Alex said nothing, surprised the sergeant’s approval meant something. When a man like Shook complimented you on your behavior, it probably wasn’t something you should be proud of.
Nonetheless, there was a strange kinship in that handshake.
Tom shook his head. “Stay away from that guy, kid.”
“I think he gets it,” Alex said, just as he believed he understood Shook.
Shook gave lip service to the cause. He railed against government goons and taxation as theft and handouts for the lazy and the slow death of free speech. But the guy didn’t really care. He simply liked getting coked up and shooting people.
He was crazy, plain and simple. To him, the whole war was a big joke, a chance to go wild with impunity, an excuse to fight for its own sake.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Donnie laughed. “Yeah, well, you’re a psycho, just like him.”
In Alex’s book, Shook was more real than any of them. He crumpled his beer can, tossed it into the kitchen sink with the other empties, and headed to the door.
“Where are you going?” Tom called after him.
“I’ll be back in time for my watch.”
Over with Shook’s squad, nobody would tell him to pace himself.
FORTY-TWO
Hannah’s meager meal consisted of cold ramen noodles and a little beef jerky washed down with swallows from her canteen. Wiped out by the day’s fierce fighting, the other kids chewed with shocked, blank expressions.
The headquarters staff sat and ate in their own daze. Only Sabrina was on her feet, studying the strategic map with its X’s and O’s. The line had held another day.
Outside, snow fell steadily from the graying sky.
Maria eyed the pacing commander. “What’s she thinking?”
“We’re counterattacking tomorrow,” Kristy whispered. “Mark my words.”
Hannah doubted it. Who would want to fight in this weather?
“I can’t believe we’re still alive,” Maria said. A moment later, she was snoring.
Hannah watched her sleep with envy. Every time she sat still for too long, a vague panic settled in her shoulders and made her neck clench.
“Hey,” Kristy hissed. “Hannah.”
“What?”
The girl extended her hand with her palm facing outward. “Thank you. For cheering me up before.”
Hannah smiled and interlaced her fingers with Kristy’s. “I’m glad we’re on the same team.”
“Girls rule.”
“Girls rule,” Hannah echoed, as if this were a simple fact.
She squinted at the big gray squares of plastic sheeting stapled over the windows and judged the light. “I’m going to go see how Abigail is doing.”
“You’re not tired?”
Hannah wanted to leap out of her skin. After the last two days, her feelings seemed too big for her body. So much love and hate, it hurt.
She stood and dusted her pants. “I’ll be back.”
Sabrina had been listening. “Take your bedroll. It’ll be dark soon.”
“I will.”
Maria started awake. “Where are you going? Do you want me to come?”
“You go ahead and sleep.”
“Okay.” Maria nodded off again.
Hannah hoisted her pack. “See you tomorrow. Good night.”
The guard opened the door to let her out. “Merry Christmas, Hannah.”
She went outside into the biting cold. The world paled as the blizzard gathered force, the driving snow covering up the war’s scars. She tilted her head to catch snowflakes on her tongue. Aside from the hum in her ears left over from the day’s gunfire, the neighborhood was quiet, even peaceful.
A wisp of music wafted through the ruins.
Men’s voices, singing, “O come, let us adore Him…”
Tonight was Christmas Eve.
She flashed to Dad putting up the tree last year, a real tree she’d decorated with him and Mom while Alex sat on the couch sighing with practiced boredom. They’d enjoyed their family tradition of opening one present on Christmas Eve. Hannah got the new sweater she’d been dropping blatant hints about. She stayed up late and went to bed flush with anticipation.
Christmas was once a magical time.
“O come, let us adore Him…”
One by one, the houses around her joined in as the Free Women added their voices to the song: “O come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord.”
She clenched her teeth and kept walking. These men had no right to sing. They’d destroyed Christmas for her. They had no right to make her remember. She wanted the Free Women to sing “I Am Woman” again. Shout it right in their fascist faces.
Driven by her anger, Hannah trudged through the heavy snowpack and blinding snowfall. The white world darkened to gray as the sun went down. She reached the church as night fell and paused at the threshold to stomp the snow off her boots.
“Who goes there?” a familiar voice trembled behind the holy water font.
“Hey, Alice,” she said. “It’s just me, Hannah.”
Holding a broom like a weapon, the girl emerged from the shadows, trailed by the other younger girls who’d been left behind. “How’s Kristy and everybody?”
“They’re all fine,” Hannah said. “How are things here?”
The girl shot a terrified look at the far side of the church, where a row of bodies lay with their jackets draped over their faces. “Can we go with you?”
“I’m staying the night here.”
“Okay. I’ve been protecting these girls. I’ll protect you too.”
“I’ll bet you could,” said Hannah, eyeing Alice’s useless broom.
Alice put on her war face. “You can count on me. Sister.”
Behind her, the girls raised their fists in a plucky power salute. Hannah continued into the church and found Abigail where she’d left her, sitting with her back against the altar.
Hannah knelt next to her old commander. “Hi.”
Abigail stared at the dead and wounded lying on the floor. Her face was worn and pale. She seemed to have aged ten years in the past few days.
She offered Hannah a faint smile. “Namaste. What brings you here?”
“I came to see how you’re doing.”
“My arm hurts like hell, but that’s a luxury of still having one, I guess.” She sighed. “Otherwise, there’s nothing worse than having too much time and nothing to do but think about everything you did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Hannah said.
Abigail returned her bleak gaze to the wounded. “This war isn’t worth even one of them dying.”
“You didn’t start it.”
Another weak smile crossed the woman’s face. “From the mouths of babes.”
“Sabrina’s doing a good job. The line is holding.”
“I have no doubts about Sabrina McCann. I don’t know if she’s an artist forced to become a general, or a general forced to live the wrong life until somebody gave her a chance to fight.”
Hannah tried to reconcile Sabrina as an artist and antigun activist with the militia chief she knew. “I didn’t know she was an artist.”
“She owned an art gallery down the street from the Collective. She spent most of her time curating, but her own paintings are amazing.”
“I’d like to see them sometime,” Hannah said.
“She insisted we use them for kindling.”
Hannah wanted Abigail to see her the way she saw Sabrina. “I ran messages a whole bunch of times today.”
“Something else I regret. Don’t take this the wrong way, but that UNICEF woman was right. I never should have let you and the other girls into the Free Women.”
Hannah recoiled as if slapped. “I want to help. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You remind me of my Jill. She saw injustice, she’d attack it with everything she had.”
“Where is she?”<
br />
“She died when she was about your age. Heart defect. In insurance terms, a preexisting condition.”
Hannah winced. “That’s awful.”
“My ex-husband fought for this country and came back changed,” Abigail said. “He couldn’t get enough help from the VA hospital because of budget cuts. When Jill died, I left him to start a new life counseling women who were going through what I’d gotten out of. When the Democrats retook Congress, I was hoping they’d fix healthcare once and for all, but they did nothing. I got mad. I wanted justice. I wanted justice not just for Jill but for all the little girls being hurt by the system.”
Hannah had heard the Free Women talk about social and economic justice. She’d always thought it was about punishing criminals. They’d told her it meant treatment that was right and fair.
“I want justice too,” she said. Both kinds.
“Now the little girls I wanted to help are fighting. We took away your childhood. When I look at you, sometimes I hate myself.”
Hannah lay and put her head on Abigail’s lap. “You saved me.”
She fell asleep in an instant.
FORTY-THREE
Gabrielle inspected the furnished apartment while Paul explained its features.
“It’s the fifth floor,” he said. “The best I could do. A long walk up.”
With all the displaced people, housing was at a premium in Indy. “That’s fine. I need the exercise.”
“The furnishings are nice. Granite countertops, high ceilings, stainless steel appliances when you have electricity. You’ll be right by the open-air market at Monument Circle. The doorman has a shotgun.”
Large picture windows flooded the living room with daylight. A balcony overlooked East Washington below. Gabrielle drifted to the bedroom, which had a redbrick south-facing wall. The whole apartment had an urban loft feel. Compared to her cramped little unit in Montreal, it was luxurious.
These niceties didn’t mean as much as they once did, however. The larger windows allowed in more cold, not to mention more flying glass if a bomb shattered them. The higher floor not only meant more running up and down but greater danger if there was a fire.
Already, she was thinking about how she’d fortify it.
“So that’s the tour,” Paul said. “What do you think?”
The place was cold. The framed art on the walls was bland, almost corporate. The red blotches on one painting looked like blood splatter. It would have to go.
“I’ll take it.”
She began making a list in her head of the things she’d need. More blankets, portable stove, matches, candles, water bottles, duct tape, propane.
When she moved into this place, she’d be a Hoosier.
“Cool,” said Paul. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
Gabrielle checked her watch. “I have to get to the radio station for an interview.”
“Can I come with?”
“I don’t see why not. It’ll save me time driving you back to the office.”
Paul smiled. “Yeah, about that. Do you mind if I drive?”
They went downstairs and got into the car. Paul grinned and bounced behind the wheel. Expecting him to burn rubber like Aubrey, Gabrielle gripped the handhold on the door.
The car accelerated to a fast but far less terrifying speed than the reporter favored. She blew out a sigh.
“I never knew how much I enjoyed driving until I ran out of gas,” Paul said.
“I may be getting the Peace Office its own car.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“My accountant has to tell me if we can fit it in our budget.”
“Hell, yeah, we can. I’ll make it work. Getting a car is easy. Gas, not so much.”
Gabrielle gazed out the window with a smile. In just a few days, they’d already made a lot of progress. In about a week, the first of the aid shipments was scheduled to land at the airport. A few boxes of biscuits and school supplies, mostly, but it was just the beginning.
Paul cleared his throat. “You, uh, still talk to that reporter? Aubrey?”
“Now and then.”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “I was just wondering if she was seeing anybody.”
Gabrielle smiled. “You should call—”
Something cracked against the rear passenger door. An object rattled around the back seat with a series of alarming thumps.
She wheeled in alarm. “What was that?”
The back window exploded in a shower of glass.
Paul blanched and stomped the accelerator.
The car fishtailed in the snow. Gabrielle reached over and grabbed the wheel to help steady it. Paul took the next corner in a terrifying slide. Then they were out of danger.
Paul blew out a sigh and said, “You can let go now.”
Trembling from excess adrenaline, she released her grip. Aubrey was right. Never slow down. Never stop moving until you reach cover. “Just get us there.”
“Shooting at a car flying the UN flag. These people want to fight the whole world.”
They found a parking space near the radio station and dashed to the doors. Minutes later, they arrived gasping in the third-floor lobby. The lights were on here. The station had its own power generator.
Paul caught his breath and grinned. “You’re one of us now.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
A man emerged from a nearby office to grab their hands for a pronounced shake. “You’re here! I’m Jimmy, the show’s producer. Kevin’s really looking forward to this.”
Kevin Olson was one of the most popular voices in Indianapolis. Before the war, he had a political AM talk program with a small but loyal liberal fan base. For years, he’d predicted civil war would come to America. Now he was the city’s voice of the Left, broadcasting a nightly show called The Resistance with Kevin Olson.
Jimmy ushered them into the studio. Two bearded men sat around a circular counter on which a collection of computer screens and scissor-arm suspension boom microphones rested. The jittery one wearing a leather jacket and blue armband was Kevin. The other, the technical producer introduced as “The Maestro,” brooded in headphones worn over a floppy hat.
“Welcome to The Resistance,” Kevin said and pointed at a chair. “You can sit there.”
Gabrielle did, still a little out of breath. “Thanks for having me on your show.”
“I’m glad you reached out. Most of our show will be spent talking about what’s going on in Haughville. This is our chance to give the Hoosiers some good news before the New Year. Pull that microphone toward you and say something.”
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Gabrielle—”
“She’s mugging the mike,” the Maestro said.
“Back up from the microphone just a bit,” Kevin told her. “Try to talk across the mike. It reduces pops and hisses.”
“Like this?”
“Good, but not so loud. Keep going.”
“Testing, testing…”
The Maestro gave a thumbs-up.
“Airtime is six p.m.,” Kevin said. “So obviously this is prerecorded. I can see you’re nervous, but don’t worry. If you freeze up, we’ll edit it out.”
“Got it.” Knowing they’d edit gave her a little more confidence.
“You ready?”
From picking an apartment to getting shot at by a sniper to being interviewed at a radio station. Another surreal day. “Yes.”
The Maestro gave another thumbs-up. “We’re recording.”
“Well, Hoosiers, we’ve got a special guest in the studio right now, none other than Gabrielle Justine from the United Nations,” Kevin said. “UNICEF, to be exact. That stands for the United Nations Children’s Fund. UNICEF is now working hard in American cities to help children affected by the war. Welcome to Indy, Gabrielle.”
“I’m very happy to be here,” Gabrielle said, making sure she talked sideways across the microphone.
He asked her about Montreal, what C
anadians thought about the war, how she got involved with UNICEF. He was warming her up, helping her get over her stage fright. Recalling her media training, she kept her answers short and personable, avoiding both monologues and one-word responses. Remembering to breathe.
“So what exactly is UNICEF doing for Indy’s children?”
Gabrielle explained the types of aid that would soon be flowing into the city. Vaccines and immunization, school supplies, nutritional supplements, safe drinking water, hygiene kits, psychological support.
“One very important aspect of our work is stopping the use of child soldiers,” she said.
Kevin’s smile faded. “Child soldiers?”
“Militias on both sides of the contact line are using children as porters, cooks, runners, spies, and even fighters. Our goal is to get all parties to agree to stop using children as weapons. We are developing resources to rehabilitate and reintegrate them back into society. Offer them a place that supports their health and dignity.”
“Wait. You’re saying our militias are using child soldiers too?”
“I’ve seen it. Children carrying machine guns, lying bleeding on hospital floors from gunshot wounds. We can’t allow it to continue. We’re better than this.”
Kevin steered the conversation back to the first UNICEF shipment coming early in the New Year, and how parents could access this aid to benefit their kids.
Nailed it, she thought.
“Thank you for taking time to visit with us, Gabrielle,” Kevin said. “You’re doing great work, and we’re all rooting for you.”
“Thank you, Kevin.”
Kevin eyed the Maestro, who gave him a thumbs-up. “And that’s it. You did good, Gabrielle. That was about fifteen minutes. We’ll edit it down to somewhere around five.”
“As long as you keep the part in about the child soldiers,” she said.
“Right, right,” Kevin said. “No.”
“No? I don’t understand.”
“It’s not airable.”
She stared at him, but he didn’t offer to explain. “Why?”
“We’re the voice of the resistance. Our goal is to strengthen the resistance. We air this, we’d be hurting our own side.”
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