The Battle Within

by Kody Boye

  When I am within speaking distance of Cynthia Demiro, the woman takes a long, hard drag off her cigarette and says, “Lower your hood.”

  I do.

  She is disarmed by my hair. That much is already apparent. But the closer she looks, the more she realizes it truly is me.

  She says, “By the Great God.”

  “Hello, Miss Demiro.”

  “It really is you.”

  I nod.

  “How the hell did you survive the bombing?”

  “That isn’t important,” I say. “What’s important now is what I’m about to tell you.”

  She lifts her eyes to look at something behind me. “Is that—” she starts.

  “My friend?” I ask. “Yes. It is.”

  “He’s armed. Isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “Good.” She takes another drag off her cigarette. “I don’t think we should be discussing whatever we are without a gun nearby.”

  There is a long pause between the two of us, during which we both regard Dusty at his place at the end of the alley. His gaze is set toward the road, his fingers drumming along his side. It’s as if he expects something to happen at any moment—which, I suppose, it truly could. Considering what all we’ve gone through, it would be stupid not to be wary.

  Cynthia Demiro takes the last drag off her cigarette and then crushes it beneath the heel of her boot before saying, “So, Kelendra. What have you come back from the dead for to tell me?”

  “That I need your help,” I say, “and that only you can do it.”

  She narrows her eyes at me—judging my person, my purpose, my cause. Her lips purse into a frown, and though I know she wants to speak, she remains silent, allowing me to take the lead in what might be the greatest dialogue of her life.

  For that, I simply say, “I need you to help stop a nuclear war.”

  She blinks. It takes a moment for it to settle in, but when it finally does, she says, “Wait. What?”

  “I know the Countess is going to launch the Serenity Configuration against the Terrible North.”

  “What is the Serenity Configuration?”

  “A series of five bombs which, if launched, could devastate the North—and, possibly, cause chaos in the south.”

  “And you want me to… do what, exactly?”

  “I need you and your camera crew to film me, Ceyonne Marsden, and Wu Dao’s protest against the government in order to inspire a revolt.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to risk my life and my career to help stop a war?” Cynthia Demiro laughs. “That’s outrageous.”

  “It’ll mark you in history as the woman who helped stage the revolution.”

  “I don’t want to risk jail time for a stunt, Mrs. Cross.”

  “We need to something, Miss Demiro. Otherwise… otherwise…” I tremble. “The world may end.”

  “Explain,” she says.

  So I do—in no uncertain detail. I depict how the bombs will be launched, how they will fall, how ash from the resulting fallout will lift into the atmosphere and then cloud the sun’s light from the Earth. Then I say how people will die, how people will starve, about how life as we know it may end. She considers this wholeheartedly, with a hand to her mouth and her eyes set with unease.

  When finally it comes time for me to stop, Cynthia Demiro cannot speak. It is as if I have rendered her shell-shocked, and she is simply a damaged soldier in this war-torn world.

  “I—” she starts, then swallows before saying, “I don’t—”

  “You have to say yes. I have no one else to turn to.”

  “I’m not sure I can do this, Kelendra. That’s the only issue.”

  “You have to, ma’am. Because if it’s not for us… and the Countess launches the Configuration… then…” I swallow. “All will be lost.

  Cynthia nods slowly, her eyes like saucers, her lips trembling. She says, “I need definitive proof that she said this.”

  I reach into my pocket, palm the device that Ashton gave me, then extend my hand. I drop the computer stick into her palm a short moment later. “The proof is there,” I say. “But don’t air it until you guarantee that you’ll do this.”

  “If you really do have proof,” Cynthia says, “and this really is what you say it is…” She pauses and unwraps her fingers from around the device. “Then this will change everything.”

  “Everything has changed, ma’am. We just need to stop it before it gets any worse.”

  With a nod, Cynthia Demiro slides the device into her pocket, then says, in a cool and steady voice, “I’ll arrange for a memorial display to be filmed two days from now at exactly three o’clock PM. That should give us time to arrange everything.”

  “Can you keep it a secret for that long?” I ask.

  The woman offers a grim smile. “Oh, honey. Don’t you know? I’m Cynthia Demiro. I can do anything.”

  “Anything?” I frown.

  “Anything,” she says.

  And thus a deal is made.

  In two days, the world will change forever.

  I can only hope that I will be alive to see what comes next.

  Thirteen

  We return to the underground subway system in the late hours of the morning. Tired physically, but more so mentally, I bid Dusty a short goodbye and then make my way back to the bar the three of us girls have been sleeping within.

  I’m so nervous I could vomit.

  Somehow, I don’t. Instead, I make my way back with my head held high and my shoulders squared, and enter with little more than a few taps on the wall.

  Ceyonne and Wu are awake almost instantly.

  “Did she—” Ceyonne starts.

  “Agree?” I ask. I nod and say, “Yes. She did.”

  Wu and Ceyonne sigh, though whether it is in relief or fear I cannot be for sure. I can’t blame them, though. A part of me is relieved that Cynthia Demiro agreed to our proposal. The fact that she wants to wait two days to orchestrate the entire thing, however, is daunting to say the least.

  She has to make it look natural, I think as I consider my friends before me. She has to make it look as though it was planned all along.

  Which meant announcing that there would be a memorial service—

  Which meant explaining that it would be a televised event—

  Which meant that it would serve as both a funeral of sorts and a declaration—

  Sighing, I settle down on the spread of blankets that we have occupied for the last several days and draw my knees to my chest. I only lift my eyes when Wu crouches down before me.

  “How did it go?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Do you… want to talk about it?” Ceyonne asks.

  Leaving them in the dark would be unnecessary, and utterly cruel. So, for that reason, I detail everything that occurred—from our trek through the shadows, to our jaunt through the city, our meeting, and more.

  By the time I finish, Ceyonne and Wu have drawn close, and are radiating with tension.

  “This is it,” Ceyonne says. “This is really it.”

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  And I can’t blame her either—because in knowing what we will face, and in understand what the risks are, there is no way for us to turn back, no way for us to run, no way for us to move forward without first approaching our greatest and most terrifying obstacle.

  It is, in a word, haunting.

  I’m not surprised when Wu sheds a single tear.

  “Hey,” Ceyonne says, sliding an arm around her. “Everything’ll be okay. It’ll work out, in the end.”

  “I don’t want to die,” she whispers.

  “Neither do I. But if it saves the country… and our world… wouldn’t it be worth it?”

  How sad, I think, to see a girl so willing to give up everything for the sake of others.

  Wu’s tears quickly turn to sobs. Ceyonne, too, begins to cry; and though I want
so desperately to remain strong for the two of them, I know I can’t.

  No.

  Remaining strong, in this instance, would do nothing more than tear us down.

  As human beings, we are meant to operate on an emotional level.

  For that, I cry as well.

  Ceyonne and Wu settle down some time after I have returned. I, however, am mortified by the thought of what could happen come time we are to stand before the remnants of the Spire and declare that an even greater threat than war is upon us.

  As I lie here, slowly but surely thinking about what is to occur within the coming days, I try my hardest not to succumb to even more tears, but find myself doing just that.

  I hear Wu’s words so soundly in my head.

  I don’t want to die.

  I know her pain, her fragility, her complete and utter insecurity. But, I realize, she has one thing that I don’t have.

  And that’s faith.

  Faith that I will go on.

  Faith that there is something after death.

  Faith that it is not truly the end.

  They say that your energy touches everything you come into contact with—that no matter who or what you are, your imprint on the world, once made, can never be removed. Your footprints can be washed away by the sea, and your words can be forgotten by friends, but you are always remembered, whether it be in mind or flesh.

  But, I wonder: is that enough to confirm that my purpose in life will have been made?

  You wanted to change the world, my conscience offers.

  Well, I then think. I got it.

  I just wish my impact hadn’t been so disastrous.

  As I close my eyes, and as I begin to think of what will happen come time the second day arrives, one damning thought comes to mind:

  Will it be worth it?

  Or will it be for nothing?

  “Are you going to let me go?” First Lady Rosanna asks.

  I look upon the piteous woman and try my hardest not to stare. Given her condition, it is hard not to. But knowing the threat she poses is enough to sober my emotions, and for that reason, I simply say, “That’s not my choice to make.”

  She sighs, then, and tilts her head back to inhale a deep breath of the cool subterranean air. It is here that she pauses, and here that she waits, likely for me to add something further. However—when I don’t, she merely tilts her head back down and says, “All right.”

  “I’m sorry, First Lady Rosanna. I… I would let you go, but… I don’t feel it’s my right.”

  “They’re going to judge you harshly for what you did.”

  “Who?”

  “The people. The government. The… Countess.”

  I laugh. “She’ll judge me regardless of whether or not I let you go,” I say. “She thinks I’m dead; and once she figures out that I was spared, even if it was just by happenstance, I… I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  “Releasing me would grant you some leniency.”

  “I know.”

  “So are you going to?”

  “I’ll talk to Dusty. But like I said: it’s not my place to decide what happens here.”

  “I understand.” The First Lady lowers her head. “Kelendra,” she then says.

  “Yessum?” I ask.

  “Whatever possessed you to join with these… these people?”

  “Who?”

  “The Saints.”

  “How did you—”

  She laughs. “They’re not the Fanatical,” she says. “That much is already for certain. They would’ve killed me outright. The Saints, though…” She pauses. “They at least have some code of honor.”

  “I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

  “And I appreciate that. It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve barely been allowed to move from this chair.”

  “I’m sorry. It had to be done.”

  “I can respect that.”

  I frown. She, respect me? How could she, given the circumstance?

  I don’t know, but I don’t decide to dwell on it. Rather, I draw my shawl around myself and say, “I’ll talk to Dusty and see what we’re going to do.”

  “If they’re going to kill me, please… don’t tell me. Just make it quick and easy—a simple bullet to the head. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’m not going to let them kill you.”

  “You can’t control the whims of others, Kelendra. Haven’t you learned that already?”

  I don’t say anything. Rather, I turn toward the entryway into this shopping hub and say, “I’ll see what we can do.”

  All First Lady Rosanna does is sigh.

  “We have to let her go,” I say.

  Dusty lifts his eyes from where he is cleaning a rifle and says, “Pardon?”

  “When we arrange the memorial broadcast. We have to let her go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will be seen as an act of mercy. Besides: if she finds it fit to say that I helped kidnap her—which I’m sure she will—then it will look bad if we don’t.”

  “I… see.” The man goes back to cleaning his rifle.

  I sigh and step forward. “Dusty,” I say.

  “What?” he asks.

  “We’re releasing her once we leave this place.”

  “All right.”

  I pause, stunned.

  All right?

  Did he really just say all right?

  I open my mouth, ready to speak, then close it shortly thereafter. It is only a few short moments later that I’m able to say, “You agree with me.”

  “I do.”

  “So we’re going to release her?”

  “Yes. We will.”

  “How will we do it?”

  “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

  “If we’re really going to rally against the government… and help take part in this revolution… then what are we going to do about the Saints? It’s not like you’ll be able to stay here once we leave the Underground Railroad.”

  “We’ve had plans in place to move the Saints beyond the city if things went south,” Dusty replies, lowering the rifle and nodding as he considers the weapon. “We’ll simply do what we need to do, Kelendra. That’s all we can do, in the end.”

  The end.

  The words seem so final, so determined. To think that it really could be the end, as he’d said, is utterly terrifying.

  All I want to do is go home.

  All I want to do is see my mother.

  All I want is to have a normal life.

  But I know that is likely not going to be the case.

  No.

  A normal life, if one were to ever exist, would not be possible now that my father is gone, that there is blood on my hands, that I’ve trampled along a muddy road in a bone and bloodstained gown. The fact is: I am a changed woman, and there is nothing I can do to go back to the way things were.

  With a sigh, I cross my arms beneath my breasts, then consider Dusty outright before I ask, “Are the people ready?”

  “They’re as ready as they can be, all things considering.”

  “Will the children be safe?”

  “Ashton and another woman will escort them through the tunnels. We’ll make sure that they’re safe.”

  “But is Ashton capable? I mean, in his state?”

  “Patrice will guide him.”

  “You said another woman. You didn’t say—”

  “Someone has to protect them. How else would they survive outside these tunnels?”

  “I… I don’t—” I close my eyes, inhale, exhale. Then, slowly, I open them again, and stare Dusty straight in the eyes.

  “Ashton and Patrice will be fine. All you need to worry about now is what happens next.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “Be thankful you’re not in this alone, Kelendra. Those girls you have with you—they’re golden. Just remember, though: that no matter what happens, the three of you have to agree that you’ve made the right decision.”
r />   “I know.”

  “Good.” Dusty looks down at the next rifle. “Now leave me be. I have to ensure that my people are armed in case things get bad.”

  With one last nod, I turn and leave the room.

  “Are we ready to do this?” I ask.

  Ceyonne and Wu look up at me—their eyes unsure, their mouths agape. Wu trembles. Ceyonne, meanwhile, sighs, and moves as if to speak, but stops before she can do so.

  Do you blame her? I think.

  No. I don’t. To blame her now, at this point in our history, would be to point unnecessary fingers, and brand friends as foes. For that reason, I simply nod at her in the hopes that it will stir something from her.

  When finally she does speak, it’s to say, “I… I don’t know.”

  “I’m scared,” Wu says.

  “I think we’d be crazy not to be,” I reply. “I mean… I don’t know what’s going to happen, and, well… I’d rather not think about what might go wrong, if anything will.”

  “Do you think they’ll take us into custody?” Wu asks.

  “Undoubtedly so,” I say. “I feel like telling Dusty and the rest of the Saints to pack up and leave town.”

  “And leave us behind?” Ceyonne frowns.

  I nod.

  “Why?” the girl asks.

  “Because their involvement will only invoke bloodshed. Dusty…” I pause, and turn my head to make sure no one is around. “He’s angry,” I then continue. “Angry at the world. At the government. At—”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah. Us.”

  “Why us?” Wu says.

  “He wanted to do away with the First Lady. We told him not too, that it was wrong. And he… he resents that, I think.

  “So… I guess the question is… what should we do?”

  The girls simply stare at me.

  I sigh.

  They frown.

  “We have to agree on this,” I say. “There can’t be no ands, or ifs, or buts. We have to ensure that we’re content with our decision, because if we’re not… and if we get out there and realize that we’ve made a mistake… I don’t want any of us to feel guilty.”