Tim Boothe couldn’t place what was different about the senator, but something had profoundly changed the man, and it unsettled him to the core.

He steered the JTSAUV down the street where a string of cars had stopped at a red light. The new John Taylor Security Armored Urban Vehicle had just been released from JTS’s research and development division and had become Taylor’s preferred method of short-range transportation since the election. It was a hulking beast that looked like a Humvee and a Cadillac had produced a love child. Inside the hermetically sealed armored shell, it had all the luxuries of Taylor’s office. Concealed in the roof were two .50 caliber machine gun turrets operated by a program that could detect and neutralize a range of threats. The potentially destructive power of the rig simultaneously horrified and thrilled Tim. He smirked at the daydream of raising the guns and broadcasting his voice into the traffic jam, “Get out of my way. I’m late for lunch. Swiss Cheese Mode, engaged.” Boys growing up didn’t stop them from liking toys; it just meant their toys became a lot deadlier.

The cars amassed around him, two Gretas, their faces concealed by their masks, hobbled from car to car, holding out their alms plates. Most of the drivers ignored them. Some gave them the finger. “Get the fuck out of my country, you raggy bitch!” shouted a man from a jacked-up pickup truck. The door swung open, and Tim thought the guy was going to attack the women. He saw a sleek cowboy boot emerge along with the cuff of a denim jacket. The Gretas hurried away, and the door slammed shut. “Fucking cunts!” Middle finger out the window.

Violence was on the rise against the Gretas, climate refugees, those displaced by the constant surge of AI tech, and the homeless, shell shocked veterans of the Eastern Front. The migration trails that crisscrossed the nation grew ever longer and ever thicker. For the most part, they flowed into and out of designated Asiatowns. But now and then a rumor of hope took on the life of a meme; by the force of some enigmatic tropism, the trail would branch off, and a new line was formed to a shit hole in the middle of nowhere, such as Deer Lodge, Montana. From there, all hell would break loose. It was not beyond the local militias—often working in tandem with the police—to go into the streets and literally beat the hope out of the drifters. Even now, as he waited for the light that was stuck on red, he spotted the white and khaki of a group of Pastor Tony’s Boys on the sidewalk in front of a barber shop and a florist, baseball bats in hand.

The Gretas had also spotted them and moved into the center lane of traffic. Now and then a window came down, and a phone, a credit card, or a smart device emerged and tapped the little plate, converting a single dollar into crypto and dropping it into the coffers of the Gretas, one of the wealthiest non-profit organizations in the world. The Greta would then press her praying hands to her forehead, lift her open palms to the heavens, or, if she was really happy about the donation, kneel down and kiss the muddy street with her veiled face.

Tap tap. On his window. He had to look down to see a woman wearing a mask fashioned from a pair of blue jeans. Holes had been poked around her nose and mouth to allow for the exchange of air. A slit across the top of the mask revealed a pair of pretty eyes and long, dark lashes. He ignored her and looked forward at the light that was taking absurdly long to change. Someone blared their horn.

If you ignore them, they just wander away to bother someone else.

Tap tap. Hell, this one was insistent. She was just staring at him, waiting. It was impossible for her to see through the mirrored finish, so it disturbed him when he rested his head back on the seat, and she turned her head to follow him.

He glanced at the video monitor on the dash. In the passenger compartment, the senator and the pastor were engaged with a document on the table between them.

The traffic light remained red. Now a bum was pushing a shopping cart across the intersection.

“What a shithole,” he muttered under his breath.

Deer Lodge was a prison city; its economy depended on the incarceration industry—and it showed. The torpidity of hopelessness infected everything like a virus. The skies were gray, the streets were dirty, the food in the restaurants was bland, and the citizenry was composed of addicts and assholes. At least they didn’t have far to go when they ran afoul of the law.

Tap tap tap. He sighed and shot another glance at the monitor. They were still absorbed in the work before them. He pressed a button, and the window lowered.

“Look, lady, when someone doesn’t roll down their window, it means they’re not interested.”

The Greta held up her alms plate. She probably didn’t speak English. He pressed his thumb against the ring on his middle finger and bumped it on the plate. The red LED flashed twice and turned green. A message popped into his AR unit indicating that exactly one dollar had been transferred from his account to the Greta movement.

The woman silently folded her hands above her head and bowed. Then she held forward a grungy piece of fabric.

“No, thanks. I know the drill. Our Mother the Earth is dying...”

The Greta again brought her hands together above her head and offered him the little square of fabric. He grabbed it, and she gave a slight bow.

It was pink, cut from a child’s garment featuring the fading outline of a rainbow painted on with glittering glue. He turned it over and read the stitching.

She is frightened by the dark.

Behind him, someone sounded their horn. When he looked up, she was gone, and the light was green. In the back, the senator and the pastor focused on the work between them. He shoved the square into his pocket and accelerated.

----------------------------------------

The security guard at the entrance to the Old Montana Prison administration complex looked them up and down, then stepped aside to let them pass. He was dressed oddly in a robe and hood that reminded Tim of a medieval executioner.

The vaulted room smelled of mortar and mold, and their steps echoed off the red brick walls. Four more guards, attired like the one out front, faces obscured in the shadows of their hoods, stood around a long table of fine woodwork as old as the prison.

The shortest of the guards came forward. “Any weapons, any devices, any metal, and jewelry, put it here.”

“Sir?” Tim looked at Taylor. He was licensed to carry anywhere in the world.

“It’s okay, Tim. Do as he says,” said the senator, who removed his wristwatch and laid it on the table. He put his phone next to it and stepped back. “That’s all I carry.”

Pastor Tony put down his medallion, his AR glasses, and his phone. Like John Taylor, he did not carry a wallet. Wealthy men never carried wallets.

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One final hesitation, in which he sized up the hooded men, and Tim removed his smart ring, then his sidearm Glock, AR glasses, wallet, phone, and buck knife. He took off his jacket, unbuttoned and removed his shirt, and took off the bulletproof vest containing a concealed .357 SIG.

Pastor Tony watched with a grin as he put his shirt back on.

“Search them,” said the short man.

The three guards frisked each of them thoroughly. When they were satisfied there was no more contraband, stood still and watched with hooded gazes.

“This way,” said the short man.

Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the empty room and entered a long corridor lit by high windows. At the end of the corridor was an elevator. It was small, and they had to squeeze in.

“Sister Jillian will meet you,” said the guard.

The elevator’s door closed. Tim’s arm pressed against Pastor Tony’s massive triceps. The cult of the religious leader’s personality consisted of steroids and obesity. Indeed, all the lieutenants of the Pastor Tony’s Boys “organization” had the same enhanced, gluttonous aesthetic.

Growing up with Eric after his mother’s death, his older cousin had instilled in him a healthy skepticism of charlatans. Tim was agnostic on the greater spiritual questions of God and eternity, but he was a true believer that Pastor Tony and his cult were full of shit. The fact that John Taylor needed the man’s influence was a part of the job that he had to grin and bear. His only priority was to protect the senator.

The elevator was slow, or they were traveling deep into the bedrock of the earth. The Old Montana Prison had been abandoned and unused for more than a century. Originally owned by the state before transferring into private hands, a law still existed that kept the complex a historic landmark. After its days as a prison, it had been a museum, then a concert venue, then a factory, then empty and unused until JTS had acquired it and converted sections of it to a private penitentiary to house JTS employees who had offended against the company. The scheme was controversial, but Taylor had enough money and power that he always got what he wanted.

“It’s like we’re traveling to the gates of Hell,” said Pastor Tony. “I hope this isn’t a waste of my time. I have a sermon in the metaverse in a few hours.”

“I appreciate your patience, Pastor. Your country needs your support. I think after the…” John Taylor paused as if searching for the proper word. “…presentation, you will want to make some revisions to your sermons moving forward.”

The elevator slowed and stopped. The doors opened to a massive cave with bright floodlights bolted into the stone. Sister Jillian stood before them.

“Senator. Pastor,” she acknowledged the men as they stepped out of the elevator. “Mr. Boothe, we meet again.” Her penetrating eyes lingered on him.

That night on the Willis Avenue Bridge rushed back. Tim had mastered the art of hiding his emotions, yet he still felt a twisting in his stomach at the gruesome memory.

“Pastor Tony,” said Taylor, “I present to you Sister Jillian. We’re working on a project together that is central to the security of the United States. Needless to say, what happens in the bowels of the earth stays in the bowels of the earth.”

“Sister?” said Pastor Tony. “From one child of God to another, I’m glad you’re not another defense contractor.”

“Which one?” said Sister Jillian.

“Excuse me?”

“Which God do you follow?”

“Madam, I am a prophet of the one and only God. The God of Abraham. Alpha and Omega. The God of the Book and the God of the Machine.”

Sister Jillian looked the big man up and down. “Extraordinary. You actually think the machine has a soul?”

“The good word turns no one away. All who exalt in the Almighty are worthy of His grace.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. This way, gentlemen.”

She led them through the cave. They walked on the rock itself, but where there was a break or crevasse, the ground was patched with cement. The path turned and twisted, ascended, and declined.

Commotion up ahead. Voices echoed in a strange language that quieted and stopped upon their approach. They passed a group of two men and a woman, slender and athletic. They wore the same black bodysuits and watched curiously and silently as they passed.

Shortly, they came into a less illuminated corridor lined at uneven intervals with chambers blocked off by heavy iron bars. In one of the chambers, an old man with a bushy beard sat on a stone slab in only his underwear. When he saw them, he scooted back in trepidation. He had been big once, possibly a bodybuilder, but now he was emaciated with shriveled dugs. For the briefest moment, Tim made eye contact with the man. A look crossed his boney face.

“Hey!” shouted the man. Tim stopped. Taylor and Pastor Tony stopped.

“Gentlemen,” insisted Sister Jillian, “don’t feed the freaks.” She continued walking, and they followed.

The man pressed up against the bars in their wake. “Please! My name is Paul Murphy! Help. Help me. I’m an American citizen!”

“Who was that man?” asked Pastor Tony.

“He is not your concern,” said Sister Jillian.

“Sister Jillian deals with some very dangerous individuals,” said Taylor. “You can rest assured that if he is down here, America is a safer place.”

The man’s shouts eventually faded. Sister Jillian stopped at a heavy wooden door hinged into the bedrock and secured with a plank set into brackets on either side of the doorway.

“Pastor Tony, I’ve watched your career for a long time,” she said. “Without your connections to the militia movement, Jane Allgood would have never carried the heartland of this great country.”

“I am but a humble servant,” said the pastor, placing his hand on his chest and dipping his head in shallow a bow.

“Yes, indeed. I believe it is time for you to take your service to the next level.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would like operational control of your Pastor Tony’s Boys networks.”

Pastor Tony laughed aloud. “And what would you need them for, Sister?”

“John,” said Sister Jillian, “perhaps you would like to explain.”

“There are going to be some new changes as soon as Allgood is installed. The president-elect has already authorized everything. There’s a certain… shall we say, contagion, going around. Your network reaches every state, every county, and every town. You even have an operation in Texas.”

“My good senator,” said the pastor, stretching his large hands over his huge belly, “considering Allgood’s victory, I would say the burden of debt is on your hands.”

“Your boys will be absorbed into the Hammer Force. You will be the moral voice of America moving forward. Think about it, Pastor.”

“I already am the moral voice of America.”

“Is God real?” said Sister Jillian.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, is God real?”

Tim saw Pastor Tony’s back stiffen. There was a moment of silent, heavy breathing. He half expected a growl to emerge from the man’s massive trunk.

“You ask this of me?” said Pastor Tony.

“Give me proof.”

“You’ve wasted my time, Taylor.” Anger curdled in his voice.

John Taylor regarded Sister Jillian in a moment of thought. Then, having reached an ultimatum, he spoke, “Yes, Pastor Tony. I would like proof as well.”

A vicious sneer crossed the pastor’s face. “Thou shalt not tempt the lord thy God. Faith—”

Sister Jillian cut him off sharply. “Let your gullible followers chew on the bone of faith. I will give you the meat of proof.”

“Blasphemy!” Spittle erupted from Pastor Tony’s mouth and clung to his wiry beard.

“Walk through that door if you truly want to believe,” said Sister Jillian.

“Is this some sort of fucking joke?”

“This is real,” said Taylor. “When I told you I would take you to the top, Tony, I meant all the way to the top.”

The cleric was silent for a considerable time. He looked at each of them in turn and finally settled his gaze on Tim. “Alright, I’ll go through. But I’ll take your man with me.”

Tim, whose role as the silent bodyguard had suddenly been altered, raised his hands to push back against the suggestion.

“Yes, of course,” said Sister Jillian. “Young Mr. Boothe may accompany you. It doesn’t matter. You could surround yourself with a thousand warriors, but where you go, you go alone.”

“Tim, go with him,” said Taylor.

“Sir?”

“I said go with him.” There was no debate.

“Yes, sir.”

Sister Jillian removed the heavy plank that blocked the door and set it against the rock. She pulled the door open, revealing the impenetrable darkness beyond.

“After you, Tim,” said Pastor Tony.