6,287

The actual presence of the moment is often the scariest thing. In the absolute of awareness, the mind is ignited by all thought. Possibilities, memories, and associations all revolve in a sporadic haze to formulate one forefront of cognition. The past and future fuse into a manifestation of what can be, and that is an action. 

Amid the rocky valley, thousands of people enter the present’s fold. Vibrations of anxiety and confusion scatter malignantly in each couple, family, and simple individual. The train station is fully stocked with awaiting passengers, each swaying and glancing that their hope will be answered. A young boy dances on his grandfather’s lamp while a few feet over a young man massages the feet of his wife. Bottles of water are either shared or passed around while some dried foods are poured into gracious hands. People once able to enjoy soccer games, drink till close, and splurge on extravagant dresses, are now reduced to begging for the basics: food, water, and shelter. 

A young woman carries a history book about planes. She sits by her family, reading a passage about Amelia Earhart’s solo expedition across the Atlantic Ocean. For all her life, the woman has only dreamed of seeing anything other than her country; She fears she will spend her life only surrounded by a civil war-torn forest of death, decay, and destruction. To be in the sky, the ceiling of ceilings, and navigate a world beyond definition would be her peace treaty. Yet, she stays grounded, nervously tapping her foot. 

“Mama,” her younger brother moans, “How long do we have to wait?”

The mother looks at her husband, “As long as we must.” 

“But it’s been so long,” he starts to cry, “I want to go home! I want to be with Chuddy.”

The father bends down, “We will be home soon. We just need to be… away for a week or two.”

The boy looks around, “Why are there so many people here?”

“They are waiting for the train too.”

“But aren’t there more trains?”

“No… no this is the last one for a while.”

“How come we didn’t bring Chuddy?”

“The hotel doesn’t allow dogs.”

“But they have a dog!”

The father does not respond. 

“Why does he have a gun?” the brother points to equipped soldier.

“To keep everyone safe.”

“But don’t guns kill things?”

“Yes.”

“So how is everyone safe if he has a gun? —”

“Can you shut up, Marco!” snaps the sister.

“Hey! Watch it!” the parents chastise. 

“He won’t shut the hell up! Why won’t you tell him what’s going on?”

Overcome with emotion, Marco’s face scrunches up, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” the mother says, clenching her face in the direction of the daughter, “Everyone’s a bit tired. Isn’t that right?”

Fed up, the sister shuts her book and gets up. 

“No!” yells the father, “We stick together, especially right now!”

“We’ve been waiting here for almost 10 hours. A few minutes won’t kill.” 

“Amelia!” calls the mother, “Amelia! Get back here this instant.”

“Calm down! I’m just going to the bathroom,” she points to an old orange checkered ad for couches, “I know where to meet you guys.” 

Nonchalantly, she drags herself away to simply do something other than sit down and wait. To wait is to die. That’s why this war has carried on for seven years. Each side is waiting for the other to give up. The time is passed with killing. Each kill is a gesture to the other side that they refuse to act otherwise. All so that a person can continue to make things worse. 

“So many people,” she mumbles to herself. There is little noise besides the conversations had amongst groups. 

It is hard to fathom that this, the crowd of strangers compacted on a railroad platform is what signifies a country. If these people do not exist, the state does not exist. That power though ends at just that ability to meet a definition. 

As though a white flash of lighting glitched, people suddenly turns their heads to comprehend if they heard right. Again, the whistle howls. Now a rumbling ensues. Coming from the mountain range, a nimbus cloud of black smoke heads straight to the platform. It’s the train. And the first thought Amelia has is that there is no way everyone is going to fit in. 

The whistle rattles off like a shotgun, dispersing everyone from their spots and to the yellow line. The people mash, shoulder to shoulder, into a solid mass. Shouts, calls, pleads, desperate vocal cords chime. Fights begin to break out. The noise is muting, indistinguishable like that of a symphony tuning before their concert. Amelia is spun, twisted, and pushed to the side furthest from the doors. The train halts and the sea of people flood the opening doors. 

“Oh shit,” is all that Amelia can say, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” the tears begin to fall. 

As quickly as they open, they shut. The black clouds return and people start climbing on, latching their starved muscles to any ledge they can. Rats trapped in a hole, the people start eating themselves. Brother elbows off brother for space. Sister rips off sister to make room for her child. The elderly are no longer respected, only seen as unnecessary luggage. A young man fighting through slaps Amelia out of his way and onto the train. By the time she regains herself, the train is well accelerated and out of reach. She repulses in laughter. The unbelievable nature of the worse came true as a terminal cancer diagnosis, leaving no ideal way to act. 

Then, just as she thinks that is it, a pupil-cramping flash of orange and red cuts the nightly indigo. Amelia’s knees give out, alongside the few who fell behind. A spread of fire lights up the valley in a crumbling display. 

“Mom! Dad! Jason! Mom! Dad! Jason!” 

Others call out loved ones too, only to never heard their response. 

The bombing that killed about 6,300 humans was granted 12 hours of recognition on news outlets. Being war, that was just one of many sins against humanity to come. The next day 104 Usaan troopers were torched to death by rebel forces. The following week, a preschool was incorrectly targeted by Usaan troops for allegedly housing rebel commanders. Words such as killed or died lost their meaning, becoming ordinary descriptions for the end of ordinary people. It wasn’t until about a year later when an American vlogger was founded hanging from a tree did international attention result. International intervention did not arrive until it was found by geologists that the Usaan's bedrock housed untapped rare earth minerals. Wilona Nun, leader of the rebel forces, just needed to say, “foreign investment,” and she got all the allies to win. It was only weeks before Nun’s forces had all rail lines of supply secured and the capital circled. 

On the evening of the peace talks, the streets of the capital rival an extravagance equivalent to New York Times Square. Stoplight and crosswalks sign hold no purpose. People, masses of people from the average teacher to the colligate engineer, dance and hug on every available foot of space. The fireworks and bottle rockets illuminate the twilight sky in sporadic sparks like one gigantic disco ball. It is as though for seven years everyone saved up their happiness just for this one night. 

Amelia looks over the party to the Roman dome of the capital. She imagines the cascading blue sky without it and smiles, her first display of emotion in almost a decade. Below it is a carnival, but for her above, in black layers, she prepares for a funeral. She turns her pistol’s safety off and descends down the fire escape. 

The past days of morning runs, push-ups, and target practice leads to this swift walk through the crowd. Every breakfast with a side of airstrikes and body count updates; Every trespass into encampments of armed soldiers;  Every wound, self-inflicted and external, with the nights of sleepless nights of loneliness; All actions of her history now form into a single piping, ready to decorate one last layer. 

“Excuse me miss, this section is blocked off.”

“How am I supposed to go home?” 

“No one is allowed on this side of the block,” scoffs the soldier. 

“My home is on the other side towards the valley.”

“No one is getting through tonight. You’ll need to go around,” he vaguely points west, “A few blocks to the side and then over the river.”

“But that’s almost an extra mile —”

“Hey, beat it! Do you think I want to be standing here? I got more important things to worry about than you getting home.” 

If they want her west, she must go east. She scoffs, “They make it so easy.” 

Back in the crowd, Amelia successfully barters four fireworks, tying three of them together to produce a bouquet of explosives. With her being just one of many playing with fire, the display needs to be a scene to garner attention. Wrapping around the west side of the block, she is met by a young lady handing out posters and the day’s newspapers preaching freedom and peace. Behind her is a stand of nothing but wood and paper. 

“How much?”

The lady smiles, “Free of charge.” 

Handing half of dozen by the seconds, the lady is too busy to notice Amelia lighting the bouquet’s wick. Like donating spare change into a bucket, she drops the fireworks right into a stack of newspapers. Within 10 seconds, a sharp whimper followed by rifling cracks ensue. Then, the shade of faces transformed from a soft white to a blazing sunset orange. The energy picks up to a rioting level. 

Voices cried and scream at the scene. One, in particular, pleaded, “Put her out! She’s on fire.” 

Amelia remains focused on what's in front, already back at the post of the soldiers from earlier. Curiosity and responsibility fault them, leaving her enough distance to sneak past the gate and into the nearest set of bushes.

“Forward. Forward,” she mumbles to herself. 

Island hopping from hydrangeas to roses, she makes her way to the back of the east wing where security picks up. The lot is full of taxpayer-paid black Cadillacs and BMWs. She reminds herself that every man and woman in wire and gear is expecting something. The advantage is they will never to exactly what. 

Right before she reaches for the firework, two limousines pull up. A grizzly greying man steps out of the first one. A stylish woman in a navy suit and curled hair steps out the second. The man remains stoic while the woman blushes as the two shake hands. Amelia's insides thud, almost crunching together in repulsion. There they are, not more than 20 feet away. Her family’s executioners. 

“The best woman won,” says soon-to-be former President Lindgrin. 

“You gave a good run. A run that will be forgotten and never missed,” replies Nun. 

They enter the wing with an entourage of security. Amelia breathes in through her nose and out, she has 6,299 kills before she is unjustified. She unsheathes her knife and makes her way through the shadows to each pillar. The first is a straggler who wandered a bit too far down the driveway. Amelia whispers a whistle. 

“Checking out L3 of the east wing,” he reports to his walkie-talkie. 

Amelia whistles again. 

“A bird —”

Amelia knifes through the Adam’s apple, covering his mouth and letting him down softly, “Shhh… you’ll be forgotten too….” An overpowering satisfaction rushes to the tips of her hands. Homicidal virginity lost, there is no point in stopping now. 

“How’s L2 looking there?”

“All clear,” says Amelia.

“Say that again?”

Amelia straps on the bulletproof vest and arms herself with the rifle and tazer. Closing her eyes, she breathes through her nose and out her mouth. Marco’s pouty face appears. 

“He —”

“Shhh….”

“Come in L2 look —”

“Shhh….”

“Get back to your post —”

“Shhh….” 

“We are under attack! L1 —”

Amelia jumps on her and jams her thumbs into the guard’s eyes. The victim shrieks in agony as Amelia presses harder and harder until a pop squirt blood all over her face. Only Amelia’s knife permanently halts the scream. Bullets ricochet off the marble and stone, splattering debris into a dusty cloud. With a fury strong enough to flip a car and a decent cover, Amelia marches directly at the remaining two guards, swiftly shooting them down. One is dead instant while the other crawls for his gun, bleeding from his abdomen. 

Amelia watches his reach, examining every flexing tendon and popping vein. As his middle barely scratches the gun’s handle, Amelia pulls the gun an inch away. Choking on blood, the man still tries for the gun. Again, Amelia pushes it just one more inch away. 

He gives up, “Pl…pl…ease.” 

She bends down and looks into his eyes, “No,” then kicks the gun well out of reach and takes his walkie-talkie. 6,292. 

Amelia rushes inside, returning to the objective at hand. The abrupt silence is discombobulating. Each step is soft with the plush carpet beneath. A lavender fragrance fills the empty off-white halls. Murals of former presidents look down while Amelia jogs corner to corner, searching for direction. She fiddles with the walkie-talkie. White noise screeches with each channel change until she hears just enough. 

“Heading up 1 to the safe room —”

Amelia sprints to the stairwell. Once they get in that room it’s over.  Quivering in adrenaline, she finds herself already down another hallway. As she turns a corner she hears the jingle of metal and leather boots. 

“This way,” says a guard. 

Amelia rolls around the corner and blindly fires at the squad of guards. 

“Get down!” A flash grenade appears at Amelia’s foot. She grabs it and whips it back. An ear-deafening bang rings in the narrow hallway. All she can hear is the voice in her head, “Forward. Forward.” 

She lits the firework before and throws it after a count to eight. A boom echoes followed by a snapping crackle of rainbow colors. Again, she flags the corner. Two men throw themselves in the way. 6, 290. Another clips her right shoulder. Her right arm is useless. 

“Surrender! You can’t —”

6, 289. 

Then, light the passing of a storm, the rain of bullets stops. Two guards lay wounded. Amelia walks over them. Beneath the helmets and vests, she sees the trim of a fitted suit and the gold shine of earrings. Tears of joy wipe the layers of crusting blood from Amelia’s face. 

She pulls off their helmets. Lindgren is gushing blood from his collarbone while Nun’s head is cracked open. 

“Words can’t describe how this feels.” 

Lindgren and Nun, both shocked, pant. 

“Did you know?” Amelia asks Lindgrin.

“Wh-wh-what — AH FUCKER!” Amelia presses her finger into his wound.

“The bombing of the Antioch rail line.”

“You know how many rail lines have been bombed in this entire — FUCK!” 

“He knew! He knew all about it!” pipes up Nun, “The 6,000 casualties off the Mineo Valley west of here? Yes, he knew it was our biggest supply chain for ammunition. You knew someone who died? Didn’t you? Yes! Yes! He’s the one who called it in!” 

“You ordered the strike,” accuses Lindgrin, “You begged me to bomb it!” 

Amelia shoots Nun in the leg, “AHH! AHHH!” 

“You two were at war?” 

“At first!” mocks Lindgrin, “Oh wow! You really —”

“What’s so funny?” 

“Darling, there’s nothing more profitable than war.”

Between the smoke, blood, and clangs lead, a migraine pierces Amelia.

Nun shakes her, “Honey, there is so much more to this. A plan that a person like you would never be fit to handle.”

“You know how much aid Usaan has received since that bombing? Almost $500 billion.” 

“You can kill us all you want but not many people can die knowing how much they are worth. And in the case of who you knew, it was quite a lot.”

The high had worn off. The IV drip of hatred, anger, and pride had left behind a comedown of indifference. Mom, Dad, and Marco died all so some people in some lavish building could have more money than they would ever use.  

“No, no, no, please, please —”

Lindgrin makes 6, 288. 

“Talk this out? I’m going to be president! I can pardon you for everything! Your name will never be known just please, please, please — AH! AH! PLEASE STOP!”

Like a mechanic whittling around the engine, Amelia digs her knife into Nun’s chest. This is it. The future had come to the present, producing a scene of total raw torture. 

“Shhh… shhh… this is it… you will be forgotten —”

“AH!”

A cascade of bullets hit Amelia in the back. Her legs go numb, grounding her in a starfish sprawl. She recognizes the face. The guard from the lot had limped his way here. He bent down over Amelia who looks for her knife, only to see it lodged in a convulsing Nun. He bends down, glancing at the knife, and then looks her in the eyes.

6, 287.