by Gary Sapp
here Are Our Children (A Serial Novel ) Episode 1 of 9
By Gary Sapp
Copyright 2014 Gary Sapp
Table of Contents
Prologue
Louis
Serena
Thomas
Angel
Seth
Chris
Xavier
Angel
Chris
Dedication
Nest Egg Publishing Presents Gary Sapp
Where to find this author online
Prologue: The Dying Man
The Dying Man told fellow inmate Xavier Prince and his other three assailants, he knew who murdered the first black president.
More importantly he knew how, the real reason, not the one that the one that had been manufactured for the entire world to see.
He told them that Serena Tennyson and her Pandora associates had hoped that Adolphus Sweet’s demise would accelerate the dissolution between the two most influential races in this country forever.
He’d told them while South Georgia’s early afternoon March sunlight glistened through the prison bars of Calhoun State Prison behind all of the inmates into the otherwise cold corridor.
He’d told them through gasp of stolen breaths from his broken ribs and blood gushing through his mouth and nose, thanks in no small part to Xavier’s muscle that had accompanied him.
He spat out a mouthful of bruised blood. And then he told them that a further escalation of this dissolution was coming.
And soon.
Yet, the dying man was no fool. He had no loyalty to Serena or her cause, so he’d spill his beans about the when and the where…for a price.
Xavier Prince slid his toothpick with his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other, stole a quick glance at the cracked face of the clock striking 12:30 on the molded wall…tic…tock…tic…tock, and shook his head once then again, no deal.
Xavier Prince:
He was an undersized black man in his early 40’s whose reputation and presence, The Dying Man thought, almost seemed to cast the shadow of a much larger man behind him. He was the tone of charred charcoal; he wore his hair cropped short and his sideburns thick around his ears. He had a drunkards eyes and nicotine stains on his teeth. His reputation had preceded him that he was as a man of few words, even now, though when he had choose to speak his voice resonated smooth, silky, like a sweet ballad. Every one of his movements seemed measured or calculated, and he pimped more than he walked.
He said, “Once, someone very dear to me said that beams of sunlight radiating throughout small pockets of space like in this room were like the eyes of God piercing through. And that the guilty shied away from this light for fear of His judgment raining upon them.”
So when Michael Davenport, The Dying Man failed to accept Xavier’s offer of life in exchange for his information, the leader of A House in Chains ordered the other man silenced forever.
The largest of his executioners, with biceps the size of barbells unsheathed a machete and got on with the business of dislodging The Dying Man’s sorry head from the remainder of his body.
Fear of his end coming…or perhaps something as simple as sheer curiosity caused The Dying man to use the final seconds of his life to watch Xavier Prince instead of the machete’s edge swinging to greet him.
Tic.
Once, someone very dear to Xavier said that beams of sunlight radiating throughout small pockets of space like in this room were like the eyes of God piercing through. And that the guilty shy away from this light for fear of His judgment raining on them.
Tock.
At the instant that the machete’s blade severed Davenport’s curiosity—and his head—he watched Xavier Prince step backwards into the light and let God’s judgment rain upon him.
Louis
The car bomb performed impressively.
The initial blast shattered glass, scattered debris and launched crimson and mustard colored shrapnel in a maddening rush that illuminated Atlanta’s late evening skyline with what remained of the Andrew Young Youth Center.
The flames licked rows upon rows of shotgun houses and invited those structures to join this fiery party.
It was a bomb that had taken on a life all its own and knew exactly where and when to strike.
It was a bomb that seemed to know too much.
Just like Serena had told him that it would.
Louis Keaton:
He was a pocket sized man nearing 60 years old. He had those deep blue eyes that eerily never seemed lose their focus or intensity and refused to blink. He wore his hair, long since gray and thin, combed backwards against his skull. He was dressed tonight in his typical battle gear: A denim jacket, flannel shirt and faded jeans and ankle length cowboy boots.
He’d ducked for relative safety underneath the brim of a shed 200 or so feet from the bomb’s epicenter. He’d spied the locale during one of his many reconnaissance ventures down here over the past month. Serena had assured the old man that the more he was familiar with his surroundings—and his escape route—the more he increased his odds of surviving this night.
Yet, his preordained location had provided something else unexpected as well.
He watched in part fascination…in part horror, as three bystanders—two men and one woman—were killed by the youth center’s falling debris. He could hear the sirens of first responder units blaring from miles away, but drawing closer with each measured breath he took. Though they won’t arrive in time to save these poor bastards, he thought. And of course, per protocols, a police helicopter or two would sure to take flight soon. I mustn’t be here when they arrive. I can’t let them see me. I can’t. Louis had been instructed by Serena to walk with a steady stride, and then accelerate his pace…and finally run when he was sure he was far beyond seeing eyes, though as to not draw attention to his presence.
“Oh My God,” Louis heard a voice cry out into the night. “Can anyone save the children inside?”
What children is she talking about? Louis asked himself. But then he’d sworn on Elvis’ life and death that he’d heard another female stranger approaching from a side street begging for someone…anyone to save her two nephews who were playing a game of pickup basketball inside the gym.
Now dozens of people were frantically racing towards the inferno babbling about a young loved one who was probably trapped inside as well.
Unconsciously, Louis Keaton took a half dozen steps towards the blaze when a young black man wearing black tee shirt, khakis, and sneakers crushed him underneath his weight with a devastating tackle.
He is a Peacekeeper. You’re screwed. You should have left this place when you had the chance.
Louis had been warned by Serena to avoid these young men and women, the military right hand of A House in Chains at all cost. The younger man, dressed in a black hoody, khakis’ and sneakers swore at Louis and screamed at him to stay out of the damned way and let the trained professionals do their jobs. His type shouldn’t be down here anyway.
And what type is that, my young friend? He thought. I was shedding tears for men like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr on the day of his murder, years before your parents were born.
The memory didn’t serve him well. Now, all he could do was remember that fateful afternoon, when Louis was just a scrawny teenager, back home in Memphis, Tennessee. And he remembered how the colored kids, who had previously claimed to be his friends, punched and kicked and spit on him while he walked home from school after the principal had delivered the devastating news over the intercom system before the day’s final bell rang.
Now, tonight, he desperately wanted to save these children, but he didn’t want to be punched, kicked, or spit on by these People of Color. That was the term that Blacks used to identify themselves in today’s world.
Louis pushed himself to his feet, felt for the detonation mechanism that should have still been in his jacket pocket. He moved away from the young Peacekeeper who had attacked him and made his way up half a block, before he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.
Groups upon groups of hysterical family members, worried onlookers, and otherwise concerned citizens had huddled together, locked fingers with one another and held each other for strength. They began chanting something unfathomable for him to understand at his great distance. The chanting soon quieted into crying and the tears led to expressions of grief and finally the grief grew into anguish.
In that moment Louis Keaton remembered asking Serena, after one of their meditation sessions weeks ago, why she hated People of Color so.
I never said that I hated them, Louis. She had looked taken aback. But I will not allow A House in Chains to
