7:08 p.m. EST — Prentice Cooper State Forest, Signal Mountain, Tennessee
“Hello!” shouted America, as she climbed into what was once the train’s engine room, but there was no response. How could a train get this far into the forest, she thought, pacing through the room with caution. Debris was scattered everywhere, from pieces of shattered glass to chunks of charred metal. The walls were twisted and crumpled like paper, and the smell of smoke and ash hung heavy in the air.
“Hello!” she shouted again, “Is anyone out there?”
Once again, there was no response, but in the silence, America noticed a strange piece of fabric flapping in the window above the control panel. It was a black cloth with orange and red teardrops swirling across the edges in a typical paisley pattern, much like those commonly found on bandanas. America snatched the cloth out of the window and stuffed it into her back pocket.
Just then, a black aerial drone zipped past the front window and slipped into the engine room through a small gash in the wall. The shield covering the drone’s camera lens lifted, and its sensors immediately locked onto America’s angry face.
“Finally,” she uttered, flicking the drone with her fingertips, sending it flying across the room. “How’d I manage to get here before y’all?”
America pulled herself out through the roof of the locomotive and glassed the forest for the drone’s operator. There, next to her horse stood a tall Native-American man dressed in all-black hunting gear. The man took a step forward and removed his mask revealing a long chin and a sharp grin on a face that she instantly recognized belonged to her older cousin, Yakota Haize.
“Sorry for the delay, my illustrious grace,” replied Yakota with a slight bow. “I came as fast as I could.” He snapped his fingers, and the black drone rose out of the train and darted across the wreckage into his hands. “Your horse is much faster than mine, your grace,” he added, stroking Atohi’s mane. “I dare say, you may have the fastest horse in the clan.”
“Probably—where are the others?”
“What perfect timing, my grace. Here they are now.”
Suddenly, the treetops began to sway violently and out of them flew six black aerial drones. America watched in frustration as they zipped around her like gnats scanning everything in sight including her.
“Atty, come,” she commanded, as she leaped off the train and landed on the forest floor.
“My divine grace,” grinned Yakota, as he held Atohi back by the reins. “May I ask a question before you go?”
“Sure.”
“Did you find anything inside the train?”
“I did not.”
A large sinister smile grew across Yakota’s face as he placed his mask back over his mouth. Then he released Atohi and the horse galloped over to America.
Less than a second later, eight men and women came galloping through the trees on horseback. All eight, including Yakota, were senior operatives of a private security conservation group known as the A-sig-na.
“Our grace!” shouted the arriving members in unison, as they rode their horses toward America and Yakota.
“I don’t have time for this,” she informed them, as she mounted Atohi and spun him around toward the tree line.
“What about me?” echoed a deep booming voice from within the forest. Out rode a large Native-American man named Sowahkanah Novva, atop his gigantic Shire horse, Honon. Sowahkanah was America’s uncle, and the A-sig-na’s third in command. America had only seen Sowahkanah a handful of times in her life, but he was, by far, one of the most intimidating members in her clan. Sowahkanah trotted through the wreckage loading an arrow into a longbow. With one fluid motion, he drew the bowstring to his face and fired, striking the rope of a large capture net. The rope exploded, the net dropped to the ground, and out crept the poor gray fox that had been held prisoner inside it.
“Well?” said Sowahkanah, strapping his bow across his back, “Do you have time to speak to me?”
“I do not,” America replied firmly, squeezing Atohi’s rib cage, propelling the horse forward into the woods like a bolt of lightning.
“Well, what about you?” Sowahkanah asked, staring down at where the fox was, but it had already taken off into the forest too.
“I guess no one feels like talking today,” Yakota snickered, as he wiped a scuff mark off the side of a railcar with his elbow, revealing the words: U.S. Army in big bold letters.
1.6 miles north, October 31st, 12:19 a.m. EST
— White Owl "Onacona" Ranch, Signal Mountain, Tennessee
The ranch was illuminated by a brilliant crescent moon that hung high in the sky like a warm smile. America emerged from the forest, leading Atohi by a rope, and crossed a field of goji berries. At the center of the ranch stood her family’s ranch house, a massive three-story manor covered in tricorn black. To the clan, it was known as the Chief’s house, but to the townspeople of Signal Mountain, the property was commonly referred to as the Black House. Next to the house stood a dark green stable where the horses were kept. America mounted Atohi, rode him quietly over to the barn, locked him into his stall, fed him some berries, and hugged him tightly before departing with his saddle across her shoulder.
America slipped in through a backdoor in the kitchen, removed her shoes, tiptoed through a long hallway filled with family portraits, and climbed up a large wooden staircase. At the top of the stairs, she was greeted by a massive, heavy-coated Tibetan Mastiff named Hototo.
“Stay,” she commanded, knowing just how wild Hototo would get whenever she returned home. Ignoring her, Hototo jumped to his feet, stretched out his back, and dashed down the upstairs hallway before sliding to an abrupt halt outside of America’s bedroom door.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Hototo opened his mouth, but instead of barking, he began to whimper and scratch at her bedroom door.
“What’s wrong boy?” she asked, pulling Hototo’s collar, but he just continued to scratch and whimper. “Is someone in there?”
America twisted the doorknob, and to her surprise, it was unlocked. Concerned, she laid her ear against the door and immediately heard the sound of a man coughing inside her room. “Oh, heck naw,” she mumbled, spinning around and snatching an old longbow from the wall behind her. Then she dropped to a knee, opened the door, and released her aerial drone into the room.
A dim yellow light swirled across the bottom of the drone and a thin white light appeared on the floor. Following the light, America tiptoed through the pitch-black room counting down the seconds, while her eyes adapted to the darkness.
Eight seconds passed, and America’s eyes began to make out the silhouette of a young man lying in her bed. The drone’s searchlight rolled over a mirrored vanity and froze as soon as it landed on a vase filled with arrows. America grabbed a handful of arrows and tucked them under her arm. Then slowly, she removed the mirror from the vanity, pulled the table away from the wall, and took up an offensive position behind it.
The young boy let out a terrible string of coughs, tossing violently between the sheets of her bed. He sounds sick, she thought as she tapped her fingers against the vanity, sending a stream of Morse code to her drone with instructions to point a laser at the boy. A white light flashed beneath the drone and a green beam shot across the room, landing on the back of the intruder’s head.
“Sheesh,” she tapped in Morse code, “Lower it! I don’t wanna kill him!”
The drone shifted its beam down to the boy’s back and stopped.
“I don’t wanna paralyze him either. Lower please!”
As soon as the beam was where America wanted it, she loaded an arrow and aimed. “This’ll teach ya to break into my room and sleep in my damn bed.” With that, she fired the arrow at the boy sending him flying out of the bed screaming and wailing.
With a sudden thud, Diamonte fell face-first between the wall and the bed, completely caught off guard. As he tried to regain his bearings, a searing pain shot through his leg, causing him to wince in agony. He turned his head to look back and was horrified to see the tail end of an arrow sticking out of his right butt cheek.
“Yo!” Diamonte yelled, yanking the arrow out of his backside. “Who shot me in the ass?”
“I did,” America replied, loading two arrows simultaneously into her longbow, “That’s how we treat trespassers ’round here!” With that, she released two arrows, which embedded themselves in the wall directly above the boy’s head.
“What kind of backwoods country mess is this?” he shouted, crouching behind the bed and searching for a weapon, but there was nothing in sight.
America loaded two more arrows into her bow and halted at the opposite corner of the bed. There, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead, knowing that this could be her first time taking a human life.
Thinking quickly, Diamonte ripped the blanket off the bed and spun it around his forearm. Then, using the blanket as a shield, he sprinted across the bed towards his attacker.
Surprised, America fired upwards, embedding her arrows into the ceiling.
“Gotcha,” he declared, shedding the blanket and lunging forward.
The two collided to the ground, creating another resounding thud.
“Hold on,” Diamonte shouted, pinning America to the floor, “Wait, you’re just a little girl?”
“And you’re just a little boy!” she snapped, delivering a forceful knee strike to his ribs.
Diamonte fell on his backside and let out a gut-wrenching scream. Reacting quickly, America seized her longbow, notched an arrow, and took aim at the boy’s head. Determined to hold back his tears, the boy clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and jutted out his chest. America pulled the bowstring to her cheek and released it, but just as she did, her eyes locked with his, and in that instant, the world stood still. America could feel her heart skip a beat as she gazed into his deep brown eyes.
The arrow zipped past the boy’s face, grazed his cheekbone, shattered a table lamp, and buried itself into the wall behind him.
With a sudden crash, the bedroom door swung open, accompanied by a deafening bang and a commanding voice that thundered, “Enough!”
Startled, America spun around, only to be met by the wrathful glare of her mother, Anasazi “Ana” Herron, standing in the doorway. She was flanked by her stepfather Logan Graham, and her older cousins Jolon Cuthand and Kachine Maize.
“What’s gotten into you?” Ana roared, wrenching the longbow from America’s grasp and dragging her out into the hallway. “Downstairs, now!”
“But, Ma!”
“Don’t but me.”
“But, Ma?”
“What did I just say?”
The house fell silent as Ana and America stared each other down for what felt like an eternity.
“Come on, girl,” Kachine whispered urgently, tugging at America’s arm.
“I’m goin’,” America snapped, jerking her arm away from Kachine and storming down the hallway, with the aerial drone floating over her shoulder and Hototo trotting at her heels.
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