The Open Door (Prologue)

Learn more: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/creating-from-chaos-obsidian-skull-press-8asve

Prologue

I.

          Officer Robert "Bobby" Campbell adjusted the sweat-soaked strap of his riot helmet. Dusk was settling over Park Central Square, the sun a molten eye slowly dipping beyond the curve of the earth, painting the historic buildings in hues of bruised orange, arterial crimson, and defiant purple. The air, thick with the stench of cheap beer, marijuana and an unexpected humidity that had risen from the cool spring rain earlier in the day, vibrated with simmering tension. He could practically taste the tension, a metallic tang tingling the tip of his tongue, his fingers, making the fine hairs on his neck stand at rigid AH-TEN-TION!

          Bobby hated these assignments. Hated the feeling of being a human dam, holding back a torrent of hate and righteous indignation. Not that he was cynical, or harbored any indifference towards people's beliefs, but in his experience, when religious zeal became involved in social or political matters it was a losing battle damned near every time. A native Springfieldian, he thought he knew this town. A small town trying to be a big city in the middle of a cow field. A town of polite smiles, friendly helloes, and Sunday afternoon casserole dishes, beer, and football. But the last few years had peeled back the veneer, revealing a festering underbelly of bigotry he'd naively assumed only existed on the fear-wielding news.

          "Fuck," he swore under his breath, knowing nothing good ever came of what he liked to think of as his "Spidey Sense." It wasn't a tingling in his fingers or a voice in his head, like some comic book hero. It was a feeling every cop knew, a low hum in the gut, a primal unease that always seemed to blossom right before the world went sideways. Every cop had one, that feeling when the mundane shift threatened to explode into a chaotic mess. It was the way the air suddenly felt thicker, the way peripheral sounds seemed to sharpen, the almost imperceptible change in the energy of a room, that prickling at the back of your neck, the sudden dryness in your mouth, like a warning siren only you could hear. It wasn't rational, not something you could put in a report, but it was always there, a knot forming in his gut. Tonight, it was screaming at him, telling him that the seemingly innocuous public forum was about to explode into something ugly.

II.

          Park Central Square, usually a vibrant tapestry woven with the threads of Springfield life, was a fractured canvas. Normally, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the Mudhouse Cafe, mingling with the savory aroma of street tacos from a nearby vendor and the sweet scent of Radiance Flowers' blooms, creating an intoxicating blend that drew people in, was now choked by the pall of tension draped over downtown. Where the laughter of children chasing pigeons around the fountain typically rode on the drone of traffic circumnavigating the square, a tense silence now hung, broken by the rally chants and crackle of police radios. The familiar murmur of conversations from outdoor diners at Civil Kitchen drifted away like whispers. Even the rhythmic strumming of a local musician's guitar typically filled the air, providing a soundtrack to the casual chatter of friends meeting for lunch or families enjoying the splash fountain, was absent. Now, the only sounds were the strident chants and jeers echoing off the brick facades of the surrounding buildings.

          On one side of the invisible fissure, the Knights of Righteous Judgement, or KRJ, stood arrayed like a grotesque tableau of misplaced piety and backwoods bravado. Their ranks were a motley collection, faces flushed with zeal and cheap whiskey, many sporting ill-fitting, camouflage fatigues. Some wore worn-out baseball caps emblazoned with slogans like "God, Guns, & Glory," and "Make America Great Again," beside hand-painted biblical verses referencing Old Testament retribution. Their white t-shirts, stained with sweat and self-righteousness and each baring a symbol - an emblazoned red cross overlaid with an AR-15 that made Bobby think of some bastard rendering of the Knights Templar insignia - that proclaimed their devotion to a fire-and-brimstone Christianity long forgotten by the civilized world. They held aloft crudely painted signs: "God Hates Pride," "Marriage is Between a Man and a Woman," "Protect Our Children." They chanted verses from the Bible -

          "Leviticus 18:22 - You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination."

          "Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed for their wickedness, and Springfield will face the same if we allow this... this... filth to fester!"

- and whispers of a vengeful God who demanded purity of blood, gender, and unwavering obedience to their self-proclaimed moral code, their voices thick with the drawl of men and women who'd never ventured beyond the county line. Men and women who saw themselves as crusaders, embarking on their own warped Holy Crusade against the infidels, reclaiming a lost Eden with a self-righteous certainty that bordered on madness, conveniently ignoring the hypocrisy that dripped a twisted blend of backwoods bravado and obscure, fire-and-brimstone Christian fervor.

          Bobby clenched his jaw.

          He'd heard it all before. He knew the script by heart. The same tired arguments, the well-worn phrases, hateful rhetoric that had fueled violence across the nation, dripping with disdain, designed to dehumanize and divide. They were the same words that had paved the way for the Pulse massacre in 2017, the 2022 shooting at Club Q in Colorado Springs, the kidnapping, raping, and torturing of Sam Nordquist, a 24-year-old transgender man from Minnesota this past February - names etched in the collective trauma of a community, the same words that haunted the obituaries of lives cut short. He could almost hear the echoes of hateful speeches from Capitol Hill, the pronouncements of politicians who found it easier to demonize LGBTQIA+ individuals than address the real problems. The memory of Trump, his face contorted in a dismissive smirk as he publicly questioned the legitimacy of transgender soldiers, flashed in his mind. The prejudice had festered since, a slow rot taking hold within the depths of the nation, and now Springfield was choking on the fruit of that poisoned tree. And with Trump back in power, the familiar venom was once again coursing through the nation's veins.

          He adjusted his helmet, the plastic visor fogging slightly with his breath.

          This wasn't just about some SOGI ordinance from years ago, though that reignited wound festered still. He remembered the uproar, the vitriol hurled at City Council meetings, the thinly veiled bigotry disguised as concern for children. They'd repealed it then, those "protections," leaving a scar on Springfield that refused to fade. The acronym SOGI - Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity - was now a battle cry.

          But it wasn't just about that anymore. It was about something far bigger, far more insidious - the creeping normalization of hate.

          He knew Park Central Square. Knew the ghost stories whispered about the old buildings, the taste of Hurts Donuts from down the street, the echoes of laughter from Artsfest. Now, it was a stark reminder that Springfield wasn't immune to the hate festering across the nation. and the tightening in his chest intensified. Another rally, another potential flashpoint. Another statistic waiting to happen.

III.

          Across the square, a defiant wave of rainbow flags rippled in the twilight. Members of the GLO Center and Springfield Pride, a vibrant tapestry of individuals, stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of streetlights and neon. The crowd's collective voice rose in a powerful chorus, cutting through the gathering darkness. "Our Existence is Not Up for Debate!" they roared, their voices echoing off the surrounding buildings, a declaration of their fundamental right to be. "We Deserve to Be Seen, to Be Heard, to Be Loved!" others chanted, their words laced with frustration and longing. And then, with a unified force, they proclaimed, "We Will Not Be Erased!" The sheer volume of their voices, fueled by years of struggle and the simple desire for acceptance, seemed to vibrate through the very ground they stood upon, a testament to their unyielding resilience in the face of hate.

Bobby scanned the crowd, recognizing familiar faces: seasoned local activists, shopkeepers whose cozy little nooks served as safe havens and business owners who proudly displayed rainbow decals, bartenders and lawyers, a brave contingent of high school students who dared to be themselves despite the whispers and judgments that still lingered in the school hallways, even a few off-duty officers. He saw the fear etched in their expressions, but also, he saw something more: the fierce, unyielding resilience and unwavering spirit of a community determined to fight for its place in the world.

IV.

          The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, turning the ornate details of the buildings into grotesque masks. Bobby watched the crowd, his eyes scanning for potential threats, the acrid smell of sweat and anticipation stinging his nostrils, the Ozarks air constricting and humid, simmering with a rage he knew all too well. The visor of his riot helmet amplified the shouts, making the air congeal with a low, guttural hum. He was surrounded by his fellow officers, a wall of black uniforms and riot gear barricading two opposing ideologies in Park Central Square. The familiar stone facade of the Heers Tower Lofts and the State Building loomed behind the stage, its marquee a silent observer to the brewing storm seven floors below. Dusk's bleeding crimsons and bruised hues of violet painted the horizon, reflecting in the polished plastic of their shields.

          A veritable army of media personnel lined the periphery of the square. News vans, satellite dishes sprouting from their roofs, were parked haphazardly along South Avenue. Camera crews scrambled to find the best angles, jostling for position behind the police barricade. Reporters, clutching microphones emblazoned with local and national news logos, delivered hurried stand-up reports, their faces illuminated by the harsh glare of portable spotlights. They whispered into earpieces, relaying real-time updates to producers back at the station, while their photographers snapped frantic photos, capturing every grimace, every raised fist, every tear-stained face that reflected the volatile atmosphere. A drone buzzed overhead, its red light a predatory eye watching the square.

          A few yards away, Sarah Lancaster - a small woman, Springfield's first openly lesbian council member, and a lightning rod in a city still clinging to its traditional Christian and Manifest Destiny values - stood defiant in the center of the stage; a modest affair in the park's northeast corner, made of weathered stone and framed by faux-marble columns that normally hosted local musicians during "Live From Downtown," a weekly Summer concert series rather than political rallies. Since her appointment with the City Council in April, Lancaster had been pushing for a vote to reinstate the SOGI ordinance, a local law that protected against discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity. The law had been gutted years ago, a casualty of strategic fear-mongering. He could hear fragments of her speech, amplified by the portable sound system, cutting through the rising din.

          "...They say we're trying to force our lifestyle on them," she said, her voice ringing clear across the square and bouncing off the brick facades of the surrounding buildings. "But what about the lifestyle they're trying to force on us? A lifestyle of fear, of shame, of silence! We are not asking for special rights. We are asking for equal rights. The right to live, to love, to work, to exist without fear of discrimination! We are your neighbors, your friends, your family. We are part of this community, and we deserve to be treated with dignity and respect!"

          A roar of applause erupted from her supporters, a wave of joyful defiance washing over the square. Banners proclaiming "Free to be Me!" and "Love is Love" and "Equality for All" rippled in the evening breeze. Faces, painted with rainbow colors, beamed with pride. Sarah Lancaster had struck a chord.

          Bobby felt a knot of sympathy tighten in his gut. His younger brother, Mark, was gay. He remembered the endless, awkward conversations with his parents, the subtle but persistent pressure to be "normal." Mark had moved to San Francisco years ago, escaping the myopic-minded small-town atmosphere, trying to build a life, a family, in a world that seemed increasingly determined to tear it down, and Bobby couldn't blame him.

          "...They tried to bury it then, friends. Buried it under a mountain of prejudice and fear. But we're here tonight to remind them, to remind everyone, that you can't bury the truth! You can't bury love! We fought for this after the rallies in 2017, and we won't stop fighting now!" Lancaster proclaimed.

          A collective cheer, a wave of pure affirmation, burst forth, echoing off the surrounding buildings. Rainbow flags, symbols of pride and resilience, danced in the wind, a vibrant tapestry woven with of personalized signs - each a unique voice in the chorus demanding recognition and acceptance: one sign read in bold lettering "Protect Trans Kids," while another proclaimed, "My Love is Not a Debate." A third, adorned with hand-drawn hearts, simply stated, "Equal Rights for All Families." The energy was palpable, a potent mix of hope, defiance, and unwavering solidarity in the fight for equal rights and recognition.

          But across the square, the opposition was a snarling beast. Members of the self-proclaimed "Knights of Righteous Judgment" group swelled against the police barricades. Their chants were a guttural chorus of condemnation: "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!" "Protect Our Children!" The air vibrated with their hatred, a familiar, sickening echo of the rhetoric he'd seen spewed online, on the news, after every mass shooting, every hate crime seemingly fueled by the same poisonous ideology. The faces of the victims flashed in his mind; young and old, vibrant lives extinguished by senseless violence.

          "This isn't about religion," Sarah continued, her voice rising above the chanting. "This is about basic human decency. This is about ensuring that every single person in Springfield feels safe and respected, regardless of who they love or how they identify!"

          "Liar!" a man in a camouflage hat bellowed, one of Trump's backwoods militia, the "Proud Boys," Danny suspected, his face red and contorted. "You're promoting degeneracy! You're destroying the moral fabric of this nation!"

          Others echoed his sentiments, their voices a chorus of righteous indignation. "God hates fags!" someone screamed. The tension ratcheted up another notch. Danny could see it etched on the faces of his fellow officers, distorted through the fogged plastic of their riot shields. Sweat glistened on their brows, their eyes darting nervously. He could feel the weight of his own gear, the sweat plastering his uniform to his back. The air crackled with the potential for violence.

          Then Sarah changed tactics, lowered the tone of her voice.

          "You know," she continued, "I see some of you out there... I see some of your wives and kids, and I can't imagine that this display is what you want them to see. This hate, I see... This isn't living your values."

          The crowd hushed some, and a palpable tension filled the air.

          The onlookers, a mix of curious bystanders and horrified witnesses, edged further back, creating a wider buffer between themselves and the escalating conflict. Couples clutched each other tighter, the sounds of Friday night on South Street fading into the background as the square became the epicenter of a cultural battle.

          Then, Bobby saw it. A glint of metal. Near the edge of the crowd, where the onlookers mingled with the protesters. Too small to be a badge, too bright to be harmless in this light. He scanned the area, his heart hammering against his ribs. The figure was obscured by the throng, but he caught another flash, a fleeting glimpse of something metallic and dark.

          He saw the flash of steel again, just as the figure raised their arm.

V.

          Bobby's gaze darted across the square, a frantic search for the shooter masked by the implacable surface of his riot helmet's visor. Dust motes danced in the last vestiges of sunlight, momentarily obscuring the horrifying tableau before him. Lancaster lay sprawled on the makeshift stage, the bright pink of her dress now a sickening, blossoming crimson. The two Springfield Pride leaders, only moments ago radiating defiant joy under the rainbow banners they championed, were now still, their vibrant flags soaked in the same horrifying hue.

          The smell of gunpowder, acrid and sharp, clawed at the back of his throat, a vile perfume mingling with the metallic tang of blood. It was a smell he knew too well, a smell that clung to crime scenes and haunted his nightmares. But this... this was different. This wasn't a domestic dispute gone wrong, or a drug deal turned sour. This was something colder, something deliberate, fueled by a hate so corrosive it had suddenly eaten away the moral fiber of the city.

          The radio felt slick with sweat in his palm. He could taste the acrid tang of gunpowder, a metallic film coating the back of his throat. Just breathe, Booby. Just breathe.

          Forcing down the bile rising in his throat, his fingers fumbling for the radio's transmit button. His hand trembled slightly - panic threatened to seize him, to paralyze him, but he clenched his jaw and forced it back; he was a cop and he had a job to do - as he pressed the transmit button. "Unit 3 requesting immediate assistance. Shots fired at Park Central Square. Multiple casualties. Shooter is at large, last seen heading west on Park Central East. This is a mass casualty event. Code 10-32. I repeat, Code 10-32. Need all available units to Park Central Square, now." His voice cracked, the professionalism he clung to so fiercely momentarily failing him. The dispatcher's robotic acknowledgement was a stark contrast to the human tragedy unfolding before his eyes.

          Through the narrow field of vision afforded by his helmet, the scene was fragmented, distorted, and the square seemed to pulsate with grotesque energy; the world swam in a heat-haze of horror, a terrible kaleidoscope of screaming faces and flailing limbs. The reinforced plastic of his riot helmet amplified the din - the screams were a cacophony, bouncing off the brick facades of the surrounding buildings, each one a tiny shard of glass piercing his eardrums - making the cries of the injured sound like the tormented wails of the damned. It also trapped the stench - blood, sweat, fear, and the cloying sweetness of cotton candy from a vendor's cart now overturned, its colorful promise tragically ironic. He could feel the frantic shoves of bodies against his own, the desperate press of humanity trying to escape the unimaginable. He caught glimpses of faces contorted in terror, some frozen in disbelief, others already spattered with blood or streaked with tears. The KRJ members, a knot of venomous animosity along the periphery, were a horrifying counterpoint to the general panic. Their cheers, high-pitched and guttural, spewed forth, each syllable a fresh wave of nausea.

          Goddamn animals...

          He'd been working crowd control, a glorified babysitter, ever since the demonstration started. The tension had been thick enough to cut with a knife. Ever since that SOGI ordinance fight back in '17, the undercurrent of hate had been simmering, a low-grade fever plaguing the city. The KRJ - Knights of Righteous Judgement - had been out in force, their rhetoric already ratcheted up to fever pitch. Holding signs with hateful words that were mirrored with equal passion by the counter protesters.
          And now this. Now carnage and chaos.

          The weight of the helmet felt oppressive, the thick plastic visor a barrier between him and the reality of the carnage. It was supposed to protect him, but all it did was amplify the horror, focusing his vision on the stark details of the tragedy. He focused on the stage, trying to pierce through the swirling mass of humanity. He could see the minute flecks of blood spattered on the stage backdrop, Lancaster, the tireless advocate, the woman who had fought for visibility and acceptance in a town that often preferred to look away, lay still, hand twitching weakly. He could see the slack jaw of one of the Pride leaders, his eyes staring blankly at the darkening sky, a dark blossom of blood staining his shirt. Around them, the vibrant colors of the Pride flags were now soaked a horrifying, sticky red.

          God, the flags... He swallowed hard, fighting back the bile rising in his throat.

          He'd seen the statistics, the reports, the relentless rise in violence targeting the LGBTQ+ community. He knew it was happening elsewhere, across the country. Somehow, impossibly, sickeningly, it was happening here, now, in Park Central Square.

          This wasn't just a shooting; it was an execution. Not just of individuals, but of an idea, a community, a fragile hope for acceptance in a city that, deep down, still clung to its prejudices.

          He knew, with a chilling certainty that burrowed deep into his bones, that this was a turning point. The simmering undercurrent of bigotry had become a raging torrent. The polite smiles, the averted eyes, the whispered slurs - they would no longer be enough to contain the hate.

          It was out in the open now, raw and exposed, and it wouldn't be easily silenced.