by Carl Damen
Each shout of "Them!" brought an answering chorus from the audience.
"And now," the man continued, "they're hitting us where we live, screwing around with us on the genetic level! Well, I say, 'No more!' No more of our children into the meat-grinder, no more soldiers sacrificed to Them!"
If the man said more, it was drowned out by fevered cheering from the crowd. The uproar was loud enough to attract the attention of those within the office, and the cheers turned to angry boos and curses as an officer came out and began speaking to the man with the megaphone.
Jack had seen enough. He was just about to continue on his way when a woman detached herself from the crowd and came to stand beside him.
"Hell of a show, huh?" she asked.
"Yeah…."
The woman was a little shorter than Jack, pale and thin, with high cheekbones and short red hair. Despite the relative warmth of the day, she was wearing a thick, dirty jacket. Her smell caused Jack to take a step away. The woman stepped closer to him again.
"So," she said conversationally, "you can spare a dollar, maybe?"
Jack decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Sorry, I'm not interested in donating."
The woman laughed, a high-pitched, grating sound. "Donate! Hah! No. I'm not with them. No, no, no, hell no. Hah! No man, lunch money. I'm hungry; can you spare a dollar? Maybe three?"
"No, sorry, I don't carry cash." He turned and took a few steps. Behind him he could hear raised voices.
"C'mon," the woman insisted, "is that any way to treat an old friend?"
Jack didn't look back.
His indifference didn't seem to faze her. "C'mon, man, you seriously don't recognize me? It's me, Cyd, c'mon, you gotta recognize me!" She reached out and caught his hand. "You gotta be shittin' me Jack; you gotta be shittin' me!"
This time Jack did turn around. He stared at the woman—Cyd—trying to figure out how she had known his name. Stolen wallet? No, she had guessed and gotten lucky. Had to have done. Behind her, the crowd was closing in on the officer.
"Look, lady," Jack began, trying to retrieve his hand, "I don't know where you think you know me from—"
"From the Program, Jack!" There was a crazed sheen to her eyes. "From the Program, back when we were Defenders!" She didn't say it very loudly, but it was enough to draw the attention of some on the fringes of the crowd.
"You're crazy!" Jack managed to free his hand and stumbled back a few steps.
"Are you really a Defender?" someone in the crowd asked as he made his way closer to Jack and Cyd.
"Hell, no!" Questions of reality aside, Jack knew this much: he was not a Defender.
"Hell, yes!" Cyd said proudly. "Me and Jack, we were E.H.U.D.s! I wasn't nothing special, but Jack here, Allen picked him to lead the resistance!"
More people began to drift from the crowd, pulled by the siren song of Cyd's ramblings. Jack tried to walk away, but there were too many people now. For her part, Cyd was preening at the attention and continued on with her story that Jack was supposedly called by God—or at least by His prophet, Allen—to destroy the military-industrial complex that they hated so much.
Seeing that the crowd was now turning itself onto an obviously uncomfortable civilian, the officer tried to refocus their attention. When he grabbed onto the ring-leader's shoulder, the man with the megaphone swung around and punched him in the face. The officer clutched at his freely-bleeding nose and stumbled away while the man with the megaphone stared in shock at his bloody knuckles until he was tackled by several soldiers who had rushed out of the office.
As quickly as the crowd had turned its attention to Jack, it now turned back to the rapidly-growing chaos that had erupted in front of the office. Some in the crowd, sensing the inevitable outcome of the fight, quickly ran off. Others, among them Cyd, gleefully entered in. Most, Jack included, merely stood in mute fascination bordering on horror.
Intellectually, Jack knew he should leave. Unfortunately, intellect and action were entirely separate; his will to leave had somehow abandoned him. The fight was growing, and he had to dodge quickly as someone came stumbling back towards him. Through the tangle of arms and legs, Jack could see that one of the soldiers had been pinned and was being bludgeoned by shoes.
A hand grabbed Jack, and he twisted around, expecting to see Cyd again. Instead he came face-to-face with a different woman. She was his height, with a flat nose and straight black hair. "This way," she insisted, jerking her head away from the riot.
Jack didn't want to argue, so he simply followed when she started pulling him away.
Pedestrians all along the street were stopping to look at the commotion in front of the recruiting office, and many pressed closer to get a better look.
Jack and his rescuer turned at the first cross-street they came to, and the sounds of the riot quieted behind them. They slowed and continued on for half a block until they were more or less alone.
"Thanks," Jack said, reclaiming his arm.
"Don't mention it." The woman leaned against a building and took a deep breath, her face flushed from their recent sprint. Jack didn't look much better. "I saw you just standing there and figured you could use a little prompting." She pushed herself upright and offered Jack her hand. "I'm Naomi."
He shook her hand. "Jack."
"Yeah, I know."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, she was a little loud, huh?"
Naomi imitated Jack's nod, and they both laughed.
"Jesus." Jack pushed his glasses up on his head and rubbed at his eyes. "An actual riot. I—I never thought I'd see that in this day and age, right in the middle of the city."
Naomi shrugged. "People are people, I guess."
"Yeah, but all this over something that might not be true?"
Naomi chuckled and shook her head. "Not a believer, huh?"
"I just—I mean, it's a lot to take in, conspiracy theories aside, and all we have is video, which can easily be-" He was cut off by a sudden sharp gesture from Naomi.
"You hear that?"
As soon as she finished talking, he heard. The sounds of the riot, of yelling, of glass shattering and large things being thrown about, was rising in intensity.
He nodded. "We should get out of here. Hey, I'll walk you home, okay, or at least the nearest train station?"
"No, I'm up from D.C. for business, and my hotel's clear on the other side of town."
"What were you doing over here, then?"
She shrugged. "Sightseeing."
"Listen, we at least need to get inside somewhere and wait this out." He gestured back to the street corner, where a steady stream of people was running in and out of the fray. "There's a pretty nice bar and grill about a mile from here, should be safe enough."
Naomi nodded, and Jack led her at a brisk pace away from the chaos.
They passed under the outdated neon sign of The Gilbert Wallace some twenty minutes later, and were surprised to see that it was nearly deserted.
"Lunch crowd's out," the hostess explained, "and most people don''t want to get caught up in the riot."
"But you're still open?" Jack asked.
The hostess nodded and ushered them inside the brick-lined main dining hall. Multiple copies of the same soft, urgent voice suffused the space, coming from the televisions over the bar, all showing a live feed from the riot, overlaid with a serious-looking news anchor. The hostess led them to a large table near the corner, and Jack had just sat down when he heard a woman call his name. His stomach lurched as he flashed back on Cyd, and lurched again when he saw the speaker rise from her table and walk over to him.
"Oh, my God, it's really you." It was Lauren.
Jack swallowed, feeling the cracks in his wall of normalcy open just a bit wider.
She looked the same as he had seen her the night he called—the only way he remembered her looking—but there were signs of stress, a few extra wrinkles around her eyes.
He looked past her to the table she had just left. A man sat there, wear
ing an overlarge police uniform, glaring intently at Jack.
A sharp pressure bit into Jack's arm. "Ow."
Naomi released her sudden grip, but deep fingernail marks remained.
Lauren had reached the table and was now staring fixedly at him, chewing her upper lip. "I... I didn't think it was real. The phone call, I mean. It was just so..." Her eyes lost focus for a moment, then snapped around, looking at Naomi, then back to Jack, and finally off to the side, seeking her companion. She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry about that. I just, wow, it's just been so crazy, and I really wasn't expecting to see you again-" She stopped again, took a deep breath, and thrust out her hand to Naomi. "Hi! I'm Lauren, I, uh, used to know Jack here."
Naomi accepted the hand. "I just met him."
"Really?" Lauren was now conspicuously not looking directly at Jack. She laughed nervously and gestured back at the table she had left. "Where are my manners? Please, join us!"
Jack didn't want to. It was weird enough knowing about Lauren, but he had come to terms with his missing past. He didn't want her to be a part of his present, though. And then there was her boyfriend... Jack looked back at the man, and found him smiling good-naturedly.
The man's sudden shift in temperament seemed to be having an effect on Naomi. "Can't say no to hospitality," she said, smiling. She stood and walked with Lauren back to the inhabited table.
When Jack joined them a moment later, introductions were under way. "Ken this is... Sorry, what was your name again?"
"Naomi."
"Right. This is Naomi. Naomi, this is my fiance, Ken."
Ken nodded, his mouth full and chewing furiously.
"And this is Jack, my, uh... ex, I guess."
Ken swallowed and nodded. "The dead guy."
Jack's stomach clenched. He was offended that this man, this stranger, had trivialized the event that had so shaped his life.
Why?he thought. I don't remember it, I don't even think about it all that often. Why is this rubbing me wrong?
"So you're a cop?" Naomi asked, pulling out a chair and sitting. "You planning on doing anything in the riot?"
Lauren sighed. "Awful, isn't it? As soon as word came on the news, everyone pretty much cleared out of here."
"We saw it first hand," Jack said. "That's how I met Naomi."
"I'm not getting involved until I'm asked to," Ken answered, ignoring Jack and sending another jab into his bruised ego. "Extra cops on scene is just more fuel on the fire."
Naomi nodded knowingly, and Jack had the sensation that he was missing something.
They tried small talk for a few minutes, then fell silent and turned their attention to the televisions. The riot had grown, blocking traffic and turning into a looting spree around the edges. Police had sealed off a quarter mile of streets in an attempt at containment, but several officers had been attacked and brought down by rioters.
The absolute focus of everyone in the room was broken when Ken's mobile began to buzz. He answered, had a hushed conversation, disconnected, and stood. "I'm off. They need reinforcement, and they're refusing to call in National Guard."
Lauren jumped to her feet and hugged him.
"Don't stay here. It's safe for now, but if this spreads, the bar's a perfect target for looters. Get home, lock everything you can; gun's on the second shelf up in the closet. Stay away from the windows." He pulled away from Lauren and walked briskly to the door, ignoring the nervous looks from the wait staff.
Jack noticed that in the moments after Ken's instructions, Lauren looked dazed. After he was gone, though, she shook her head and seemed to notice her two remaining companions. "I'm sorry, I, uh, I have to go." She grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.
Now alone, Jack looked at Naomi and noticed for the first time how uncomfortable she appeared. "I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean to drag you into my personal life-"
She held up a hand and shook her head. "It's okay. I knew a Ken once. He was a real asshole."
Jack laughed. "Sounds like this one, judging by my previous run-in with him."
"I'm guessing Lauren didn't know about any earlier meetings."
"No..."
The hostess approached them. "Excuse me? We're going to close. You want anything before you go? No charge."
Jack shook his head. "I'm good." No matter what he believed about the Defenders, there was no denying the impact they were already having. Honest-to-God riots, in the middle of the city. That somehow seemed less real to him than the possibility of super-soldiers.
"I guess I'd better head out, too," Naomi said.
"Can you get back to your hotel?"
She shrugged. "This'll kill traffic for at least a couple of days. I'll get a new room in the opposite direction; I doubt corporate will begrudge me a second room, all things considered."
"Yeah..."
"And who knows? Maybe I'll be wrong and this whole thing will clear up on its own."
The riot had grown to cover more than two square miles by the time Ken arrived. He stood with a knot of onlookers who gathered at the edges of the riot, alternately held back by police and by simple fear of death. Occasionally, an onlooker would get brave and try to jump into the melee, only to be brought down by one of the officers trying to contain the violence. Soon they were beyond the edges of the riot, bruised and handcuffed.
The city's jails would be full tonight.
Ken worked his way to a nearby police officers and showed his badge. "Let me through."
The officer let out a manic chuckle. "Good, we've needed back-up. Just catch anyone who tries to get in there! Anyone who wants out can go!"
"I'm here to fight, not to fuck around."
"What?"
Ken opened his mouth to respond, then caught movement from the corner of his eye; someone was using the distraction to get involved. Ken shot out an arm and grabbed the newcomer, swung the man's head into his outstretched fist, then let him fall.
"I'm here to end this." He stared into the officer's eyes.
After a moment, she frowned and moved aside. "At least grab some armor."
"Don't need it. Won't say no to your nightstick, though."
The officer sighed and surrendered her weapon. "Stay safe."
Ken was already gone. He waded out into the chaos, subconsciously feeling the bodies moving around him, police and civilian caught up in a perverse dance, each participant moving to destroy their partner. He pulled out his own nightstick, swung both of them, getting his mind ready for what lay ahead.
A curse rang out behind him and he went low, thrusting one arm back, feeling someone crumple over the end of the borrowed nightstick. He came up, around, swinging at his assailant's head. One down, a thousand to go.
Someone must have seen Ken's attacker go down, for another was on him already. Ken smiled wolfishly, feeling his heart race and his mind go black. This was what he lived for. Before he could ever hope to know what happened—if he even wanted to—his body was moving, whirling its weapons through the air, striking once, twice, again, again, again. Six down.
Ken continued swirling, continued striking. Each strike landed true: point of the chin, base of the skull, side of the head, kidney, solar plexus, groin. As the injured and unconscious began to gather around him, the police who could see him rallied and struck back at the wild civilians who tormented them. Inhibitions vanished, fear and professionalism replaced by ferocity and bloodlust.
After some time—seconds? minutes? hours?—Ken realized he was stretching farther and farther for new enemies, new victims. His mind snapped back to the present, and he saw civilians running, screaming, surging—away. The dance had ended, those who had once led now fleeing from the floor.
Police stood still, not chasing their vanquished enemies. They breathed frantically, eyes wide behind armored visors. Ken knew that, whatever they might say afterwards, they had enjoyed what had been done here today.
He certainly had.
This little victory, the disengagement o
f these few combatants, was enough to end the riot. As these civilians fled, they spread panic, weakened resolve, brought the rest down with them. Within a matter of minutes, the area had all but cleared out and the few who remained were quickly restrained and arrested.
Finally, a collective sigh went up from those who still stood, who had defended the peace.
Ken stood apart, glaring down at his feet, willing them to dance once more, to return to the blackness that enveloped him.