by Liz Grzyb
“Hey, C,” she says, without looking away from the vid feeds. “They’re on the move now; sure as hell looks like they’re heading this way.”
One screen is dedicated to the wireless camera they mounted outside the police station car lot. It’s showing a lot of empty parking spaces. The other screens have drone-eye view, as the commune’s quadcopters flit through the city, tracking a column of police cars. Red and blue lights flash in police disco, but drone audio only picks up the sound of tyres and engines, no sirens. Silent, like they don’t want to give any warning.
“This looks bad,” Creg says.
“I thought you said this happens regularly?” Ricky says.
“But they’re coming in hard, pretending like they’re dealing with dangerous criminals,” Joelle says.
“Yeah,” Creg agrees. “Usually happens when their arrest numbers are low. You got any weed?”
“Great idea, we’ll light up and chill before they get here,” Ricky says.
Creg has to turn his head to make sure Ricky’s joking.
“No, I’ve got nothing on me,” Ricky says. He grins. “We smoked it all out at the clearing.”
Creg takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Sondra. “Yep, Joelle was right, they’re coming.” Creg checks the map overlaid with the location of their drone scouts. “And they’re getting close.” He hangs up, and says to Ricky, “We should head back down to the courtyard.”
Creg is out of breath by the time they reach the bottom of the stairs. The sirens of the police cars each whoop once or twice as they come into the courtyard through the gap where the south and east blocks meet: seven squad cars and one unmarked. They park over the gardens haphazardly, churning soil and flattening plants.
“Motherfuckers,” Ricky says, visibly tensing.
Creg puts an arm across his chest. “Relax; it’s not worth it,” he says, trying to keep calm despite the spreading damp under his arms. Swifty hovers up high above the din, the commotion triggering its surveillance mode.
Two kevlar-clad cops emerge from each car and start shouting. They herd the residents toward the wall of the south building, yelled directives overlapping unintelligibly, but given clarity by the body language of a pointed club. Two detectives step out of the unmarked car and spend a few seconds surveying the scene.
One of them approaches Creg with a fistful of paperwork. She’s wearing grey slacks and a white blouse, her gun and badge looking odd as they jut out from civilian clothes. “I’ve seen you here before,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Creg Rafferty.”
“Alright, Craig, I’m Detective Page, and my partner over there is Detective Argento. Are you in charge here?”
“No, but I’m happy to speak for Sondra until she gets here,” Creg says. “I’m sure there’s no need for all this; we’re just growing food and minding our own business.”
“And we’re just doing our job. Do you happen to know anything about delivery drones being intercepted and their loads stolen?”
“No,” Creg says.
“Of course not,” Detective Page says dryly. “Wait here.” She confers with her partner who then disappears into the nearest apartment block. Page waves over a small group of uniformed cops and starts barking orders.
“Are we gonna be okay?” Ricky whispers.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” Creg says, but then he sees three Bautas hiding in the shadows of the stairwell, the hollow eyes of their identical black masks staring out into the courtyard maelstrom.
Creg’s stomach drops as he watches the Bautas rush from hiding, pulling lengths of metal from their bags or belts—a scavenged shopping cart handlebar, a battered lead pipe, a length of rebar.
“Oh, fuck,” Creg says. When he glances at Ricky he sees his confusion and fear mirrored in his lover’s face.
“The police are here on behalf of Big Food,” one of the Bautas yells, his voice echoing off the high walls of the apartment blocks. It’s a deep voice which Creg can’t quite pick. “They’re here to trash our crops and make us reliant on the crooked-ass system. It ain’t just about money. Here at the commune, we’re leading by example, and that’s got them scared. Scared everyone will realise we don’t need them when we’ve got each other.”
Half a dozen cops have their pistols drawn, and Detective Page draws her own as she yells, “Put the weapons down!”
Ricky covers his eyes, but Creg can’t look away. He walks toward the detective, holding out a placating hand, while his heart pounds deafeningly in his ears. “Detective Page? Ma’am, ma’am, listen to me: they’re kids, they’re just acting out.”
She ignores him. “I said, put the weapons down.” Her pistol is aimed at centre mass of the vocal Bauta.
Creg steps closer and puts his hand on top of her weapon. He sees his hand touch the steel, but he barely feels it, like part of his mind is trying to flee the reality of what he’s doing. He starts to push it down, away from the teens, but then he hears a sound, a sort of metallic shunt. He turns to see one of the cops holding a telescoping baton, extended to its full-length. The man strikes Creg across the stomach and he doubles over, struggling to breathe while his torso throbs.
One of the Bautas runs closer and Detective Page changes her aim to this new target. Creg looks up. This close, he can see through the mask’s eyeholes, can tell it’s Joelle, her eyes wild, lead pipe clutched tight in her grip.
“Not like this,” he croaks, still winded, holding his hand up as if he could push her away.
Her eyes dart from Creg’s pleading face to Page’s gun and her youthful courage falters. Joelle opens her hand and the pipe falls to the ground with a clunk. Page starts barking another order, but Joelle is off, followed by the other two Bautas as they slide over police car bonnets, dodge away from grabbing arms and tripping feet.
“Fuck the police!” Joelle yells, as the three Bautas disappear from sight.
Page holsters her weapon and stands over Creg. “What the fuck was that?”
The cop with the baton grabs Creg by the shoulder and yanks him upright. He takes his time catching his breath, then manages to say, “ Reckless is what that was, but they’re just kids.”
Page is about to respond, but then a keening noise builds. She steps back as Swifty rushes down and bumps into the uniformed cop’s head again and again, looking for the best angle of attack. The cop swats a hand at it, then he flicks the baton and there’s a loud plastic crunch as Swifty is thrown, crumpled, into a nearby police car.
“He doesn’t know you’re a cop,” Creg wheezes. “He’s just trying to protect me.”
“Sure,” the cop says, sneering. “You probably programmed it to attack cops on sight.” He lifts the baton again, and Creg falls to the ground, arms covering his face. Creg’s eyes sting, and his whole body aches with tension, waiting for the next blow to land. He wipes the tears from his eyes, and looks up to see Page watching, impassive, like overseeing police brutality is just part of her job.
“Everyone please stop!” Sondra calls out. Hers is like the voice of a god, impossibly loud. But unlike a god’s, hers is never angry. “What’s going on here?”
Sondra approaches Page, and the two talk, voices rising in bursts before settling back down. They break apart and the violence in the air dissipates. Some of the uniformed police spit angrily into the dirt, but all of them holster their weapons.
Creg just hopes the police Page sent scurrying after Joelle and the other two Bautas don’t find them. Everyone knows what Chicago police have been doing to black teens at the Homan Square site for decades: kidnapping and torture, obscured by departmental euphemisms.
The police round up every member of the commune, and stand them up against one of the courtyard walls—even the old people who shouldn’t be forced to stand, and probably wouldn’t have been if the Bautas hadn’t angered the cops.
Ricky’s hand rests on Creg’s shoulder, and Creg can feel his eyes boring into his skull. “It’s alright, I’m fine,” C
reg says, still bent over, waiting for the spasming in his torso to stop.
“You don’t look fine.”
Page and one of the uniforms come down the line, checking IDs. They get to Sondra, standing on the other side of Ricky.
“Do we have to go through this, again?” Sondra asks. “You know that we’re here, and you know what we’re doing. I’ve seen some of these officers here on weekends with their husbands and wives, bartering for fresh produce. If we weren’t here, someone else would be, and they might not give back to the community like we do.”
“Give back to the community? By stealing from one of the largest employers in the city?”
“Working FoodCo distribution isn’t employment, it’s some twisted new kind of slavery.”
“Did you say anything about FoodCo, Harpold?” Page says to the cop walking along with her, battered tablet in his hands. “Because I didn’t say anything about FoodCo. Why don’t you start by turning out your pockets?”
Creg sees Sondra smile as she reaches into the pockets of her handmade, tie-dyed skirt. Her smile drops and Creg’s breath catches in his throat. Creg’s mouth opens, but no words form in his mind, just guilt and fear blocking all other thoughts. Before he can do anything, Sondra’s holding out a stolen box of chocolate-covered raisins.
“Grew these yourself, I’m sure,” Page says. “If I’m not mistaken, Raisinets were on the list of stolen goods, weren’t they, Harpold?”
“I believe so, ma’am.”
“That was—”
“No, Creg,” Sondra says. She turns back to Detective Page. “I can explain.”
“Yes you can, down at the station.” Page motions to one of the cops standing nearby. The officer grabs Sondra by the arm, leads her to the nearest cruiser and shoves her in the backseat. Page’s face is blank. If she enjoyed putting away the head of the commune, she avoids showing it. She and Harpold come to Ricky next.
“I lost my ID,” he says, “but I can tell you everything you need to check.”
“No ID means you go into lockup until we can identify you ourselves,” Page says. She’s about to call another officer over, but Ricky stops her. He pulls his wallet out and passes her a Texas driver’s licence. “Look at that, Harpold,” she says as she passes it to the other cop. “The lost ID mysteriously appeared inside his wallet.”
“Damned strange, ma’am.” Harpold swipes the card against the side of his tablet, then frowns and starts tapping on the screen.
After a few long moments, Harpold shows the screen to Page. Creg squeezes Ricky’s hand, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he contemplates all the possibilities of Ricky’s secret criminal past.
“Richard Diodari,” Page says. “We’ve got a missing person’s report on file. Your wife must be worried sick, Mr Diodari.” She makes a point of directing this last comment at Ricky’s hand, clutched tightly in Creg’s. She smirks.
Creg’s heart keeps pounding, rattling his whole body. His hand slips out of Ricky’s. It feels damp. Creg turns to look at Ricky, but his eyes are cast down toward the detective’s feet.
“Don’t you think Ricky Junior deserves to know where his dad is?” Page asks.
“You piece of shit,” Creg says, barely above a whisper, feeling his eyes flood once more.
“What did you say?” Page asks, her hand resting on top of her holstered pistol.
“Not you, Detective; him.”
* * *
The sky over the clearing is a starless indigo: even this far out, light pollution from the city obscures the stars. The only constellations are the lights of delivery drones, winking and fading as they make their rounds.
Creg lies in the back of the jalopy, using one arm as a pillow, clenching and unclenching his other fist that, sadly, is not holding a lit joint. The sound of traffic is ceaseless, like an analogue radio, tuned to a dead channel. He wonders if the Bautas have ever heard that sound before—analogue static. He hears a noise grow out of the background din, a sharp, dirty blaht stretching out into the night.
Creg sits up in the tray and watches a trailbike tearing down the service road toward the clearing. He thinks about getting into the truck, taking off again, but he doesn’t. He climbs out of the tray and stretches, feeling the pain arc across his stomach where he was struck.
The bike pulls up nearby and it’s Ricky, wearing swimming goggles, and a scarf over his mouth and nose. No helmet though, as if his giant hair alone can protect his skull.
Ricky stands in front of Creg. He starts to speak, then stops, his eyes dropping to the ground.
After a few moments of silence, Creg says, “I used to just take off whenever I was angry, even when I was a kid. I’d boost a car and just drive; get on the highway and floor it, until my head stopped with all the rage and the sadness.”
“You stole cars?”
“Yeah, I was pretty out of control before Sondra gave me a chance.”
“Just think of all the fuel you were needlessly burning,” Ricky says. He smiles. “It’s criminal.”
“Telling cute jokes won’t make me stop being mad at you.” Creg pauses. He sighs. “My dad used to do the same thing, you know; driving off when he was pissed. He didn’t have to steal a car, but sometimes he’d just go, disappear for hours. He didn’t drink, so I’m not even sure where he went. Sometimes I was worried he’d never come back. Other times I hoped he wouldn’t.”
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it? It’s not that I’m married?”
“I don’t care that you’ve got a wife; I’ve been with bi guys, I’ve done poly. As long as everyone knows what’s going on, I’m fine. But your kid? You just up and left your son behind.”
Ricky shakes his head, starts to speak, then stops. He paces, and Creg leaves his head low, watching Ricky’s feet moving back and forth.
“You’ve got no idea what it’s like down south. No jobs, no prospects, no future. It’s tough here, but down there, you try and squat, you try and live off the land, someone’s gonna shoot you. I’d done every kind of shit work you can get, and it never made a difference. We could never get out from under, I could never earn enough to support my family; it just crushed me.”
“You could support your family by being there.”
“I was in a bad place. I know it was a shitty thing to do, but it means I found you. I care about you. I still love you; that hasn’t changed.”
“How can you say that?” Creg hears his voice break, feels the mucus building up in the back of his throat. “How can you say you love me when you don’t love your own child?”
“Of course I love him,” Ricky says, in the closest thing to a raised voice Creg has heard him use.
“Not enough to stay,” Creg says, shaking his head. “How long until you stop loving me enough to stay? What will you do then; keep moving north? Put even more distance between you and your family?”
“I’m not your father, Creg. I might be a piece of shit, but I’m not your father.”
Creg can only see Ricky as a blur behind a film of tears. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and feels the snail-trail of snot across his skin. He walks toward the Ricky-shaped smudge in his vision, feels Ricky standing there and rests his head on Ricky’s shoulder. Creg keeps his arms folded against his chest, but Ricky’s arms wrap around him.
“I love you,” Creg says, struggling to get the words out through his sobs. He breathes deeply, steadies himself then says, “But you need to be a father first, then a boyfriend.”
Pressed against Ricky’s chest, Creg hears him sniffle, and the thought of his lover in tears starts him sobbing again.
* * *
“I’ve never bought a train ticket with pumpkins before,” Ricky says.
“Lucky they’re valuable at this time of year,” Sondra says, and lays a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. He smiles, then hugs her.
Something floats in the corner of Creg’s eye, and he glances over his shoulder to see Swifty there. After the melee, Creg transplanted Swi
fty’s innards into a new chassis.
Sondra spent a few days in jail, waited until she went to court for sentencing, knowing any judge would throw out a case about the theft of a box of raisins. Ricky had helped Chen run the commune in her absence while Creg sat in the clearing, hunting drones and thinking, trying to decide if they could make it work, trying to decide if he could still love Ricky, knowing what he knew now.
Ricky sidesteps so he’s facing Creg. He sighs.
“I meant what I said. I want you to come back, but it has to be with your family.”
Ricky nods. “And what about us?”
“I don’t know. I’m gonna need some more time.” Creg steps forward and hugs Ricky. It’s meant to be a show of good will, but before Creg can stop himself he’s kissing Ricky, and Ricky’s kissing him back. The noise of the train station fades to nothing, and Creg is lost in Ricky’s embrace, until Sondra clears her throat.
“Train’s about to leave,” she says, by way of apology.
“We’ll be back in time for Halloween,” Ricky says. He squeezes Creg’s hand, then he turns, and he boards the train.
“Do you want him to come back?” Sondra asks, as they both watch the train doors close.
“The commune’s a great place for a young family.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Creg just smiles sadly.
Sondra puts an arm around Creg’s waist, and he rests his head on top of hers as they watch the train pull slowly away. Swifty makes a high-pitched noise as he zips up over Creg’s shoulder, tracking the train as it gains speed.
Creg chuckles as he watches Swifty up against the train window, struggling to keep up. After a few seconds, the drone stops, hovers in place, then heads back to the platform, the train now a quickly-receding grey square.
Creg’s phone buzzes as the photos from Swifty drop into his inbox. Ricky staring at his lap, looking solemn. Ricky noticing Swifty and smiling. Ricky blowing a kiss at the drone’s camera. Creg lifts his head to see Swifty hovering in front of his face. Creg doesn’t want to smile at the drone, but he can’t help himself.
