The garage door opened. Their footsteps echoed. The faded smell of motor oil reminded him of summers back home.
The guiding hand pushed against his shoulder. “Down.”
Trucks roared across the bridge over the White River at sunrise, weaving in and out of Indy’s early traffic. American and militia and DON’T TREAD ON ME flags snapped in the wind. Alex stared at it all bug-eyed. The men grinned at the prospect of winning a war without firing a shot. A new America dawning.
Tall buildings loomed ahead. Pale faces flashed by in cars they passed. The city held its breath. Drivers leaned on their horns as the convoy flowed into Mile Square.
A bearded fighter said: “You’re lucky, kid. You’re about to see history get made. You’re about to watch real Americans take their country back.”
Bristling with rifles, the column coiled in front of the twenty-eight-story Indianapolis City-County Building. The building housed the city and Marion County government and the Metropolitan Police Department.
The colonel stood up in one of the trucks and made a bullhorn announcement that the mayor was under arrest. A handful of cops gazed out, terrified but defiant.
Then rolling gunfire. Glass crashing to the pavement. Alex cowered in the truck bed and missed most of it. The police returned fire, bullets thudding into the truck’s skin. More cops arrived and opened up on the column from all sides. The air filled with hot metal and screams. Figures lay writhing in puddles of blood. Patriots raised their hands in surrender.
The rest took off on screeching tires through gun smoke. Antifa fighters wearing skinny jeans and bandanas over their faces appeared out of nowhere to throw Molotov cocktails. The truck ahead burst into flame, spilling flailing men onto the road.
Alex had gotten what he’d craved. The mundane world crashing down. Excitement and risk and uncertainty and madness. Now all he wanted was to see his boring family again and tell them he was sorry.
He fell to his knees cringing.
“Aren’t you going to beg for your life?” one of the cops said. “They usually do.”
A glimmer of hope. Alex licked dry lips. “Will you let me go if I do?”
The cop laughed. “The kid’s got a mouth on him.”
“I’m trying to surrender—”
The hood whipped from his face. He blinked into the cop’s gray eyes. The man’s face appeared carved of wood, his body fused with his black tactical gear after fighting so long in it.
In the old days, Alex and his friends played a never-ending game with the police. They’d loiter, the cops would roust them, they’d go loiter somewhere else. They’d yell, Five-oh, five-oh, when they saw a cruiser on the street.
“What’s your name?”
“Alex,” he said.
“We have a message for your people, Alex. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening to you.” He nodded and squinted his eyes to make a show of it. He was terrified. They were in charge. Whatever they wanted, he’d do it.
“Tell them our front line is reorganizing to feed fresh troops to the Brickyard Crossing offensive. In eight days, there will be a gap in the line. Haughville between Tenth and Michigan will be lightly defended. If you strike hard, you can push through to the bridges.”
“You want me to tell them to attack you?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t understand.”
The other cop pierced Alex with his stare. “We can find another messenger.”
“Wait! Eight days, Haughville, Tenth and Michigan. We should attack.”
Gray eyes said, “I think we found the right man for the job.”
Alex ignored the voice in his head telling him to shut up. He just wanted to get the message right. “Why do you want us to attack you where you’ll be weak?”
“Don’t think. Just do it. Tell your bosses that there are men on this side of the line who support the president.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
Alex had served in the militia long enough to make an educated guess. “Okay, sir?”
Gray eyes reached out and gave his face a light slap. “Good boy.”
The police officers uncuffed him and let him go. He emerged from the garage and gazed up at the pale sun. He was alive.
Still on his own, still stuck in this shit war. But alive.
He walked back to the front line with his head down, tears stinging his eyes the whole way, barely paying attention to what he was doing. He made an easy target for a sniper now, but he didn’t care. Back in Sterling, the cops had always been an adversary, but it was all a game. If they caught you, you’d have to endure a patronizing lecture. They didn’t put a gun to your head.
As he neared the front line, he stopped to think about the message he had to deliver. If he told Mitch what the cops told him, the militias might get their chance to crack the Blue line. Or it might be a setup, and Alex might end up getting blamed for the bad intel, assuming he survived the ambush.
The best move was to go back to the camp and tell Mitch nothing. He’d lied to Mom and Dad plenty of times about where he was going, what he was doing, and who with. He knew how to lie and get away with it.
He’d never lied to Mitch, though. Lying to him risked far more than lost phone privileges. The man could spot a lie from a mile away.
His squad waited for him at the trenches. They cheered his arrival. Alex jogged across North Tibbs, rifle ready, making it look good. They clapped him on the back. As much as these men terrified him, as crazy as they were, no matter what they’d done, he found himself glowing at their approval. He was safe again.
“The conquering hero,” Mitch said. “What did you see?”
“Cops. I talked to them.”
“What did they say to you?”
“In eight days, there’s going to be a gap in the lib line between Tenth and Michigan. They said they support the president.”
“I thought they might have solid intel.”
Alex’s eyes began to sting again. “You knew they were there?”
“Somebody sent a message he wanted to meet. I told him you were coming.”
If he’d lied, the sergeant would have known it, and his squad would have shoved him against a wall and shot him. And if it was a lib trick, well, Mitch hadn’t risked much.
The man grabbed him by the nape of his neck and gave him a paternal shake. “You did good, kid. You’re one of us now.”
Alex should have been mad but wasn’t. He’d proven himself in Mitch’s eyes. He was surprised that it meant something to him. He didn’t want these men to win, but he wasn’t sure he wanted them to lose either.
NINE
One by one, heads turned to take in Gabrielle’s arrival. Aubrey scanned the faces. Aside from the servers, almost every single person in the bar was a man.
Indy had no shortage of eager, available women. Soccer moms were selling themselves for food out there. She had no doubt some of these men had arrangements if they were lonely.
But Gabrielle was beautiful and wasn’t a needy local, one of few such women in the war zone. That made her a rare species.
Aubrey rose and extended her hand. “Gabrielle Justine?”
The UN worker shook it. “Are you with the paper?”
“I’m Aubrey Fox.”
Relief. “Oh, good. It’s really great to meet you.”
“You are welcome to join us,” Rafael said.
Gabrielle regarded Terry Allen with distaste.
“Sorry, boys,” Aubrey said. “Girl talk. Thanks for the drink, Guardian.”
“Anytime, Chronicle,” the reporter said. “I do hope you’ll keep in touch.”
Aubrey scooped her wineglass and ushered Gabrielle to another table. She returned a few lingering stares with a little shake of her head. The UN worker ordered a cosmopolitan and sighed, oblivious to the attention.
“Welcome to Indy,” Aubrey said.
“Thank you for agreeing to show me the ropes.”
&nb
sp; The kind of gratitude that came from deep in the heart. It was a bit jarring.
“I should probably be thanking you,” Aubrey said. “I understand you’re here to help the city’s children.”
The woman’s tension broke. “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
Aubrey sipped her wine, alarmed she was getting near the bottom of the glass. In her view, allowing the UN to operate in the country had taken far too long. But overcoming one’s pride took time. America saw itself as a nation that helped others, not accepted it from them, even when it was broken.
That and the president’s side considered the UN a stock villain in its conspiracy theories.
“I’ve been here from the beginning,” she said. “I’ve learned to accommodate it in degrees. It must be rough walking into the middle of it.”
“I’ve never been in the field. The war’s so big, UNICEF reached out and offered a contract. I love this country and took the job because I thought I could do some good. Now that I’m here, I’m scared out of my mind and not sure if I’ll be able to accomplish anything.”
Aubrey sat back in surprise. War was like a truth serum. You lied to survive but otherwise sought out confessors. Gabrielle needed a friend.
She raised her hands. “Let’s back up a bit. I’ll be your fixer, but while I do it I’ll be writing a story about what you’re doing here.”
The woman blushed. “Oh. Right.”
“The best way to avoid future heartbreak is if we lay the ground rules upfront. Whatever your arrangement with the paper is, it doesn’t obligate me. Anything you say about your mission here is fair game. If you say something is off the record, I may interpret that statement in a different way than you. If you tell me a certain topic is off limits, I may report in the story that you requested it be off limits. If you say you have no comment, I may report you said that. Okay?”
“The UN gave me a little media training. You should know I can speak about what I’m doing here but not about UN policy. Otherwise, I was hoping we could have one meeting where we aren’t adversaries.”
“We’re not adversaries. I’m a reporter, and you’re a source.”
Gabrielle sipped her drink. “I understand. I’m just feeling raw.”
“How about we talk logistics? Where do you want to go?”
“City hall, straight off. The Peace Office.”
“The Quakers?”
“They said I could use their space to work. After that, the pediatric clinics and hospitals. Finally, the statehouse to meet with the governor’s people.”
Aubrey said, “Do you want to talk to the militias? I can get you in.”
“At some point, but I need to do my homework first.”
As much as Gabrielle appeared a damsel in distress, she seemed to understand her purpose and her job. Aubrey inspected her glass, now empty. She tilted it to drain the last drop, savoring its bitterness.
“I should be going,” she said. “I owe my editor some copy. How about I meet you right outside the hotel at ten tomorrow morning? It’ll save me the hassle of getting through security.”
“That’s perfect.”
“You’ll have to arrange some transportation. Four-wheel drive and good snow tires. A full tank of gas, which will cost you a pretty penny.”
“I’ll get right on it. This is going to be a good partnership.”
Now that she was leaving, Gabrielle appeared tense again.
Aubrey said, “Listen, the best advice I can give you is to take all this one day at a time.”
“I’ll do that,” said Gabrielle. “What I need right now is a long, hot bath.”
Aubrey’s face tightened into a grimace as she stood to go. She hadn’t had a real bath in months. She surveyed the bar and saw powerful men drinking and dealing. None of it was real. She’d craved the Castle’s oasis and found a mirage.
Outside, an entire city lived hand to mouth on aid packages and a few hours of electricity per day. When she left, she’d have to bike back to the Chronicle’s freezing offices and bang out her story before dashing out to Indy’s battlefields for more.
And after that, pedal home to stand in line to fill her water bottles. Ask around to see if anybody was selling firewood. Boil a little water and eat her bland, meager meal of rice and canned tuna fish.
A long, hot bath belonged in another lifetime.
Nothing here could change that. In fact, the contrast made it worse.
She envied Gabrielle Justine, and it stung. Her youth and beauty and even her naivete. Her bath. Her choices. Especially her choices.
Most of all, her potential.
Gabrielle had an opportunity to make a real impact on the lives of the people here. The work Aubrey did for the Chronicle was important, but she often wondered if it made a difference. Did bearing witness to the horror actually help in any way, or was she really just helping herself?
“I’ll help you,” she said, as if it were only now being decided. Gabrielle tilted her head in an unspoken question, and Aubrey said it again.
The UNICEF worker smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”
Again that deep gratitude, straight from the heart.
Aubrey hurried out of the bar before it ruined whatever it was she was feeling.
TEN
High on the acceptance he received after his solo recon, Alex strutted around the campsite with his new rifle until Tom told him to clean his boots.
While many militiamen were smack talkers and braggers, the veteran was the quiet type and a hard read. He wore a checkered keffiyeh scarf around his throat, a souvenir from Afghanistan, where he and Mitch had fought the Taliban.
As with Mitch, when he told you to do something, you did it.
Alex sulked off toward the nearest fire.
“Take good care of those boots,” Tom called after him. “They’re more valuable than you are.”
Alex sat in a lawn chair, took off his boots, and rubbed at one of them with a wet cotton rag.
Jack sat next to him. “How’d it go?”
At sixteen, he was a little older than Alex, one of a bunch of kids Alex had seen serving in the militia. He was in Mitch’s squad. Alex envied his confidence. The adults didn’t ride his ass much. They called him Combat Jack, which the guys thought was funny for some reason but Alex considered an excellent nickname.
He set down the boot to dry and picked up the other. “I’ll tell you later.”
Too many guys around listening. He wasn’t even sure if he trusted Jack.
“I just think it’s cool we’re squad mates now,” the kid said.
“How do you know we’re in the same squad?” Alex hadn’t thought about who he reported to now that he was a fighter in the militia. He was used to following orders from everybody.
“Mitch gave you the assignment. That means he wants you in his squad.”
“That’s good, I guess.”
“Damn right it’s good,” Jack said. “You could have gotten Shook or one of the other sergeants. Mitch is tough, but he’s fair.”
“What was the point of it? Sending me out there?”
Jack picked up Alex’s dried boot, dabbed some olive oil on a rag, and started to rub it against the warm leather. “You have to show you’re manned up. The test is you have to face danger all by yourself knowing nobody is going to help you.”
Alex poured some olive oil onto his own rag. “I figured it was something like that. It’s just too harsh to believe when you’re actually doing it.”
“Oh yeah, it’s all puppies and rainbows in the militia, bro.” He said bro in a nasal voice that made it sound like brah.
“So everybody here went through the same initiation, then?”
Jack smiled. “Hell no.”
“How many did it?”
“In our platoon? Six, including me and you. All the kids around our age.”
Alex laughed. More do as I say, not as I do. “Well, that figures too.”
Jack shrugged. “These guys have all seen combat. I gues
s they already proved themselves, or they wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He still didn’t like it.
Mitch whistled and pointed at the ground. “You two. Front and center.”
Jack jumped to his feet and started moving. Alex pulled on his boots and hobbled after him with his laces undone. The sergeant glowered at something past his shoulder, which made him turn around.
Christ, I’m a screwup, he thought. He’d left his rifle at the firepit.
He ran back to get it then hurried over to Mitch. “Reporting as ordered.”
“Fix your boots,” Mitch growled.
Alex bent to lace them. Hands shaking, he tied the knots. Then he stood at attention, face burning with embarrassment. “My bad, Sergeant.”
“You’re lucky you remembered your weapon before you made it over here.” He scowled at the two boys and spat in the snow. “Follow me.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” they said.
He led them to a stack of gear. After rooting around in it, he held up two sledgehammers. “Firewood detail.”
Alex grabbed one, Jack the other.
Mitch pointed. “See that white house there? It is no longer occupied. Break it down.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
The boys shouldered their tools and tramped off to the house.
Once inside, Alex surveyed the living room and sagged. Whoever lived here had left in a hurry, taking only essentials. The rest lay strewn around the floor among ramshackle furniture.
“It’ll take us forever to break this up,” he complained.
Jack smiled. “It isn’t so bad. Watch this.”
The kid swung his sledgehammer over his head and brought it down in an alarming arc to smash against a cheap dining chair. The chair cracked into two pieces that flopped to the floor.
“Blow off some steam, bro.”
Alex grinned and went into the kitchen. The cabinet doors stood open, revealing empty shelves. He swung the sledgehammer and snapped a door off its hinges to ricochet off the refrigerator.
“Anger therapy,” he yelled to Jack, who was busy smashing up the living room. “I like it.”
He whacked all the cabinet doors and tossed them one by one toward the front of the house. Then he pulled out the drawers and threw them on the pile too.
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