Apartment 905, Sahin, Ned [black female authors .TXT] 📗

This letter doesn’t give any bad news. I know that they are alive somewhere waiting for me to find them.

I read the letter again. It doesn’t say anything about them getting the virus. It sounds like it was written while they are healthy, but they are not very sure about what may come next.

The sentence “You are my kind and loving son I’ve always been proud of” picks my attention. She says it like she doesn’t feel the same way for my brother anymore. It may not mean anything specific either. Maybe I am just overthinking her letter.

My mom probably felt overly emotional and wanted to leave a note for me just in case they need to leave the house in a rush. I still think that they may come back home anytime soon.

I get back to reality with the people chanting loudly outside. The protest is beginning. I turn my head to Kathleen.

“Let’s go find my family,” I say.

Chapter 40

“Weck the wreck!... Weck the wreck!... We ain’t a piece of cake!” the crowd chants. There are hundreds of people walking on the main street of San Francisco with banners and posters against the dictator, Weck Highland.

“High Land, Low Man,” one of the banners read.

Another banner reads, “Empty Alcatraz” while someone’s t-shirt has the words, “Free Press, Free West.”

I see a diverse crowd of younger, older, mother, father, children, white-collar, blue-collar, hippies, and survivors. These people look pissed off about how their state is governed. Even though they are aggressive and loud, I don’t see any kind of weapons in their hands.

We walk with them for a few blocks. We walk faster to see faces in the front group. Then we wait at the sidewalk and check incoming faces. I haven’t seen my parents or my brother yet.

I hear the sound of pepper spray launchers. The militias run from both sides of the street and form a barricade in front of the crowd. They have gas masks and armored clothes from neck to toe.

The smoke immediately blinds the protesters in the first rows. They fall while screaming in pain and trying to remove residues from their eyes. Others run back in the street, pushing and tripping the protestors behind them.

The militias unleash more pepper spray bottles. I also hear them firing their handguns in the air. They run after the protestors as they back up.

We run back with the crowd. Shortly after, the people in the back turn around and try to run toward us, colliding with the front groups, I see riot control vehicles coming after them and spraying pressured water. The militias blocked the other side of the street as well.

“This way!” one of the protestors says while holding his kid. A group of people follow him to a multi-floor parking lot. Some others try to get into buildings around to take cover. We follow another group that is headed to an empty alley.

More people follow us. Protestors leading the group reach the end of the alley, which opens to another street. As soon as they walk onto the street, the sound of bullets fills the air. One of the protesters gets shot from her chest and falls on her face. Others step back while trying to get away from the street.

“Militia on both sides!” a guy in the front group yells. The militia shoots from both sides at everything that moves in between them. We run back toward the opposite end of the alley, but the troops show up on the other side as well.

Some protestors decide to take cover behind the garbage bins and wait. Others try to break in the back door of the houses and businesses.

“Hey, Kathleen!” I say while pointing to a fire ladder. She understands my intention. It’s just like what we practiced in Salt Lake City to get to her grandparents’ apartment.

I lift her from her legs. She grabs the bottom of the ladder and pulls it down. We start climbing up on the three-story building.

On the side of the alley where we came from, I see the militias beating the protestors they caught. They haul some of them to the armored bus that is waiting on the main street.

On the opposite end, the militias form a single line and start shooting at protestors randomly. I realize that being on the fire stairs wasn’t a good idea. We are a clear target for them.

“Go back!” I tell Kathleen above me while I begin stepping down. She follows me. We get back to the crowd who is stuck in the narrow alley between militias on both sides.

The desperate protestors get on their knees and raise their hands in the air, hoping to be arrested instead of killed. On the main street side, the militia is closing in. Many men and women are lying on the ground and screaming for help as they cover their wounds.

I turn to Kathleen. She is out of options just like me and others. We look toward the protestors ready to surrender on the ground. We do the same. We get on our knees and wait for militias walking toward us. They at least stopped shooting.

They punch and kick people randomly while yelling slurs and profanities. One protestor rises and tries to grab a militia’s rifle. Two other militias jump on him. They fall together. The armed men stand up and haul the protestor to the side of the alley. They crush his head to a door’s stairway before shooting him in the head.

Through his helmet, a militia locks his bloody eyes with mine. He walks toward me like a hunter approaching his trapped victim. He raises his rifle at me. My hands are behind my head. I know that the handgun is still in my backpack, but it would be a bad idea to try using it. The militia would pull the trigger before I could even touch the gun in my bag.

“Get on the ground!” another militia behind us says. He pushes