipped through his clipboard, removed a pen from the metal clip that bound the pages, then placed the tip on one. "His name is-" "-Uh-uh-uh!" Bellows grabbed his wrist. Walter froze in fear. "Remember what I said last night, Walter?" Walter's lips twitched. "...Y-y-y-yeh..." "I said..." Bellows reached into Walter's sheaf of papers and pulled one out. "I want you to be more conservative with paper from now on." He displayed the page in front of Walter: it was blank, except for its customized header with navy blue lettering. "I have to have these shipped in all the way from Lansing. They're hand-lettered. That's not cheap, y'know." "Y-y-y-yessir." There was that canine again, but without any smile in his eyes. "I can't have you frittering away my stationery, Walter." Walter nodded rapidly. "Y-yessir, yes sir, President Bellows, sir." "Hn." Bellows handed the page back to Walter, who carefully slipped it back into the sheaf. "So, tell me who Mr. Alan Carson is, if you will." "...Uhhh..." Walter looked down at his clipboard, then up at Alan, then back down. "...A-Alan Grant Carson, born February 15, 2416, right here in Parkside... Massachusetts, uhhhh..." His hands shook as he turned the page; he was extremely nervous. "G-great-grandson of Parkside's founder, Robert Carson..." Bellows nodded in respect to Alan. "G-grandson of Edgar Carson, son of, uh... Grant Carson." "The fourth king of the Carson Dynasty!" President Bellows proudly proclaimed. Alan rolled his eyes. "What about recent history, Walter? Anything there?" Bellows was playing a game. It felt like one of the games The Mistress played with me, but at least when she did it, it was meant to be instructional. Bellows was just messing with us. I knew it, Walter knew it, and I suspect Alan knew it. For his part in it, Walter looked deeply ashamed. "...Uh, King-" Alan grunted audibly. "-I mean, Mister..." Walter looked up for approval. "...Carson... was... recently ousted." People on the rampart drew their breath. "Ousted?" Bellows asked. "You mean he lost his office? How?" Walter looked down in shame. "Yes, sir, in a... local election." "To who?" Again, Charlotte said nothing (the little trooper). I swear to God, it was like the evil bastard was doing it on purpose just to screw with her. "...To... ahhh..." Walter adjusted his glasses and swallowed a lump in his throat. He wasn't looking at the clipboard anymore. "Father Oswald Fitzpatrick." "You killed him too," Alan stated clearly, "didn't you, you son of a bitch? You found him on the road and you butchered him." "Butchered him?" Bellows piped. "No, he's fine! Here, look." He turned his head to one of his officers. "Can you please bring Father Fitzpatrick up here?" The officer nodded, then headed toward the back of the line of slaves. But he didn't go all the way. He stopped at the back door of the limousine, the door out of which Bellows had emerged. He waved whomever else was in there out. The person within must have hesitated, because the officer had to wave a few times, and got a little impatient as a result. And sure enough, Father Fitzpatrick emerged from the limousine. He was completely unscathed. He looked like he had not had a good night's sleep, but he was otherwise unharmed. "...What... the...," I heard Junior breathe behind me. "No, he wouldn't," Alan rumbled. "He wouldn't dare." The officer was handling Father Fitzpatrick a little roughly, and the older man didn't enjoy the treatment; he yanked his arm out of the officer's grip and whispered a few (presumably) brusque words to the soldier. Father Fitzpatrick looked up toward the rampart -- Alan was glaring so hard, he didn't need fingers -- then took a deep breath and strode forward. "What are you doing, Ossie?" Alan growled out loud once Father Fitzpatrick was within earshot. The priest got up on the platform. Alan's voice rose: "Tell me what you're doing with that maniac, Ossie!" Father Fitzpatrick saw Kirk's body on stage and reeled. He looked at Bellows as if to ask what had happened, but Bellows had a look about him that... well, I'm not sure exactly how to explain it. I'll put it this way: If a psychopath asks you if you're bothered by all the murder he's doing around you, what do you say? Presume you can't run away. If you say "yes," he might be offended. If you say "no," then he'll like you. And you want him to like you. That is, I presume, why Father Fitzpatrick didn't actually say anything to the president. Instead, he turned back to the gate and did his best to ignore Kirk's body. "...Hello, Alan," he said, his voice breaking a little, but not his resolve. "What the fuck are you doing down there, Ossie?!" "What does it look like I'm doing?" He held himself high. "I'm saving Parkside, Alan... from you!" Is there a word that combines "bewildered" and "pissed off?" I'm not talking about "upset" -- that's too soft a word for what Alan was feeling. "Wwwwhhhaaaat?!" he screamed ("Mistress-like," maybe, although that doesn't seem fair to him). "Maybe you can explain it to them, Mister Mayor," Bellows whispered to Father Fitzpatrick. "I'm not getting anywhere." As if to do an impression of his new master, Father Fitzpatrick spread his arms wide. "Fellow citizens of Parkside!" he called out. "Yes, it is true! I have struck a deal with President Bellows! He has agreed to lend us his aid, and in return, we will become citizens of the nation he is building!" He brought his arms in close. "My sacred duty... is to ensure that the Parkside flock is worthy of God's graces. My only desire is to see you all reach Paradise." He motioned back toward Bellows in a deferential way, and the president simply looked happy to be there. "And so it is with him, my brothers and sisters! President Bellows is a noble and devout man," (there was a slight pause just before he said "noble;" I noticed it, and from the twitch in his eye, I think Bellows noticed it, but he did and said nothing), "and his greatest desire... is to see that we, all of us, reach that most... lofty of places." "He's a homicidal maniac!!" Alan screamed. "He's openly tyrannical!!" Father Fitzpatrick's eyebrow arched in disdain. "A tyrant, Alan? Really?" He looked at someone else on the rampart. "My friends... let me tell you about the real tyrant here today." He pointed at Alan. "For eighty years, the Carson family has led us with lies and deception!" Alan scoffed. "Our founding father, Robert Carson, advertised Parkside as a freeman's city, a place to go for those sick of the bureaucratic tyranny of the C-I-S and the military tyranny of the R-O-N! But where has that led us?" He sneered. "To misery! To neighbor-versus-neighbor infighting! We know each other's names, yet we lock our doors at night! We hide the sins of our past! We hide our true names, our true faces!" He shook his head. "This is no way to live!" "And you think a rampaging...!! A-a rampaging-ohfuckme...!!" Alan scoured his scalp with his fingernails. "Megalomaniac," Charlotte whispered oh-so-quietly into my back. "*Cough*Megalomaniac*Cough*," I repeated. "Megalomaniac is better?!" Alan screamed. I should have been more subtle than that... ...Because in the next second, Father Fitzpatrick was looking up at me. "Her," he uttered, pointing directly at me. "That's her." And that's when Bellows saw me. "And here you are!!" Father Fitzpatrick shouted back at Alan. "Bringing demons into your fold!! At least the allies I keep are human!!" Something horrible kept drawing my gaze back to Bellows'; the sick fascination that all people have with car accidents and dead things compelled me to look his way. For his part, Bellows' eyes were locked onto me, too. As Father Fitzpatrick exchanged words with Alan, a wide, toothy smile filled with canines slid open across the president's sagging face, like fleshy curtains parting to reveal two rows of alabaster columns. His eyes could be described as happy, in the same way a hungry lion is happy to see a gazelle. He slowly raised one hand and waved just his fingers at me. "Hello!" he croaked. A thrill went down my back. It was so strong, Charlotte noticed it. Or maybe she was just hiding behind me. Hell, I wanted to hide behind me. I wonder if Junior noticed Bellows' attention on me? Alan and Father Fitzpatrick were yelling at each other when I forced myself to look away. "-Treason against Parkside!!" Alan cried. "I would never betray Parkside!!" Father Fitzpatrick cried back. "I grew up here, the same as you!! I made a life here, the same as you!! Only I'm not ashamed to know what's beneath its surface, Alan!! I know it needs a strong hand to guide it!! I know it needs God!!" He stopped yelling at Alan and started calling to the crowd again. "For eighty years, the Carson Dynasty-" Alan rolled his head in disbelief. "-Oh, pleeeease!!" "-The Carson Dynasty has led us to live a godless existence!! Tell me: where was God when Alan led us?!" He glared at me. "Where was God when the Metal Mistress burned down half our town?! With Alan?! With Grant?! No!! With them, we have nothing!! Without God, we have nothing!!" He stood tall. "I say, enough is enough!! The time of the Carson Dynasty is over!! It's time Parkside had a real leader!! It's time we had a man of God on our side!! It's time to end this insufferable crusade against all that is good and holy!!" Alan was dumbstruck; he didn't know what to say. You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that what Father Fitzpatrick said was total bullshit; Alan had never faulted anyone for their religion in his life. And then it hit me: Why should I? "I don't care," I stated, louder than I wanted to speak. All eyes turned on me. Father Fitzpatrick was glaring. "Wh-" "-I don't care," I repeated plainly but clearly. "If you want to pray to God, pray to God. I won't stop you. Father Fitzpatrick looked confused, but his lip curled (possibly involuntarily) as he hissed, "You-" "-I don't want to stop you," I added. "It's your right." Against my better judgment, I pointed (weakly) toward Bellows. "...Y-you don't need that guy if you want to worship God." Dozens of rifles were pointed up at me. I heard a grunt behind me, and a rough pair of hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me and the ABCs behind a man. After a couple seconds... I realized it was Junior. "-Hold!" Bellows called out to his soldiers from the platform, which was now mostly blocked from my view. "Hold. Don't let her get you all bothered, now. It's what she wants!" A pause. "Please continue, Mister Mayor." Father Fitzpatrick hesitated, then started to speak again. "Eh, ah-" "-I never stopped you, Ossie," Alan said, finding his voice. "I never prevented you from finding God. Sure, I don't get to church as much as I should, but the way I figure it, if it got you off the bottle, then it's good." A pause... although Alan took a deep, heavy breath. "And do you remember who you turned to? Who first took that damn booze out of your hands? Who gave you your bible?" He leaned forward. "It was Tonya van der Hoof. Kirk's wife." Father Fitzpatrick said nothing. "She's either dead or in chains now, Ossie, and you're standing next to the man who did that, and murdered her husband. And you have the balls to call me godless, you ungrateful son of a bitch." I couldn't see much, but Father Fitzpatrick wasn't standing so tall anymore. "...In all life... there is hardship." "Oh, this shit again! You think I don't know hardship?! I watched my Emma die!" "And you'd watch more die," Father Fitzpatrick breathed out. The pride was gone from his voice, from his posture. Something in Bellows' face changed, too: he wasn't upset... but he wasn't smiling. The president looked quizzical, like he had encountered something he didn't expect. "This is an army of eight-thousand men, Alan. What do you expect will happen now?" Pause. "Do you think throwing up some... wood and metal will keep them out? They opened Syracuse. They can open Parkside. I had hoped to spare you the horror... but you simply have to experience it for yourself, don't you?" Bellows crinkled his nose, like he had encountered something smelly. Alan shook his head. "This is brand new. Top-of-the-line." He thumped the palm of his hand against the railing. "It doesn't matter. You could put a hundred gates in front of them, and they'd still get in." Bellows didn't seem proud of this fact; or rather, it didn't bring him pride. He seemed troubled as he curiously eyeballed Father Fitzpatrick. "Parkside started purely as a farming community, then adapted to become a low-key trading hub. It was never built to repel a large force, not for long, anyway. Open the gate, Alan. Get it over with." "You have become the worst kind of cynic, Ossie." Father Fitzpatrick shook his head. "No, Alan, I'm an optimist." He held his head a little higher. "I know it might not seem like it to you, but my faith has given me a clarity that you don't possess." He held his hands out to his side. "God is good! And although times may become rough, and we may suffer, good will win out in the end, because God will always triumph!" "That doesn't sound like optimism to me." "I know it sounds like a gamble, but if you'll just open the gate, you're sure to win!" "No." A pause. "I'm not betting with our lives." Something in Father Fitzpatrick's posture broke, and fortitude gave way to exhausted contempt. "...Alan... you are ridiculous. You're a spoiled little daddy's boy." "Is that how you want to do this now? You're sounding more like The Mistress with each second." Father Fitzpatrick growled. "You are pathetic! Here you are, born with a silver spoon in your mouth and handed everything you ever had! Put a little hardship in front of you, a little opportunity to grow, and you scream and shout and throw a tantrum!" "Only one person's doing that now, and it's not me." "Ohhhhh!!" Father Fitzpatrick rolled his eyes. "Blistering wit from Parkside's own Oscar Wilde!" (A few people on the rampart whispered "Who's Oscar Wilde?" to each other). "Well, some of us have to work for a living and make concessions! But Heaven forbid that the mighty Alan Carson should have to stoop so low! No! He'll take his free house and his loving wife, and leave the business of the real world to us cattle!" Alan's eyes were wide. His nostrils flared. "I have never-!!" "-Uh!" I said involuntarily. Alan hesitated and looked my way. Why did I..., I stared to think. ...Wife? "W-wait," I said aloud, edging my way out from behind Junior. "Is that what this is about?" I looked toward Alan, then back toward Father Fitzpatrick. "Alan's wife?" "...Heh?" Alan uttered. Father Fitzpatrick looked angry and completely clueless. "He was married," I clarified. "Were you? Ever married, I mean?" Father Fitzpatrick glared at me, but said nothing. "Have you ever gone on a date?" He snorted derisively... but didn't say yes. "Wha-what?!" Alan stuttered. "You're jealous of him," I clarified further. "No I am not!!" Father Fitzpatrick snarled. "Shut your mouth, demon whore!!" "But you just said so. You think he had it easy, and you had it rough." I looked at Alan. "Has he ever been with a woman?" "I said shut your mouth!!" Father Fitzpatrick screeched. "That's how this all got started, isn't it? Going after his job, going after me, going after Gary. Now you're going after his reputation-" Father Fitzpatrick's resolve was breaking. "-I... said... shut up!!" he warbled. I stared at him. And I sighed. And I thought to myself, This is just pitiful. And I didn't notice the president slowly walking across the platform. "Dude... if you needed dating advice, you could've just asked Alan. He was married, for crap's sake. He must know something about getting girls to like him." There was a distressed, knowing sound around me. "You didn't have to go and stab him in the back like this." Father Fitzpatrick said nothing, but the look of desperation on his face said a lot. Alan's jaw hung open as the anger drained from him. "...Ohhhh, my God," he uttered. "What the hell, Fitz." Father Fitzpatrick looked up at the rampart and teetered. His anger had petered to a low level of irate... but there was something else in there, too. Humiliation. Defeat. "...A-at least you had... someone... for a time," he croaked. Part of him looked like he couldn't comprehend the words he was saying. "Listening to you... sob... you don't know pain-" ... ...And then he abruptly stopped, with a sudden "-Hurgk-kk!" The people on the rampart shrieked and turned their heads. One man, a full-grown adult man, wailed like a little boy. Charlotte hadn't seen anything -- she was digging her face into my shoulder blades -- but when she heard the sounds around her, she didn't even consider peeking up to figure out why. Annabelle and Bee had seen... something. Annabelle let out a shaky cry and held my leg while she trembled. Bee's reaction was so much stronger that I had to bend down and hold her in my arms. Why didn't I leave, I thought. Why oh why didn't I just fucking leave?! Junior was deathly silent, but I got a quick peek at his face: pale white, so much so that it seemed to leach into his hair. I got a peek under his shirt sleeves and saw a mass of goose pimples. Alan was no better, and maybe worse, as he gaped in abject horror. Father Fitzpatrick teetered on stage. He probably felt different. No, I know he must have felt different. Bad. It looked like it confused him for a moment, like he didn't know why. But when he looked down and saw the machete blade sticking out of his chest, he knew why. Bellows stepped out from behind him. "If I may interrupt," he stated seriously and clearly, without a smile, but also without hostility. "The mayor's comments do not reflect my position on the issues." "...Hhhhhhhh!!" Father Fitzpatrick wheezed, and fell to his knees. Blood poured out of his chest wound, soaking his black robe. The shock was mercifully slow to wear off. Or maybe time just seemed to slow down. He sunk onto his hands, where he gripped the white sheet that tightly covered the stage as his blood poured onto it. President Bellows glanced at the leather handle of the machete embedded in Father Fitzpatrick's torso, then looked up with a broad smile. "Now, it's true: God is good. However, I think there's a little... mix-up going on here!" He chuckled. "I thought one of your own could explain it better than I could... but apparently not!" He locked his fingers together and lowered his hands. "I serve The Lord, my friends. That is what you are to me: my friends! All I'm trying to do, everything I'm here to do, is unequivocally good!" "-Aaaaaaahhhh-!" Father Fitzpatrick cried out in pain, before his voice cut out. He gripped his chest with one hand and breathed heavily, then heavier still. The president chuckled. "I don't know where all this talk of death is coming from," he said as he stood between Kirk's body and the mayor. "I'm all about... life, y'know? I want to bring prosperity back to this nation of ours. And I'm not going to berate you or call you names. I'm here... to help you!" He looked a little lost for a moment. "I mean, really! What's all this talk about hardship, and suffering, and 'times being rough?' Really, now!" He leaned to his side just a bit... ...And ripped the machete out of Father Fitzpatrick's chest with one hard pull. The mayor let out a loud, wailing cry of pain and struggled to stay on his hands. Gravity won out, however, and he collapsed stomach-down onto the stage, coughing up blood in between sputters. "I'm going to turn Parkside into the R-U-S-A's biggest port on the east coast. Does that sound like it'll bring suffering? Not to be avaricious, but it sounds like money, my friends! It sounds like change in your pockets, if you'll let it fall that way!" He chuckled. "Ask your merchants, they know what I'm talking about!" As President Bellows continued walking around the platform, the mayor's breathing became short and rasping. I'm no doctor, but it sounded like the president had punctured his lung. Father Fitzpatrick would suffocate if he didn't bleed to death first. "...And as for you, Mister Mayor," Bellows said, reaching down and pulling the mayor up by the back of his collar with one hand, "I really thought you'd be a better spokesman than this." Bellows motioned toward the rampart. "You know these folks! People don't like to hear about how bad times are coming! If you want to win hearts and minds, you have to let them see the good in life!" Father Fitzpatrick's blood had soaked everything beneath him, and he was barely conscious. A string of drool dripped out of his mouth, in between his ever-weakening struggles for breath, as he meagerly tried to pull his hands up to... what? Hold his wound shut? Defend himself? I'll never know. Bellows pulled back on Father Fitzpatrick's collar, propping him up into a kneeling position on the backs of his legs. "Honestly, Mister Mayor!" As the mayor wavered, the president shook his head. "You are just so negative!" The president seized the mayor's head by the scraggly hair growing out of the back of his scalp and lifted his machete high into the air. "Oh, fuck!" I gasped. People around me let out high cries of distress. Junior was so tensed up, I could feel it in the air around him. I gripped Annabelle and Bee tightly and rattled off, "Don't look don't look don't-!" And the machete swung down. And it sliced through Father Fitzpatrick's neck. ... ... ...It wasn't a, uh... a clean cut, w-with one swing. Bellows, uh... had to pull it out. There was screaming, and... uuuuh... ... ...Ummm, so... ... ...Sorry. It... still gets to me. I didn't close my eyes. I know I should've. ...I didn't like Fitzpatrick... but... ...The next thing I remember, I'm at the bottom of the gate, inside Parkside. I don't remember how I got there, except maybe for some words hissed at me by Junior, and a hard push down the stairs. The girls are shaking. I ask them if they saw anything, and they didn't. Are they lying? I don't know. Bee looks distant, staring at something on the ground behind us that isn't there. Annabelle can't keep her eyes off me. Charlotte is just hanging off my back. Is she conscious? Is she breathing? I feel her chest move, so she's breathing. I look around and see people crying. Praying. Praying in circles as they weep. One woman is having a total meltdown. Maybe it's more than one person. I see what could only be vomit on the ground. "Miss Witch? Where'd you go?" I hear over the gate. A pause. People are looking right at me, saying nothing. "...Well, wherever you are, I'll be seeing you soon!" A laugh. Nobody in Parkside says a word to me. "...Yeh," I mutter, and absent-mindedly push the girls toward their boxy blue house. The next thing I remember, I'm standing in front of the Carson's front door. Annabelle makes herself dizzy by looking around, paranoia in her little eyes, as she reaches for the black mailbox hanging to our right. I reflect on how it looks like it's made of wood, but it's really just plastic that's been stylized and painted. It looks cheap. It looks fragile. How's it been hanging here for so long, I wonder. It should have fallen off long ago. What's it matter if Alan fixes it? I want to hyperventilate. Annabelle is pointing at the mailbox. Then Charlotte is reaching over my shoulder and pointing at it, too. Bee is just standing there crying, her wails not differentiable from all the others around me. I'm trying to keep it together. I am keeping it together. That's because I'm in shock, I think. I am going to die here. I feel a shiver as millions of years of evolution kick in. "Fight-or- flight" is a misnomer, you see -- it should actually be "Freeze-flight- or-fight," in the order of how you react to danger. I had been frozen up to assess the danger. I had assessed the shit out of that danger. Now is the time to move, I thought. "-Uh!" I gasped, snapping out of my stupor, but not quite my shock. "What...? Mailbox...?" The girls were pointing at it, for some reason. Without thinking too hard about it, I grabbed the mailbox and just held it. What do they want, I wondered. I touched its front, then its sides, then its top and bottom... ...And that's when I found it, stuck to the bottom: a tarnished brass key. I looked at it for a moment, then stuck it into the lock in the Carson's front door. It took. I twisted the handle and pushed, and the door swung open. ...Oh, holy shit, I thought, and hesitated before entering with the girls. I paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked into the kitchen, then up to the second floor. The ABCs didn't prompt me to go anywhere else; instead, they were sticking to me like flies on honey. I didn't even consider looking around any more than that. Up the stairs seemed like the best, safest way to go (instead of toward the kitchen, closer to... you know), so up the stairs we went. The outside of the house made it look bright but slightly scuffed, like a sunny day with a sandstorm blowing through at noon. The inside looked flat and gray, with small islands of smoky color, contributed by the little resident artist hanging from my back, on the walls. Carrying the girls up the stairs was an arduous task, and a little warning light appeared in my field of vision to let me know that boy- oh-boy was I carrying a lot of weight, but I took it slow and steady, and nobody complained about how long it took. The hallway on the second floor was painted a slightly browner shade of gray, and was even darker than the first floor. We turned left, and the girls' bedroom was the first door on the left. Three little beds were set up inside: two sitting with their headboards against the right wall, with the swear jar on a high shelf above and between them, and the third facing the door, with the window above it. I noticed their Parkside Skyline art project, but I didn't pay it much heed. "...Okay," I muttered, pushing Annabelle and Bee toward the beds, and pulling Charlotte's arms off my neck like a scarf. "Get in bed." "I'm not tired," Bee wretchedly uttered. "I know," I replied, without force. "Uh..." I got on one knee because I could just tell what she needed. She threw her arms around my shoulders and held me and shook. Poor kid. "It's okay," I whispered, patting her head. "It's okay." But it wasn't okay. It really, truly wasn't okay. It took several minute's worth of comforting the ABCs before they felt safe enough for me to leave them in their own bedroom. It's okay, I said. I'll be right outside, I said. I'm not going anywhere. I was able to put off my panic attack until after I shut their door. Oh shit, oh shit, what do I do, what do I do, I thought. Shit-shit- shit!! My brain was sending signals to a heart that wasn't there; my brain was racing. I bent over in an effort to catch my non-breath. It was like my first foray out of Sky Tower times 100, because this time the danger wasn't just a product of my imagination. It was very real, extremely well-armed, and within shouting distance. Blood was on the ground. Threats had been made. But I didn't know how truly bad it was until Alan came home. I heard him before I saw him. I froze when I heard the front door open, and I jumped when it shut. I nervously peeked around the corner and saw Alan's broad form, covered in shadow, trudging up the stairs. His breath, like his footfalls, was heavy, and he paused for a moment when he saw me. "...I'm sorry," I croaked, holding up his house key. "...They... I found this, and, uh..." Alan continued up the stairs, not going any faster than he had been going before. I backed into the hall. At the top of the stairs, he paused again and looked down at me. Or maybe he didn't. His gaze was distant and tired, and upon reflection, I think he was looking at nothing at all. He didn't look mad. I held up the key, and he took it without a word. "They're in their room," I said. "I just... I only put them, I shouldn't-" He suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders... ...And moved me a foot to my left. With room enough to move, Alan opened his daughters' bedroom door a crack and somehow managed to enter through that tiny space, as if he had been greased up. "Daddy!!" I heard for a split-second before the door closed again. The room beyond, as I discovered, was al