The Battle Within

by Kody Boye

  Dusty doesn’t respond. I can’t even tell if he’s heard me or not. Regardless, I know I can’t focus on that, at least not now.

  No.

  I have only one goal at present: to trick, and then help capture, the First Lady of the Glittering City.

  With that thought in mind, I continue to make my way forward.

  I’m not sure how long we’re meant to walk in this dark and forsaken place. The tunnel appears to extend forever, and with it, my anxieties about what will happen. I think, What if something happens? What if something goes wrong?

  But I don’t have long to dwell on it.

  Soon, we are nearing a utility ladder—and with it, a stairwell that I believe will lead us out of the subway system.

  “Is that—” I start to say.

  “Our way out?” Dusty asks. “Yes. It is.”

  A sigh escapes me, more of dread than actual relief, but Dusty doesn’t appear to take notice. Rather, he turns to regard our group of ten and says, “All right, everyone. Listen up!”

  The crowd comes to a halt.

  Dusty lifts his eyes and says, “Once we enter this stairwell, it’s imperative that you make sure you do exactly as I say. Failure to do so may result in one or many of us being seen, and if that happens, well… I don’t know what will happen. Am I clear?”

  “Yes sir!” the crowd says.

  “Good.” He clears his throat and continues with, “Once we emerge from the stairwell, there will be a simple wrought-iron door which exits into an alleyway, at the end of which will be a large white van. It is necessary that you exit one after another, then run to the van. The first person will open the door, the next will file in after them. Kelendra will be the third to enter. I will be the last person to leave. Understood?”

  Every person in the crowd nods.

  “All right then. Let’s go.”

  Dusty is the first to climb up the utility ladder, then I thereafter.

  Come time I begin to climb the stairwell, I feel a sense of panic settle in.

  Remain calm. Everything will work out just fine.

  But will it? I wonder. Or will something disastrous happen?

  I can’t know for certain. All I know is that, with each step I take, a drumbeat of unease beats in my chest, creating a staccato in my brain.

  Thoughts bombard me without pause—

  Of what might happen, of what will happen, of what could happen.

  I inhale a deep breath, then watch as the man in front of me comes to a halt at the wrought-iron door.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I offer a short nod.

  “In three… two… one…”

  The door opens.

  The man bursts out.

  His steps reverberate along the concrete alleyway as he bounds toward a white van that lies at the far edge of it.

  A woman emerges next, and she slaps my shoulder, as if to alert me to what is supposed to happen.

  Then I run.

  My flat-toed shoes slap against the asphalt beneath me as between the two businesses I run. Smelling of rainwater, and littered with debris, I am quick to wonder whether or not the sediment that is sticking to my shoes is that of ash, and if so, if it is the remains of girls whose futures have been inexplicably cut off. The thought causes my heart to rush, my mind to race.

  But I have no time to think of it.

  Within moments I see the first man open the van, then the second woman pile in.

  Come time I run forward and then am hauled inside, I am breathless and sick with worry.

  “Are they—” I start.

  A fourth, then a fifth and a sixth person pile in.

  I hear the sound of the heavy metal door shutting, then look up just in time to see Dusty bounding out last.

  The whole process takes less than several minutes, but it is a several minutes that are spent in complete agony, in existential dread.

  When Dusty finally throws himself into the van, two men haul the door shut. Essa Dorsey then slaps the back of the cabin and the van goes rolling off.

  “Piece of cake,” the woman says, turning her head to look at me, a wild determination in her eyes and a wicked smile on her lips.

  I offer a brief smile of my own, but it is quickly replaced with a frown.

  The reality is beginning to settle in.

  In less than thirty minutes, we will be arriving in the Ceres Farmlands, and coming to a halt beneath the First Lady’s mansion.

  I swallow the ever-growing lump in my throat.

  The only thing I can think is: am I ready?

  Nine

  The trek to the Ceres Farmlands is wrought with tension and filled with unease. Though around me there are nearly a dozen armed individuals, there is nothing they can do to protect me.

  No.

  Physically, they may have guns; and mentally, they may have the capacity to carry out the plan. But emotionally? There is no way they can save me from my doubts, my worries, my complete and utter paranoia.

  What if I screw up?

  What if something goes wrong?

  What if a SAD recognizes me?

  Sees through my lies?

  Asks how I survived?

  What if she shoots me in the—

  I shake my head.

  Beside me, Ashton considers a small, computerized device that is attached to his wrist, and continues to tap it repeatedly. I want to ask what he’s doing, if only to disarm myself from my thoughts, but know that it will serve no purpose. I won’t know what he’s doing. I won’t understand it. So why ask?

  I lift my eyes just in time to see the beginnings of the Cross Family Farm appear out the window.

  Instantly, my heart is filled with grief.

  For failing Daniel. His family. His friends.

  He was so brilliant, I think, and find myself shedding a tear.

  I reach up to wipe it away, then tremble as I feel the vehicle begin to slow.

  “Why are we stopping?” I ask.

  “Because,” Dusty says. “Her mansion is ahead.”

  I lift my head. Look out the grate in the van’s back compartment. See a house atop a hill. Shiver.

  There, lifted above all else by prosperity and arrogance, is the First Lady’s mansion. Surrounded by a wicked fence, and resting atop the highest hill in the area, it is surely a sight to behold, both in nature and concept.

  In but a few moments, I will be approaching the front gate and beckoning for the woman inside.

  I ball my hand around my shawl in an effort to keep my fingers from shaking, but I can still feel my lip quivering. My eyes dart to and fro, and my foot begins to drum an imaginary beat along the van’s plush flooring.

  When we finally turn off into an area surrounded by trees, I feel the blood rush from my face.

  I can only imagine what I must look like.

  “Kelendra,” Dusty says. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, steeling myself for what is to come. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “This is where you’ll get out.”

  “And the rest of you?”

  “We’re going to rush into the farmlands and climb the hill from the back.”

  “All right.” I stand. “How will I know when we’re ready?”

  “Someone will blow a duck call.”

  “A duck call?”

  Dusty nods. “Yes. A duck call.”

  “All right.” I turn to the van’s rear doors. “Let me out.”

  Warm air rushes in to meet me as the outside world is revealed. Hard earth greets my feet as I exit, and despite my worries, I feel a newfound sense of confidence as I turn to look at the house on the hill.

  She’s human, I think.

  For all the guns that might be present, the First Lady is not invincible. Because of that, I know that I can succeed.

  After the van is disengaged, and the rest of the group pours out of the rear compartment, I watch them disappear into the field across from me. Only the wheat shift
ing is a sign that there has been a disturbance.

  Please, I think, lifting my eyes to the sky in the hopes that the Great God will hear. Keep them safe. Keep me safe.

  I bow my head to offer up a silent prayer, then start up the road.

  I know I should feel a tumultuous sense of unease. But as I walk, slowly but surely ascending the hill, the sound of crickets and other nighttime insects regale me with their song. The light of fireflies winks in and out of existence. A bird calls to another in the night, and it answers. These are the sounds of life as I know it, and life as it could be if I am able to succeed. This is what compels me forward even in what is undoubtedly my darkest hour.

  My father is gone.

  My husband is dead.

  My mother is home alone.

  And my friends—they are doubtful of my ability to succeed. I know this because I had seen in their eyes, on their faces, the questions on their lips. They’d wanted to ask, Can you? and then follow it up with Can you really? But they hadn’t, because like all good friends, they offered a sense of belief, one that I know carries me now, at least in part.

  I begin to hum beneath my breath as my feet crunch soft earth underneath.

  Hmm hmm.

  Hmmm hmm.

  Hmmm hmmm hmm hmm.

  The same eight sounds are repeated as I climb the hill—as toward the First Lady’s mansion I walk. I am close enough to see that the house is dark—or, at the very least, the light is shielded from view.

  Perhaps she isn’t home.

  Perhaps this was simply a ruse.

  Perhaps the only people there are the SADs.

  Watching, waiting, for someone to come.

  I shake my head—not because I am afraid that she isn’t there, but because I know that she is.

  This is the thought that holds me all the way up until the wind shifts, and the scent of roses wafts down from the hilltop.

  In but a moment, I am stepping up to the front gates—

  —and wrapping my hands along the wrought iron.

  If you are listening, I think, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, please, hear my plea: let this work. Please, Great God: let this work.

  Somewhere nearby, a duck call sounds in the night.

  I exhale, clear my throat, then call, “Hello!”

  No one responds.

  “Hello!” I call again. “Someone! Anyone! Please! I need help!”

  Again: nothing.

  Frowning, I tighten my hold on the gate and yell, “Please! I need help! I’m all alone out here and I’m afraid! PLEASE!” I then scream, raising my voice as high as I can. “HELP ME!”

  A curtain moves.

  Someone looks out.

  I shake the gate and scream until my throat feels raw.

  The curtain shifts back into position a short moment later.

  Come on, I think, desperation fueling my screams, my cries, my utter and diabolical panic. Hurry up!

  The sound of the door being unlocked is like a gunshot through the night.

  It echoes out.

  It strikes my head.

  It enters my brain.

  Then, I think, Oh God.

  I take several steps back as the front door opens.

  The porch light does not come on. This, I know, is to shield the person in darkness—because from where I stand, I cannot see anything. I could have a gun pointed at me and I wouldn’t even know, but somehow, someway, I don’t think whomever is looking out is holding a gun.

  No.

  Whoever this is—whomever is in the darkness—is merely responding to the sound of a crying girl.

  Footsteps echo along the enclosed porch.

  I swallow. I tremble. I stare.

  Don’t run, I think. Don’t you dare.

  Every instinct within me is telling me to do just that. It’s like that gun that I so fear before me is being held at the back of my head, and a person is chanting, Run, run, as fast as you can. But I can’t run as fast as I can, because in there darkness there is a man with a gun in his hand.

  I tighten the muscles in my calves to keep from moving.

  My hands ball around the metal gate. I exhale. A few tears even come to my eyes.

  Then, a moment later, the power inside the house goes off.

  A single woman’s voice goes, “What in the—”

  Then the gates are screeching open, and I am running as fast as I can.

  I don’t bother to wait for any sound or signal that may arise as a result of the Southern Saints breaking entry into the First Lady’s compound. Rather, I take off down the hill, effortlessly maneuvering along the grassy knoll and toward the field of corn at the bottom of the hill.

  A gun goes off, and with it, someone cries out.

  “Get her!” I hear someone scream. “Someone get that girl!”

  I begin swerving back and forth, left and right—hoping, to the Great God above, that I will not feel the pain of hot metal in my back, my side, my brain.

  Daniel, I think.

  But I don’t bother to think about my poor dead husband.

  No.

  I have to run.

  Run, run, as fast as you can.

  A gun’s trained on you because you’re on the wrong land.

  A second gunshot goes off, then a third. I hear someone cry out, and wonder, briefly, if it is First Lady Rosanna firing her weapon in the dark. I’d never known city women to be trained in warfare, but she is no ordinary woman, and she is in no ordinary position, which could mean anything.

  For a split second, I feel as if I am going to make it.

  Then my ankle gives out and I begin to fall.

  I strike the grassy earth with enough force to send me rolling down the hill. I bounce, effortlessly, along and then down its surface, feeling each impact jar my mind and body. At one point, it seems as if I will never stop. But when I collide with the stalks of wheat hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, I wheeze, then struggle to draw in breath.

  Don’t panic, I think. You’re not gonna die. You’re not gonna die.

  Just relax. Relax.

  But how can I?

  I can still hear a guns going off, bullets being fired, see stars over my eyes.

  I struggle not to black out.

  Then, in one great motion, I breathe.

  The inhale is painful, and causes tears to burn at my eyes as the breath enters my lungs. I am somehow, someway, able to roll over, then claw my way into the field of wheat in order to keep from being seen.

  I collapse as soon as I feel my feet disappear into the edge of the standing field.

  Then, for what feels like hours, I wait.

  But it isn’t hours. I know it isn’t. It is only chance moments, mere seconds.

  Soon, the gunfire stops, and with it, I can only wonder:

  Did we succeed? Or did we fail?

  I can’t know—not until I stand and make my way out of the field.

  Just a few more moments, I think. Just a few more…

  I awaken abruptly when someone grabs the back of my neck.

  I would’ve screamed had the person not hauled me up and slapped their hand over my mouth.

  “Kelendra,” Dusty whispers. “It’s me. Don’t scream.”

  “Thank God,” I say through his hand over my mouth.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “I—”

  He relinquishes his hold on me and stabilizes me for a short moment before letting go.

  I grimace as I apply weight on my right leg.

  “Are you hurt? Tell me you can walk.”

  “I think I can,” I manage, lifting my eyes to face him. He immediately grimaces upon looking directly at my face. “What?”

  “It’s nothing,” he says.

  “Did we get her? Did we get the First Lady?”

  “We did,” he said. “The Great God shined on us tonight.”

  “What about everyone else? Are
they—”

  The man sighs. “Ashton took a bullet to the shoulder. Essa Dorsey is dead. And we have to leave three others behind.”

  I cover my mouth to keep from crying out.

  “We knew this was a possibility,” he says as he lifts his eyes to the road—as he scans the distance for any sign of movement near or far. “They knew it was.”

  “But… her kids…”

  Dusty closes his eyes. “Yeah. I understand.” He takes hold of my hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  I start forward, and almost immediately feel every single site of impact on my body. However, I am able to grin and bear it—or, at least, I think I can—because Dusty doesn’t pause, nor does he offer any assistance as we continue to make our way along the wheat field and back toward the thicket of trees where the van is waiting.

  “Are they there already?” I ask.

  “They’re moving forward as we speak.”

  “Will we make it back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do we—”

  “No more questions,” Dusty interrupts. “Not until we’re back.”

  I swallow my thoughts and nod as we continue forward.

  It takes less than three minutes for us to return to the van, and only two after for the sign of the others to emerge from the wheat. A giant of a man appears first, carrying the First Lady in his grasp, while Ashton comes second, a hand to his shoulder and a grimace on his face. Two other women emerge behind him, all with grim looks on their faces.

  As they approach, they look upon me with eyes filled with doubt and worry, then open the rear compartment of the van and assist the big man and Ashton inside.

  Once Dusty and I have climbed aboard, the van’s back door is shut, and around the thicket we go.

  “Make it snappy,” Dusty says to our driver. “We don’t know if she tipped off anyone at the city.”

  “She shouldn’t have been able to,” Ashton replies through gritted teeth. “I jammed communications immediately upon our arrival.”

  “Still, we don’t know if she was expecting anyone.” He pauses. “Did you get the bug off her car?”

  Ashton lifts a hand, within which is a single black triangle.

  “Good.” He nods.

  “Sir,” Ashton says. “Are you sure it was right for us to leave them there like that? Just… in the field?”

  “We couldn’t do anything more for them,” Dusty replies. “We did what we set out to do. We did our best by them.”