2.2 northwest, 12:59 p.m. EST — The Pasturelands, Chattanooga, Tennessee
In the darkness of the train, FBI Special Agent Zia Brahmin stood alone, staring out into the vast expanse of the night sky through a large, jagged hole where the walls and floors had once been. As she gazed up at the stars above, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of disbelief and shock at the destruction before her. Who could’ve done this, and why?
“Zia!” A voice crackled over the radio on Brahmin’s belt. “It’s Pho, can I borrow you for a sec?”
“En route,” she responded, as she leaped through the hole and onto the tracks. Crossing a field littered with scorched crops, twisted metal, and flashing emergency vehicles, she finally found FBI Agent Jinhai Pho talking to a young soldier wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the tailgate of an ambulance.
“Agent Brahmin,” Pho waved her over, “this is Corporal Liam Nathanael. He was the first soldier to identify the attackers, and thanks to his vigilance, his unit was able to go on the offensive quick enough to prevent any casualties.”
Brahmin nodded at Liam, “Nice to meet you, and thank you for your bravery. As my partner may have already told you, we’re here to investigate this act of terror and—”
“Terror?” Liam muttered, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “This wasn’t a terrorist attack. These were just a bunch of kids, robbing a train.”
“Kids?” Brahmin repeated, “I wasn’t aware that kids were responsible for this attack?”
“Neither was I,” Pho said, nervously flipping through his notebook. “None of the other soldiers I’ve interviewed mentioned anything about kids being involved.”
“Because,” Liam replied, “it all happened so quickly. Only me and my squad leader actually saw them. Trust me, the other guys are just making things up. This whole attack was a blur to them.”
“I just interviewed your squad leader, Sergeant Cavazo,” said Pho, checking his notes. “He described the assailants as young men in their early twenties.”
“It’s his pride,” Liam snickered. “He can’t admit to the fact that a bunch of kids outsmarted us. But he shouldn’t be ashamed. Those kids were far from ordinary. The way they orchestrated everything was like a scene from a movie.”
“Wait,” Brahmin interrupted, “but you said that the attack was too quick for anyone to identify the attackers. So why were you and Sergeant Cavazo the only ones able to identify them, and what makes you so certain they were children?”
“Right after the first attack, we crossed through a wheatfield. I guess the wheat was too tall for their trucks, so they pulled up to the train and drove right beside us. Me and the sergeant were already on the roof, so while everyone else was scrambling to get into position, we were able to get to the front of the train pretty quickly. That’s when we saw them face to face. It was a truck and an all-terrain vehicle, both full of kids. Granted, they were all wearing masks, I could tell by their builds that they were just a bunch of kids. I saw them, eye to eye, and I tell you, they were a bunch of crazy kids.”
“You mentioned they were all wearing masks,” Zia said, taking out her notepad and pen. “Can you describe their attire in more detail?”
“Well, they had a uniform look,” Liam explained. “White t-shirts, black balaclavas, black pants, and black vests, all of them. Oh, but one of them had a strange bandana wrapped around his wrist.”
“A bandanna?” she asked, jotting down Liam’s every word in her notebook. “Can you describe how it looked?”
But before Liam could answer, a sudden broadcast blared from the agent’s radios, “Two unidentified individuals on horseback are approaching the train, armed and refusing to stop. Exercise caution!”
Agents Brahmin and Pho sprang into action, racing across the field. By the time they reached the train, a swarm of officers had gathered around the unidentified riders.
“FBI, make way!” the agents called, forcefully making their way through the crowd toward the center. There, they came face to face with Sowahkanah atop his steed Honon, and A-sig-na sixth captain Onida Haize atop a black and white Appaloosa horse named Alo.
“Who’s in charge here?” Onida asked, struggling to keep Alo still as more officers closed in.
“That’s none of your damn business!” shouted one of the officers.
“This is a crime scene, and you have no right to be here!” yelled another.
“It is you who do not have the right to be here,” roared Sowahkanah, leaping off his horse and charging towards the officers, who drew their guns and aimed at him.
“Stand down!” demanded an officer.
“Get back on your horse!” yelled another.
“The ground that we’re standing on,” Agent Brahmin announced as she ran out into the center of the crowd, “belongs to a clan known as the Nectas! They’re a federally recognized sovereign nation, and as of right now, we are all trespassing on their land. So lower your damn weapons. All of you!”
An awkward silence fell over the crowd as the officers slowly dropped their weapons one by one.
Agent Pho emerged from the crowd and approached Onida and Sowahkana with a conciliatory bow. “Please accept our sincere apologies for this rude and disrespectful introduction,” he said earnestly. “The FBI is fully aware of your tribal sovereignty over this land, and despite our efforts to coordinate our investigation with Chief Anasazi, we were regrettably unable to reach her in time.”
Sowahkana’s voice remained steady as he mounted his steed. “No apologies necessary,” he responded, with a reassuring smile, “I’ve encountered scared men many times before.” Then he turned to the officers, and addressed them, “If you’re interested in locating the rest of your train, follow me.”
2.2 miles southeast, 1:20 a.m. EST — White Owl Ranch, Signal Mountain, Tennessee
Nestled in the heart of the Black House, the family great room was a sprawling space, teeming with potted plants, indigenous art, high ceilings, and tall windows overlooking the moonlit forest outside. But it was the colossal fireplace that commanded the most attention. America found herself drawn to its hypnotic flames, the way they danced and flickered, filling the room with a sense of peace and contentment. As her family slowly entered the room, their faces etched with frustration, she remained lost in the comfort of the fire.
Logan paced through the room, stopping every few seconds to glance into the kitchen and monitor the boy’s condition. Apparently, that’s where her mother and her grand-aunt Osceola Novva were sewing the boy’s butt back together. Why was everyone so concerned about him, America thought, it was her, they should be worried about. She was just defending herself from an intruder like any of them would’ve done.
“Hey,” Kachine whispered to America, plopping down on the armchair beside her, “You know he was our guest right?”
“Who, that boy?”
“Yeah. They came in earlier this evenin’.”
“They?”
“Yeah, him and that big kid over there.”
America spun around and caught sight of the wide, unfamiliar back of Big Spooky conversing with Jolon and her cousins Nahiossi Cuthand and Ealaot Rivers.
“When did we start takin’ in guests?”
“Oh—you don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Figures, you’ve been roughin’ it out in the woods so much lately, you probably didn’t hear the news. Your mother is turnin’ the ranch into a resort.”
“Into a what?”
“Later,” Kachine replied, as she rushed across the room to assist Osceola into a chair.
The chatter in the room came to an abrupt halt as Ana and Diamonte walked in, arm in arm. He was shirtless and covered in bandages from the neck down, but America knew that it wasn’t her doing. She had only shot him in the butt. America’s mind wandered back to the boy’s coughing fit in her bed, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was already injured. A sudden wave of guilt washed over her, and she felt a small spark of empathy for the poor boy. She had attacked him without giving him a chance to speak. As Kachine’s words echoed in her mind, America began to question if she really had been spending too much time outdoors lately.
Dazed and heavily medicated, Diamonte lifted his head and took in the crowded room with disbelief. It was packed with Native Americans of all ages and genders, some with welcoming expressions, while others appeared hostile. Is this a setup? he wondered as he struggled to recall the events that had led him to this point. Then he caught Big Spooky’s eye, who gestured for him to remain quiet. With that, the memories came rushing back to him.
Logan and Nahiossi assisted Diamonte onto the couch. “Perhaps laying on your side would be better,” Logan suggested.
“Everyone gather ’round,” Ana announced, dragging a stool into the center of the room. “Elroy,” she waved, beckoning Big Spooky to approach, “I wanna give our guest a proper introduction. Let’s all say hello to Elroy, please.” The room echoed back a chorus of greetings. “Mary,” Ana snapped, noticing her daughter’s voice missing from the greeting. “Come over and say hello to our guest.”
“Hello, Elroy,” America greeted, forcing a polite smile as she shook his dark pudgy hand. The tattoos on his neck and wrist, along with the dark circles under his eyes, did not escape her notice. Her intuition blared a warning that this boy was nothing but trouble, leaving her perplexed as to why her mother would allow such a dangerous individual into their home.
Ana grabbed America’s shoulders and spun her around to face Diamonte. “And this is the boy you attacked,” she said firmly. “His name is Jasper.”
Jasper? She thought, studying the boy she had almost killed. He didn’t seem like a Jasper to her. He was a calm-looking boy of African-American descent, about her age, maybe a year older. His face was smooth, and his hair was short with deep waves. Unlike his partner, he only had one visible tattoo, the word LOVE wrapped around the front of his neck in big, bold letters.
Beneath his calm exterior, Diamonte was waging a desperate battle to stay alive. The combination of medication and extensive blood loss had plunged him into a deep haze, causing him to drift in and out of consciousness. His pain, queasiness, and disorientation were all-encompassing as he watched the people and objects in the room swirl around him in a maddening blur.
“Go on, say hello,” Ana insisted, pushing her daughter towards him. “Don’t be shy now.”
“Hi,” America said softly, her eyes meeting his.
“Wow,” he smiled, staring intently into her eyes as the room steadied. “I’ve never seen a Black girl with green eyes before.”
“Well, now you have, I guess.”
“Are you black?”
“Yes, I’m Afro-Native American, so I guess you could say I’m Black and brown.”
“Dope, I’ve never met a Black and brown girl before.”
America chuckled. “I seem to bring out a lot of firsts in you.”
“You do.” How could this be the same girl from before? he thought, studying her from head to toe. She looked stunning, with long black hair that cascaded down her back, beautiful brown skin that glistened in the firelight, and a pretty heart-shaped face with deep green eyes that sparkled like emeralds.
America stood before Diamonte, lost in the intensity of his unyielding stare. An enigmatic warmth coursed through her body, offering a sense of familiarity and ease that she couldn’t quite grasp. It was akin to diving deep into the ocean’s depths and uncovering a world of wonder that was both thrilling and unnerving.
“Sorry for stealing your bed.” He smiled, extending his hand to her. “Truce?”
“Sorry for shooting you in the butt.” She smiled back, shaking his hand. “Truce.”
“Logan, dear,” Ana said with a touch of urgency, “would you kindly check if the tea is ready?”
“Yes, my love.” He responded promptly, as he shuffled off into the kitchen.
“Ealaot,” she continued, “would you be so kind and take the little ones back to bed?”
“Yes, Chief,” he replied, lifting Opera off the ground and taking Africa by the hand.
“Mary,” she said, now turning to America.” Quite a few things have taken place since you’ve been away.”
“I’m aware,” America scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “Was anyone goin’ to tell me about the resort?”
“Child,” Ana sighed, “if you had bothered to show up to even one of our weekly meetings, you would’ve known about the resort months ago.”
“Okay, whatever, I don’t care. What I want to know is why this boy was sleeping in my bed.”
Kachine cleared her throat, “We received word earlier today from the ranchers that these two boys had arrived at the South Gate. Elroy was fine, but Jasper was severely injured and losing a lot of blood.”
“So,” Ana interjected, “we brought ’em back to the ranch house and did our best to save Jasper’s life. It took us nearly five hours to get the boy sewed up and stabilized. After that, it was decided that it would be best to keep him in your room since you’re hardly there, and I’d be close enough to check in on him.”
“But didn’t it seem strange,” America asked, “that these two boys just showed up out of nowhere?”
“It did,” Ana replied, as Logan handed her a teacup and saucer.
“And did you not receive word about the train crash from the A-sig-na?”
“I did.”
“Well, then it must be obvious to you that these boys were involved in that crash.”
“Maybe, but nevertheless, the boy was dying, and we had to make a decision.” Ana rose to her feet and yawned. “Alright, now that everyone has been properly introduced, we will continue this conversation in the mornin’.”
“In the morning?” America said. “Wait, shouldn’t we question them before we go to sleep? They could be dangerous criminals.”
“No need to fret,” echoed a voice from outside the hallway. In stepped Yakota, flanked by two large A-sig-na members. “We have the premises under close watch. If any suspicious activity occurs, we’ll be there in a heartbeat.” Yakota turned to Diamonte and flashed him a disquieting grin.
America turned and faced Big Spooky, “Excuse me Elroy, but would you mind explaining what inspired you and your friend to blow up a movin’ train?”
“Enough, Mary!” Ana yelled, rushing over to America and gripping her wrist. “What did I just say?”
“But why?” America shrieked, wrenching her arm from her mother’s grip. “Don’t we deserve to know why they did it?” She glanced at the other family members. “Don’t we all?”
Silence filled the room as one family member after another rose and left.
“Kach,” Ana said, fixing her robe, “would you please show our little princess to her room?”
Kachine approached America and rested a hand on her shoulder. “The less we know, the less we can incriminate ourselves. Plus, we’re hostin’ the town’s Halloween festival tomorrow. We have a lot on our plate, so it’s best to postpone this conversation until mornin’.”
America shot a glance at Diamonte before pivoting to fix Ana with a long, icy stare. “Whatever.” She signed, storming out of the room, with Kachine, Hototo, and her aerial drone following closely behind.
Ana slowly made her way around the room, closing curtains and cutting off lamps of various shapes and sizes, until only the warm, dancing light of the fireplace remained. “Well, goodnight, boys.” She beamed, before exiting the room, accompanied by Logan, Yakota, and his fellow A-sig-na members.
“Yo, let’s get as much sleep as poss—” Big Spooky whispered to Diamonte, but his partner was already sound asleep. “What a day,” he yawned, as he rose from the couch, stretched his tired muscles, and made his way over to the fireplace. Memories of the long day flooded his mind as he removed a fire iron from the mantle and paused to gaze into the dying flames. Then, with a swift motion, he extinguished the fire, plunging the room into total darkness.
478 miles east, 2:25 a.m. EST — Pinecroft Estates, Tallassee, Tennessee
In the dimly lit expanse of a grand hallway, a middle-aged Caucasian man named Jubal Lee loomed outside of a towering bedroom door. Resplendent in a black tuxedo, he stood fixated upon the door, as the distant cadence of laughter and the soft clatter of cutlery reverberated through the corridor. With a gentle touch, he nudged the door ajar, allowing his left eye to steal a fleeting glimpse into the chamber beyond. Revealed was a vast space, engulfed in darkness, save for a thin flicker of candlelight that danced upon a magnificent oak sewing table.
Jubal watched in silence as a figure suddenly emerged from the shadows cradling a large white cloth. It was none other than his beloved wife, Belle Lee-Pinecroft, a beautiful but much older lady with long gray hair that cascaded down the back of her silk pajamas like tendrils of smoke. With her back to the door, she took a seat at the table, spread the cloth beneath the needle of an antique sewing machine, and began to work at a feverish pace.
“My love,” Jubal’s voice quivered, as a solidary teardrop traced a sorrowful path down his cheek, “I make this solemn vow to you.” Tenderly, he wiped away the tear, his hand lingering for a moment before gently closing the door. “The South shall rise again.”
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