WAKING THE MAJORITY (Anonymous Justice Book 4)

by Boyd Craven Jr

  “Now you can see the thirteen masked figures emerge from the garbage alley, and position themselves between the police and the rioters, with their backs to the police.”

  “Arrest them! They’ve got guns!” The Mayor squealed.

  “What do you boys want?” the Chief asked them, ignoring the Mayor.

  Facing the rioters, a man with a Nixon mask on spoke into a megaphone, “We the people, the MAJORITY of the people of this city, are DONE watching this go on. This behavior will NO LONGER BE TOLERATED! This is your ONLY warning! Either you disperse immediately, and go back home, or you will pay a high price!”

  “ARREST THEM!” the Mayor shrieked again.

  Bang, bang, bang. Three shots rang out from within the crowd of rioters, and the Mayor fell backward off the trailer. The video froze right there. The camera zoomed in again, centering Jermane’s serious looking face on his side of the split screen.

  “The police clearly did not assassinate the Mayor,” he said. “One of the rioters did. You can see the man’s face that pulled the trigger right here. A black man, probably a resident of D.C., committing murder on camera! Why? Because some outsiders had incited this bunch of followers to violence, and he got sucked right into it. Where are those men from Baltimore now? In the wind. Police are searching for them as I speak. This man’s dead now because of what he did, as is the Mayor.

  “My fellow Americans, don’t listen to these people! Don’t throw your lives away because you’re mad at the police, and let some smooth talker goad you into actions like these! Once again, clearly the police were not the bad guys here. The rioters were! You saw it with your own eyes.

  “To those of you who plan on going out into the city of D.C. tonight, to take part in more violence and hate against the city and the police... don’t. Just don’t. Stay home. You’ve been played.

  “We cannot show you the next 90 seconds on live TV. It’s absolutely gruesome. We’re going to play the audio only, and I’ll describe what’s happening to you. There are no doubts about whether what I describe to you is true. These brave young journalists risked their lives to capture every detail, close up, in high definition video and sound. Then they went home and documented everything they’d seen, heard, and smelled while it was fresh in their minds. For those of you who feel the need to see the proof for yourself, it’s on our website.”

  The audio portion of the video began again, with the other side of the screen frozen on the face of the man who’d just killed the Mayor.

  “What happens next,” Jermane explained, “is that immediately after the Mayor was shot, several canisters of harmless smoke were tossed between the police, the camera crews across the street, who were trying to get set up, and the rioters, by the thirteen masked men. That appears to have been done for the safety of the police and the camera crews, so the rioters couldn’t see them to shoot them too.

  “At virtually the same time, the face of the shooter, which you see frozen on your screen, exploded, as several high-velocity bullets struck it simultaneously. Many of the rioters in the rear of the crowd took off at a dead run, away from the Past Presidents. They apparently knew what came next.

  “As the rioters who were determined to attack ran forward throwing rocks, and firing handguns into the smoke, the masked men blew them away. There were no more warnings. There was no hesitation. Any of the rioters that refused the order made by the spokesman of the masked men, wearing the Nixon mask, to ‘disperse immediately’, were systematically killed.

  “As the smoke began to clear, the figure with the Nixon mask, as he passed through the bodies on the street, put a pistol round into the head of any who still moved. But when the smoke cleared enough that the camera crews, the city officials, and the police began standing up, the masked men were nowhere to be seen. They’d ducked back into that garbage alley and disappeared back to wherever they’d come from.

  “Now, we’re going to show the aftermath, but we will place a filter over the picture to blur it slightly. We don’t want the family or friends of those killed to recognize their faces on national TV. Again, the raw, unfiltered original is already on our website.”

  The camera that Kat had so perfectly positioned and focused, swept from right to left slowly across and down the street, back and forth. More than a hundred, perhaps more than two hundred bodies lay where they’d fallen. At first, it seemed that the audio had been turned off, as there wasn’t a sound to be heard, just the mass carnage. Police and camera crews stood looking on in disbelief. Then, as if to disprove that notion, a lone siren could be heard approaching in the distance. Then another, and another.

  “What you’ve just witnessed here, has not happened in one-hundred-fifty-five years, since the Civil War began,” Jermane said in a loud whisper, and with great emotion.

  “Citizens have taken up arms themselves, and physically intervened in another terrible situation that has been allowed by our government to go on for far too long in America. The great silence of political correctness is broken. The first shots have been fired…”

  Before Jermane could finish his thought, the studio cut his feed and went to commercial.

  “You asshole! I’ll have your job for that!” Jermane’s producer shouted across the studio, at concert volume.

  ***

  As Jermane Williams had been doing his swan song by narrating the video from his point of view on national TV, the Secretary of State’s staff was on the phone with both Jermane’s boss and Facebook. They’d ordered that Jermane’s rant be ended, preferably mid-sentence to make a point, and that the Anonymous Justice group and the Black Lives Matter group both be shut down indefinitely, as a matter of national security.

  Chapter 4

  Josh & Eric

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday, Jan 19th, 2016

  “Josh, check this out,” Eric called, heading towards the back of the store.

  For the first time since the police had released them, had they come to the store. They’d spent the rest of the aftermath of the D.C. riots at the apartment, nervously watching the fallout. Both of them had been shocked over and over at the footage, some of which came from Jermane Williams’ show.

  “What is it?” Josh asked, his voice crestfallen at the water damage.

  “It’s just this back wall here. We lost some stock, but I don’t think we have to tear out this back corner after all.”

  “How’s the compressor in the beer fridge looking?” Josh asked.

  “Still running. The water never hit it!!!” Eric said excitedly.

  Sure enough, the sprinklers in the back half of the store had been triggered by the heat caused by one of the Molotov cocktails, or a general failure of the system, but somehow the compressor that ran the cooler, which was one of their more expensive pieces of equipment, had been spared.

  “That’s… I can’t believe it,” Josh said, smiling for the first time since they’d walked into half an inch of water on the floor of the building.

  “Yeah, I already called somebody to come replace the glass on the front door, but I’d sort of like to crack a door or window while we clean up so we can get the musty smell out of here,” Eric told him.

  “If you think it’s going to be safe…”

  “I think people are pissed at the rioters, and the rioters are pissed at the Dead Presidents. We were just caught between the two.”

  “You know what, why not?” Josh said. “If people see that we’re here, cleaning up, maybe we’ll get a big rush of customers, getting ready for the weekend!”

  “I don’t know if we can do it that fast…” Eric said, with a laugh of his own now, “but I think we could at least open back up the bakery/deli side.”

  “I don’t know if the health inspector will let us until we get a ton of inspections. I mean, our floor drain backed up.”

  “Yeah… huh… still, you care if I open the door?”

  “Go for it.”

  Eric headed to the front door, rolling up the security cu
rtain. Safety glass fell from the frame of the smashed front door, and a small river of water flowed out. They both watched and smiled a bit.

  “How about some light?” Eric called.

  “Yeah, if we’re going to bust this out, let’s get this place looking like it’s almost open. Almost.”

  Eric went and opened the rest of the security curtains, metal roll up shutters that protected the store from looters, robbers, and others from busting out a window or kicking in a door. Having the back and front door open made a world of difference for the airflow. Josh was using a push broom to push standing water towards the front door when somebody stopped and poked their head into the busted out pane in the front door.

  “Hello? You guys open?” a man asked hopefully.

  He was average looking with a regular build, brown bomber jacket, nothing remarkable about him.

  “No, we’re just coming back for the first time since the riots,” Josh said, holding his hand out to the stranger. “Josh Durham, I’m one of the owners.”

  “Roger Smith,” the average looking man lied. “That’s too bad. Doesn’t look like you guys were hit that bad.”

  “Not horrible, but we have some water damage and stock to replace. I guess our sprinklers went off.”

  “Hey, isn’t this the store that was on the news?” the stranger asked, snapping his fingers and pointing to Eric who had just walked up.

  Both of them had healing burns on their arms and face to one degree or another.

  “Yeah, we got trapped in here when things got hairy, and had to go to the roof.”

  “Yeah, that was ballsy, man. I saw that and figured whoever you two were, you were goners when they started to throw the firebombs.”

  “You’re not the only one,” both men chorused, and then busted up laughing.

  “You two partners in this?” the man who claimed to be Roger asked.

  “Yeah, I’m Eric,” he answered. “You been in here before?”

  Eric didn’t recognize him and was a little suspicious, but he’d also been expecting something like this to happen. Eric and Josh would be famous - or infamous depending on who was asked - and both had talked about this till they were sick of it.

  “No, was just walking through the neighborhood. Did you hear about Mr. Goldberg’s son?”

  “Yeah, that’s terrible. He used to stop in here sometimes, to grab a sandwich. Did they ever catch whoever…”

  “I don’t know. I hope they do. It’s a shame. This used to be a great city, full of hope,” Roger said, and they all nodded agreement.

  “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck you two. I’m just glad to see people rebuilding so quickly, instead of closing up and leaving for good.”

  “We actually talked about that, considering everything that went down,” Eric admitted.

  “You mean the firebombing or the other thing?”

  “The other thing,” Josh said. “But then we both agreed that if nothing else, staying will help the city recover faster. Every one of us makes a difference, no matter how small.”

  “I think you’re more right than you could ever know,” the man said, smiling. “Have a good one!”

  They both waved to the man in the brown bomber jacket and went back to work.

  “We should find out when Stan Goldberg’s funeral is,” Josh said, after a moment.

  “Agreed. First though, help me move this shelf.”

  ***

  They worked off and on that entire afternoon. The following morning, with the radio on and coffee brewing for the both of them, their customers started stopping in. More than one didn’t care if they were open or could legally serve them or not. More than a few of them, customers or not, donated an hour here and there. The store was cleaned, scrubbed, and the damaged stock removed and carried off. The dumpster that Eric and Josh had rented was already overflowing from the other tenants, so many of their customers proved their loyalty by taking a bag or two home to add to their own trash pickup.

  This solidarity and loyalty both inspired and scared the pair; scared because Josh’s words kept ringing in their heads. Everyone makes a difference. Good or bad. They hoped it was all for the good.

  Chapter 5

  Mike Thor:

  Croswell, Michigan

  Wednesday, Jan 19th, 2016

  Mike was dreaming of his store and the indoor range. He’d just tried a new Desert Eagle that he’d had some trigger work done to. Both hands were used to line up the shot, so he didn’t knock himself out and, as he pulled the trigger—

  The knocking woke him up. With his heart beating a hundred miles an hour, he swung his legs off the bed and looked for yesterday’s jeans. He’d not had a chance to do laundry, and he felt more than a little odd using Will’s clothing, but when he’d gone off-grid, he’d literally left with nothing but a truck full of guns and ammo.

  “I’m coming,” he shouted at the door, already knowing who it was.

  “It’s me, you idiot,” Mr. Averill yelled back. “I can smell the coffee; you holding out on me?”

  Mike let out a chuckle and turned the deadbolts and opened up the door. Outside, the old man was stomping his feet to ward off the cold, holding paper sacks in each hand. In fact, it was all the way up to twenty degrees already. When there was coffee to be had, and the old man was in the doghouse with Lucille, he often came over early. Mike was starting to wonder if being in the doghouse was as bad a thing as the old man claimed. Still, they were becoming fast friends.

  “My Luce got you the groceries. She threw in a week’s worth of newspapers also,” he said, shoving the heavy bags into Mike’s arms.

  Mike took them and watched as the old man turned and started stomping off towards the driveway.

  “Hey? Mr. Averill?” Mike was worried that after just talking about coffee, that the old man was leaving. Instead, he bent over and picked up something metallic colored, with a long string of wire dangling from it.

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I get me some caffeine, don’t you worry.”

  Mike laughed, left the front door open, and headed to the counter. He’d been here a little while now, and in spite of his touch of paranoia, he’d opened up to the grumpy farmer, turned neighbor, and now friend. He grabbed the coffee cups after setting the bags down and poured the coffee. A modern coffee maker had been one of the first things he’d asked for Mr. Averill’s help in procuring. The old couple was always more than happy to help.

  “Black?” Mike asked.

  “Yup, just how I like my women.”

  “Hot and black?” Mike asked, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Hot tempered and bitter,” Averill shot back. Mike had to admit, that’d be a better thing to wake up next to than a lynching, which is why he’d stayed hidden so far.

  “Here you go,” Mike said, handing him a cup and working on his own while emptying the bags.

  Since coming here, Mike had been living on a diet far healthier than he’d been used to before. Will had grown a bunch of vegetables in his small garden last summer, dried them, and put them in jars for storage beside jar after jar of venison and grouse. Between eating only from that stash, and getting lots of exercise from cutting and hauling firewood, Mike had already lost any pudge he’d had around the middle.

  “This is good,” Mr. Averill told him, taking another large sip.

  “Yeah, automatic coffee makers are this century’s greatest invention. I like to set it all up the night before, set the timer and go to bed. Then I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee in the morning. You should really try it, and give up that old percolator.”

  “Century… Listen here…” Then he broke up laughing. “Listen,” Averill said, after a moment. “There’s some out of town cop who’s been poking around town, and asking questions. Nothing too much or too serious, but somebody pointed me out to him Sunday, after church.”

  “Cop?” Mike asked, losing his happy thoughts. “What’d he want?”

  “Wanted to know who I was. See
ms I talked to him a bit, back when Will had been to the police station he’s from, but damned if I remember which one it was. Guess he figured out my name from the phone records. He’s been coming up here weekends, and nosing around. He’s been to Claude’s diner a couple times for breakfast.”

  “What’s he look like?” Mike asked. Then he turned visibly pale as the old man perfectly described Detective James Miller, of the Hamtramck Police Department.

  “Looks like you know him,” Averill said.

  “In passing.”

  “You want to talk to him?”

  “I dunno. What’d he want exactly?”

  “To talk to you. I took his card but insisted that I didn’t know you. That’s what I shoulda said, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is. Thanks.” Mike said, his head spinning. “Say, now that he knows for sure who you are, what d’you think chances are he’ll come out here to poke around?”

  “Zero. I’d blast him the second he trespassed on my property. I got a sign, see, it says no soliciting and no revenuers.”

  That caused a ghost of a smile to tug at the corners of Mike’s mouth. He knew now it’d only be a matter of time before Miller found him. Mostly it’d been the Feds making all the noise. If he’d left the most of the guns behind, to be lost in the fire, they wouldn’t be worried. But when half a million dollars of firepower and ammo go missing, paired with an open murder investigation…

  “You wouldn’t shoot a cop for asking questions,” Mike stated, knowing the crusty old man wasn’t suicidal.

  “You’re right. I’d sic Lucille on ‘em. Got any more donuts left?”

  ***

  Mike wiped his brow. Despite the cold, he’d worked up a sweat, and that could be plain dangerous this time of year. This was the last of the cache spots he’d found and finished filling, from the map he’d found in Will’s safe. Each location was marked with a small red X. They weren’t too hard to find, if you knew where to look. Every cache already had food, basic clothing, and various survival gear. Each had a way to start a fire, and materials to build a quick shelter. Some of the caches could already double as a shelter, like this old fuel oil pig. It wasn’t one of those small two hundred gallon jobs; it was easily a one thousand gallon tank, four feet across and ten feet deep. Hidden in the back of it, behind a false wall, the supplies were cleverly stashed. Added to it now were the last of the guns and ammo that he’d taken with him before the fire had consumed his store.