Pylons

1.

The Day the Planes Fell

(i)

Devon laid in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, the space illuminated by nothing but a pale lavender glow.

He turned over to his left, now facing the window from which the glow entered, watching the white curtain lightly flutter in the breeze, teasingly exposing the origin of the light.

That damned beam of light spewing from the earth.

Devon sighed. Since that light appeared, he’ll admit, the world seemed to turn into even more shit.

He always hated having to get up and shirk the brunt of the world, but now, it seemed like everything was heating up even more, so now he has to handle the heat as well.

He sat up, restless, still staring at the window.

What the hell was going on out there. The authorities were probably busy policing the chaos unfolding out there, people were panicking feverishly, madness was the motto.

But why was it so…quiet?

The air hummed with only the sound of crickets, and the occasional frog or toad croaked its speech amongst the bushes of the hills that cradled the village. Yet it still felt so charged. As if waiting with withheld breath for the storm to erupt from the calm.

Perhaps it was just him. Perhaps Devon himself was just nervous…

He could only dwell on that fact long enough before he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his door, and his brother swung the bedroom door open, blending the light of the yellow hallway light into the pale lavender.

Despite the two sources of light, Ferdinand, standing tall in the doorway, still had shadows casted on him from the remaining darkness, his brown-skinned, goateed face beaded with sweat.

“Come, lewwe go,” he said, sounding out-of-breath. “Do fast.” Then he walked off to his left, back down the hallway which he came.

Devon slid off the edge of the bed and onto his feet, exasperated that his brother always had to be so tedious. He got that the situation was probably dire, but he didn’t have to be such an asshole about it.

He exited the room just in time to glimpse Ferdinand descending the stairs down the hallway.

“Take that light off when yuh coming!” he ordered.

Having not slept much at all, Devon felt groggy and irritable. It didn’t help that nobody was updating him on what was happening. At some point in the evening, a State-of-Emergency was declared, and there were whisperings of vague news articles and reports that pandemonium was worsening.

Ferdinand seemed concerned after a few phone calls and told Devon to “chill upstairs for a while.”

And that was something Devon did, to no avail, of course, for the anticipation only wound him up even more. Devon flipped the switch at the bottom of the stairs, casting the upper floor into darkness, the staircase lit by the light of the living room to the right.

As Devon stepped down the stairs, the wood that croaked beneath his feet blended with the sound of similar bustling footsteps on wooden flooring, and the clattering of various items–the zipping of bags, the rustling of fabrics.

By the time he cleared past the upper floor and reached the bottom, Ferdinand’s girlfriend, Selena, was stuffing clothes into one of their duffel bags.

The tension was thick and the way they both operated with urgency swelled it.

Ferdinand approached him from the kitchen in the back, stalking out of its darkness like some caveman, toting Devon’s backpack in hand.

“Bess is here,” he said, but to no one in particular, it would seem. Devon didn’t know who “Bess” was and Selena offered no response in her haste. Ferdinand held Devon’s backpack and his own, handing Devon’s over to him. “Here.”

Devon accepted his backpack. “What going on?”

Ferdinand didn’t answer. Instead, he brushed past, towards the front doorway behind them, then flicked off the switch to the living room lights, consuming them in darkness.

The blackout curtains filtered much of the lavender glow from outside, besides the ones hanging over the windows of the living room, next to the front door, which were parted.

The glow was soon drowned out by the white light of a vehicle’s headlight, which blazed straight through into the living room as an engine roared to life outside.

Ferdinand flung the door open, gesturing hurriedly for Selena and Devon to follow through. “Let’s move.”

Selena tailed him, and so did Devon, down the small porch and into the driveway, toward a waiting 2025 Nissan Navara.

Ferdinand opened the front passenger door and threw his bag in the front seat. Then, he paced back to the house, keys jangling in his hand.

As he locked the front door, the driver’s side window whirred down, revealing a broad-shouldered man with a coarse, black beard and bald head. “Madness out dey, bredda boy,” Bess warned.

Devon lined himself up with the backseat door directly behind the driver, as Selena took the opposite side.

Ferdinand seemed too focused process that information.

Boom!

A cloud of fire and smoke blossomed in the distant hill neighbouring theirs, sprouting amongst houses and

trees.

Just then, streetlights and house lights shuttered off, encompassing them in an overbearing darkness not even the lavender beam’s glow could alleviate. Funny, how that beam worked.

“Let’s go,” Ferdinand said, hopping into the front passenger seat as Devon and Selena ducked into their seats.

Something was definitely going down.

As soon as the doors closed, Bess reversed with frightening efficiency out the driveway, and into the road, gearing into drive and gassing it.

As the engine purred while he drove, Bess began fiddling with the radio knob. Most stations extracted static.

“Nothing,” Bess sighed, maneuvering through the long quiet road, the black pitch of the road illuminated by the headlights streaking past. “They’re rioting, apparently. Police trying to calm things down, but it not looking good.”

Ferdinand tapped his knee. “How the traffic looking?”

“Most roads either blocked off by police or rioters,” Bess reported. “We can’t go back the way I came, that’s for sure.”

“You know other ways around?” Ferdinand asked.

“Yeah,” Bess responded. “But it’s what we facing to hold us back. From what I heating, the Blessed winning.”

“The Blessed.” Those words stoked fear into the already icy air. Devon recalled something related to them when that beam of light dawned. Something about terrorism…

“Look!” Selena gasped, pointing out the dashboard window.

It was difficult to see at first, but as they proceeded, the outline of a person sharpened in the headlights. Then another. In fact, one person was carrying the other.

A woman, dragging a motionless man on the side of the road. Devon couldn’t perceive more than that, but as they gained closer, one thing became more obvious. She was trying to flag them down.

“She needs help,” Selena mentioned.

Bess and Ferdinand’s faces tightened. Ferdinand especially scowled thoughtfully. “No,” he said firmly.

Bess began speeding up.

“But, we could put them in the tray!” Devon pleaded.

Ferdinand shot him a look that made Devon regret ever speaking.

Devon and Selena lamented in silence as the van accelerated further and the two people blurred past them, the image of the woman waving desperately and the man laying before her, imprinting into the darkness behind them.

No one uttered a word for some time. A few cars whizzed by, heading the opposite direction, clutching the van in fear whenever they slowed down.

They couldn’t say outright, but they all knew that when Ferdinand denied those people, it meant one thing. No one outside this van could be trusted.

And that meant, whether good or not, everyone else could potentionally risk their safety and that safeguarding themselves meant neglecting someone who genuinely was troubled.

The weight of that sunk in Devon’s heart.

He couldn’t think of it for long before they were at St Helena junction. Despite the urgency, Bess drove effectively, on top of navigating the road with no bumps or near-hits, he also took the time to still stop at the T.

And just as Devon thought how impressive it was he did, another car came racing down from the left at dangerous velocity. Seems that guy had the same idea as them.

“We going right,” Bess said, glancing left and right to ensure he was clear. It would seem he chose to alternate the direction.

And right he turned, toward the Caroni plains.

“We should’ve helped them,” Devon finally broke. He felt the time was right now to address the situation.

Ferdinand seemed to have expected his words and clearly didn’t feel the same.

Devon saw his brain racking to form the words to say, but just as he did, he regressed to silence, as his attention was brought elsewhere.

Before them, a faint orange glow loomed as they rounded a bend. And as they cleared it, ash and smoke poured over into the road, dusting and wafting across their path, in the wind.

A fire raged with powerful intensity, and as Bess eased up to cross the smoke, Devon swore he heard screaming.

It was someone’s house.

“Jesus Christ,” Bess muttered, under the sounds of cracking wood and the fire lashing the air.

As they convoyed through the smoke and ash, Bess rolled their windows up, brining in the shock. As they left the burning house behind, Devon began realising one thing.

He sure as hell was missing home.

X

Ferdinand thought getting Devon out of the house was going to be a good thing.

Examinations were on the horizon. Sure, a beam of light birthed itself from the earth and a terrorist group was quickly achieving traction, but why should he have to worry about it?

At the time, that was the argument he presented to their parents. Now…Boy, oh boy was he mistaken.

Things soured real quick. By God’s good graces, he managed to get Bess out here to hitch a ride. Now he owes Bess tenfold for taking the time to get them home, when Bess needed to be with his family.

Why hadn’t he gotten himself his license yet?

The Blessed were striking up chaos on this side of the island. Something Ferdinand could’ve never foresaw. And apparently neither did the police. Mom and Dad didn’t want to hear that however.

Supposedly, the military was getting involved. Whatever The Blessed coordinated, it was well-done. It surprised enough people to initiate a blackout, disrupt communication, and activate the army.

Regardless, it was all enough for Mom amd Dad to clamour for them to get Devon home. And admonish him for not listening.

And even under the circumstances, Ferdinand couldn’t resist every bone in his body cautioning him to get the fuck out of Dodge.

If they could get this far, who knows when they could start ripping people out of their homes and victimising them, maybe even executing them.

He couldn’t let the very real possibility of that happening occur, especially with Devon involved.

That burning house felt like a chilling warning.

Word on the streets, and in the Parliament, is that The Blessed were funded and reinforced vicariously by a foreign entity. Much more than previously estimated.

That made them ruthless. That made them scarier.

Bess made a sharp left that snapped Ferdinand out of his thoughts.

“Fucking pothole!” Bess gritted.

Ferdinand had faith in Bess’ driving. Enough so that he found himself wallowing in his worry very quickly again.

Should they really have helped those people back there? If they did, they could’ve potentially been enemies, restrained them all, then hurt them, robbed them, or even worse.

But what if they weren’t? What if they genuinely needed assistance?

Fuck it. Every man for himself right now. Someone else will aid them. Then they’ll hear about how it petered out at some point…

They were now cruising through the Caroni plains, in the back of the Piarco International Airport. Tall grass and swampy mangroves flanked the right, and metal fencing filed the left, the rear perimeter of the airport.

Not much traffic. Nor were there any rioters, or police, so far.

They were in the clear.

And then he heard it, softly at first, but it gradually growled louder and louder by the second. Ferdinand pinpointed the sound was coming from the right, not in the plains and mangrove, but above it. From the sky.

It seemed Bess heard it too. And as he slowed to a stop while they traced the noise, it reverberated closer, crescendoing until Ferdinand deduced just what it was, stepping halfway out the van.

And by the time he figured out he wasn’t dreaming, the nose of a Boeing 737-8 MAX grazed a mere one hundred or so feet over them, followed by its body, soaring to the left, into the airport compound.

“Holy shit…” Ferdinand said, disbelieving his own eyes, noticing the fact that the entire aircraft was experiencing a blackout like the ground below it. No lights in the windows or cockpit, and no strobe lights.

The plane coasted across the compound for a minute, skating on its underside.

Sparks trailed beneath it as it screeched across tarmac, crashing into a hanger, and erupting into a white-hot explosion that thundered the air and rived the darkness for just a moment.

“Oh my God!” Selena bawled. Devon looked like he was about to throw up

Ferdinand skirted back into the front passenger seat, slamming the door. “Go, go, go!”

And Bess gunned it down the road, swerving down where it bent and blasting down when straight, all while the plane and airport hanger flared up to their left.

It wasn’t long before the airport and the carnage disappeared behind them, and they progressed into a more urban area.

But that didn’t alleviate anything at all.

The road tautened as buildings manifested around them. And as they rounded another bend, things went from worse to fucked.

Traffic piled up before them, red brake lights glaring, horns honking. But that was the least of their worries. Even more chaos was unfolding some way down amongst the traffic. Flames rousted from a few cars and men patrolled amongst the vehicles. Men equipped with firearms.

If any of them were military, it was highly impossible. No camouflage. Instead, they were masked in balaclavas. And despite wielding AR-15s and AK-47s, their arms were aimed at civilians.

And they were shooting. They rifled at cars, at people scampering through the streets. Glass shattered, metal popped from bullets, women and children failed.

Bodies dropped to the floor, or collapsed halfway out of vehicles in desperate flight. Those who couldn’t escape their cars in time were leveled down in them.

The cars rowed up before them weren’t moving. The occupants clambering out of them, and those who remained cowered in theirs.

The Blessed were inching closer to their pickup.

“Fuck,” Bess muttered.

“We hadda turn around,” Ferdinand stated.

Then some bullets started barraging the pickup. They were beginning to fire at them. Selena screamed, all four of them crunching and diving low as they could to avoid gunfire. The back glass splintered.

Then Bess did something either real brave or real stupid.

He cranked the gear into Reverse, peeled out into the left, onto the pavement, then shifted back into Drive and forced forward, the van charging along the pavement towards the attackers. They vectored more shots, but most of them bounded out of the way of the vehicle.

Bess did, however, wreck into one of them, vaulting his body over the hood of the van and to the side, hastening faster along the pavement, bypassing the traffic further.

They managed to intersect through the burning cars, advancing toward a junction when a horn blared and another car impacted into their left.

All Ferdinand recalled was tumbling in a tornado of glass before everything went black.

X

It’s interesting.

The first time, they all could have collided with another car at St Helena’s junction. Ferdinand remembered thinking how close it was. Always has to be some cunt to make it happen this time.

When Ferdinand’s consciousness located him again, he found that they were upside down and he was still alive. Outside, the sound of gunfire persisted over his ringing ears. It seems they assumed they were dead, so the attackers stalled to end them. At least for now.

Ferdinand’s heart fluttered. Did he alone survive? He shook himself out of his groginess, relieved that he could still move. However, a pain lanced his left side that was upsetting. But he could not afford to think about it.

Groaning, he wrested himself out of the seat, crouching in what little space he had to look around. Devon was outside the vehicle, propped up against it, Selena shaking him awake, but nothing worked.

Oh God.

Bess was angled horribly in his seat, also unresponsive.

Ferdinand crawled through the broken window, almost every movement dazing him. Blood trickled down his face. He looked to his left. The other car was rolled over to his left. A huge crater was dented into their overturned Nissan Navara.

Ferdinand rose to his feet, then stumbled to the other side of the vehicle, to Selena and Devon. Selena tapped Devon’s face, but he still didn’t retort by waking.

Fuck. Not good. Definitely not good.

For a moment, Ferdinand couldn’t decide what to do. Devon needed emergency treatment. Now. But he could not just abandon Bess, not after he sacrificed so much for them and everything spoiled into a shitshow so fast. Yeah, he messed up thinking breaching into those monsters was a good idea. But honestly, going back would’ve been dangerous as well. Plus he panicked. They all did.

Ferdinand swivelled his head around. There…

A rock lay a few feet away. He skipped to it, grabbed it up, and began banging it into the driver’s side window. Every hit he pumped into the glass was exhausting. Three. Four. Eight, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty.

Finally it caved a bit. And then…

“They coming!” Selena shouted. Devon still wasn’t moving.

To their left, the attackers approached through the fire and chaos they upheaved like creatures from Hell.

“Fuck!” Ferdinand exclaimed. Then he swiped one last hit into the window, finally demolishing it, and startling Bess awake. Ferdinand dropped the rock.

Just then, a dark green military scraped past behind them, bursting into the crowd, and ten servicemen absconded from it and began engaging the attackers. Gunfire bloomedl. Some bullets sliced the air around them.

Selena quivered and cried. Ferdinand wrestled Bess out of the front seat through the window. Bess was coming to, and as he did, he patted Ferdinand assuredly. “Go, go!” he coughed, lifting himself to his feet.

Ferdinand paced to Devon, scooped him up and nodded to Selena. “Go! Run, run!”

And they all began sprinting off.

No one dared to look back at the carnage behind them, but it would seem the attackers leveraged an advantage. Because pretty soon, bullets spliced the air around them, some spiking the ground or concrete wall or metal close to them.

They needed to divert. Aching, Ferdinand cut right, through an alleyway, and its walls sheltered him and Devon from the onslaught. Selena and Bess trailed him.

The concrete of the alley converted into rubble and stone. In the distance, he could see tall brush and grass ahead.

“Split up!” he shouted. He could see Bess barging into the grass to his right, Selena leaping in on his left, just as he evaded through with them.

The Blessed were catching up quickly. Ferdinand could hear bullets butchering grass behind him and to the sides, and footsteps crunching grass hastily.

Flashlight beams began traversing in various directions, bouncing up and down or swaying as the attackers chased behind. He tried to not get spotted by them, because that would mean a bullet was next. When one projected to his left, he drifted right, and vice-versa.

As he did, he began feeling Devon’s weight. He was a skinny kid, but boy, was he still heavy, especially when every muscle in Ferdinand’s body clawed in painful resistance. His lungs fatigued, his legs pulsated as if they were tearing from the bone, the pain in his left side and the dizziness vising around his brain.

Water dampened his feet, grass and twigs sheared his elbows and chest and face. Then a flash of light bisected across him and a bullet embedded itself into his right leg.

He toppled over to the dirt, and Devon thudded beside him.

For a second, the need to give up embraced him. To surrender himself to the relief from the pain, and conform to death. But Devon…If he wasn’t dead before, he sure would be now.

He began pronating his way away from Devon, hoping to bait the attacker away from Devon and focus on him. Whoever it was, was definitely going to hone in to complete the kill.

And indeed they did, for as Ferdinand tugged himself by the elbows meekly, footsteps mashed the leaves behind them.

And there stood a Blessed member, staring coldly under his balaclava, either taken aback by his success, or reveling in it. He strutted confidently towards Ferdinand, shouldering his AR-15. For a moment, the plan worked.

And just as he passed Devon, Bess charged in like a wild animal, tackling the man through the grass. The two tussled, but the man produced a sidearm and capped a bullet into Bess’ head. Bess flopped to the ground.

Then the man began reciting something frightening.

“They too, will drink the wine of God’s fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of his wrath.”

He spoke softly, as if soothing himself, Or perhaps his fresh kill.

Ferdinand choked. Now he was next.

The man eased his AR-15 towards him. And the reality of the situation blanketed over him.

“They will be tormented with burning sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and of the Lamb,” the man announced.

Would you look at that? He took his brother for the weekend to enjoy life for a bit, and now they all banked on the brink of death at the hand of a madman.

“They too, will drink the wine of God’s fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of his wrath,” the man repeated.

It was just then, Ferdinand concurred what the man was stating. Revelations 14:10.

Just when the man was going to finish his job, a figure climbed onto his back, unsheathed the knife from his side, and plunged it into his neck with vicious ferocity. Both figures keeled over, and the AR circuited a few rounds into the ground. The new figure mounted the attacker, stabbing his chest, then his neck again, blood spewing with every inset.

Grotesque squelching permeated the air, alongside the sounds of the man gurgling blood, and the smell of that fresh blood perfumed it. And as the attacker moved no more, the new figure, shadowed by darkness, deflated his violence.

He then joined Ferdinand as both their breaths synchronised into the only remaining sounds, heavy and deep, rasping through the melody of crickets singing through the night.

Somehow, whether it be the military deescalating the rioters and attackers, or the peace now injecting itself from the terror they face, Ferdinand was cleansed by a new respite, despite the pain that riddled his body.

Then, the first figure finally stood up, shakily. And began walking toward him, knife still in hand. But before Ferdinand could mourn whatever new hell freshened itself before him, he recognised who it was.

It was his own brother. It was Devon. Hyperventilating, rattling from either cold, shock, fear, or all three. And doused crimson in blood.

(ii)

Malissa emptied some of the contents of a tablet bottle into a tablet tray, observing their hexagonal forms. Then she began sorting them, bulking them up into the dispenser section, then counting them singly into a small, clear plastic storage bag.

First set distributed into tens, then twenties, then thirties. These old people love their vitamins.

It was a slow morning so she thought she might as well get some work done. The Boss Lady would be invigilating this morning when she got to the other location anyhow. Best to keep that bitch quiet and out of her hair.

Of course, Keron didn’t feel the same. First thing he did upon unlatching the gate that separated the staff from the customers was plague her.

“Black Indian!” he called, pulling the hook back across. “What yuh doing, bagging out tablet for Jhadoo penis?”

She sighed. “Hull yuh ass, nah boy.”

“She bagging it out for your dead liver,” said Janelle, behind Malissa. She stood, eating breakfast on the counter behind them, swinging around, biting into her fried bake and egg and sausage, using the parchment paper it was wrapped in to capture any excess.

Keron smiled at Janelle mischievously, which exaggerated his devilish features, pointy ears and a sly face. “Watch you, filling yuh face again. Look you have something sticking on your cheek, dey, lemme get it.” He pranced toward her, pickering his lips, squeezing behind Malissa.

Janelle smacked him playfully with a brown paper bag that the breakfast was packed in. “Boy! Move from by me!” She giggled as he mockingly smooched the air around her.

“Janelle, you and Pa stop making love up there!” said another voice down the lane to the left. Despite the stern way she spoke, she had a smile on her fairskinned face.

Keron nodded, grinning. “Sorry, Pharmacist, sorry.” Janelle pinched his back hard, and he leaped away from her, down into the tight lane. “Ow!”

Despite his neat way of dressing–red short-sleeved shirt and long soft black pants today–he made it his duty to pester everyone like the absolute menace he was deep down.

“PA!” another voice cried. “Yuh late!”

“Oh gosh, Jo,” Keron breathed. “You know how it is, I had to pass by Cindy them. Pick up some things.”

Cindy was the old bar located on Busy Corner.

“Pick up some rum,” Jolene clarified, raising up behind Pharmacist from her stooped position. “Yuh head tight today?”

Keron snickered smartly. “Nah, not today.”

Pharmacist tapped his arm for him to move out the way, almost jamming him against the cough syrup section. Jolene passed by, mashing his foot with her own mischievous smile. “Ow!”

She was adorned in navy blue hijab today, pairing with her maroon scrubs and dark grey soft pants. Malissa always admired that despite the strict rules of her faith, she still leased herself some leeway to be herself in some form in small ways, as well as intelligently retaliate against someone in subtle ways.

“Anything else, Sharmaine?” Jolene asked, placing the notebook in her hand on the counter next to Malissa. They were writing up a list for new goods.

“Nah, I think we’re good,” Pharmacist replied.

“Keron!” someone else exclaimed. It was Lena, who was lower down the lane, apparently hiding from Keron himself, who was just reigning over everyone with his impish behaviour. He was poking her with a pen in the arm, and she flinched and scattered the work she was doing to flee from him.

She was soft-spoken, but very firm, and disliked being touched. So she scowled at him as he advanced towards Ella, who was posted in the CDAP area, patiently awaiting her turn. She raised an eyebrow, stuffing a laugh.

Keron froze, doing the same. “Aunty, aunty, aunty,” said, mimicking the inflections of the Nigerian actors from those bad Nollywood movies.

She glanced at him up and down. “Play de ass and I will throw this cup of water in your face, eh.”

Keron faked her, and she revealed that she did, in fact, possess a cup of water. But she didn’t vault it at him, instead they both had a Mexican standoff next to the Cellma system, the machine that organised Chronic Disease Assistance Plan (CDAP) orders.

“Keron!” Malissa shouted. “I’m hungry.”

Keron turned, his attention now on her. “What that have to do with me?”

Malissa had finished about fifty bags of multivitamins by now, and she packed them into a small basket, walking to the start of the lane and behind Pharmacist, to send it down to sell. “Come nah…Please.”

“How Janelle get she food?” he asked.

“I sent Chinee for mine,” Janelle replied.

“Well right.”

“I not trusting Chinee with my money,” Malissa mentioned. Chinee usually expects interest with any favor requested of him.

“Me neither,” Pharmacist added. “And I hungry too.” She walked to the cupboard where they stored their handbags and removed hers, digging through it. “Where’s my money.”

Keron found himself back up the lane into the Dispensary faster than when he descended into the lane. “Nah, nah, Pharmacist allyuh overdoing it now.”

“Shut yuh ass,” Sharmaine ordered. She pulled out a hundred dollar bill, blue and new.

Keron grabbed it quickly. “What?! Pharmacist, yuh get paid?”

Pharmacist rolled her eyes. “Buy two bake for me.”

Malissa fished out a twenty from her pants pocket. “Buy a roti and aloo for me.”

“And a nip of puncheon for me?” Keron asked. “Pharmacist?” He flaunted the hundred dollar bill like a reminder to her that it was one hundred dollars.

“No!” Pharmacist snapped. “Bring back my damn change.”

Jolene walked to the sink in the corner of the Dispensary and filled a ceramic cup of water. “He don’t bring back change, you know,” she teased.

“Nah, nah, I does bring back change,” Keron protested.

“Mh-hmm,” Jolene said flatly. Then she sidestepped to the microwave on her left, opened it, placed the cup inside and set the timer for two minutes.

Keron then retreated to the lane.

“Where you going?” Malissa asked. “The door over here!”

“I want to see if Rasta go throw the water in my face,” he replied.

Jolene, Sharmaine, and Malissa sighed, exasperated.

“Good day,” a new voice announced. It was Camila, who unlocked the hook by inserting her hand through the makeshift space in the gate’s fencing. As she entered, her expression darkened and her mood soaked into the atmosphere.

Malissa noted her eyes, especially under them. They were puffed and discoloured, and her face stressed.

Malissa could relate to exactly what she was going through. And that reality concerned her.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence that no one attended to, not even Camila, which was the norm now, given her circumstances. She had dulled herself. And it was beginning to present itself in her aura.

Without a word, Camila seated herself in a stool in the corner opposite Jolene and seemed to try to melt away into the background.

“Alright, so…” Jolene intervened, devouring the tension. “Well shall be starting a new staff member. He’s been looking for a little work. Finished school and everything a few months ago. Allyuh please don’t infect him with any madness. Mr Balkan said make sure and train the boy properly.”

Mr Balkan was the Boss Lady’s husband. And the Head Pharmacist. Both of them were dreadfully insufferable. So they had to care extra to heed that warning.

“We know him?” Pharmacist asked.

The microwave dinged and Jolene extracted her hot cup carefully from it. “We don’t know him. We know his father. Do you all remember Mr Millar?”

“Oh yeah!” Melissa retorted, memories flooding back to her. “He taught the Industrial Relations modem at NESC. You know how far you pull me back?”

“He taught me Labour Law when I studied a short course a few years back,” Pharmacist explained. “He was very eloquent.”

“He used to come in here to receive medication awhile ago,” Ella stated. “Haven’t seen him much since.”

Jolene twisted open a jar of Full Bloom coffee powder and shoveled in a spoonful, stirring it into the water in her cup. “Yeah, his son is starting today. Apparently, they’ve relocated to Chaguanas.”

Pharmacist checked her watch. “What time is he supposed to reach?”

Jolene tapped her spoon on the rim of the cup. “Around now.”

And like clockwork, a voice heralded. “Good day.”

They craned their necks in the direction of the voice. And there stood a skinny mixed boy, about seventeen, eighteen years old, with wild, but lush black hair. “Devon Millar. I was told to come in today.”

X

Devon was very anxious about his first day. While occupying himself with a regular job promised to refresh him from the past, succumbing back into normal life daunted him.

Still, these people felt cool to be around. He wasn’t too keen about the younger, fairskinned girl in his left-hand corner. She didn’t vibe too well with him and he tried his best not to react to it.

The older fairskinned lady with light brown hair, donning her white pharmacist blazer, glimpsed at him curiously. She was very motherly. She seemed nicer. Sharmaine Boodoo (Pharmacist) her golden nametag decreed.

The Muslim lady seemed nice too. Devon was told her name was Jolene. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Sharmaine said, opening a cupboard stacked with a few handbags. Devon would’ve protested about it in other circumstances, but no one seemed like delinquents here. “Rest that in there.”

He almost forgot he had his backpack hanging on his shoulder. “Sure.”

“Big bag, boy,” Jolene highlighted. “What you have in there, drugs?”

Wait, was she serious? His eyes widened. “Heh, no.”

Way to fucking go, dumbass, now they definitely think you have drugs in there, he thought.

“Jolene, you making the boy nervous,” the darkskinned Indian woman specified. There was something about her in particular that fluttered his heart. Her hair was jet black and straight, which glistened it with a rich sheen, as if she had pressed it, and if you ran your hand along it, the locks would razor your palms.

Jolene seemed astute as well, sipping from what, even from his distance, smelled like strong coffee, her eyes hinting that she perceived his abrupt emotion. “Devon, this is Malissa.” She gestured to the lady in the white blazer. “Sharmaine, our Pharmacist.” Then to Mean Girl to his left. “Camila.”

Camila excused herself by rudely walking off and into the lane to Jolene’s left, blatantly ignoring everyone. Devon thought it was quite ill-mannered, and odd everyone let it slide but he didn’t allow it to bother him.

In her place, a robust negro woman came waltzing up into the Dispensary. Her short hair was braided into cornrows and their colours matched her maroon scrubs. She was feminine, but the way she was built alluded that she was naturally physically sturdy. Her skin seemed thick. Both literally and metaphysically. If he pulled her skin, it probably wouldn’t budge much and if anyone nagged her, she would ridicule them with conscientious efficiency. Not ghetto, but definitely could handle herself in the ghetto.

She was laughing with the slender Indian man with pockmarked cheeks and a fiendish grin. When Devon entered the building, he was toying with her and the dreadlocked woman in the CDAP area. He definitely was a rascal.

“This is Keron “Ramsingh” Sharma, Janelle Smith, and Ella Robinson and Lena Singh,” Jolene shared, nailing a finger to the dreadlocked woman down the lane and the other, slightly shorter girl. “These three–no good, no good.” She wagged a finger at Keron. “Especially him. Anything you learn from he, forget it one time. Always listen to Lena.”

Keron sucked his teeth, roving his eyes from side to side. “Trying to demonise me, or what?”

“You are a demon!” every single one of the women (except Camila) pronounced in unison. That amused Keron, and to some degree, Devon as well. The man had such outstanding infamy.

Keron sniggered and receded back into the lane to commit whatever act of mayhem he was dedicating himself to.

“How’s your father, Devon?” Shantel queried. “He’s still working at NESC?”

Devon shook his head. “He retired two years ago. Been home since. Nothing much for him to do now but relax himself.” That was only half the truth.

“He’s a very strict man,” Shantel said. “Has he molded you into a good-behaving boy?”

Devon really didn’t know how to respond to that question, partly because he certainly didn’t want to. He shrugged vehemently. “I don’t know.”

“What you mean you don’t know?” Shantel asked, grinning. “So you’re a pest like Pa?”

Devon seethed. “I prefer not to say.”

“Eh-heh?!” Malissa exclaimed. “That means, ‘Yes.’”

Shantel side-eyed him with a smile. “Mmm. A next troublemaker. We go fix you.”

Jolene smirked. Every emotion she expressed seemed fortified by serenity. A woman at peace with herself. “I’ll show you around just now. Malissa, you will help him with anything regarding the Dispensary.”

“Okay, Jo,” Malissa confirmed.

Devon stepped in more just to feel less awkward. But that ended up encasing him slightly closer to Malissa. And that fact amplified his awkwardness a bit more.

Just then, Keron stepped up shamefully, his entire face dripping with water.

“What happened to you?” Shantel asked.

“Rasta throw the water on me,” he said, his face curdling with a mix of disgrace and disbelief, as if he was surprised that she did, as he began unpleating a handkerchief from his back pocket.

X

The work wasn’t overly taxing. At least for now, all Devon was tasked with some lifting of boxes, or stocking of shelves.

As he did so with Phamacist, she tutored his quietly as she stacked boxes of tablets. “This Omprezole. Them tanty and uncle does buy plenty of that. That’s for gastroesophageal symptoms. Things like acid reflux and upset stomach.”

“Okay,” Devon said, trying to absorb as much as he could.

Sharmaine described everything with such passion that it was almost charming. As if she was obsessed with pharmacology all her life, and she finally obtained the opportunity to practice, and was satisfied the be able to share her knowledge.

“Over here is antibiotics,” she continued. “We have controlled, and uncontrolled. Controlled usually consists of substances like amoxicillin, erythromycin, azithromycin, moxifloxacin, clarithromycin. We have a few uncontrolled substances like ciprofloxacin, tetracylcin l, and levofloxacin, but you must always ensure you are provided with a prescription when dealing with customers.”

“Okay,” Devon said, slowly but surely blanking at the names.

Sharmaine noticed. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it time. But almost everything up here is my responsibility. But i don’t want to stop you from learning something new, mainly because it’ll be useful for you in case I’m not here, or the place gets busy. Pretty soon, I’ll be teaching you read prescriptions. You think you could handle that?”

Shit, he doubted he could handle this little seminar. “Yeah?”

Sharmaine just shook her head, smiling.

X

When it came to multivitamins, down the lane, which allotted its space with CDAP, Devon was beginning to discover that Lena was very…particular.

Devon balanced himself on a stool to a very treacherously, stretching his liverstring to install the last glass bottle of yeast on the top shelf.

“You think I should put it on the shelf underneath it, Rasta?” Lena asked.

Ella glimpsed at the precarious situation behind her. “Not if you trying to kill somebody.”

Lena thought about it, or at least pretended to. “Eh, I’ll leave it.” Them she strutted to a box and started handing Devon bottles of something called Lecithin. He rowed those up quickly and began declining to the safety of the ground.

He was halfway there before Lena decided to change her mind. “You know what…”

Both Devon and Ella groaned in frustration.

X

Janelle was quiet, and she simply made him scrutinise how they retailed tablets into smaller counts. She was doing these small white, oval tablets. “I’m not the best teacher, eh, so forgive me. You place a set of them in here, then count it out, one, two, three, see?” She sealed the bag. “Close it up. Repeat.”

Malissa was having lunch in the corner of the Dispensary, besides the sink, her back facing them. “Show the boy good thing they say, eh Janelle,” she teased.

“Shut your ass, nah girl,” Janelle retorted. “Ent you filling your face?”

Devon found himself zoning out on Malissa. But she just ate and didn’t notice, luckily. He turned to see Janelle sure did.

He altered the direction of the discussion quickly. “So, uh, what drug is this?”

Janelle either adjusted accordingly, or simply didn’t think too much of it. “L2. We don’t just give out that, so if anyone asks for it, let them talk to Pharmacist.”

“No problem,” Devon assured.

X

Pricing goods was the real pain in the ass. He could conflict with lifting boxes, or studying the multiplexes of whatever Pharmacist ledgered for him to learn (she had settled on educating him on various cough syrups and informed him he had some homework for her for the day), but no matter what he did, resolving the pricing gun situation was the hardest thing so far.

Every time he squeezed the trigger, and tried to brand one of the boxes aligned out on the counter before him, something felt wedged within the gun, resulting in the tags chaining out the end without any prices imprinting to it.

It got to the point where the tags began collecting to his feet and he didn’t realise until Ella appeared out of nowhere and assisted him.

She motioned for him to pass the pricing gun to her. And so he did, feeling like a absolute moron.

“You put the tags in wrong,” she noted. She stroked two buttons down on the side of the gun and a small front compartment flapped open, with the used tags still attached. She burst those out, fastened back the front compartment, then thumbed a groove in the back of the gun, and released another compartment, where the roll of tags were coupled to a little spool. “See?”

The roll was fine, but how it was set up into the dispenser, caused the tags to coil over to the sticky side. She spindled back the tags, and replicated everything she did before in reverse.

Then began pricing a few boxes of Becoplex Devon was adhered to for the past twenty minutes with ease.

“Huh,” Devon murmured, basking in the irony of the situation given his experience with guns.

“Don’t feel bad,” Ella said, “Not everything you’ll understand immediately. Take your time.”

Devon registered that out of all of the matronly women in here, Ella spoke with a secured patience.

She examined him thoroughly. “You get nervous?”

It seemed she was also extremely watchful. Devon nodded with uncertainty. Adapting to this new way of life did have his nerves scrambling.

She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Nothing is meant to be rushed. I was like you. We all were. Plenty things they don’t school you on, you’ll have to learn out here.”

If only when knew the whole truth…

Devon’s attention gravitated to lower down the lane, where Camila was also sealing tablets for CDAP. Her moody aura seemed to physically partition off almost everyone. Customers would enter through the door before her and greet her pleasantly to no answer. At some point, a lot of them just either began disregarding her, or her camouflage functioned properly, and she disintegrated from their attention entirely..

“What’s up with her?” he asked.

Ella began stamping the rest of prices on the remaining boxes. “Lot of things. Best not to get involved.”

“Unless I am involved,” Devon speculated.

Ella grinned at him, then dabbed her temple with her middle finger. “I like the way you think.”

(iii)

The day had treaded by so quickly, Devon was nonplussed at the scene outside. Amidst the traffic that creeped down the Chaguanas Main Road, and a few hurrying people bustling about the town to travel home, or to clock in for dogwatch, the sky was painted with both the burnt orange of sundown and the lavender Pylon pillaring its light into the skies, concocting an ethereal tangerine that beautified the evening even more

It always startled him how the Pylon was always able to individualise itself among the sunlight and moonlight, and yet also meld with them.

They were all facing north as Miss Jolene locked up the pharmacy for the evening, so they couldn’t physically see it, but its omnipresence exhibited in the way it dispersed its light. Whether one acknowledged it or not.

Malissa approached him from the corner of his right eye, and he almost jumped out his skin.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked.

He gulped. He wouldn’t love anything better. “Yeah, of course.”

“Alright, Millar-boy,” she said.

“MILLAR-BOY!” Keron repeated in a feminine manner. “Nicknames already, Malissa?”

“Of course, that’s Mr Millar’s son,” she said.

Keron smacked him on the shoulder. “Papayoye! Don’t forget, ten o’clock tomorrow.”

Miss Jolene, Ella, Lena, Janelle, Camila and Sharmain joined them

Miss Jolene slipped her keys to the pharmacy gate into her purse. “You run away by Cindy for the rest of the day and you playing boss?”

Keron smiled that stupid smile that he smiled when someone stumped him. “Just fuck me up, nah man.”

“Everybody know their times, sir, thank you,” Sharmaine informed Keron. She looked at Devon. “How’d you like your first day?”

Devon nodded. “Not bad. Just a lot to soak in.”

“Alright, I have church tomorrow,” Keron said.

Jolene scoffed. “You does go to church?”

“He going by Double Palm with Felisha,” Malissa stated frankly.

Everyone collectively laughed. Everyone besides Devon. It felt bizarre not comprehending the joke because he was essentially still an outsider. It made interacting much harder.

Camila sighed and strutted off to the right, down the pavement. “Goodbye.”

That definitely kind of ruined the repartee a bit.

“Yeah, time to break out dey,” Keron said, splitting from the collection.

Slowly, everyone else began departing.

“Enjoy your day, Millar-boy,” Sharmaine said, and she crossed the road to the mall opposite them.

“Allyuh, later,” Jolene said, hiking her purse onto her shoulder. “Goodbye, Mr Millar.”

“Bye,” Lena said, scampering off with Jolene.

Ella followed behind, gently knocking him on the arm. “Tomorrow, Devon.”

And finally, Malissa. “Bye, Millar-boy,” she said.

Devon waved like a fucking idiot even though she was right next to him. “Bye, see you tomorrow.”

And with that, she also withdrew, forsaking Devon with his own thoughts as the twilight transitioned to nighttime.

X

Jolene clicked a lighter and a small flame flickered to life. She then introduced a small stick of bakhoor to it and watched the fire smoulder it.

A saccharine smell aromatised the air as the smoke wisped upward. She circulated around the room with it. She had already bathed and performed wudu. Wouldn’t hurt to prepare the area with something pleasant.

She set the bakhoor down in a small tray to burn out.

Then she spread a clean rug across the floor, stepped onto it modestly, and faced the Qibla, the direction of Mecca, where it was said another Pylon had spawned.

The thought of that coated her body with goosebumps.

Working late had utilised her time to attend Mosque and she was usually unclean during that time as well. So she had no choice but to pray for the times she missed out. Although she preferred the community environment of the Mosque ceremony, solitary orison soothed her. And it also tested her will.

She had to account for Asr and Maghrib. She would conclude with Isha.

She breathed, and began silently. She raised her hands before her, palms upward. “Allahu Akbar.”

Then she began orating the opening of the Qur’an with an almost musical edge, for the words are to be melodised, not stated.

“Bismillaahir-Rahmaanir-Raheem

Alhamdu lillaahi Rabbil-’aalameen

Ar-Rahmaanir-Raheem

Maaliki Yawmid-Deen

Iyyaaka na’budu wa iyyaaka nasta’een

Ihdinas-siraatal-mustaqeem

Siraatal-lazeena an’amta ’alaihim ghayril-maghdoobi ’alaihim wa lad-daaalleen”

After Qiyam, she progressed to Ruku’.

She bowed, and centered her hands to her knees.

“Subhaana Rabbiyal-A’theem, Subhaana Rabbiyal-A’theem, Subhaana Rabbiyal-A’theem.”

Then she prostrated, head depressed to the ground, knees tucked in as she submitted.

“Subhaana Rabbiyal-A’theem, Subhaana Rabbiyal-A’theem, Subhaana Rabbiyal-A’theem.”

She would go on to duplicate the process two more times, then an extra three times for certainty. And when she completed, she found herself drawn to laze in her porch hammock, revering the Pylon.

So much had changed since their arrival.

X

Ella gently opened the drawer under her bathroom sink and removed her bottle of jojoba, decanted some into her hand and began massaging it onto the dark skin of her arms, then her legs, then her anterior neck. She was applying it to her forehead and face in the mirror when she heard tired footsteps lumbering up to her bedroom door, which was slightly ajar.

“Mum?” her son, Emmanuel, asked.

She was decent, so she responded with a, “Come in.”

He pushed it open a bit more, revealing his haggard state to her. His face drooped with burnout, blue Pricesmart jersey ruffled out of his soft pants. He leaned heavily against the doorway. “Hard day today.”

She raised her eyebrow at him, rubbing her cheek with more jojoba. “I can tell.”

He sighed. “You ain’t tell me working in a grocery would be so shitry.”

“Well,” she started, “nothing going and be easy. Especially how you new. They will push you. Besides, good for you to sweat out the niceness of school. Now you know what it feels like to be us.”

Emmanuel snickered sadly at that.

“Don’t worry,” Ella assured. “You isn’t the only one who feeling that way today. Look, a new boy started today by us as well. Chin up. It’s only downhill from here.”

Her husband, Joshua, walked up beside his son. “Don’t worry, back out early tomorrow, too! Good news is you get to see the nice salesgirl again.”

It would seem that he annoyed Emmanuel about it the entire drive home, because Emmanuel just moaned and began shambling to his room down the hallway.

Joshua grinned mischievously.

Via the mirror, she saw him head to the bed, sit and began extricating his left shoe and sock. “These young people. We was ever so?” He began slithering out his right shoe and sock.

“Worse,” she replied. “So far, he hasn’t tried getting drunk and getting laid at Soca in Moka yet. Working keeps them purposeful.”

He strutted to her, hugged her from behind and they kissed briefly. “Come nah,” Joshua said. “Have to have some fun.” He glided in next to her, and turned the tap on, washing his hands in the sink.

She smiled. He needed to trim his beard a bit.

Joshua then relieved her of the bottle of jojoba, doled out some into his hand, and began buttering it across her upper back and nape for her.

His hands lulled her body into a bit of relaxation, and she roused to fact that she too, was exhausted. Demonstrating to the new boy, Devon, how to function drained her more than she would like to admit. “Don’t forget we have to pick up the girls from Belmont tomorrow…”

“Of course not,” he replied, oiling the centre of her lumbar. “We going the memorial next month?”

Ella was baffled for a second. Then the recollection sparked into her mind. “Oh, shit! The war memorial.”

Joshua nodded affirmatively. “Think your old friend will be attending. Okomi Mutombo.”

That was indeed a name that hadn’t echoed through her mind for a long time. At least not for her. Nationally, however, he was vastly flourishing to recognition. As the leader of The Conglomerate.

“Good for him,” she commended.

“Quite,” Joshua agreed, setting the bottle of jojoba on the counter. He paced off, husking his long-sleeved jersey off his body. He scratched his slightly round gut. “Getting fat…Anyways, he apparently has some pacts with government. He up dey. Word on de street is they want him to start securing personnel and expanding the army toward paramilitary purposes. Not just mining the Pylon sites.”

“They already have a paramilitary,” she reminded, drifting open the drawer and reinstalling her jojoba, leaving it it open for Joshua. “The Armour of God.”

Joshua shook his head. “They adding further auxiliaries. Which means they have something the government needs.”

“That would mean more staffing initiatives,” Ella noted, exiting the bathroom.

“Mm-hmm,” Joshua sounded, stepping in as she did. He extracted his Gillete shaving cream and shaver. He sprayed the can into his hand and pasted the cream onto the right side of his face and meticulously scaped it along his chin. “Whatever they’re up to, they’re preparing for something.”

The idea pored her skin.

Later that night, in a little corner of the living room, she subscribed her worries to God. She thumbed the globules of her Rosary intently, piecing towards its cross, incanting the Apostle’s Creed in her mind and heart.

“I believe in God,

the Father almighty

Creator of heaven and earth

and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord

who was conceived by the Holy Spirit

born of the Virgin Mary

suffered under Pontius Pilate

was crucified, died and was buried

he descended into hell

on the third day he rose again from the dead

he ascended into heaven

and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty

from there he will come to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,

the holy Catholic Church,

the communion of saints,

the forgiveness of sins,

the resurrection of the body,

and life everlasting.

Amen.”

She unravelled her dreadlocks and glared at the roman candle alight on the dresser before her. The picture logoed on this one was one of the Virgin Mary. She laced the rosary around the metal crucifix behind the roman candle, inspecting her elegant clay statues, one of Jesus and one of the Virgin Mary. She rattled the small white bottle of holy water.

Should be enough. She clicked it open, dipped some holy water onto her finger, and signed small crosses to the instep of her feet, her wrists, her ears, her eyes, her throat, and her mouth. Then she situated the bottle of holy water where it once was and extinguished the candle with a quick blow.

Then the pale lavender glow of the Pylon outside intruded like a poignant memorandum. And when it did, she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. This thing was always just so…there. It was so unnerving that she sometimes slightly longed a time when it wasn’t.

So many things have rearranged since its arrival.

Where u? Keron texted on WhatsApp.

Still no response. He bolstered his phone and groaned. Then he hiccuped a bit, launching himself out of his impatient misery. His body was tensing, so he stood up from his seat at the bar counter, and flexed his arms out wide.

That merely carouselled the world around him even more, and he staggered a bit.

The bar’s speakers resonated a song on low amplitude that he couldn’t discern. Was it No Boring Gyal by Aidonia?

Could be. If it was, that would suck. Perfect song to drink to, then fuck to. But there was only going to be drinking tonight. A lot. He didn’t mind. But drinking was always better followed by a good fuck.

He sniffed at the half-filled 170ml bottle of puncheon, the three Carib Pilsners, the Stag, the Mackeson Triple Stout, the Guiness, the Royal stout, the barren cup that had ice, and the bottle of water, on the counter, all of which he fully scarfed down.

He sloped himself against the wood and metal chair he just arose from, snatching his phone again to see if Felisha answered. Nothing. But her account was online.

He couldn’t believe she ghosted his offer and was cozied up at home. Sure it was a Tuesday, any time could be a time to jubilate. Or was she not at home? Was she out cheating again?

Keron shook his head. No. No, he refused to pit himself into that shithole of a thought. She wouldn’t. Not again.

He twigged the last remnants of puncheon straight from the bottle.

The bartender came, wiping a cloth near him on the counter. He eyed Keron intuitively. “Waiting on a bad thing, or what?”

Keron shrugged. “I was.”

He didn’t frequent this bar, but the bartender seemed to still recognise him from the few times he came. Cindy was closed already and this bar conducted late into the night.

And it was walking distance to Freeport, where Felisha lived. He would’ve overnighted with her if she rejected Hibiscus Guest House. If she accompanied him at all, of course. Maybe if he walked to her tonight she’d let him crack. Not drinking with him tonight, didn’t translate in not fucking.

The bartender blinked at him. “Look like you lost out.”

Usually, he would quip a response, but too many thoughts griped at him. He cleared his throat, bobbing at his items. “How much?”

The bartender shifted to the checkout, a small android tablet, and swiped around. Keron tried watching the screen but lights were beginning to sting his eyes.

“Two-hundred-and-eight,” the bartender stated.

He fetched two-hundred-and-twenty from his pocket and handed it over. “I ain’t have no tens.”

“Small thing,” the bartender commented, cashing in the money, carefully enumerating the change.

Keron had a second thought before he even finished. “How much for a nip, now?”

“That went up to seventy-two.”

“Oh.” Although he didn’t budget for that, he still had enough for something else to even out the remainder. “Gimme a next Pilsner.”

The bartender shrugged. “Alright.” He reinserted the change into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then he spun to the cooler behind him, yanked it open and nabbed a Carib Pilsner from it. Hipping it shut, he stepped to the counter and leveraged a bottle opener to the top.

Psst, the bottle catcalled to Keron as it unsealed.

The bartender looked at him mistrustfully as he transferred the bear bottle. “You driving?” He binned the cover in a receptacle somewhere under the counter.

“I can’t,” Keron said, sipping the beer. The smooth lager crisped his mouth. “Same reason why yuh worried.” He realised his speech was slurring. “The great government of Trinidad and Tobago suspended my license. I.U.D.”

The bartender pressed his hands against the counter, seemingly amused that Keron tossed up the D, U, and I for each other. “When you might get it back?”

Keron had already trickled out the suspension period, gave up his license, and participated in a brushup course. It was just to resit the exam. But that felt like a mouthful to clarify so he just twirled his wrist. “Soon, soon.”

“Alright,” the bartender chuckled. “You have a good night, buddy.”

Keron turned around and chugged his beer to semi-completion. “Ah! You too.” And he stumbled to the exit.

When he left the bar, he realised how dead the night was. Not a car was parked in front. Which means it was really late. Which meant he would be late to work tomorrow. Again.

Fuck it.

As he closed the door to the bar, he muffled the music inside, and the chirping of crickets crested over it.

No cars on the road either. Guess he really was walking to Felisha’s. Would’ve been better with her. More fun.

Fuck it, he had enough beer.

As he wobbled off the bar’s lot, concrete transmuted into sand that munched under his uncertain feet. And as he blundered left, he faced it.

The Pylon.

For a moment, serenity intervened. But as usual, it was short-lived. For him, no matter how its light columned to the sky, it could never radiate the unhappiness in his soul. And yet it didn’t relent. He thought that was funny.

Keron carried on down the Freeport main road.

So many things have rearranged since its arrival.

X

Paul Mayfield shivered with fear at the live scene of his eight-year-old son’s beheaded body splayed on the floor before him. His wife, Clara, equally terrified, clung to him tightly as they both writhed in horror on the ground, crouched in the corner of their mansion living room.

Lounging on their teal one-seater, facing them, was a gaunt, darkskinned man with two different coloured irises–right black, left glossed in grey–sporting a grey thobe on his body and an army green taqiyah on his short, course hair, the thobe jacketed over by an army green tactical waistcoat. His crude beard was tinged reddish-brown, and sheared until it fanged into two vampire teeth under his chin.

The room was dim, light sourcing from the flatscreen to his left, which televised only static, exaggerating his features to something even more horrid.

There were other men roving about the living room, and from what he could hear, even the entire house. But two stationed themselves at his side. Every single one of them wielded AK-47s.

On the sofa behind the man, Paul’s seventeen-year-old daughter was couched, hands cuffed with zip ties. Her hair was matted with sweat, tears streaming down her white face. She tried to squeal through her gagged mouth.

And the man just sat there. Slurping up a small basin of their leftover seafood bisque.

They suppressed and restrained him and his wife the same way their children. Paul was already dreading what they were probably doing to their one-month-old.

The man would continue casually spooning more of the bisque into his mouth, a few times, swishing it around before ingesting it. Then he smacked his lips thoughtfully every so often and began gorging again.

Over the sound of the man’s lapping and guzzling, Paul gazed at his son’s body again. Blood stained his cotton Bluey pajamas, specifically the top half.

Everything happened so fast. The men stormed the house efficiently. Knowingly. By the time they filched them from their beds, they had already apprehended the children and the place was stocked with men geared up in tactical ensembles, disguised in shemaghs. They had no other option but to accept their custody.

All Paul flashbacked in the aftermath was him and his wife wordlessly pleading for them to not murder their son. But they just did it anyway and rubbished his head in a duffel bag.

Clara sobbed. And she was still sobbing.

Paul had no time to grieve. He was astounded. Astounded that he failed to defend his family. Astounded that these monsters so heartlessly slew his boy. Astounded that the night degenerated so fast. Astounded that despite something as mysteriously sacred as the Pylons existing, people were capable of such acts of inhumanity.

The man supped up the last bit of bisque. He raised his eyebrows, apparently pleased, then passed the tupperware to the goon on his right, who held it as the man extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat and began polishing his hands from dregs of foodstuff.

As he did, he spoke, voice calm and collected. “When I used to live in San Juan, there was a woman who owned a shop out by the Croisee. For some reason, she would only sell breakfast during the week. Only breakfast. I used to be so upset. Because…Why? You know?” He stopped as if Paul could answer. “Anyways, on Saturdays, she would curry chicken, cook pelau, fry up some carite…Things like that, nah.

One day, my mother stopped by, and she asked, ‘Why allyuh don’t make lunch during d week?’ The woman said she was fighting cancer and that it does end up sacking out her energy to make lunch every day, but she had to earn a little extra money and liked cooking for people, so she didn’t want to entirely stop. That was her favourite thing to do. Cook. She loved it.

The next week, I passed one day to see the place closed down permanently. I thought the woman died from the cancer. Eventually, I asked around, and apparently, the cleanliness of the place wasn’t up to par–literally had rats overwhelming the kitchen. For whatever reason, she wasn’t handling it. So the Ministry of Health run by and discovered that she didn’t even have a food badge and all kinda bachannal. And they shut it down. I was saddened. Shocked and saddened.”

He leaned forward in the one-seater, grinning. “And I say all that just to say, despite that place filled with rats and Allah knows what, it still tasted one hundred times better than whatever de fuck that was.”

He craned his neck to behind him, to Aaliyah on the sofa. “Kill the girl.”

The goon on the left crossed over to the sofa, baring out a knife from his own waistcoat. Then he climbed onto Aaliyah.

Clara begged so much and so frenetically that she could almost vocalise, “No, no, no, please,” through her cloth.

The killer then carved the knife along Aaliyah’s neck. She began choking on her own blood as Clara’s cries wheezed into her chest and never surfaced until it inflated into a horrifying whimper.

The man stood up from the one-seater, tutting. “It have fried chicken in that fridge, too.” He pointed to Clara. “She cook that?” He looked at Paul.

Paul stared blankly into space. There was no fear anymore, no sadness, no hate. He was beyond all that. It was at this point he was convinced that no one in his family was surviving tonight. And honestly, it befitted him. He now had nothing to live for any longer anyway.

Clara had drifted onto the floor, just as lost as he was.

The man knelt next to them both. Then he gestured to the kitchen. “You could see the Pylon from there. Or as I like to call it, Ghadab Allah. Many things have rearranged since its arrival.”

Paul furrowed his eyebrows, tears finally flowing over his eyes.

The forked beard man leered at him. “You white people having been coming since, intending to steal all you want from my country. From the Ghadab. And my government is stupid enough to be fooled by your lies and fallacies. They’ll allow you to sink your teeth into every asset and expect someone like me, like us, to not rebel in order to uphold what could be upheld.

You sit in your nice mansion and organise all the stooges you want in all the places you want to just suckle out every last drop from us. Fatten yourselves off our resources. This is what it looks like when the bell calls.”

Paul wished the cloth wasn’t constraining his mouth. So he could tell him one thing. Buddy, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Just kill me and get it over with.

It seemed that the expression of that thought plastered across Paul’s face, because the forked beard man smiled up and down at him.

He stood up, stalking towards Clara. “I’ve seen enough throughout my lifetime to know that this is history rewinding itself.” He then brandished a silenced Colt .45 1911 and paralleled it to Clara’s head. Then wired a bullet into it. Her cries ceased.

Paul’s soul fizzled away even further.

The forked beard man stepped to him. “I’m just proacting.”

Two goons rushed into Paul, dunking him to the floor, one clenching his face, the other his body and arms.

He struggled, but not so he could abscond. Instead, so he could, perhaps, somehow claim one of their firearms and kill himself before they could torture him.

But they were too strong. They severed his zip tie, wrested his right arm out from him. One attacker fastened his hand to the floor. Then, with knife in hand, the forked beard man lopped off his pinky finger.

Pain surged through him and he tried to bawl.

Then the attackers hoisted him onto his butt and he just slinked there.

The forked beard man stood before him, gun still in hand, lording over him proudly. “Don’t worry. I’ll use you to send a sign.” Then he cocked the gun up to Paul’s face.

The last thing Paul ever witnessed was a muted flash.

(iv)

Malissa loafed in the backseat of Jhadoo’s Nissan Almera with her daughter, Dana, watching buildings and people zoom past in the early morning.

Dana cuddled her, eyes glued to her android, engaging her with one of those stupid YouTube 3AM videos. “I WENT TO A PYLON AT 3AM AND SOMETHING SCARY HAPPENED,” a dumb-sounding kid blared on the video.

Malissa shook her head. As if.

“Mummy?” Dana said.

“Yes?” Malissa asked, combing her hand across the shoulders of Dana’s mauve school pinafore.

“Do we have to go to the ceremony?” Dana asked.

Malissa sighed, frustrated that they had to review this. “Yes, Dana. It will be good for you to learn and be part of something in your country’s history. You doh want that?”

“If she doh want to go then she doh want to go!” Jhadoo snapped from the driver’s seat.

Malissa paused and looked at him through the rearview mirror. He looked back at her. And in his eyes was that look Malissa acclimatised herself to a long time ago. That look of disinterest woven in with the need to issue an argument between him and her so that she’ll never persist for him to parent his child.

She ignored it. “Plus, Dana, your teacher wants you to write about your experience on Monday in class.”

Dana sighed at that reminder. “Oh yeah.”

Malissa smiled. “Oh yeah. So make sure and pay attention.”

Before they knew it, the car decelerated and staged outside the entrance to the Waterloo Presbyterian Primary School.

Malisa exited the vehicle, toting Dana’s backpack.

Dana began scooting out, lunch kit in hand, intermitting halfway to look at her father. “Bye, Daddy.”

Jhadoo didn’t even glance at her. Dana looked forlorn.

Melissa’s heart fractured. As much as she wanted to insult Jhadoo, she knew that was exactly what he was striving for.

She motioned Dana to hold her hand as Dana scuffed the entire way out the car. Then she veered the door shut hard in the most snide way possible. As she walked off with Dana in hand, she tried to expend Jhadoo’s pettiness from her daughter’s mind.

“Don’t mind your father,” she said. “Sometimes he very difficult.”

A collective of schoolchildren grouped together near the gate, partaking in a game of hopscotch. Two boys in blue shirts and khaki shorts chased two other boys past it.

“Does he even love me?” Dana asked as they reached the gate.

Malissa’s chest cringed painfully. Sadness wrung her throat, but she exhaled it out. Then she lowered herself to her daughter’s eyes. “Yes. Of course he does. In his own way.” She caressed Dana’s face. “Now, go do your best today.”

She kissed her on the forehead with enough love to hopefully sanctify Jhadoo’s insolence away and saw her off.

When she slammed the car door upon slithering into the front passenger seat, next to Jhadoo, anger flumed through her body.

But she tried her best not to egg on Jhadoo. She had been exerting herself so much to sustain this relationship for the sake of their potential as a family, for the sake of Dana, but Jhadoo often empowered himself to not to.

She breathed. “Was it so hard to say goodbye?”

He didn’t answer. He just glimpsed at her as if disgusted she had the audacity to sit next to him.

“Will you pick her up from school?” Malissa continued.

“I don’t know,” he said blankly. “I go see.”

Malissa resolved that that most likely meant no. “Well I working until six o’clock today so if you can’t pick her up, see if your sister can–”

“Dana is not Kavita business,” Jhadoo remarked sternly.

Malissa pursed her lips. “Then I go call Debbie.”

Jhadoo shrugged. “Good, cool, whatever.”

Then he geared into drive and they revved off.

X

There always lingered an eerie presence whenever one is summoned to the scene of a welfare-call-gone-tits-up.

Mitchell Kingston experienced enough in his tenure to stigmatise most welfare calls. Not at all, but most. A welfare call can get real shitty, real quick.

But one that fumed a sense of horror over him about a US businessman and ambassador that engendered his assistance as Commissioner of Police?

That terrified him.

As he pulled up to the driveway of the Mayfields’ mansion, the depth of the situation nagged him.

Constables scoured the entire outside of the lush yard. The two storey Italiante towered over them with a presentiment aura.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul of people. For him, the windows are the eyes of a home. And this home’s soul was tainted with death.

He shut his car off and exited. As he inclined up the pathway that tiled to the porch, a few constables shakily bordered the lawn with POLICE: DO NOT CROSS signs. Their faces sagged with horror.

On the lawn, two members of the canine division scouted. Three other constables just roamed about, apparently under extreme duress.

A female constable consoled a sobbing woman on the stairs

On the porch, a male corporal saluted him haphazardly. “Sir. The maid on the stairs here found them this morning.”

Mitchell sniffed. Outside reeked of death already. He gloved up immediately. Then he cracked the door slowly and felt the warmth of death pressure against it as he entered. “Come with me.”

The corporal complied, albeit tentatively.

To the right, a grand doorway to a small parlour and an elegant staircase to the upstairs welcomed them. To the left, a wall decked with family pictures winged them. Flies whirred into the smaller doorway that framed into the middle of the left wall.

“We cleared the house,” the corporal mentioned. “No one is here. No break-ins either.”

Mitchell glanced at him, noting what that indicated.

The acrid stench of autolyzing meat odorised the air. Mitchell covered his nose and mouth with his hand and trodded forward slowly. “Any reasoning?”

The corporal followed closely behind. “No, sir. No missing belongings, all their assets are in order. Whoever did this did it very meticulously. Not much to base the beginnings of any findings on, but not zero either. They did leave to door unlocked. They wanted this to be seen.”

As they turned into the left wall doorway, Mitchell was cursed with one of the most abominable tableaus of violence of his career.

Four headless bodies, one male adult, one female adult, one younger female, and one young child, dangled upside down, cords tethering them to wooden support beams overhead. All four of them were bunched up like porkchops on show.

All the skin of their torsos were shucked off, yellow fat and crimson tissue streaking glistening plasma into large pails. The blood from the bodies plopped into the rest that pooled in the pails like the ticking of a timer.

Mitchell looked to the right. The floor and sofa was splattered with blood. In fact, almost everything in that area of the scene was carpeted with blood besides a simple one-seater, and then the blood routed to where the bodies swayed.

Peculiar…

Flies festered on the bodies and in the pails of blood, which was rusting into a reddish-brown color. They were all dead for at least a day.

Mitchell looked to his left. Tacked to the corner of the ornate mural of a lakeside cabin, was a pinky finger, caked in blood.

Scribbled in the blood at the bottom of the mural were these following words:

الكفرة

Infidels.

The corporal then said something Mitchell was yearning wasn’t possible.

“There’s more, sir.”

…

Upstairs, he rounded another doorway, and as he did, children’s plaything peered at him and his heart plunged into his intestines.

When he fully emerged into the room, he spotted a bassinet. In it, was an unspeakable disaster that splintered his soul and graphed itself into his brain for the rest of his life.

Tears welled up in his eyes and his mouth shriveled.

Etched in blood alongside the bassinet were more words.

جِهَاد

Jihad.

(v)

Multiple musicians donned in black tuned trombones, tubas, cornets, and cymbals, side drums, and bass drums. The maestro rapped the Portastand before him with his wand, then began maneuvering it in the air wistfully. The musicians then began harmonising to the ballad of God Bless Our Nation by Marjorie Padmore, and it roared across the sea of black before the large dais on which they were established.

The national colours of red, white, and black billowed lightly, masted on the right of the dais, looming over a twelve-foot tall oblong, twenty feet wide item tarped in black cloth. To the left of the dais, the Prime Minister, the Honorable Elaine Roxbury, and the Minister of National Security, Brigadier Brian Williams, were benched, encompassed by capable security and directorial personnel of their respective provinces. They were tented over by a small marquee.

Although there was no minstrel, the song’s words still lyricised through Malissa’s head from years of repetition at her own time at Waterloo Presbyterian.

God bless our nation

Of many varied races

May we possess that common love

That binds and makes us One

The wind gently fanned a solemn somnolence through the multitude of people gathered together at Independence Square, one of the many beating hearts of Port-of-Spain.

Malissa was fortunate enough to get a good location for Dana to observe the proceedings, but she wished they were just a little closer. She didn’t let it bother her. Constables supervised a pathway they had determined for the keynote speaker. And it was right next to them.

The Government had allotted a nice division of the Brian Lara Promenade to erect the tribute, but the attendees spanned outside its perimeters vastly.

Dana, although a bit antsy, composed herself decently, grasping her mother’s hand, tapping her feet lightly only ever so often out of tedium.

Constables milled about the main road to the left, maintaining its clearance for the arrival the Head of the Conglomerate, Okomi Mutombo.

In fact, the police presence was extremely heavy, even for an event like this. Even on the roofs of the buildings surrounding them, Malissa discerned the figures of more constables loitering keenly.

Let it be known around the World

That we can boast of Unity

And take a pride in Our Liberty.

It wasn’t long before a blacked-out 1998 Hyundai Sonata caravanned up the main road, escorted by three massive black Lenco Bearcats and a handful of police on motorbikes. The large Bearcats were insigniated on their sides with the tradmark of the Conglomerate–five forearms and hands interlocking each other at the wrists so that they patterned into the form of a pentagon, delineated below with the motto, “To Exist in Balance.”

Malissa hoisted Dana up and cradled her with one forearm so she could see.

All the vehicles stalled and Okomi exited from the backseat of the Hyundai Sonata, closed the door, buttoned up his waistcoat, and marched into the multitude.

As he did, figures exited from the backs of the Bearcats, three from two of the Bearcats, two each from one, every single one of the figures glimmering from the armour cladding their bodies.

People chattered a bit, but hushed as the figures ranked in behind Okomi, militant and diligent. The prestige of these mysterious people had blazed throughout the mouths and minds of many like creatures of some esoteric legend, truly qualifying them as their names beseeched. The Armour of God.

Okomi, the Sallet. The only one currently not adorned in his mecharmour, but instead suited in casual black formalwear and a black tie. Outstandingly, a black Kente Kufi hat crowned his head, and a Kente Stole sashed across his body. Despite his strong build, his face was that of an average light-brown skinned man, except one thing. His irises pierced through a vivid amber that made him feel almost…Inhuman.

Malissa wondered if the others were similar. She may never know because from there on out, the ones behind him were encapsulated entirely in armour, including their heads and faces, the only thing resembling a face were bright-white bulletproof vizards helmeting where there faces should be.

God bless our isles

Of tropic beauty rare

Of flaming poinciana

And shady immortelle

As they approached, their details refined and Malissa understood that their armour and vizards were, nonetheless, each personalised differently.

Behind Okomi, walked Couter, the female. Malissa could tell it was a female because of how her mecharmour contoured to her body. Her vizard was shaped into the form of a smiling face, similar to that of the Happy Face ones from theatre.

Behind her, was Vanbrace, and his vizard was the opposite. His frowned into the Sad Face. His armour also was retrofitted for dreadlocks that were each also plated in fibrous armour, each lock segmented by small golden cinctures.

Behind Vambrace was Gauntlet, another male of larger build, his hands mitted differently than the rest, each knuckle studded with a metal knob. His vizard was contorted into the form of an expressionless, emotionless face.

Behind Gauntlet, Cuirass, who was the relatively shortest. His vizard mimicked the features of a Japanese Gyōdō.

The warm and sparkling waters

That beat upon our shores

Beat out a tune that seem to tell

We take a pride in Our Liberty

Fifth, was Cuisass, whose vizard was modeled after a Taino guaíza.

Poleyn was the sixth. His vizard was designed with its eyes in the form of Xs, the mouth stitched together.

The sixth was Greaves, the second most infamous of them. His vizard was forged into the form of a human skull.

And finally, Sabaton.

God bless our leaders

Give them grace to guide

Bestow on them thy judgment wise

Every single one of them had combated in the Great War in some way, effectually solidifying them as veterans in their own rights. However, none of them possessed the status that he did. He had apparently notarised himself, through his intense actions, to be the most cutthroat, ruthless, and ferocious men that traversed the front lines, with Greaves boarding closely behind.

And despite that, his vizard was so serene.

It embodied the face of the Hindu deity, Shiva, two horizontal eyes cusped down peacefully, mouth and nose uniformed with calm solace. But the third vertical eye, gaped open with focused vengeance.

Fear and wonder bred into Malissa’s soul and Dana felt a bit heavier in her arms. She couldn’t help but stare as Sabaton in particular hulked past her.

And for a moment, everyone else beside her, Dana, and Sabaton dissolved into vague, indistinct cacophonies. She realised that it wasn’t just fear spiralling through her. There was this frightening charisma that emanated from him, the mystery of the man or monster concealed under that armour. And something about it seemed to appease the loneliest corners of her being.

It was only as the music finalised, she slowly bubbled back to reality.

To rule our land aright

To keep the flag of freedom high that we may sing most lustily

We take a pride in Our Liberty

People applauded lightly, but not for long.

In the remaining silence, Okomi alighted onto the dais, establishing himself before the speaker’s podium, adjusting the microphone to his mouth and clearing his throat. The seven other members of the Armour of God dispersed behind him, planting themselves like valiant statues along his rear.

Okomi held no speech in his hands and his eyes darted smartly about the people before him. He was doing this without one, it would seem.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice boosting authoratively through the ocean of onlookers. “We are a beautiful nation. In more ways than one. We are blessed with sun and skies that seem to think us worthy to not rain today. We are blessed to have an expanse of green trees and mangroves and lakes and oceans. We are blessed to have the best food and most beautiful women and hardworking men on the face of the Earth. I see people off all races, religions, creeds, big, small, tall, short standing out to represent, and honour a day that is true to our hearts. And I am thankful. I truly am.”

He stared at them and chuckled. “We almost had no space, allyuh would’ve had to sit in the boats by Sea Lots.”

A lot of people chuckled after him.

He paused thoughtfully. Malissa figured he was doing the same thing he was. Reliving the chaos of the past. Reliving April 20, 2065.

“Three years ago today,” he started, “war announced itself on our shores. Headed by the terrorist, Manuel Nunez, the man who overthrew the Veneuzuela government and forcefully took over its military capabilities. Driven by his Catholic-nationalist paragon, that quickly spread during a period of uncertainty for the world a mere year after that arrived.” He gestured to the Pylon, which needled up in the distance intensely behind the buildings to her right.

“With that newfound might and the backing of many in this country and abroad, Nunez directed attacks across Trinidad and Tobago, casting us into a fear and panic that reminded us that the despite the sun and skies and trees and mangroves and lakes and oceans–despite the many races, and creeds, and religions were share our island with, we are still susceptible to dangers of extremism. And more so, we are underprepared for the onslaught of bigger, stronger foreign jurisdiction. Our defences faltered. If it wasn’t for the Americans assisting the best they could, we probably would’ve lost, and I tell people this all the time, but we’re too proud to admit it.

And lo and behold, on the first few days of the first few attacks, the Pylons did whatever they wanted, because they can…And disrupted the world’s skyways and satellites and the planes fell…And never rose again. Helicopters too, of course. All planes, in fact. And you could say that saved us to some degree, but if it wasn’t for the Americans assisting the way they did, Manuel’s forces would have bested us.

That doesn’t mean that we didn’t bite back, we drew them off our shores and struck down the ones at home. But we just…Couldn’t bite back hard enough. And it took us an entire four months before we could push them back to their shores and another year on top of that to go on the offensive and end that war. But, we are here to honor those who did. The great warriors that braved hell and came back.”

He motioned, and with efficiency, Greaves and Sabaton departed from the lineup behind Okomi, clopped off the dias, and branched apart to the sides of the wide oblong cloth, Sabaton on its right, Greaves on its left. And with one broad, strong, co-operative movement, they arched the entire black cloth right off, exhibiting the intricate artwork beneath it, as people clapped and cheered.

Before them, poised the beautiful ensemble of a man garbed in military wear, valiant and confident. Behind him, a woman with long hair, an elderly man and lady, and two smaller figures, a little boy, and little girl braced him tightly together.

The front man’s face was sculpted with valor, the backup statues behind him, hopeful, but worrisome, every single detail etched delicately. The way their clothes furrowed and creased was captured carefully, so much so that the black granite that it consisted of, silhouetted the sunlight along them exquisitely. The elderly man’s hands were clasped together faithfully.

At the base of the statue, three squared obelisks, six feet in height each, four feet in width, were aligned evenly in front of the ensemble.

She couldn’t see them from here, but Malissa understood that the names of all the souls recorded to have been killed in action were embedded into those obelisks with great definition.

“Wooww,” Dana commended.

Malissa smiled.

Okomi grinned. “Throughout all that, we did what we as a species do, but especially us Trinidadians. We rebounded. And found life and light in the darkest of corners.”

He stopped and let the kudos diminish. His face slimmed to a sullen state. “Let’s not forget, however, that not all of us died physically. A lot died mentally. Plenty died spiritually. Many of us turned our backs on God. Oppositely, many stomped on the heads of those of Catholic faith, and devolved into the same monsters they hated.

It is a mistake we must never try to repeat. And there are forces out there pawning all they could to ensure that we do.

To idle in extremes is to condemn your brethren to death. Balance is the key to all things. Balance profiles us to God himself.

Remember that the next time you find yourself stumbling in the darkness.”

After the ceremony, citizens were permitted to crowd to the Memorial of the Fallen and commemorate by either praying or extending various items like flora or souvenirs.

Dana wanted to offer a small quartz she had discovered at Maracas Bay that she thought was cool.

So they waited patiently in line as people disbanded. And despite all that, five AoG members prolonged on the dais, with Greaves and Sabaton sowed in their places next to the statues, as if they were statues themselves.

Okomi was under the marquee, reparteeing with the Prime Minister and Minister of National Security.

The line processed smoothly, surging to the obelisks then around the statue from right to left, and eventually depleting near the dias.

It took about fifteen, twenty minutes for Malissa and Dana to arrive at the obelisks. From there, Malissa appreciated the ensemble from up close as Dana quickly scanned some of the names on the obelisks.

Then Dana stacked her small quartz onto a bed of tulips at the base of the obelisk and Malissa guided her around the ensemble, glancing at Greaves, who was unmoving.

They plodded to the back, perusing it as well, then circled to the right side, where Sabaton was positioned, head facing forward.

She glimpsed at him and, for a nanosecond, she swore his head had swiveled briefly to her, three-eyed vizard and all.

When she focused on him again, his head restored to its original state.

She trailed off down the Promenade, with Dana in hand, occasionally thieving glances as she walked. She didn’t see him move any time since the first, but she disbanded that ceremony with her mind plaiting between both dubious and certain that that man, that conundrum, had monitored her the way she did him.

(vi)

Sharmaine laid out a page listing a multiplicity of labyrinthine glyphs that might as well have been a language from another planet. But they were, in fact, from this planet.

She pointed at one.

P O.

“P O. Orally,” Devon said, very confident in his answer.

She smirked proudly. Then her finger tracked another ideogram.

Q D

“Daily,” Devon answered.

She tested him with another.

B D

“Twice daily.”

And another.

T D S

“Three times a day.”

A D.

“Right Ear.”

A S

“Left ear.”

O D

“Right eye.”

O S

“Left eye.”

P V

Devon snorted. Best one.

Sharmaine rolled her eyes. “Just say it.”

“Vaginally.”

She folded the page up, looking pleased. “Not bad for your first months weeks. Ent, Janelle?”

Janelle was standing with them, facing down the lane, not eyeing them but definitely listening. “Yeah, not bad.”

Devon stationed next to the entrance gate in the Dispensary, cowering away from Lena who was replenishing her shelf and was most definitely going to harass him to aid her soon.

“Devon!” Lena called. Like fucking clockwork. “You done?”

Devon groaned quietly and Sharmaine and Janelle pursed their lips. “No!” he lied.

Sharmaine shook her head, smiling. “I eh able.”

“Hey, Pharmacist,” Devon started. “Do you think you all will need me on Thursday? I kinda need that day off.”

Sharmaine tilted her head thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. Ask Miss Jolene. I’m sure she’ll be willing to give you that day off.”

Janelle peeked at him. “You going to check your little girlfriend?”

Devon probably reddened, because they both stared at him intently. But what he considered was they hadn’t achieved the fact that he didn’t have a girlfriend and was currently swooning over Malissa.

“No, no,” Devon said. “I have to go temple. I’m getting–”

“EXCUSE ME!” Camila shouted behind him, and he almost leaped out his shoes. He didn’t even see or hear her before that.

When the shock bled out, Devon just looked at her. Did she always have to be so fucking moody?

She widened her eyes. Devon still hadn’t moved. He yearned to engage her, but he decided that, nevertheless, in her own stupid way, she did ask. So he moved and she barged through, still careful to not bluster into anyone, luckily. She still had her handbag on her.

Janelle and Sharmaine shared looks and sighed.

Devon returned to the gate. “So, yeah, I’m getting my rites done. I’ll formally be Hindu from–”

“EXCUSE, MILLAR!” Malissa shouted.

This time, she startled Devon less and mostly wounded him. He didn’t expect that someone he actually cared about could rage out at him like that.

He moved again. She looked pretty, as always, but that small mole on her forehead was extra cute today. He wanted to inform her of that, to sweeten her up a bit. But she already clamped the gate shut and walked off. Plus, he could never muster the audacity.

“Pharmacist, Janelle,” she said, whisking past everyone and down into the lane, handbags and all in hand.

“Huh,” Janelle huffed. “Something in d water…”

X

Malissa stared blankly into space, munching on a Catch chocolate bar, brewing in a bit of anger over what happened last night. Or rather what didn’t. She had stuffed her handbag in the glass showcase before her.

A pesky-looking lady hobbled up in front of her. “Allyuh have metformin?”

Heeding her only hampered Malissa’s thoughts. She just pointed to her right, to Dispensary. The lady walked off.

Before the Dispensary, at Checkout, Keron babbled away on his phone. “No Felisha, I cyah do that…”

To her left, Lena diligently structured her shelf, probably for the fiftieth time this hour. Right beside Malissa, Ella scrolled through the touchscreen, browsing CDAP medication logistics on CELLMA, the CDAP algorithm.

Jolene was in the farthest corner behind them both, sorting out a bunch of folders that she apparently just excavated out of nowhere. Camila helped her halfheartedly.

Ella detected Malissa’s mood. “Problems in Paris?”

Malissa crunched down another piece of chocolate. “Jhadoo didn’t come home last night.”

“Seas bad?” Ella inquired.

Malissa shrugged. The thought of what he could be doing bedeviled her.

“Not coming home is an allowance only servicemen have,” Ella mentioned. “You called him?”

She nodded.

“And what happened?”

“He answered. Said he coming ‘just now.’ That was two o’clock in d morning.”

Ella snorted. “Well. Given his history…”

Malissa shook her head, scoffing down the last bit of the chocolate. She denied even the smallest notion of Jhadoo adulterating. He did with his past girlfriends. He pledged to never do it to her. Especially when she told him she was expectant with Dana. “No. No, not me. He hadda be crazy.”

He sprained her a lot of ways. But never like that.

Just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She exhumed it. She decoded it, and the homescreen advertised the picture of her and her beautiful daughter hugging tightly.

It was not Jhadoo. It was her mother, Debra.

Can you buy some Cascadou for me? Will pay you back she messaged.

An idea pinged into her brain. She glanced at Ella. Then at Jolene. “Jo!”

“She not here!” Jolene responded, not diverting from her duties.

“I coming back!” Malissa said, already striding back up the lane to Dispensary.

X

The Chaguanas Market was brimming with people. So much so that as Malissa sauntered up to the outside perimeter, the men and women vending their pimentoes, and tomatoes, and eddoes and potatoes were transacting with old ladies making their monthly market runs.

The outside sellers usually stood at their various goods, which were propped up on old beer cases and inventoried on large wooden slats. One old lady crammed cassava into her reusable poly-bag.

Inside the massive, two-storey depot, fifteen or so lines of concrete kiosks queued up before her, each sectioned by passageways that were littered with buyers, who either were loading their bags with goods, prodding tomatoes, or plantains, or whatever they were interested in, or inquisitioning about an item’s price. “How de onions going?” one woman asked a seller in one lane. “The carrots good?” questioned another in another lane.

Every single kiosk was mounded with various produce, leafy green, to orange, white, red pink…

Sellers were having a hell of a time as well, maneuvering about to either ply with customers, or resettle a box of goods, or tote up items onto counters for someone else to resupply what was low. A man hefted up a bag of cucumbers and a lady began stocking it up, hilling it into a small makeshift pyramid.

Both buyers and sellers prattled incessantly until the market thundered with the sound of hundreds of voices, some of it sellers bidding their goods. “CORN OR HORN, HERE, CORN OR HORN!” one man announced one man down in the back of the market.

“TEN FOR DE BANDANYA!” cawed a woman in the third lane from the left.

“CONGO, SEVEN POT, PIMENTO! PLENTY FOR TWENTY!” boasted another.

Malissa compressed her way through a bevy of people, skirting left.

One many tolleyed through a huge bag of pumpkins as she stepped out into a main lane. “Coming through, coming through…”

It wasn’t long before she reached the Seafood, Meats, and Poultry area, which was constructed a bit differently than the rest of the market, portioned off by a white, windowed wall.

At the doorway, a skinny man of Indian descent, eyed her up and down, sitting on an old green monobloc. “Good morning, beautiful, me and you come off the same boat…Mangoes?”

She glanced at his box of green mangoes, but refrained from speaking, structuring her focus on her intentions.

She stepped through the doorway. A light chill breezed against her skin. It was a bit more quiet in here, and definitely a lot less busy. Some people still people amassed near a few kiosks, speculating on what to purchase.

In one corner of the vicinity, one stout man roughened up a big nugget of beef on the counter. On her left, another was cutlassing a pig’s head.

Malissa strutted onward, toward the very back of the space, intersecting past a kiosk where one man heaped several pig shoulders onto a corner of his counter.

She padded to Seafood, where to her left, a line of freezers ranged, and to her right, more kiosks, with about five sellers teeming behind them.

Despondence tensed Malissa’s body. Jhadoo wasn’t here.

The sellers mumbled amongst themselves. She recognised almost all of them. Especially the near-obese ogre in the kiosk in the corner.

Her face was toughened by years of hard work, mouth scrunched up in a perpetual moue, her neck bloated by fat, scant hair greased into a bun. A big, hairy mole nubbed her right cheek.

God, Malissa hoped her little forehead mole didn’t transmogrify into that thing in the future.

She was profociently crevassing mackerels from a set bunched up to her left, gutting them, then discarding the insides into a receptacle somewhere under the kiosk, then scarping them to her right.

She wandered a bit near one of the kiosks. These assholes were his friends to some degree, and they were not fond of her. But she had to decipher something about where Jhadoo was.

She looked at a gaunt, natty-haired kid in a yellowing jersey giggling with a wavy-haired girl is glasses, his back to Malissa.

“Excuse,” Malissa started, interrupting their conversation.

He curled around, and the realisation of who she was flickered across his face for a second. “What yuh need, family?”

She hesitated. Then breathed. “Where Jhadoo?”

“Jhadoo?!” he snapped. The rest of them muzzled their talking as their attention encroached around her.

The ogre kept dissecting her mackerel.

Malissa shot to the kid. He did that on purpose. “Yes. You see him for de day?”

He just stared at her. “Nah, girl. Ent you know sometimes he does barely be here?”

Malissa exhaled. “Look, if you do see him, just tell him that I was worried abou–”

“Jhadoo is a big man, darling!” the ogre declared sternly. “If he decides to work later than usual, then good, more money for you. Other than that, you don’t need to worry. Not like he selling drugs and something happen to him.” She curled out a gooey length of innards.

Her words patronised Malissa more than they cushioned her. But at the same time, their reactions were able to persuade her that she probably wasn’t going to invoke any information from them.

She sighed slightly, and retracted back down to Meats. As she hoofed past the Mango Man, she evaluated her thoughts.

Why does Jhadoo do this? Gallivant to God-knows-where? Demean his daughter? Skim off his responsibilities?

Malissa circuited through the multitude in the market, almost at its exit. She scrubbed past the outside sellers.

She stilled her nerves. Maybe she exceeded her emotions about Jhadoo. If she desired a functional family with him, she had to stabilise her faith in him. What would she, Dana, and Jhadoo be if she didn’t persevere?

A large red Higer V130E bus wheeled past her as she stepped onto the road. The pavement was pedistrianising with market-buyers. Traffic also thronged down on the main road, but she preferred to navigate among them instead of people as her thoughts fussed her.

She just slackened past its taillights as she realised something.

She completely humiliated herself, whining to Jhadoo’s friends like some freak. And she didn’t even measure that perhaps something bad did befall him and she didn’t even visit the police. At 26 years, she should have wisened up sooner.

The Higer bus hissed in front of the market.

Goddamn Rasta. It was she who drilled into her doubt. Boy, was Malissa going to grill her when she got–

BOOM!

The Higer bus detonated into a violent artillery of fire and metal.