Since we’re at the halfway point of the book, though not really in terms of word count, or chapter, or really anything but sort of the inflection point where the nature of the book changes, I thought this was a good time to reveal the cover of the book, created by J.R (@CorgiHell on Twitter). Announcements regarding a print version of this book will wait until a later date, but until then enjoy the cover and think about how much you might like to have it on your bookshelf.
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President— Dictator— Steven Williams shouted on the television. Hands flailing, neck bulging, he’d clearly looked to the past and selected some new affectations to complement his role. Charlotte turned off the TV and rested her head on the back of her chair, sending some pleather flaking to the ground. Five years later, she couldn’t get that night out of her mind. She didn’t see the whole sequence of the murder, no, just an arc of his brother’s blood hanging in the air, always growing redder and brighter as the rest of the memory desaturated. Ben, slimy as he obviously was, didn’t seem like he deserved that. She was supposed to be his trump card. The thing that was going to stop Steven’s plans. A bronze statue of Steven gleamed amid the dry grass and twigs in the parklet on the corner outside her building, always visible from her window. It didn’t look like the Steven she once knew. When he was still young and fighting, when she was still Caroline. After he became the president, all of a sudden, she’d taken on the name Charlotte Corday. It was a promise.
Every so often she wondered what would have happened if she’d called the police, or the news, but ultimately she knew the answer. Neither of those institutions opposed Steven, just like they hadn’t opposed any of the horrors before him.
She slipped on a pair of running shoes. Charlotte hated how bulky they were, preferring a slim pair of flats, but utility won out. Locking the door behind her, she walked down the hallway. Rows of doors which would be identical if not for the differing patterns of paint cracking. Her building was “condemned,” which meant the landlord didn’t have to do anything, but insurance wouldn’t cover any injuries to those who chose to live there, whether or not the building caused them. Charlotte scoffed. Like anyone there could afford insurance anyway.
The crowd on the sidewalk blew past Charlotte like a school of fish when she opened the door. No one could wait to let another person duck through. Even being a second late to work was cause for termination because the pool of unemployed was so large, companies could afford to demand perfection and throw out anyone who couldn’t deliver it. A gap appeared between a man in a thigh-length black duster and a woman who had been coughing for half a block. Charlotte leapt in, and nudged her way into the stream going the other direction. As much as the crowds— larger than ever— gummed up the works, Charlotte enjoyed the opportunity to vanish into a sea of faces and shoulders taller than her. Ever since that night, she assumed Steven had someone watching her at all times. So the brief moment of disappearance felt like a long nap, and as she turned down the alley she felt rejuvenated.
Not that she thought any agents might have lost track of her. They likely knew exactly where she was going because she’d gone there so many times before. But she didn’t care. If Steven wanted to try to squeeze the world until it gave him a revolution, she would give it to him. She passed the dumpster full of spoiled food— to make the alley inhospitable to everyone who didn’t have an express purpose to be there— and knocked on the door. The organization had quibbled over a secret knock for hours, arguing about the balance of difficulty to learn and ease to remember, before they settled on the bass line to Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal.” She knocked it out, wiggling her shoulders along to the rhythm, until Arnold greeted her. Dark eyes and a warm smile, and he stood to the side to let her into the room.
The smell of meat sizzling on the grill welcomed her. They met in the kitchen of a restaurant owned by one of her comrades. The cook staff were all in on it as well, so they could speak freely between the clanging pans and shouted food orders. “How’s it going?” She directed the question to Juan, who nodded as he stirred a pot.
“Pretty good, pretty good. I told a cop to fuck off today. He got angry, then he tried to chase me but he was out of breath by the end of the first block.” Juan withdrew the wooden spoon from the pot and pointed it at Charlotte, sauce dripping from the end. “I’m telling you, cops are in worse shape than ever. Anyone who can run a ten minute mile is untouchable in this city.”
“Awesome.” Charlotte laughed and took a bite out of an apple. “How’s outreach going?”
“Good. Lots of people have time for a community meeting when everything has gone to shit.” Charlotte had met Juan during the protests after Steven postponed the election— Charlotte admonished herself for still thinking of him as Steven. He had somehow gotten his hands on one of the police-issue canisters of pepper spray and when Charlotte walked up, he was ducking under police batons to spray it up into their face-masks. As he strolled away from the crumpled and sobbing police, Charlotte approached him, and he led her to the kitchen. “But most are still afraid. I’m like ‘they’re gonna try to kill you anyway’ but that doesn’t help.” He giggled.
Arnold, deep-voiced and less inclined to giggle, said, “We can’t tell them not to be afraid. You’d be an idiot not to be afraid right now.” Everyone in the room nodded along. “But we need to convince them that their fear is exactly why they need to join up. They’ll be afraid forever if they don’t fight against this government. And Juan, was it wise to antagonize a cop for no reason? What if you’d gotten shot?”
“Sometimes you gotta tell a cop to fuck off. It’s justice. And I am only its servant.”
Arnold said, “Just do it from around a corner so they don’t have a clear sight-line, alright? Anyway, we need to turn out more people. What’s it going to take to get everyone out to these events?”
“Let things get even worse?” Charlotte just wanted to hear how the idea sounded out in the air, after watching it trickle in on the other side and poison everything. Immediately, she felt foolish.
“I can understand that temptation, Charlotte.” Arnold nodded, face still expressionless. “But-“
Loud bangs sounded from the back door. Juan dropped his pot and ducked behind a counter, as did Charlotte, while Arnold and two other cooks pressed flat against a wall. Each of them retrieved a handgun from their pants or from the cabinets in the kitchen. They were stashed everywhere.
After a few more bangs and dents in the kitchen door, two men in black uniforms swept into the room. Juan yelled, “Cops,” and popped up. He pulled the trigger and after a flash of light and a boom much too large for such a small kitchen, one of the cops fell to the ground. Blood spilled out of his neck while Arnold and Charlotte shot the other cop’s body until he, too, fell. Arnold pointed toward the other door. “The restaurant’s done. Go out the front, they might have backup in the alley.”
They sprinted through the dining room, weaving through tables and diners who were crouched beneath their tables. Juan said, “Tip your waiters” as they ran past.Arguably in bad taste, but no one would remember a quip when they reflected on the afternoon. Juan and Arnold and the other cooks ran out the door ahead of her. She needed to get in better shape. Already, the rest of her comrades were running farther ahead of her. When she left the door and followed them to the car, she wondered why there were no police at the front door. Could they have not known the kitchen door was connected to the restaurant? More likely Steven— fuck, President Williams— sending on orders to let them go under the guise of further information gathering.
She leapt into the back seat of Arnold’s beige sedan, with rust creeping out from one of the wheel wells. All of them were wondering the same thing shewas, but they couldn’t arrive at her answer and Charlotte didn’t know any way to deliver it to them. As they drove away, Charlotte knew there were men on the rooftops, watching them leave. They were ensnared, and the only way Charlotte’s friends would stay alive was if she gave President Williams his perfect revolution.
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Congratulations on your book! I like the cover. Cool title, too.