DEAD: Snapshot (Book 2): Leeds, England

by TW Brown

  The footage was shaky, and it took Russell a minute to realize what he was seeing. The video finished and then restarted on a loop. This time, Russell paid closer attention. Sure enough, there it was again. To the left in the picture, a uniformed police officer went to the floor under a pile of young brothers. There was a muffled ‘pop’ and one of the youngsters was looking at the gun in his hand like he’d never seen it before. There was an instant where all those around him stood there shocked, then they all started pounding the shooter on the back and cheering. Russell looked even closer and saw the small dark pool forming on the polished floor.

  “Little man shot a cop?” Russell handed the phone back. “Where did you get the video?”

  “It’s on every channel right now,” Tremont replied. “But I wouldn’t have come for just that.” He flipped through a few more screens and handed the phone back to Russell. The footage was almost all the same in that it was mobs of black men and women on the streets. They were standing their ground against tear gas canisters and rubber bullets. Windows were being smashed, cars tipped or lit on fire, and a lot of yelling and screaming.

  Russell watched a few clips before handing the phone back to Tremont. He sat there silently for a moment until an annoying buzz snapped his attention back. He looked up to see Sheila glaring at him with a hand on one hip. As soon as his eyes met hers, she pressed the intercom buzzer again.

  “I thought I was gonna do the hook thingy again sounding angry,” the girl snapped in a poor impersonation of an angry black woman that just came off sounding uneducated and spoiled.

  “Just talking with a guy from the recording label,” Russell said out of habit.

  “He’s from the label?” the girl shrieked, proving that her voice could in fact get more annoying.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Em. Gee. I’m sorry…I’ll wait. You two talk or whatever you need to do…did he hear my demo? Is he gonna—”

  Russell clicked off the intercom and turned back to Tremont. “We’re set up for a riot here.”

  “But the riot is there,” Tremont said, tapping the screen of his phone. “And I bet you they ain’t got nothing in the way of riot preparation like South Central and the LAPD. We might have to drive a few hours, but it’s still about the message, right?”

  Russell sat quietly again. They’d had this planned out for over two decades. In that time, probably half their numbers had filtered out. All that were left were the hardcore believers. There would be some logistics to work out, but Tremont had a point. They’d planned to go heads-up with a police force that was trained in riot response. Seattle might have some crude plans in place, but nothing to deal with what he had in mind.

  “Get me street maps. Google should have the pictures we need,” Russell finally said. “Call the whole group, tell them I want everybody packed and at my house in six hours. If anybody has family in Seattle, we need to know.”

  “Actually,” Tremont looked a bit sheepish, “I already called everybody. We can be ready to roll in an hour. I told ya I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

  Russell felt a bit of that old anger surge. It must’ve shown in his eyes because Tremont scooted back in his chair.

  “I wasn’t going over you, brother.” Tremont raised his hands in defense. “It’s just that you ain’t been taking any interest in the cause much lately. You been busy—”

  “Nailing stupid white girls,” Russell finished the thought. “No, you’re right, Tremont. I guess I got lazy. It’s just so easy to do when you start running a game that keeps you in cash and pussy.”

  “You still want to wait ‘til tonight?” Tremont asked. “I can call the brothers and tell ‘em.”

  “No, Tremont.” Russell shook his head. “It is time we live by our creed.”

  “The time is now,” both men recited together.

  Chapter 2

  Benny Richards pulled on his goggles and tugged the drawstrings for his hooded sweatshirt tight. He tapped his pocket to ensure all his “gear” was ready. Taking one last look at the television, he felt his heart race a bit. They were rioting downtown. He never missed a riot if he could help it. He might even see about upgrading to a better flat screen while he was out.

  Leaving his studio apartment, his phone buzzed. It was work. Like he was gonna come in to the copier shop today. Besides, if what he’d seen on television was correct, the copy store was likely to get some of the riot overflow. The windows were as good as broke. In fact, he smiled behind his bandana; maybe he would throw the first brick.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, he bounded down the four flights and out onto the street. Up the hill, he could see the smoke. He’d been in so many protests that he thought he might actually be getting immune to tear gas. He started up the hill at a fast walk. Running would only draw attention, and he wanted to get to the action before he had to deal with the police.

  As he neared, he could hear the soothing buzz of an angry crowd. He paused for a minute and scratched his head. For a moment he’d forgotten what this one was about. That’s right, he thought, some black kid got shot robbing a bank or something. He briefly considered the possibility that he might not be wanted at this little demonstration, but quickly dismissed it. People who are pissed love anybody willing to take their side, or in Benny’s case, at least acting like they are. Benny just wanted to break stuff. He could care less about the cause as long as there was some breaking and burning going on.

  He thumbed his iPod for some good thrash metal and resumed his fast walk to the scene of the mayhem. Just as he crested the hill, a group of ten or so black guys came into view.

  “Fuck the Seattle Police!” Benny yelled. He pulled the brick from his pocket—he always brought his first ‘throwing’ brick—and chucked it at the largest window in sight.

  The group stopped and seemed to have a quick meeting of the minds. Cool, Benny thought, I can clique up with some brothers. Better to run with a pack, plus, if the cops show, I won’t be as likely of a target.

  The group started walking his way and Benny thumbed down the volume on his iPod. “S’up, fellas?” They continued walking his direction, but there was something in their faces that caused Benny to pause. They looked…pissed. At him!

  Without warning, the group broke into a sprint. Benny stood stock still. His legs refused to listen to the voice in his head that screamed for him to run. So this is what a deer in the headlights feels like, his inner-voice scoffed.

  The group hit him in a bum’s rush that sent Benny sprawling. He’d been in a few mosh pits. There was a cardinal rule; if you ever lost your footing, the first thing you do is cover your head. That didn’t help for long. As the kicks continued and things inside him broke or ruptured, Benny’s arms couldn’t stay wrapped around his head any longer. As he lost consciousness, his last thoughts were, What did I ever do to these guys?

  ***

  “…currently traffic is at a standstill on I-5 as protesters have started throwing firebombs at passing motorists. Chief of Police Michael Rhodes says that his men are working to restore order, but advises all citizens to stay clear of the City Center area as well as the stadium complex…”

  ***

  Grady Moses sat on the bench and took out his handkerchief. At eighty-seven, all this walking was getting a bit tiring. He watched a group of young brothers and sisters trot past.

  “Stay solid, Oh-Gee!” one of them shouted.

  Stupid kids, he thought as they disappeared around a corner. Today’s generation didn’t know diddly-squat about proper rioting. Hardly any buildings were burning, and he’d passed at least a dozen shops without a single busted window. Now Watts…that was a proper riot. These kids are just running around willy-nilly without really doing anything.

  Grady spied a golf ball-sized rock in the gutter and climbed wearily to his feet. It took him a few seconds of strained effort to bend that far over to pick it up, but eventually he held the stone in his hand. Looking around, he saw one of those overp
riced coffee shops that sit on every corner in the city. White folks loved paying too much for a cup of coffee.

  Clutching his cane in his off hand, Grady crossed the street to the coffee house. Inside, he could see a few customers. They were all face down in their laptop computers or hammering away madly at their newfangled computer phones. Not one of them noticed as he raised his arm, cocked it back, and hurled the rock at the giant window. Of course, seconds later, every head in the place—after coming up from wherever they ducked when the glass shattered and crashed—was staring out the window. All they saw was an old man hobbling away on his cane.

  “Damn kids musta run past,” one of the customers finally said with a weak laugh. “At least they didn’t hurt that poor little old man over there.”

  ***

  Jerry sat down on the counter where the row of sinks lined the wall. The two young men had finally said all they could think of and left. He had to admit, one of them was actually quite well-spoken.

  Wow, he thought, are you that much of a closet racist? He admitted to himself that he fully expected the two men to ramble on about a bunch of “white man always keepin’ a brutha down” crap. Tyree actually made some very strong points about how the entire police system was designed to protect its own from within,

  “…and not just against the African-American community,” he’d said. “Like that retarded boy that got Tazed, cuffed, and beat down…that was a white boy. Only, none of the cops got in trouble…they was cops. That was their defense.”

  Jerry pushed a few buttons and sent the audio file to his email. He would call Shelly in a bit and tell her about it, but first, he needed to get out of this place. He’d talked his way out of one beating, but he doubted his luck would hold. After the two had left, he quickly brought up the local newsfeed. The situation was escalating, and now it looked like it would be a couple of days at least before things settled down.

  Cautiously, he opened the bathroom door. The floor was a shambles, but appeared to be empty. He hurried across to the courtroom. It would be good to have a few shots of the aftermath. The door was mostly off its hinges, which was impressive given the size of the door and the sturdiness of the hinges.

  Jerry was unprepared for what he saw when he peeked inside. There were two dead bodies in the aisle. One was wearing the tattered remnants of a policeman’s dress blue uniform. There was an ugly dent on the side of his head and a trickle of blood had dried on that ear. A few feet away, a husky young Hispanic girl was sprawled partway in between the benches of the third and fourth row. Jerry recognized her as the stenographer.

  A faint rustling sound caused him to stop in his tracks. It was coming from the docket area. He looked for anything that he could use as a weapon to defend himself and found nothing,

  “Hello?” Jerry called out. His voice sounded way louder than he was comfortable with. “Who’s there?”

  He considered backing out and beating a hasty exit, then he heard the soft moan. Advancing cautiously, he followed the sound to the judge’s bench. Behind it, a halo of blood pooling around his head, lay sprawled the judge who had presided over the Anderson trial.

  Jerry rushed over, looking for something to use to stop the bleeding from the nasty gash on the judge’s forehead. Finding nothing, he tugged at the robe. It wasn’t very absorbent, but he was able to wad a section of it up and press it on the wound.

  “My chamber,” the man rasped, “my pills are in my chamber.”

  “Pills?” Jerry asked, confused. Pills weren’t going to do any good in stopping the bleeding.

  “My heart…” the judge coughed, and his face scrunched up from the apparent pain.

  “Why don’t I call—” Jerry stopped in mid-sentence. Call? Who would he call? He’d seen outside, and the rioting was all around the courthouse. It was unlikely that emergency crews could get to them. And even if they could, it wouldn’t be any time soon.

  “Okay, sir,” Jerry climbed back to his feet, “you stay here and I’ll be right back.” Did he really just tell the judge bleeding out from a head wound and possibly suffering a heart attack to stay put?

  He went to the door behind the judge’s bench and tried the knob. It opened and he wondered briefly if judges ever locked their door when court was in session. Was there a need? God, he thought, where the hell is my brain going? There is a riot taking place, and I am having possibly the most convoluted inner-monolog in history. I need to get my mind back on track.

  He was relieved to find the bottle of heart medication sitting out in the open on the desk. He’d only just realized that he hadn’t bothered to ask where it might be. Hurrying back, he caught the acrid stench of a bowel movement. Jerry dropped the bottle of pills and flopped down in the judge’s enormous chair. Correct that, he thought, the late judge’s chair.

  ***

  Brian followed Jessie into the smoky tavern. There were already a couple dozen men standing around in groups talking loudly in Southern accents—which Brian considered peculiar since they were in Idaho—that were laden with plenty of expletives and an abundance of the “N” word.

  “I see our boy passed his initiation,” one of the men just inside the door said to Jessie as they entered. “Guess you can pay up when we get back.”

  “Get back?” Jessie stopped, turning to the man who Brian was almost certain was called “Slimmy”.

  “That’s what this meetin’ is all about,” Slimmy said with a grin. “Buncha uppity niggers is putting Seattle to the torch. Word is, we aim to cruise on over and see about doin’ some crowd dispersal. Everybody knows that coon they got for a governor ain’t gonna let nobody do nothin’ to stop things. Hell, he’ll probably invite the rioters to the mansion for dinner.”

  “So we gonna drive to Seattle and bust some heads?” These were the first words Will had spoken since being reprimanded by Jessie. He sounded way too excited.

  “Seems to be the rumor,” Slimmy said with a nod and a wink.

  Great, Brian thought, how the hell am I going to contact the office and set up a time to bust these yahoos if I am on the road to Seattle? He didn’t see a time in the near future where he would be able to get to the locker he kept at the bus station where he kept his cell phone. The one he carried was a simple burner phone. He cursed how lazy he’d become when it came to memorizing phone numbers.

  “Well it looks like we’ll have one more set of knuckles in the mix,” Jessie slapped Brian on the back, if not a little too hard to actually be friendly.

  “So he popped that piece of shit?” somebody called out.

  “You won’t be seein’ him beggin’ outside the liquor store no more,” Will snorted.

  “You’d think them beggin’ ass welfare monkeys would get the clue when their friends keep turning up missing,” Slimmy wheezed and lit another cigarette to replace the one he stubbed out as he spoke.

  “Ain’t none of ‘em got a lick of sense,” Jessie agreed. “I can’t believe there are still any left in this town. They’re like roaches. Kill a hundred and two hundred more will come crawling out from under the garbage can.”

  “Can I get everybody to take a seat,” a voice rose above the din.

  Brian turned to see the group’s leader, Bill Hayes, as he stepped up onto the small stage at the back of the bar. The man looked just like the picture in his file. His reddish-blond hair was a wavy mop on his head. His broad chest and arms bulged with muscle that could easily be seen under the black tee shirt. The long scar down the right side of his face where, according to his military file, a North Korean assassin had managed to get in one swipe with his blade before Bill Hayes caught him in a choke hold and snapped the man’s neck, showed up a bright white in the bank of lights over the stage. He actually was reported to have stitched his flayed face in the bathroom of the hotel room where the attempted assassination took place.

  “I don’t know how many of you have been watching the news.” Bill’s voice didn’t boom, it simply carried throughout the room at a volume that eve
rybody could easily hear. “It seems that another piece of shit criminal that got shot while breaking the law has caused a member of the Seattle Police Department to go on trial. When the jury reached a just and proper verdict of “Not Guilty,” the niggers got mad and started trashing the courtroom. Things got out of hand, and now they are rioting in the streets, demanding justice.”

  A murmur went up through the room. Bill seemed content to let that continue for a while before raising his hands to settle the crowd. Brian was only a little surprised at how quickly silence fell on the smoky room. It was obvious that Bill was very much in control.

  “Tonight we will load the ‘Scenario Alpha’ packs into the RVs and head west. We should arrive just before sunrise. As of yet, the National Guard is not on the scene. We will utilize police scanners to pinpoint the law enforcement activity and strike where they are not.

  “I want all team leaders to meet me in the office for individual assignments.” Bill scanned the room for a few seconds before continuing, “And I want to welcome Chet Atkins to our family. He just returned from pledging with Jessie and Will. Welcome, Chet.” With that, the man stepped down and made his way to a single door situated between the bar and the stage.

  “Guess I joined at just the right time,” Brian said to Jessie.

  “We’ll see.” Jessie shrugged and headed to the same door Bill had gone through. Brian decided that it wouldn’t do any harm to have a drink. Besides, he was still a little shaky from the day’s earlier activities. A hand caught his shoulder and he turned to find Will’s glowering face.

  “We ain’t done with our beef,” the man hissed and walked away before Brian could respond.