"So where do you come from?" asks the man opposite of Oso.
"The other side of the Wall," I reply.
"What part?"
"North Violet," I say.
"Yeah, and I bet you all have legal cops there too?" he asks, the unknown stranger, laughingly, then looking back at the men behind him. They all burst-out in a convulsion of laughter.
This reply has seemed to have caused a pretentious-aura to circle around us, making its presence known automatically.
Then, as I'm thinking about the aura, and what they might be thinking of me, one of the other men behind the first stranger that first directed himself towards me, makes his opinion known on what I believed he would make his opinion known on: his thoughtsâalong with the othersâon me.
"Fucking legal cops not doing it for you sweetart?" he snorts.
And before I can answer, Oso intercepts:
"Hey! Come on, we don't have much time!" he says.
"Listen, Oso--if we're going to hit the East gate of the branch, we're going to need to do it at night. That shit is covered twenty-four seven throughout the day."
"I know. But how many people do we need?"
"About twenty, I'd say."
"Congo and Ludivina -"
Hey, he didn't say "miss divine".
"Can stay back and cover any fire we might receive in the trucks."
*********************************************************************************************
On the other side of the wall, you should know, the side I'm from, Moritz believes that I'll be there for Fall training; he also believes that I'll go to the movies with him this weekend; and that we'll carry on with our usual weekly routine, because nothing is wrong. But I won't be doing thatâany of that. None of it. I wish I was, however.
I wish I could also tell Moritz about this. Now, living all this--even the few I have lived--I feel bad for taking everything I had on the other side for granted: all the things Moritz and I consistently complained about, all the reasons we think we need to "take the edge off" after school, or after a family dinner, or simply afterâwhat we believed to beâa "bad day"; all those reasons are ridiculous when I see what these people need to do just to live safe. How a community can put away the dead like we did with Felix earlier today.
That doesn't matter though. All that matters, is what's going on now; what I have to live now.
"Ludivina!" shouts Oso, snapping me from my daydream.
Shoot! Did I really just do that?
"Like divine?" asks the man.
Oh, great. Here we go - again. And again. And Again.
"Yes!" I snap.
"Okay," he replies, bored and fearless, probably knowing I might just die soon and he won't have to put up with me and all this anger a few hours from now.
"Why are we doing this?" I ask without wanting to ask.
Oso and the man look at each other.
Then Oso says:
"Because sometimes, the best thing you can do in life, especially in our situation, is laugh as the fire rages on."
I didn't ask more. Even though I didn't know what the hell Oso meant with that statement--or "Osodism" of sorts--I felt I didn't, or couldn't, ask anymore, even if I did want to aks some more. The point was taken.
So we planned. Or they planned. And then we walked out.
Some men said goodbye to their women and children. And some men to their men and children. Others were women saying goodbye to their women and children. Then there were the parental farewells. And then there was my farewell, off to the side, by the bar, having a last one with Noe, both of us, two lonely souls with a family missing.
He, Noe, has been the only person I have been able to form some sort of comradery with, and in this tiny, short life-span of a friendship we had, it felt niceâespecially around here, where every second feels like a miracle (at least to me). Therefore, I stick with him on what could be my last moments; and I toast with him; and I toss back the poison as if it is our last "supper" (of sorts).
What connected me to Noe? I don't know. It was probably his outgoing personality and his sense of humor which grabbed me from the first time he, grabbed me, and forced me, almost, to digest a three-colored train of poison. Maybe it was that moment when it hit me: that he was like the brother I wish I had.
"You ready?" Noe asks, strapping his own vest.
He's going too?
"You're going to?" I ask.
I know I had to go because if not I'd just take a bullet hereânot that I'm planning to take one at all, but you know what I meanâbut him?
"I thought you just worked at the bar?" I asked.
He laughs.
"We all work at the bar. But we also all fight. At least those that can," he says, looking at the women and children. "It's the only way we stay sane," he then says, closing the Velcro on the fabric over his shoulders, which then strapped onto his chest.
Here we go again.
Outside, in the rectangular-shaped lot, the cars and trucks and cycles, wait for those ready to ride and drive them.
About thirty is what I count. Thirty.
I don't know what we're doing, but if we need thirty bodies, then it could only mean one thing: sacrifice; carnage; war; battle; death; 'lots and 'lots of death.
********************************************************************************************
In my grandmother's farm, North of Austin, she used to make goat cheese and yogurt out of the milk she produced from the bundle of goats she kept, and raised, there.
I even remember trying it a few times. I only remember going twice, maybe three times, but I remember trying itâout of her force towards me, of courseâbut I remember trying it. That much, I do remember.
Whenever I did try it, I remember it being thick.
It was thick, thick stuff she developed out of all of these animals which also became my pets from time-to-time; definitely the times I was lonely.
I had never experienced something as thick as that cheese and yogurt and honey until I met these people, the Black Catz. With their skin as thick as that goat produce, they seem to go on with this heavy, heavy (and devastating) life that we--on the other side of the Wall--could never stand, let alone survive.
"Yo! Miss Divine! Hello?"
Here we go again--sorry about that, by the way--getting distracted and all.
Let's take a step back and jump back into the scenario:
"Hello?" repeats Noe.
"What are we invading?"
"Just hurry up," he says, probably noticing the slow, low pace of my noodle-like legs below me.
I accelerate behind Noe, where Oso and everyone is already gathered.
The goodbyes have been said and all there is left to do, is the fightingâwhatever fighting there was left to do, that is.
Picture me: shorter than most of the people hereâabout five-feet and three inchesâwith darker skin and lighter eyes; now picture me in a camouflage vest with a rifle bigger than my upper-body (and probably my entire body).
What did Dorothy say? There's no place like home?
********************************************************************************************
There's another girlâone with a coursed face and light, light hairâthat is, getting in a truck next to the car that Noe pulls me into.
You're probably wondering why I give a damn about a girl with light, light hair when I'm headed into what seems to be a battle I might not get out of.
And I'll tell you why I give a damn about a girl with light, light hair: because there is no other light, light hair around here. Thus, what is she doing here?
She isâthe girl with the light, light hairâwith one of the big men that was sitting with Oso in the VIP area yesterday, which probably means it's nothing and I'm just being paranoid about this whole situation because, well, right now is a time to be pretty paranoid about everything, and everything.
Flat ground and country side is what the other side of the Wall is like.
I wonder if the country side looks like the country side here, with so much rubble and rock everywhere, because of all the gun fighting, because of all the battle that has destroyed everything. There is always a reason for a mess, after all.
Since I arrived, and before I arrived here and was still with my uncle, I could hear, in the distance, gunshots at all timesâor what I presumed to be gunshotsâalmost every night that came past the day; this leads me to believe this is the cause for the look of the town on this side of the Wall, I think.
Once we're all in our designatedâor designed, rather (because that's the way it is)âvehicles, and once we've waved more goodbyes to all the loved ones we're leaving behind, we set off for the unknown destiny, the faith that awaits us, leaving behind the smoke created by the gas taking us into the abys, the death penalty life has served on a platter for us, or layed out on the hot, concrete road, the only road we have, or that the Black Catz have had since birth, therefore, the only road I now have, as I am a Black Cat too. We might have to pay a toll soon. And that toll is our life.
As we drive on, the sun hits us in the faceâthose sitting near the windows, at least.
Since some of the cars have tinted windows, some of the Catz don't catch the heat like those of us seated near the rays, closer to the clouds, to the sky. Or can it be that we, being all of us in this car, are at the same length, no matter the window distance, to the sky, to the heavens, as the other, the one seated next to us? Be it that or not, it's what I think.
That's about all that shines at the moment: the sun, and my cranium, blowing up ideas up there without my consent, or pleasure of heat as it may seem to believe, based on its actions.
Noe is beside me.
Congo is in another car.
Oso is driving some other car or truck.
Felix in the "purrg," or whatever that room was that they stuck him in after he died.
Henry is dead on the ground back there, wherever we were whenever that happened to him.
And the rest of the people, the Catz, are back at the bar.
Meanwhile, during all this shit, my grandmother is back home, restingâI hope.
Then I think about my uncle. Where is he? Could he be at his store, still? Or could he be calling my grandmother, maybe panicking along with her, making things worse, and causing her blood-levels to rise like the sea barely near us.
As for meâI; Am; Here.
Here I am in a truck headed somewhere, with a vest over my chest, a rifle over my lap, Felix's blood over the clothes under the bullet-proof jacket, fear under my skin; here I am.
"We can't let them tax us on clean water," says the driver of our truck.
Noe interjects, nicely:
"This is a new recruit, y'all!"
The driver turns back.
Sunglasses cover her face.
We pass a river.
Then, the passenger takes off his UV-protectors to greet me.
Unlike the passenger, the driver is, as she gives me a seldom "welcome" while also retaining her giant ball of bubblegum; her lips and tonsils stay glued to it, the bubble gum, focused on every chew, one chew after the other, almost taking turns, imitating a steering wheel, or one of those hamster balls designed to keep a small rodent trapped and entertained for a good amount of time. Am I the rodent?
Little, tiny, tree-shaped (pine trees, to be exact) air-fresheners of the Black Catz logo hang from the rearview mirror. I've noticed this same figure, logo, and item, in every vehicle, and in every location (at least once) since I've been with the Black Catz.
"Did you guys get those made?" I ask.
Noe laughs.
"It was Oso's idea," he replies.
The driver keeps her gum-bubble blowing and growing.
I get a laughable "yeah, they smell kind of weird, don't they?" from the passenger.
I laugh.
"I'm Fernando," he says, the passenger, giving me his right hand.
"Pamela," says the driver, not giving me any hand.
"So why did you join?" asks the guy in the passenger seat.
Noe replies for me:
"She didn't really have a choice," he says, gigglingâand almost smirking too.
"So what did you do?" Pamela inquires, keeping her gum bouncing up and down, up and down, and inside her mouth; and repeating this...forever.
"Um..." I stumble, not knowing what to reply.
"She accidently killed one of the other new recruits," Noe then answers for me, again.
Pamela laughs, and then holds it (her laughter), cautious about the tales, or stories, credibility.
"How the hell did you do that, newbie?"
"Ludivina," Noe points out to Fernando.
"Like divine?" he says (Fernando), to my fear.
"Yes," I succumb.
Noe laughs.
"She doesn't really like that, I think."
"Can she not answer and think for herself?" Pamela throws at me, with all the shade in the worldâshade I might need at the moment, as I am burning up.
Honks blast us from every direction (even during these driving conditions) because Pamela's driving is a little too hardcore for what they might teach anyone at any driving school. The swerves cause my stomach to turn and to nauseate my mouth.
"I think everyone has just been making that same joke, is all," I reply for myselfâfinally.
"It's good, no?" Pamela says. "We need more divine around here."
"I guess so," I reply, not really wanting to get into a debate over what someone should, or should not, call me. I'm just trying to stay alive at the moment.
"That must be so weird," says Fernando.
"What is?" I ask.
"Just having to be forced to join. Don't you have some other force to join from your own community?"
Noe drops a hand over my lap as if to say "I've got this." And he did have it.
"She's from the other side," he replies.
Both Pamela and Fernando now look at each other as if to say "damn...that sucks more."
Pamela turns up the music and we don't talk for the remainder of the trip, not until we reach the location the other vehicles take us to.
******************************************************************************************
I saw a war documentary once where the soldiers that had lived through the war (I believe it was WWII) said that they didn't like getting attached to any new recruits, or new companies, joining them, because, during battle, so many men died at such a high, and fast, rate, that getting attached and building friendships wasn't worth the time, or risk--you'd simply end up getting more hurt than before, you'd simply get mentally hurt at that point, is what they said. And in my head, I believe getting physically hurt is one thing -- you can get over that -- but getting mentally hurt is a whole-other thing...that type of hurt can really screw you up, and I'm not talking about a small scar or cut screw-up, I'm talking about screwed-up, screwed-upâthe type of screwed up that really fucks with your screws...and leaves them fucked until death do you apart.
So, with that said, it's all about focus. I need to focus to not allow my screws to go flinging, and flipping, on me right now. I need to focus on staying sane.
With that in focus, another question comes to mind: which soldier am I?
*************************************************************************************************
...in the truck, we stay, for a second longer, drinking water.
The scent from the air-freshener can't cover up the tension in the air, that's for sure.
Oso reappears once we're all out of the cars and trucks.
Palm trees surround us like we're in a beach somewhere. And to be honest, the scenery around us does not signify the way we feel â or the way I feel. These are tropical geographical areas, after all.
It's a big gate, surrounded by palm trees, which is surrounded by more beautiful nature pieces, that all greet us when we arrive.
The house behind the gate is big. The structure and built of it is different too, from that of all the other houses I've seen on this side of the Wall. It's not like my uncle's place. This place looks like it could actually survive a thunderstorm. It's built out of the strong stuff, like the houses on my side of the Wall.
We all look like an army ready to attack â like an army just waiting in front of the first gate, our rifles in hand â those that have rifles â and our vests below our chin, strapped and ready to hopefully protect us, and keep us from leaving this Earth, at this time.
"Come out!" yells Oso.
He yells it one more time before the gate opens, in a dragging manner, slowly, bumping up and down with the gravel below it.
On the left side of the gate, in giant red and blue letters, Government and Police Offices shines and beams for all to see, even those who dare not get as close as we've done.
The colors of the wall remind me of those that Henry and his men wore before they got into it with Oso and our men.
Aside from the shooting practice I went through earlier on the orders of Oso and Congo, I hadn't had any other sort of training or briefing or break through, to tell me what the hell is going on; this being the case, I wonder if this will be the last time I get lucky and end up like Felix did when it should have probably been me instead of him.
My grandmother must have surely gotten word by now. I don't want her to worry though. I just know she's gotten word. It's been too long for her not to get word yet. I just wonder where she is, what she's doing, and how she reacted; any worry at this age for her can mean something serious; I already took one man's life in my uncle's store â then I was probably the cause of Felix â I don't want to be the cause of any more hurt, especially if it involves my grandmother, especially if it's her, the one getting hurt.
I need to be brave. My mind tells me that: be brave, dammit.
So I stand tall with the other people looking at the gate that's looking back at us. It says Government and Police only; all those other that enter or try to enter will pay the price.
It â the gate â doesn't literally say that, but in a way, it does.
Either way, we weren't trying to enter. We know we're probably safer out here. At least I do â I know that.
Then, the first voice comes:
"What do you want? You know the orders...." it dictates, in a shouting manner, as high as can be, and it comes from the first body we see, the first "brave" soul (however brave you have to be with a Government backing by your side to protect you) that makes themselves visible to us, to all those on the opposite side of the black, damming fence.
"That's exactly what we want to talk about â the orders," yells Oso, acting as our mediator.
It's inspiring to see the courage on all of these faces, even after all we've been through. Even the enemy wears a mask of courage and pluck; you can see that they're all ready to die for their cause, for whatever they believe in, for their inherited precept. We are as well. I'm not sure if I am, really. But I can feel that the Catz are ready.
*******************************************************************************************
Not everything seems as bad as it probably should be to me anymore. It's a bastion I've inherited, or grown. But if it is as bad as I refuse to believe it is, and if my bastion isn't working as well as I believe, well, at least I brought my running shoes.
Because, after all is done, I'm not trying to be a hero or anything. Let me just tell you that.
I'm not trying to save anyone but myself. But I'm also not trying to get anyone hurt if I don't need to, like I did with Felix. And saving the world is just out of the question at the moment. The main goal is this: getting home. Although, it is evident, that first, we have to fight.
"What's going on?" I whisper to Noe, as if we didn't have enough time in the car to talk about this; but we â you and me â both know what we wasted our time on.
Noe pushes the air down beside him with his left hand, because I am standing to his left; he does so in a motion that tells me to hush for now.
And I do because I don't crave a bullet more than I crave an answer.
Oso is probably seven people in front of me. They're all scattered in a row in front of me â the seven or eight people.
"Our families can't be taxed for basic needs," Oso says. "We're barely making ends meet having to protect ourselves from your fucking Party."
"Everyone is taking the tax," replies their mediator.
"We're not part of everyone, and you know that," replies Oso.
"Listen -- just because you're near the Wall, doesn't mean you can just escape whenever you want to go live by their rules. You don't have a passport."
The mediator snarls the remark at Oso, then looking back at his men, who laugh with him, he releases a finger gesture at them, of which, only a few men see.
"You think because you all got yourselves a recruit from the other side of the Wall, that you're going to now fake a way in or something?"
What did he just say? Is he talking about me?
The mediator looks at me.
"It doesn't matter about who's joined us. You don't know who we've lost," Oso replies.
"Yes, because killing Post 12 is going to help, eh?" the mediator hits back.
"That was on them," snaps Oso. "You know what they did."
"Why don't you just sell rock like the rest of them?" laughs the mediator, again, looking back at his men.
Oso puts his head down. "You know we've been through this."
"Right, right, your morals and all that bullshit."
"Listen. We can't pay this tax and that's that."
The mediator looks back. Some of his men and women look to raise their guns. But he swats them down, pushing the air closer to the grounds like he did to Oso.
"You have twenty-four hours to sigh this and get it back to me."
The mediator hands Oso a rolled up paper.
"It's the tax, or your souls," whistles the mediator as he walks away, giving, fully, his back to us.
At this time, Congo is right behind Oso, as he always is.
I could see Oso looking back at Congo, slightly, in a way where it wasn't that noticeable, in a way one would when someone is trying to tell someone else something in secret, using nothing but their eyes; you know the look--you're probably giving these words that look right now, as I write them.
But I look at Congo. I want him to look at me. I want to ask him something, as he is to Oso, with eyes instead of lips.
Congo doesn't look at me though. He keeps his gaze on Oso, who returns his gaze, but they don't make the decisions that their eyes wanted them to make, along with their hands, tinkling above where I know they keep their pistol, tucked under their vests, hidden in plain, invisible sight.
Oso hands the paper to Congo.
"Let's go," Oso says.
"It's easier to be bad than good," yells the mediator, before he tucks away and disappears behind the gate.
"How the hell are we going to afford this?" asks Congo.
"Don't worry. We'll talk tonight," reassures Oso, always in that same confident tone, no matter what was happening; like Felix, before he left.
*********************************************************************************************
If we didn't come here to fight, then why did we come armed-and-ready?
Scintillatingly, Oso tells Congo that "he has a plan". But he's been saying that since I met him, since I left with him from my uncle's store. The last plan, need I remind you, got Felix killed. Or was that me? Maybe it's time you start telling me things.
"What are we doing?" I ask Noe.
"He has a plan," Noe replies, looking at Oso.
Oh, great. Another one that thinks that he has a plan. Or do they mean He?
We all head back into the cars and trucks. Some people came in bikes. I've noticed that that's how it is. It's like a government-run patrol service. They have their Black Catz-labeled vehicles, and vests, and some even have Black-Catz-labeled pants.
I left with Noe, like I arrived. And we left with Pamela and Fernando, same as when we were first coming this way.
We didn't have to stroll too far when we parked. And it felt stand-offish when we did get down.
The drive wasn't long, like the conversation between mediators.
Pamela pulls into a diner. And it appears that the other vehicles do to.
Oso, of course, leads the way, which is whom Pamela followed into this parking lot.
Magnolia's, reads a giant pink sign on the side of the building.
A light green paint decorates the entire structure, leveled and kept down to one floor.
Going off of the reflection on the dashboard, I could tell the day was quickly slipping from us.
These streets, no matter the time of the day, I begin to notice, do not fill up as they do on the other side of the Wall. In my opinion, it is because of the way things are run here; how somebody can just take you from your uncle's store; or how they can tax you for simple necessities like clean, running water; I don't know for a fact, obviously, like you, but I do draw an opinion from what I've seen and heard, as you have too.
Brusquely, Pamela tells us to get out.
In this moment, as I'm stepping out, I realize that Noe and I didn't even really talk on the way over here. Could it be the situation currently being lived that's keeping us quiet and holding us back?
We all walk into the diner where Oso grabs us all tables huddled around each other.
To the right of the main dining area, separated by a bridge that traveled over a little man-made pond, a side patio held enough tables to hold the whole gang of Black Catz that had followed Oso to what we thought was going to be a battle.
When we take a seat, Oso pulls out the paper that was given to him back in front of the Government building.
There are no camels around these open plains, but there are many straws around us. So I'm wondering how many it'll take to break any sides' back.
As I solemnly predicted, the paper was a contract. Oso closed it as fast as he opened it -- I think he, too, expected the same thing but hoped for something else than a contract.
I could already tell that this piece of paper was having a different affect than the one Oso pulled out in the bar. Those, back in the bar, were plans -- I think, at least. But these -- this contract -- are plans and orders and demands â demands to live certain ways the Black Catz never planned for, intended to plan for... now that they'll probably have to plan for them.
"Their New Order is here," Oso mutters, closing the paper.
Congo's ear catches Oso secretly, muttered words. And I don't believe those words are strangers to Congo's ears.
"We can't let them," Congo tells Oso.
Oso looks up at Congo, still seated in his Diner chair, and Congo now out of his.
"I know," replies Oso. "We're not."
"Should I tell them to get ready?" asks Congo.
Ready for what? Is this the battle we were supposed to fight in the first place?
"Back to the cars," yells Congo.
There is definitely more of a sense of war in the air now than there were hours and minutes ago. The comparison is something I can't compromise.
When we first arrived to the Government post, we didn't really arrive with the intention of flinging a bullet. But now -- going off of Congo and Oso's eyes -- there were plenty of bullets that they intended on flinging.
The waiter of the diner didn't catch us until we were half-way out the door.
"Is something wrong?" he asked -- the waiter -- wondering why we were just bailing on him like that.
Reaching the parking lot of the diner, the only people I hadn't lost from my sight were Pamela, Fernando, and Noe. Or maybe it was that they hadn't lost me from their sight.
Noe tugged and pulled at my arm.
"Come on! Hurry!" he said, waving me into the same car we had arrived in.
The drive over to, well, I-don't-know-where-but-I'm-assuming-it's-back-to-the-Government-office, was quite- the same type of quiet death produced when I first saw it, but even more quiet.
Pamela didn't talk this time. From the rearview mirror, instead, I could see her swatting glances at Noe and I every other chance while driving.
"Don't take your vest off and keep your gun close," were the only words I heard before arriving back to the enemy's domain -- which were words spoken than by none-other-than Noe.
We all arrived back.
And there are no officers waiting up front this time.
They truly are not expecting us.
Could this be where Oso's first plan -- the one he showed us back in Black Catz-- comes into play, I wonder.
The armory was really coming out this time. If you hadn't already realized, we were already carrying rifles. So when I say "that the artillery is really coming out this time," you can imagine what I'm talking about.
No, no more rifles. This time, I don't know how someone would get ahold of this type of weaponry, Oso and Congo and others were pulling out grenades, rocket launchers, you name it -- anything and everything that you could use as a weapon and could also fit into a vehicle like a truck, car, or van -- they (Congo and Oso and others) were pulling them out and were getting ready to use them on this Government and Police offices.
*******************************************************************************************
Back home, some nights, I remember drinking hot chocolate and enjoying cookies with my grandmother on nights I didn't have soccer practice. She always watched some soap opera with me-- I could never remember the name -- and I always "enjoyed" it with her.
But it was the remains of the cookies that stayed at the bottom of our mugs after we were done with our chocolate that I enjoyed the most. My grandmother didn't really like them, but I did. The dregs, is what she told me they (the crumbs) were called.
And that is how I feel right now, here, with the Black Catz: like a dreg. A dreg of the world. And now, a dreg of the Black Catz.
*******************
Noe hands me a grenade.
"What?" I panic. "What the heck am I supposed to do with this?" I say, still in that same panic.
A dreg with a grenadeâthat is what I am: a dreg with a grenade.
"Don't worry. You might not need it," Pamela says, suddenly appearing next to me, Fernando shortly followed.
I don't feel as confident as Pamela looks. I feel more like Fernando looks.
These two are like sidekicks, I guess.
Does that make Noe my sidekick? Or me his?
Do these Black Catz work in pairs? Was Noe paired with me?
I'm still trying to piece together these Catz, if you haven't already figured it out for yourself.
Pamela has always had -- since I met her -- this fierce face to her, these illegible eyes that almost always seemed ready for anything; and also ready to hide whatever it is they might need to hide. Her look, even at times, reminded me of that of my grandmothersâlady I hope to see again.
Using her cut arms, Pamela places a thick belt around her waist, under her vest. The belt carries a hold on both sides, right and left, for a weapon the size of a medium-height-and-width pistol. She looks at me looking at her and asks, almost laughing: what?
"Stay close," Pamela tells me.
Noe nods at both her and me, telling her "okay" and almost telling me "do as she says."
"How do you two stay so composed?" I ask.
"It's sometimes the situation you have to take rather than the situation taking you anywhere that helps," says Pamela.
"But how do you cope with all this mess?" I follow.
Pamela smirks at Noe, then back at me: not every spill is a mess, she quips.
Her and Noe walk off without a warning.
********************************************************************************************
The red dirt that pollutes patches of this ground, rise with all of the feet-work that ruffles and runs around the land-work, the "God-given" soil, to prepare for a plan that I have no recollection of.
This is happening.
Caps over heads. That's what I see. Caps rising from the gates, slowly showing themselves to us. That's also what I see.
There is a sign to each cap that you can see before anything else. It carries the blue and red that Harry carriedâalong with his menâbefore they didn't carry them anymore, because, well, they couldn't carry them anymore.
We are all aligned to the caps rising up. Both types.
I didn't tell you thisâI didn't notice this until Pamela pointed it outâbut that's the way it is: things are rising above me, around us, and above us.
"Get ready," Pamela tells me.
Everyone was already ready.
At first, the gate didn't open.
And there are no mediators coming out to greet each other this time.
There are just caps rising and Black Catz preparing.
Pamela is already prepared.
So is Fernando.
Noe is taking a position behind the door of the car we came in, using it as a shield.
I was about to walk over to Noe, to take cover with a door like him, until Pamela stopped me.
"No. Stay and fight with us," she said.
And for one stupid, crazy reason, I listened.
An intercom then came on:
"One last chance, Oso," it said.
There is the mediator.
The bullets go off. The first one, at least. It comes from our side.
I don't know if it's our side, but it's my side. I feel itâor themâwhiz by me. You know the sound(s) I'm talking about. That whip, whom sound an engine, vehicle, or any piece of technology makes whenever traveling at outrageous speeds.
Again, I think. Here we go again.
I duck down. But it seems that I'm the only that does. Pamela looks at me laughing.
Oso and Congo are too far gone on the caps that had now become heads to worry about meâthe new recruitâto even look back.
It's all out gone, after this.
As my grandmother would say...they opened the door for them.
I see the Black Catz aligned to me, behind Oso and Congo (as we all were), crouching down and moving forwardâeveryone was doing so, men and women.
You know those battles in war movies where all the soldiers move forward on a single, linear, steady line? (Well, that was us right now.) It's okay if you don't know what I'm talking about, or if you don't know what "a line" isâI only know because Moritz made me watch a lot of war movies with him. Anyways, it's this scene that my scene looks likeâa moving war picture. We didn't wait 'till nightfall though. And we weren't being as stealthyâthere was no stalking from our side. We just went on our way, with our way, to do our job.
The sun was still out too. Blue skies and white, puffy clouds, in fact, painted the horizons above us, detailing the skies with the most perfect clouds my eyes ever-did-see.
"Redd! The West wing!" yells Oso. "The West Wing,'" he repeats, pointing at a few men I did not recognize by name or by face. But now I know Reddâif that is his real nameâbut I am not sure for how long Redd and I will know each other on this Earth; I'm not sure how long this Earth will permit us to know each other.