Devolution (18 page)

*

“The first mass gathering was more of a protest,” the reporter explained, standing nervously in front of the rowdy crowd. The pain in the eyes of those behind him manifested in wild screams and violent gestures. The cool, moist air was accented by the pungent odor of burnt wood and melted asphalt. As the morning fog lifted, it was soon replaced by a dark cloud of expanding smoke. “This one appears to have the signs of a riot.”

It had been more than a month since the citizens of Great Britain took to the streets in protest. Since, Parliament had remained gridlocked. The majority feared further financial collapse and looked to compromise and therefore spread the blame. The minority parties refused to negotiate, however, hoping the discontent would force new elections sweeping them to power.

The reporter continued. “This demonstration is not only larger than September’s, the tone is different.” The cameraman swung off the reporter to scan the angry crowd. “As you can see, there are no signs, no chants.” He paused. “There are also no children.”

Reality was not important to the elected officials. The millions who lost their jobs, hundreds of thousands who lost their homes, and tens of thousands who were hungry only served as potential voters. Culpability was vital.

“There’s a lot of negative energy.” The camera panned back to the wide-eyed journalist who began to edge his way through the crowd. “And for some people, this protest never ended as the economy continued its slide.” The reporter bounced around between the protesters. The crowd was much more forgiving for the cameraman.

“Zander,” asked the anchor from the desk, seeing the reporter struggle to negotiate a path. He pressed in his ear piece, shielding the noise. “What are people saying?”

“Well, Leah, it seems these people want Westminster and the world to know who’s in control.” He pressed deeper into the crowd.

“Are there police?”

“Yes. But they were late to arrive.”

“What about—”

“As I mentioned, for some, the protest never ended.” He emerged into a small circular opening. A group of five unkempt vagabonds sat blank-faced on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the entrance gates.

“These people have been here since the beginning.”

It looked like they hadn’t showered, shaved, or changed their raggedy clothes since.

The reporter lowered a knee to the curb to a single man. “Why have you remained for so long?” he asked loudly.

The shaggy, bearded man dressed in old gray and black clothes looked up. His eyes appeared soulless. “For our country,” he said, his voice uninspired.

The reporter held the microphone firmly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“We realized,” he continued, “this nation was being misguided. We can’t simply be content to voice our opinions. We must demand more.” His intense rhetoric failed to match his vapid delivery.

The camera panned to his right to the others in his party. At the end of that line sat a thin man dressed in ripped jeans. His long, curly brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He no longer wore a bright yellow shirt. It had been replaced with another that simply read, “Join the Resistance.”

The reporter stood up to hold the microphone at his center. “And Leah,” the reporter motioned towards the crowd, “many here also told me it was that mysterious pamphlet that convinced them to come here. Reporting live, outside Westminster, Zander Woods, BNN News.”

“Zander,” asked the anchor from the studio, “before you go, how many people are there?”

“It’s hard to tell. It’s a good number.”

“Thank you, Zander.” The anchor turned to another camera. “Now we’re going to speak with a riot-control expert as we continue to show you these amazing pictures from Westminster.”

“My God,” stated a disbelieving Theodore. He and his family watched the coverage from their quiet home. “How did this happen?”

His question required no response.

“Hey!” John lunged forward on the couch pointing at the television. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” His sister looked at him strangely. All she saw was a sea of people accompanied by the dull drone of a helicopter.

“I saw… something.”

The image soon reappeared.

“There!” John yelled. “Look!”

Off to the right stood a man unfamiliar to the Nolans. He was taller than most in the crowd and a little heavyset. He was jumping up and down. His blond hair was cut short, and his thick glasses bounced in sync with his movements. Despite the chilly temperatures, he wore only jeans and an orange t-shirt, which displayed unremarkable lettering. The crowd was too large to hear his words. Yet, it wasn’t his appearance or actions that caught John’s eye. It was the object in his left hand, raised high above his head.

It appeared small on the shaky screen. The Nolans couldn’t make out the illustrations or lettering. But, they didn’t have to. The color gave it away.

*

“We are not going out that easily! I’ve worked too damn hard!” asserted an enraged prime minister. He pounded his heavy fists upon the desk. The large window behind him vividly depicted the focus of his discontent. Somber and dispirited members of his own cabinet and party moped into the room. “We have only been in power for six months! What do they want?”

He slammed down onto his desk again, this time with open palms. He exploded to his feet. The violent thrust upwards sent his chair heaving backwards. The PM leaned forward towards a diminishing number of advisers. Purple veins in his neck pulsated rapidly, fueling the blood that colored his face a bright red. “These people voted for us.” He turned sideways, pointing out the window. “They voted for us!” he cried.

“Sir,” said one of his advisers, “we have to call for elections.”

Exhausted by his repeated outbursts, the PM’s temper subsided. However, his imposing body remained perched on his arms. He spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. “
We
will not.”

The men and women who filled the room had no faith in his leadership. Their depressed body language spoke louder than their silent stares of hopelessness.

The PM jabbed at his own chest with stiffened fingers. “If we call for elections and admit our defeat, our party is finished. I cannot allow that.”

“But sir,” said the same adviser, “the country is failing.”

All the eyes in the room focused on the PM.

“There will be no vote,” he stated.

*

On the other side of the fence outside the PM’s window, police deployed in a hasty march. Adorned in full riot gear and armed with rifles, they filed along the streets forming an intimidating wall of black and blue uniforms. To the demonstrators, the dispatch of law enforcement was seen as an oppressive measure, perpetrated by an incompetent government. As the parade of “peacekeepers” darkly outlined the crowded blocks surrounding Westminster, opportunism arose.

It began with verbal cries lobbied towards the officers.

“You can’t stop us all!” A stark reality revealed in five words.

The desperate cries roared louder as the sun edged its way across the October sky. The demonstrators wore their anguish for the world to see: the white collar father who lost his job and couldn’t pay his mortgage; the new mom who’d wisely left her baby boy at home, but held his uncertain future close to her heart; the lifelong mason who had no work and no real options; the secretary who, like her boss, had lost everything when the market collapsed. Each person had a unique story, but their grievances were similar. At this point, no one knew what to do. All they had was frustration and nervous anxiety.

The breadth of the crowd continued to swell as it approached noon. Off in the distance, helicopter blades signaled the next round of government action—military personnel to assist the outnumbered police. The sight of the heavily armed soldiers jumping out of low lying choppers was not well-received. Feelings of intimidation threatened the peace.

Some of the soldiers rushed to assist the riot police at the base of Westminster’s pointed steel, reinforced brick wall. Others stayed on the outskirts in a vain attempt at containment. They sprinted into position as if time were precious, proceeding with a cautious reserve.

The clone-like soldiers seemed intent to not acknowledge the growing discomfort of the mob. With rifles drawn, the indignant nature of the demonstration turned to paranoia. The mob continued to swell in numbers, but it was kept from swelling in size. Some tried to expand farther down the streets, only to be forced back at the end of a gun barrel.

Hysteria turned to fear, and then to anger. Like the waves of a curtain flowing in a soft breeze, uncontrolled mass movements of bodies collided in brilliant displays of aerial grace. Blocks of irritable and resentful Brits violently slammed into one another. Everyone was at the mercy of the invisible hand that controlled the mob.

The multitudes were forced to rely on the strength of those around them as the wave arrived. Not an inch existed between people. One could smell the hot, panicked breath of their neighbors. The intense feeling of claustrophobia struck those who never knew they suffered from the illness. The weaker citizens fell to the cold pavement, never to rise under the weight of the legions. Witnesses were rendered helpless under concern for their own safety. Hundreds would perish before a single shot was ever fired.

“Get our people out of there, now!” proclaimed an unnerved Chris Nash, watching the frightful event unfold from his office. With his arms stiffly crossed and feet firmly planted on the floor he quietly murmured, “God save us.”

One of his producers ran into his room, holding a phone tightly to her ear. “We can’t get a hold of them, sir. It’s too chaotic.”

“Keep trying.” A regrettable nervousness set in. “See if the helicopter can pick them up. They need to leave, now!” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with an open palm. “Figure it out!”

Tony Manning sat perched on his couch restlessly watching society deteriorate on live television.

“Thank God I got out of there.”

His wife, who was far more relaxed, sat next to him holding their son. The boy squealed with delight as he bounced on his mother’s knee.

What kind of country will he inherit?
Tony thought to himself. He broke his stare of the television to lovingly observe what little bliss he had left—his family.

“What happens if this erupts?” Emma asked.

“I think you mean
when
.”

Emma remained silent, while her question remained unanswered.

On the other side of the city, the major general closely observed the day’s events by himself in a dark, windowless office. A single desk lamp partially illuminated his body and the meager contents of his desk. The rest of the room appeared and disappeared with the flicker of the screen. He sat reclined with the remote resting upon his left leg. His elbows lay comfortably on the arm supports and his head tilted ever so slightly to the left. His gray pinstriped suit-coat hung on the back of the chair, his tie high and tight. He appeared apathetic, hardly reacting to the turbid scene.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

The harsh echo of bare knuckles upon his door frame served as a reminder of what reality had become. He rotated in his chair to find one of his subordinates standing at the doorway.

“Sir,” he said solemnly, “our investigation is nearly complete.”

The major general nodded for the man to enter. He sat up, muting the television.

The soldier handed his boss the documents. “This won’t surprise you.”

The major general offhandedly studied the information even though it really didn’t matter how the pamphlet was leaked. The damage had been done. And, as a result, the nation, socially and financially, was collapsing.

“Thank you, Tad. Go home to your family.” He tossed the papers onto his desk and grabbed the remote.

“Thank you, sir.” Following a straight-legged solute, the man marched out of the office.

Upon his assistant’s departure, the major general glanced down at the report. A tight grin appeared on his face and a single chuckle emanated through his body. “Son-of-a-bitch.” He was not surprised and maybe even a little humbled.

You got me.

Leaning back in his chair, his attention shifted back to the television and the streets surrounding Westminster. He increased the volume just enough to could hear faint fragments of natural sound. For the rest of the day he would remain in that reclined position, drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Gentlemen,” barked Aasir Abdulah Kabul, leaping onto a chair. The congested room rejoiced at his arrival. Yelling over their cheers, he announced the obvious. “You should be very proud of yourselves.”

“YEAH!” his men shouted in unison, pumping their fists into the air.

Kabul stood tall at the head of the room absorbing their energy. The screens behind him displayed the decaying scene outside Westminster.

“What did I promise you?” he continued after the roar died down. A smug, arrogant leer developed on his face. “We got our revenge.” His words sparked yet another round of jubilation.

Kabul hopped off the chair and powered through the crowd to his private office. Shielding the view with his left hand, he typed the code. When the red light flashed green, he turned to observe his men memorializing their victory. They had no idea what was coming
.
The massive oak door closed behind him and a click from the brass latch sealed him inside. The ebullience of his men softened into a faint, far off cry for attention.

Considering the decor and brilliant architecture through the complex, Kabul’s private office was not the magnificent spectacle one would assume. It was dark, shaded by thick canvas blinds. The only illumination came from the natural light that fought its way through the curtains. The walls were relatively bland, absent of the Muslim adornments of his subordinates. The wood furniture was nice, but not elegant. The simple rugs appeared to only lessen the echoes of hard-soled shoes as they knocked against the worn out wooden floors.