by Eric Gurr
We had brought the guns to go shooting with a cousin of mine who lives outside of town. And well, we didn’t get far and it was just chaos.”
“Okay, so did you witness these people being shot?” The reporter asked.
“Oh yes mam. I shot a few of them myself. Like I said, we were just trying to get out of the city and we walked through the crowd. And they started throwing rocks and bottles at us. We leveled our guns in self-defense and that’s when someone fired on us.
None of us were hit luckily. But yes Mam. We returned fire pretty quickly to try to escape. He smiled broadly. I know what you’re thinking, but no. We didn’t attack anyone. The crowd was after us, I guess because we’re white, I don’t really know. But we had no choice.”
“Sir, do you mean that you killed all of these people?”
“Oh, I didn’t know some had died. We tried to fire low at their feet just to scare them off and maybe hit them in the legs.
Well, that’s a shame. I’m…gosh, I didn’t know that some had died. But this is clearly a war now. And I’m hoping that some other patriots that love America will come and help us out.
I’m sure the police in a big city like this are pretty liberal and we’re going to be in big trouble. So if any good Americans who believe in the second amendment are out there I hope they get to Indianapolis soon.
We’re planning on meeting up on the south side of the city and hopefully they can help get us out of this mess. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure they’ll pin this on us like we are murderers. But I promise you ma’am. We were just trying to get out of here when we were attacked.”
The reporter, now visibly frightened looked back to the camera. She needed to hand this story off and get out of Indianapolis. She hoped the anchor team wouldn’t ask her any questions.
They didn’t. But her producers were furious. The man had just asked for more people to come into the city and bring guns, and it had been broadcast all across the country. They knew something wasn’t right.
Tanner Ritchie stood still waiting to see if there were more questions coming. He was professional, intelligent and very friendly. Tanner Ritchie was also a psychopath.
The only part of his story that was true was that he was from Missouri. He and three other friends had come to Indiana to start a war. When his interview was over, he ran to a pre-determined meeting place far outside of the city. He knew the police would be looking for him.
Three interstate highways feed into the south side of Indianapolis. I-70, I-65, and I-74. Tanner and his three friends would just drive between the exits of these highways and the 465 loop that surrounded the city. If they saw a small group, they would meet up with them and form their army.
If not, they could escape back to Missouri. That was the plan. But Tanner had no intention of sticking to that plan. If no one showed, he would hide out and take a second run at the protestors.
He was however not to be disappointed.
The next morning Tanner had found his supporters. Hundreds of them. They were mad, well-armed and ready to fight. By afternoon they had put together a plan.
They would slowly ease into the city in small groups. Then meet up downtown when it was dark. Seven O’clock was to be the hour. They would patrol the streets as liberators. Anyone who tried to stop them had to be dealt with.
As the day wore on, all of the networks were reporting that in fact, Tanner Ritchie and his group were the aggressors.
Witnesses with blurry phone video showed a raucous crowd, but one that wasn’t violent. Then suddenly dozens were mown down in a hail of gunfire. But trust in the media was at an all-time low and many did not believe the story.
Tanner seemed to be a polite, friendly boy who would never have done something like that.
The night was peaceful. After the previous night’s massacre, no protestors showed. Many of the new arrivals were interviewed. They were ask if they were supporting Tanner, white nationalism or some other right-wing cause.
The interviewees gave several different reasons. But none would say where Ritchie was. Most suggested he had left. But Tanner was in the group. His hair now died black, a baseball hat and a five-O’clock shadow was disguise enough for the night.
For two days they patrolled the city. The police left them alone, afraid of causing further violence. By the third night, all were on edge.
From Portland, Colby Ohlbinger had given an interview on the massacre. He had encouraged his supporters not to give up. This massacre was designed to put the young, the minorities and the disadvantaged back in their place. He had said.
And it was working. They were being scared into passive acceptance once again. They needed to fight back.
That night, the left wing groups showed they weren’t going to go quietly this time. The resistance would finally resist.
The trouble started just as darkness had fallen. For two hours there had been screaming and throwing of bottles and rocks. The police had cordoned off several blocks. But no shots were fired.
Tanner Ritchie was growing frustrated. His army was not stopping the protesters. He knew there were cameras everywhere. The police were boxing the crowd in closer and closer. He had to act. He slunk back behind the corner of a building where it was dark.
A large concrete plant stand was just to his left. He had cover. He had left his AK in the car so he pulled out a pistol. A .22 caliber with a ten shot capacity. He fired three rounds quickly into the crowd and hid the gun in his pocket.
The crowd started to disperse quickly. But unlike his first attack, this time there was return fire.
The massive second slaughter he envisioned did not materialize. The first return shots had hit four of his “Rebel” army. Most scattered quickly. Some returned fire.
For several minutes this is the way it went. Short bursts of fire back and forth as both sides took up defensive positions.
The rest of the night was quieter. Occasionally a shot or two would ring out. The police were unable to get any control of the situation. They had no idea who had guns, how many they had, or where they were.
But the fighters on both sides were also afraid.
The media, right in the middle of it until the first shots, had pulled back to the edge of the city. No one was sure what was going on and no one knew how it would end.
For three days it went like this. But slowly, the tens of thousands who had come to join the resistance protest started to gain an advantage. Tanner Ritchie’s forces were dwindling quickly.
The resistance, as they had termed themselves years ago, grew in numbers. On a Friday night they would make their move. Three groups of a few hundred each, stayed together and swept the city.
There were deaths on both sides, but the Rebels, as recently designated by Ritchie, took the brunt of the attacks and fell apart.
Most that were left escaped, regrouping at I-70 well outside the city. But a few were left behind. By Saturday night they had been captured by the resistance. They were paraded through the streets tied together with rope. Just five men, but they were a powerful symbol.
John Hartwick sat at home watching television. His wife Audrey watched nervously from the kitchen.
They were in a friendly middle-class suburban area, well outside the city. John felt safe but Audrey wasn’t so sure.
She was also nervous about money. No one in the city had worked for ten days. It was early in the year, but John’s company had allowed everyone to take an extra weeks’ vacation early. That would help. But for how long?
Hartwick had left Ohio right out of college. For almost ten years he had enjoyed a great life in San Jose California. The pay was great, but the cost of living was high. Still, they had done well enough.
At thirty, he had been promoted to a team lead. The money was even better. One hundred and fifty-thousand per year even in San Jose was not bad.
And then it had all fallen apart. The tech startup had lost funding and folded. He found another job quickly. The money was a bit less but sti
ll not bad. The bigger problem was that he had lost his promotion track. Now he was writing code again. Work he enjoyed even if the pay was lower.
And then it fell apart again. The company had decided to outsource some of the work to a company in India. They also brought in fifty H1b Visa programmers. John was out of a job again.
This time he couldn’t find another that paid enough to live in San Jose with a wife and two kids.
He left for a job in Indianapolis. The pay was half what he had made in San Jose. But he had a bigger house and actually a better life. They had finally adjusted.
In just two years he had already been promoted. Now at thirty-eight-years-old he thought he might be out of a job again. There had been rumors that the company was going to move to Texas.
Audrey didn’t want to go because the kids were in elementary school. And both of their parents lived fairly close. But if this kept up for another week, he would have to make a decision. Their savings wouldn’t hold out for long. And with the economy tanking, he thought he might not get a job at all.
As he watched the live news coming from Indianapolis he started to seethe. At first, he was mad at the lunatics who had broken up the protest with a mass murder.
The protests had been like so many others. A few broken windows, stop some traffic for a few days and then they left and everything went back to normal. This time things were different.
The protestors had taken control and were marching five men down the middle of the street. The story from the media was that these five men had been with Tanner Ritchie. They were the ones who had committed the massacre.
There was no single leader among the resistance. Just a group of leaders of smaller groups. As soon as they had captured the rebels, their first move was to call Colby Ohlbinger.
Colby had just landed back in Portland. He had flown first class. As he picked up his bag and headed back to the hotel he was preoccupied with how easy it had all been.
The entire nation knew he had led the protests, and was probably behind the violence. Yet he had boarded a plane, flown halfway across the country to give a speech rallying other protesters in Madison Wi, met with some people in Indianapolis, Columbus and Cincinnati, and flew all the way back to Portland. No one had said a word or tried to stop him. He was smiling to himself when the phone buzzed.
“Ohlbinger, how can I help you?” He answered.
“Colby, hey man, don’t know if you remember me but we talked on the phone yesterday. I’m in Indianapolis. My name’s Zach Hale. We caught the guys that did the massacre. We got them right now. What should we do?”
Ohlbinger was trying to suppress his jubilation. The fact that they had called him confirmed, at least in his own mind, his position as the leader of the resistance. But he had to be calm. The letter in the bag from Scotch Anderson’s assistance flashed in his mind.
That had been a brilliant way to distance himself from any crime. He had to do the same. This was not like before. These guys were not Steve Oxley, they were murders and they were the enemy.
“Are the police around?” He asked.
“Naw brother, they pulled way back. We’re running the show down here. Just like you said man. What should we do with them?”
“Now, are you sure these are the guys?” Colby asked.
“Yeah, ummm, we’re pretty sure dude. They were definitely with the group and they had guns.”
“Okay, well, this is a big moment for you guys. But you want to keep it safe. Is anyone calling for you to kill the guys?”
“Well, they want blood, so yeah, I guess so.”
This was what Colby was looking for.
“Okay. This is going to sound strange. But if you want to stay in control Zach, you’re going to have to give them what they want. I know this is hard, but these guys, they’re cold-blooded killers. They would probably get the death penalty if you turned them over to the police. But the crowd might not like that. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” Hale answered.
“Alright then Zach. Are you my guy in Indianapolis? I mean can I count on you to join the nationwide leadership?”
“Absolutely sir.”
Sir. He had said sir. Colby noticed the change in respect and deference and was quiet for a second.
“You’re going to have to get someone to line them up and shoot them. But before you do it, you need to make sure everyone can hear you. So get a megaphone and tell the crowd the guys confessed.”
“Yeah, but they really didn’t conf..”
Colby cut him off quickly.
“If you don’t think you can pull the trigger, and that’s fine Zach, get a couple of the wild ones from the group. But try to make sure they are cool and calm. Tell them about the confession and what needs to be done. Can I count on you Zach? And hey, if this leadership position isn’t for you it’s cool. It doesn’t mean you’re a coward or anything. Really, I understand. But this is important. So is there someone else there I need to talk to?”
The challenge was clear. Both men knew it. “No, no I got this. I’ll get it done and call ya back okay?”
Colby ended the call immediately. He had heard what he wanted to hear.
_______________________
Hartwick was watching it all unfold live. The men had been forced to sit down in the center of the road. There were bottles thrown at them and occasionally someone would kick them.
Someone stepped forward and pulled on the rope for them to stand. He then marched them towards the sidewalk out of the street and against a building. The man grabbed a megaphone.
A group of three more joined him. All had rifles slung over their shoulders.
The man with the megaphone started speaking.
“These men are responsible for the murders of our friends. These men killed seventeen people in cold blood!”
The crowd was screaming. The noise was so loud the reporter couldn’t even be heard.
The sentence was carried out quickly. Zachary Hale, college dropout, full-time protestor, and part-time graphic designer dropped the megaphone, pulled a handgun from his coat pocket, turned with the other three men, and executed the five accused murderers.
“Holy shit. What the fuck!” John Hartwick screamed at his television.
“What John? What happened?” His wife asked.
“They just executed five guys. They said they were the ones who had killed the people earlier this week.”
Hartwick stared at his wife in silence. There were tears in her eyes. She instinctively called the kids in from the backyard where they were playing.
“I have to go. I have to do something.” Hartwick said.
“No John, you can’t go down there.” Audrey protested.
“I’m not. I’m going to I-70 and 465. I just want to see if other people have had it with this. Something has to be done Audrey. These people are insane. All of them. Normal people have to do something. Where the hell are the police?”
_______________________
Hartwick pulled off the exit and into a huge parking lot where all the big box stores were. He was stunned at how many people were standing around talking.
It was cold and he had his big gray North Face coat on. In the right pocket was his gun and in the left a box of .38 caliber bullets. He felt a bit foolish now for taking it. He had calmed down on the drive. He didn’t know what would happen, but he knew something had to be done.
There were some rough looking men in the crowd of about a thousand people. But most were like himself. Well dressed and groomed, with coats and gloves. He parked his car and walked towards an area where a group of thirty or forty had gathered. A younger man, tall with black hair was talking.
“We’ve got to get back in there. We have to take the city back. Run those fucking socialists out.”
Most of the men were just listening. A few nodded in agreement. John Hartwick wanted no part of this. He knew there were thousands, maybe tens of thousands in the city. He decid
ed to speak up. He had to find out where this crowd really was. If they were hell-bent on a gunfight he would just leave.
“Seems to me the best option is to just close them in. Don’t let anyone in and don’t let any trucks past 465. They’ll get hungry and the out of town trouble makers will leave.” He offered.
“Fuck that. They’ll just come back. We have to go in there and either wipe them out or load them up and ship them out to California where they belong!”
The younger man retorted.
“I don’t know.” Hartwick said. “We’ve got maybe a thousand or so here. We could win, but just like those other guys, a lot of us would get killed. Why don’t we just trap them in there?”
“How?” Another man asked.
“We just need to block the major highways. Stop them from getting past 465. Then we slowly pinch closer to the suburbs to help those folks, but close off the city. Stop them from getting food. When we get close enough, shut off the electric and cut the phone lines, or the cell towers or whatever we need to do.
But, let them leave. Let them go back to Chicago or wherever the hell else they came from.” Hartwick said.
“That sounds like a better plan.” The other man said. Pretty soon most of the crowd was agreeing with John. But the dark-haired, younger man was belligerent and would not budge. The small crowd quickly grew to listen to the debate. When it became clear that most of the crowd agreed with Hartwick the young man blew up.
“Fuck you guys. I came here to fight. I started this shit and now you guys want to fucking just stand around until they get tired. Then what? Yeah, they might leave for a while but they’ll be back. Fuck it. I’m going back to Missouri to be with my own people.”
And with that, he walked to a nearby truck, jumped in and sped off.
“Who the hell was that guy?” Hartwick asked.
“I think it was that Tanner Ritchie. The guy on TV that said he and his group killed all of those people last week.”