Originally published in Village X Magazine vol. 2
It’s late, but on rooftops and from windows across the city, we watch the night sky expectantly. In a burst of light, the darkness seems to spill away from upturned faces, revealing toothy streaks on tanned skins. Embers glitter in yellows and reds across midnight blue and those watching feel briefly intimate with the stars.
The streets these days are empty, weightless under the heavy sky. Most people seem adjusted to life indoors. They choose not to think about the people outside, connecting them to markets – bringing food, medicine, and clothes to their doorsteps. Inside Parents refer to them as “Expendables” in hushed, anxious tones. Inside Children, liking the sound of it, peer through barred windows longingly, wishing for one to appear.
Pop-pop. Poppoppoppop.
Tonight, the wish comes true. Children hold their breath, watching a womanish figure wade through rubble. She is flanked by burly pit bulls, two of them. She wears an automatic rifle over her shoulder, keeping a relaxed grip on the trigger. The woman doesn’t look to see the fire working in the sky, though she can hear it crackle in the distance. The nearest streetlight flickers precariously overhead as she passes beneath it, then goes out. One of the dogs stops to sniff its base, moonlight glinting silver off its coat. There is a sharp whistle, then:
“Clip. Heel.” Grinning doggishly, Clip trots back into formation with her owner. They walk to an alley at the end of the block. Before entering, the woman glances over her shoulder, making direct eye contact with the Children for a brief and chilling moment. She adjusts her gun, whistles lowly, then disappears into the alley.
Swaddled in their dreams that night, the Children leave their bodies behind to soar across the neighborhood, descending into a sleepy cottage nestled between townhouses. They melt softly through wood, cement, soil, then sink into a cavernous room lit by a ring of lanterns along its edge. Nestled into the back wall, four propane grills sear smoke and seasoning into ribs, brisket, and chicken wings. The chef is heavy-set with excellent posture and a starchy apron, brushing moisture back into the meat while singing wordlessly under his breath. It is a regular night at The Grill. The chef flips vegetables, fire-roasts tortillas, and mesquite smoke billows up through a perfectly wide chimney overhead as the sky pulls a deep inhale. An oak table stretches from wall to wall, and around it gathers eight overlapping conversations.
“Can you pass the hot sauce? No, that one. Yea—”
“I don’t think you can get these anywhere else. Limited re—”
“Miss Rona not welcome in my house, I don’t wanna see her, hear from her, no thank—.”
“—Waitwaitwait, I didn’t see that episode.”
“Mm. Mhm. Wow.”
“I told you it’s self-titled, B-Day, then Lemon—
“Awww shit, it’s EZ! Easy-peasy”
A chorus of hey’s ease from the group. They offer her an obligatory glance in greeting but not for long, filling the room with their conversations once more. At the head of the table, a broad woman with sweat peppering her brow beckons to EZ warmly. She wears the same crisp apron as the chef, having just finished her own grill master shift. The Children recognize the image tattooed on her cheekbone — a stick of dynamite. A color contact makes her left eye bright blue against cinnamon skin. Her right eye is milky white, a wet scar floating on its surface like foam. Her mouth breaks open, releasing a wave of questions. EZ lets them wash over her, a salve:
“Now how you doin’ miss thing? Do you haveta get thinner every time I see ya? They not feeding you on the westside? You can always get something to eat at with us, okay? Now have you talked to Junior this week? I asked him to check in on you, didn’t I Junior? Junior!”
Junior, tearing into a massive burrito with what seems to be love, snaps his head up at the tone of his mother’s voice. His mouth pauses mid-chew, hanging ajar as if to say, what?
“Child if you don’t close your mouth like you got some damn sense. Didn’t I ask you to talk to EZ on Wednesday? Y’remember that?
Junior nods his head yes.
“Did you do it?”
Junior shakes his head no. A vein pulses dangerously in his mother’s temple.
Junior shrugs defensively, swishing around a cheekful of carnitas to choke out three words: “She right there.” EZ chuckles, covering it with a cough.
“Thanks, Auntie. I’m actually not staying for dinner, I just wanted—“
“Aht aht, you gon’ be hungry later so you better take a plate to go.”
“Well—“
“Gary! Get up fool, you done finished every last lick on that plate.” Gary, sauce scattered like jazz across his chest, sneers back at her but cannot deny this observation. “Go on now, this is a grill not a living room.”
Gary makes his way out, muttering something rude but inaudible, and throws the soggy paper plate in a trash bin. At the door he stops to pull from a sticky-looking flask then smacks his lips loudly. The room sings goodbyes out behind him, their harmonies spitting him out on the street with the hazy glow of a full stomach.
Inside, EZ takes his spot and accepts a plate of tacos from the chef, who pretends not to hear her polite refusal. He also leaves a warm tinfoil parcel at her elbow, which Junior eyes longingly from across the table.
“Auntie, I thought a lot about what you asked me last week.”
Auntie’s demeanor does not change, but EZ again notices the vein pulsing steadily at her temple. “Now, I don’t mean to worry you—“
“Child, just about everything worries me. The police kill anything that moves on these streets, and those dogs outside —what do you call them?”
“Clip and Nine.”
“Mm-mm, yeah, Clip and Nine won’t stop but one bullet each for you. Pigs never shoot once. You and your cousins crawling around this city at night with no protection just don’t sit right with me. During a war? Don’t make no sense.”
“I know, Auntie.”
“And now this disease…they say if you get it you eat yourself alive. Say you can catch it on the wind if it’s hot out.”
“I know.”
“And this the hottest July in—“
“Auntie. I’m not gonna change my mind. I’m sorry — I can’t — I won’t make deliveries anymore.” An exhale. A silence. Auntie leans back from the table. The roll of conversation in the dining room reduces to a simmer, and guests watch Auntie and EZ from the corners of their eyes.
“You too good to work for me?”
“Naw, we talked about this. Making money off a war just ain’t right. You want to sell your weapons — that’s your business. Not mine.” Auntie scoffs.
“My business. The same business that puts food on your plate and keeps this grill hot. My business is to keep you alive.” EZ sucks her teeth. “You sitting here strapped up in a piece I gave you, eh? That Ruger on yo’ back came from me. Now why wouldn’t you want to help our people keep safe outside? You got to remember, I didn’t create this mess. They wanted to turn our city into a sanctuary from the disease. “A Safe City”…ha! Then aaaall these white folk started coming. More of them than there was homes. They wanted us, who been here, quarantined outside the city limits. They threatened a war on those who stayed, but no – they wanted to wipe us clean out. Calling our babies sick, calling everyone who refused to evacuate “viral” so they had license to kill. ‘We killed the virus!’ ‘We cleaned their houses!’ ‘Come forget the blood on your hands and live a long life!’ No. I say hell no. That ain’t no war. War is an armed struggle. A war has two sides. They took our homes at gunpoint and we gon’ return with firepower or I’ll be damned.”
“I didn’t sign up for all that. I want to live without always looking over my shoulder.”
“So go out with your cousins. They’ll look over your shoulders for you. Junior and Big Kev just went down Old Bronzeville with some boys and took back the block, right baby?” Junior dipped his head yes. “Over where me and ya mama grew up. Had all them crackas screaming and running, didn’t you? Prolly their first time outside in they life, some of ‘em.” EZ purses her lips.
“Y’all asking for trouble. Cops didn’t come?”
“We was in and out ‘fore they could call,” Junior reports, sitting up a little straighter. “Just came in to let ‘em know whose house they was in. Threw they shit out the windows. Smashed the phones. Told em stay out my house. Then we bounced. Yo’ rose bush still there, mama. Lookin’ good.” Auntie smile trembles with the weight of memory. Her fingers clasp themselves, grasping for soft velvet rosebuds. Longing for her gardens.
“So much has failed us…this grill is the only thing that hasn’t.” EZ gestures toward the tall sloping ceiling, muddy and sturdy. She opens her arms to span door to door, as if to say, and you. Auntie leans forward, placing a set of green matte acrylics on the table.
“So then help us keep it. We got a lock on the street, if we just —“
“I’m not – I can’t be keeping up like this. It don’t sit right with me Auntie, I can’t sleep at night thinking about how backwards this shit is. We need to build more. Build spaces where we don’t have to fight for shelter, for food, to gather. We could move our people underground if –”
“Underground?” Auntie throws her head back and releases a cackle. The laughter ripples through the rest of the table softly. The sound makes the Children uncomfortable. EZ stands up, pressing into the faded tablecloth with her knuckles.
“This is not the only structure with underground space in the city, okay? They might be connected. My friend Art and I have been mapping them. We could all move underground. Leave the streets as they are.”
At this, the corners of Auntie’s mouth glance downward. The laughter fades away quick as it came.
“Being inside is a privilege most people don’t have, Ease. Not our people anyhow. If we leave our streets they’ll take em. They’ll say we were never there. Leaving is not an option.” EZ continues, drunk with audacity. “Is this…the lowest level of the house? Or does it go deeper? Is there somewhere you keep files, like blueprints—“
“Enough.” The room is completely silent except the smacks of grillfire eating wood chips. ”In this world, as we know it, wars are built on three things: Knowledge, power, and oil. You don’t need to get to knowing too much, y’hear me? Trust, you’ll be safe on the surface s’long as you’re working with me.”
“I trust you. I don’t trust what’s out there.” EZ looks at the door darkly, seeing beyond it.
“You are protected. Eat your food.” EZ opens her mouth, then closes it again. Turns back to the neglected taco in front of her. She picks at it thoughtfully. After a moment the conversation in the room starts back up, but the air sits cold and dead between the women. The Children watch from the sky, where they can see every detail of the room. They can see the faces of masked figures standing guard at the door. They can see the dogs outside sitting at attention, waiting for their alpha to return.
Distracted, the Children float down in front of the dogs, admiring the velvet slope of their ears, wet twitches of their noses sniffing the summer air. The dogs growl lowly, then whine. The Children, startled, wake up from their sleep. One rolls over, sprawling in the middle of the shared bed. The other blinks drowsily in the darkness, shifting into a more comfortable tangle of legs and arms. They return to sleep, rejoining EZ on an unlit street.
She keeps one hand on the trigger and in the other she holds the tinfoil parcel packed by Auntie. The dogs flank her as usual, dutifully scanning the area for threats or places to use the bathroom. The one named Clip growls deep in her throat as the trio slinks around the corner, but EZ doesn’t respond to the warning in time.
Pop. Popopopopop.
EZ comes back around the corner, sprinting a step behind her dogs. She throws the parcel behind her, freeing her hands to pump quickly at her sides, tucking her head down. A prayer for more speed, for fast enough. Red and blue lights flash behind her, four police motorcycles roaring to life in the distance. Behind her, one of their bullets knicks the aluminum casing. It hisses and begins to smoke. Hearing this, EZ widens her stride. Her lips peel back, teeth meeting the wind with glee. It is both smile and grimace. Each gulp of air a triumph. Each step pulling her towards the morning. She is unafraid.
Auntie’s words echo in her head and if her lungs had any spare volume she might have laughed, realizing that the to-go plate was never meant to be a meal for later and feeling protected. Behind her, the motorcycles approach the corner, guns ablaze. They don’t notice the parcel whiz to life, nor do they see it shoot sixteen small missiles into the sky, into nearby windows, to ricochet off of crumbling brick. The force of it blows them clean off the road. Some missiles make it to the sky, where they swirl around then fizzle out in red and green.
Krrr. krkrKRRR.
Across the city, someone on their rooftop feels briefly intimate with the stars.
The Children wake up crying. The sound of the explosion still vibrates in their bones. Sniffling, wobbly, they search for their parents. They find them staring out the window in their pajamas, shaking their heads. Complaints leak from their mouths in a cloud of stale breath.
“No decency. Absolutely no decency.”
“I’ve heard it’s a conspiracy, you know.”
“Now who is conspiring against my peace of mind?”
“Hell if I know.”
They hear whimpers behind them, and turn with open arms to scoop the Children up.
“It’s okay baby. They can’t hurt you. Hush now. Go back to sleep.”
