I grumbled as I walked through the cramped aisle to my seat. I threw my carry-on bag into the overhead bin and settled into my seat. At least I had a window seat. Thank the Gods for small favors. A monotonous tone droned over the intercom as the flight attendant reviewed the basic safety procedures.

Half asleep, I sat in the cabin as the flight attendant droned on. I was heading home to D.C. from a family reunion in California, and I had already missed my aunts and cousins and was eager for the flight to be over. My ears popped as the plane took off, and I chewed some cinnamon gum to ease the pressure in my ears. The passenger next to me laid back and snored loudly. The Great Salt Lake stretched out below me. The color of blood from the local shrimp lived in its salted waters, giving way to swaths of the vast empty desert below. I put on my headset and played music to drown out the snoring, and before long, I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Turbulence jolted me awake. The whole plane shook as oxygen masks fell out of compartments. Confused passengers panicked, asking to call their loved ones one last time. I demanded to know what was going on or if the plane, only to be met by a flight attendant asking that I put my oxygen mask on. A warbled voice came over the intercom, informing us that nukes had hit the Atlantic Ocean, creating a 1600-foot tsunami. I looked out the window in horror and saw the water crashing into the land, slamming into the tiny buildings below, washing everything I knew behind. My family, job, and friends washed into the sea, dying in Poseidon’s icy grip.

The aftershock of the blast caused another bout of turbulence. The pilot’s warbled voice came over the intercom. She was going to turn the plane around and search for an airport on dry land. I prayed they had enough fuel to make it as the pressure dropped in the cabin. Another aftershock slammed against the aircraft as everything tilted toward the expanding sea below. I said my last prayer, wishing we could have solved the egos between the two countries without drowning us in the depths below.

I watched the oven as the skin crackled, the fragrant scent of meat and spices lingering in the kitchen. I stacked more wood into the stove. The heat must be even for the roast to be tender and delicate.

A messenger knocked upon my door, calling me away from my duties. I implored my maid to watch over the roast while I went to the town square. But I tripped over the cobblestone path. The air clung with the stench of burning flesh; shrieks of a burning woman cut through the massive crowd.

The woman’s name was Goody Porter. The town priest accused her of witchcraft after the children went missing. Her screams filled the air as the townspeople gathered, the priest glaring over them. They kneeled in abject silence, waiting for the screams to stop, for the priest to say it was safe to go home.

Smiling as I watched her burn, her charred flesh peeling from her skin and the stench of her torment rising to the heavens. I had always hated Goody and her simplistic ways. She was only a milkmaid; she had the intelligence of a child. There was no way she could be a threat to children. But she would stop by the path to collect flowers and pray to the old gods. So many villagers prayed to the old gods and would teach their children to do so. I would not have it! God would damn them from salvation.

By accusing Goody, I was saving the town’s future. The True God would consume everything, including the next generation. It would savor their souls in heaven. Goody’s screams stopped, and the priest cried. He went on his usual sermon of thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. The same tiresome prattle he gave every Sunday, with a dose of fire and brimstone. I would suffer none of these witches, these pagans, to live. And the priest would give me all the children who misbehaved.

With that said, I must return home. I have a roast to attend.

Tassien sat by a crackling fire with a spool of yarn and two knitting needles. The fire created shadows on the cold stone of the castle wall. She made intricate loops in the crimson cloth with delicate fingers.

“What do you weave, girl?”

Tassien looked at the voice to see a palace guard, his large frame filling the doorway. He was more than twice her size. She was barely more than a girl with wan features and pale hair.

“A blanket to keep out the cold.”

“The King will have many blankets to choose from in his chamber,” said the guard as his lips curled into a snide smile.

“I didn’t agree to marry the King. So I’ll knit this shroud and live in these stone walls.”

“The King chose you, and you cannot refuse him. You dare spit on such an honor girl-”

“An honor? He hanged his last two brides!”

The guard loomed over her as he pointed a thick finger at her. “Only because they couldn’t give him a son. Lady Tassien. He is the last of his bloodline. If you refuse him an heir, you will throw this land into chaos.”

“Then let this kingdom fall! The King’s guard murdered my parents in cold blood to loot what little they had in the refinery. He works the peasants to death. This House must fall!”

The guard yanked Tassien up, holding her face close to his. Her blue eyes turned to pinpricks in the firelight and his breath reeked of garlic and tobacco.

“My Lady Tassien, if you refuse to birth an heir, I will throw you from the top of this tower onto the rocks below. This kingdom must continue even if it runs on blood.” He tossed her into her chair. It rocked back hard, hitting her on the head. The guard slammed the door, and his armored footsteps echoed behind him.

Tassien wept as she picked up her yarn. She continued to knit her crimson blanket for the newborn heir. 

You shall have an heir, but I will raise him to usurp this kingdom.  This house shall fall.” she murmured as the needles clicked away.

I sat poised on the edge of my seat as I booted up the cheap laptop I purchased second-hand. The device was slow, and I could hear the gears grinding as the login screen loaded. I expected smoke to pour out as I typed in my credentials. A pop-up appeared, asking me to restart and update. 

With a deep sigh, I resigned myself to the update. What other choice did I have? My heart hammered in my chest as the files loaded and the computer ran through its diagnostics. This was the only way I could find Terry. 

My boy had been missing for three days. At first, I thought he was visiting after school at a friend’s house. But he never returned home. He wasn’t the type to run away, either. I called the police, and they opened an amber alert. They ran ads to find Terrance Holcroft, age twelve, with brown hair and hazel eyes, last seen wearing an Adventure Time t-shirt and tan shorts. We lived in a transitory neighborhood. I hardly knew any of my neighbors, and none of them had seen Terry on the day of his disappearance. 

I bought him a computer to play games with his friends and monitored his activity. He chatted with his friends over Twitch about Fortnight and Minecraft, along with Super Mario and gaming channels on YouTube. Terry didn’t troll. He was never cruel or abusive. I didn’t know what to look for and where to go. I logged into his computer to search for anything that would help. Searching through Twitch and Discord to find the same conversations with his friends and homework assignments, nothing new.

 Desperately, I browsed online to find anything else to find him. A google site advised me how to review the router’s browser history. After reviewing the system log, I found Terry had been using a VPN. Pulling up the VPN history to find episodes of Dr. Who and Black Mirror and a plethora of anime. I was about to give up and shut down his computer when a chat window formed on the screen. The text was neon red and melted down on the page. 

UNKNOWN USER: Mom, please help. I typed back; the font was practically bleeding off the page. 

USER 1: WHERE ARE YOU? 

UNKNOWN USER: I need you to get another computer, one with a different IP address. And I need you to use TOR. Here’s the site address so you can talk to me. A code string downloaded on the screen, and I feverishly scribbled it down. 

USER 1: ARE YOU OK! 

The screen went black, and I burst into tears. I hurried down to the local police office to make a report. The officer spoke to me in a soothing and condescending tone. They were doing everything to find Terry, but had no updates yet. That I needed to get some sleep and take care of myself. He gave me the card to a therapist, and I threw it back in his face. Gritting my teeth and keeping my composure, I silently left the police station.

 I stopped by a computer repair shop and purchased a used laptop. It looked to be in decent condition and was no worse for wear. The update button hit 99 percent and restarted. After it booted up, I downloaded our VPN browser and a TOR browser. I typed the address Terry gave me into the browser, and the same chat window appeared, red letter garishly melting into the background. 

UNKNOWN USER: So, you can follow instructions. 

USER 1: WHERE IS MY SON? 

UNKNOWN USER: They murdered your son over a year ago. 

USER 1: HE’S NOT DEAD! UNKNOWN USER: Don’t you remember? Terry found a link, much like this one, over a year ago. He disappeared, and a few days later, they found his body mutilated beyond repair. They had to order a DNA test to verify his identity.

 USER 1: STOP!! 

UNKNOWN USER: They found the perpetrator. He had been part of child abduction and trafficking ring. They sentenced him to death because he kept his silence. My stomach lurched, and I wanted to reach through the screen and grab the person on the other side. I screamed, and it echoed throughout the empty house. 

UNKNOWN USER: But you can’t let it go, can you? You keep searching for someone that isn’t there, someone who has been dead for over a year. Repeating the same patterns over and over thinking will not change your outcome. Your husband felt the same pain you did, but you pushed him away. 

USER 1: I’M REPORTING THIS TO THE POLICE! UNKNOWN USER: Once this chat ends, all records of it will be gone. The police already think you’re crazy. They lie and tell you they’re still looking for him. They feel sorry for you. You lost your son and had to pick your husband’s brains out of the wall after he shot himself. 

USER 1: SHUT UP! 

UNKNOWN USER: I’ll tell you a secret. The man that sits on death row is not the same man that murdered Terry. Sure, he knows who did, but he’s taken a vow of silence for his master. I have an offer for you-I can bring Terry back and inflict all the pain wrought on him to his killer. 

USER 1: WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS? UNKNOWN USER: The enemy of my enemy is my ally. 

USER 1: YOU CAN’T DO THIS. NO PERSON CAN BRING BACK THE DEAD. 

UNKNOWN USER: Who said I was a person? “My son’s not dead.” I sobbed quietly, and my hands shook. I remembered the photos and the police reports. My stomach lurched, and I vomited before curling on the floor in the fetal position. 

“Yes, I want to make him pay. I want my son back,” I murmured. The door opened suddenly, jolting me from my sadness.

 “Mom, what are you doing in my room?” Terry turned on the light and looked curiously around the room. “EW, are you OK?” he groaned, eyeing the pool of puke. 

“I… I was cleaning. I think I ate bad Chinese food. Look, I’ll go clean it up.” I hugged Terry close to me, and he awkwardly patted my back.

 “Mom, are you sure you’re OK?” 

I grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaned the mess off the floor before running to the washroom to freshen up. I padded downstairs to find my husband drinking coffee downstairs and watching the evening news. The force of my embrace nearly toppled him over. 

“Honey, is everything all right?” 

“I’m just happy to see everyone.”

 I kissed him, and a weight lifted off my shoulders. Terry and my husband were back, and everything was back in order. I noticed Terry was acting differently in the days that followed. He seemed distant and non-responsive. When I asked if he was OK, he said everything was empty and cold, like something was missing and that he felt out of place. My heart sank as I stared back at the laptop. 

My mind wandered back to Terry’s murderer, who it was, what happened to them, or if they had a family. I shuddered and put these thoughts out of my mind. I sent Terry to school the following week as though nothing had happened. I considered burning the second-hand laptop as it sat in the corner. 

I sat down to watch the morning news before going to work. My stomach lurched again as news frantically covered a shooting at Terry’s middle school. One student opened fire, killing 15 other kids. My phone started ringing, and I saw a squad car in my driveway. The officer told me that one of his classmates shot him and I needed to identify the body. 

They took the shooter into custody and asked why a thirteen-year-old girl would open fire at a school. The shooter wailed. She saw her father burn to death in front of her. His flesh peeled from him. Ash spontaneously went up in flames. And if he were going to die, everyone would. 

The bodies swayed in the cold January wind on the gallows the mob built. Tanks and military vans swarmed the National Mall as the angry crowd surged, shots of gunfire in the background.

I grabbed Erin’s arm and pulled her away as the crowd surged against military might. The same forces surrounded the White House and demanded surrender. Over a loudspeaker, the guard announced that the District of Columbia would be under lockdown until further notice and for the crowd to disperse, followed by more gunfire.
Erin and I were tourists from California. But the surging mob ruined our vacation plans. The bomb forced a hole in the capitol building as the angry mob marched through, followed by screams, gunfire, and hanging bodies.

We ran toward the metro station, hoping to reach our hotel room safely. A crowd was already clogging the metro station. They carried Confederate and Nazi flags and demanded their leader’s release.\

A man in military fatigues yelled orders to the crowd through a loudspeaker. Another man, wearing a thin blue line shirt, shot the man on the intercom, and the crowd trampled over him toward the trains.

My heart caught in my throat, and Erin screamed as we ran up back the steep stairway to the city above, fighting through the frightened crowd. Another man in military fatigues waited at the top of the stairs, waving people past. A black van rested behind him.

“I’m going to need your ID,” he said.

Erin and I handed my state ID to the man in fatigues. He glanced over mine. He paused and searched Erin’s ID with more scrutiny.

“It says your name is Aaron?” he flipped the card, showing a picture of a young man.

“It was,” stammered Erin. “I’m transgender. We’re just trying to get to our hotel. Could you please let us through?” tears formed in her eyes.

The man’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Erin with hatred and disgust.

“Guys, we have a groomer,” he barked as he pulled Erin away from me and threw her down the stairs. She tumbled toward the bottom before landing in the crowd below.

“This is the beginning of your reeducation,” screamed the man in fatigues.
I screamed in horror as the crowd trampled Erin and tore her to pieces. I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for him to throw me into the mob.

“That’s what happens if you fall out of line and don’t obey,” said the man in fatigue as he squeezed my face and petted my hair.

“We can save you,” he murmured as he zip-tied my hands behind my back and threw me in the back of the van.

There were six other women in the van with me, all with bruised faces and tears in their eyes. I only wanted to go to a few museums and listen to a few speeches. Erin was dead, and it was my fault for bringing her here.

Around me, everything burned, and gunshots sounded. This was America. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. The actual military would fix this, and we would have peace. But as the van took off, I knew I would never see California or my family again.