Liberty or Death! 2/4

Author’s Note:

Story contains scenes of violence. Reader discretion is advised.

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In a staggering, sobbing flood the civilians ran.

Behind them, the uniforms roared their victory. Hastily reformed lines and platoons dashed after the fleeing backs of people who had until recently been law-abiding and honest citizens. People who deserved whatever fate they got for daring to challenge the Authority.

A soldier tackled one protestor, the civilian’s head hitting the ground hard, not allowed to bounce by a firm, armoured hand. The full shock of the impact rattled the brain, shattering thoughts and sending a broken kaleidoscope of light flashing across his vision.

For good measure, the soldier planted the reinforced toe of his riot boot into the base of the protestor’s spine, briefly remembering his winning kick on under lights decades before. Other people tried to fight, but were taken down by olive uniforms’ intent on harm.

A few more gunshots rang out, their sound a deadly after image to the bullets which had already found their targets, leaving corpses as stumbling block to others trying desperately to flee. Vicious laughter dogged their steps, echoing in the protesters’ ears as they stumbled over the dead and the injured, minds taken entirely by the need to get away.

Civilians lined the road before those in flight. Men and women with shields upraised and cold eyes locked on the maelstrom of smoke and gas behind the fleeing victims. As the front runners of the rout approached the shield wall, gaps opened.

Every day people in bright orange vests, waving equally orange sticks as though they expected aircraft to land on the strips opened in the ranks, called out. “This way! Come through! You’ll be safe here!”

Hesitation overcome by the rapidly oncoming storm that snapped at their heels, people bolted through the lines. Some followed direction, arcing the course of their run to volunteer emergency services or, in a few rare and heroic examples, demanding a shield and weapon. Those who continued to run were allowed to go. Only those too wounded to carry on were corralled and had the choice to flee taken away.

People with stretches between them sprinted passed the running people. Heroic salmon against a current of terror. They returned more carefully, carrying any wounded they could find to where they could be treated. Green uniforms and civilian clothes alike. It didn’t matter to the medical volunteers.

The shields stretched from curb to curb, a motley collection of re-enactors’ scuta, aspides, skjöldr, and kite shields blended with cardboard and wood glue innovations born of more modern necessities. Many carried clear plastic shields taken from previous conflict zones, or distributed by anonymous benefactors. All were armed.

Crowbars and mallets, one-handed hammers and gladii, machetes and other replica short swords, axes of every variety. Other, more singularly useful tools were held in ready, willing, mostly steady hands by other volunteers. No person stood on the line who did not actively and loudly demand the privilege. Not yet.

Fluttering behind the open ranks of shields, flags fluttered in the wind from the sea, casting irregular, undulating shadows over the fleeing people. The symbolism was clear.

Ice seemed to touch the soldiers’ skin as they ran. Ahead of them, the shield wall closed, and blank, stunned horror clutched the soldiers hearts, dragging at their already exhausted heels. The fleeing victims before them, the unarmed, unarmoured, untrained that the soldiers had been promised would never be able to fight back disappeared. They vanished behind a wall of shields bristling with weapons. Most of the uniforms were dismayed that their targets were now fighting back, presenting risk to their own selves.

The shield wall closed.

A trio of soldiers ran forward, hoisting grenade launchers and lobbing stinging gas and obscuring smoke deep behind civilian lines.

Grim faces waited behind masks worn against the Authority’s smoke and the gas. After so many weeks of watching the violence rise, so long of seeing and tasting those tactics, the grenades were more a performance than not. Then the drones fell out of the sky, the sudden lost of contact with their controllers or nets claiming them. Keeping the world and the Authority blind to the rising action.

Howls and taunts from both sides. Targeted slurs and uneducated jeers flew from spittle flecked mouths between hateful, mania fueled eyes above disheveled uniforms. Targeted slurs and once-thoughtful concepts made vulgar in rage came in volley’s from the civilians. But for a long moment, the two armies only stood and faced each other. Taunting.

Without the anonymity of modern war, the primal instinct takes over. Scare the enemy first, scare them enough and maybe they won’t even want to fight. A vestigial thing, left over from the days when cooler heads might have come out on top.

Snarling something carnal from their chests, the police on horseback advanced. They steadily built speed and power, not exactly charging the home-made, replica, and ‘liberated’ shield wall but certainly advancing with intent to harm.

The line held.

Bursting out of memories from the silver screen, an old Boy Scout whistle whistle from a century before blew one sharp, long, loud blast. The front rank, grunting in natural unison, stepped one foot forward and braced their weight against their shields. Behind them, rank on rank, other volunteers planted their fists into the backs of the protestor in front of them and held firm.

Old tactics to fight old battles in new worlds.

One short blast on somebody’s old trumpet behind the line, and a forest of spears, pikes, pitchforks, and sharpened sticks leveled themselves at the horses. Behind the deadly hooves, federal infantry, real soldiers, marched in lock-step, the frenzy of the early skirmish all but gone from their eyes. Resistance was one thing, organized rebellion must be exterminated at all costs. Simple tactics.

The smart cavalry drew rein. The stupid horses managed to impale themselves, hurling riders headlong into the gathered ranks of civilians. As one sailed over the shields, face arcing towards the ground, he heard someone shout, “don’t catch him! Fascists ain’t worth helping.”

Left gasping on the ground as the battle began to rage around him, he remembered seeing regular people volunteer to put themselves in harm’s way during the length and breadth of the protests. How many of them had risked their health to save people, uniforms be damned. Regret at his choices coursed through him. His last agonized thought was of his mother, and how disappointed in him she would be. How horribly she would feel like she had failed.

“Testudo!” shouted a re-enactor with a wide plume on his helmet and his unit quickly brought their shields up. That plume meant a rank of some kind, but only the “Cohort” itself really understood it. All anyone else saw was Legionnaires out of history fighting in the street.

Horses screamed and backed away from the forest of points aimed squarely at their chests. One of their riders flew from the saddle as a beanbag slammed into his chest, breaking ribs. He hit the ground hard, more bones snapping as the sun warmed the asphalt.

More grenades flew, soldiers shouting war cries as they closed the gap.

Nearly.

Nearly.

In the air, drones continued to buzz and clash. Dropping onto the heads of combatants as nets or jamming tech did their work. Visible through news feeds streamed to screens across the world before the machines failed, billowing clouds of smoke rose to cover the cross streets; hemming in the fighting on the ground.

“Advance four!”

And the Legionnaires shouted each one, stamping forward with their hobnailed Caligae and slapping their scuta. Enemy cavalry tried to press them, shadowing closer and taking half-hearted swipes with their long batons. Their horses, though being well-trained animals, were smart enough not to approach the threatening pikes.

“Open!”

Shields opened, and another order followed on its heels. Pila flew, glancing off or punching through shields raised by bemused soldiers. Bemused until the screaming started. A skirmish tactic older than old. Then the soldiers roared, discipline broke among the soldiers hit by the volley. They lunged forward, closing the gap and meeting their enemy shield to shield, trusting the cavalry to get out of their way.

Few did. Breaking away to either left or right as still more grenades flew overhead. As still more gas and smoked filled the streets. Somewhere, a massive drum started playing. A steady, thumping rhythm. The gathered protestors roared.

Before hammer could meet anvil, a man appeared from the middle of the Cohort. He rose high, as though he were being lifted by comrades, and extended his arm. Pointing, if one were far enough away to miss the gleam in his hand, off to the right.

No gunshot sounded.

To those close enough to really witness it, shrouded by gas and smoke, it looked as though a star flew from the man’s hand. A star that whistled into the billowing smoke and vanished while a twin arced down the opposite street.

“Back! Four!” Shouted the man with the plume. The whistle blew another signal, and the Cohort stomped back into line. Squaring their shoulders, each Legionnaire hoped that the flares would work. That the whole thing would work.

A bugle tore through the audible chaos. A quick, up-tempo blast on the horn. Followed by the rising sound of thunder.

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Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four