A large and very thin smart TV hangs on a painted grey wall of a small, open-concept single-bedroom apartment. On the screen is a news program. The lower third headline reads “A Most Violent Year.”
The sound is muted as a white male host talks swiftly with pent-up rage. Veins bulge in his neck, and spit launches from his mouth as he spews what one could assume are vile words. that he spews out through vile words. Cell phone-recorded images of protests in Washington, D.C., and riots in New York, Tulsa, Charlotte, Houston, and Cincinnati appear onscreen. A graphic reading “800 Mass shootings” pops up over news footage of ambulances and police officers at schools, offices, and places of worship. News footage of FBI agents raiding a secure compound loaded with weapons.
Rachal is an athletic late-twenties something woman with brown hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. She ignores the images on the TV as she walks past it, holding an iPhone to her ear.
“Uh! I wish.”
She glides by an open window. A light breeze brushes through the maple leaves, illuminated by the orange glow of the sodium haloid lights of the apartment complex’s courtyard and the city street.
“I know. I know. Work has been crazy. I really do want to get away.”
She stops at the kitchen counter, grabs two tall wine glasses from the cabinet, and sets them near an already-opened bottle of wine. She gives herself a healthy poor.
“I would love that. I’ve always wanted to backpack there.”
She picks up the glass with her free hand and takes a sip as she leans against the countertop.
“Not really. Brian is coming over.” She smirks at whatever is being said by the other person on the phone.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe.”
She takes another sip and sets the glass down. Silently the news program continues—photos of men heavily armed and stashes of weapons.
“Shut up!”
Four knocks emit from her apartment’s entrance door. She walks towards it.
“That’s him. Yeah. I’ll call you later.”
She sets her phone on a nearby coffee table—two more knocks. Her hand turns the knob as she swings the door open—on the other side is Brian, tall and cleanly dressed.
Rachal’s eyes scrunch as she smiles.
“Happy belated Birthday!”
They embrace.
“Thanks. I feel old.”
“Uh! You’re not old.”
The two release each other from their respective grasps. Brian holds up a bottle of wine as he enters the room, and Rachal closes the door.
“I did not come empty-handed.”
“You didn’t need to bring anything.”
“I know.”
Brian nervously twirls the bottle in his hand as he walks in. He leans against the kitchen counter and sets the bottle next to the open one. His eyes find Rachal’s. She moves closer to him. Her left hand finds its way up his right arm.
“How’ve you be….”
Rachal assertively pulls him close to her and kisses him passionately. Brian’s momentary hesitancy turns into eagerness. His arms and hands engage with the small of her back, pulling her tight to him. She unlocks her lips from his.
Brian laughs, “This is not how I thought our night would start.”
Rachal peels away from him, picks up her glass of wine, and takes a drink. She walks toward the sofa and smiles.
“I wanted to know what it was like.” She plops down and places her feet up on the coffee table with a sly smirk. Brian grabs the extra wine glass from the counter and pours what's left of the opened bottle.
He prods, “And?”
She looks back at him with a mischievous look as she raises her eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders.
“Oh, come on!”
Brian slides over towards her.
Outside - the sharp, piercing echo of a distant gunshot rings through the valley and off the buildings. Several more follow suit after the first.
Rachal’s smile disappears, “What was that?”
Brian sips his wine and walks over to the open window. He gazes into the calm night of the urban neighborhood—hills like a protective wall surrounding it.
“Fireworks?”
Unconvinced, Rachal comes up alongside him. Her hands press against the bottom of the window frame as she leans her head out into the cool night air—a succession of distant bursts of small arms fire and a bright flash. A beat later, the roaring sound wave of an explosion rattles the neighborhood. Rachal and Brian jump back from the window.
Rachal, anxious, “What…was that!?”
Brian slowly peers out the window again. The lights of distant neighborhoods blink out, succumbing to complete darkness. This darkness cascades closer and closer to them.
“We’re going to lose power.”
“Wait, why?”
“I don’t know.”
The lights and the TV in the apartment kick-off. It is now a black void.
“Brian?!”
“I’m right here.”
“Did the explosion do that?”
“Maybe.”
They find each other in the darkness. The pace of their breathing increases from the sudden change in their environment. A blue glow emits from the cell phone Brian pulls out from his pocket. He turns on the flashlight and aims the beam across the floor.
“Where’s yours?
“It’s…It’s on the coffee table.”
He shines the light in that direction. Rachal’s cellphone case refracts the beams of light. She picks it up and turns the flashlight on as well.
Brian, “Where’s your fuse box?”
“Down the hallway right before the bathroom.”
Brian follows his flashlight beam as he heads in that direction.
“You think it will do anything?”
“Probably not, but if it was just a surge, maybe I can get it back on.” He disappears down the hallway.
Rachal shines her light around the apartment—It looks so different. The clicks of fusebox switches being flipped echo down her hallway.
“I’m going to talk to the front desk and see if they know anything.”
“Alright!”
She opens the front door and walks out into the apartment complex. The waning glow of emergency light fixtures illuminates the hallway just enough, so you don’t trip over your feet.
Rachal’s phone rings. She answers.
“Mom! Yeah, power is out here too.”
She walks past an open apartment door with a neighbor standing in it. The flashlight on her phone, still on, blinds them.
Neighbor, “Can you turn that off?”
“Sorry. Just hang on, Mom.”
She turns the flashlight off and continues her walk toward the stairwell.
“Brian is checking that out now. I’m walking down to the front desk.”
She pushes through the door to the stairs and walks down the three flights. As she enters the lobby, she is overwhelmed by the number of residents at the front desk.
“Mom, hang on a second.”
Rachal tilts the phone away from her ear and listens to the commotion. The front desk guard tries to keep everyone calm.
Guard, “You’ll know something when we know.”
Man, “I need to do laundry.”
Guard, “Well, you can’t.”
Man, “I got work tomorrow.”
Woman, “This is insane. When my lease is up, I’m outta here.”
The woman turns toward her. “Can you believe this?”
She shrugs, “I think the whole city is out.”
Woman, “Still.”
Rachal brings her phone back to her ear.
“Mom? No, they don’t know anything.”
She looks toward the front doors. Emergency vehicle lights flash through the front entrance of the complex, then disappear. She walks toward it.
“I’m going to see what’s going on outside. Yes, it's safe. No, Mom…how long have I been here?” She waits for her mom’s reply. “Right, has anything happened?”
Rachal nervously laughs at her Mom’s reply as she pushes herself out of the front doors. She isn’t the only apartment dweller gazing into the unreal madness of an utterly dark city. Sirens of emergency vehicles fill the eerily silent night. Their flashing lights and the head beams of individual vehicles are the only lights to be seen as they zoom up and down the streets and highways.
One hundred fifty yards up the street is a parked cop car in the middle of an intersection. Two officers are silhouetted by the flashing emergency lights and idle cars of curious drivers trying to find answers.
“Mom, I’ll call you back. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m going to ask this cop if he knows what's happening. Yes, love you too.”
Rachal walks toward them and the gathering of anxious citizens. The flickering emergency lights create dancing staccato shadows of the lamposts and soft swaying branches of the trees in the adjacent park. The effect grows stronger as she gets closer to the source.
Bystander, “When will the power be back?!”
Cop, “We don’t know.”
The group murmurs in disapproval. Rachal settles just away from the group listening.
The cop raises his hand, “Listen. LISTEN! Everyone just get to your homes and hang tight.”
Bystander, “Fuck you.”
The cop looks at his partner, raising his arms and eyebrows indifferently. The group begins to disperse. Rachal, seeing an opening, moves closer to the officers.
Rachal, “Excuse me do you know…”
A gunshot. Then another. Rachal hits the pavement a few feet behind the cop cars. A body collapses to the ground—someone is bleeding. People scatter.
Cop, “Get Down!”
The officers draw their guns and take up positions behind their vehicle.
“Did you see where that came from!?
“No.”
The jarring chatter of machine gun fire erupts from the darkness. The punching plinks and pops of piercing bullets impregnate the cars and road. The cops fire blindly back at the unknown assailants. Rachal presses every fiber of her being into the asphalt.
Through her arms covering her head, she looks at her building. The cops duck behind their car and reload their pistols. One of them looks at her.
“Hey!”
She is hyperventilating. Can she run for it?
“Hey!”
Another wave of rapid-fire mayhem streaks through the air. Bullets make new homes in the surroundings.
“Hey!”
She turns to the officer.
“Get out of here!”
The cop stands back up, firing aimlessly in the general direction of the gunfire.
She looks back at her apartment building. Get up!
Her body doesn’t move.
A faint and flickering orange glow mixes with the flashing red and blue of the emergency lights. Hot shell cases litter the ground around her.
The cop reloads again, “You need to get out of here!”
She breathes in through her nose and out of her mouth. She closes her eyes and breathes in and out.
“What the fuck is th..”
She hears a body slump onto the ground. Her eyes open. Five feet in front of her, one of the officers bleeds out. A bullet carved a new hole through his neck. He looks at her with pleading eyes.
“Billy?!”
The other officer drops to the dying cop's side. He pulls his radio close to his mouth, “Officer down on Federal and North Ave. Officer down.”
He grabs Billy’s hand. The gunfire is relentless. Panic has set in the streets. The orange flickering has grown more vibrant. Rachal looks up past the cop car—-barreling down toward them is a garbage truck set ablaze. I need to run.
Tears in her eyes, she can’t slow her breathing. Run.
She pushes herself up and runs for it. The clatter of machine guns rattles inside her skull. Her feet dig harder into the ground as she sprints. The adrenaline numbs the effort.
One hundred feet until the door.
The garbage truck barrels through the police car, sending the surviving officer running for his life.
Fifty feet.
She runs into someone. Both of them crash into the ground. She pushes herself to her feet and gives no apology.
Ten feet.
Her lungs scream for air as she pushes through the door and into the lobby.
In the darkness, she crashes into Brian.
Somehow staying on his feet, Brian wraps his arms around her.
“You alright?”
Tears streaming down her face. Brian can feel her shake as her shallow breaths struggle to hold back her tears. He looks her over, making sure she isn’t shot.
“We don’t have time.”
She pushes him away and runs for the stairs. Brian follows.
“Where are we going to go?”
Out of breath, Brian re-enters the apartment to find Rachal, the phone in her mouth, using it as a flashlight. She pulls backpacking gear from the closet and flings open cabinets filled with non-perishable food. She grabs and packs ferociously—-trekking poles, food bars, first aid kit, etc.
Brian moves closer to her. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Where are we going?”
Emergency sirens grow louder as they mix with the concussive fire of machine guns.
“My moms. I think.”
Rachal fills a Nalgene bottle with water from the faucet. “She lives outside the city, and I think we can get there safely.”
“Should we drive?”
“I don’t think we should.”
Rachal throws her backpack on the ground. “I have an extra.”
She pushes past him. “Call your family.”
“You think this is happening in Baltimore?!”
Rachal disappears around the hallway, “I don’t know.”
Brian dials his Mom’s number and brings the phone to his ear. Immediately, he hears, If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.
He dials again with the same results. There are no bars in the top right corner of his phone.
“Phones are dead!” He yells back to Rachal.
He turns towards the open window - the flickering of flames forming art-like abstract impressions on the frame. It’s oddly quiet now, not silent, but the lack of gunshots and screaming is noticeable. He moves toward the window. The engulfed dump truck continues to burn, the smell of it burning his nostrils with a sharp and dissatisfying scent. The body of the cops lay lifeless, accompanied only by abandoned vehicles and blinking traffic signals.
There is a chorus of emergency sirens echoing throughout the small city. He’s never felt or seen anything like it.
Beyond the burning truck, dark, silhouetted shapes move down the main street through the buildings. The park in front of their second-floor apartment is the only buffer between them. The roaring flames reveal the contours of heavily armed and armored individuals moving in a militaristic fashion. A truck with a giant flood light strapped to the back brings up the group's rear.
“See something?”
The floodlight glides across the apartment window, illuminating Rachel and Brian for a split second.
“An army.”
Brian turns to see her backpack loaded and strapped to her back. She’s ready. He walks over and picks up the other pack on the kitchen floor.
“I threw some food in there. You should be good.”
He throws the backpack onto his shoulders and tightens the straps to fit.
He looks at Rachal, his face uncertain, “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know.”
He can see the fear in her eyes. She can see the fear in his. She turns towards the door. Her hand grasps the door handle.
Rachal turns the handle of her apartment door. A booming voice emitting from a megaphone stops her. She looks back out the window.
“Attention. You now exist in the free territory of Allegheny. We ask all residents to cooperate by exiting their buildings peacefully. Hand over all weapons and cell phones; no harm will come to you.”
Brian and Rachal look at each other tentatively. They both have similar thoughts - WTF!?
Again, the voice beams from the megaphone, “You have ten minutes to exit your domiciles. Any attempts…”
A rebellious and angry voice interrupts, “Suck one!” Followed by several bursts of a rifle. The metallic clinks of bullets pelt the vehicles and surrounding pavement outside.
A response of semi-automatic gunfire and a percussive explosion shakes the ground.
Rachal throws open the door and darts out into the hallway. Brian follows. It is quiet. Silently they make their way toward a stairwell dimly illuminated by an exit sign's green glow.
Rachal rests her ear against the exit door and listens. Nothing. Gently she pushes it open. The stairwell is empty. So far, so good.
They move tenuously down the first flight of steps. Their pace quickens as their heart rates increase. One level down, two more to go.
Muted voices and the faint sound of fists pounding against doors float from the hallways. They keep moving—one more flight to go.
Rounding the last corner, they see their exit. Brian moves forward to push through the door. Rachal puts her hand on his chest and stops him.
“We run towards the park. One hundred yards to the left of this building. We use the shadows of the trees and shrubs and head to the river.”
Brian nods his head, “Sounds good.”
“Do you hear anything?”
He leans his head against the door and listens carefully. He shakes his head.
“Alright.”
Brian pushes his weight into the door. It doesn’t budge. He throws more force behind it. The door grinds against the concrete outside. Semi-automatic gunshot fire erupts. Bullets ricochet off the door.
“Shit!”
He falls back onto the ground and scrambles towards the steps. The door stuck partially ajar.
Rachal yells, “Up! Up!!”
Brain grabs the hand railing and pulls himself up. The adrenaline kicks in as they bolt up the staircase. The screech of metal cascades up the stairwell as the hands of heavily armed men pry the door open.
Man, “Stop!”
Rachal and Brian’s feet pound against the hard cement of the stairwell—pushing against the weight of their bags and the screams of their lungs.
Brian collapses to the ground—a death grip on the railing. He gasps for air as beads of sweat drip down his face. With her hands on her knees, Rachal takes deep breaths through her mouth.
“Come on!”
The sound of heavy footfalls encroach. Brian looks up at Rachal. He can’t catch his breath.
Brian strains, “Something’s wrong.”
Rachal pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight. A look of fear overcomes her.
“You’re bleeding.”
Brian’s hand immediately goes down to his stomach. The warm slickness of blood–a lot of blood, covers his hand.
“Oh, God.” His voice is quiet.
Heavy breaths and heavier boots echo up the flights of stairs. Their pursuers are close. Rachal picks up Brian underneath his armpit and guides him to the nearest doorway. She pushes through the door and drags him down the dark hallway.
“Help!”
Residents are panicking. Frantic beams of flashlights and cellphones dance off the ground and walls. People push indifferently by Rachal and Brian.
“Help!”
Rachal can feel Brian’s reliance on her to stay upright grow. Her legs cramp from the extra weight.
“Stay with me, Brian.”
They turn left at a corner. The same dark green apartment doors adorn this hallway as the previous one. The assailants burst through the stairwell door. Immediately they exert their power on the unfortunate residents in the hallway.
“Get down!”
“Hands on your head.”
Some obey their commands and become hostages—others are shot.
Rachal spies a supply closet. She drags Brian and sets him on the ground next to the door. She throws off her backpack. Her hand grabs the handle. It’s locked.
“Shit.”
Rachal looks around the corner—chaotic light beams reflecting on the walls like a laser show. Doors smash open while human bodies collide and mix with terrorized screams. She looks at Brian. He isn’t moving.
“Brian!”
She crouches down, grabs him by the shoulders, and shakes.
“Brian!”
She shines her light on him. His face is pale and stiff. His eyes are closed, and his chest doesn’t move. Frantically she tries to cover up the wound and apply pressure.
“BRIAN!”
Her eyes squint to hold back tears. Tiny streams glisten on her cheeks.
Angry fists bang against doors. Threatening voices demand compliance. The light beams edge closer to the corner of the hallway to her left. Rachal snaps out of her grief. She looks at Brian’s stiff corpse.
She closes his eyes and wipes tears from her face—smearing blood across her cheeks and nose. She grabs her backpack and stands.
Rachal looks at him one last time. She sighs through another wave of tears.
“I’m sorry.”
She turns from him and inches her way toward the last corner—sticking her head around its edge, she peers down the hallway. No sign of movement, and at the very end is another exit.
She takes a step forward—an anxious knot forms in her chest and gut. A gunshot sends percussive shockwaves from the parallel hallway. Rachal pushes herself up against a wall. After a moment of silence, the assailants' assault continues, moving closer. Her pace quickens as she tiptoes her way down the dark hallway. An apartment door whips open next to her. She jumps back in fear as a family of four runs for it. A man’s shoulder drills her in the chest, throwing her into another apartment door. She crumples to the ground.
The man gives her a quick look and rushes to catch up with his family. She gasps, trying to catch her breath. Crawling onto all fours, she watches the fleeing family as they burst through the exit door.
“HEY. STOP RIGHT THERE!”
Blinding beams of powerful flashlights highlight the look of panic on their faces. Their hands shoot into the air as they collapse to their knees.
Rachal struggles to take a deep breath. She leans her head against the cold concrete of the hallway floor. She catches an open apartment door from the corner of her eye. They didn’t close it on their way out.
She army crawls toward it. In the stairwell, the assailants force the family to the ground, tying their hands behind their backs and placing hoods over their heads. She pushes through the apartment door and slams it shut. Her hands feel for the deadbolt. Finding the metal knob, she flips it locked. She collapses back onto her backpack. The trekking poles scraping the wall on the way down.
Rachal takes a deep breath in and lets a long one out. Her breathing returns to normal. Dark shadow contours of furniture and walls come into focus as her eyes adjust to the unfamiliar space. The heavy sound of boots march down the hallway—hands pounding on random doors. She jolts up.
Her hands out in front, she feels her way through the apartment. Rounding into a living space, Rachal spots a sliding glass door with a balcony. The emergency lights and flames give the outside world enough glow to discern it.
She slides open the door and drops her backpack onto the balcony. Looking over the railing, she scans the fenced-in parking lot—no one here.
Rachal throws open the top zipper on her pack and pulls out a climbing rope and carabiners. Frantically, she ties a knot and looks out across the dark city. Gunfire and sirens roar in the distance. The parking lot remains empty.
She pulls the rope taut and tosses it over the railing. Too dark to see if it reached the ground or not.
She throws the backpack over her shoulders and slips a harness through her legs and hips. Her hand locks the carabiner onto the rope. She grabs hold of the railing and swings one leg over the ledge. Her right foot hanging in the air while the other remains on the balcony.
She takes a deep breath and looks up at the night sky. Stars, usually hidden by light pollution, pierce through the thin veil of clouds. The apartment door rattles from aggressive pounding. Shit
She throws her other leg over the ledge and rests both feet on the bottom rail. Please work.
Her hands let go of the rail. The rope catches her. Rachal smiles. Slowly, she belays herself down one story at a time, using her feet to lightly push off each balcony as she passes each one. She stops at the second floor. Twisting her head around, she peers below—the rope's tail end flicks against the first-floor balcony's top rail.
“Shit.”
Moving down to the rope's end, she dangles 15 feet off the ground. Locking in her carabiner, she leans back and hangs in exhaustion—gravity tugs at her backpack.
A piercing beam of light illuminates her. Startled, she looks up at its source. It comes from the flashlight of an assailant who stands on the balcony she started from.
He chuckles, “Looks like you’re stuck.”
The beam moves around her and the balcony.
“Radio down. I think she’s near the second floor.”
She grabs the rope and pulls. Her arms lack the strength to pull herself up. She hears radio chatter coming up from above her. The conversation details lost in the space between her and them.
Rachal pushes her feet off the balcony. As she swings back toward it, she puts her arms out in front of her and grabs hold of the bars of the railing. She pulls up. Her hands ache as they turn white—their grip slips. The rope stops her fall. The backpack straps and harnesses dig sharply into her skin from the weight.
She dangles helplessly.
Suddenly, the rope loses tension, and she drops a foot closer to the ground. Rachal’s hands grab the rope. There is a slight vibration reverberating through the nylon cord into her hands. It feels like someone is…
She’s weightless. The balcony slips away into darkness. The blinding beam of the flashlight illuminating her rapid fall towards the pavement. The backpack smacks the ground first. Rachal bounces off her bag, causing her to roll onto her chest after the impact.
“Fuu–!”
Her lungs collapse. She clutches herself and gasps for air. Everything hurts, and the cold pavement brings no relief. She loses consciousness.
The laughter of the assailant floats down from the upper floors. Voices shout in the distance—the rumble of a truck encroaches.
Rachal wakes up. She can breathe again, but waves of pain ripple across her body. Crawling toward her backpack, she pushes the bag over and tugs at the trekking poles. Freeing them, she rolls onto her back and extends them to the proper length. One is so severely bent it won’t budge. She chucks it. One will have to do.
Digging into her backpack, she grabs breakfast bars and a knife, shoving them into her pocket. Beyond the parking lot fence, in the distance, she can see a squad of heavily armed men silhouetted by a pickup truck's headlights.
“Aaaah!”
She pushes herself up and puts as much weight as possible on the trekking pole. The metal tip digs into the pavement as she hobbles 50 feet to the chainlink exit door.
The pain is excruciating. She nearly collapses. The assailant on the balcony fires his semi-auto weapon at the hobbling Rachal. Bullets ricochet off the pavement around her. She slams into the chainlink door, pushes the lock up, and stumbles onto the other side.
The door slams and rattles behind her as bullets clink through the fence. On the ground, she looks behind her. The truck and assailants are gaining ground but are on the fence's far side. I’ve got to keep moving.
With adrenaline’s help, she pushes herself up and grabs the lone trekking pole. She hobbles for the safety of darkness and parked cars—staying behind them.
The river is 1,000 yards away. She cuts through a walking park of a commercial plaza, hoping to avoid trouble. The city is a foreign maze with the absence of artificial light. She hears the quiet breaths and shuffling of people attempting to hide or flee.
Turning a corner, she hobbles underneath an underpass of a railroad track. On the other side is a principal city street leading directly to a bridge and the river. Trucks with spotlights drive through on one of the cross streets. Armed figures move from building to building, gathering stragglers, and clearing buildings.
She rests against the wall of the overpass. Sore and beaten, she lets out a sigh of disappointment.
Rachal puts her head against the damp concrete of the wall and looks up. A drop, leaking through the underpass ceiling, hits her face. An idea flashes across her mind—the railroad tracks. She remembers the path she took right around here with some friends during college, created by the curious and homeless. Her friends and her would get high, walk on the tracks and enjoy the warm summer nights. Once, they even walked to the bridge and hung their feet over the river.
A slight smile comes across her face as she pushes herself off the wall and turns around. Leaning on the pole, she wills herself out of the overpass and into a strong and armored body of a man.
“Got you.” The assailant whispers into her ear—his firm grip on her arm and pulling her close to him
She struggles in his grasp. Her right-hand reaches for her pocket.
“You and everyone else in this place will have to adjust to a new way of living.”
He turns around and pushes her in front of him. The end of his gun drives into her back.
“Move.”
Her hand finds the knife in her pocket. She grabs the hilt. The assailant shoves her forward with the barrel of the gun. She stumbles onto the ground. He walks over, grabs her by the left arm, and pulls her up.
Rachal screams, “Aaaaaaahhh,” as she drives the blade into the man’s neck. She can’t see the shock in his eyes as the assailant realizes his fate. She pulls the knife from his neck, blood surging from the wound.
She collapses to the ground as he grasps his throat. The assailant's breaths slow until she can no longer tell if he is breathing. Rachal’s hand feels the ground for her trekking pull. She finds it and pushes herself up. Searching the man’s body, she takes his weapon and a headlamp. She wipes the knife off her pants and heads for the path.
To her surprise, it was easier to find than she thought. The path started behind an outhouse at a small parking lot resting against the raised structure of the railroad tracks.
She pushes her way up through the overgrown shrubs and vines until she reaches the tracks. Turning in the direction of the river, she walks towards the bridge.
Rachal stands at the edge of the bridge in the center of the river. To her left are the tall and silent buildings of downtown, illuminated by the roving parties of this “new army” searching for new citizens to subject. To her left is her home and neighborhood-–fires raging, spotlights searching, and gun fights sporadically filling the night air.
She stares at the dark void below her. The river is there, somewhere. Deep enough to survive the jump but invisible to her outside of its smell and the light splashing of water against the bridge's support columns.
She pulls off her boots, ties them around her shoulder, and tosses the trekking pole. There is no way out but down.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out.
“Fuck it.”
Rachal jumps. Her feet crash into the cold water. Her nose fills with it, and her ears hurt. As her velocity slows, she swims back up to the surface and takes a deep breath. She floats between bridges and past the dark city.
The birds sing as the morning sun crests over the surrounding hills. Rachal pulls herself up a muddy river bank—crawling through the mud and brush. I’m going to have ticks all over me.
She hasn’t heard gunfire or sirens in over an hour. Whether that is a product of being out of the city or something else, she doesn’t know. Coming to an open area, she puts on her water-logged boots and pushes herself up.
She hikes through the oak and sugar maple forest until she stumbles upon a familiar road. It is quiet and early, so she walks home.
The curated landscaping and the familiar old flaky white siding of her childhood home bring comfort. She doesn’t hear the dogs, but the Rooster calls at the chicken coop behind the house. The calling turns to the screeches of frightened birds trying to escape danger.
Gunshots erupt from behind the house—the screeching stops. Rachal rushes around the back.
A middle age woman collects dead chickens in the pen.
Rachal raises the semi-auto machine gun and aims it at the woman.
“Hey.”
The woman, wearing a backpack and outdoor clothing, looks at her and stands up. She raises her hands as she scans Rachal, looking at her soaked clothes.
She responds, “Hey.”
Rachal, “What are you doing?”
The woman slowly walks out of the pen. She doesn’t take her eyes off Rachal—a handgun on her right hip in a holster.
“Same as you.”
“This is my house.”
The woman raises an eyebrow at this. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
The woman takes a step closer to Rachal.
“Stop it.” Rachal steps toward her with the gun aimed at the woman’s chest.
“Who was the woman I met in the house?”
Rachal’s eyes glance over at the house—a deep look of fear emerging from her face.
The woman continues to study Rachal and the gun. She sees the tears forming in Rachal’s eyes.
“Your mom?”
Rachal loses her composure. “What did you do with her?”
The woman shrugs her shoulders. “What I had to.”
The waterworks come. Rachal tries to hold them back but can’t. The exhaustion and terror of the past evening catch up with the terrible reality she has now found herself in.
The woman goes for the handgun in her holder—her right-hand clasps its textured handle. She begins to pull it out.
Rachal shakes away the tears and re-raises her weapon. She pulls the trigger. The woman freezes. Nothing. No flash of a muzzle, kick of the gun, or piercing sound of semi-automatic fire. Rachal forgot about the gun’s safety.
Terror forms on her face. Realizing her opportunity, the woman raises her gun and squeezes the trigger.
The semi-automatic rifle drops from Rachal’s hands and clatters onto the dirt. She crumples to the ground. Her almond-shaped brown eyes stare at a mostly blue sky. The leaves of the old oak tree flutter in the wind. The cardinals and blue jays chirp. Fluffy white clouds turn to familiar shapes in her mind—Brian laughing, her family’s dogs running around the house, and her mother’s smiling face.
“Hi, mom.”
I thought it would be more painful. She closes her eyes to discover a dreamless rest. A warm darkness wrapping her in silence. mother’s smiling face.
“Hi, mom.”
I thought it would be more painful. She closes her eyes to discover a dreamless rest. A warm darkness wrapping her in silence.