Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

  I use the restroom off the living room, then walk into the bedroom where steam from the shower fills the room with the scent of Peter's favorite body wash—Luscious Lemon, I think it's called. I step to the door, planning to turn on the overhead fan, which Peter always forgets to use.

  I stop suddenly.

  Two pairs of pants lie on the bathroom floor. The first is a pair of slacks from the black suit Peter wears almost every day. The other pair is larger. Men's jeans. Why would Peter…

  I hear a soft moan as a hairy white forearm appears from behind the shower curtain. It's not Peter's arm. I study the hand braced against the wall just outside the curtain. It's pale and meaty, with a tattoo on the ring finger of the Eye of Providence, the all-seeing eye from the dollar bill.

  I don't know who Peter is in there with, but there's no doubt about what they're doing.

  I stagger backwards out of the bathroom, then stuff every feeling I have into a tight wad in the center of my chest and run from the suite.

  At this moment, tears are not an option.

  In the lobby, I fall onto a couch and stare into space, stunned and angry. At the same time, part of me feels relieved, like I found a piece of a puzzle I'd been missing for weeks. I consider going back to the suite, barging in and throwing a fit, but I don't have time for that, and it doesn't feel right. I need time to process this on my own.

  I do my best to banish the images of the hairy arm and the creepy tattooed finger to the back of my mind, and return to the meeting hall. When I slip in through the side door, Gwen is asking the next question. While I was gone, I missed answers from Mast, Dixon, and Morales. "Mr. Futch," Gwen says, "How would you ensure the rights of women and minorities in America, were you to become president?"

  As I lean against the wall, the image of Peter sneaks from the back of my mind to the front, crowding out Futch's words. I can't hear him, I can't hear anything. Futch's face is a red, sweaty orb, shaking and pulsating.

  Pressing my feet into the frayed carpet, I try to get my bearings. I'm in shock, but I have to find a way through this. I take a deep breath, trying to focus on Futch. His usual bombast ought to be a distraction, at least. "Americans have been brainwashed by the media, so this won't be popular, but women and men aren't supposed to be equal. If God wanted us to be equal He would have made us the same. Instead, He gave women the gift of cooking and cleaning. He gave men the physical strength and mental stamina to hunt and fish."

  A smattering of boos rise from the crowd, plus a loud hoot from a lone Futch supporter who draws glares from a dozen people around him. Gwen shushes them.

  "So-called 'equality,'" Futch continues, "is how they justify taking away individual American freedoms. In my White House, I'll leave theorizing about equality up to commies like Charlie Blass. Meanwhile, America will be kicking butt again!"

  This draws mild applause, quickly drowned out by more boos.

  Cecilia Mason is next, and she sets her sights on Futch right away. "Cooking?" she asks incredulously. "I pay four private chefs, and they're all men."

  Some laughs and hollers come from the crowd, but not as many as Mason expected. She waits for more applause. Countering Futch is a good strategy, but admitting to having four private chefs, not so much. "Men like Tanner Futch do a disservice to conservative values, to values that, until recently, were considered liberal democratic values. He gives credence to those on the left, like Ms. Morales and Mr. Dixon, who believe the right is greedy and xenophobic and contradictory. Personally, I don't think his vicious rhetoric should be allowed on public airwaves. I'm ashamed my grandkids might be watching this.

  "Men like Futch are why conservatives get painted with a broad brush. The sheer volume of a man like Futch makes people believe that anyone who favors free markets, small government, voter-ID laws, or individual rights over group rights, must be greedy, regressive, and racist."

  "Please answer the question," Gwen interjects.

  But Mason is on a roll. "Men like Futch allow those on the far left to say conservatives can't possibly have deeply held, principled beliefs because men like Tanner Futch have no true beliefs. He's a bad actor, espousing the slogans likely to enrage a mob and boost his ratings."

  "Ms. Mason, please," Gwen says. "Stick to the question."

  This is the most passionate I've seen Cecilia Mason, and I'm more convinced than ever that she's going all-in to win this competition.

  "But it's not your fault," she continues, ignoring Gwen. "It's in the media's interest to hold up men like Tanner Futch as the voice of conservatives, and do you know why? Because conflict sells. Period. Conflict. Sells. The media makes more money by showing Tanner Futch arguing with Antifa rioters than it does by showing a moderate, reasonable debate. And the media is made up mostly of publicly traded corporations legally bound to operate in the best interest of their shareholders. To make money. Not to inform."

  "Time's up, Ms. Mason."

  "As to how I would ensure the equality of women and minorities, I'll say that it can't happen the way Mr. Blass believes, through government redistribution of wealth. It can't happen..."

  I'm distracted by a man entering the meeting hall from a door to the right of the stage. At first I think he must work at the Cornhusker because guests aren't supposed to use the doors near the stage.

  "Ms. Mason, we'll cut your mic."

  "Please, let me just finish. I—"

  "Okay, ten seconds."

  The man has unkempt blond hair and dirty jeans. He looks angry, confused, and something tells me he doesn't belong here.

  "A rising tide lifts all boats," Mason says, "which is why I will kickstart the American economy through sensible deregulation and a renewed emphasis on wholesome American values. I—"

  "Time's up," Gwen says, loudly enough to bring my attention back to the stage. "Skipping over Ms. Hall's vacant podium, we have Ms. Johnson."

  Crack.

  It's a sharp, echoless noise, and for a second I think the microphone's blown out. Then it repeats.

  Crack crack crack.

  Gunshots. Those are gunshots.

  16

  A scream from the audience tells me where to look. A woman in the front row topples out of her chair, blood shooting from her neck. The man walks from the right of the stage toward the front row, holding a rifle and firing shot after shot, seemingly at random.

  As shots fill the hall, the crowd pushes toward the door. Three more shots and a scream. A woman's scream. Then a shout from a man I can't see. "Get out!" The panic is palpable, and spreading.

  I'm frozen in place on the other side of the hall, watching as the shooter stops near the right side of the stage, facing the crowd. Two more shots.

  The crowd surges for the back doors. Hundreds all at once, falling over chairs, pulling each other off the floor, some screaming but others in stunned, frantic silence.

  Three more shots, and I drop to the ground.

  People rush past me, some stepping on me as they pass. A woman stops and pulls me up from behind, shoving me toward the door. "Move!"

  Turning back toward the stage as the crowd surges forward, something tells me I have to stay with my candidates. I fight against the throng pushing me toward the exit as three cracks fill the hall. Finally I make it to the stage and duck behind a podium. I reach into my purse and dial 9-1-1 without taking out my phone. Next I do a quick count. My nine candidates are still there, huddled behind podiums.

  Crack!

  An older woman in the crowd collapses.

  "Go, go, go!" I yell toward the three candidates closest to me. Robert Mast, Marlon Dixon, and Maria Ortiz Morales.

  Crack crack.

  More shots, one after the other, then a lull. The shooter turns his rifle sideways and does something to it.

  "Now," someone yells, "he's reloading!"

  Mast and Morales run past me, off the stage and toward the creaky side door, followed by my remaining candidates, all but Dixon and Axum, who huddle together behind a podi
um.

  More shots, different-sounding. The shooter has dropped the rifle, but is firing a pistol he must have been carrying somewhere. Another body drops, this time a black woman in a bright orange hat.

  Glancing toward the press row in the front, I see that all but one of the reporters have disappeared. One young woman stands behind a large TV camera as though nothing has changed, adjusting her position to follow the shooter.

  Crack. Crack.

  A swarm of people reach the back doors. "They're stuck!" someone shouts.

  "Locked!" someone else says. "We're locked in."

  Another scream. "You're crushing us!"

  The mob sways toward the back doors, pressing people into them.

  Leaping up, I shout. "Go for the side door! You're crushing people. Side! Door!"

  The crowd shifts course slowly, moving from the back of the hall to the side in a giant wave. The problem is, the shooter is still drifting slowly toward the back. He's reloaded, and now most of the crowd is moving toward him.

  Crack.

  An elderly Asian man goes down.

  Crack.

  A young girl in a white dress falls away from her mother, who had been holding her hand.

  Suddenly, Marlon Dixon jumps down from the stage, stepping between the shooter and the hundreds of people still pushing from the back of the hall toward the side door.

  The shooter pauses, as though startled to see someone deliberately approach him. Dixon holds his hands out wide, trying to fill as much space as possible between the shooter and the crowd.

  As the shooter falters, Axum jumps down also, putting out his hands out, palms up. "Hey! Hey you! Excuse me! What's your name?"

  Dixon, I realize, is praying. "Lord, give me the strength to face my enemy with love. Please don't let any more of your children die here today."

  The shooter fires again. Dixon staggers, but keeps his feet. Behind him, a steady stream of people escape through the side door.

  "What's your name?" Axum repeats, and the shooter seems to notice him now.

  "James," he says, almost sulkily. Then, as though embarrassed for being curt, "James Brockenfield."

  "Please stop shooting," Axum says, his voice desperate but somehow warm. "Please. I'm asking you, James. I know it feels like there's no alternative—"

  The shooter starts to raise his pistol toward Axum, but Dixon speaks, his large preacher's voice demanding attention. "You have a choice, James. Even now, even here, you have a choice."

  "Shut up!" The shooter jerks the gun in Dixon's direction.

  "That's not necessary," Axum says. "Please. He's trying to help. We're both trying to help. My name is Avery Axum. You're James. Brockenfield, right? Am I pronouncing that correctly?"

  "I…that…yeah." The shooter's voice wavers, his eyes shifting back and forth between the two men facing him.

  "Why did you come here today?" Axum asks. "Are you angry about politics? If you are, you have every right to be."

  "Politics? Couldn't care less about that crap."

  "Then why did you come here today?"

  Brockenfield looks around the room, now almost empty except for those he's already shot. "I thought...Brenda was going to be here, Facebook said. My girlfr...my ex. She likes that one lady...more money for education, the government needs to budget just like a household, try my Dutch Baby recipe, all that BS."

  "I think you mean Beverly Johnson," Axum says.

  "Whatever."

  "You sound like you're hurting pretty bad," Dixon says. For the first time, I notice the hole in the right shoulder of his midnight-blue suit. A red flower blooms across his shirtfront, one inch at a time.

  Axum angles his body to get between Dixon and Brockenfield. "So you came here because you thought your ex-girlfriend would be here?" Axum asks calmly.

  It appears the shooter isn't a political terrorist, which gives me a glimmer of hope he's not going to kill Dixon and Axum. It also occurs to me that the shooting won't reflect as badly on Ameritocracy if Brockenfield's motive was personal, not political. As soon as I think it, I'm mortified. Dead bodies are scattered around the hall and I can't help but think of the PR fallout. What the hell have I become?

  "I've got nothing left to live for," Brockenfield says. "Nothing. Everything is so…"

  "Tell us," Axum implores.

  "I'm not getting out of here alive, I know that. Nobody gets out alive. I don't even want to. I want to kill her, but, I didn't even see her here, I..."

  "What?" Axum asks. "It's just us three here. What is it?"

  "It's never going to stop. I'm going to wake up alone every day forever and be nothing." His face is ashen and hollow. Shame has replaced rage, the young man's sneer replaced by barely quivering lips.

  "You aren't nothing." Dixon says. "No one is."

  "I understand how it can feel that way, though." Axum's voice is soft, gentle. "I've felt that way. The day that my wife died. Can I tell you about that? James?"

  Brockenfield doesn't speak. Just nods, slowly. The last few audience members slip out the side door as Axum speaks.

  "What I need you to do," Axum says, "is lower the gun. Just a little so it's not pointing at us. I lecture in front of a couple hundred critical twenty-year-olds every day but none of them make me as nervous as a loaded gun."

  Brockenfield lowers the gun, and I breathe for the first time in I don't know how long. I read someplace that Axum is a widower, but I've never given much thought to what losing his wife must have been like.

  "When my wife was injured, I wasn't with her. She was in the kitchen and they think she must have slipped. Hit her head on the counter, and...well...by the time I got home she'd been bleeding into her brain for hours." Axum drops eye contact with Brockenfield and looks at the floor. "Four days in a coma. She never woke up."

  Brockenfield's pistol drifts further toward the floor before he speaks. "Brenda left me while I was at work."

  Axum looks up again. "And it hit you out of the blue. We have that in common, James."

  Brockenfield nods slowly. The gun slides all the way down to his side now.

  "My wife's name was Marilyn. I felt like nothing when she was gone, James, like you feel now. Coming home every day to an empty house, for no reason at all. Just the pointless, ugly unfairness of it. For the first time in my life I got depressed, and I felt like, well, how did you put it a few minutes ago?"

  "It's just never going to stop."

  "Exactly. But here's what I learned: it does stop. The pain fades. It changes you, but it doesn't end you. You come out the other side if you keep going."

  Brockenfield shakes his head, the gun still down at his side. "There's nothing. There's nothing."

  "There's love." Marlon Dixon reaches out his left hand and touches Brockenfield's arm gently. "Always, even now. Listen to me, James. I promise you, James. You're my brother, and I love you."

  Brockenfield flinches and steps back, raising the gun slightly. Axum steps smoothly between them, shifting Brockenfield's attention. "Marlon here is a man of great faith. I'm not. But he jumped down from the stage to stand between a crowd and your gun. He had a clear path to the door and instead of running he said, 'Lord, give me the strength to face my enemy with love,' and he jumped between your anger and a crowd of strangers. You shot him, but you didn't kill him. You shot him and he told you he loves you. That's how I know he's right. You are not nothing, James. No one is."

  Brockenfield steps back, spinning in place like he doesn't know where to go. "Aw, Christ, aw fuck, I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry, I…aw, Jesus." The pistol still held loosely in his right hand, he raises his left like he's clutching at the air. I look from Axum to Dixon, wondering what they'll do next.

  A quiet pop from the back of the hall. Brockenfield stumbles forward, then collapses to the floor behind a row of chairs, out of my line of vision.

  Axum and Dixon drop to the ground.

  I glance toward the back door as a man in a black SWAT uniform lowers his rif
le.

  17

  A hotel security guard presses his hand into my lower back, leading me out of the hall and into the lobby. Local police have turned it into a command center. As many as a dozen men and women in uniforms hover around me, some talking into radios, others interviewing witnesses or talking with hotel staff.

  The security guard gestures to a sofa, and I sit. "Officer Hansen asked me to gather anyone who was in the room. She'll be here shortly. I think she's—" He looks around the lobby, then points at a young blonde woman, no more than thirty. "Wait for her here."

  "What about Axum and Dixon?"

  He stares blankly.

  "The other two men in the room? Older white guy and a younger, muscular black guy who'd been shot. Is someone getting them?"

  "Someone's, um, I think someone's getting them. I'll check. Just wait here, okay?"

  "I saw the shooter go down. Do you know if he's—"

  "Dead. He's dead." The security guard walks across the lobby to the blonde officer, then points at me. She sees me, but doesn't make a move to come over. Instead, she barks orders at other officers and talks to hotel staff. She appears to be in charge.

  Still in a daze, I stare out the window, where a pair of officers string police tape, encircling the parking lot. I glance from person to person. Everyone seems to be doing something, to know what to do.

  Not me. I watch people come and go, searching for a candidate or someone I recognize. But I don't see anyone. Maybe they're being interviewed in other rooms. Maybe they're…I don't know. I can't feel anything. This must be shock. Everything is numb and ghostly, like I'm observing from another world, a world without emotion. The whole scene is a blur of colors, movement without any meaning.

  I remember what happened—I know there was a shooting—but it's as though it has no significance. Then a nagging feeling strikes me. I'm vaguely aware that something is wrong, something other than the shooting. The smell of Luscious Lemon body wash. Steam creeping into the bedroom. I double over, sick to my stomach.