Set in present-day America, Nicole, Chris, and Brandon are three strangers who become trapped in a bar during a bloody riot in an American city. Over a period of hours, as the situation outside becomes more chaotic, they each must decide how to survive.

The Short Story:

The Bar on Fuller Street

Speeding down the darkened avenue, the four men in the blue Toyota quietly watched smoke rise and obscure the tall buildings in the distance. The front passenger received a notification on his phone, and he flipped it over in his lap to check the map. A red location marker showed they were close. Thinking about her alone in the streets, the muscles in his neck tightened and his mind went to a place that was uncompromising and convicted. He replied with a thumbs-up icon, forwarded the message to the others, and made sure his weapon was ready.

It was no longer raining when Chris found the bar on Fuller Street three blocks south of his hotel. It was an old building near the waterfront. Its interior was unremarkable except for two large panoramic windows overlooking the river. When he walked through the front door, Nicole was behind the bar and there was a young man sitting on a stool at the far end. Chris chose a seat at a table near the largest window, hoping to avoid any conversation with the other customer. Putting away the rag she was using to wipe down the counter, Nicole came over.

“What can I get you?”

“Vodka tonic.”

She nodded, went behind the bar and came back a minute later. When she placed the drink on the table, Chris noticed a tattoo of an olive branch and dagger set atop a black spade on the inside of her right wrist. He quickly dismissed it. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. When he was that age, the only people with tattoos were sailors and w****s. Most people her age had them now.

She smiled slightly as she wiped her hands clean on the small towel that was tucked into the string of her apron, “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m good,” looking around at the empty tables, “Is this place normally so quiet?”

“Yes, people who come here are not looking for a crowd, especially on a weeknight.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

She shrugged and smiled politely, “Let me know if you need anything.”

She was trying to be polite, but it was late and wanted nothing more than for him to finish his drink and leave so she could go home. She excused herself and went to check on the young man who had been sitting at the bar for close to two hours. His phone cast a blue glow, and a texting app was reflected in a pair of glasses that looked expensive, but judging by the way he was constantly taking them on and off, may have been nothing more than an accessory to make him appear intelligent. When she was close enough for him to see her out of the corner of his eye, he remained fixated on the screen and pointed to the empty glass with his little finger.

“Can I get another one of these?”

“Whiskey straight?”

“Yes.”

“No problem.”

She did not know the young man, and would probably never see him again, but his appearance and mannerisms made him unexceptionally ordinary in a city filled with exceptional people. He was in his late twenties, spending money like he had too much, and looked like the thousands of other young professionals who filled the city every day. She had been pouring him drinks all night and was sure he didn’t know good whiskey from bad. Like others in this town, she felt certain this young man loved to tell people how much he spent on ridiculous things, and no matter how much his age and apparent wealth frustrated her, she was happy to indulge his vanity if it meant a bigger tip. She chose the most expensive whiskey behind the bar and poured him another glass.

People came to the bar on Fuller Street to sit quietly in the presence of others while living in their own thoughts. During long shifts, when customers were particularly quiet, Nicole created characters and backstories to entertain herself. Based on his wedding ring, crumpled clothes, and his thinning hair, the man at the table was a frustrated businessman, with a family he probably missed and a payroll he knew he couldn’t make. The younger man was angry about something; a project he botched at work. As for her, if she even had a role in the play, she was the invisible uncredited extra that no one saw or remembered. The three came from separate places. Success, near success, failure, and past lives had shaped them into incompatible puzzle pieces with jagged edges that did not fit together. They instinctively hated each other.

Nicole had worked in the bar for close to a year, doing the things that are forgotten and unnoticed. She was one of the unimportant people. She was angry about that and could tell most of the residents of the city felt the same. She could see the detachment and loneliness on their faces. No one said hello or made eye contact. Tourists who visited to see the museums and monuments would sometimes hold a door open, or politely say thank you, or try to strike-up a conversation with someone sitting beside them at the bar and receive nothing but curt replies, snubs, or contemptable stares in return.

That was life in the city. The homeless harassed people in broad daylight. Car jackings were daily occurrences. No one went outside at night. One day, she was getting off the Metro and saw a woman in a fashionable business suit get knocked to the ground by two teenagers. They kicked her in the face, took her phone and purse and ran up the escalator. They could not have been more than fifteen years old and laughed as they made their escape. Nicole could have helped, or at least called the cops, but did nothing. She could have helped the woman up or sat with her until the paramedics arrived, but like everyone else that morning, she walked away. Helping a stranger, bleeding on the Metro platform felt like a pointless act of kindness that wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, she had done her part for society; it was time for others to step up.

She was about to announce last call when she heard three sharp cracks. Four more followed. Looking at the front door, she thought she was hearing things, but then another five echoed down the street. Stepping over to the nearest window, she saw blue lights reflected off the mirrored façade of a bank building less than a block away. Moments later, the din of sirens filled Fuller Street’s metal and glass canyon as two police cruisers sped by. She locked the door, ran behind the bar, and turned off most of the lights.

“What was that about?” Chris asked no one in particular.

“It was gunfire,” Nicole replied as she sent a short text on her phone.

“That wasn’t gunfire. It sounded more like cars backfiring to me.”

“It was gunfire,” she replied and typed another message on her phone.

The young man moved closer to the front of the room, “It was really loud. Should we do something?”

“I just did,” Nicole said.

“What about 911? Shouldn’t we call 911?”

She began to answer but Chris talked over her, “We just saw police cars speeding down the street. They already know something is happening.”

“I know but shouldn’t we tell them we’re here?” the young man said, his eyes wide as he nervously looked back and forth between Chris and Nicole.

“We are in the middle of a city full of self-important people, they wouldn’t come for us,” Chris replied, “I’m sure they have their hands full. That noise was close. We just need to sit tight for a few minutes.”

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Outside, angry shouts and screams mixed with what sounded like instructions being broadcast over a loudspeaker. Seconds later, several more pops confirmed, at least in Nicole’s mind, that someone was shooting at something. The front window of the clothing store across the street shattered. Dozens of people ran past the front of the bar, away from the blue lights.

Chris looked at Nicole, “What’s your name?”

She exhaled deeply, glanced at her phone one more time, and slipped it in her pocket, “Nicole, my name is Nicole.”

“Nicole, is there someplace we can go to get away from the front door and windows?”

“There’s a storeroom in the back by the exit.”

“Let’s go in there.”

Glancing back and forth at the two men, sizing them up, she decided the idea made sense. The three of them went to the back room. She pulled folding chairs from behind the door and set one up for herself and two for the others. Chris noticed that never turned on the lights, and she placed the chairs in the middle of the room, slightly off center, obscured by darkness but still providing a clear view of the front door. He also noticed that her chair was behind the other two and closest to the rear door. The few lights that were still on in the main room and the red glow from the exit sign behind them provided just enough visibility to see each other’s faces and not trip over the boxes stacked around them. They each took a set and looked at one another. There was nothing left to do except sit in the uncomfortable metal chairs and watch the door. Nervousness made talking come naturally.

“Where does the exit lead to?” Chris asked as he looked around the room.

“An alley. It connects with Rister Street to the right, and Hammond Street to the left,” Nicole replied.

“Do they lead away from the street out front?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good to know. We might need to leave if things get out of control.”

She wanted to sarcastically thank him for stating the obvious but didn’t, “Yes.”

The young man had his phone out and was typing frantically, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“About leaving?” Chris asked.

“Of course. I am texting a friend who lives a few miles from here. He has a car and might be able to come pick me up.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brandon. What’s yours?”

“Chris. Do you live here in the city?”

“I used to, but I now live in Mountain View. I’m back for a business meeting.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a data engineer.”

“Great,” Chris replied, wondering whether Brandon worked for one of the bloodsucking tech companies he hated.

“What do you do?” Brandon asked without any real interest.

“I own a small commercial construction business.”

“What brings you here?”

“I needed some time off. My wife suggested I take a road trip to clear my head.”

Only mildly interested, Brandon looked outside as he replied, “Which way did you take?”

“The southern route from my home; down I-64 to Lexington and up I-81 through the Shenandoah.”

“I’m not familiar with Virginia, how long did that take?”

“Normally, the drive takes about eight hours if I stop. This trip, I took my time and drove through a couple small towns along the way.”

“Why would you do that?” Brandon asked with genuine curiosity.

“I was searching for the real America.”

“The real America?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a fake America?”

Chris chuckled, “I’d say it’s more distorted than fake.”

“You think this mythical “real America” is hiding somewhere in deserted small towns and vacant farmland or something?”

“That’s not what life is like out there.”

“Like what?”

“Deserted and vacant.”

“I see. Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked with a hint of derision.

“No, I did not.”

Brandon straightened his back and shifted in the chair a little, “I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin. Left when I went to Stanford. I never looked back.”

“Why is that?”

“I just couldn’t stomach the small-town attitude. Everything is so insular and inbred. I wanted more.”

“I have heard that before,” Chris replied wondering whether the little s**t in front of him was aware he just insulted him.

Both men were holding back the real thoughts that would have made the conversation genuine and real. Chris had already decided Brandon he was an elitist snob. Brandon now knew Chris was a hick from the south and needed to go back to whatever hole he came from. In a normal situation, they would have never spoken, and if they had, probably would have argued. But the rules that governed conversation in a civilized society prevented each from directly revealing their true thoughts. Instead, they would pass judgement and lay insults vaguely disguised as friendly conversation.

More police cars sped by out on Fuller Street.

Chris decided it was time for Brandon to talk, “Isn’t Mountain View close to San Francisco?”

“Yes, it’s between there and San Jose.”

“Is San Francisco as bad as people say?”

“What do people say?”

“You know, the crime, drugs, cost of living… all that stuff?”

“Well, I don’t live in San Francisco, but I go there all the time and it’s a great place. There is a lot to do.”

“So, there aren’t any homeless people roaming the streets, defecating on sidewalks and such?”

“I’ve never seen that. It’s a nice place.”

“I’ve heard that even some of the high-paid people that work at the tech companies live in campers parked in their company’s parking lot because the rent is so high.”

Brandon bristled a little. His on-again, off-again boyfriend was less a partner and more a necessary roommate, a financial buffer against the absurd rent. He sometimes asked himself whether he was prostituting himself out to live in a nice apartment in the heart of Silicon Valley but rationalized it as a normal life in California. He knew a lot of people who lived under the same arrangement. He'd never tell that to this hayseed from Bumpkinville, America though.

"Most people do fine," he insisted. “The rest are just making van-life lifestyle choices. Everyone I know has a place. What's it like in…where are you from?"

“West Virginia. A little town called Lewisburg,” Chris answered.

“Oh,” Brandon replied as if Chris had told him he lived on the moon.

“It’s nice. People know each other and still wave as they drive by. Salt of the earth people. We look after one another. I love it there.”

Brandon knew from growing up in Wisconsin that just because people wave it doesn’t mean they aren’t talking trash behind your back, “Do you not have crime?”

“Not really, I’ve lived there my entire life and have never seen or heard of anything serious happening.” Chris left out the fact that until recently, an opioid and meth epidemic had devastated families across Appalachia, including many near his home.

“I’ve never seen any crime where I live either,” Brandon said with a straight face. Like Chris, he too was lying.

“I guess we’re both lucky.”

“Yes,” Brandon said as he checked his phone.

The noise outside grew louder, but they could not see anything from where they were sitting.

Still feeling the three whiskeys he consumed while sitting at the bar, Brandon got up and stretched, “I think I’m going to try and get some rest.” He pulled his chair against the back wall and pretended to fall asleep, hoping Chris would take the hint.

Chris stretched his legs out and watched the street through the doorway. Nicole had ignored the entire conversation and continued to look at her phone. When Brandon slid away, she exhaled and was thankful for the silence.

A few minutes later, Chris looked over, “Hey Nicole?”

She looked up without saying anything and raised both eyebrows as if it constituted a reply.

“Want to share a drink? There’s gotta be some good stuff in these boxes, right?”

She stared at him for a second and saw him for the first time. He was still playing the character she had assigned him when he first walked into the bar, the take-charge type, but there was something more etched on his face she did not see before. Confident and strong in the bright lights, in the shadows of a darkened room, Chris’ mask slipped. The tiredness in his eyes, accented by deep crow’s feet and slightly sagging jawline revealed a life of stress and frustration, possibly even great loss. She knew the look. She had seen it in the mirror countless times.

She glanced over at the boxes behind them, “Sure.” She stood and stretched, “What do you want?”

“I don’t care, you choose.”

She thought for a moment, smirked, and nodded before going to the doorway and peeking around the corner to look outside. There were still people out on Fuller Street running by, but no one stopped or looked inside through the front window. She crouched a little and stepped through. A moment later, she came back holding two lowball glasses with ice. She set one on her chair, handed Chris the other, and disappeared into the shadows of the storeroom. She returned with dusty bottle, cracked the seal and poured them both three fingers. Setting the bottle on the floor beside her chair, she sat back and raised her glass without saying anything.

Chris returned the toast and drank, letting the slightly warm, sweet liquid rest on his tongue before swallowing. As it went down, he tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the moment. He looked over and watched as Nicole took a small sip.

“Damn, that’s good whiskey,” he said with a smile. “What brand is it?”

Nicole nodded slowly and a slightly larger drink before she answered, “Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve 23-Year-Old. It’s from the owner’s private stash.”

“Do you think he’ll miss it?”

“Probably, it’s $4000 a bottle.”

Chris laughed and sat up straight, “I hope you aren’t expecting me to pay for this?”

“No, it’s on the house.”

“Won’t you get fired?”

Nicole shrugged, “Maybe.” She reached down, grabbed the bottle, and refilled his glass.

“How long have you worked here?”

“About a year.”

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

Chris looked into his glass for a moment and took another drink, “I’ve owned my company for close to twenty years.” He swirled the ice around in the light brown liquid, “I don’t like my job either.”

Nicole looked at him but kept silent.

“When I started it in the early nineties, I was full of piss and vinegar, ready to set the world on fire. Now, I couldn’t care less if it crashed and burned. It’s damn close to that now anyway.”

“What happened?” she asked as she leaned back and crossed her feet in front of her.

Chris shrugged, “Other things got in the way.”

Nicole had been a bartender long enough to know Chris was going to keep talking whether she asked more questions or not, so she finished her drink and waited.

Chris leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, holding the lowball with both hands as he stared at the floor, “I met my wife thirty years ago. We’ve been married since 1994. I started my company in 1996 . Our two sons came along, two years apart. They’re grown now.”

He finished his drink, held out the glass to Nicole and gave her a sheepish look. She rolled her eyes and poured him another.

“Over the years, to anyone who looked, we did all the right things, vacations, nice house, nice cars, church, private school, all that upper middle-class b******t. But looking back, even though I was physically there, I was never truly present.”

Nicole started to squirm a little. She really wasn’t in the mood for a stranger’s confession. She placed her glass on the floor beside her chair and rubbed her temple with one hand. Chris didn’t notice.

“I was always thinking about the next project, unpaid invoices, the bills, cash flow, debt, mortgages, college tuition and all the other things a guy has to do to keep things going. And then one day, without even realizing it, my kids were headed off to college. When we dropped them off, I realized for the first time in my life, I didn’t even know them. It was totally my fault.”

He leaned back in the folding chair and took a big gulp of the expensive whiskey. Nicole held the bottle up, looked at it in the faint light coming through the doorway and poured him another glass. Hopefully, that would be enough to shut him up. Trying to steady his shaking hand, he took another sip.

“When they came home at the end of each semester, I noticed their resentment but said nothing. Now, they’re all grown up; adults who tell their therapists what a shitty dad I was.” He took another drink, “What a shitty dad I am.”

He turned and looked at Nicole who was resting her chin in the palm of her hand, her elbow propped on her left knee.

“I can’t even look at the baby pictures without feeling wracked with guilt. Not being there for my kids is the biggest regret of my life.”

Chris emptied his glass and started to lose his balance. Nicole stood, walked over and steadied him. She took the lowball from his hand, set it on his chair, and led him to the corner of the room. She leaned him against the wall and gently let him slide to the floor, his head resting against the wall. He was out a minute later. She stood over him and watched to make sure he was breathing steadily. She looked at Brandon on the opposite side of the room. He was also soundly asleep. She silently thanked God for strong liquor, sat down, and stared out the doorway onto Fuller Street.

Time passed and outside the voices on the loudspeakers were replaced by rhythmic chants and occasional shouts as groups of people walked down the sidewalk heading toward the blue lights that never stopped reflecting off the buildings. Chris stirred slightly, sat up quickly, and violently vomited in the corner. Brandon woke up at the sound of Chris’ retching and looked at Nicole for an answer. He started to speak but Nicole held up her finger and shushed him as she tried to listen to the chants and noise outside. A low rumbling sound shook the front window. She stood at the doorway and watched as three large box trucks and two school buses pulled up.

Chris slowly stood and followed Brandon out of the storeroom to the front of the bar. Outside, they watched as the buses, vans, and police cars parked at angles in the middle of the street. Nicole followed them but stood behind them, away from the window. Dozens of police officers in riot gear stepped off the buses while others pulled sections of metal fencing out of the trucks and began constructing a barricade in front of the vehicles about thirty yards to the right. A large crowd started to grow. The chants grew louder. People were carrying profane signs and waving black flags. The barricade was less than two hundred feet from the front door of the bar.

“It looks like a protest,” Brandon said in an almost inaudible whisper, like he did not want someone outside to hear.

“No s**t,” Chris replied, still drunk, as he rubbed his eyes.

Stepping back from the half-opened venetian blinds, Brandon continued to whisper, “What do you think we should do?”

“You lived here before. Is there a police or fire station close by?” Chris asked.

“Not that I remember.”

“I think we should call your friend and ask him to drive us someplace safe.”

“He never responded to my text.”

“Try again.”

Nicole said nothing and typed another message on her phone. Chris and Brandon kept watching what was happening outside.

A small truck pulled into the intersection well behind the police line about fifty yards to the left of the bar’s front door. Chris saw another one in the distance behind the protestors. Men dressed in black hoodies used the hydraulic lift on the truck’s bed to dump bricks into the street. As the truck drove away, about a dozen people ran to the pile. Moments later, screams erupted as bricks started flying into the police lines from both directions. Plumes of tear gas rose from inside the crowd.

“We should go,” Chris said to Brandon, not trying hide the fear he was feeling. “Will you take me with you?”

“My friend says he’s on the way,” Brandon said as held up the phone so Chris could see the blue texts bubbles.

“Where will we go when he gets here?”

“He said we can go to his house in Old Town.”

“I have no idea where that is, but it has to be safer than this place.”

As a small group of police fired rubber bullets and teargas toward the dozen or so rioters behind them. Up the street, the barricade was being shaken violently. Clubs and bricks rained down on the police and wounded officers were dragged away from the line as others rushed in to fill their places. Randomly, a lone protestor would break through and quickly be tackled to the ground. But the crush of the mob was too much, and a twenty-foot section of the barricade collapsed. Dozens of people rushed through the gap and ran down the street. Several began clubbing police officers that were cut off from the main group while others threw bricks and other objects at store windows. Small groups in black hoods and masks went to work methodically breaking the windshields of parked police cruisers and set them on fire.

Chris and Brandon ran to the storeroom and stood in the darkness as the chaos unfolded just outside. Ghostly shadows of people obscured by thick smoke and teargas were made more ominous by loud explosions, bright flashes, half-crazed laughter, shouted profanities, and what sounded like sporadic gunshots or firecrackers.

“We really need to go,” Chris said to Brandon.

Minutes passed before Brandon’s phone began vibrating. He turned and ran to the back door and looked out, “My friend is here, he’s waiting out back in his car.”

Chris went over and they both looked out. A black foreign model sedan was sitting just ten feet away, “Okay, let’s do it. Nicole, let’s go!”

“Nicole, we are leaving!” Brandon shouted over his shoulder while still scanning the alley. Chris ran over to the doorway leading into the main room but could not see her.

Three loud shots rang out from close by on Fuller Street. Without even looking to see what was happening, Chris and Brandon bolted out the rear exit and jumped into the backseat of the waiting car. They were scared, and it was now every man for himself. When the driver heard the car doors slam, the adrenaline surging through his body triggered an unstoppable urge to flee and he floored the gas pedal and plowed over several trash cans.

Having never driven in dangerous environment, when the car came to the intersection of the alley and Rister Street, the driver did what he always did; he nearly came to a stop to check both ways. Before he could even look to his right, a dozen people descended on the car and threw bricks through the windows. Chris heard the glass break just before something hard and sharp struck his temple. Confusion and darkness overtook him. Something hit his chest, and a deep throbbing pain came pulsing through his body as he lost consciousness.

Nicole stood at the back door and watched as the mob overtook the car. She expected the driver to accelerate and runover anyone who got in the way. But after two motionless bodies were pulled from the backseat and thrown on the sidewalk, a tall shadow threw Molotov cocktails into the ruined car. Nicole wondered about the driver but knew there was nothing she could do. She gently pulled the door shut and locked the deadbolt.

After making sure the door was secure, she walked over to the main breaker box and shut off the remaining lights in the building, leaving only the glow of the exit sign and the fires outside to provide light. She considered calling 911 to tell them about Brandon and Chris but did not. What good would it do? She picked up the bottle of expensive whiskey, pushed her chair further into the shadows with her foot and took a quick drink. She didn’t want to get drunk, but taking a blast of liquid courage seemed appropriate. Shadows outside were backlit by the burning cars that bathed the scene in a dull orange haze of teargas and smoke.

Nicole was unafraid. During the years she spent in some of the world’s worst places, she had grown comfortable with violence, and in a way missed it. Feeling the effects of the whisky, she set the bottle on the floor next to the chair, walked to the main room and retrieved a small olive-green messenger bag from behind the bar. She pulled out a 9mm Glock 19 handgun and chambered a round. Placing the bag’s shoulder strap over her head and adjusting it so it sat comfortably across her body, she tucked the pistol in the bag’s built-in outside holster pocket and returned to the backroom.

Sitting back in the folding chair, she exhaled deeply, grabbed the bottle and took another drink. She held it up and guessed there was about $2000 left in the $4000 bottle of whiskey and tossed it against the cinderblock wall where Chris had vomited. She was tired. Tired of people like Chris and Brandon with their judgements and opinions about stupid things. Tired of people who think they have shitty lives without realizing how good they have it. Tired of idiots in the street tearing apart what used to be a great city. Tired of the people who let them. But mostly, she was tired of being invisible and unconsidered.

She thought about how the two strangers spent the last hours of their lives making stupid small talk and sleeping in the storeroom of an old bar in a city neither of them called home. She thought about the things they said, and the convictions they had about how the world works. Nicole was sure they always talked courageously over drinks in a bar but knew from experience that courage without the risk of loss is just a word. When reality shattered everything, when order disappeared and the time came to make life or death decisions, Chris and Brandon’s true nature came out. When they were about to lose everything, they discarded every intention of being courageous and principled. They forgot about being the people they thought they were, real Americans, or educated Americans, or successful Americans. They forgot where they lived, who they voted for, or how much money they wasted on ridiculous things. When the realization of a life spent valuing the trivial took over and they became their true selves, everything happened as it usually does in a chaotic world. People died senseless deaths.

She was starting the feel the whiskey and spoke to herself in the darkness, saying the things that she was never asked by the two men lying dead in the street a block away.

“I grew up in a small town in West Virginia. I have a degree in Business Administration from the Marshall University. I served four tours in Afghanistan as a member of a Cultural Support Team. That’s where I met my husband. I speak English, Pashto, Dari, and a little bit of Russian. My husband is still a Green Beret in the Army, and we live just south of the city. Five years ago, I was wounded by a roadside bomb. I can’t have children anymore. I left the Army and started a restaurant, but it went out of business during the pandemic because some government bureaucrat decided to lie to the American people about a virus no worse than the flu. Now, I work at this bar and put up with fools like you. You never asked me what we should do about the a******s outside, but I’ll say it now. We should grab my gun behind the bar, barricade ourselves in this room, and wait for my husband and his friends to get here. They are on their way. That is my plan Chris and Brandon, and it is a hell of a lot better than yours.”

The mob on Fuller Street numbered in the hundreds now, and looters were carrying away garbage bags stuffed full, boxes of shoes, and even a large television. Occasionally, a small group of shadows would gather in the middle of the street, and a single arm, silhouetted by the flames, would extend toward a specific building. The looters would then methodically move in and do their work. When she saw a taller one point to the bar, Nicole knew it was time.

A group of shadows moved to the sidewalk in front of the bar and two of them threw bricks through the large plate glass windows. Two more used baseball bats to knock down the pieces of glass that were still hanging from the casing. All wore black hoodies, and one even had a medic’s armband on his right arm. It didn’t take a former soldier to see that this mob was organized and operated like a military unit.

Nicole was careful to remain concealed in the darkened storeroom as she knelt beside the doorway, keeping most of her body behind the wall, revealing only enough to get site proper picture with the handgun. Her heart was beating fast, but her hands remained steady as the adrenaline surged through her body, reviving a person she had not been in many years.

The first shadow that climbed through the broken window carried a bat. It walked behind the bar and began smashing bottles and glasses. Six more came in and threw the tables, stools, and chairs in a heap near the front of the room. Nicole noticed that the one behind the bar did not even check the cash register. That one is dangerous. This is his job. He’s unafraid and works with purpose.

The shadow behind the bar moved athletically and had broad shoulders. She guessed it was a man but could not tell for sure. As the shadow made its way toward her, smashing and breaking things, Nicole took aim at the center of its upper body. At this range, she was perfectly capable of scoring a headshot, but by shooting it in the torso, if anyone ever asked, she could at least claim she did not mean to kill it.

Five seconds later, when the shadow smashed the last bottle, it turned and saw Nicole crouched in the doorway with the Glock pointing directly at it. The shadow was fully silhouetted against the orange glow from the street and Nicole thought it looked like one of the thousands of featureless, flat paper targets she had shot on countless firing ranges in the past. With both eyes open, she centered and leveled the two dots on the rear sight with the single dot on the front sight and fired two rounds in the upper left quadrant of the shadow’s body. The hollow-point bullets mushroomed as they penetrated the chest and tore away large sections of its heart and lungs. When it hit the floor, Nicole reoriented and placed the next closest shadow in her sights, but it and the others were already running back through the broken front windows.

Nicole exhaled and briefly looked to see if the crumpled thing in front of her was moving. She considered checking for a pulse but didn’t. She was fine to let it bleed out if it was still alive.

Scanning the room and the street. The sidewalk in front of the bar was completely empty, and the only people visible were looters clambering through broken windows and doors on the opposite side of the street.

When she raised her head to get a better view, bullets struck the door above. Reacting without thinking, she dropped to her stomach and crawled into the storeroom. It was a startling but not unique moment; she had been shot at before. She took a deep breath, brought the natural fear that comes with danger under control, and began to think about her next steps. I need to move to a different position to see if I can tell where the shots are coming from.

Like the rest of the building, the walls were made of cinderblock and old bricks and provided good cover. She stood with her back against the left wall, eyes on the doorway leading to the main room and planned her path so she could remain concealed in the darkness behind the boxes. When she started to move, there was a bright flash in the main room. A suffocating wave of hot air and fire pulsed through the doorway and quickly retreated, leaving black soot on the floor, casing, and ceiling. The smell of gasoline was everywhere, and she knew someone had just thrown at least one Molotov Cocktail into the bar. They did not even check on their friend to see if he was still alive.

Crouched and peering between two boxes near the back door, she was able to see that everything in the main room was in flames. There was another bright flash that turned the pile of chairs and tables into a huge bonfire that quickly spread to the ceiling. Crouching low behind the boxes, she pulled the magazine from the Glock, replaced it with a new one from the magazine pouch on the outside of her bag, and slid the old one into the empty pocket. She checked the Find My Phone app on her phone, hoping to see that her husband was nearby, but there was no signal, “S**t.”

Making sure her phone was securely in her front pocket, and the bag was properly placed and accessible, she pushed the rear door partially open and peered out, holding the Glock close to her body in her right hand and oriented out the door. She could see Brandon and Chris’ car still burning on Rister Street and listened for any noises nearby. Hearing nothing, she pushed the door completely open, turned toward Hammond Street behind her, and scanned the alley. Quickly she ran for cover behind a metal dumpster to the left. About fifty yards away, two shadows were running away from Fuller Street on Hammond, but the alley itself was clear. Walking with purpose, she held the Glock with both hands, methodically sweeping doorways, windows, and rooftops as she moved.

A short distance from the intersection, she paused in an unlit doorway and listened. There was no one in sight, but the din of the riot echoed throughout the night air. She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked to see her husband’s location. He’s only seven blocks away. Looking at the map on her phone, she picked a convenience store parking lot one block south for a rendezvous point, tapped the location with her finger, and texted the little red pin’s coordinates to her husband. A moment later, he responded with a thumbs-up and she put the phone away.

Holding the Glock at her side to not draw attention, she walked out of the alley and began lightly jogging down Hammond Avenue. Less than two minutes later, she arrived at the convenience store parking lot and crouched beside a ransacked car. The streetlights were out, the store’s windows were shattered, and everything of value inside was gone. Nicole checked her phone. Her husband was close.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused her to look up. When she turned there were four people approaching from behind the building, three of them carrying the small caliber handguns at the low ready. They were not like the shadows in black. They wore random clothes and used red bandanas to cover their faces. But like the others, they showed no fear in their approach.

The four came to a stop a few feet from Nicole. She held her Glock by her side and pointed her free hand at them, “You need to leave, right now.”

The masked thug in front paused to consider Nicole, while the other three started slowly spreading out, trying to form a semi-circle around her.

The one who appeared to be in charge had long blue hair that hung out from beneath a black toboggan. The bandana tied around its face made it difficult to tell whether it was a man or woman until a man’s voice came from behind the bandana, “Chill woman, we just need… a first aid kit. Do you have one in that bag?”

“You will never touch this bag.”

“I think we will,” the man said as the others continued to slowly move around her on both sides. “We won’t hurt you unless you make us, but I will have that gun and that bag. That’s just the way it is.”

All movement stopped as a blue Toyota 4Runner sped into the parking lot and came to a hard stop twenty feet from Nicole. Four men dressed in civilian clothes jumped out, all of them carrying short-barreled rifles with optics, suppressors, and bright LED lights. They were not wearing any other equipment that would betray their profession and skills, and if they were not holding rifles and moving forward like a synchronized team, no one would suspect they were experts at doing things that most people feared. These men were not police officers, and they had no interest in de-escalation or civil procedure. They lived in a world of absolutes, and the sight of four low-life punks with handguns up, threatening one of their own, was enough to settle the matter immediately.

There were no threats or warnings, and it was over in seconds. Knowing how to select targets in coordination, each man placed a person in his sight and fired two rounds. All four hooligans dropped to the ground simultaneously. Three were dead before they hit the pavement, but because of Nicole was standing to the left of the man in front of her, her husband had to adjust his aim. One round penetrated the man’s abdomen on the left side, below the ribcage. The other shattered his left arm just above the elbow, and a stream of dark blood squirted out of the wound with every heartbeat.

As Nicole’s husband and teammates secured the other gang’s weapons, Nicole looked at the wounded man lying on the ground. After a moment, she placed her Glock back in her bag, pulled out a military-style tourniquet, and applied it to his arm about three inches above the wound. Turning the windless, the strap tightened, and the bleeding stopped. She fixed the rod to the clip, removed the man’s bandana and toboggan, and used them to wipe the blood from her hands.

“I told you to leave.”

“F—k you bi—h,” he said in a barely audible, defiant tone, that was artificially high pitched. She assumed it was probably from synthetic hormones.

He was Caucasian and probably in his twenties. His head was shaved on one side, the other side long and shoulder length. There was a tattoo of a clinched fist on the right side of his neck, and he had multiple piercings in his nose, and lower lip. He had lost significant blood, and his complexion was starting to turn pale and ashen.

“You know I just saved your life with that tourniquet. The bullet severed your brachial artery. You were bleeding to death,” Nicole said.

“What about my side? It hurts like hell?”

Nicole reached in her bag and pulled out a packet of gauze. She tore the plastic cover off and tossed it to him, “Pack the wound and apply pressure.”

The man laughed a little and winched in pain, “I guess I should thank you then. Because when I heal-up, I’m going to find you and your friends, kill you while you sleep, and burn your world to the ground.”

Nicole looked at the man and thought about Brandon and Chris. She thought about the fires, the death, destruction, and fear this man and people like him inflicted on the world. This one did not burn the bar, and he probably was not near Rister Street when Chris and Brandon died, but he was part of a problem that seemed to be getting worse.

Nicole thought about having to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life, wondering whether this pathetic creature, lying on the ground in a dirty parking lot, in the middle of a burning city could somehow manage to find her and her husband. She doubted it, but it was not worth the risk.

She pulled a fixed blade knife from her bag and cut the tourniquet off, not caring about the gash she left underneath. The man screamed in agony. When the dark blood squirted out from the wound, she just looked at the man. She knew she had more in common with him than the people who came into the bar on Fuller Street. Everyone in the parking lot were necessary creatures of violence who always paid the price for the machinations of other people in faraway places. They were the unseen and ignored who always ended up fighting the battles and wars other people started. Nicole was done with that arrangement. After the life drained from the man who was willing to kill her to steal her stuff, she walked over to her husband and touched his hand. He nodded to his friends and the five of them got into the Toyota and drove into the night.

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