Like 9/11, or the JFK assassination, everyone remembers where they were when it happened. It's been almost two decades since then, the unfathomable twist in our story; The Coup.

I remember it clearly.

A svelte woman with business shoulder pads and a power suit glistened on air, “Great news citizens! Our country has been liberated from tyranny! True patriots everywhere are rejoicing in the streets, tasting the sweetness of freedom.” The woman smiled brightly among the crowds of people, all red, white and blue. “John, let’s show clips from across the nation,” the top left corner of the screen flashed crowds of celebrators, reeling from city to city; New York, Philadelphia, DC, Miami, Boise, San Francisco, and it continued. She waved her hot pink tipped hand towards the screen, “As you can see every corner of this great country is celebrating the take over, or rather, the ‘taking back’ of our country. From the tyranny of corrupt politicians into the hands of true patriots.” As she clapped and cheered along with the crowd she brightened at the appearance of a hollering, white, blue-eyed man.

She beckoned him towards the camera, then placed her hand on his shoulder, lightly, so as not to smear the red and white stripes painted on his body. His manic smiling face was encrusted with white paint in the shape of a star and framed by a blue clown wig. This ensemble was finished with the American flag worn as a loincloth. The newscaster began to interview him, but my focus drifted inward.

I was in the ‘Grizzly Den Diner,’ a favorite stop along highway one, coming back from a hunting trip deep in the mountains. I was sitting at the chrome trimmed counter between a wooden sculpture of Bigfoot and an older gentleman wearing a tweed blazer and sporting an impressive comb-over. I noticed his body freeze as the newscaster rejoiced, a forkful of eggs floating inches above his plate, losing their steam.

A soft murmur broke out as people tried to confirm what they were seeing. The man in tweed regained his senses and called out to the server, “Lilly, what is this rubbish? Put it on the other news network… let’s see what THEY are saying.” He pushed up his glasses and settled into his seat, crossing his arms and drawing his brows. Eggs forgotten.

Lily commanded the TV set to turn to the public network as she polished a glass, “TV, play public station eleven.”

A square-rimmed, buttoned-up broadcaster appeared, “The terrorist organization True Patriots are threatening media outlets across the nation. Their demands include reporting only the quote-on-quote, ‘truth’, or else ‘grave things may occur.’ When questioned about what the ‘truth’ is they are referring to, their response was, and I quote, ‘whatever high commander, Reverend Michael D. Bray, says.’ The free press is refusing to respond to terrorist demands at this time. We are waiting on our White House correspondents …”

An eruption of noise; chair legs scraping linoleum, the din and clatter of silverware on ceramic.

Panic.

I watched one of the young families bundle up their two young children and head quickly out the door, tossing a wad of bills at their table. One of the bills fluttered into a kid-sized puddle of ketchup, George Washington’s face painted red.

Lily tried to take control, “Now listen up everyone, this does not mean you can’t enjoy your meals. Just calm down and act normal, now, we got nothing to be afraid of, for heavens sake. This will all be over before you can fry an egg. C’mon now.” She picked up a chair that had tumbled over and calmly tucked it under a nearby table. Some people were hungry for reassurance and followed her lead, “Sit down now, yes, that’s right. Nobody panic, have some grub! We’ve got a turkey club up… here you go.” Lilly started bringing out all of the orders that had piled up on the warmer.

Tweed coat piped up, “I don’t get it. Lilly, what does it mean? What’s happening?”

The server put her hand on the man's shoulder, “It’s gonna to be alright, Mr. Green, this is America. Just go home after you finish your coffee and stay inside a while. Watch the news. Things will get back to normal. Like the man said, the special reserve is going to set it right. They are being called in right now. And if that fails, we have allies around the globe; no one is going to stand for a coup in America. There’s never been a successful coup and there never will be.”

Mr. Green looked relieved, “Okay, Lilly, if you say so.”

The broadcaster continued in the background. I tried to listen over the rabble, “…Sources say that all leads related to the Reverend and the True Patriot Movement had been destroyed months before the attack.”

Despite myself, I let Lily convince me. I wanted her to be right. I took a bite of my sandwich. Tweed coat and I sat quietly, munching our food as the world fell apart.

I’m thinking about that moment when Xan waves his hand in front of my eyes, “Hello, anyone home?”

I blink and shake my head out, “Oh my gosh, I was in another world,” I straighten my spine and take a breath, getting reacquainted with the present.

“Ah there you are! Now, drop whatever you were thinking about and focus on food. I got a granola bar, Twinkies, ugh, crushed up potato chips…” Xan begins rifling through his provisions pack, all sweat and dirt. He lifts his brow and eyes me, a smirk catching his cheek.

“Okay, okay,” I cock my head and contemplate these options, “You know, as soon as this is over I am planting a vegetable garden.” I reach over, “hand me a goddamn Twinkie,” I grab the plastic wrapped industrial food item between my thumb and finger, like picking up a stranger's dirty sock.

We are perched on limestone boulders, a sea of crisp green sword ferns spreading below us in all directions. Towering Douglas fir, sitka spruce and cedar provide a cool and comforting shield from the sun. The rainforest here managed to survive decades of fires, thanks to the skyscraper trees and leeward slant of the Olympic range. The peaks hijack every eastbound cloud; a geological shakedown for moisture. Still, the haze of burning forests, cities and towns loiters across the entire region like an unwanted guest.

“We’ve got at least six more hours through these woods. The king-all-father himself should be sleeping soundly when we arrive at the camp. The hardest time to wake someone is during their deep sleep cycle. We should arrive just in time!” Xan’s excitement animates his whole body as he speaks.

I give Xan a wry look and reach into my pocket, “We are going to need some help getting there,” and I pull out two blue powder pills, displaying them on my palm next to some golden crumbs still stuck to my fingers.

“Oh no, no, no! I don’t need that,” He flaps his hand at me, looks away. The medusa pills. Drugs like these have become mythologized, used only for the most important missions, like this one. Yes, they make your eyes bug out and your face look crazy, but they work.

I blow air in a chuckle, “You want to do everything from your own damn muscle. Take the pill, Xan. Or am I going to have to save your ass later?”

“Peggi— you, my love, are very convincing,” he reaches out, palm up. I gingerly place one tiny pill onto a smooth patch of skin between calluses. He flips it up in the air and catches it on his tongue, swallows. I bug my eyes out as it sails through the air, but, he catches it, looks at me like its nothing, “We’ve been resting long enough, let’s go fry that authoritarian fuck!” He propels his body with his arms, swinging his feet over the massive fern just below, landing gently on two feet.

I take one more breath of rest, eyes softening on the beauty of a nearby Sitka spruce adorning garments of soft moss, and then leap off the boulder, landing in a squish of soft mud, “Let’s do it.”

We start down the ravine, light feet, making use of low branches to swing through denser parts of the understory. The pills soon act to make our bodies feel feather light, making our efforts feel invigorating rather than draining. Senses primed, we feel, smell, taste and see with utter clarity. I feel my mind clear, too.

As we weave through the forest I begin to reflect on the mission.

Xan and I are going to assassinate the Emperor of Everything, as he is now known, Reverend Michael D. Bray, leader of the military coup that drowned international trade and communications, split the country into wards of isolation, outlawed history, burned books. He is the one that Shepherded America into the age of unstoppable fire, runaway climate change, and endless war. Among his crimes are innumerable deaths, all in the name of his brand of ‘freedom.’

The whole plan started with Xan.

As the only intact forest this side of the Rockies, we had a few tattered refugees join us from the South. Xan was one of them. When I met him he could barely breathe for the smokey journey he endured through the coastal rubble. I helped him the best I could. Despite his fierce eyes and liberal sense of humor I thought he would die.

But, like me, he is a survivor. He just kept showing up, everyday, trying to get better.

We were lucky to have him. Anyone considered a part of the ‘intelligentsia’ had been culled years before; the Reverend was adamant that God would heal us, not doctors, and definitely not scientists. “I saw what was coming,” Xan explained, “patients stopped listening to my advice flat out; people became downright hostile. Almost like a wave of protest, patients would book appointments just to tell me I didn’t know anything, that the only prescription worth anything was prayer. So, I grew a beard and packed a bag, forged the ID of a recently deceased patient and assumed the identity of a lifelong janitor. Skipped town and drifted. I could have helped others do the same but,” and this is where he would always tear up, “I was afraid.” He was determined to right that course. To be brave for everyone.

It was at a full moon meeting when he confided in us about his true intentions. “I didn’t just come up here for the fresh air,” he looked around the circle, trying to catch eyes with each of us, “I came here to end him. In Reverend Bray’s capitol he sits pretty in a palace full of opportunity for a hit,” Xan looked almost child-like huddled under his woolen blanket, cross legged in front of the fire. He let the words hang around him, giving us a chance to make our judgements. Someone gave a “huh,” others shifted around uncomfortably, waiting for more details. Well, I thought, it wasn’t like we all hadn’t already considered it. The problem was that the security was impossible, his cronies fully brainwashed. And, none of us wanted to spill blood.

I spoke up, “Well, we’ve been living in these woods and keeping eyes on Bray for a long time now. I can tell you that he is always guarded and keeps a close watch on everyone around him. We have yet to see a weakness.” I shook my head and opened my palm, letting my hand drift out, like letting go of a wish from a dandelion seed. But then, an idea took root in my mind. I started seeing the potential. “But,” I pointed my finger out, “if we could kidnap and convince a few of his guards into sharing some intelligence, we could do it. We have a few long-banned substances that could really help with convincing.” And I looked at everyone, met their eyes individually to gauge confidence in the idea. Some skeptical furrows, some brows raised with excitement, “Remember, Bray sometimes leaves his palace, right? We saw that happen before. We just had no idea why or where he was going or for how long. If we could get a hold of that information I think we could take him out.” More skeptical looks; I sighed, “I was a therapist, remember? I know how to push mental buttons, get into peoples heads. With a little help I bet I could convince at least one of them to pass on information.”

Xan piped in, “And if that doesn’t work, we can always bribe them with free therapy sessions,” Xan slow punches my shoulder. We all giggled at that, enjoying a moment of absurdity.

All except for the usual naysayer, Skeena. As wise as she is, Skeena tends to disagree with everything at first. She crossed her arms and shook her head slowly, her wild grey bun of hair swaying with the movement. Her voice was stern, “You weren’t there, at the public executions. These men are brutal. They have no soul left. If your drugs and whatever else you’re planning to do doesn’t work, and I can’t see it working, then we are going to have to kill them. Then it is just a matter of time before they are going to come looking.” She looked me up and down, “I don’t see a killer here in front of me, I see someone swept along by the dreams of her rosy-eyed lover.”

I blinked slowly and tensed my lips before replying, “I wasn’t there but the executions were broadcast on every station,” I straightened my back, “Of course I know that they are horrible, but these are also human beings, not monsters. You should know this, Skeena, most of those people are just trying to survive, like all of us.” I gestured around the circle, “These soldiers are doing whatever they have to do to keep their families alive. They aren’t all soulless.”

Xan got up from his seat, placed his tea on the flat rock we’d rigged as a table, “Skeena is right, though.” He brushed my shoulder with his hand. “We will have to be completely sure about whoever we target.”

Skeena moved her hands to her hips, her eyes blazed in the firelight, “That isn’t what I meant and you know it. No matter how careful you are it doesn’t make up for the fact that it is a stupid idea. You will get yourselves and possibly all of us killed by those demons.”

She was wrong about the guards but she wasn’t wrong about the risks.

I had wanted to wait to do the mission until we had recruited at least one person connected to Bray’s inner circle. We had only just started our spy network when we got word that Bray had begun planning an ‘extermination’ of the forest witches, hoping to hang a few of us for the Christmas celebrations.

We had to act. When Charlie told us the news he said we had seven days to plan before Bray would be returning, using the old highway. He gave us the location of the overnight camp. This was our last chance.

~~

We take another short break at a beach formed beside an elbow in the river. The water still looks turquoise from glacial silt, like it did years ago. The crunch of river rocks under our feet are barely audible against the singing waters. The sun, a spark of orange in the sweaty haze, is hanging low. We unlace our boots and bob our red swollen feet in the waters, resting our rumps on a bone white trunk.

I muse, stretching out my toes, “Ever since the coup I’ve felt like… like my world has gotten so much smaller, like the continents have spread impossibly apart, went to a different dimension, even.” I glance into Xan’s eyes, “it really feels like no one else exists anymore.” Xan watches me back, considering my words. “We’ve trained for this for so long, but I barely remember what it was like before.”

The water kindly absorbs our fatigue, rivulets of sensation curl around my body, through vessels and bones, through my tongue and scalp. I breathe and close my eyes.

Xan speaks gently, “We need to focus on the present. Just remember, there may still be books out there, people alive who remember. We will find them. Either way, this is our chance to reinvent what it means to be human; it’s never going to be the same as it was.”

I consider his words as we pack up, set out again, trailing the river. I let the weight of that idea anchor my mind to his sense of hope; we can reinvent what it means to be human.

As we get closer to the camp we divert from the river and skirt to higher ground on the other side of the highway. We do this a mile out to avoid detection from their scent hounds. From this vantage we can get a good look at the camp layout and see where the guards are posted. We can even track the scouts in the forest from their torch light.

“Remember, we have folks on the inside so don’t murder anyone, killer.” He gives me his side eye, winks.

We planned the ambush nearest to the new moon; with help from the medusa pills our night vision will be able to adjust quickly. We can see them, but they can’t see us.

I tighten my boots, double check each weapon hold, finally, I reach into my satchel and bring out the ultimate weapon. I unfurl the necklace from its velvet nest, six pouches of dreaming powder dangle from the leather braiding. I look up to Xan; the soft look of his eyes reminds me that this might be our last moment together. I gently hook a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, move to my knees and bring the necklace over his head to rest the pouches along his chest. I place a hand on his heart and lean in; a deep and beautiful kiss sends fire through our bodies, and for a moment we forget everything that happened, and let go of everything that will.

“Let’s go.”

Xan drops first, his arms perfectly tuned for the descent, clasping rock holds and ginger steps, he silently clears the ridge and moves towards the gap between the guards. He will take care of the front line, my mission waits within the golden tent.

When I reach the edge of the camp Xan has already snuffed out the torches; I easily avoid detection. I have about 90 seconds before someone comes to relight them.

Bray’s tent is at the center of camp, obvious even in the dark night with its weave of gold, silk, and beautiful wools, fine materials mined from the catacombs of department stores, hidden well within the sea of rubble.

I stalk along the dirt track between tents, my charcoal rubbed skin blending in with the shadows, and I approach the back of the tent. I have to stop myself from marvelling at the rich and impossible textures, the beautiful glint of gold, like stars against the shadows. I steady my heart again.

My knife is drawn, I cut a slit, peek through a moment first before stepping inside.

I hear a deep snore rumble through the air. Crouched, liquid, I glide towards the head of the bed, a cot of suspended canvas over a sturdy bamboo frame. Lush blankets and fluffy pillows envelope the beast. His face is tilted upwards, his crown sitting heavily on his brow, a manicured beard lines his chiselled jaw. My heart wants to escape the cage of my ribs. I avoid panic; I have a task.

His last wife would have been here too, had he not executed her. What was it this time? Oh yes, she didn’t fully appreciate his genius, evidenced by her suggestion that perhaps he could spare some of the books on medicine and science. He was as brilliant as Einstein, she was made to confess, he didn’t need books.

I blow a puff of sleeping dust over his face, I listen for a moment. His breath is steady, still. I reach into my satchel and pull out a carefully crafted tincture, a concentrate of old growth forest mushrooms and Stim-ex. It tastes like a dirt and rot martini, but it works quickly. I bring my hands to his temples, focus.

My hands grow warm, then a faint red glow from my palm illuminates his cheeks; I take a deep breath.

A soft white ribbon of light spontaneously connects between my hands, surrounding the emperor's head— he awakes. His eyes widen in terror as he realizes what is happening.

A choking voice, “Witches! Greselda, where are you?”

I whisper back, “Shhh. You killed her, remember?” I send a surge into the folds of his mind, showing him the pain she felt when he betrayed her.

He shudders, gasps again, managing only a whisper, “Doona? Doona!” His closest friend and ally had stayed at the palace.

“Doona is not here, scum.” I spit the words at his struggling ego.

“You can’t steal my mind, witch. I am Emperor of Everything, Sole Genius of the land,” he coughs, “the sire of all children…” I send another surge, the fear and disgust that was felt when he took his ‘wives,’ funnels through his body, he calls out again, “it is god’s will!”

“Your echo chamber of grandeur is over. You will know what you really are.” My eyes fall back as the energy in my hands pulses again.

Just then someone approaches the tent, “Sir? I heard something. Are you ok?”

A cyclone of grief, the stabbing pain of betrayal, bloody fear, and the heavy despair of every orphan he created, every widow, each forlorn parent holding the limp bodies of children, the collective pain of each family he broke channeled through my heart into his.

A final surge. “Your eminence?” The guard pushes through the tent door, gun drawn. It is too late for me to recoil, my body is electrified in place, my mind melded. He leaps towards me, trying to pry my hands away. But it is too late.

The emperor’s body spasms and contorts, he gasps desperately before going limp, helpless against the new feeling of grief and loss.

Finally, his furious ego has drowned.

The guard looks confused as the Emperor’s eyes bead with tears and begins to sob. I whisper to the guard, “You have nothing to fear now,” and I grab another pinch of sleep dust and blow a puff into his face. The guard drops, unconscious.

The emperor brings his hand to his heart, looks at me with wet eyes and a jagged breath. He can't seem to find a word to utter.

“You’re welcome.” I say, and I leave his bedside.

I peek through the slit I had made, first just a slight crack, then when I see a pile of sleeping guards and Xan’s bemused smiling face I pull it wide and step through. He whispers, “Sounds like it worked, then?”

I nod. The light from my hands fading, we sneak out of the camp, into the woods and across the river. Finding a mossy nook a few miles in we make camp together, completely exhausted.

Xan wraps me in his arms and we’re gazing at the stars through reaching branches when he says, “Peggi, I probably would have just killed the guy.”

I laugh, “Well, he definitely would have deserved that. But... we will see what happens. If he fucks up again, we can do it your way.”