__________
"You realize the sun doesn't go down.It's just an illusion causedby the world spinning 'round."-- The Flaming Lips, "Do You Realize?"
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She didn't dream much anymore. Or if she did dream, she certainly didn't remember her dreams these days. Often she would wake in the middle of the night or early in the morning--jump awake, usually, from a sound that had startled her or from the familiar feeling of falling--and she would take a moment to remember where she was. Take a moment to familiarize herself. To let it all come back to her. The fear. The anxiety. The dread. The hiding.
She could remember that upon waking, but nothing in the way of her dreams. Those seemed lost to her. Lost as the thought that woke her this afternoon from her sudden, much-needed nap--a memory from long ago. A song that her dad had liked and that he used to play for her and her sister when they were both younger, riding together in his car--the three of them--coming back perhaps from a trip to the Area Club, or from a shopping excursion, or from fishing, or from a movie. Or from just wherever.
She thought of the song this afternoon upon waking, and she thought of her memories about the song. But she could not recall the song's name, or the band's name, or the song's chorus, or its lyrics.
She just remembered that the song existed. Which was enough, it seemed. That was all it took this afternoon to rouse her, to give her a reason to open her eyes, and a reason to wake up and to face the day.
There was the sound of gunshots off in the distance somewhere, echoing down the empty thoroughfare of Halsted Street. The sound of the repeated fire from an automatic rifle bounced and ricocheted off the sides of buildings and abandoned cars parked alongside the street. A siren blared somewhere not far away, its bleated warble rising and falling in the crisp air of late November. It was coming from up north, it sounded like. Somewhere in the direction of Greektown. But she couldn't be sure.
Directions were meaningless to her at this point, it seemed. Nothing was where it used to be--where it was supposed to be. And nothing made any sense.
"Are you really going today?"
She heard the voice before she noticed she wasn't alone in the room. It was Dara, her roommate. Of course it was. She wasn't alone.
More gunshots in the distance woke her up even more. The sound trailed along some distant valley of concrete, stone, steel, and glass in the world outside. The shattering of windows followed. Raised voices, yelling. The sound of vehicles roaring by (was that Taylor Street? Halsted?....) Pickup trucks most likely, with diesel engines rattling and with flags flapping behind in their beds. And riders huddled in the cold, bundled in the back of the trucks by the flags, all of them wearing warm hunting gear and all of them shouldering rifles, guns of all makes, RPGs, military-grade hardware.
This is what a coup looks like and sounds like, she thought to herself--her first real, coherent thought since her dreamless sleep. If it weren't so real she might have laughed.
"Yes," she answered Dara. "I'm going. Tonight. Once it's dark."
"Surely you're not thinking of going by yourself? You can't do that. I won't let you do that."
"You won't let me?"
Dara laughed quietly and moved to sit down on the bed beside her. She reached out softly. "You know what I mean."
Silence.
"Do you think it's even real?" Dara asked her. "The text from your dad, I mean. Do you think it's true?"
She got up from her bed. Dara's hand fell from her shoulder as she stepped in her fuzzy, pink socks to the window in their confined little dorm room. The University of Illinois at Chicago. A nexus of neighborhoods all around them--Maxwell Street to the south, Pilsen and Little Italy to the west, Greektown to the north, a thin wisp of new smoke withering overhead like a thread into the late November sky. Off to the south and east, Chinatown--it had been the first to fall in the days immediately after the election. The Chinese. The "Chinese Virus," as it had been labeled by some.
After the delicate days of waiting and wondering following the election, and after the new president had been officially declared the winner, that was when the problems started. And it had happened so fast. Militias. Violence. Chaos. The new president-elect and vice president-elect had been kidnapped, both of them, and murdered, piecemeal, all of it recorded on video and uploaded online. Gangland-style. Execution-style. Terrorist-style. Immediately the sanctioned murders had gone viral, as expected. "The better angels of our nature have fallen," the pundits moaned. And it seems, for once, they weren't wrong. Anger, hatred, viciousness was the rule of the day. The current, sitting president had been restored, all as if the election process had never happened. Because the election hadn't happened. None of it. Orwell had been right, as it turns out. And the death of a democracy was never pretty, history could tell you. The death of a republic. The death of a dream, a bold experiment that had lasted...for a while.
That was about the time the neighborhoods had begun to fall, one by one. And it had started with Chinatown--just blocks away, minutes away from them here on campus. An all-out war one night, it had sounded like, the dark city skyline lit up as if it were, ironically, the Chinese New Year. Explosions. Gun fire. Screaming. More explosions. And shooting. The CPD and the National Guard all caught off guard to the level of destruction, to the animosity of the violence and the genocide, to the frightening thoroughness of the planned revolution and takeover. Chinatown now lay under a thick, oily cloud of smoke--it was still burning, and this had been a week ago. Stories were filtering to them, hidden as they were in the dormitory on the UIC Courtyard. Stories of dead bodies piled up on Cermak, right at the Gateway of Chinatown. Corpses of Chinese-Americans piled up, rotting, reeking, burning.
She was Chinese. Adopted, both her and her sister, when they were only 11 months old. Adopted by white parents and brought to live in the United States, in Illinois, in the suburbs just outside of Chicago. America was her home, the only home she could remember. She was an American citizen. But she was also Chinese. And for the first time ever, in the recent unfolding of days and weeks, she found herself genuinely scared for her life. Her father had sent her a text late last night--it was his number at least on the other end of the message.
But was it really from him? she wondered. Who knows anymore? It was so short and so abrupt, she couldn't read into the mysterious words any of his usual flippant, sarcastic personality. Was it really him who had sent it? She didn't know. And why was it so abbreviated and so rushed? Why so many typos? He would never write and send a text like that. Would he?
She didn't know the answers. And she didn't want to think about it.
The trains are running again but only tomorrow night.
Last train out of teh city at midnight, take it all the way
to the end. I wll meet you @ Joliet. Any way you can
get to the train station at LaSalle and Van Buren.Tomorrow! Be carefull. I love you....
And that was that. She did not know any more than that. She did not know if that text had in fact come from her father. She did not know if the trains were running again. She did not know if there was a train leaving tonight from LaSalle Street Station. She didn't know if it was real, any of it. She didn't know whether or not to trust it. She didn't know who or what to trust. She didn't know how she would get to the train station. And if she did, would the train be there? Would it be full? Would there be room for her? Was it all a trap, perhaps? Would the black, and silver, and white pickups--the flags hanging from the backs of their beds, coiled soundlessly like snakes at rest--be waiting for her once she showed up at the Metra station, diesel engines purring, sending out clouds of sweet-scented exhaust behind them? Is this how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper? Is this how her world ends? Is this real, any of it? Is it true? What is truth anymore anyway?
"Yes," she answered Dara. "I think it's real. My dad sent me that text. There is a train going out tonight, and I'm going to be on it. Somehow."
When darkness came it came fast. Streetlights had been shot out all along Halsted days ago. They had been huddling with some friends in the dorm at the time in a makeshift "panic room," of sorts, down in the basement by the washing machines when the gunfire had started on the streetlights. The requisite roar of the pickup trucks. Potshots at first. Howling. Shouting. Cursing. Laughter. The shooters must have been drinking before this, obviously. The dinging on metal of missed shots. The explosion of glass from direct hits. All around the campus now there was an inky, thick blanket of blackness that descended on them once the sun slid past the bare limbs of the trees and below the rooftops. This was a new kind of darkness.
They stayed in whenever they could, she and Dara, and their friends in the dorm. Of course there were emergency runs to the commissary on campus, to pick up some essentials--snack food, toiletries, other stuff, whatever they needed. More than anything trips like that were just an excuse to get away from the dorm room and the familiar hallway upstairs. But when they made their heroic mad dashes to the student union or to the commissary, they did it sparingly, and quickly, and always in pairs, at least. They never went alone, anywhere, the two of them, she and Dara. They had made it their practice anyway--before all of this--to never go anywhere without the other. This was common knowledge and accepted fact between the two of them. But now they really didn't go anywhere without the other. Now it was life or death. And so they stayed together.
Of course what no one talked about, ever--not her, not Dara, not any of their friends holed up with them for the time being on campus--was how long any of this was going to last. How much longer could they hide, like mice, in their dorm rooms in the middle of an obvious college campus in the middle of the city? How much longer before someone on campus forgot to turn off a light bulb at night and left a window burning to the city streets beyond--a flare marking their presence. A neon arrow pointing to their existence. The college would be the next target, then, left in a burning pile of rubble, like Chinatown, and Little Italy, and Greektown.
It was like checking off boxes, she knew, and they would be next. It was just a matter of time. They all knew it, even though no one would ever mention it in conversation. Maybe the revolutionist militias--these self-styled "New Patriots," as they had taken to calling themselves--hadn't forgotten about the college after all; maybe they knew about them hiding here, scuttling around, trying to be safe. Maybe it was the case that the gun-toting mobile armies simply hadn't worked their way to the campus yet. It's just a bunch of stupid fucking spoiled privileged college kids anyway. What the fuck are they going to do? We'll get to them in time. No worries.
How long could this last? How long could the food hold out? How long could their nerves hold out? Winter would be here soon. What if the heat got turned off? What if the water pipes froze? And what if the food ran out? How long could she do this? She didn't know, and she didn't want to know.
"So, you're really doing this?" This was from Diego, their friend from down the hall. He was in their room now, as he often was. "You're really going to try for the train station? Why?"
"Yes, I'm really doing this."
"Show him the text from your dad," Dara said.
She showed Diego the text from her dad.
"That is some crazy shit," he said, shaking his head. "I have a bad feeling about this. Seriously, girl. Come on. Do you hear and see how fucking crazy those maniacs are out there? Are you kidding me right now?"
"Well, I didn't say you had to go with me, did I?" she said.
"No. You didn't say that. But you need someone to go with you."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. I'm not letting you go out there alone. Not in this shit."
"I've been hearing that a lot lately."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Let me see what Will's doing tonight," Diego said. Will was Diego's roommate.
She laughed at that.
"What? You have a problem with Will?" Diego asked her.
"No, it's just I don't see him as the 'My hero' type. He may have to tear himself away from Call of Duty."
"Well, you're not going on this little jaunt of yours alone," Dara said, as if she were putting her foot down and speaking the law. "Do you have a better idea?"
She had to think for a moment. Her silence told the others that, no, in fact she didn't have a better idea.
"Besides," Diego said, "I know for a fact that Will can get his hands on a gun. Tonight. No questions asked. And you're going to need a gun."
"I have some questions about that," she said.
"Smartass," Diego said. "I said 'No questions asked.'"
"Oh, that was literal?" she said. "I thought that was, like...you know...just a cliche' phrase. Something you heard once in a movie."
"I'm trying to save this foolish little girl's life," Diego said to the room, "and listen to the way she talks to me."
"Whose gun is it?" she asked.
"Like I know? I think he said it was, like, his cousin's friend's gun, or his friend's cousin's gun... One of the two. Either way, it's a gun. Let me text him now. He can probably have it here, in your hands, within the hour. When are you leaving?"
"In a couple of hours."
"Do you really want a gun?" Dara asked her. "Have you ever shot one before?"
"No."
"Do you know how?"
She looked at Dara. "Take a look outside. How hard can it be?"
Dara laughed. Or tried to. "Girl.... Are you sure about this?"
She suddenly found that she couldn't answer that question.
"What kind of gun is that?" she asked Will. He had shown up at their room 30 minutes after Diego had texted him the request. That was fast. And now he unwrapped the gleaming silver pistol from a cloth that he carried it in. He unwrapped it lovingly almost. She watched Will's face as he did so. He was interesting.
"It's a Walther .22," he said, as if he knew what he was talking about. From the front pocket of his jeans he pulled out two clips for the gun. "These go with it. They slide in here, at the base of the handle."
"Where did you get this?" She looked at him, as if she had never seen him before. "And how did you come by this so quickly?"
He looked at her and smirked. "That's really your main question right now? Are you shitting me?" He was cute, when he wanted to be.
She continued looking at him, watching his mouth as it moved, watching the fluttering movements of his hands--like a nervous bird in flight, almost--as he explained to her the workings of the Walther .22. She paid attention to what he was saying and the way he was saying it, or tried to at least.
"It's going to have a bit of a kick for a little girl like you," he said. "That is if you fire it." He paused and watched her. "And hopefully you won't have to. I mean, of course you won't have to. I'll be with you."
"What?" she asked him.
"I'm going with you."
"No, don't. Please stay here. Please be safe. You don't have to go. No one has to go with me."
"No, there's no way I'm staying here, knowing you're out there, wandering the city."
"Well, I wouldn't exactly put it that way, 'wandering the city.' I know where I'm going."
"I don't care. I'm going with you."
She looked at him, and after a moment of thinking about it she smiled at him. A little. "Okay," she said.
It was later that evening. The hours were drawing on. Temperatures were dropping. Shadows were deepening outside. Sounds of explosions from homemade propane-bombs, and the rumble of gunfire, and sirens, and the return of gunfire. Shouting somewhere in the distance. Followed by more explosions--one of the tank-bombs exploded just blocks away from the college, from the dormitory, close enough to rattle the window in her dorm room. She was packing a small nylon shoulder bag with some of her belongings, some of her things, essentials, stuff that might tide her over for the days ahead. Something light that she could carry easily and run with, if necessary. Anything. She didn't even know what to bring with her.
There was so little she knew. So many uncertainties. So much in the shadows, so much that couldn't be seen. So much that asked her to rely merely on faith, or on blind luck, or on chance. She was uncomfortable with everything she didn't know, but she knew she didn't have a choice.
"I feel like there's something I should say." Again the voice behind her. As always, Dara. She loved Dara. They had quickly formed a bond, like sisters almost. And this hurt.
She turned to her roommate. Poor Dara.... She knew what this was doing. To both of them. But there was nothing she could say or do to help make things easier or better. This was one of those wounds that ended up cutting both ways.
"Come here," she said to Dara. She momentarily dropped the bag she had been packing, and she opened up her arms. Dara came to her, then, and let herself be wrapped in an embrace. It felt good. They both needed this moment. They were inseparable, that was true enough. And yet she was going, she was leaving, and there was no changing her mind on that. She had to go. And Dara was staying.
"You don't have to say anything."
She could feel Dara starting to cry.
"Don't...." she said quietly. "You're going to make me cry, too."
They both laughed, sort of, a nervous, anxious, upset sort of laugh, the kind of laugh that sounds forced and fake, the kind of laugh that only barely masks the fact that just underneath its surface is a cry.
"I want to go with you," Dara said. "But I can't. But you know I want to go with you...."
"You can't go with me."
"I would...."
"No, you can't. You need to stay here. Wait for your family to get ahold of you. Because they will."
"No, you can't. You need to stay here. Wait for your family to get ahold of you. Because they will."
"I don't know."
"They will. Just give them time."
"That's not even it," Dara said to her. "The biggest part, the main part, is that I'm scared. I'm scared at the thought of leaving. Hell, I'm scared of the thought of staying. But I'm even more scared at the thought of leaving." She wiped at her eyes. "I think I'm losing my mind. There, I said it. I didn't think I would say it to you, and I said it: I'm scared of leaving here. Of going out there. And yet I'm watching you leave...."
"Don't...."
"What kind of friend does that make me?"
"Shut up," she said to Dara. "Stop it. Don't talk like that. I love you. Your family will reach you. I know they will. You have to be here for them, when they get ahold of you. Maybe they'll come get you."
"Why haven't you heard from your sister?" Dara asked. "Or your mom? How come they haven't called you or texted you? How come they haven't made an effort to come get you? When was the last time you talked to either one of them? I don't understand where everybody is...." She tried to laugh again but once more found that she couldn't. "Did everybody just forget about us here?"
"Why haven't you heard from your sister?" Dara asked. "Or your mom? How come they haven't called you or texted you? How come they haven't made an effort to come get you? When was the last time you talked to either one of them? I don't understand where everybody is...." She tried to laugh again but once more found that she couldn't. "Did everybody just forget about us here?"
"No. They haven't forgotten," she said, more to convince herself than anything. "They're trying. It's just difficult for them out there right now." She glanced briefly out the window. "God only knows what it's like out there for them.... But I know they're all right. I know we'll hear from them. Like I heard from my dad."
"Yeah...." Dara whispered.
"You have to believe that."
"I know. I do."
"I know. I do."
"I love you, girl. You know that."
"I know...." Dara smiled at her. "And you and Will are really going?"
She looked at Dara. The two held their gaze for a moment. This was real. "Yes," she said. "We're going soon. We'll be all right. I promise you."
They hugged each other. Tightly. Neither one of them wanted to let go.
"Tell your dad I say, 'Hey.'" Dara whispered to her.
"I will."
They left by the side door of the Courtyard dormitory, she and Will, the two of them bundled up warm as they stepped out into the cold late-November night air. If they weren't wearing face masks you could have seen their breath. It was good to hide such a thing, now. The steam of their breathing could have possibly given them away if they weren't careful.
"These masks are finally good for something," Will said quietly as they stepped outside into the turnaround cul-de-sac by the side exits. "Who knew?"
They moved to the corner of the building, Will in the lead with his pistol drawn. He halted and slowly peeked around the edge of the building out onto Halsted Street. He looked to his right and to his left--down south Halsted and up north Halsted--and then held his finger up to his lips, hidden behind his mask. She had to imagine him making a "ssssshhhh" sound to her, and then he waggled two of his fingers at her, motioning her forward.
It was all she could do to not say something about Call of Duty. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. He's helping you, she had to remind herself.
"It's just a couple of blocks north," he said to her, whispering. "We'll come to Van Buren, then, and cut to the right. Head to the east."
"I know that Will," she said. He's trying to help you.
"I know you know. Just stay close to me."
They headed out, slowly. Cautiously. Always watching, always listening. The sound of pickup trucks, their flags flapping in the cold air, their diesel engines always roaring. The sudden glare of headlights coming from behind them or turning in front of them. They were watchful for everything, jumping at shadows. Careful to move slowly and quietly through the darkened streets. It was slow going. She didn't realize how slow their progress was going to be. She thought of her dad's text to her. The train left at midnight, he had told her. Did they finally get around to leaving the dorm at the right time? Should they have left sooner? She hadn't accounted for how slow their going might be in the dark and the cold of night, mindful of everything they thought they saw and heard. Were they going to make the train station? Would they be late, she and Will? Would she miss the train?
"Did we leave on time?" she whispered to him. "Should we have left sooner?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean are we going to miss the train? This is slow going," she said. "And it's so cold."
"We'll get there," he said to her. "We'll make it."
"And then what?" she asked him. "What are you going to do once we get there?"
"Well," he said, "something tells me that whatever's going to happen it isn't going to be the way they called it back in Nha Trang...."
She looked at him. "What?"
"Nothing...." he said. "It's just a line from a movie. A good movie, though."
"Are you fucking kidding me with this right now? What is wrong with you?"
He laughed, quietly. "I'm joking," he said. "Take it easy. Jesus."
"Will you stop? I can't even...."
"And here we are," Will said. They stopped. "Van Buren." He motioned with the drawn pistol to the green street sign above them. "That was easy. Piece of cake."
"Are we ready?" she asked.
"So far so good. I'm ready when you are," he said. "Wait, though..." He took off one of his gloves and reached into his jeans pocket. He pulled out one of the clips for the Walther .22. He slipped the clip neatly into the handle of the pistol, as if he had done it all his life. It clicked into place. The sound seemed loud, magnified in the stillness of the frozen air. He tried not to look at her. "Don't say anything."
"What did you just do?" she said to him. "What just happened?"
"I said not to say anything."
"Are you joking me?" she said. "Do you think this is one of your games, Will?"
"I forgot."
"Oh my God...."
He sighed, loudly. "Maybe you'd like it back in your cell, your highness?"
"Please stop," she said.
"I'm sorry."
Silence.
"No, I'm sorry," she said. "I mean... Thank you...."
"Don't mention it," he said. "You're welcome. No way I'm letting you do this alone tonight."
"You didn't answer my question, though."
"What question was that?"
"Once we get to LaSalle Street Station, what then? What about you? What are you going to do?"
"Once we get to LaSalle Street Station, what then? What about you? What are you going to do?"
He paused for a moment. He looked around the two of them in the darkened city street, standing alone at the corner of Halsted and Van Buren. "And then I give you the pistol," he said to her. "And I say 'Goodbye' to you. And I kiss you, if you'll let me. And then I make my way back. Or try to...." He rethought that. "I will make it back."
"No," she said. "No, you're not doing that. Come with me."
"No," he said. "I can't do that."
It was her turn to pause. She looked up at him in the dark. She could make out his eyes. They were kind eyes. She liked them. "Then you'll keep your pistol. It's yours, anyway...."
"It's actually not mine..."
"Shut up. It's yours. You keep it. You'll need it."
"No. You're taking it with you." He paused and looked at her. "Not that you'll need it, you know. You'll be fine. But.... You're taking the gun with you. I'll be okay."
"My hero..." she said, and tried to laugh but was surprised to suddenly find tears, cold, in her eyes.
They hugged each other then, standing there in the dark at the crossroads of the two streets. They held each other for as long as they felt they could. They knew, both of them, there would not be a time when they could do it again.
"It's okay...." he whispered. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," she said. "Are you?"
"Yes. I think so."
"All right then," she said. "Let's go."
The two of them took off running east from Halsted Street, staying close together, their breath coming in short little gasps, their face masks pulling restrictively at their mouths, their legs like frozen fence posts with the cold November wind cutting around them. They ran, not gracefully but steadily, into the dark, the two of them, alone, in the direction of the train station at LaSalle and Van Buren.
