The story of El Salvadoran immigrant Anabel Medina, who, after having come of age amidst her country's bloody civil war, stops a madman on a shooting spree in Malibu, subsequently rises to become a brilliant (if reluctant) voice for peace and social equity, and ultimately runs for office as an independentâthus, for the establishment, quite inconvenientâcandidate.
The story of El Salvadoran immigrant Anabel Medina, who, after having come of age amidst her country's bloody civil war, stops a madman on a shooting spree in Malibu, subsequently rises to become a brilliant (if reluctant) voice for peace and social equity, and ultimately runs for office as an independentâthus, for the establishment, quite inconvenientâcandidate.
Thereâs a special pitch that echoes in the screams of parents who are being forced to watch their child get killed: unhinged and feral, almost wolfish, stripped of all decorum and propriety as the unbearable reality of having lost their little darling settles in.
Anabel had seen and heard it all before. Where and when sheâd come of ageâa place and time where bloody murders were as common as stray cats and seeing weeping families lamenting mutilated, tortured, and decapitated loved ones as mundane as watching reruns of some tired TV drama everyone had seen a thousand timesâviolent deaths were normal. No less painful but expected; consistent and inevitable like the tides.
But it wasnât normal here.
The procedure felt familiarâthe sudden shots, the frenzied shrieks, the panicked crowds stampeding over blood-soaked bodies, and, most hauntingly, the cries of horrified survivors kneeling over murdered family members afterwardâbut not the place. Up here, this was surreal. Or no, incongruous was probably a more appropriate term to sum up Anabelâs confusion when she found herself amid the unexpected pandemonium.
This kind of shit just doesnât happen in a place like Malibu.
And yet it was exactly in that carefree beach communityâa place in which financial hardships donât exist, and cars are European, foods organic, trainers personal, celebrities ubiquitous, and the idea of destitution but an abstract surrealityâwhere, on a quiet Sunday afternoon in June, Anabel Medina watched the glamorous Californian bubble of serenity collapse when bullets started ripping through the balmy air and, seconds later, into Venetian plaster walls, boutique displays, and unsuspecting passersby.
Moments earlier and yet eternities ago, Anabel, who, while being on an aimless drive on PCH along the coast, had stopped for coffee at an outdoor shopping mall next to the famous Colonyâa sealed-off residential enclave for the ultra-rich and ultra-famous in their ultra-pricey beachfront homesâ and sauntered through the parking lot, past blithely chattering adolescents climbing in and out of hundred-thousand-dollar vehicles and someone she remembered seeing in a movie once, and headed for a quaintly situated row of surf- and clothing stores, cafeĚs, and knickknack shops.
Some twenty yards away, the patio of a restaurant had been alive with patrons eating, laughing, cautioning their offspring to be less vociferous, or handing credit cards to cheerful servers dressed in bright white shirts and dark blue aprons as they scurried back and forth between their well-heeled clientele.
On the busy promenade, small children had been playing tag, and not-so-small ones had been staring at their phones; thereâd been wide-eyed tourists, hugging couples, selfie-taking teenagers, gelato-eating families; men and woman of all ages, gym-toned, fashionably underfed, and furnished with the kinds of chic accessories that were, presumably, endorsed in lifestyle blogs as must-haves of the month.
The first shots sounded harmless, almost innocentâthey usually do, she knew this from experience, probably an indication of the human brainâs intuitive reluctance to concede that something terrible is happeningâand so she didnât duck immediately but turned around and peered across the parking lot. And then she saw it. Or no, not it. Him. The shooter was a human being after all, much as the stoic, balaclava-wearing guise that marched toward the city square while firing unremittingly into the crowdâslowly panning left and right, like a thorough gardener watering a flowerbedâlooked soulless and mechanical, and all that Anabel could think when she had managed to regain enough composure to go flat onto the ground, was Here? After all the shit that hasnât killed me in El Salvador? Split-second recollections of her childhood intermingled with the sight of slumping bodies that accumulated at a frightening pace before her eyes as she remembered how sheâd dreamed about that wondrous land of opulence up north, and how, some twenty years ago, at seventeen, sheâd made the long and dangerous trek to the United States all by herself, unscathed. And then, as she jumped up to sprint across the open space, then tumbled to the ground, face-first, her vision blurring and her biceps cramping as she felt a bloody geyser spurting down her neck and hands, she almost snick- ered at the cruelly ironic fact that she was now about to die.
Here. In fucking Malibu.
Chapter 2
It was the same procedure every time: suspicious passport stamps make coming home more tedious, and prior trips to countries like Afghanistan, South Yemen, or Somalia cause wariness with US Customs officers.
Chris Heller, standing in the cavernous international arrivals hall below the LA airport, was waiting for the usual string of lengthy inquiries and, possibly, the little side room he might once again be asked to step in for more detailed questioning. Itâd probably take him forever to get home. But then again, there wasnât anything but emptiness in that elusive place called homeâand anyway, heâd rather be preoccupied with prying questions than be all alone, with too much time to think and no external threats or challenges to focus on, which was, to him, more frightening than any perilous excursion through the city grids of Mogadishu, Kabul, or, most recently, the gang- and crime-infested Salvadoran hillside barriosâso bring it on, he had all night.
At last, Chris reached the front of the line. As he cast a glance along the row of immigration kiosks on his right, his eyes briefly met the ones of an old woman in the queue, her weary gaze eliciting a muddled, fragmentary flood of dreadful memories. He looked away and drew a breath. Generalized Anxiety Disorder was the term his doctor used to squeeze Chrisâs mental agony into a generally agreed-upon notation he could scribble on his pad, and why on earth Chris only ever suffered these debilitating spells of fear when he was safe at home, and never in, letâs say, Aleppo or Jalalabadâplaces after all, where he, a white American, had actual reason to be scaredâheâd never understand, and yetâ
âNext!â a voice reverberated through the hall.
Chris looked up, saw a customs officer wave at him, and hurried down the lane.
âGood afternoon. Passport, please?â
Chris, grateful for the interruption of his frenzied train of thought, put his passport on the countertop and watched the CBP official open it.
âWhat kind of business did you attend inââthe man leaned forward as he squinted at the travel documentsââEl Salvador, Mr. Heller?â he finished asking, pronouncing the beleaguered little countryâs name as if it were a virulent disease.
Chris pulled a press card from his jacket as he nodded at his camera bag.âIâm a stringer.â
âA what?â
âSorry. A freelance photo journalist.â
This seemed to reassure the man in uniform. âOh, okay,
that figures.â He handed him his passport back. âOpen your bag, please?â
Chris slid the bag across the counter, opened it.
The officer began to rifle through Chrisâs personal effects. âA journalist, huh? Taking pictures for Time magazine, that kind of thing?â
âNo. Never.â
The man held up and studied a prescription jar of Lexapro. âNo? Why not?â he mumbled absentmindedly.
âIâm too small-time for Time magazine.â
The officer, who looked to be of Southeast Asian ancestry, placed back the meds. Chris observed him. Customs officers were no homogeneous bunch, and this oneâunlike some of his more stoic peersâseemed amiable. âNo?â he chuckled as he picked up Chrisâs 1-DX.âIâm sure youâll get there. Mind opening this for me?â
âSure.â Chris clasped the camera, removed the lens, shot off three empty frames.
The officer nodded, turning his attention to another piece of gear. âWhatâs this?â
âBattery packs.â Chris glanced toward the far end of the international arrivals hall, where a bright red banner on a giant television promulgated breaking news. He squinted, read aloud the caption on the bottom of the screen. âMalibu Mayhem? What happened?â
The customs officer let out a sigh. âAnother one,â he muttered as he slid Chrisâs luggage back across the countertop.âHave a nice day, Mr. Heller.â He smirked. âTry to get some rest. You look tired.â
Chris, feeling mildly disappointed at not getting to spend a few extra hours in the side room answering questionsâ which would keep him occupied with something simple and distracting, something other than that uncontrollable and overactive mind of his that had a way of generating an unending flood of self-destructive thoughtsâgrabbed his bag. âThanks,â he said and headed for the exit gate. He really was. Tired, that is.
Chapter 3
Shock, confusion, disbelief. Quiet gasps and muffled cries, the air still heavy with the smell of nitroglycerine. Survivors, stone-faced and aghast, huddling up to one another in bewilderment.
A mangled corpse nearby. A sobbing child afar. A handbag, soaked in blood.
Soon thereafter, blaring sirens and the sound of rumbling helicopters in the sky. Then SWAT teams, agitated voices shouting into radios, and paramedics rushing in with stretchers, IV bags, and first responder kits.
âCome on, sweetheart, please, please, please, wake up!â a voice cried out.
Anabel, dimly realizing she was lying on her back, rolled her head onto her left and gazed toward the voice. A man, some twenty yards from her, was kneeling on the pavement, leaning over what appeared to be a little girl. Two paramedics next to him inserted tubes into her throat, performing CPR, attempting to resuscitate the child.
Anabel tried to get up. Stabbing pain shot from her shoulder through her elbow to her wrist.
âMaâam, take it easy, take it easy.â
She glanced to her right. Another paramedic, kneeling next to her.
âKeep still,â he said. âDo not move. Where exactly are you hurting, maâam?â
âMyâI donâtâmy wrist.â
She saw him look her up and down, a glint of consternation in his eyes. Following his gaze, she dropped her head, felt panic as she saw her rib cage and right arm. She gasped. Why did she not hurt more? She should hurt more. Shock. Yes, that was the reason for her analgesiaâshe was in shock.
As the man who huddled by the dying girl wailed out in agony, the ambient noise turned hollow in her head, as if she were inside a giant tin can that was rolling down the street. She rose to her feet.âIâmâokay.â
âNo, youâre not, maâam. Please, wait.â
âYes, I am.â She wasnât. Her head was pounding, plus she had no recollection of what had just happened in the past few minutes. Shit. There was a full-on blind spot in her short-term memory.
The paramedic groaned. âMaâam, please stop moving and let me examine you.â
She relented and sank back down to the ground.âIâm sorry, IâmâIâm justâI feelââ
âItâs okay, youâre in shock. Try to calm down and let me see your arm. Any pain, aside from your wrist?â
âNot as much as there should be, consideringââshe dropped her head and nodded to her rightââyou know. This.â
He pulled a pair of bandage scissors. âPlease. Relax. Hold still.â He cut open her shirt, then gently padded down her rib cage, waist, and abdomen.
Her mouth was dry as dust. âSo? Am I dying?â
âNo.â His worried gaze appeared to soften as he checked her thorax, chest, and arm. âNo, youâre not dying,â he said, this time with more assurance in his voice. He shone a flashlight in her face. âFollow the light with your eyes, please.â
She tried her best.
âGood, good,â he muttered, pointing at a nearby ambulance.âIâll get you a gurney.â
âI donât need one. I can walk.â
âAll right, calm down. If youâdââ
âPlease stop telling me to calm down, I am calm.â
âOkay, if youâd please come with me, I need to conduct a few more tests.â
She got up and started moving. Once she did, she felt a bout of nausea. She stopped, bent over. âAw, shit, hold on, I got toââ
The medic clasped her arm. âMaâam, are youââ
She straightened herself up. âNo. Sorry. False alarm. Iâmâ itâs going away.â
âDoes your head hurt?â
âFuck, yeah.â
âAny dizziness?â
âYep.â
âYouâve likely suffered a concussion, but judging by your eye reflexes, not a severe one.â
As they started shuffling forward, she saw a man with heavy body armor and elaborate weaponry march toward them; had it not been for the sheriffâs badges on his sleeves and Kevlar vest, sheâd have thought he was some kind of Navy SEAL. Plus he was tall, like six foot four, which startled her, as this all added up to make him look a little like the man whoâd fired at the crowd.
âMaâam,â the giant in the war zone getup said, âmy nameâs Lieutenant Decker, LA County Sheriff âs Department, Special Enforcement Bureau, weâveââ He stalled and stared at her right flankâaghast, it seemedâthen turned to face the paramedic.âIs she okay?â
âItâs not her blood,â her escort uttered quietly.
The policeman sighed. âMaâam, how are you feeling?â
âIâdonâtââ She dropped her hands, looked up at him. âWhat happened?â
She saw the men exchange quick glances. âYou donât remember?â the lieutenant asked.
âNo.â
âMaâam, weâve only just begun to reconstruct what happened here today.â He looked at her. âBut from what weâve gathered so far, it seems to me a lot of people will beââ
âWait!â
He drew back. âExcuse me, maâam?â
She cast a glance around the space, watched rescue workers tending to the wounded while the physically uninjured lingered on, looking shell-shocked and distraught. âYes, I do, I think Iâmâstarting to remember,â she stammered as the previous events came back to her like fragments of a semi-unintelligible foreign film through parts of which sheâd slept. âIs this my . . .â She nodded at the twisted, blood-soaked clump next to the water fountain on the west side of the city square. âDid I do . . .â She stalled again, distracted by a group of people who had congregated by a nearby ambulance. She glanced at them. Phones were pointed toward her. People whispered, gestured, stared. She turned back to the lieutenant. âDid I do this?â
The intimation of a smirk flashed across his face, then disappeared. âAppears that way,â he said and pointed at a row of columns by the promenade.âThereâs still a lot of security camera footage weâre going to have to review.â He cocked his head and gazed at her, looking for a moment as benign and tender as a heavily-armed six-foot-four behemoth in a combat suit can look. âMaâam, you might want to prepare yourself. Youâre about to become famous.â
The Auctioneers offers an uncompromising look into the current socio-political climate. Within the story, there is an ever-present call to resist and dismantle the status-quo. A desire to speak truth to power, against a system that benefits a privileged few, at the expense of many. And a demand for better critical thinking on the part of the masses, who have become too accustomed to information delivered via quick sound-bites and shoddy reporting. To get to the truth of almost anything requires work. Finding solutions to what ails us, individually and collectively, is difficult. Sometimes it can be down-right uncomfortable. But the first step is acknowledging that there is a problem. In The Auctioneers, Florian Schneider, illuminates an expansive international problem list, ranging from the socio-economic, to the political, to the environmental. These issues have been around for decades...centuries. Yet even in a narrative that may come across as mostly âdoom and gloom,â there are crystalline moments of hope; a powerful underlying belief that with better leadership and representation, with a concerted pivot towards honesty and collectivism, we may be able to repair, at least, some of the damage before itâs too late.
The novel centers around the main character, Anabel Medina. She is a dedicated social worker, who finds herself the object of media attention, after she performs an act of true heroism during a mass shooting event. Anabel refuses to become a âmedia darling,â but with a bit of coaxing she discovers that she can use her fame to affect real change in the world, and give a voice to the voiceless. When she decides to run for public office, sheâs met with acclaim as well as the requisite scorn. In spite of it all, she maintains her integrity, becoming a different type of political candidate: a politician who hates politics, and an aspirational figure for a despondent populace. Iâd recommend reading The Auctioneers for Anabel alone. Sheâs an amazing protagonist, with a background that drives her towards a purposeful life. The Auctioneers also has interesting and complicated subplots dealing with family secrets, violence, drug addiction, and mental illness. Finally, Iâd be remiss if I didnât mention that this novel is very much a love story; demonstrating that two individuals from disparate origins can be brought together by shared beliefs and a shared worldview.Â
~G