Chapter 3: A Team Effort, Try Not to Die
This Monday, take a break and dive into something fun. Chapter 3 of The Herd- When Democracy Falls is in your inbox now! Read or listen on Substack.
I feel overwhelmed with emotions the next morning.
It feels as if I have just been there, in our old apartment, arguing with my sister, my mom breaking up the fight. My dad is even there, his eyes twinkling as he smiles at me while serving us dinner. Then that twinkle turns into a flame and engulfs us all.
I wake up in sweats. I haven’t had such nightmares in years.
But there’s no time to decompress or try to understand why the nightmares have returned. Today is test day.
I pull myself out of bed. Normally, I get up just in time to dress and leave, but today I decide to give myself more time. My room is a mess, as usual, but somehow I know my way through the chaos.
I stumble toward the small coffee machine in my room and turn it on. Coffee is a luxury. I never had it when I lived with my uncle. We simply couldn’t afford it. But with my salary from the station, I can purchase coffee from the grocery store in the cafeteria. My salary doesn’t make me rich, but given the rate of poverty outside the station, I feel as if I’m part of the upper class. Coffee solidifies that feeling. It’s one of the many comforts you can easily get at the station store but not from other grocers outside.
I get dressed while waiting for the coffee to brew. Normally, the newsroom requires business casual clothing, which for me means black slacks, a T-shirt, and a blazer. But for the aptitude test, we’re told to dress comfortably. I grab blue jeans and a T-shirt from my clean laundry pile on the ground. Then I put on a used leather jacket I bought a few years ago.
I decide to grab two knives from my collection—just in case. Knives have become something of a small obsession ever since my uncle died. I train with them almost daily and collect them, too. Apart from coffee and books, I spend a significant part of my salary on new knives. I have knives that can be disguised as cell phones, lipsticks, and other accessories. The holes in the dartboard on my wall are proof that my aim has improved significantly.
After grabbing my coffee, I sit in front of my computer and open it. I have 560,000 followers now.
“So it begins,” I type and hit send. Then I close the computer and leave the room.
There are five groups of four people competing for one open position: Groups A, B, C, D, and E, each with its own set of contestants, marked one through four. I find a seat in the theater room underneath a sign that reads “Group B.” I can feel the sweat tingling on the back of my neck, but I try to appear confident, reminding myself that I am prepared for this.
The people on my team are both my companions and my competition today. I remind myself to be friendly but not get too attached. Throughout my time as an editor, I haven’t made much headway in the friends department. You need to be open and sociable to make friends. I am none of those things. Up to this point, I’ve needed an accurate understanding of history, a prudent and detailed understanding of sourcing, and clear, concise writing—not friends.
“Hi, my name is Feonix.” I extend my hand toward one of the guys approaching my section.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” he responds, shaking my hand. “I heard no mistake makes it past you. I’m James Han.”
I can’t help but stare a little longer than I should at him. He’s tall and incredibly handsome. His brown eyes seem to shimmer against the light as he looks into mine, and his smile is warm but shows no weakness. I haven’t seen many Americans of East Asian descent since our faction was attacked by the Patriots.
Though Americans from several ethnic identities suffered that night, few suffered like people of East Asian descent. They were already under stricter government surveillance. They were imprisoned for the smallest crimes. But when the Patriots thought our faction was colluding with the Chinese, they killed any American that appeared to have Asian ancestry indiscriminately, questioning their loyalty to America.
“Where are the others?” he asks, pulling his hand away from mine and snapping me out of my stare.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, slightly embarrassed by his unease. I can see the other groups gathering in their own respective corners around the room.
“This is no way to begin,” says James, sounding agitated.
I already like his attitude. He seems commanding and confident, like someone who came to win.
“Sorry we’re late,” two young guys—clearly related, one fat and one skinny—join our group.
“I’m Titan,” says the fat one, extending his hand first to me. His fade is flawless, like he just did it yesterday.
“And I’m Ray,” says the skinny one, also extending his hand. His short dreads bobble up and down with his head.
“Oh wait, I know who you are,” says Titan, looking at me. “I heard Fred Cheenoma’s daughter worked here, but I never thought I’d meet you.”
“You’re Fred Cheenoma’s daughter?” asks Ray. “Your dad’s a legend—at least for those of us from Latus.”
“Who’s your dad?” asks James, staring at me curiously.
I hesitate. I don’t usually talk about my family with strangers. Ever since my parents passed away, I hardly have people approach me to speak about my father. Titan and Ray are clearly brothers from Latus.
“Depends. Who are you?” Titan asks, clearly sizing James up—both as a greeting and something more.
“James Han.” James extends his hand to Titan.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Titan says, shaking James’s hand and holding on a little too long.
“Who was her dad?” James pulls his hand away.
“Oh yeah,” Titan continues, making me feel better about my awkward handshake with James moments earlier. “Only one of the greatest reporters turned faction leaders of this century,” he says, cutting me off before I can respond. “While he was in charge, Latus was one of the wealthiest and most educated factions. Nothing like how they are now. Rumor has it that all the faction leaders wanted to work with him, but he refused because of their corruption. My parents said that’s why they killed him. What they couldn’t get through negotiations, they took by force.”
Titan’s words hit me like a knife. These are rumors I’ve heard before, but they always make me uneasy. I open my mouth to try to respond, but I am interrupted again.
“Enough of the pleasantries, teams. It’s time to gather around,” says a woman with thick, curly, reddish-brown hair and bold blue eyes. Something about her look is beautiful and exotic—clearly mixed race. Her personality is instantly appealing, like she should be the host of a show. She stands on stage, gesturing to the space on the ground in front of her. I feel drawn to her as I walk closer.
As we are shepherded forward, I notice Emre in Group A watching me. He tries to look away as soon as I notice him, but realizing he already has my attention, he offers a slight smile that I do not return.
“For most of you, this will be your first and last time meeting the news director because only one of you will be chosen to eventually take her position,” the woman on stage continues. “Remember, you must tell no one about the tests you are about to go through.”
Something about the spectacle seems theatrical. The woman speaks as if she is putting on a show, like we are being watched on film for someone’s entertainment. Though people are clearly nervous, her tone also seems to excite the contestants. They begin to whisper and squirm among themselves. For a second, it is almost as if we are entering a fun competition where our sole means of survival isn’t at stake.
Then suddenly, the room falls silent as the news director appears in front of us for the first time. Her red hair is bright, shining under the lights on the stage. She seems to study us intently as she walks out, registering every face gazing up toward her.
“My name is Victoria Revel, and I am the news director here at Station 7,” she says, taking the microphone from the other woman on stage. “I like to explain the rules of the tests myself because if you pass the Aptitude test with the highest score, your training to take over the newsroom will come from me. And if you can’t listen to me now, you won’t be a good protégé later.”
“First, I want you all to know that regardless of whether or not you are chosen, you have done your part in this war. Our enemies are both cunning and well-resourced, putting us in a position where we need the best and brightest to run this operation,” she pauses, looking around to meet eyes with at least one person from each group.
“It has been a combination of your courage, leadership, hard work, and intelligence that has brought you this far. Now, we must learn how far those qualities, in addition to other attributes, extend.”
As she explains the rules for the first test, I slowly begin to realize that these tests are nothing like what I imagined. They drop us directly into the chaos of our real world, closer to the subjects our news covers than I have ever been.
“This could get us killed,” blurts out one girl from Group A—Emre’s group—after the instructions are given. I am relieved to hear that I am not the only person finding it hard to believe what we are being asked to do.
“If you are worried about your life, then you are not ready for war. This is an information war!” yells the news director back at the girl.
Revel’s fists are balled, and she is shaking with rage. The girl seems to shrink under Revel’s gaze, looking as if she is holding back tears. No one else says a word.
I feel my stomach turn as fear creeps up my spine. I have heard of multiple people from our news group dying in the course of gathering information for stories. Many of them are admired, seen as martyrs for a great cause. I admire them. But it never occurred to me that they may be in the middle of a test.
The newsroom received a tip that multiple faction representatives are accepting various forms of compensation from the Saudi government in exchange for spreading allegations that Iranian leaders are working to replace democratically elected leaders in various countries and to attack Americans. This is reportedly part of an effort to turn public sentiment in the United States and other parts of the world against Iran, so the Saudis can attack the Iranians without fear of rebuke.
For years, those two countries have been powerful forces in the Middle East. Their economies thrive on oil and natural gas resources that seem endless. For a time, some thought their power would diminish because of the global push toward renewable energy sources, like solar. But when the crash occurred, investments in renewable energy dried up, making the two countries stronger than ever. Since the U.S. maintained good relations with both countries, accepting their aid to rebuild, they are more powerful now than before.
World order shifted as countries saw the crash and the weakness of the United States as an opportunity to reject the status quo and redraw boundaries as they saw fit. To the terror of many in Europe, Russia started to rebuild something that resembled the former USSR, annexing Georgia, Ukraine, Finland, and Poland in bloody battles.
The Saudi Kingdom annexed all of the Gulf countries in its periphery—Bahrain, Yemen, Oman, and later the UAE and Qatar—with equal force. And now, it appears they are looking to take on their powerful regional foe, Iran. If they take over Iran, they will be the most powerful country in the region—maybe the world.
But most Americans are less concerned about the vast nature of the Saudis’ plans. Their concerns are domestic issues. They would be horrified to learn their leaders are accepting money from foreign sources to deceive them—horrified enough to remove and hang the representatives.
So much has changed in the United States since the crash. Faction leaders are more like what senators used to be, but with less organization and more power. The crash caused an erosion of trust between the people, the federal government, and all its representatives. It led the American people to turn away from the existing system and begin to create their own.
Factions are part of the new order. Their leaders represent groups of people who share ideas without boundaries, meaning a faction leader can represent one person in Oregon and another in Texas. Though many people cluster with those who share their own ideology and faction.
Faction leaders gain voting power based on the number of people registered in their faction. There are many different groups: the communists, called Sumbolas; the nationalists, known as the Patriots; the religious Christians, called the Divinus; the capitalists, known as Opes; the socially liberal, known as Latus; and so on. There is even a faction for those who officially subscribe to no faction or ideology—Tantum—where I and many others in the newsroom currently belong.
But the factions share one thing in common—everything the people in them do is based on a collective sense of loyalty to the faction. There is probably more tolerance for murder than for betraying the trust of the faction.
When we are told that our mission is to work as groups to find proof that some faction leaders are somehow being compensated to betray the trust of their people, we know that if this is true, it is a secret they are willing to kill to hide.
The tip we receive is reportedly from a top-ranking official in Divinus. The official remains anonymous, but the document sent to the newsroom reportedly bears the official seal of their faction.
After the instructions are given, the news director wishes us luck. Without prompting, each group huddles under its respective letter to hatch a plan.
“There’s no time to waste,” says James.
“But where do we even begin?” asks Titan.
“Where else?” James replies, pulling his laptop out of his bag. We all follow suit, pulling out our own laptops.
James shares a digital document with us. “Let’s make a list of anyone who could possibly be involved with a scheme like this—their titles, contact information, and close connections.”
Then he shares another document with the group. “In this document, everyone needs to list any of their contacts within Divinus. Then, Ray, I want you to cross-reference these lists with any social network you can think of. See if these contact lists are in any way connected.”
I start to feel useless. I want to take charge and prove myself, but I’m still in shock at how sharply the stakes of this test have risen. I feel terrified—not so much about the test, but about feeling unprepared.
Soon, names begin to populate the first list: Michelle Robinson, 35, former Divinus faction leader, forced to resign by the current leader after he accused her of having an affair with her secretary. Nathan Widum, the Divinus policy secretary, reportedly bitter toward the current leader, Joshua Welsh, for divorcing his sister and remarrying another woman—making his sister “unfit” to marry anyone else in the faction. Jaleesa Brown, the secretary who mysteriously weathered the scandal with Robinson and even seemed to receive a promotion after Welsh gave a speech on “forgiveness and the Christian way.” David Uberman, the Divinus financial minister, who insists his massive fortune—complete with a luxury home and several high-end vehicles—is a reflection of God’s favor. "Favor isn’t fair," he often tells those who ask, while adding that they should try praying more and being more grateful for what God has given them. The list goes on.
“Okay,” says Ray, “I have the cross-referenced list and some people who might be able to connect us to folks who can confirm this tip. I guess we can divide the names up and start meeting with them.”
“If, in the course of investigating, we see one another on the outside, we shouldn’t tip people off to the fact that we know each other,” says James. “As soon as we leave these walls, we are strangers. Gather as many facts as possible before regrouping and taking on the head honchos. We’re looking for a leaker—someone more loyal to the faction than its leaders. This is tricky in Divinus, since many leaders convince members that God has chosen them.”
I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh, taking in the mission lying ahead of me.
“Are we boring you?” James snaps at me.
“N-no,” I stammer, immediately regretting how unsure I sound.
“Good,” James replies, his eyes slightly narrowed. “We only have three days—probably less, because we need to stay ahead of the other groups, not behind. As more of us move in, Divinus members will grow more suspicious. Which means the likelihood of one of us getting jailed or killed also increases.”
“So let’s get this show on the road,” says Titan, breaking the tension between James and me.
I grab my pack and list and head out of the building.
It’s snowing. It has been snowing for over six months now. People grow more anxious each year as winters stretch longer and longer. Every year, the city seems to be setting new records for winter weather.
All around the city, there are reminders of the crash. Abandoned cars with smashed windshields and missing radios line the streets. Stray cats and dogs roam in search of food. Looking up, I see broken windows and rusted fire escapes on apartment buildings.
Then there’s the homeless—hundreds of people living in tent communities with fires burning around the city. Every small enclave where parks used to be has turned into a tent city. Fountains tourists once admired have become bathrooms for many of the homeless. As I walk into the night, I can feel eyes on me. I pull my hood over my head to appear more intimidating.
“Look like the kind of person who makes others cross the street when they see you,” my uncle once told me.
This is nothing new to me. I have walked these streets many times before, picking up trash so my uncle and I could have something to sell. But the separation from this reality—living and working in the newsroom—has been jarring. It suddenly hits me how desperate I am to pass this test.
After some internal deliberation, I change the plan. There’s no time to gather information. I need to find Michelle Robinson, the former Divinus faction leader. She seems like my best bet to learn more about what’s really going on in the faction. They betrayed and rejected her—maybe she’ll do the same to them. And if the rumors about her vices are true, she clearly doesn’t mesh well with Divinus anyway.
Like many in Divinus, Robinson’s personal life is a mystery. But in some of the public interviews she’s given, it came out that she’s a fan of high-end luxury massage parlors. Most people from Divinus hang out in Ward 4, so I figure I should try to find a luxury spa there.
First, I need a place to sit down, surf the internet, and make some calls. Across the street, I see a coffee shop with one guard holding an AK-47 in front. This is how many businesses stay in service—keeping the unwanted poor and homeless out. I show the guard my Station 7 ID, and he gestures for me to enter.
I open my laptop and start searching for luxury massage parlors in Ward 4.
“Hey, I know you,” a teenage girl with dark skin and curly hair nudges me.
“I—I’m sorry,” I reply, confused. I’m certain I’ve never seen her before.
“I follow you online. You work at Station 7, right?” she says.
I’m stunned—slightly afraid, but also flattered. It’s a strange experience being recognized after spending most of my life alone and almost invisible.
“Uh, yes, I do,” I reply.
“Good luck! You’re my favorite! I hope you take over the station,” she says with a full smile and a look of excitement.
“T-Thanks,” I stammer.
Before I can object, she takes my picture with her phone and walks away. I stare after her for a second, then decide I don’t have time to waste.
There’s only one luxury spa in Ward 4. I should have known. After the crash, not many people have funds for high-end anything. I write down the address, put on my coat, and head toward the nearest bus stop.
But as soon as I step outside, I see two men in my peripheral vision walking toward me. My heart starts to race, and I immediately pick up the pace.
“Stupid,” I think to myself. I left that fancy coffee shop and should have hopped directly into a cab. I frantically feel for my pocket knife and pepper spray. The footsteps behind me quicken.
I know I can’t outrun them, so I turn around, pull out a knife, and lock eyes with them. That stops them in their tracks. Maybe they were hoping to surprise me.
One of the men immediately takes an attack stance. The other smiles and raises his hand, like he’s about to crack a joke. But then I start yelling and charging toward them. I stab the smiling man twice in the leg. Then I swiftly turn around and use my other hand to pepper spray the second guy, who seems unsure whether to attack me or help his friend.
I don’t stay to see what happens next. I just run—leaving them in their shock. I sprint several blocks and turn a corner until they’re out of sight and I can no longer hear their screams.
Voluntary or not, I’m annoyed that I already seem to be drawing so much attention to myself. I need to get this mission done and get out quickly. After two unsuccessful attempts, I finally hail a cab.
“Take me to First Temple Church in Ward 4,” I tell the driver. I decide it’s best not to head directly to the spa. One, because I don’t want the driver to think I have a lot of money. Two, because I don’t think I can afford to stay at such a place for more than an hour.
I glance at my reflection in the cab’s rearview mirror. I look terrible. If I want to get into a place like that, I need to look the part. I brush my hair, use a cloth to wipe the sweat off my face, and put on some lipstick.
“Going somewhere special?” the cab driver grins at me through the rearview mirror.
“No,” I reply, trying to discourage small talk. I suddenly notice his radio is tuned to Station 7.
“Can you turn that up?” I ask, softening my tone.
“Oh, yeah,” the driver responds. “It’s the only news I trust.”
“Did you hear? Earlier they were reporting that Nathan Widum, the Divinus policy secretary, is considering resigning. Those motherfuckers are all crooks if you ask me. Oh, sorry—those are your people, right?”
“Those aren’t... my people,” I reply.
“Then why are you going to First Temple?” He looks confused.
I want to end the conversation, but then it suddenly hits me—the news about Nathan Widum may have come from one of the other groups in the field seeking this story.
“Did the report say how they knew he was considering resigning?” I ask, dodging his question.
“I don’t really remember,” the driver says, shaking his head. “I think it was an anonymous source or something like that. But I believe them. Station 7 is the only true thing in this world full of phonies.”
My phone buzzes. I have several messages from James.
“Is this your low profile?!?!?!?!?” reads the message, followed by an image of me in the coffee shop on social media.
“Shit,” I think to myself.
“They can trace you and all of us good enough without the social posts,” reads another message. “They know you’re out and about now. You better watch your back.”
I decide not to reply.
Suddenly, the car slows down and stops in front of a beige building. It’s larger than most of the surrounding homes, clearly designed to stand out from the old but well-maintained neighborhood buildings.
“We’re here,” the driver says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” he adds as I start to open the door. “I don’t judge people for their work at Heavenly Masseuse. It’s hard to make a dollar these days,” he says with a wink.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, stepping out of the cab. I pay the fee and walk in the direction of the church until he drives away. Then I promptly turn and head toward the massage parlor, Heavenly Masseuse.
The interior of the building is newer and more lavish than the outside suggests. The furniture has vintage designs, though it’s all new, with velvet seats. Pink floral wallpaper covers the walls. A podium stands at the front entrance.
“Can I help you?” asks the woman behind the podium.
I haven’t thought much about my plan beyond getting here, but the taxi driver gave me an idea.
“Uh, yes,” I reply. “I’d like to get a job application.”
“I’m sorry, we’re not hiring at the moment,” she replies with a slight smile, looking completely unapologetic.
“Don’t be silly, Savannah,” says another woman, walking up behind her and pulling out a paper from behind the podium. “She came all the way here from... where, dear? Where have you come from?”
“Ward 1,” I reply, taking the paper and pen she hands me.
“All the way from Ward 1—she can at least fill out an application,” the woman says, giving Savannah a coy look. Then she walks away.
Just as I begin filling out the papers, unsure of what my next move will be, the door opens.
“Lady Robinson, you’re early!” Savannah says, startled.
My heart thumps in my chest as adrenaline rushes through my veins. I slowly tilt my head up, and there she is.
“I’ve told you this before, Savannah—call me Michelle,” says Robinson.
I’ve found her. I can hardly contain my excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be in the presence of a possible faction traitor. I go back to filling out the application, this time more slowly and meticulously, to avoid drawing attention to myself.
“I didn’t realize I was early,” says Robinson, turning to a young woman who enters with her, carrying several bags. “Renee, what time is my next appointment? And why are we early?”
The young woman opens her mouth to offer an explanation.
“Never mind. I don’t want to hear your excuses. Savannah, is there no one available who can do this massage? I have an important meeting after this and must be on my way.”
Savannah fumbles through the papers on her desk.
“I’m available,” I say, trying to sound confident.
Savannah’s eyes widen in panic, then she quickly regains her composure.
“Yes…,” she pauses, clearly struggling to remember my name.
“Feonix,” I pipe up.
“Yes, Feonix is available. But she’s new. Is that all right?” asks Savannah, forcing a smile.
“Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road,” says Robinson, tossing her coat onto her assistant, Renee.
Savannah leads us to a back room, giving me a look that says, You better not fuck this up.
“Here you are,” she says, opening a door and gesturing for us to enter.
As soon as Savannah leaves, my heart races. It’s just Michelle and me in a private room. I can ask her anything. I decide to ease into it.
“I’ll give you a moment to change into this robe,” I say, stepping out of the room. Three minutes later, I return.
Michelle is under the sheets. The room is warm, almost like a sauna. Soft music plays in the background. Candles flicker on every surface. It’s not exactly the scene for an interrogation, but maybe that’s for the best.
I pull the sheets away from her back and pour warm oil onto her skin—clearly too much, but only I can tell. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is heavy.
I remember my dad giving my mom massages when she was pregnant with my little sister. He mostly pressed down on her lower back, center back, and shoulders—places she said she felt pain. I try to imitate his moves on Robinson’s back, but it must be clear to her that I’m a novice.
“Can you add more pressure?” she asks after a few minutes.
I try again, and it must be better because her muscles finally start to relax. My mind races. I need a smooth way to ease into this conversation, but nothing comes to me.
“I have lots of tension in my thighs,” she says after about 15 minutes.
“Oh, okay,” I stammer. I cover her back with the sheets and notice oil spots bleeding through the fabric. Then I pull the sheet off her legs and pour more warm oil. As I rub her thighs, she shifts and moans slightly, widening the space between her legs.
“A little higher,” she says, spreading her legs further apart.
My heart races faster as I remember what the cab driver said about Heavenly Masseuse. Did everyone know something about this place that I didn’t?
“You can use your fingers or something else if you have it,” she says.
That’s when I notice she isn’t wearing underwear. I freeze. I don’t have any more time to waste. Ideas of what to ask her race through my mind until I finally blurt everything out at once like word vomit.
“Is Nicholas resigning because he knows who is taking money from the Saudis? Did he refuse to be involved? Why is he leaving?” I ask, my face stern and serious.
Michelle’s body tenses all over. Her eyes widen with fear as she slowly turns her head to look at me. She pushes my hands away from her thighs, pulls the sheets over her body, and stares at me speechless.
“Wh-who are you?” she stammers.
“Look, my story has nothing to do with you—a married faction leader attending massage parlors that double as brothels—yet,” I say, pulling a pen, recorder, and notepad from my bag while keeping my eyes on her. “I want to know what’s going on with the Saudis. Who are they paying? How are they paying them? When did this start?”
“You work for Station 7,” she says, looking at my face for confirmation. “These questions could get us both killed.”
“I already asked. Now it’s time to talk,” I say, hitting record on my device.
“I don’t know anything about this,” she says, trembling.
“You’re lying. Tell me what I need to know, and you’ll never see me again. No one has to know we spoke. You simply came here to get your… massage, like you always do.”
“Nicholas would never betray the faction. But maybe he knows too much now. You can’t cite me as a source!” she blurts out.
“Keep your voice down,” I whisper forcefully. “I don’t need to cite you if you can lead me to someone who can be cited.”
She trembles beneath the sheets, looking at me like I’m her worst nightmare come to life.
“You can’t make it in Divinus faction leadership unless you embrace some corruption. But the deal with the Saudis clearly took things too far,” she says, looking down at her hands.
“I think Welsh is a plant from another faction. I had my fair share of vices, but I never betrayed the faction like he and David—and maybe now Jaleesa—have,” she whispers, her voice pained at the mention of Jaleesa.
“David Uberman, the financial minister, and Jaleesa Brown, the secretary,” I confirm, writing their names down.
“Yes,” says Robinson.
“How does the money come in?” I ask.
Michelle explains that there is a nonprofit real estate developer specializing in education facilities. The developer takes in donations from around the world, including large sums from the Saudis, to build new schools.
In the city, tax funds normally go toward building and maintaining educational facilities, but tax collection slowed significantly during the crash. In its place, nonprofits and philanthropies—often run by billionaires—took over the role of providing public services.
Since much of the money for public services comes from private entities, the government raised the ceiling for public-private contract disclosures to $500,000 five years ago. It’s an absurdly large amount, but with a shattered economic system, people clung to anything that offered stability. Many were so disillusioned they barely noticed that the high ceiling created the perfect environment for corruption.
Michelle continues, explaining that the education developer exploits those loopholes to contract with private companies run by friends and relatives of Divinus leadership. The contracts cover construction, school supplies, custodial services, lunches, and more—all at astronomical prices.
“So, money from the Saudis goes to the schools. The schools contract with ridiculously expensive vendors, who are often related in some way to Divinus leadership. Then, when the vendors are paid, they funnel the money back to Divinus leadership?” I ask, confirming what I heard.
“Exactly,” Robinson replies. “Check the campaign finance reports. Anyone receiving support or donations from vendors that could also service a school is probably getting Saudi money under the table, too.”
“Look, as far as anyone knows, you got your… massage and said nothing about this. As long as you keep it that way, I will, too. Who can I talk to? Who will go on record?”
“Maybe the school principal at Riverside Academy,” Robinson says, pulling the sheet tighter around herself. “He’s been uncomfortable with the whole operation, and they’re actively trying to replace him—if you know what I mean. To my knowledge, he should be there today.”
At that, I gather my things and leave the room. Savannah looks puzzled as I head toward the exit without so much as a glance in her direction.
“Feonix, come back,” she calls after me.
I don’t stop or turn around. I hail a taxi and get in.
“Take me to Riverside Academy,” I tell the driver, relieved that this one isn’t as chatty as the last.
I check my phone: seven missed calls from Ray. Through an encrypted app, I send a message to the group.
“Headed to Riverside Academy. I think I have the lead I need to tell this story,” I type and hit send.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!?”
“We’ve been trying to reach you!”
“The school???” James messages in rapid succession.
“That’s funny,” Titan texts. “I got a bunch of contracts between that school and a custodial company from a source. They’re making millions.”
My heart races with a mix of anxiety and excitement. I’m on the right path. The earlier messages disappear automatically. I upload my recording of the conversation with Michelle to my drive.
“You all won’t believe what I got Michelle Robinson to say on tape. I’ll tell you when we meet tonight,” I text.
“In the meantime, Titan and Ray, can you find out who owns the custodial company? See if they have any ties to Divinus leadership. James, can you check the tax forms from the school and see who its donors are?”
“Ok,” they all respond.
For a second, my heart swells. I’ve taken a chance and almost have everything I need for the story—two days ahead of the deadline.
“As soon as I speak to this principal,” I think, “I’m heading back to the newsroom to write one of the most thrilling investigative pieces I’ve ever written.”
Ten minutes later, I don’t see the window shatter, but I hear it. I hardly notice the driver’s blood and brains spray onto my body like a sprinkler system. I just remember screaming as every muscle in my body tenses. I stretch out my arms, gripping anything that can orient me as the taxi spins out of control.
It feels like the world is moving in slow motion. I know the only way the vehicle will stop is if it collides with something.
Then everything goes dark.
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