A Guardian Angel

by Williams, Phoenix

  The angel fell apart and collapsed into itself.

  It's gone, he thought.

  Tears accumulated in Tim's old eyes as he relaxed his body. He sobbed.

  I lost.

  PART III

  -----------------------

  KNIGHTS OF THE PROLETARIAT

  -Chapter Twenty-Two-

  The Davey Tolmes Show

  The man with the big blond hair grinned from the television screen. “These things have been dropping all over the globe in a variety of religious shapes. There have been reports of crescent moons, crucifixes, and even the Star Fleet insignia.” The graphic that digitally materialized next to the man's face changed to one of a rendered Star Trek badge made of rusty metal sheets, resting in a crater.

  The studio audience laughed.

  “The metal figures have lured in many of the more fanatical special interest groups. Christian extremists have launched small pilgrimages to secure crucifixes and angels that have fallen over the United States. There are even some people gathering around shapes like the Free Mason symbol and a miniature Lady Liberty. Even the conservatives have found their miracle.” The image showed a rendered picture of the studios of Fox News with a large rusty elephant crashed straight into the side of the building.

  Again, the audience laughed.

  “Now we turn to more incidents of the famous Standstill between local police and the new departments of 'merc-cops,' as they're now being referred. Get it? They're mercenaries who think their cops. They're like margarine that wants to be butter. Anyway, in major cities such as New York and Chicago, we've been seeing heavy protesting by the general public. People are demanding to receive federal protection against the hired paramilitaries. In Lumnin, New York, the mayor Bill Rodenchurch has even taken to the streets, living amongst the protestors. During a demonstration last night, Mayor Rodenchurch was rushed to the hospital after being maced by pepper spray for what witnesses say was 'over two minutes straight.' The mayor was sprayed by his former police chief Dale Harrison, who, get this, also is the mayor's son-in-law. The mayor was transferred to a nearby prison owned by the Decree corporation after being discharged from the hospital this morning. We assume that he sent out a letter from his cell to his daughter, saying firmly, 'You know, I don't think this guy is just right for you.'”

  More laughter.

  The comedy show host dropped his grin. “This morning, the first corporate military base was installed by Decree just outside of Denver. These reports have confirmed a recent suspicion that a private military is being mobilized in the United States. As of yet, all anyone has seen of this military base is the convoy of transport vehicles that have been flowing in and out since the afternoon.”

  The video cut to a clip from another news program. There was a middle-aged man with a dark beard framing his face. Gray streaks ran from his mustache down the beard and seemed to bleed the same pattern onto his suit. Under the man was captioned, “Decree President Leroy Graves.”

  Someone behind the camera had Graves' attention. “What is your company planning to do with the military base you've installed outside of Golden, Colorado?” a young man asked.

  “We're planning to take the city,” Leroy Graves said, then walked away from the podium at which he stood.

  The television cut back to the set of the Davey Tolmes Show. The man himself was holding his expression in a grimace of shock. “The man actually walked away after saying that. No one threw a shoe and no one assassinated the man. Not a soul could stop him,” Davey said. “If you don't know, that's Leroy Graves, the president of Decree. He's transcended the border between CEO and commander in chief. Heading what has been self titled as the Decree Nation, Graves has been compared to the president of the United States, accurately at that. A survey shows that the only difference in their abilities seen by the general public is that Graves has indeed a stronger beard.”

  Through the ensuing laughter, Davey continued. “Honestly, I haven't seen facial hair that fierce since – ” The host paused for a moment, feigning deep concentration. The image beside him showed images of Adolf Hitler, Fidel Castro, and Joseph Stalin. Everyone in the audience oohed and broke out in applause. Davey looked shocked as he said, “Dear God. If this trend continues, I say that we keep an eye on the guys from ZZ Top.”

  The camera pulled away from the set as the television cut to commercial. After the advertisements had their turn, Davey sat in a dim incarnation of his set with a serious look upon his face. “That's it for the show, but before we go, we have a grim announcement,” he started. “It's been officially confirmed that the cities of Denver, Chicago, New York, and Detroit are no longer under the control of the federal government. Hundreds of smaller cities and towns have fallen to the same fate.”

  The television was turned off in the middle of the audience's hushed silence.

  -Chapter Twenty-Three-

  Denver

  Haley Flynn spoke through a megaphone. The woman stood on a makeshift stage that had been pieced together from wooden crates and nailed together with haste. The streets in front of Union Station had been blocked from all traffic and instead filled with people. Protestors had been assembled to the place by a network of cell phones and emails that Haley and activists like her set up in response to the Standstill. Most of them wore dirty, shabby clothing from camping on the sidewalks, away from the comfort of their homes. For the past two weeks they had been staying in downtown Denver, protesting the Decree occupation. All of them now faced the stage. All of them, Haley thought to herself, were Americans.

  “I didn't gather all of you here so I could speak your ears off, so I want to open up a discussion now,” Haley said, her voice soft for its volume through the megaphone. “Would anyone like to go first?”

  A young man with a TV on the Radio t shirt raised his hand and was passed the megaphone. Those around him stepped back, bracing for the volume. “We need to be more than a loose collective,” he said, clearing his throat. “There should be another political party formed so that we can get our own representatives in office. If the Tea Party can do it, Majority can, too.”

  He handed the megaphone back to Haley, who passed it off to a woman with cropped blond hair.

  “Would you run for office?” she asked, which was followed by a wave of applause and cheers.

  Haley took the megaphone back with blushing cheeks. “I wouldn't know if I'd be right for that,” she answered, her normal color flushing back into her expression. “I believe it'd be impossible to achieve much without a handful of talented and imaginative leaders. People like us, whose voice speaks with the same tone as ours. It cannot be tackled alone. We need to plant our agents and uphold our community image. We can't hold a deaf ear to the opposing discussion.”

  “How will that get anything done in time?” a guy called out from the middle of the crowd. People separated to turn and look at him.

  “True, the system is a slow and frustrating one,” Haley started, “but we can get the ball rolling. We wouldn't have to sit around idly and suffer in the meantime. We can rally populations to change things in local governments. Maybe even states.”

  “We could change things faster if we didn't play by their rules,” the same man retorted.

  “You're talking about breaking the law?” Haley asked. “What good will vigilantism do us when it'll only tarnish our movement's image to the people that can help us make a difference.”

  Haley stopped speaking when she heard a phrase spoken from within the audience.

  “Merc-cops.”

  There were dozens of them. Men who wore a light orange uniform, protected by kevlar vests and helmets. They wore the Decree emblem on their shoulders. Each and every one of them carried a military-grade assault weapon.

  One of the mercenaries stepped forward and addressed the crowd. “Everyone needs to disperse. Leave the area immediately and go home,” he ordered in a loud, booming voice.

  “Leave?” someone a
sked.

  “Why do we need to leave?” another person interrogated.

  “It is illegal for people to gather in sizes like this in public areas for prolonged periods of time,” the leader of the merc-cops replied.

  “What law states that?” Haley asked through the megaphone.

  This seemed to upset the mercenary. He scowled. “The Decree Anti-Vagrancy Bill. It was passed earlier this afternoon,” he replied.

  “I never voted for that!” a man cried out.

  “When was this bill on the ballot?” Haley asked.

  The paramilitary officer did not answer her question. “You must all leave immediately or you will be under arrest,” he stated.

  In uniform, four officers of the former Denver Police Department stepped in between the crowd and the private police. They too had protective garments strapped on and their own set of riot control gear.

  The oldest officer spoke. “You're going to have to go through us to arrest our citizens,” he said, resting his thumbs on his belt buckle.

  Silence fell over Union Station while the leader of the merc-cops stared fiercely at the men and women before him. His gaze shifted to the other members of the DPD who were stepping into line with their comrades. Something about the look of sheer disobedience and pride on their faces challenged the mercenary.

  “Very well,” he said before turning to his fellow mercenaries. He waved a gesture back at them and with a sudden wave of motion that rippled through all of their arms, pepper spray discharged into the crowd.

  People stumbled around each other as they tried to make their way away from the assailants. They fell and cried out, clutching at their mouths and eyes. The officers pushed back against the paramilitaries using large plastic riot shields. Stun guns replaced pepper spray as the merc-cops began the process of detaining the protestors. People dropped to their knees in the street before having their hands bound with wire and dragged off toward the Decree vehicles. Police officers were being arrested by the men in the orange fatigues.

  One officer broke his hand free while getting detained and swung it around into the arresting mercenary's head. The merc-cop stumbled back for a moment before drawing his firearm and shooting the cop to death.

  Everyone heard the gunshots and panicked. Civilians tried to run through and climb over each other, fleeing. Fearful noises emanated from them as the rest of the merc-cops, believing that they were being shot at, opened fire on the crowd.

  It was a blur of motion as people rushed away from the mercenaries. Tear gas had been thrown out into the sea of protestors as the armed men advanced. They shot and arrested people as they fled past. Someone pushed Haley along, got her to climb off of the stage. She watched everything with wide and horrified eyes. Fear made her freeze to the spot.

  “Come on!” the man pushing her cried. “You have to move!”

  Haley turned and ran away from the scene, trying to follow the voice. Moving around people, she kept her face down and tried not to watch. She could hear everything clear enough as it was. She didn't want to see.

  Strong arms had grabbed her by the shoulders before she knew what happened. Merc-cops bound her hands together at the wrist and shoved her into a van with two other protestors. The door slammed shut and the sun was blocked out.

  -Chapter Twenty-Four-

  The Decree Anti-Vagrancy Bill

  Homer read the words through grinning teeth. “I would not, could not, with a goat!” his gentle, weathered voice spoke. The little black boy listened carefully to every rhyme. “Would you, could you, on a boat? I could not, would not, on a boat. I will not, will not, with a goat. I will not eat them in the rain. I will not eat them on a train. Not in the dark! Not in a tree! Not in a car! You let me be!” The child's mother smiled as her son chuckled.

  “I do not like them in a box. I do not like them with a fox. I will not eat them in a house. I do not like them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them anywhere!” Homer heard an engine pull up somewhere in the distance. He looked over his shoulder to try to find the source. “Where do you like to eat your green eggs and ham?” the man asked the boy.

  The boy giggled in response. “I don't eat that!” he declared.

  “What?” Homer replied in mock surprise. “You've never tried green eggs and ham? It's yummy! Good for your skin.”

  He could hear the engine cut off.

  “Thank you,” the mother said, her eyes smiling the same as her lips.

  “Keep this so you can read it to him,” Homer said, passing her the book. He turned to the boy. “We didn't get to the good part yet.”

  He stood up from the sidewalk, saying his pardons the two of them as he turned and walked toward the commotion.

  People were not calm like he had known them to be. All of the homeless men and women who previously had little if anything to say were barking in each other's faces. There were three of them, two men and a woman. The older of the men, with a rim of long, thin hair encircling his bald scalp had punched in the window to a family owned liquor store. Although he had tied his shirt around his fist, blood still dripped down on the cloth and past to the street. The man cared little as he and the woman knocked the rest of the glass away and climbed into the shop.

  Homer smelled pot being smoked nearby and chuckled a little bit. He coughed when the odor ran sweet with crystal.

  The store owners had fled the city in order to be protected by the federal government. We don't have that luxury, Homer mused. It makes us stronger to learn to live without. He continued to stay positive as he stepped over broken car parts that littered the street. We've always had nothing, he thought. We're probably going to be the most comfortable when this crazy world shows its ugly. It's everyone else that Homer worried about. He was sympathetic to the shock that all the rich men of the city must have received when it dawned on them that they were not in control. There is a freedom in having nothing to control.

  A fist fight broke out in front of a bakery. The large baker who owned the place was attacked by two guys who came from the street. He decked one straight to the ground with his heavy, meaty fist while the other tried to tackle him to the ground. Homer flinched at the sight of the violence and looked away as he continued walking. Orange vans had been parked just outside of the community, eight of them on a hill. Men climbed out of them and walked toward some vagrants encircling a burning trash bin. One of them tossed his bottle of whiskey to the other side of the streets when he saw the merc-cops. An addict chased it.

  “We need everybody here to disperse,” a mercenary with a thick black mustache hollered. A handful of faces turned to the armed men, but a majority of the people ignored them and continued about their drunken business.

  A gunshot rang out as a tubby merc-cop standing beside the mustachioed one discharged his shotgun into the sky.

  All of the faces turned to the men, and a hush settled over the crowd.

  “Everybody has to leave!” the first one yelled again. “The Decree Ant-Vagrancy Bill does not permit you to assemble in public areas for any longer than one hour. Everybody has to go home or this situation will be handled as if it were a riot.”

  “But, mister,” a teenage girl with a southern hue in her voice said, “these people don't have homes to go to.”

  “There are homeless shelters dotted around the city,” the mercenary replied. “Go to one of them.”

  “Man, ain't no one funding those things anymore,” a thin black man said in a scratchy voice.

  “Yeah, the government's cut them off,” a white woman with entwined snakes tattooed on her collarbone explained. “There's no food or heat.”

  “That's not my problem,” the merc-cop stated. “It's out of the streets, which you cannot stay on. Everybody, leave!” He turned around as he yelled this and started to walk back to his vans. The chubby one did the same, but before he did so, he said to the crowd, “You have five minutes to comply.”

  The mer
c-cops climbed back into their vans. No engines started and none of them moved. They just sat in their vehicles and waited.

  Every other person dashed about, running in different directions out of sheer panic. Some ran in actual circles as they sweated about which way to flee. Families gathered for hushed conversations before all agreeing to leave in a particular manner. Others, however, stood their ground.

  “What the hell are they going to do, anyway?” a tweaked out white guy with a graying five-o'clock shadow asked.

  “They'll arrest us, man!” his Guatemalan friend replied.

  “Shit, they can't arrest ALL of us,” the first guy said.

  That's when Homer realized it. What was going to happen next. It hit him.

  “No, he's right,” Homer declared loudly, addressing everyone as a whole rather than just the two junkies. “Everybody has to leave, now! Run for your lives!”

  Movement exploded on the street. Most people seemed to settle on flowing out of the intersection, away from the Decree officers. Homer joined the crowd, hopping up over the heads on occasion and yelling for people to leave. He knew it wasn't fair, and he knew it wasn't right. But that's not what mattered now. Live to fight tomorrow.

  “Homer, what's happening?” the woman he was with earlier called out to him. He spotted her and her son getting pushed about by people as they tried to move past. They looked disoriented.

  “You need to get your son and leave right now,” Homer replied. Nothing on his face resembled a smile. It seemed so unlike him, as if he looked like a complete stranger. This scared her. He looked down at a watch his dear friend Andy had paid for. “We have two more min – ”

  Gunfire interrupted him. He looked over his shoulder as everyone started to move faster, now engaged in a synchronized jog away from the mercenaries as they began to open fire on the homeless men, women, and children. They shot white men, black men, red men, and yellow men. They shot the old, the young, the sick, and the unsound. They fired on families of good God-fearing folk and they fired on slimy scumbags as they tried to scamper away. Rich men, proud business owners, avid American consumers, hard working humans of the middle class, the poor, the homeless, and the less fortunate. They all bled red when they were shot. They all made the same sound when they hit the ground.