Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO ASHLYN’S SKIN
What an extraordinary moment in time and here you are, sunk right down into the middle of it. For once in your life, you are part of something so much bigger than yourself it boggles the mind. And, for once, you are sharing such a moment with a guy who believes exactly the same way you do.
For once you are powerful, Ashlyn,
and you carry yourself that way.
For once other people take one look
and hurry out of your path.
You and Silas are like Bonnie and Clyde, a pair of misfits representing a chapter of history that can never be rewritten. Those two went on a cross-country crime spree, and at the time were feared or revered, depending on what side of the bank counter you were on. Later, they became folk heroes, and that’s what you are, or assume yourself to be.
Hopefully today won’t end the same way for you and Silas, though. You’d much prefer not being mowed down by a hail of bullets.
Here you are, on your way to the University of Arizona mall, along with hundreds of like-minded people. You’ve been to that grassy strip before, for the annual Tucson Book Festival. Reading is your secret pleasure, and the chance to meet some of your favorite authors at a free event was almost as exciting as this. Almost.
But the festivities today have nothing to do with writers or publishers hawking their wares. The reading materials floating around will be calls to action and invitations to join one cause or another.
You’re already part of a movement.
Prepare to flaunt it.
Ever since Friday night, when you learned about the protest from Silas, your excitement has built steadily. You’ve barely slept or eaten. Well, you ate plenty of tacos in Nogales on Saturday evening. Enough to fuel you for a couple of days, and that’s a very good thing considering the relative lack of edibles at Aunt Lou’s.
On the ride over from Tim’s, you start feeling a little shaky, however. “Any chance we could drive-through somewhere? I’m not sure I can make it all day without something.”
Silas looks at you, notices the way your hands, resting on your legs, quiver. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I had some cereal yesterday before I went to Tim’s.”
“Not cool, Ashlyn. You have to eat.” The concern in his voice is genuine. “You’re not, like, dieting, are you?”
That elicits an actual giggle. Weird. You don’t giggle. Ever.
“Dude, the only dieting I do is the kind forced on me by a parental figure who goes grocery shopping twice a month. If it wasn’t for the free lunch program, I’d never eat anything ‘fresh,’ or at least as fresh as that gets.”
“I’ll buy you breakfast.”
Fast-food sandwich, cheap fuel, which is fine by you. He buys it with change. All quarters.
“You have a mint in your bedroom?”
“Nope. Just a stash I sometimes tap into.”
You eat on the move, and are picking the crumbs out of your teeth when Silas parks on a quiet neighborhood street several blocks from U of A. There are lots of ways in, and the one he’s chosen is a direct route to the mall, the heart of the campus.
As he extracts the guns from beneath the seat, he looks at you curiously. “How did you talk Tim into loaning you the Bushmaster?”
“I told him when you dump me he could be next in line.”
Not exactly the truth, but you’re not anxious to confess that you gave Tim a hand job, with the promise of something more in the future, right there in that secret chamber behind the encyclopedia. Whether or not you’ll fulfill that vow is debatable, but getting to carry this crazy-cool pistol was worth dealing with a palmful of semen.
More than worth it. You’ll see.
Silas tugs you into his arms, kisses you like he really, really means it. “He’ll have to wait. In fact, he’d have to fight me. I plan to keep you around for quite a while. That is, if you want me to.”
You do, and that’s exactly what you tell him before strapping the Bushmaster into its underarm holster, which actually rests on your rib cage. Someday you want to fire it. That would be a trip. But for now it’s all about the show, and this Carbon 15 is hot to look at, and you look even hotter with it attached to you.
Unlike Silas, whose much less obvious pistol rides on his hip, you choose not to carry a club. They’re nothing more than hefty sticks, and your minimal upper-body strength would render one pretty much useless. You do accept the offer of a helmet and goggles, however. Head and eye protection is a very good idea.
The mall is a long corridor, with sod in the middle and sidewalks on either side. The stadium, where the rally itself is taking place, is at the far end. It’s fenced, and getting inside required preregistration. Participants must produce wristbands to make it beyond the barricades. Of course, a few rabble-rousers will have acquired the green, white, and red passes, but no weapons are allowed, and security is checking bags.
“See your mom anywhere?” you ask Silas, who’s squinting in that direction.
“No. But she’s there somewhere.”
There might be a lot more people gathered in the stadium, a strong show of support for immigrants, legal or not, but your crowd is ten times more passionate about its own agenda—white lives matter. That passion is evident, loud, and definitely armed.
A line of cops in riot gear is stationed mid-grass. Unreasonably, the alt-right has been moved to the left. Actually, considering the stadium is on the right, it makes perfect sense that counterprotesters, the so-called antifascists, are positioned on that sidewalk.
Government and history are fascinations of yours, so you find some recent terminologies—antifascist, for instance—interesting. You consider yourself a nationalist, someone who believes in a strong national identity. But fascism? Living under a dictator’s rule is definitely not your idea of a good time.
You also welcome the term “alternative right”, the ultraconservative umbrella for organizations gathered on the protest side here today. Some skew way libertarian, others push closer to the Ku Klux Klan or even the Nazism that you eschew, but all agree their white European heritage is in danger. You’re not sure you agree one hundred percent, but that hardly matters. You’re part of something big. Huge. Important.
It’s easy enough to hook up with Tim and the TradYouth people, who seem most comfortable with each other. Same with the other alt-right groups, and trust is most definitely a factor. You need to believe someone’s got your back.
Not everyone’s armed, but many are. Some hold signs sporting swastikas or crude renderings of Pepe the Frog, a cartoon character pressed into service as a representation of the white supremacist movement, much to the chagrin of his original creator.
The camouflaged militias are the most obvious, patrolling the perimeters of your assigned area and surrounding the raised platform where some guy named Dean Green is currently yelling into a microphone. He’s a total tool, and as he raises his squeaky voice to make himself heard over the shouts of counterprotesters, the noise level becomes earsplitting.
As expected, there aren’t many women on this side. Perhaps surprisingly, there are a lot more among the counterprotesters, and some of those antifascist whores are openly carrying. Somehow that seems wrong, but you can’t really say why.
You’ve watched videos of similar protests, but can’t remember this many people with firearms. Of course, not every state has the same kind of lax gun laws Arizona does. People strap them on for trips to the grocery store. Shoe store. Toy store, even.
Arizona is where you belong.
After several minutes of listening to Dean screaming his ranting message, you signal to Silas that you want to back off a little, and he nods. When you’re far enough from the loudspeakers to be heard, you tell him, “All this weaponry reminds me of a war zone.”
“Yeah, only lacking airpower.”
Inside the stadium, a huge cheer goes up, initiating a negative response from the left side of the mall, in turn drawing a raucous round from the right.
Left: Build that wall!
Right: We’ll tear it down!
Left: Blood and soil!
Right: Nazis suck!
Left: Fuck you!
Right: Fuck you!
The shouts crescendo.
Both sides begin to move.
So do the cops, who call for order.
Someone lobs a water bottle.
Water bottles begin to rain, left to right, right to left.
This is brilliant!
Embrace the moment.
“Come on!” orders Silas. “Stay behind me, you hear?”
At first you’re afraid he’s going to try and take you away. Instead, he moves straight into the brawl, and when the clubs start swinging, his is among them. You don’t have one, but you did bring your pepper spray, and when some antifa bitch breaks through from the right, you let her have it, straight in the face. She howls and backs away, then crumples to the ground.
Go after her!
Eyes streaming tears, skin blistering, she’s no match for you, and you’re fired up, high on the scent of victory. So close. All it takes is a few forceful cuffs to her face and out she goes.
That was phenomenal!
You were made for this!
Everything around you is now in motion.
People coming at you.
People running away.
People circling, throwing punches.
People ducking, falling to their knees.
Up on the dais, someone yells into the microphone, “White America is the only America!”
The fighting heats up.
Sometimes law enforcement stands idly by, allowing protesters and counterprotesters to play their war games unimpeded. The Tucson cops have other ideas, moving in both directions, riot shields and batons raised.
Some heed the order. Others are only enraged by it, surging forward.
For the first time, you notice the guys dressed in black, with face masks and shields emblazoned with No Hate.
They close in on the militia dudes, holding the opposite line and refusing to fold, despite the likely outcome.
Suddenly, you’re confused.
Go?
Stay?
Run?
Fight?
Fight!
Your mind is made up by an eruption of tear gas. Law enforcement has had enough. Goggles or no, you inhale a whiff, and it threatens your equilibrium.
“Move!” urges Silas, turning away from the melee. He grabs your hand and starts sprinting in the direction of his truck, yanking you behind him.
That’s when you hear the shots. Fired from who knows where, but not so far away. The sharp reports cannot be mistaken for backfires or firecrackers.
People scream.
People dart, in random directions.
People drop.
Whether that’s because they’re hit or instinctively diving for cover you can’t tell. But Silas lets go of you and picks up speed.
You try to follow, try to run, but abruptly you’re tackled from behind and go down beneath a large pile of weight. “Let me go!”
“Do. Not. Move.”
Face against the grass, you struggle to look up, see where Silas is, beg him to help you. But your eyes can only gain purchase on a few inches.
“Silas?”
He’s gone, of course. Sometimes there are no heroes. Only survivors, and you’re determined to be one of those.
You’ve still got your pepper spray in your right hand. The moment the guy on top of you moves just enough to allow a small rotation, you reach up and let him have it.
“Goddamn it!” he roars. “I will kick your ass!”
There’s a vicious loud clunk against the back of your helmet, which you’re very grateful to be wearing because it softens the blow that might well have cracked your skull open.
“You are under arrest . . .”
The cop dismounts, allowing you to roll onto your back, staring up through grass-stained goggles at the bright Arizona sky. You are relieved of Tim’s Bushmaster. He’s going to be pissed.
Your head is spinning. Somersaulting. Catapulting. You flip back over and decorate the grass with a half-digested cheap breakfast sandwich. Paid for with quarters.
Now you’re jerked to your feet.
Hands zip-tied together at the wrists.
Marched to a parking lot and fed into a police van, along with enough other people to fill it completely.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
You’re devoid of ID, which you left behind purposely, never thinking you might need it to prove your identity to a booking officer. You were hoping to avoid anyone knowing who you were.
Still dizzy, eyes burning, you consider your plight all the way to jail, where you’ll most probably be booked as an adult. And whom can you call to get you out?
Aunt Lou? She’d just as soon let you rot in a cell.
Silas? He has no legal say, though he could bring your ID, which happens to be in his truck.
Tim? Maybe his mom could talk to Aunt Lou, convince her it would be in her own best interest to have you under her roof. How do foster care payments work if your foster kid is in jail?
Here’s an idea. Don’t worry about it. One way or another, they’ll have to let you out eventually. Talk to the judge.
You attended a protest. That is protected by the First Amendment.
You carried a pistol. Protected by the Second, although your age will present a slight problem.
You pepper-sprayed some random person. Who was coming at you, looking for a fight.
You knocked the bitch out. She would’ve done the same to you.
You pepper-sprayed a cop. Who you didn’t realize was a cop until he arrested you.
That last one will be the most problematic.
At least you’ll eat for a couple of days.
And, oh, the battle scenes
you’ll relive in your dreams.
Fade Out