by TW Brown
Brian shrugged off the comment and headed towards a much needed drink. He did his best not to recoil in disgust as the words of congratulations and exuberant back slaps followed him to the bar. The only good thing to come out of it was the fact that he didn’t have to buy either beer, or the shot of bourbon.
***
“…and with nightfall, law enforcement spokesmen repeat that there is now a curfew in effect for all of King and Pierce counties. It is requested that all residents remain indoors while efforts continue to bring this situation under control. One source expressed optimism that things would be returned to normal within the next seventy-two hours. In other news, city councilmen will meet with the mayor on Sunday to address the city budget deficit…”
***
Russell stared out the window as the scenery whizzed by. Other than the few towns they’d passed through, the entire state of Oregon had seemed like nothing but forests and farms. Why anybody would want to live in such a podunk state was anybody’s guess. They’d crossed over into Washington over an hour ago, and as far as he could tell, it wasn’t much different. No wonder these states have such lousy sports teams, he mused.
“We got about an hour before we get there,” Tremont said from the driver’s seat. “I been listening to the radio, and they are putting a curfew in effect.”
“We gonna get there before dark?” Russell asked, shaking himself to clear his head.
“It’ll be close,” Tremont replied, “but we should make it. My only concern is if they have any sort of roadblocks in place—”
“We already discussed that,” Russell cut the other man off. “If it comes to it, we will do what we have to do. What difference does it make when we kill the first cop? You getting cold feet now that the shit is about to go down?”
“No,” Tremont snapped, “I just don’t want to bring heat on us until we get into the city and make that first strike. I know what you said, but I think it makes a difference if we roll in under the radar. You know as well as I do that the moment we kill a cop, the game changes.”
“You want to try and talk our way past a roadblock with what we got in this car or any of the others? You think a carload of niggas cruising into the heart of a riot ain’t getting pulled over and searched?”
“No, but—”
“Ain’t no more ‘buts’ to be had. We gonna do what needs doin’ before they get a chance to stop us,” Russell said with finality and turned to look back out the window.
They drove in silence for the next forty minutes. Slowly, fields and forests began to give way to housing developments and industry. A large body of water to their left came in to view as they crested a hill and looked down into Tacoma.
“That the ocean?” Tremont asked.
“No,” Russell answered. He had to admit, it was an extremely beautiful sight. “That is Pew-jit sound,” he read from the guide in his lap. At first he’d had no idea how to pronounce the name, but one of the brothers had spent some time in the area. Puget Sound was probably one of the easiest words he found. With names like Sammamish, Puyallup (pronounced PEW-wallup for some damn reason), and Issaquah, the whole area was a phonetic nightmare.
“So when you think we gonna see the first—” Tremont started to ask. A pair of police cruisers came in to view as they rounded a long, arcing bend in the interstate.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Russell toggled his phone and brought the other cars up on a conference call, “time for talking is over. You all know what we are about. This is what you signed up for all those years ago. I want you to remember every single time you got pulled over just because you were driving through a neighborhood at night that the cops didn’t think you belonged in. I want you to remember that it takes sacrifice to bring change. Our parents marched in Washington D.C., Selma, and Jackson. They took those first steps, now it is up to us to finish their journey. We’ve tried for decades to play the game by the rules…and it ain’t got us a damn thing. This isn’t about the violence and the killing to come, it is about the opportunity and equality in the future.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then a series of confirmations. The men were ready. As they approached the roadblock, Russell set the sawed-off Mossberg in his lap. Everybody in the car stuffed in their earplugs as their car slowed and joined in the queue.
Tremont looked over his shoulder. He could see three of the other nine cars, trucks, or vans they had loaded into for the trip. His eyes returned to the front, and he tried to remind himself that what was about to happen had to happen. It was just that, after so many years since the South Central riots, that fire of injustice had gone a bit cold. He wasn’t a kid fresh out of college anymore. He had a house and, while somewhat on the shady side, he had a job that made him a good living.
The car in front of them stopped and the police officer stepped up to the window. Of course, the occupants were white and the officer was really only giving them a cursory look; his attentions were already on the next car in line. Theirs. He placed the Beretta 93 in his lap and fingered the trigger.
Russell’s eyes scanned the scene. The two officers checking vehicles were both looking fairly bored. The two that were supposed to be providing backup were sitting in their vehicle. That would be the problem, and that is where he would focus his firepower. He would rely on Tremont and Al “Panama” Hylton to deal with the exposed cops.
The car ahead was waved through, and they were signaled to approach, and then stop. The officer on the driver’s side glanced at the license plate. Of course, they’d swapped out the last of the plates in the parking lot of a grocery store right after they crossed in to Vancouver. Since reaching Oregon, they had made periodic stops to find Washington plates and managed to acquire a set for each of their vehicles.
Tremont rolled down his window as he came to a stop. The officer let his hand brush his weapon in what Tremont figured the man considered to be an intimidating manner. “Where you men head—” He never finished the sentence as Tremont angled his handgun up and fired. The bullet caught the policeman in the throat and blood came in a bright red gush.
Panama had rolled his window down in the back passenger’s side when they were still a couple of cars back in the queue. He brought his own weapon up, a Remington shotgun, and fired into the chest of the still-frozen officer who was just making his way down the right side of the car.
Russell didn’t pause, he threw open his door and began pumping armor-piercing rounds into the other squad car. The two officers inside jittered and jumped as Pete Sanders came out from the car directly behind and opened up with his H & K MP5. In seconds that seemed like minutes, it was over.
Several cars in the queue started doing everything they could to get out of line and turn around. In their midst, other cars opened up and spilled their deadly cargo as the rest of Russell’s men came out and brought weapons to shoulders. It only took sixty-eight seconds, but in that time, both squad cars on the northbound lane (apparently they weren’t worried about anybody heading south) of Interstate 5 were in flames along with a dozen others.
“Okay!” Russell called after blowing his referee’s whistle. “Let’s get moving. In five minutes, the police will be flooded with calls. Some of these people driving away might have shot video on their phones. By the time we get to downtown Seattle, we will be wanted men.”
The nine car convoy weaved its way through the carnage and sped away down a wide open interstate. Already the scanners were buzzing. The police knew something bad had happened; they just didn’t know exactly what. It was very possible that they would encounter another roadblock before they reached downtown. As they sped by the on- and off-ramps along the way, they could see many of them had barricades set up to prevent anybody from reaching the most direct route in to Seattle.
So far, Russell thought as he watched the looming skyline grow out in front of them, this is going almost as planned. He cast another uncertain glance over at Tremont. He’d been correct. The man had tears rolling down his cheeks.
He would need to watch his old friend. A chain being only as strong as its weakest link was an axiom he’d heard in sports. It certainly carried over to this situation. He didn’t think he could kill his friend, but he could certainly disable him if it came to such a thing.
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TW Brown is the author of the Zomblog series, his horror comedy romp, That Ghoul Ava, and, of course, the DEAD series. Safely tucked away in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, he moves away from his desk only at the urging of his Border Collie, Aoife. (Pronounced Eye-fa)
He plays a little guitar on the side...just for fun...and makes up any excuse to either go trail hiking or strolling along his favorite place...Cannon Beach. He answers all his emails sent to twbrown.maydecpub @gmail.com and tries to thank everybody personally when they take the time to leave a review of one of his works.
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Table of Contents
The Dead Walk
Human Filth
Join or Die
Terrible Things
A New Leaf
Running
Choosing
Through Jaded Eyes
Verdicts
Settling In
Staring Over The Edge
Meeting
Point of No Return
Bait
Face Off
Sound Travels
Closure
Epilogue
UNCIVIL WAR
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two