“We will be escorting the protesters from the front steps to the island at Wreath Rotary. Getting them off the facility grounds is paramount.” Standing up and kicking the stool to the side “We’ll let the local PD deal with them from there.”
A mosaic of angry eyes crosses the frame as we descend the front steps. Chants and profanities ripple over my ear drum while I look into the cage of card board and plastic handles. The front row has dawned bandannas, masks and face shields to protect themselves from gas. Many already hurling empty water bottles at our feet. The ground is vibrating from a hundred well worn shoes shuffling in the waves of anger.
We line up behind the MPs, batons drawn. A show of force. The front row holding riot shields like the plow on a train barreling toward the street. The objects being hurled are getting larger and heavier. Morphing from water bottles to stones, and stones to sign posts. Suddenly I see a flash out of the corner of my eye, civvies recoil with their hands in front of their face. Another flash, and another. The road begins lighting up like a concert stage. We take one step forward. With each step the flashes continue growing brighter and brighter. The first row of shields meets the first row of protesters, we keep moving forward. The crowd starts to dwindle as the militants retreat back to the gate. Slowly we advance.
A young kid tackles one of the body shields, pushing back with a shoulder pinned into the Plexiglas window. They are quickly thrown backwards, tripping over their feet, landing flat legged on the ground. We continue moving one metered step at a time. We engulf the young protester, four hands pulling them behind the wall of shields, as if consumed by a black and green monster emerging from a cement lagoon.
A line starts to form behind us, as more and more protesters are consumed to be defecated by the monster with zip tie handcuffs tightly cinched around their wrists. The protesters are trapped between us and the high wall of the exit ramp. We continue to advance, now moving with a sweeping arc to attempt to herd the group towards the rotary.
“Do not let them split!” barks Commander Patten.
As if on cue the group of protesters parts around the arcing arm of riot shields. Some being pushed to one side or another by the force of our relentless onslaught. Bracing our batons at top and bottom in a defensive stance, we create a line walking backwards in time with the MPs. The line of combatants flows like wind around the wing of a plane. Eyes staring back at us with hot coals in cinder. I shiver, commander poked the hornet’s nest and we are the stick. The two lines of protesters begin to converge onto us, asking us to retaliate, begging us to retaliate. I feel a push from behind, the MP opposite me was thrown back with the force of a body hurling itself into the human blockade. Suddenly a rain of bodies begins to precipitate. The masked bandits seem to have started a game of suicidal red rover.
Ughf.- in the blink of an eye I feel my legs get swept out from under me. My pelvis bounces as I stabilize myself, knuckles into the cement. A pair of brilliant green eyes stair down at me. The protester scrambles to their feet. Tommy pushes them down again, following the force with an equally heavy baton to the back. Tommy pulls me up from under the shoulder and shoves my baton back into my hand before turning to the storm of arms heading straight for us. Tommy seems to be the first to have drawn blood, but is definitely not the last. Glints of black metal turning white sparkles above the guards’ as batons crash into face shields and sign posts.
I feel a warm hand on my wrist with gentle force slowly turning painful. I drop my baton. Suddenly the danger feels real, my arm twists back in a way it was never meant to bend. I scream, using my free hand to beat the protester off. They had cool red hair, a green t-shirt and long running shorts covering artfully scuffed knee pads. Their face was clean shaven and grimacing with each punch. They fell to the ground after the fourth punch and I finished with a kick to the stomach.
Our strong organized line had become more of a rain drop, bowing at the center as fists continue flying. We seem to be pushing half the group up the exit ramp and the other half to the island at Wreath Rotary. The tension is building, the protesters have stopped charging into us. The sun is hot in the middle of the street. Both sides almost standing perfectly still. Commander’s voice is heard through a blow horn.
Crackling in digital distortion “go home, or come with us. I don’t care.”
The crowd begins to dwindle, with just a few standing their ground.
Suddenly a loud Scraping, banging, and screeching thunder is heard. Three arrhythmic honks come from the exit ramp, in a flash I feel the pressure of immense weight knocking me back.
Boukie Games 