Dallas
How am I supposed to feel when they tell me they have prepared to end my life? Worried? Scared? Maybe a bit ashamed? Guilty that I have done nothing significant with this life I have been given? Wasteful?
My breath grows heavy in the darkness; I can hear it over my thoughts. On the other side of the door, which is a metal slab vertically operated by a chain link, I hear them discussing how it snowed ten inches last night, and that the temperature is supposed to lower into the teens overnight. My body will freeze, even without my feet touching the ground. My eyes will glaze over while my skin turns from brown to white. But winter has never been a kind season. It takes, never gives.
Everyone in attendance will be warm in their mink coats and leather gloves, and broadening smiles. They will gather around me in cheer, a celebration of my death. If the constant applause is any indication, that’s what I am expecting to see on the other side of this door. Children wearing masks with my face painted on them. Dogs on fine silken leashes. Fathers teaching their sons and daughters how to aim with invisible chargers.
A loud voice comes over a microphone and calls out to the crowd, welcoming them for coming. It sounds like Governor Creel speaking.
I lift my head from my knees. I’ve been fidgeting with my fingers and toes to keep warm, and bring my hands up and hold them to my mouth—my warm breath is all I have left.
All at once the voice stops and the shouting outside erupts into thunderous applause. Chains on the other side of the door rattle and squeak. I scramble to my feet as a bright, white line shines in from the bottom of the door. I shield my eyes with my hand. Once the door is completely open, two Patrol officers and a Loyalist stand at the entrance. Behind them is an entire crowd of Beau Mondes split down the middle. I can’t see where their heads stop, there are so many of them.
The Patrols approach me, and I stagger back until I’m flat against the cold, stone wall. But it does no good to avoid them. They kick me to my knees, then force my arms behind my back.
The Loyalist steps forward, his greasy hair flopped to one side. His mouth parts, teeth full of flies. “You ready, champ?”
I don’t leave my eyes on him for long, finding new concern in my feet touching the ground for the last time. The Loyalist takes my chin and jerks upward, inspecting my face. His thumbnail digs in far enough to pierce my skin. I feel the blood pooling.
After giving a soft, disapproving hum, he tosses me aside and gives the motion to the Patrols. It is time.
They hoist me back on my feet and shove me out into the throng.
The once-jubilant crowd begins to boo. The Loyalist leads me through the bodies while the Patrols follow. Rows and rows of Beau Mondes and their few high-ranking Bourgeoisie companions swarm us. They fill in every empty space they can without getting too close. Some of them spit at me while others ridicule me and scream profanities. I keep my head down, my eyes on my feet.
“Pick up the pace,” orders one of the Patrols behind me. “We’re not far now.”
I glance up just enough to notice the bridge ahead. A noose swings in the breeze. The image of Ambrose and Adderley’s bodies dangling off the bridge projects in my head. Their frozen eyes and blind stares. The idea of death has never scared me before. Not knowing the answer to the “what happens after” question has never kept me awake at night. Heaven or hell, it’s never mattered. But now, especially as I approach death, I find myself counting the seconds between each thumping heartbeat.
It’s not long before I feel her eyes. Amelia stands to my left, with Cyrus beside her. Both are dressed for their ceremony rather than my execution. Her parents are behind them. Sawyer’s hand is on his daughter’s shoulder. They are the only individuals not cheering or booing. They’re silent. In every possible way.
When I pass them, their gaze follows me to the bridge, but no other muscle moves and no tears fall. It’s when I turn around that all of them, including Amelia, bring their hands to their mouths, a new expression of joy carved into their faces.
A Patrol pushes my head forward. “Eyes ahead.” Their hand remains spread on the back of my head.
When we get to the bridge, the voice comes back over the crowd and hushes them. It is Governor Creel, I was right. He stands with his family, their devoted Loyalists by his side. The governor peers down at me, eyes raking over me.
The Loyalist comes behind me now and pushes me up onto a cement block just beneath the entrance of the bridge. The crowds continue to cheer, and Creel continues to boost their morale, and the moment my feet are in position, the noose is placed over my head.
What happens after this is more or less a blur. I remember the release of the rope and the sound of my neck snapping behind it, but after that there is only darkness. The loud roar of the crowd fades out. The taste of my own saliva on my tongue vanishes. My final thought is of Amelia. Everything beyond her belongs to the dark, including myself.
I awake with a gasp, mind reeling and salt-white. The sheets are drenched with my sweat. Panting, I sit up and drain the glass of water next to the bed. Water spills out of the edges of my mouth and down my neck. I run my arm across my mouth first, then my forehead. This is not the first nightmare I’ve had since arriving at the Vanderbilts’ home two days ago. But this is the first one that has lasted long enough for me to physically experience myself dying.
It takes a minute or two for me to reorient myself with the room I’m in. I touch everything around me: the sheets, the nightstand, the pillows—I even wedge the shirt on my back in between my fingers. I’m alive, I remind myself. I’m at Amelia’s house. I have a bed, bathroom, food, clothes, and I’m alive. I’m alive.
I drag myself out of the bed and into the hallway and take a deep breath. The overwhelmingly minimal style of the home still messes with my head.
I have to pass Callaghan’s room before I can get to the stairs. Wrapping my fingers around the doorframe, I take a look inside, but he’s not there. So I walk in and look around, even glimpsing the bathroom where glass bottles of cologne and small colored dishes holding a couple of used syringes decorate the windowsill, but it’s completely void of him. And quiet.
I leave his room keeping an eye out for Portia or anyone else who might send me back to my room before I’m able to make it down the stairs. The smell of hot butter and onion coming from the kitchen below lingers in the air and catches my nose. It’s warm and inviting.
I take the stairs down one step at a time until the kitchen comes into view, and when it does, I notice music playing, too. From a corner of the room, a disk spins gently in a circular motion. Callaghan has his nose in a pan, cracking eggs and grating cheese.
He turns just enough to see me past his shoulder and holds my gaze. “You’re up earlier than expected,” he says. “Amelia assumed that you would be asleep for a while.”
“Did she?” I ask. Callaghan says nothing and turns back to his eggs on the stove. I peek over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Frittata,” he says, showing me the pan. “It’s basically just, uh, well it’s like an omelette, really. It’s just eggs, cheese, and onion. Do you want one?”
“Nah, I’m good. Actually, is there any cereal around here?” Callaghan motions toward the pantry to his left. “Thanks.”
“There are bowls in that cabinet,” he points past me with a fork, “and, uh, spoons…spoons are in the drawer beneath it. Milk is in the fridge. Or there’s yogurt. Sometimes I like my cereal with yogurt.”
I thank him and grab a bowl and spoon and take it to the table.
The pantry is full of different types of cereal. All of which I’ve never heard of: Tatari Organic Sweet Potato, Simply Granola, Olga’s Almond Granola, Indigo Sunrise Crunch—how dramatic do processed grains have to be?
“Hey, you guys just have like Bo’s O’s or something?” I ask Callaghan.
He makes a noise like a laugh. “Dramatic, right?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Unfortunately, those are the only options. They all claim to be nutritious and delicious, but they taste terrible. I would rather them taste good and be bad for me, you know?”
I do know.
Callaghan wipes his hands on his pants and takes his plate of food and a hot cup of tea to the kitchen table. “Hey, do you know if Amelia’s awake?”
I give the faintest shake of my head.
Callaghan understands and turns back to his breakfast.
I scan the boxes of cereal again and try not to think any more about his question than I already am. We all know where Amelia is this morning—in bed with Cyrus. My own thoughts press my brain to pulp. Doesn’t matter anymore, I remind myself and grab the only box of cereal that’s been opened.
As I pour cereal into my bowl, a mandatory viewing flashes on the screen behind me and Sawyer walks in. He peers over at Callaghan’s plate, completely ignoring my rummaging through his fridge for the milk.
“Portia made frittatas?” Sawyer asks his son.
“I did,” says Callaghan.
“Only one, and just for you?” Callaghan hums in response, the tea pressed to his lips. “You don’t think that’s a bit selfish?”
No answer.
I bring the milk to the table and pour it over the bowl of cereal. The crispy cornflakes hiss and pop among the dried blueberries. I sit, spoon in a bite and chew, but it’s tough. I’m fighting the urge to spit it back out. The tart dryness of the berries and the dull taste coming from the flakes don’t mix well on my tongue. Not to mention the berries stick to my teeth the same way bread does. But my stomach churns with hunger, so I scoop in another spoonful.
“Hey, Cal, you don’t have to let him sit with you. He can move to the barstools or eat in his room,” Sawyer says, almost offhand.
My eyes wander to Callaghan, who is already looking at me. “It’s fine, Dad, Dallas was here first. I’m joining him.”
Sawyer jabs his tongue into his cheek. “Uh-huh.” I crunch another bite in the mild silence. “Callaghan, may I speak with you?”
Callaghan pushes his dishes away and follows his father to the other side of the kitchen.
I try to keep my head down in hopes they won’t be able to tell I’m listening, but it doesn’t matter anyway because it’s hard to hear them behind the grinding of the cereal under my teeth. The flakes don’t even absorb the milk; instead, they harden. Is it stale? I eye the box still on the counter.
Taking the last couple of bites I can manage, I move the bowl to the side and wipe the corners of my mouth with the collar of my shirt. Sawyer and Callaghan’s voices grow loud. My focus drifts to them and catches Sawyer’s eye. He cuts me a look. I jerk my eyes away and find myself watching the screen where Genevieve Gabaldy is reporting on more ‘news’ that no one cares about.
Goat on a ball, blah, blah, blah.
I gaze out the window instead. Looking at nothing is better than listening to another meaningless story. But then her voice pricks my ears.
“Now we’re focused on Michigan this morning, following the story of Governor Xardin Creel who has been in intensive care since the incident at PictureHouse days ago,” Genevieve reports.
All my attention returns to the screen.
“We have been informed that, although Xardin Creel has been forced down from his duty as governor, his advisors have put out an announcement saying this accident will not affect his approval rating and should even bolster his image once he is back on his feet. He is responding well to medication and expected to make a full recovery, but from my sources, it is said to be an extensive recovery process, so for the time being the governor’s son, Xaver Creel, has taken over his father’s roles as interim governor.”
Xaver as acting governor? It’s true his father didn’t like that Palores existed, but Xaver doesn’t like me existing. He’ll shine a spotlight everywhere I step. I listen for more.
“It’s been said that Governor Creel suffered an unfortunate accident while visiting former soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Amelia Vanderbilt, at PictureHouse. She appeared to be out of her room at the time the incident occurred. The exact situation is still under review, per Michigan’s Humanoid, Cyrus Taelor. Governor Creel is now resting comfortably at PictureHouse where he continues to receive medical treatment until he makes a full recovery.”
Genevieve pauses a moment, shuffles a few cards in her hands, then continues: “The hopeful citizens of Michigan have offered a day of prayers to their leader. All services and shops will remain closed until daybreak tomorrow. Beautiful statements by many of the top Beau Monde families in Michigan have already been sent to the recovering governor, including ones from the Sulmans, the Vanderbilts, the Briggs, and others. Next, we will be finding out the details of what happened in the tragic hours of that day.”
The camera zooms out to show Genevieve with the reporter who witnessed my leaving with Amelia from PictureHouse.
“With us today is a reporter who claims he saw Palore, Dallas Summers, with Amelia Vanderbilt who was ushered out of PictureHouse in a hurry by her father, Sawyer Vanderbilt, the Humanoid, Cyrus Taelor, and what looked to be an orderly—”
“No, the Palore was with them,” the reporter speaks over Genevieve. “And I believe he still is.”
“And this was before the accident?” questions Genevieve. The camera focuses on the reporter’s bruised face.
“There was no accident. The Humanoid meant to attack me; it was by design. It was all a ruse to prevent me from witnessing the Palore with them. Everything was intentional. They are protecting him,” the reporter stabs his finger in the air, almost spitting in the face of the camera.
“Who is ‘they’?” Genevieve pries.
“The Vanderbilts,” the man reiterates. “Amelia Vanderbilt is not Michigan’s princess. She’s not some kind of sweet-natured angel we should all protect or worship. Amelia is a rogue. Her and her entire family.”
Genevieve scoffs.
Callaghan’s voice ranges above the report, directed at his father. “Why is that such a big deal to you?”
I cast a glance in their direction. Their conversation is still going on.
Genevieve’s voice captures my attention again. She thanks the wounded reporter and his face dissolves from the screen. “Now, for those of you watching, there is not enough information to support this claim, which is why it is a claim. He claims to have seen Dallas Summers leaving with the Vanderbilts from PictureHouse. However, we can’t know for sure, so the more information that floods in, the more we will know.”
The head of The Orion Press glances down at her notes and, again, shuffles a few items in hand. Only silence comes from the screen.
I wait for what is to be said next about me. What else could the media come up with? Will they seek out more answers or assure the Beau Mondes that there is nothing to fear? Will Xaver put a price on my head? Will the Governor of California? Either way, there will be an ample reward, that much I’m sure of.
Genevieve goes on, shifting her line of thought to another matter. “In the interim, Xaver Creel, along with California’s Governor London, have ordered house checks across state lines. Restrictions have been put in place regarding Beau Mondes who are currently traveling. Xaver says, and I quote, ‘Michigan will be on lockdown until further notice. With my father in such critical condition, we can’t have our people out of state any longer. The people of Michigan need to be back home, now more than ever with that Palore lost in the wind. There will no longer be out of state traveling unless it has been approved by me first.’”
It’s sort of strange to see myself so saturated across the screen. Every news outlet, with The Orion Press and their plucky leader, Genevieve Gabaldy, at the forefront, shows various versions of my story for their viewers’ amusement. If they came across the screen in the commons at Vex, I didn’t see them, and no one mentioned them to me. I guess I heard my name on occasion, though all The Orion Press seemed to care about at the time was Amelia. She was reported on daily; she and whatever arrangement she was currently tied down in. To see my face on display like this, knowing it’s being plastered on screens across every state, makes what little food inside me churn. Genevieve keeps talking.
“Loyalists and Patrol units from both California and Michigan have been deployed around California in search of any Michigan dwellers to bring home, while they also search for the loose Palore. I am told they will be searching homes, offices, shops, and schools.”
I glance over at where Sawyer and Callaghan are talking to see if they’re hearing what I am, but they’re not, so, I keep watching. Standing now, I move closer to the screen until a familiar clicking sound outside stops me. Out the window, in the reflection of the car hood, I see five armed bodies in the distance. Each is laced with a charger and various other weapons which hang along their midriff.
Something inside me snaps! I check on Sawyer and Callaghan once more—their argument is only escalating. Then there is the hood of the car again. This time, I don’t only see five, but six. Five Patrols. One Loyalist.
I move back into the kitchen without thinking and pull Callaghan aside by the shoulder. “Patrols are outside.”
Sawyer sticks his hand between us, the tips of his fingers pressing into my chest. “Excuse me, but my son and I—”
Callaghan shoves his father’s hand away. “What did you say?”
“Www-we all need to hide.” The words come out all at once.
Callaghan’s face shifts, as though he knows exactly what I’m talking about, as though he has done this very same thing before.
“What is going on?” Sawyer cuts in.
“Patrols are here,” replies Callaghan.
“And a Loyalist, too,” I say. “Xaver’s rounding up all his father’s loose ends. Everyone from Michigan currently out of state is being forced to go back.” My eyes bounce between the two of them.
Silence follows as Sawyer thinks. “We need to tell Amelia,” he says.
I shake my head. “Www-we don’t have time.”
A knock sounds at the door and it’s as if we all collectively stop breathing. No one says a word—no one even blinks. All attention is on the front door.
There’s another knock, harder this time, and a ring of the doorbell.
Sawyer’s eyes jet to Callaghan. “Go to your sister,” he says. “And keep your feet light.”
Portia shuffles into the room, hair up in a towel and fingers tightening the belt of her robe. She makes eye contact with Callaghan. “What’s happened?”
“Patrols,” I mutter softly, but she hears me, her eyes doubling in size.
The doorbell rings again.
“You’re okay.” Sawyer motions for her to come to him. “Callaghan, get to Amelia and Cyrus.”
“I can do it,” I offer. This displeases Sawyer.
“No.” His voice is hard. “I’ve asked Callaghan.”
Callaghan sneaks out of the kitchen and goes down the hall to where Amelia and Cyrus are sharing a room.
The doorbell rings again with a persistent knock, and this time accompanied with a voice. “Vanderbilts,” a female voice calls.
Sawyer stares at me. His body twitches, though his gaze remains silently steady on me. Then he says, “Hide.”
I rush to the coat closet under the stairs and throw myself into it. I yank the racks of fur and nice leather overhead, down, bunch by bunch, to cover my body. Hangers fly all over the place, hitting the door and my face. My breath is warm and wet against the fur.
There’s more knocking.
“Vanderbilts,” the voice shouts again.
I hear Sawyer hesitate, clearing his throat and huffing. “I’m coming.” His footsteps grow faint getting to them, but I’m still close enough to hear.
The door opens. “Mr. Vanderbilt,” the voice says, “I’m Sergeant Oasis and this is Special Commander Baroque. How are you today?”
“Yes, good morning,” Sawyer replies. “I’m okay. And you?”
“Oh, we’re fine,” Oasis answers. “Out here on orders. Have you seen the reports today?”
“No.”
“Of course.”
There’s a short pause of silence.
“May we come in?” asks Oasis.
Sawyer must allow them to enter because I hear the door open and footsteps. I try to pay attention to their feet. I pick up on three bodies, one being Sawyer and another Oasis. That leaves one Patrol. Probably Baroque. The rest have been left outside, likely to probe the house.
“Nice home you have here,” she says. “This where you and the wife stay when visiting the sick daughter?”
“Yes,” Sawyer answers.
“And you’re the only one here?”
“Just myself, my daughter, her fiancé, and our homekeeper.”
“That’s right, she’s been checked out, hasn’t she?” Oasis is checking for faults.
“Why did you say you were here again?” asks Sawyer in return.
“Been given orders by Governor London that the young Creel is instructing everyone in California from Michigan to go back. Or at least tell them so that they can go on their own terms as opposed to ours,” Oasis replies. “Kind of us, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Sawyer agrees, drawing a weary breath. “Well, I appreciate you for letting me know.” He must attempt to gesture them out, because there’s the sound of a hand slapping against the door.
“Is your daughter around?” It’s Baroque who asks this time; I recognize his drone of a voice.
“She’s in her room. Why?”
“We would like to make sure she’s really with you, being a loyal Beau Monde, and not with the baseborn.” My eyes roll back into my skull.
“I’m here,” Amelia enters the room. Her voice is light and sweet, but there is a trace of something bitter. “Cyrus and I were escorted out of PictureHouse because of the Palore. We wouldn’t know where he is.”
“Is that so?” Oasis asks.
“It is,” Amelia says.
More silence.
“Well, again, thank you for stopping by,” Sawyer attempts once again to inform Oasis that her time visiting is over. “We have some things to get together before the trip back.”
Before Oasis speaks again, there’s a brief pause. Then: “You have twenty-four hours. We’ll keep in touch.”
The door shuts, and the bundle of panic tight in my lungs releases.
After this, the house grows quiet. I wait just a little longer before coming out of hiding. At least five minutes, or else a lingering scout might catch me, and I won’t fall for that trick. Eventually, the sound of shuffling feet hurries past the closet door, and I throw the coats off me, and climb out to join them.
Sawyer’s head is hung, his hands on his hips. Portia and Callaghan keep behind him, far enough away as to not speak, but close enough to be seen. Cyrus has his long arms around Amelia. She rests her back against him, loosely holding onto his forearms. No one speaks to one another. We all just stand looking at the ground, the air feeding our weighty lungs and beating hearts.
Amelia looks at me, startled, as if—although speaking of me—she didn’t remember I was here, too. I notice her hands whiten as she holds tighter to Cyrus.
Why does it feel like she’s doing this on purpose? I’m fine with her arrangement and I’m aware that I’m no longer a concern of hers. And yet she still looks over at me, the smallest glimpse, to see if I’m watching or if a reaction will spark across my face. So I position myself behind Callaghan enough to where I can only see their legs. Somewhat better.
Callaghan is the first to speak. “What did they want?” he asks his father.
Sawyer takes a minute before responding. He fiddles with his fingers, twisting and pulling, pulling and twisting. Then he says, “I need to make a call,” and plods out of the room.
