Chapter 8 Safe House Red
Safe House Red
Treason against the United States shall consist only in levying war against them…
Our van jerks to a stop, and my squad hustles into the afternoon light.
The air reeks of smoke and gunpowder, and shots pop in a metallic wheeze through the skies.
Cherry Street had been a trendy nightlife spot prior to the war, and the road is narrow, with the abandoned shells of bars and restaurants standing on either side—the ghosts of normalcy.
Safe House Red used to be a glamorous luxury apartment building.
Now it’s on fire.
Several blocks down the street, black smoke billows into the sky. Even from our distance, I can see the residents jumping from windows and balconies, trying to escape the flames.
My squad is meant to keep the combat soldiers armed, but in the mayhem, that goal melts to the concrete beneath our feet.
Sergeant Taylor whips around. “Change of plans. Keep safe. Stay together. We head to Safe House Red to evacuate civilians, got it?”
Time slows as I peer around, the world tilting while the colors shift. It takes on that darkened texture, that film that tells me this isn’t real.
Not anymore.
But I have been here before. I didn’t like how it ended.
Maybe I can change it this time.
Stray bullets ricochet off brick and metal. Glass shatters as soldiers dive for cover. The brick face of one building explodes, rattling my teeth. Debris sprinkles over us in a deadly rain.
“That way,” Sergeant Taylor shouts, pointing toward a blown-out Mexican restaurant.
“Stay together!” Rodrigo yells as we run.
Pistol in one hand, blade in the other, I follow Rodrigo inside the building, then scramble over the bar for cover. Tekqua plops next to me, breathing hard.
“Assess your surroundings,” Sergeant Taylor says. “Where’s the closest exit?”
Daniela pops up to peer over the bar and through the front window. “I think there’s a squad of Hunters across the street.”
Princeton and I lift our heads. The world outside is a mess. Soldiers dart everywhere, some brawling in the street, others jumping for cover. The jewelry store across from us is missing its door. Inside, a slew of men in Hunter black aim firearms at Defiants.
“We can’t just sit here,” Tekqua says. “We have to do something. They’re burning alive!”
“We need to get out of here,” Daniela says, crawling on all fours to a crumbling wall near the back corner of the restaurant. We follow.
In the alley outside, a Defiant jogs past. “There’s about twenty of them in the gastropub down the street. Safe House Red is done.”
Done? What does that mean, done?
The seven of us slip behind a trattoria and press our backs to the brick. An explosion tears open a nail salon nearby.
“Fuck!” Rodrigo throws his hands out to protect us.
“We need cover,” Sergeant Taylor says. “Everyone armed? Stay together!”
We sneak along the wall single file. At the building’s edge is an open street with no cover. The parking lot of a Catholic church spreads out wide on the other side. Sergeant Taylor assesses our surroundings. At the sharp jerk of his head, we follow.
At the corner, Tekqua squeezes my hand. “Stay with me if you can.”
We take off at a run. Bullets sail our way, chinking through abandoned cars and bouncing off the concrete.
Together, we jump through the broken glass into the pub.
Overturned tables and chairs transform the place into an obstacle course.
We dart through the maze, the kitchen, and out the back door into a small parking lot.
I’d just set my foot on the asphalt when—
“Get down!”
Sergeant Taylor, Rodrigo, and Tekqua fire their weapons toward a gourmet burger shop, and a half dozen Hunters fire back. Something ricochets off an air conditioner unit and embeds in Mahmoud’s leg.
“Agh!” He staggers backward.
I raise my gun, and with a couple lucky shots, snag one Hunter in the pelvis. Princeton and Sergeant take out another.
“Right there!” one Hunter yells. “Defiants twelve o’clock!”
My legs have never moved faster. Past a pizzeria. Across a side street. Behind a sub shop. We topple into an empty building next door.
Mahmoud slides down a wall. I lift his pant leg. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from his calf. I yank it out, and he hisses.
Time slows again, and I take the moment to stare at his face.
He’s right here in front of me. Alive.
They all are.
I want to tell them to stop, to go back. It’s not worth the sacrifice.
But my mouth is stuck, and nothing comes out.
In slow motion, Mahmoud grimaces at the pain in his leg. Rodrigo confers with Sergeant Taylor. Daniela looks down on Mahmoud, her bottom lip between her teeth. Princeton checks his weapon.
And Tekqua.
Tekqua is looking at me.
Bright gaze. Hard mouth. Determined brow.
I want to reach for her, to hug her.
My arms won’t move.
“Alright, squad,” Sergeant Taylor says as time resumes. “Let’s regroup.”
Outside the small space, another explosion rocks the street, close enough to shatter the front windows of our building. The coffee shop across the way is pandemonium, the fight spilling into the street.
Screams for help rise above the bullets and explosions.
“We push now,” Sergeant Taylor barks. “Hit ’em hard!”
No, I think. We can’t go in there.
But it’s no use.
Weapons in hand, we burst into the fray. Inside the shop, Hunters outnumber Defiants two to one. They fight with hands and knives, their firearms likely discarded or empty. Bodies litter the floor.
Two Hunters corner one soldier. He raises his hands to surrender, and one Hunter sinks a blade into his stomach while the other laughs and spits in his face.
I shoot them both.
Then I run, barely skidding around the corner to the bathroom before the bullets chase me. I try to sneak a peek at the fight, but my gaze falls instead on a grisly sight.
Bodies hang from the ceiling. At least a dozen, stripped bare, with Brotherhood Crosses cut into their backs.
Bloody Brotherhood Crosses, meaning they were carved while the victims were still alive, while their hearts still pumped blood to the injuries. These are residents of Safe House Red. An old man. A female amputee. Two—no, three—children.
If I had anything in my stomach, I would puke it all out.
This isn’t just cruel.
This… this is atrocious.
Gunshots jerk me back to the present. Princeton enters my field of vision, retreating from a Hunter who has him at gunpoint. My heart throbs twice in my chest, and I rush forward. Gun raised, I watch the Hunter’s eyes widen.
“Wait—”
My bullet snags his throat.
“Thanks,” Princeton wheezes.
The word has barely left his mouth when Rodrigo shouts, “On your right!”
Two Hunters have firearms trained on Princeton and me. “Fucking traitors!” they spit.
My brain sticks on that word.
Traitors.
I’m not the traitor. They are. They’d declared war against the United States and destroyed it. How could they not see that?
Sergeant Taylor leaps onto one, and his bullet goes wide. Princeton and I duck as Rodrigo darts in front of us.
The second bullet finds a home in his chest.
I scream.
I’d known it was coming, but still, I scream.
The rest of the battle fades away as I crawl to Rodrigo and take his face in my hands.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
“Rodrigo!”
His eyes fix unseeing on a point above my head.
“Wake up!” I shake his shoulder even though I know it’s pointless. He won’t wake up.
Princeton lays a hand on my back. “Sophia, he’s gone.”
I look up at him.
So are you, I want to say. You’re all gone, and you left me here.
Colors swirl, and I think I might be crying.
The dream pulled apart at the edges, though I fought to hang on to it. It wasn’t a good memory, but it was the last time we were all together. Rodrigo had been alive, and then he just…wasn’t. A moment in time. A split-second decision. His entire life, distilled to nothing.
He’d died saving my life.
When the tears came for Rodrigo, they flowed in torrents.
It was like a jagged piece of glass had been inserted into my heart.
It hurt to breathe, to swallow, to exist. Only now did I recognize the normalcy of that reaction.
I was still whole and unbroken, a stranger to heartbreak.
Rodrigo’s death was the first time I suffered even a hint of the pain I was capable of feeling.
The naivety of those who have never known grief was a beautiful thing, I thought.
A little like a snowflake—unique, but fragile.
Once destroyed, it could never be recreated the same way.
If someone had tried to explain to my innocent self how it would feel to lose Rodrigo so suddenly, so violently, I wouldn’t have believed them.
When it happened, I thought my heart would never heal, and I had no concept that things could ever be worse.
I was so naive.
On the evening of that battle, I sat on the floor of the common room, using Mom’s legs as a backrest while she stroked her fingers through my curls.
Tekqua remained a comforting presence nearby, her hand squeezing mine every so often.
After a time, the dulcet tones of a guitar thrummed through the room.
At first jumbled, the chords gave way to a song I recognized.
Tears in Heaven sprinkled over my consciousness, and liquid filled my eyes once more. The chord progression raised goosebumps on my arms. Above me, Mom hummed the tune. I joined in the lyrics, as did many others. When I craned my neck toward the guitarist, I found Adam Ambrose’s grieving face.
Adam, who thrived on camaraderie, who fostered unconditional companionship amongst us all, did what he did best: he brought us together again. The song filled the room—his guitar and our voices. Tekqua squeezed my hand and didn’t let go. Mom laid her cheek on my crown. Dad squeezed my shoulder.
The music played on.
It had been a terrible day, and yet, I longed for it now. Cheeks wet, I turned over in bed and forced myself to go back to sleep. In my dreams, at least they were alive. My dreams, it seemed, were the only safe spaces left.