“No,” Cooper said. “He’s got us in check there. Even if we got away with it, he’d become a hero, a martyr. It would make things worse. No, what we need to do is expose him. Beat him without killing him.”
“Outstanding. How?”
Cooper shrugged. “Still working on that part.”
But I will find a way, John.
I know what you’re trying to do. I’m certain of it.
And I won’t allow it.
LIVE FEED FROM THE STREETS OF CLEVELAND!!
1:13 PM, THANKSGIVING DAY
Susan Skibba here, your favorite intrepid columnist, always up-to-the-minute wherever the scene is hottest.
I’m typing from the heart of the rock-and-roll city, where regular news is afraid to venture. Treading the mean streets to keep you up to date.
And dear readers, I have to tell you, it’s getting ugly.
Today may be Thanksgiving, but this ain’t no parade. It’s been a week since the Children of Douchebags shut down the supermarkets, and by the look of this crowd, no one thought to buy a turkey in advance. And with the power out for a second day in a row, the thousands of people mobbing the streets all look cold, hungry, and pissed off.
I’m going to city hall to talk to the mayor. Wish me luck, kids!
1:48
Do you know the difference between a national guardsman and a Nazi?
Me either, dear reader, me either.
It took me twenty minutes to fight three blocks, and you all know Mama Sue can throw an elbow. Once I made it to City Small, I was shocked to see the whole building surrounded by armed soldiers. These aren’t the “yes, ma’am, no, ma’am” soldiers Sue likes to get behind—or under, if the circumstances are right—these are storm troopers with automatic rifles and no discernible sense of humor.
I politely requested an interview with Mayor McCheese and was told to move along. Move along! As if the press could be stymied by a pimply teenager with a machine gun.
The scene here is grim. A sea of hungry people have surrounded the building and are yelling slogans and demanding food. Let’s do a little man-on-the-street, shall we?
2:11
SUSAN SKIBBA, Intrepid Feedcaster: Excuse me, sir, tell me, how long have you been here?
Handsome in a Grungy Sort of Way: Since morning.
SSIF: And have you heard anything from city hall?
HGSW: The soldiers keep trying to break us up. But I’m not going anywhere. They want us to leave, they better give us some answers.
SSIF: What do you mean by “break you up”?
HGSW: Pushing, waving guns. I heard there was tear gas, but I haven’t seen that.
SSIF: Is there anything you’d like to say to your government?
HGSW: Yeah. My family is out of food. My neighbors are out of food. It’s cold. We need help. Now.
2:43
The air is chilly, but the body heat rising off this crowd must be changing weather patterns. There are thousands of people, but no apparent leaders. Everyone is surging and pushing against each other and the wall of soldiers. Still no word from—
Wait!
The front doors of city hall are opening, and someone is coming out. It looks like . . . it appears to be more soldiers, dressed differently. They are carrying heavy riot shields and wearing . . . oh shit, gas masks. Several of them are pointing devices at the crowd. Some sort of weapon?
They’re firing . . .
2:49
Tear gas, it turns out, is painful. Luckily clever Mama Sue was near the back of the crowd and suffered only a whiff of the stuff.
I’ve climbed onto a planter outside an office building, and from my undignified perch I can see the gas swirling around the street. People are running in every direction, and those who fall are being trampled by the people behind them.
A group of tough-looking fellows wearing bandanas over their faces and carrying baseball bats and tire irons are pushing back toward the building. The soldiers have locked shields and are preparing to repel them.
Oh—oh God.
2:53
What started as a peaceful demonstration is becoming a bloodbath. People stagger around the streets, bleeding. Fistfights are breaking out, people are stealing jackets. A woman lies in the gutter, not moving.
The little girl beside her is screaming, “Mommy!”
2:57
The crowd has blocked a police car. The officers are yelling through their speaker, telling everyone to back away.
Now a group of men have begun to rock the car, bouncing it on its axles, each bounce going higher.
The car just tipped onto its side. One of the officers has opened his door and is trying to crawl out—
Oh shit, the crowd pushed the car onto its roof. The officer who was escaping is—my God, it looks like his leg was caught under the car. He’s screaming.
Men are surrounding him, they’ll pull him free. Or—
JESUS!
3:02
Chaos. Smoke rising, can’t see from where. People howling. They’ve become a mob, it’s gonr crazy here, no one actng like people, they’ve become animals, throwng rocks and bottles. There’s no aim or purpose just people falling apart, angre turning to rage.
father is holding boy and running, boy crying, terrified.
Woman with torn blouse, blod on her face.
Rock shattering window in cty hall
What was that sound?
Not gas. That sounded like
CHAPTER 16
Gunfire. Not sure from where. But more than one.
I’m scared.
i’ll try to get out of here. So many peple, all the hate.
How can ths be happning here?
If I don’t make it, tell my mother I love her.
Tell peopel about ths. Don’t let it be covred up. don’t let them—
Ethan’s d-pad went blank.
He jerked, blinked. He’d been staring at the screen so intently that his eyes were dry.
He pressed the button to turn it back on—nothing. Out of juice. Funny, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually run the thing down to nothing. It felt strangely crippling, his connection to the world reduced to a useless piece of composite fabric.
A boom like a crack of distant thunder came and went.
The writer had said everything was happening around city hall. That was only a mile and a half away. Ethan folded the d-pad and slid it in his pocket. It was cold in the house, and his limbs were stiff. He walked to the front door, stepped onto his porch. Bleak gray skies. Thanksgiving weather, perfect if there was a fire burning and a house full of family and the smells of cooking food.
Less perfect wearing three sweaters over an empty belly. Less perfect when columns of smoke rose in dark curls to the east. Less perfect as military helicopters hovered like hummingbirds above the downtown area.
Strange. He’d been plugged in, reading about things that were happening just up the road. Modern living right there.
“What was that sound?” Amy had joined him on the porch, Violet in her arms.
“A car blowing up, I think. There’s a riot downtown.”
“Over food?”
“Over everything.”
Amy nodded. One of the things he loved about his wife, she didn’t panic, didn’t go silly over bad news. She just worked the problem. He could see her doing that now, the gears of her head turning. “It’s been a week. If they were going to get food in, it should have been here by now.”
He nodded. They stood and watched the smoke rise. Another boom sounded. Violet stirred, moaned softly, and then went back to sleep.
Amy said, “Remember that time we were driving to California? We were in one of those boring states where nothing changes, losing our minds, and we played that game.”