Father checked drone video feeds from his desk, then opened the door, entering the crowded hall to address his flock. “The old rules do not apply to us. Never apologize. We are better.”
Milly stood among them.
He clenched his fist. “The Church hates us. They call me a heretic because they aim to destroy what we’ve built. They leave the Homestead no other choice.” Father’s men retrieved weapons from the armory. Women and children concealed entrances and sheltered underground — all but one child.
Father took her aside. “Mildred”—he poised his hand above her head—“you don’t know yet how special you are. But today, we may both find out.”
She nodded.
He dabbed his fingertip on her forehead. “Today, you fight. Go alone, with your .22, to the barn, dressed as a man. Put your hair up.” He pushed a full-faced motorcycle helmet into her belly. “As they approach, shoot them. Once they’re pinned down, return immediately.”
Milly’s half-brother scampered over. “What’s going on?”
Father slapped his son across the face so hard that he fell. Half-brother — the body of a young man, face of a writhing child afraid to cry — stayed on the floor.
She dressed in head-to-toe tan: a man’s uniform. Milly raced on her bicycle, opened the barn door, and plugged in her motorbike battery. She stacked hay bales like stairs, climbed to the loft, perched herself by the window, and waited.
Nine men exited three black-and-white SUVs on the far side of a fence about 250 meters from the barn.
That distance from Milly pushed my limits then, expending more energy than would be wise today.
Each man’s spanking-new jacket read:
— CHURCH AGENT
Most put on shining helmets, straps too stiff to fasten snugly, flipping down visors to shade their eyes from rising sunbeams. The men squeezed between gaps in the barbed wire fence. That wasn’t easy; most looked out of shape. They plodded east, uphill, towards the barn.
“The drone checked it earlier,” one said. “Nobody’s home. This barn could be our staging area.”
Most had pistols. Only one carried a rifle. A silver bar hung on the lapel of another. They turned to him. “Yeah, we might be here a while.”
No shots had been fired that day, yet.
Milly waited until the men approached within 100 meters.
She could’ve hit them farther out, easily.
But the man carrying the rifle was her first. At that range, the time between the bullet whizzing in and the sound of the rifle’s crack was nearly instantaneous.
There’d been lots of time to study such things in the desert with Milly.
Her bullet hit his chest dead center. He shouted, stumbled, and fell behind a gnarled bush. The other men entered a shocked state, staring, as if uncertain what had just happened.
“Dammit.” He dabbed hot lead embedded in his jacket. “I’m shot!”
Ballistic fiber. Behind brush, Milly probably couldn’t see that.
“But I’m OK.”
At that range, she probably couldn’t hear him, either.
Her next target: the man with silver bar lapels. He jumped like a jackrabbit, then all hell broke loose. Some ran for cover. Others drew pistols, glancing in every direction.
Milly shot a crouching trooper. Blood dripped from the fresh hole in his hand. He ran away screaming. Milly fired six more shots, seconds apart, from her ten-round magazine.
Her last target: a man diving behind a rock. By sheer luck — if you could call it that — her bullet struck his helmet just as it tumbled off. He rubbed his head, then checked his palms for blood. There was none. He sighed and stayed down.
As the sun rose behind the barn, men shouted, pointing towards it.
Back in her loft, rather than fire her last bullet, slack-jawed Milly stared across rifle casings decorating wooden floorboards, towards crime novels stacked amongst cobwebs. A small hole splintered the wall next to her. Dust filled the air, followed a split second later by a boom. Then another.
She scrambled down hay bale stairs and fastened her helmet. Racing off on her motorbike, she turned her head.
Did Milly spot the last cat scampering away into the desert? She’s never directly said, but her phone passphrase is “Cat, where’d you run off to?”
She abandoned her pedal bicycle like a discarded toy.
Back at the Homestead, Milly cast her motorbike into the dirt, then rushed towards the underground entrance. But Father was already waiting for her on the surface.
“Stop.” Father turned to several men. “Go to the barn. Bring weapons. They’ve opened fire on us.”
The men obeyed.
“Follow me, Mildred.”
She did, then looked back.
Did she see her half-brother run and jump on that pickup, crowded with Homestead men, departing for the barn? If so, she said nothing.
Milly stood by as Father gave orders.
“Prepare the trucks. I’ll meet you at the depot.”
“Set a south perimeter. I’ll join you soon.”
“Go underground to the east gate. I’ll meet you there.”
Father in three places at once?
Milly’s typical blank expression turned different. Quizzical? Her pupils swelled.
Father summoned Milly and her stepsister into his huge underground office. He and Stepmother shoved electronics and papers into the raging fireplace. Smoke billowed up the chimney, zig-zagging towards the surface.
Imagine the stench of burning polymer and melting plastic.
Father’s palms pressed his temples. “My luck’s run out!” That was unlike him. “As if I-I’m just another ordinary human being!” As he switched on his radio, his eerie calm returned. His men reported in, taking up their positions. He did not inquire about his son.
The stepsisters sat idle. Sis wore white; Milly was still in tan pants.
Sis pointed. “I brought your dress.”
“No”—Father whipped around—“Mildred, keep the Church soldiers busy.”
She stood.
He said, “I left a bullet box by the closest staircase.”
She grabbed her rifle, then the doorknob, then shivered. Exchanging glances with Sis, Milly winked. Sis winked back.
Milly traversed subterranean corridors to the concealed entrance, then peered outside. Distant gunshots cracked. She brought her rifle scope to her eye.
Upon the sunny surface, one of Father’s men lay dead — blood seeping into sand — he was Milly’s dentist. A drone flew overhead. Fires smoldered. Several Church troopers in black-and-white uniforms milled around, searching sheds, exploring outbuildings, and inspecting solar generators. Were they unaware the vast majority of the Homestead lay underground?
It’s unclear how much of that Milly saw.
A few of Father’s men, older and gray-haired, knelt with bound hands. A Church soldier approached them. From a bottle, he poured water into their mouths, casually spilling precious drops like it was nothing. Smiling, they drank. Then, the soldier brought them another bottle.
It was very clear Milly saw that.
Face turning bright red, she lowered her rifle. Milly retreated underground, leaving the bullet box untouched. Father’s office door was locked. Her breathing quickened. Milly didn’t knock. She called to Sis, softly, then louder. Finally, Sis opened the door. Milly held her finger to her lips.
Father’s desk radio blared with chatter, time, and distance. “Until we’re back,” one man said. They were converging inward to the Homestead. Father and Stepmother kept hurling stuff into the fireplace.
With slow, quiet steps — rifle gripped — Milly advanced.
Just over halfway, Father turned. “I told you to hold them off!” He charged at Milly like a man possessed.
As she slid aside, Milly swung at Father’s knee with her rifle. The wooden stock connected.
He fell in agony; the momentum carried him past her.
Stepmother froze.
Brandishing the rifle, Milly hissed, “Father lies. But I didn’t think he’d lie about this. Soldiers aren’t here to kill us all.” She aimed her weapon at Father. “They’re here for you. I can’t believe I believed you! Stepmother, Sis, go — surrender. Show them the entrance. Tell them it’s over.”
In shock, Stepmother and Sis inched out the door.
Milly glared. “Hurry!”
They ran.
Locking the door from the inside, Milly paced in a slow half-circle, chest heaving, one leg swinging in front of the other like a pendulum.
Father propped himself up. “This life is over.”
She approached.
He tapped his forehead. “Kill me!”
Milly’s countenance, snarling and red-faced, shifted, fading. Mouth agape, she sighed. “No. You’ve ruined enough of my life already.”
Brow arched, looking up, Father’s expression turned gentle. “That’s my girl.” He closed his eyes.
She tilted her head, then scowled with disgust. Milly flipped her rifle around and slammed the stock into Father’s forehead.
He collapsed.
She placed her rifle into Father’s hands, aimed at the wall, and pulled the trigger for him — her last bullet. She rushed to the fireplace, tugged off her man’s uniform, and removed her boots. She flung each garment into the blaze, even her motorcycle helmet.
Someone pounded on the office door. “Church Agent!” The latch rattled.
Wearing only underpants, Milly gazed at her white dress lying over the chair, then at her hands. “Gunpowder.”
Church soldiers thumped the door again.
She toppled a water pitcher. It tumbled dry. She opened Father’s cabinet with her toe. The liquor bottle within stood empty.
“Open now!” They beat the door. “Weapons down — hands up. Final warning!”
With a deep breath by the fireplace, eyes wide open, Milly inserted her hands into the flames. After a full second, wincing, she flipped them to the other side like roast meat.
It was too much to watch.
Across the room, Father blinked into consciousness. He stood, facing Milly.
Her burned hands covering her naked chest, she turned to him.
They shared a stare.
He blinked first. “Mildred, her name was sin—”
Behind him, the door shattered open.
Father spun to face the soldiers with her empty .22 rifle in his hands.
When the gunshots stopped, Milly knelt. Bullet holes dotted the wall behind her, but she was unhit. Frazzled hair framing her distraught, teenaged face, looking at the Church soldiers, she screamed, “He hurt me!”