Our War Page 8

  “It’s not up to me,” she muttered.

  “They let us pass,” Gabrielle said in wonder.

  “My paper gives them something they never knew they needed.”

  The black SUV shed the crowds and roared south, passing small groups of protesters streaming toward the statehouse. A mob of children chased the car and threw snowballs at it until giving up, laughing.

  Gabrielle fingered her maple leaf pendant and let go of the breath she’d been holding. Those people believed she was powerful and could help them. She had far less power than they thought.

  She said, “Maybe we should call it a day and go back to the hotel.”

  The reporter yanked the wheel to the right and kept driving. “You wanted to see the front line. That’s where we’re going.”

  Gabrielle gripped the door in alarm. “We’re going the wrong way on a one-way.”

  “Traffic laws don’t matter anymore.” Aubrey floored the accelerator. “Hang on to your hat.”

  The SUV went into an alarming slide as it swerved around a bullet-riddled wreck.

  Gabrielle cringed in her seat. “Calvaire.”

  “The Constitutional Convention,” Aubrey said. “That’s what’s got them riled up. There are enough states now to have one. Our entire system of laws may end up being rewritten in Columbus.”

  Gabrielle tried to focus on what she was hearing. “Okay.”

  The reporter went on in quiet rage. “If the president and Congress can’t come to terms, the states may work things out themselves. Some of the governors are talking partition.”

  Gabrielle remembered one of the signs, STOP THE CON. “They were protesting the idea of having a convention, then?”

  “They were protesting because Indy is a Blue city in a very Red state,” Aubrey said. “The governor is a die-hard Republican. If the Union breaks up and we end up in a new right-wing utopia, what happens to us?”

  If a new far-right country absorbed Indianapolis, the peace might be even more violent than the war. The live-free-or-die rebels who’d dedicated their lives to fighting a police state would become its police. The government might have lists of “terrorists” to arrest or execute. As a journalist, Aubrey’s name could end up on it.

  “The protests are getting bigger and more violent,” the reporter said. “One of these days, they’re going to storm the statehouse and string up the governor. Left-wing militias might join in and stage a coup. If that happens, we could end up with another civil war inside the city. I hate to think what the Guard would do.”

  “Another civil war? How?”

  “The Centrists run Indy. Liberals, moderates, most of the trade unions. They own the IMPD. They want things to go back to the way they were. The Leftists include socialists and anarchists, mostly young people. They want a revolution, and their numbers are getting bigger every day. The Left and Center hate each other almost as much as they do the rebels.”

  Gabrielle listened, hoping to learn, but hardly understood any of it. “What a mess. I can see why you’re upset.”

  “I’m upset because I’m babysitting when I should be covering the march!”

  Unused to being yelled at, Gabrielle blinked in surprise. “I’m so sorry.”

  Then anger boiled in her chest. How was this her fault? She was tired of everybody here treating her like the enemy.

  “Wait a minute,” she snapped. “I didn’t ask you to do anything.”

  “Three days doing nothing at city hall. The one good thing I have in my shitty life is my job, and I can’t do it!”

  “I’m here to help the children,” Gabrielle shot back. “I don’t want to be in this horrible place. I’m trying to help your children and nobody seems to care!”

  Everywhere she went, people demanded her help but then got in her way. She turned away to hide frustrated tears.

  Aubrey gripped the wheel. After a while, she said, “Hey, UN.”

  Gabrielle raised her hand, not trusting herself to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” the reporter said.

  “Okay.”

  “I want to help. I’m not mad at you, all right?”

  “Thank you,” Gabrielle said in a dull voice.

  “Think about the Peace Office. You have friends here.”

  “They think I’m a tourist.”

  “You have to be patient.”

  The reporter slowed down as she approached the bridge with its deadly patches of ice. Light flashed on the horizon. Distant booms.

  “Now pay attention to everything you see,” Aubrey added while they crossed the river. “I won’t be able to help you forever. You have to learn your way around.”

  Graffitied houses. Burned-out cars, homes scarred with bullet holes or smashed by mortars. Masking tape x-ing windows that were still intact. Smoke in the air.

  Pay attention. Right. Gabrielle had already seen far more than she wanted. The more she saw of this powder keg of hunger and lawlessness, the more she hated it.

  And in the middle of this devastation, clothes dried on lines. A woman bicycled down the street. A group of men broke down a yard fence for firewood. A young couple stapled a giant plastic sheet over a broken window. Kids raced around a playground under the protective gaze of soccer moms with handguns.

  She said, “How can people still live here right in the middle of the fighting?”

  Aubrey shrugged. “They have nowhere else to go.”

  Haughville was a largely African American working-class neighborhood. About seven thousand people lived here before the war. Most left to escape the war. The ones who stayed were the poorest of the poor.

  Less than a mile away to the west, rebel forces occupied Fairfax.

  It was a war without warriors, fought by people who a year ago worked in offices and stores and factories. The real warriors had barricaded themselves at the airport.

  “Maybe the National Guard should do something,” Gabrielle said.

  “They are doing something,” Aubrey said. “They’re staying out of the way and making sure foreign aid gets into the city.”

  “I mean they should stop the fighting.”

  “Whose side should they take? Our governor hopes the Reds win and end the war in Indiana. But he won’t order the Guard to shoot Americans. Not because he’s a nice guy, no. He knows the rank and file might refuse the order. They might split apart and start shooting each other. Somebody might even shoot him.”

  “So that’s why the US Army hasn’t done anything either.”

  The reporter parked the SUV on the street outside a clinic. She killed the engine and turned in her seat.

  “Last spring, they invaded a piece of Maryland as an experiment,” she said. “The majority welcomed martial law. Things quieted down. Then both the Reds and the Blues started fighting them. The military fought insurgencies overseas for the past twenty years and didn’t win. They can’t here either, and they know it.”

  “I get it,” said Gabrielle.

  As a Canadian, she had always found the vast power of the US military comforting if a little alarming. It had seemed so simple to her that it could stop the fighting. Understanding this conflict was like peeling a giant onion. Aubrey had called the war complicated, but that was turning out to be an understatement.

  “The military’s options are to stage a coup and fight both sides, pick a side and shoot the other, or do exactly what they’re doing, which is wait for a political solution.” Aubrey took a deep breath. “Okay, are you ready for this?”

  Gabrielle took in the sight of the clinic and steeled herself for the horrors she knew awaited her inside. “I just want to know. How did it come to this?”

  “I have a simple theory.”

  “What’s that?”

  The reporter said, “Too many people believed their own bullshit.”

  Gabrielle absorbed this and nodded. “Maybe you should make that the title of your book.”

  Aubrey shot her another look that turned into an approving smile. “Nice.” She lef
t the car and started walking toward the clinic.

  Gabrielle glanced at her phone, heavy with texts from her parents asking her to come home. She returned it to her pocket. Then she got out.

  FIFTEEN

  Hannah and Maria followed Sabrina downstairs, where they put on jackets and layers to go outside. Red braids swinging, the soldier led them down the street to a garage, where militiawomen practiced shooting at a range they’d set up.

  A deafening bang made Hannah flinch at the entrance. Her eyes began to tear up. “Vivian said I have to peel potatoes.”

  “You have to know how to handle a gun safely and shoot,” Sabrina said. “If you don’t, you can’t be in Free Women.”

  Hannah looked down the street. Just cold and emptiness and garbage.

  “I hate guns too,” Sabrina added. “I used to want them banned. Come on.”

  Hannah followed her and Maria into the garage. Fighters stood around talking and aiming rifles at distant cardboard targets.

  Sabrina handed the girls a pair of cotton balls. “Put these in your ears.”

  When the soldier offered her a rifle, Hannah shrank away from it. She pictured her mother slammed against the asphalt. She wiped at her watery eyes. “I don’t want to kill people.”

  She hated the war and wanted to escape somewhere safe, but there was no way out. The war was everywhere, and even kids had to learn to kill. It would go on forever, and she would grow up fighting it.

  “You’re too young to fight,” Sabrina assured her. “You won’t be in combat. But you need to be able to defend yourself. This isn’t about killing, it’s about empowerment. After we win this war, we can put away the guns for good.”

  Hannah braced herself and took the rifle. It had a wood stock and wasn’t as heavy as it appeared. The barrel shined with oil.

  Too much power. The power over life and death. Her stomach went queasy.

  She thought, I could kill somebody with this.

  Sabrina said, “Do you know who Jay Gould was?”

  Hannah stared bug-eyed at the militiawoman and wagged her head.

  “He was a railroad baron. Richer than God and didn’t like to share. You know what he once said? ‘I can hire one half of the working class to kill the other half.’”

  “Okay.”

  “This war isn’t about impeachment,” Sabrina told her. “It’s about whether government is allowed to tell us what we can worship, what we can say, what we can do with our bodies. About whether a handful of billionaires and corporations get the whole pie. About whether the mercenaries they hired to fight their war can turn America into a dictatorship. Understand?”

  Hannah didn’t follow any of it. “Okay.”

  “When you pull the trigger, always think about why you’re shooting. And shoot to kill, because the main reason you’re shooting is to stay alive. Are you ready?”

  She looked down at the weapon in her hands. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  “Pull the bolt handle back,” the soldier instructed. “Hold it there while you push down on that button. Set the safety. Now the gun won’t shoot.”

  Sabrina taught her how to remove the magazine and load a fresh one. The magazine clicked as it locked in place. Hannah gripped the bolt handle and pushed the lock button again, allowing the bolt to slide forward.

  She had a little more control over it, but still the weapon seemed to be a living thing with a mind of its own. It wants to shoot something.

  “Finger off the trigger,” Sabrina said. “Now let’s go shoot.”

  The militia fighters stepped to the side. Hannah eyed the target, a tall sheet of cardboard onto which somebody had painted a crude caricature of President Marsh.

  “You can do it, girl,” a fighter said.

  Sabrina laid gentle hold of Hannah’s shoulders and steered her into position. “We’re aiming at that target right in front of us. Is it safe to shoot?”

  Hannah didn’t see any living person in the target area. “I think so.”

  “It either is or isn’t.”

  “I don’t see anybody. It’s safe.”

  “Line up the front sight with the back sight. Breathe in as you do it. Flick the safety off. Yes. Now breathe out nice and slow and squeeze the—”

  The gun bucked against her shoulder with a loud bang. Eyes clenched shut, she staggered back, barrel aimed at the ceiling. The rifle fired again before Sabrina grabbed the barrel.

  A puff of dust wafted at the sandbags stacked behind the targets. She’d missed.

  Sabrina took the rifle from her. “Eyes open next time. And brace yourself against the recoil. For every action, there is an equal, opposite reaction.”

  “I told you I can’t do this.”

  “You can if you practice.” Sabrina pulled the bolt, locked it, and set the safety. “Watch how Maria does it. Show her, Maria.”

  The girl readied her own rifle, a big, ugly gun with a curved magazine. She breathed out. Her body rocked as the rifle cracked in her hand. She steadied herself and fired again.

  “Good shooting,” one of the fighters said.

  Maria beamed as she secured her rifle. Hannah burned with embarrassment. She wished she weren’t so afraid. She wanted the empowerment Sabrina promised.

  “The gun she was shooting is called an AK-47,” the soldier said. “It’s what you’ll be using after you master the basics with the…”

  The women froze as another fighter entered the garage. They watched her cross the room and dump her gear in a corner. Then they waited as if expecting her to offer some advice or words of encouragement. Instead, the woman drank deep from a water bottle. Her dirty camouflage uniform fit her like a second skin.

  “Who’s that?” Hannah whispered.

  “Grace Kim,” said Sabrina. “She’s been gone awhile.”

  “Why is everybody looking at her?”

  “She won the bronze in shooting at three hundred meters at the Olympics. Now she’s our best sniper. Thirteen kills. A couple thousand to go, and the siege will be over.”

  The beautiful athlete struck Hannah as the embodiment of cool. Though petite, she had a big presence, tough and poised like the policewoman at Victory Field, graceful as a cat.

  Being a sniper meant being strong, alone, and safe.

  Grace held up two fingers. The fighters grinned.

  “Make that fifteen kills,” Sabrina said.

  The sniper noticed Hannah staring. She smiled back, though her eyes seemed sad.

  “Can I try again?” Hannah said.

  Sabrina handed her the rifle and began to repeat the instructions, but Hannah remembered. She readied the .22, braced her legs, and leaned into the stock. Breathed in as she lined up her sights, breathed out just before she fired.

  The bullet snapped through the target over President Marsh’s shoulder and struck the sandbags.

  She frowned.

  “Very good,” Sabrina said.

  “But I missed!”

  “You missed the man, but you hit the target. Much better.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Hannah lined up the sights again and fired. “I don’t see the hole.”

  The soldier gave her an approving nod. “You hit him in the shoulder.”

  Maria bounced on her feet. “I knew you could do it.”

  Hannah shot the Marsh caricature four out of the next six times. Then her arms grew tired and she began to miss. She secured the rifle.

  She couldn’t imagine herself hurting a living person. Still, the shooting gave her a feeling of power she’d never had. Empowerment, Sabrina promised. Yes.

  She beamed at Grace Kim. How did I do?

  The sniper smiled again, though there was still no real happiness in it.

  SIXTEEN

  Outside the clinic, trash cans overflowed with bloody bandages. A row of bodies lay on the frozen ground. Militia rushed a limping comrade into the building. Heart-stopping booms pounded in the north, thuds Gabrielle felt in her feet.
<
br />   Screams poured out as she went inside.

  The wounded filled the lobby. A soldier with a mangled arm. A woman blinded by flying glass. A trembling teenager lying on her side, leg transfixed by a long sliver of metal.

  Gabrielle had steeled herself for the worst but crumpled under the visual onslaught. She stopped just a few steps inside and hugged her ribs. She wanted to help but didn’t know what to do, where she might even begin.

  Aubrey produced her notepad and moved forward to question one of the nurses. Gabrielle knew the reporter thought she was bearing witness, but she was wrong. Bearing witness required horror. It required nothing short of rage.

  How could anybody see this without screaming?

  The reporter threaded her way back. “You okay?”

  Gabrielle stared at her with wide eyes. “Are you?”

  “The doctor who runs this place is operating but says we can go see him now.” Again, those bright black eyes bored into hers, probing for cracks. “You know, it doesn’t get any prettier in the operating room.”

  The only way Gabrielle could help was to keep going. “Let’s see him.”

  Even the corridors were filled with people. Aubrey said they were Indy 300, Black Bloc, civilians, even a few rebels, all casualties from the Brickyard Crossing offensive in the north. It was hard to look at them and not picture what they were before. The militiawoman groaning from a gunshot wound, was she a housewife, a bank teller, a CEO? The twentysomething with his hand blown off, did he have big dreams, a girlfriend, savings for his first home? The war had erased everything and reset it to zero. It had reduced everyone to perpetrator, victim, or both.

  They found Dr. Walker in his office, where he could operate by daylight flooding the room through a large window behind his desk. With his gleaming round eyeglasses, the slim African American had a stern, professorial air about him.

  A soldier lay groaning on the desk while his comrade whispered encouragement and fed him liquor from an old Pepsi bottle. The room stank of rot.

  “You aren’t losing a limb,” Walker told him. “You’re gaining your life.”

  Gangrene had blackened the mangled foot. A nurse shaved the man’s shin and calf, prepping for amputation.