“Get ready,” he told his friends as they did the same.
“What exactly are they going to do?” Turnbull said to Dale as the protest march entered the square.
“Not sure,” Dale replied. “He told me not to worry about it, that no one was going to get hurt – he said ‘really hurt’ but he wouldn’t say anything more. Said I didn’t need to know.”
“I like the OPSEC,” Turnbull replied. “But this is the downside of decentralization. Sometimes it’s just too damned decentralized.”
“I got folks getting video though,” Dale said. “So I hope it’s at least entertaining.”
When Turnbull had seen the news report promising the march, he knew the resistance had to react somehow. The whole purpose of the march – and of forcing the populace to watch – was to rub the power of the State in their faces. The message – we have your children, and we have you – was loud and clear.
It could not go unanswered.
Turnbull had quickly dismissed any thought of an attack on the PSF guarding route. That was an invitation to a bloodbath. A fair chunk of the town was actively supporting the resistance, and there were the Tories supporting the PR, but most of the townspeople – while to some extent supportive of the goals of the resistance – were still uncommitted. The killings at the church were sad, but they were also out of sight – what wasn’t on video simply wasn’t. And the tragedy could be (and was) blamed on overzealous People’s Volunteers, who were supposed to be simply some concerned citizens spontaneously acting outside of the government’s control to protect progressive change from haters, denialists, racists, and anyone else the PR declared bad.
But if the resistance recklessly sparked a massacre involving these kids in the middle of town in broad daylight, the guerrillas would alienate the populace and that would mean their demise. The insurgency could continue if the majority of people simply averted their eyes; if the PR won back their hearts and minds, then the guerrillas would die like fish trapped in a dried up pond.
“I could walk out and shoot that principal,” Langer had suggested the prior evening. “I don’t have to kill her, just put one in her leg. As an example.”
Turnbull shook his head. “Same problem. If we start shooting, we buy every kid who gets killed.”
“What if they start shooting?” Langer said.
“Then they do.”
Now, as the march approached, Turnbull and Dale moved north to get a better view.
“Those kids don’t have any guns, right?” asked Turnbull.
“Nope,” Dale said.
“How about anything that sounds like guns, like firecrackers?”
“No, those are way illegal and hard to get too. Don’t worry, Carl’s not stupid.”
“I’m not worried about Carl being stupid,” Turnbull said, pausing to glance at a PSF officer standing guard in the street, AK slung over his back, eating from a bag of the generic potato chips they got as part of their additional food allotment.
The gaggle of students was now nearly all inside of Courthouse Square. Ms. Marfull had led the blue sashes with their long banner around the east side of the courthouse intending to circle back and march the students back up to the northern assembly area again.
In the midst of the mass of white sweatshirts, Carl and his friends each drew a rock from their pockets. They would have used eggs if they could, but eggs were hard to carry and besides, they were very expensive. You didn’t just throw away perfectly good food like in the old days.
They weren’t big rocks, but they weren’t small rocks either. They were just the right size to get the right reaction. Together, the students pulled up their bandanas to cover their faces.
“Now!” shouted Carl, and he threw his rock over the heads of the other students into the packed ranks of blue-sashed Obama Youth Club members. A volley of a half-dozen more stones followed, then another volley, and another.
The Obama Youth kids didn’t react as a group to the first volley; several cried out and clutched their scalps. They did react at the second, as rocks found soft heads and they began to scatter as they realized they were under a rocky attack. The front rank, several of its members cradling sore skulls, dropped the “JASPER YOUTH IN PROGRESSIVE SOLIDARITY WITH PSF” banner on the street, where the scattering students trampled it as they fled. Others shrieked and howled, scrambling to get away.
More rocks flew. Now Carl and his friends were shouting and yelling themselves, half profanities and half “RUN! RUN!” to stir the pot even more. Some of the kids around them saw what was happening and joined in. Placards flew into the air. The regular students, smiling and laughing, took advantage of the chaos to scatter, some running toward the courthouse, others toward the sidewalks. The middle school kids broke ranks too; only the little elementary kids stayed put, watching the march break apart with wide, frightened eyes.
The band kept playing, not seeing they were serenading pandemonium.
Carl had a few more rocks and with the Obama Youth dispersed, he searched for targets. Ms. Marfull was up ahead, shouting incoherently into her bullhorn. He took careful aim and let fly. The rock sailed straight toward her and hit inside the speaker cone. The principal dropped the bullhorn like it gave her an electric shock. Feedback roared, and so did Carl – in laughter.
Ms. Marfull saw him.
The children were running wild through the square, teachers trying desperately to corral them, the spectators starting to laugh and point.
Turnbull smiled. The authorities looked ridiculous, and Dale’s people were recording it all on video. They would upload it, and before the internet controllers could snuff it out it would hopefully go viral and the PR would be a laughingstock.
Ms. Marfull turned and saw a chunky and perplexed PSF officer watching the remnants of the disintegrated protest running rampant through the square.
“Officer, officer!”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“Huh?” he said, not sure what she expected him to do about her uncontrollable charges.
“That boy! That boy there! He did this! Him!”
Carl saw the principal and the officer talking, and her pointing him out, and he stopped smiling. Students running in all directions darted between them, but now Marfull was pulling the officer along behind her as they came at him, trotting. Then Carl smiled again – he realized that PSF guy could never catch him. He laughed, and Marfull halted, furious, humiliated.
Carl turned to run.
“Stop him!” Marfull shouted.
The PSF officer was almost out of breath already. Carl turned and began to sprint, and the officer raised his AK and put a burst of three bullets through Carl’s back at lung level.
The crowd seemed to pause for a moment at the sound of the gunshots, and then true chaos erupted. Joy and laughter became fear and terror as everyone, student, teacher, and spectator, sought to escape.
Carl staggered for a few seconds, and then fell face first into the street. Marfull and the PSF officer stood there, stunned, and then the officer ran away. Marfull just stared until Turnbull pushed her out of the way and Dale followed.
They knelt at Carl’s body and Turnbull checked his pulse. Dead.
“Turn him over,” Turnbull said.
“What?” Dale said, not quite believing what had happened.
“Turn him over!”
Dale did.
“And pull down the mask.”
“Why?”
“Do it!” Turnbull yelled, and Dale did it.
Blood was trickling out of the corner of Carl’s mouth.
Turnbull stood and pulled out his phone. He took five photos.