The Story
Page 5
signs with their group affiliation, like “Food for All” or “Baltimore Workers Association.” And at the windows, two dozen more.
One hundred and twenty people out of a city of 650,000.
“Whose streets?”
“Our streets!”
The police lined up, helmet visors down and big plexiglass shields held in front. Restraint cables hung from their belts. Most gripped long rubber batons, but a few held shotguns and assault rifles.
Her friend Dingo, a 21-year-old self-proclaimed revolutionary with uncertain ancestry and unruly dark hair, had the bullhorn. After a couple more repetitions, they switched to another time-worn chant: “The people united, will never be defeated! El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido!”
Waylee flashed her press ID again and elbowed her way through the line of cops. She pulled off her black floppy hat, folded it to pocket size, and shook her mulberry hair loose.
Dingo lowered the bullhorn and grinned. “Oh goody, the nightlife section is here.”
“Go fuck yourself, Dingo. Is Pel here?”
“Your boyfriend went home after they shut off the power. What’s an IT nerd gonna do without power?”
“He’s not a nerd. What about Shakti?” One of her housemates, a tireless organizer for the People’s Party.
“Here this morning, coming back after work.”
“Anything to say to the press?”
He whipped up a hand, blocking her view. “Get that spy shit away from me.”
“Your revolution won’t be televised, then.” She jerked a thumb toward the police. “They’re serious, you know. Do you have a plan?”
Dingo shrugged. “I’m not in charge. No one should be in charge.”
Waylee spotted Willard Ramsey, the grey-bearded INC director, just outside the front door. She hadn’t seen him since handing off her story describing Media Corporation’s secret deals with the government, which the Herald had refused to publish. That was months ago, but nothing positive ever came of it.
“Hi.”
His lips curled down. Not happy to see her. “Hello, Ms. Freid.”
“What’s happening here?”
“What’s happening?” Narrowed eyes transfixed her camera lens. “What’s happening is this city, this country, this whole planet, are in deep shit.”
No doubt Baltimore was sliding downhill with a banana peel on its ass. She saw it every time she took the bus home - the boarded-up row houses, the homeless crones pushing shopping carts full of junk, the mounds of trash and discarded needles against the curbs.
“All because of top-down fiscal crises and ideology-driven ‘belt-tightenings,’” the director continued. “And vicious predators like MediaCorp.”
Waylee zoomed in to a head shot.
“What’s happening,” he said, “is the convergence of government and corporate power to benefit the wealthy elite and crush any dissent. Crush any independent, uncompromising voices like ours.”
“DG, pause recording.” This is a disaster. “Is this my fault? Retaliation for showing how MediaCorp co-opted Congress and the president?”
He shook his head. “We’ve always challenged the hierarchy. You just added an extra thorn. Your documents were fantastic and we were happy to run with them.”
“It didn’t propagate.”
“Not many people saw the broadcast. MediaCorp blocked our Comnet access the day before it aired, and back channels are too slow. Then they turned their lawyers on us.”
“All these organizations evicted. I’m really sorry.”
He softened. “How about you? Pel told me the Herald put you on probation.”
“Not exactly. I just got an unfavorable performance review. We’re quite the bureaucracy.”
Her editors were mad she ‘aided a competitor,’ but relieved it wasn’t the Herald under attack. She’d worked hard to try to salvage her career. She’d be the number one target, though, once MediaCorp sent hatchet men to impose ‘efficiency measures’ on their new acquisition.
“Well I’m glad they sent someone to cover this,” he said.
“Actually I sent myself. But I’m here and I’ll try to get the word out.”
More cops arrived, wearing full combat gear, including helmet visors and gas masks. “DG, record.”
The director pointed up the street. “The police are supposed to serve the public, not MediaCorp.”
“What’s your plan?” Waylee asked him.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Honestly?...I’m not sure.” His eyes shifted back and forth. “I didn’t think they’d be so heavy-handed.”
In the building windows, faces retreated.
Lt. Rixson spoke in a wireless mike, amplified through speakers mounted on the SWAT vehicles. “You are trespassing on private property. You must disperse immediately or you will be placed under arrest.”
The building’s defenders linked hands, first a few, then almost everyone. The INC director bit his lip, grabbed the bullhorn, and cleared his throat. “We’re not leaving, but we’re not violent. Let’s keep this peaceful, please.”
Waylee zoomed in to Lt. Rixson, standing behind the line of riot police. The lieutenant tapped fingers against her temple, then put the mike to her mouth again. “This is your last warning. Disperse immediately.”
The building defenders murmured. An INC production assistant - Waylee couldn’t remember her name - started a chant. “We won’t go!”
More voices joined. “We won’t go!”
The police waited through several repetitions, then pulled back, well away from the building.
In the crowd, fingers separated and faces relaxed.
“Yeah, go back to the donut shop!” Dingo shouted. A dreadlocked girl kicked his calf. Dingo grimaced and cursed.
Diesel engines grumbled. The mystery vehicles with the looming plates shuddered, then inched forward.
Waylee’s stomach shrank into a pit of ice.
Smiles disappeared. Feet shuffled backward. Waylee swept her head around, trying to record as much as possible.
The vehicles halted well short of the crowd.
“What the hell are they doing?” a protestor behind her said.
Waylee heard a low buzz and a series of clicks. Black stripes streaked across her view, scrolling irregularly from top to bottom.
Now they’re jamming my video. She pulled off the data glasses. Her vision cleared, but the buzzing and clicks intensified. They weren’t coming from the data glasses. They were coming from the center of her skull. Her eyeballs twitched, rattling her vision like a bumpy train.
All around her, people clutched their heads and fell to their knees. Some screamed, some writhed like epileptics. Police raised thick guns and fired canisters toward the building windows. They crashed through the glass and white smoke billowed out.
The street, the building, the sky, spun in circles. Waylee fell to her knees, smacking her hands against hot asphalt. Her stomach contracted and her breakfast spewed out over the pavement, leaving the taste of bile and the stink of rancid milk. She threw up again.
Her twitching eyes started to sting. Tear gas. She forced them shut. The cacophony of shouts and buzzing tore at her brain.
Finally the noise inside her head faded away, leaving only external groans. She blinked and forced herself to look up.
None of the protestors were still standing. Vomit spattered the street and steamed in the sun. White plumes of tear gas wafted down from the broken windows overhead.
A school-aged girl lay nearby on her stomach, arms and legs jerking up and down. An older woman crawled over and cradled the shaking girl’s face, which streamed blood from a mashed nose.
With a chorus of shouts, the dark-armored stormtroopers charged from both ends of the street. They hit the disoriented building defenders like a tsunami, slapping instant-lock cable ties around wrists and ankles, and swinging batons at anyone who resisted.
Dingo rose with clenched fists. One of the cops raised a shotgun and blasted
him in the forehead with a wooden dowel. It bounced off to the right, leaving a bright red circle. Dingo howled and cupped a hand against streaming blood.
Still on her knees, Waylee slipped her data glasses back on. No more striping, and the camera was still recording. Comnet signal still blocked, but no matter— she’d upload the video as soon as she got back to the newsroom.
A bulky cop rushed toward her, shield up, baton raised. Pale blue eyes gleamed behind a pig-snout gas mask. “Hey, you!” The voice from his helmet speaker sounded tinny, more machine than man.
She held up her hands. “I’m press.” She tried to remember where she’d put her badge.
Her attacker thrust out a black glove and snatched the data glasses off her face.
“Fuck you!” Waylee forced herself up, then grabbed the edge of the cop’s shield. She shoved it aside and reached for her glasses, hoping to pry them out of his fingers.
Behind his mask windows, the cop’s eyes widened. His baton swung down.
Her temple exploded in pain, and the world went dark.
# # #
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