by David Lucin
Occam’s razor. The solution with the fewest number of assumptions was usually the correct one, and Liam’s assumed a lot less than Jenn’s. The scientist in her knew that he was right and demanded that she find hard, incontrovertible proof that implicated Grierson and CFF, but the friend in her—Val’s friend—had decided that he was responsible for her death and that he needed to pay. Nobody could convince her otherwise anymore.
“So what do we do about this speech of his?” She tossed the flier onto the table, happy to be rid of it. “You aren’t letting it happen, are you?”
Liam rubbed a bloodshot eye. “Nope, we’re not.”
“What?” she asked reflexively. She had expected him to explain that the protest must go on whether he liked it or not, then cite freedom of speech or his fear of stoking dissent. “For real?”
“For real. From the mouth of the mayor herself. More than, say, a hundred people becomes a serious threat to public safety, and that’s not even an official line I’m towing—it’s the honest-to-God truth. Mikey and Bryce live on opposite sides of town, so if they both got one, I assume pretty much everyone in between got one, too, which means thousands could show up. We can’t control anywhere close to that many. It doesn’t matter who’s supporting who or protesting what. One spark and we could have a riot on our hands.” Liam took the crumpled flier from the table and crushed it into a tight ball. “I’ll be pulling in every available body. Anyone shows up for the protest, we politely send them back home.”
“Same with us,” Dylan said, done speaking to whoever had radioed him a moment ago. “I’ll move as many as I can down here from the farm.”
“Gary’s not going to like this,” Jenn grumbled.
Liam laughed at that. “As soon as I saw this flier, I stopped by his place. He said to me, ‘Liam, we’ve got to put our foot down before this gets out of hand.’ By seven o’clock, the mayor signed off on the plan.”
Jenn was surprised that Gary and Andrews had agreed on an issue for once, but Liam made a strong argument; the potential for violence was too high, and if the protest turned into a riot, there would be no stopping it. Funny, she thought, how Gary was, really, still a civilian, but already he was acting like a leader. The police looked to him for guidance, and in a way, he was influencing policy in Flagstaff.
“What happens when Grierson shows up?” Jenn asked.
“Same as anyone else,” Liam said. “We ask him to leave and say that it’s in the best interest of Flagstaff’s safety that this protest does not happen. He can’t object to that. Keeping town safe is part of his shtick, so he’s a hypocrite if he objects.”
“I think he’s a hypocrite anyway.” At the back of the room, a stack of cardboard boxes caught her eye. She didn’t remember seeing them there yesterday. The top one was open, and poking out was a full-face respirator like Sheriff Jordan Wilson had worn when he stopped the Nissan outside Prescott. Next to the boxes, three plastic shields leaned against the wall. “Um,” she uttered with a point. “What’s all that?”
Liam followed her finger. “That’s the worst-case scenario.”
“Riot gear?” she asked. “Really? I’m surprised you guys even have any of that stuff.”
“State government sent us a bunch after that big food riot in Mesa last year. It’s been collecting dust at the station, but we brought it over. But like I said, worst-case scenario.”
Jenn rubbed her forearm. She couldn’t fathom the prospect of riots happening here; this was Flagstaff, not the city. As far as she knew, the police didn’t even use this gear on that first day after the bombs, when the Go Market was looted. Events wouldn’t escalate that much today, would they?
“Jansen,” Dylan interjected. “You mind running upstairs to Charlie’s place and asking her to come down? I wanna see if she can take the Nissan and swing by all the guards’ houses to let them know the new plan.”
“Apparently Sophie’s got her and Sam driving down to the treatment plant to pick up a bunch of water for the dorms. I literally just saw him on the way in here, and they’re headed there now.”
He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “She didn’t mention anything about that to me. This would be a lot easier if I could text people.”
“Tell me about it,” Liam agreed.
On the table, a radio went off. “Bryce for Dylan.”
“At least we have radios,” Dylan muttered, then said to Bryce, “Go ahead.”
“Yeah, boss, just calling in to say we’ve got our first group of protesters on their way over now. It’s only a few of ’em, but apparently they’re getting started early.”
Dylan and Liam exchanged glances before Liam slapped his thighs and rose from his seat like a man resigned to spending the next twenty hours awake and at work. Not once did he complain, and Jenn admired that.
“Copy,” Dylan said. “I’ll be out with Jansen in a sec. We’re sending them home.”
A second of silence passed. “Uh, you mind saying that again? Not sure I heard you right.”
Dylan snapped his fingers and pointed at a table with a few ARs and some spare magazines. “Jansen, grab a rifle.” And then, into the radio, “Change of plans today, Bryce. These protests are over.”
* * *
“Sorry, folks,” Bryce said diplomatically. “This afternoon’s event has been canceled. We’re gonna have to ask you to head home.”
The trio of would-be protesters grumbled but didn’t argue. A total of six groups had shown up so far. Nineteen people. Most had simply turned around when asked, though a red-faced man insisted on calling Jenn and Bryce “rent-a-cops” before finally leaving. These three Bryce was speaking to, she assumed, based on the sign that read FLAGSTAFF IS HOME FOR ALL, had come to oppose Grierson and CFF. She hated having to turn them away, but her orders were crystal clear: nobody was permitted to gather on campus today. There was no discrimination in that regard, but the decision to stop these protests would no doubt become one of Grierson’s new talking points. The police are trying to silence us! he’d probably say. She wished Gary wasn’t waiting to announce his intention to run for mayor. Maybe having another alternative to Andrews could defuse some of the tension in town.
Jenn and Bryce had been out here for hours without a break. Liam had assigned them to the south end of the dorms, where they took up a position on Knoles Drive outside Gabaldon Hall, which housed no refugees or former students and was now empty. In pairs, a dozen other guards and fifteen police were posted at other roads into the dorm complex. Together, they formed a solid perimeter and should be able to stop people coming in from any direction. If someone slipped through, Dylan, Liam, and a few others were ready and waiting at McKay Village.
As the trio slunk off, Bryce hoisted himself onto the stone sign marking Gabaldon Hall. Jenn wanted to sit, too—her heel stung with the beginnings of a blister—but one of them should remain standing. So she shifted her weight to her good foot and said, “You really think many will show up? It’s almost four already. Grierson’s supposed to speak in an hour. I would’ve thought there’d been a lot more.”
“The flier said five,” Bryce reminded her. “You know how people are. Get there a few minutes beforehand.”
“Maybe.” Jenn clung to the idea that this protest would be a flop. That would mean CFF had no real support beyond a few die-hards and radicals.
She tapped the stock of her AR. Most of the guards carried rifles today. As did the bulk of the police. It was mostly for optics. They had no plans to shoot anyone, of course, and if there were any signs of trouble, protocol was to immediately call for backup.
“You didn’t tell me what the other two stages of grief are yet,” she said. “Just the first ones. Denial, anger, and bargaining, I think.”
“Yup. That’s it.” He yawned. The twelve-hour days were beginning to take their toll on him as well. “Next is depression, then acceptance.”
“Depression? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s the worst part.
Usually. But it all depends on the person. If you get there, you’ll know it.”
Jenn didn’t think she was depressed. Not yet, anyway. If she had to put a name to what she was feeling, it would be frustration. Frustration that she hadn’t done more for Val. Frustration that, deep down, she knew Grierson was responsible but had no way to prove it. And frustration that nobody seemed to believe her when she told them. She considered asking Bryce where frustration fit into the mix, but his radio went off.
“Dylan for all Beaumont guards. Need you guys at the corner of Knoles and University, stat. I say again: all Beaumont guards to the corner of Knoles and University, northwest of McKay Village, on the double.”
Jenn’s pulse kicked up a notch. Had a group slipped through and found a way into the dorms? Or had Grierson shown up early and was now causing a scene?
Bryce hopped off the sign. “What do you think that’s all about?”
“I don’t know,” Jenn said, anxiety squeezing her lungs. “Let’s get up there.”
They jogged north on Knoles, toward University. There, police officers and some Beaumont guards were unloading wooden barricades from a pickup truck and setting them up on the intersection. Already the barrier stretched most of the way between a brick two-story dorm and a taller four-story building across the street. Nearby, Liam spoke to an older officer with a gray beard. Chief Morrison, maybe, or Gary’s friend Lieutenant Bill McLeod.
“Jansen, Bryce!” Dylan called out from beside a covered bus stop.
“What’s going on, boss?” Bryce asked him. “We got trouble?”
“Word just came in,” Dylan said as two police officers ran past. Both had respirators dangling from their belts and carried riot shields. “Cops on patrol reported a large crowd marching down Milton from downtown.”
“Large crowd?” Jenn prodded. “How many?”
“Estimates put it at a few hundred.”
“A few hundred?” she blurted. “How did nobody see this coming?”
Another cop, wearing a bullet-proof vest, ran past and joined a line of officers forming behind the barricade. “Because everybody’s here,” Dylan said. A radio chirped. He had two on his belt: one tuned to the Beaumont channel, the other to the police channel. “Pretty easy for that many to gather under our noses when nobody’s watching ninety-five percent of the town and there’s no cell phones anymore.”
“How long do we have?” Bryce asked.
“Thirty minutes. Maybe a bit more. Looks like they’re going past the Go Market before they come here, probably to try drumming up some more marchers from the lineup.”
“Do we know whose side they’re on?” Jenn knew the answer to that, but she naively hoped Dylan would say they were supporters of the refugees, not of CFF.
Dylan’s frown confirmed her fears.
“So what’s the plan, then?”
He pointed to the barricade. “They’ll be coming over from the west, and we’ll stop them here. Cops are manning the front line. We’re setting up about a block east.” He gestured toward McKay Village, where Yannick was helping Maggy place more wooden barricades along a crosswalk. “The assumption is that some refugees are going to come out to oppose this protest. Hell, I sure would, if I was one of them. So our job is to keep them back. Nothing good will happen if the two sides meet.”
Jenn had a million questions: How are we supposed to convince hundreds of people to go home? What if the protestors become violent? Do the police have nonlethal ammunition, like rubber bullets? Among others. Before she could ask any of them, Bryce cut in with, “All right. Jansen, let’s see if Yannick needs a hand.”
Together, with the other Beaumont guards, she helped unload heavy wooden barricades from the pickup truck. By the time they were finished, twenty-five or thirty refugees had begun milling around on the other side. A few asked what was going on. Others apparently already knew. Several carried signs. One read GO HOME? WE ARE HOME. Another had a crude drawing of an American flag with a smattering of stars and eight stripes. Jenn wasn’t sure what statement it was supposed to be making.
“T-minus ten!” Dylan called out. “They just passed the Go Market!”
Belly swirling, Jenn dabbed sweat from her brow and took stock of her surroundings. Ten cops manned the western roadblock. All had tall riot shields and wore respirators. About a hundred feet behind them was a second line of only eight more with shotguns, rifles, and pistols. Two squad cars, parked nose to nose, anchored the position. Jenn and the Beaumonts guarded the eastern roadblock. She wished they had riot gear as well, but the bigger threat, she knew, would come from the protesters, not the refugees, whom she and the police were here to defend and help.
She heard the marchers before she saw them. From the west, down University, came the faint sound of chanting. It grew louder with each passing second and brought out more refugees from their buildings. Their number had ballooned to fifty or more. Jenn searched the faces for Allison but didn’t see her. Her friend was smart enough to stay inside, but was Ryan? Whereas Allison was timid and did her best to avoid confrontation, Ryan sought it out—or so Allison had told her. If he tried to come out here, could Allison stop him?
“Hey,” Bryce said and nudged her with his elbow. “It’ll be all right. Stick by me and you’ll be safe.”
Another joke. That meant he was nervous. She was, too, so she answered with a joke of her own. “I’m not worried. If this all goes sideways, I’ll hide behind you.”
“Saving lives. My specialty. I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here.”
“Fireman-style?”
“They don’t call us heroes for nothing, Jansen.”
“Heroes? That’s a little overblown, isn’t it? I thought all you guys did was rescue cats from trees.”
“That doesn’t happen as often as you’d think, believe it or not.”
She was happy to have Bryce here with her, and the banter helped distract her from what could become a very dangerous situation, yet she missed Val. If there was ever a time that Jenn needed her, it was now. She imagined them standing side by side like they did at the Go Market when that couple was mouthing off at Allison. When Jenn was with Val, she felt unstoppable.
A minute later, the chants became clear: “Our home, our food. Our home, our food.” Then several of the refugees lifted their arms and pointed westward. Jenn glanced over her shoulder. Filling the width of the road was a sea of hundreds that stretched around the bend in University. Signs, many of them attached to wooden handles, bobbed up and down as the crowd marched forward, undeterred by the police roadblock.
“Please return to your homes!” came Liam’s amplified voice. He stood atop one of the two squad cars, a megaphone to his mouth. “In the interest of public safety, we ask that you disperse!”
Pleading with these people was pointless; they wouldn’t listen and surely knew that they weren’t supposed to be here. The Beaumonts and police had been sending away demonstrators all morning, and news that this planned gathering was canceled had without a doubt spread around town. Jenn wondered if putting a stop to the protests had possibly backfired. As Gary had mentioned, CFF’s supporters might feel like the cops were prioritizing the refugees’ interests before their own. That thought made her realize that the protesters weren’t simply opposing the settlement of newcomers; they were airing their frustration with the status quo and the powers that be in Flagstaff.
She glanced at the mob again. It had reached the intersection and was nearly at the roadblock. Would the marchers push forward? If they tried, would the police be able to stop them?
“Oh, crap,” Bryce cursed, then added, “Jansen, turn around. Don’t look at—”
A sign caught her eye. It was more expertly crafted than any she had seen yet today: white poster board stapled to a wooden handle. The letters were blocky and carefully written with paint, not marker, and the text was clear, even from this far away.
REMEMBER VALERIA FLORES.
13
W
hite-hot anger filled Jenn’s throat. Hoping she’d misread the words or imagined them, she blinked hard, then again. The sign was still there. Then she saw a second one: REMEMBER VALERIA FLORES. Then a third. And a fourth. They were everywhere. Where had they come from? Why were there so many? News had quickly spread about Val dying in the attack at the Go Market, but before today, none of the demonstrators had so much as mentioned her name. Why all of a sudden?
She swallowed, tasting blood. In her rage, she’d bitten the inside of her cheek so hard the skin broke.
Grierson. He must have made these signs and given them to the protesters. There was no other explanation. First, he orchestrated the attack that killed Val, and now he was appropriating her name to further his cause. She had become his false martyr and rallying cry. Not only had he taken her life, but he was also soiling her memory. Val hated CFF. Never would she have supported Grierson or what he stood for. Attaching her to his movement was the worst possible betrayal.
Dizziness washed over her as she tunneled in on Val’s name. It was all she could see anymore. She wanted to burn these signs and stomp out the embers. If she could, she’d vaporize them into their component atoms, but even that wouldn’t be enough; the person behind them had to be punished—he had to pay.
Jenn clutched her rifle tight, hoping Grierson was among the crowd bearing down on the roadblock. If he was and rose above the marchers to speak, giving her a clear shot, would she be able to resist taking it?
“Jansen,” Bryce said. His voice was raised, but even so, she could hardly hear him over the shouting of the refugees and the chanting of the protesters. “Jansen!”
Her legs had become jelly. “They have no right,” she muttered to him, still not able to tear her gaze away from those signs.
“I know.” Lightly, he put a hand to her cheek and turned her head so it was facing his. “But you’ve gotta stay with me, okay? Try not to worry about them. They don’t matter. This is real close to getting out of control, so you need to focus.”
