by A. C. Fuller
"Mia, you're alright." It's the voice of Avery Axum, who just took a seat on the couch across from me. "Thank goodness you're alright."
"You…I…"
"Mia, it's alright. It's over." He scooches to the edge of the couch and reaches for my hand, squeezing it gently. "It's over. All your candidates are safe. Steph is safe. But there were some casualties, it looks like."
"Who, how many?"
"I don't know for sure, but I overheard someone—an officer, I think—say 'four down.' I think that's how many are dead, there's some other number injured."
I pull away and bury my face in my hands, shutting my eyes as tight as I can. The darkness is comforting. I squeeze my eyes until my temples hurt, then relax, allowing the tiniest sliver of light to creep through my fingers.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Mia, thank the Lord." It's Dixon's voice.
I glance up as he sits next to me, the light blinding me but snapping reality back into focus.
"Thank the Lord," he repeats. He's lost his suit jacket and shirt, and wears a bloody undershirt, a complicated bandage around his right shoulder.
"You two," I say, looking from Dixon to Axum and back. "You two saved…I don't know how many. You two…I mean...you got shot."
My heart cracks at the thought of the two of them, jumping down from the stage to get their bodies between the shooter and the crowd. I don't think of myself as lacking courage, but the selflessness of their act hits me like a tidal wave of gratitude, sadness, and awe. "Thank you," is all I can manage.
Dixon pats my shoulder softly with his left hand.
Then it hits me. "Wait, why aren't you on your way to the hospital? Your shoulder—"
"I'm alright," he says. "Missed the artery, went straight through."
"But—"
"He wouldn't let them take him," Axum says. "Made them bandage him up on the spot so he could stay here."
"They tell me I'll heal just fine. I had someone looking out for me."
"You the three who were in the room?" It's the young blonde officer, standing over us and gesturing for us to stand.
"We are," Dixon says, standing and reflexively extending his right hand, before wincing and holding out his left instead. "Marlon Dixon."
Axum and I stand at the same time, but the woman is already walking away from us. "Follow me!" she calls over her shoulder.
We follow her to a small room off the lobby, maybe ten-by-ten with an old printer and a faux-wood desk. She gestures to three folding chairs and we sit, then she sits across from us and kicks her feet up on the desk like a sheriff from an old western. "Camera caught most of what happened. We're reviewing the footage now, copying it. If it was up to me we'd seize it, but legally we can't do that."
"Excuse me," Axum says. "Who are you?"
"Sorry," the woman says quickly. "Officer Suzie Hansen."
Dixon looks at her sideways. "And you're—"
"In charge," she says, sliding her ID across the table.
Axum and Dixon pass the ID between them, but I don't care to look. When they're satisfied, Officer Hansen says, "Like I said, we're reviewing the footage, but I'll need to get some info from the three of you. Later, we'll do one-on-one official statements. For now, this is still an open investigation and I need all the facts as soon as possible."
"I thought the shooter was dead," I say.
"A shooter is dead. We need to know if there was another." She makes eye contact with me, but I look at the floor.
"There wasn't," Dixon says. "One shooter. Came in from the side door next to the stage."
Officer Hansen pulls out her notebook as Dixon launches into a retelling of the entire scene in more detail than I would have been able to pull together in a week.
"That'll do for now," Hansen says. "Are you all staying at the hotel?"
"We are," I say. They're the first words I've said in the last hour other than, "Yes" and "That's right" and "I saw that, too." Together, Dixon and Axum put together most of the details, and Hansen seemed satisfied by their account.
"Good," she says. "I've got your contact information and will be in touch if I need anything else. We'll get your individual statements tomorrow morning, most likely."
"Fine," I say absentmindedly, following their lead and standing.
We wander back into the lobby, where the scene has changed. TV cameras have been allowed in, and a half dozen reporters are doing stand-ups, another three interviewing candidates. Tanner Futch is on with a reporter from Fox News. Maria Ortiz Morales is on with a host from MSNBC. Beverly Johnson, who hasn't gotten as much TV attention as the flashier candidates, is on with CNN.
My plan is to get through the lobby as fast as possible and lock myself in my room. I did my duty with the police, now I need ten minutes to myself.
But there's a hand on my arm. "Mia, can we get five minutes? We can take you live on CNN after Johnson." It's a young producer I vaguely recognize.
"I'm sorry, I can't right now."
"Mia," another voice says. "Can we get ten minutes? What did you see?"
I'm surrounded by producers from all the news networks, plus print reporters, some of whom have been writing about Ameritocracy for months, others who seem to have materialized out of thin air in the last hour, probably having raced over from the Iowa caucuses.
"Mia, were you in the room?"
"Mia?"
"How many shooters?"
"People, people," Dixon says, stepping between me and the crush of reporters and producers. "I can take all your questions."
Everyone turns their attention to Dixon and I shove my way past the scrum, glancing back once as he begins to hold court.
Back in the room, Peter is nowhere to be found. I lie on the couch to call my mom, but she's already sent three texts.
Mom: Oh my God! Are you alright?
Mom: The news says four are dead but they're not releasing names.
Mom: MIA PLEASE CALL ME.
I call her, assure her I'm fine, and promise to come through Connecticut next time I'm on the East Coast. It's odd, though. Talking with my mom usually makes me feel good, and I assumed it would this time. But the whole conversation felt foreign, like I was describing someone else's experience. I feel nothing.
Next, I scroll through the rest of my texts, skipping over dozens to get to the ones I want to read.
Steph: Saw you walking through the lobby but couldn't get to you in time. Talking with police, then I'm going on every show that will have me.
Me: Thank you. They asked me but I can't. I was in the room and…
Steph: I know. Take some time. We'll connect later.
Knowing Steph will be on TV speaking for Ameritocracy relaxes me. Memories of the shooting pass through my mind, mingled with images of the hairy arm and scent of lemony steam. The last thing I need is to feel guilty for hiding out in my room. I turn onto my stomach and take a sip from a glass of water on the coffee table. Left over from the night before, it has an odd, dusty taste. But it's cool and makes me realize how dry my mouth was. Nothing ever tasted better.
Malcolm: I'm so sorry, Mia. I heard from Steph that you're alright. I'm here for anything you need.
Me: Thank you. I'm fine, really.
I regret lying to Malcolm a second after I press Send.
Me: I'm not fine. I'm really freaked out.
Malcolm: Kinda figured.
Me: Remember when we met and you told me that thing your mom said? That anxiety is excitement without the breathing.
Malcolm: Yeah.
Me: What would she say I should do? I can't feel anything. Then I feel everything, see everything. Then I feel nothing again.
I stare at the phone for a minute, then another, watching the dot dot dot that tells me he's typing. Finally, his message arrives.
Malcolm: I never went through anything half as traumatic as you just experienced, but I think she'd say the same thing she said when I broke my arm skateboarding when I was ten. I was crying and stammering in
the back seat on the way to the hospital. She put on a Prince CD, pumped it all the way up. She said, "One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain." The Bob Marley line. At the time I thought Prince was lame, too old school, not hip-hop enough. She played "Little Red Corvette" over and over and even though I thought it was weird as hell, it worked. Now nothing makes me feel better than Prince.
Me: I'll try it. Thanks for checking in.
I'm opening YouTube to find the song when a text from Peter arrives.
Peter: Been looking for you in the lobby. Steph said you were back in the room. I'm really sorry, but I've got an emergency at work. $100 million deal on the line and it has to happen tonight. I feel terrible not seeing you but will you be alright if I bolt and meet you back in Cali tomorrow?
I sit forward on the couch, holding the phone in my hands, elbows pressed against my crossed legs. I read the text again and again, then stare at it until the letters start to lose their shape. The whole screen goes soft as my eyes fill with tears.
It's not because he's heading home without me. Actually, that gives me a short reprieve. Part of me has known I'd break up with him from the moment I stumbled out of our suite, but there's no part of me that's able to have that conversation now. So I'm relieved to have a day to reflect. Relieved not to have to decide whether to confront him immediately or hug him and pretend everything is fine.
The tears come freely now, dripping onto my forearms.
I don't think I was in love with Peter. Getting there, maybe, but I don't fall easily and we've only been together a few months. So the tears aren't heartbreak, at least not the sort that comes when the one person who makes your heart whole is ripped away. I experienced that once, with Aaron, and ever since I've been reluctant to open myself to the possibility again.
The tears are about a lot of things. They're about the shooting, the four dead people I didn't know who were in that room because of me. Because of Ameritocracy.
They're also about the chaos of the world, the randomness. Or maybe it's not randomness. Maybe it's my inability to understand the order, the patterns, the meaning of what happens. Either way, I feel like a kid wandering through a vast and chaotic world, looking for something or someone to cling to.
The tears are also about disappointment. Even though I'm not exactly heartbroken about Peter's betrayal, his hypocrisy guts me.
Tap tap tap. A knock at the door.
"Hold on a sec," I call through tears that make me sound like I've got the worst cold ever. "Who…who is it?"
"It's Avery."
"And Justine."
"Um, just a minute. I…hold on."
I read Peter's message one more time, then reply.
Me: That's fine. I'm okay. Talk to you tomorrow.
I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom, then press a cold rag on my hot, puffy cheeks. A minute later, I'm at the door, leading Avery Axum and Justine Hall into the suite. They sit next to each other on the sofa, where just yesterday all my candidates rallied in unity against attempts to manipulate the voting. That feels like a long time ago.
I sit on a chair across from them, holding myself as straight as I can. "What's up? Is everything alright down there?"
"Alright as can be expected," Hall says.
"Do I need to be on TV? I mean, what do you think?"
Hall crosses one leg over the other. "You look shaken up. Like you need some time away from the cameras."
"Oh, God. I know."
Axum looks at me with concern. "We came to see how you are. We were down in the lobby and noticed you weren't there. Steph is representing well, but it made us wonder."
"Wait," I say to Hall. "I thought you left, went back to Denver. The fire?"
"I did everything I could from the car on the way to the airport. Heard about the shooting right as we got there and told the driver to turn around. I'll head back to Denver late tonight."
"Thank you," I say. "Thanks for coming back."
"You're welcome," she says. "To be honest, it wasn't a hundred percent altruistic. I did want to be here, to see what I could do to help. But this is the biggest story in the world today, and I wanted to make sure I was here to talk about it."
Axum glances at her, slightly irritated. "If you ask me, now's not the time to bring up gun control."
"I was asked about it, Avery. And for people like you, there's never a time to talk about it."
"I'm not crazy about guns," Axum says. "But the Second Amendment is the Second Amendment. Also, I think there's a way to be civilized about things. A decorum."
Hall looks directly at Axum. "Four bodies are cooling downstairs. Decorum can go to hell."
We all go quiet. Their eyes remain softly engaged, but neither speaks.
It's hard for me to accept that I don't need to do anything. "So why aren't you two down there on camera?"
"Dixon," they say in unison.
"What?"
"Flip on the TV," Hall says.
Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, I turn on CNN, then flip through MSNBC and land on Fox News. All three networks are airing live footage of Dixon, who's still in the spot where I left him in the lobby. He's surrounded by reporters, some shoving phones and microphones into his face, others just listening with rapt attention. He's still in his bloodstained undershirt, his muscular arm framed by the stark white bandage on his shoulder and his arm in a makeshift sling. Taking question after question, he talks through the details of the shooting, precisely and humbly.
The shooting is a reminder of the everyday violence that exists in the world, he says. The shooter's motive is a reminder of the violence women so often face at the hands of men. And Axum's courage is a sign that God even works through men and women who do not believe.
Every time Dixon is asked about gun control, he pivots. Every time he's asked about the other candidates, he pivots. But he doesn't pivot to talking points. When he gets a small-minded question, he pivots seamlessly to a broader theme, a unifying message of peace and idealism made stronger because it's coming from a man with a visible bullet wound.
For the first time, I think Marlon Dixon is going to win Ameritocracy.
Part 3
18
I wake up and blink twice, wondering where I am. The smell of vanilla reminds me of Steph's apartment back in Seattle. My head throbs as I realize I'm on her couch in Santa Clarissa.
I zombie-walk into her tiny kitchen and blow out the sickly-sweet candles burning on the counter, then pour myself a glass of water, chug it, then pour another.
Through the kitchen window I stare at the parking lot five stories below. The morning is gray and drizzly, typical in Seattle but not here. A half-full pot steams in the coffee maker, so I pour myself a cup and head back to the couch. The muffled sound of Steph's singing resounds from the shower, and I sip my coffee as I ponder the last day and a half.
The day after the shooting, I did a two-hour interview with the Des Moines Police Department, followed by a one-hour interview with the FBI, who swooped in to grab jurisdiction. I told my story as best I could, and reliving it twice was unexpectedly cathartic. I didn't have much to add to their knowledge of events, given that they had a video recording of the shooting. And since the shooter had admitted to a motive, and was now dead, there would be little investigation and no trial.
I spent the rest of the day doing quick interviews on TV, repeating the story of Axum and Dixon's heroism to every station in America. I also spoke with print reporters and a handful of bloggers, and did a Facebook Live video on our Ameritocracy page. Steph and I wrote an official statement, thanking the men and women of the Des Moines Police Department and the FBI, praising Axum and Dixon, and vowing to continue with the competition.
But our statement, and even my interviews, got little attention. Turns out the young camerawoman who stayed behind was from KCCI, the CBS affiliate out of Des Moines. The video didn't air live, but in the last thirty-six hours, every person in America watched it a dozen
times. The news networks are too busy replaying it to pay much attention to anything else.
Steph and I flew back to California last night, put "Little Red Corvette" on repeat, and drank a bottle and a half of of wine. Each.
It felt good to unwind, to let go, but I'll pay for it today.
"How you feeling?" Steph asks, stepping out of the bathroom in a green robe that reminds me of the pantsuits she wears almost every day.
"Head hurts."
"Have you checked the leaderboard?"
I give her a look.
"I know you want to." She tosses me my phone.
I open up the homepage. "It's Dixon."
"No surprise there. Never mind the heroism, did you see all that footage of him with no shirt on? If I were him, I wouldn't wear a shirt from now 'til election day."
I giggle. Steph's sense of humor is what I need this morning.
She sits next to me on the couch. "Where's Mast?"
"Still holding at two. Axum climbed to three."
"Surprised he didn't leapfrog Mast. For a military guy, dude was out of that room at lightning speed."
"Yeah but there isn't video of it. Plus, c'mon, people don't expect someone to take down a live shooter."
"I guess not, but they certainly reward the people who do. Who's at four?"
That's the biggest surprise. "Justine Hall."
"Are you serious?" Steph grabs the phone out of my hand. "Man, she jumped Morales, Futch, and Mason."
"I wondered whether her abrupt exit could help her, but I didn't think it would help this much."
Steph takes a second, then smiles as though she's solved a puzzle. "It totally matches her brand. She's a pragmatist, an executive of a major U.S. city. More interested in action than talk. And she proved it."
"You don't think…" I feel weird even thinking it, but the last few months have taught me paranoia.
"What?" Steph asks.
"The fire?"
"Mia, c'mon. That's cynical as hell. Even for you."
"I know, I know. So she didn't fake the fire, but she sure knew how to take advantage of it. She got the benefit of walking out on the debate, then the benefit of showing back up for the cameras."
