Jason immediately sounds a shrill, wailing alarm that sweeps over Cooperville. And word spreads like wildfire that they are under attack.
“You shouldn’t have done that. Now, you’re just gonna make real trouble for everyone. Let’s go in boys,” Platt says, signaling their advance with the forward motion of his right hand and spurring his horse to proceed. Following closely is a battalion of about 300 security forces on foot, who appear as if from out of nowhere from the shadows. Meanwhile, Cooperville volunteers move quickly through the encampment, trying to reassure and calm people, many of whom were asleep and are still groggy.
“The D.C. security forces are coming through. Remember, no matter what they do, do not resist. Do not provoke. Stay calm. Don’t give them any reason to use violence,” the volunteers repeat.
Like an invading army, the capital police split into two single lines moving south, one on the east side of the camp, the other on the west. Residents stand at attention, watching in disbelief as officers kick and poke at whatever is in their way, including anyone who might still be asleep.
“Please, don’t destroy my house,” one frail woman in her sixties pleads. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“House?” a young officer sneers. “You call this cardboard box a house?”
“But it’s all I’ve got,” she says crying.
“Not anymore,” he says as he bludgeons it to bits. “There now. I guess you’re gonna have to apply for a home improvement loan.”
Slowly, as the force makes its way throughout the camp, they shine blinding flashlights directly into people’s eyes. “What kind of drugs are you hiding?” “Where are your weapons? We know you’ve got ’em. Hand ’em over now and maybe we’ll go easy on you.” But as they speak, they don’t wait for answers but kick and smash everything in their way. They subject people, especially attractive young women, to body searches, making obscene gestures and comments to each other. “Hey, I think you’d like being searched, wouldn’t you?” one young officer says to a teenage blond.
“Touch her and you’re dead,” her father says, emerging from their tent.
As they move, they tell everyone they’ve already accosted to remain standing in line in single file. But no one has to be told not to move. Adult men and women are mute, in a state of shock. Several have collapsed. Whimpering children hug their parents, dolls, and Teddy bears. Infants can be heard crying, instinctively sensing dread. They have been repeatedly warned about the possibility of attacks. But no one was prepared for anything on this scale. Like a tornado wreaking havoc, in one hour, by 6:30 a.m., Cooperville is wasted. Not a shelter left standing. Whatever people called their personal possession smashed and scattered. Food tents leveled. Outhouses toppled. All that remains are two long lines of bewildered men, women, and children, as far as the eye can see—and no sign of drugs or weapons.
“By the authority vested in me by the District of Columbia security force, I now order the complete evacuation of these premises,” Commander Platt shouts, and his words are repeated to his men down the Mall: “Evacuate now. Evacuate now. Move ’em out now.” Like cattle drivers, the guards push and poke people to move north.
“Where are you taking us?” “Why?” “We haven’t done anything!” “What are you doing to us?”
“Why, didn’t your travel agent tell you?” Commander Platt says to the first group to exit. “All you pieces of trash are goin’ to a new home. Me and the boys made reservations for you in RFK Stadium. You’ll be real happy there. We made it look real nice for ya.”
When they reach the north exit, guards push the two lines of people into a single column eight or ten abreast. Outside, their route is cordoned off and lined with additional security. Slowly, for three miles, they shuffle along Independence, Pennsylvania, and North Carolina Avenues, until they enter East Capitol Street and are within sight of RFK Stadium. Watching from the middle of the street as the crowd approaches, Platt sneers to his assistant, “It’s goin’ without a hitch. These people are just a bunch of fuckin’ sheep. Look at ’em. They haven’t got any fight in ’em.”
But suddenly, as the crowd is directly in front of Platt, from out of nowhere, a bugle blares. Scared, Platt’s horse suddenly rears up on its hind legs. The commander, who has been loosely holding the reins, is almost thrown out of his saddle. When the horse’s front legs come down, his right hoof strikes Adam, Roger’s son, who is at the front of the pack, on his forehead. His skull cracks open like a walnut. His brains ooze out. He is killed instantly. As blood spouts from what is left of his mouth, his legs and upper body twitch for several minutes before falling limp. Cell phone cameras crop up from everywhere taking still and videos of the scene. D.C. security guards cannot confiscate all of them, though they try.
“Adam, Adam,” his mother cries uncontrollably before fainting, while Roger falls to his knees, cradling his son’s broken body in his arms like Mary holding Christ in Michelangelo’s “Pietà.” About twenty people driven from Cooperville surround the grieving parents. Twice as many people, yelling “child killer,” surround Platt’s horse and begin lashing out at the commander with their fists and whatever rocks, glass, and pieces of wood they can grab in the street. As nearby officers attempt to come to Platt’s aid, more and more attackers turn on them. Finally, two men pull Platt from his saddle and drop him on the ground. The crowd begins kicking and stomping on him. He menaces his pistol at them and fires a warning shot in the air. At that, his horse rises up again and almost crushes him. The crowd opens a space, a bystander swats the horse’s rump and it runs off. The assault on Platt continues. A line of D.C. police surrounds his attackers and begins clubbing them. But the crowd moves around them.
“Let them go,” Roger pleads. “Otherwise we’re no better than they are.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Platt shouts, shaking his fist at the crowd as two of his men help him hobble away.
“We already have,” Roger replies.
Posted on Twitter, Facebook, and other social media, the picture of Roger holding Adam goes viral. The headline with it reads “Justice for Adam. Damn Ham.” Angela Bellmonte, the first TV reporter to arrive on the scene, approaches Roger, who continues to cradle the corpse of his son in his arms and refuses to let go as others try to ease it away from him. She says nothing, but quietly motions her cameraman to “roll it.”
“My son, my Adam, is dead,” Roger says, as though in a trance, walking the last few blocks towards the stadium, cradling Adam, his wife at his side. Then, he looks plaintively at Bellmonte and says, “I’m not a father anymore. I don’t have a son. I don’t have a son. I had a son. But just like that, I don’t have a son. He had a cough he couldn’t get rid of. His mother was dead tired from staying up with him. The little guy had open heart surgery when he was born and he had a chronic heart condition. We went bankrupt after our health insurance company dropped us. I just got a job washing dishes. But they came this morning and drove us out of Cooperville like cattle. I was getting ready to go to work. It only pays minimum wage. But at least I could buy enough food to feed the three of us. There’s no telling how long it will last. I worked almost my whole life. My family never asked anyone for anything. When I was nine, I delivered newspapers. We lost our home and business. We were completely wiped out. With the economy the way it is, I haven’t been able to find steady work for three years.”
Then, Roger suddenly collapses. Adam’s lifeless body falls across his chest. His wife screams for help. Four men come running, pick up the corpse, and begin fanning Roger until he comes to. They take their shirts off and square off, two by two, and put the body in their makeshift sling. In the confusion after Adam is killed, about half of the mob from Cooperville breaks through the police line and scatters into side streets. With no place else to go, the remaining crowd heads to RFK, now forming a funeral procession behind Roger and his wife. Stunned police still on duty doff their hats as the body passes. By now, East Capitol Street is
swarming with media. Bellmonte, who has moved to the entrance of the stadium, is reporting live outside as the mourners approach.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22, 1 P.M.: UNDISCLOSED LOCATION. In the control room of the Prometheus Project, Zeus is on the board, watching the TV monitors, one hour after giving the order to begin all phases of “The People’s Strike for Adam.”
Monitor 1 shows mobs surrounding the White House, chanting, “John Galt killed Adam!” and “Down with Cooper!” No fewer than fifty different videos of a grief-stricken Roger holding the lifeless Adam have been posted on YouTube. Viewers are warned that the content is bloody and graphic. But already, ten of them have each had more than one million hits. Every TV station in the country has interrupted programming to broadcast live coverage from RFK Stadium. The afternoon editions of domestic newspapers carry the headline “Kid Killed at Cooperville.” Media around the world have picked up the story.
On Monitor 2, Mercury provides changing images of crowds of “shoppers” gradually and casually strolling into malls in Phoenix, Seattle, Oklahoma City, Dallas, Chicago, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Boston, Charleston, and Indianapolis. Eventually, they add up to a crowd of at least 5,000 in each location, all of them heading for Gayle’s Department Stores. The owners of the upscale national chain are known to be major supporters of President Cooper and the agenda of Free-for-All economics. As head of the National Association of FreeMarket Retailers, Mortimer Gayle, grandson of the department store’s founder, worked with Hilton Manfreed to eliminate minimum wage and worker’s compensation laws, as well as unemployment compensation.
By 1:15 p.m., there is no room for any more customers to enter the ten Gayle’s on the Prometheus Project hit list. Shoppers overwhelm salespeople with a battery of questions. They insist upon trying on blouse after blouse, pants after pants, barely able to get to fitting rooms because of the crowds. They ask advice about dry cleaning versus hand-washing of delicate fabrics, want clarification of exchange policies, and ask for discounts. Ultimately, they buy nothing. Legitimate shoppers who can’t get waited on begin loudly complaining. By 2:30 p.m., it is clear that Gayle’s is not going to transact any business anytime soon.
An agitated Mortimer Gayle is interviewed by Channel 10 News from the chain’s Atlanta headquarters. “I want all of our loyal customers to know that Gayle’s is open for business, will always be open for business, and will not be shut down by gangs who believe in mob rule,” he says emphatically. “These are the Corporate States of America, not some half-baked developing country at the mercy of terrorists. We know how to deal with guerrillas who want to bring down our way of life—and we will do so. In the interest of national security and public safety, we are closing the ten stores that have been targeted for attack. But we will reopen soon. You can count on that.”
On Monitor 3, Adonis shows a tall young blond woman entering the Manhattan headquarters of Atlas Fitness Centers, guiding two Saint Bernards yoked on a common leash. Slim, she is dressed in a black leotard and announces she wants to buy a twelve-pack of Atlas Energy Drink. As she waits for the salesperson to fill her order, the dogs start to squirm and tug on their leashes. “What’s the matter?” she asks, trying to calm them. “You want to explore a little bit, I know,” she says, freeing them. As they run through the facility, it becomes clear that they have massive, uncontrollable cases of diarrhea. Before long, they have christened the better part of the center with their explosions and have released an overpowering smell. Grousing clients pack up and flee the premises en masse. “Bad dogs, bad dogs,” the woman says, as she apologizes to the disgruntled staff. The center closes for business until further notice.
Meanwhile, the center’s phones ring off-the-hook, reporting similar attacks of dog shitting at Atlas Centers—fifteen and climbing—to those who have to begin to clean up. Zeus chuckles as he watches. “There’s nothing like a good sirloin steak with ExLax sauce to do the trick.”
On Monitor 4, Pandora coordinates the updates from across the country, documenting “people’s brigades” that have closed down forty-five branches of the Bank of the Corporate States. Starting at 1:30 p.m. on the East Coast, unusually large numbers of potential depositors have been swarming facilities,saying they want to open accounts. At the same time, online withdrawals of funds, estimated to have been $40 million in just five minutes, caused the bank’s website to crash, freezing all transactions nationwide.
On Monitor 5, at 3 p.m., Zeus watches as pandemonium breaks out on the floor of the National Stock Exchange and all trading is halted after 475 million shares are sold off in ten minutes and shares of targeted companies drop by seventy percent.
On Monitor 6, starting at 4:30 p.m., “passengers” fill subway stations throughout the five boroughs of New York City but don’t board trains. Crowds of irate and anxious commuters spill into the surrounding streets, bringing traffic to a standstill.
On Monitor 7, Olympus reports that crowds have packed the terminals of CSA, World, and National airlines in Los Angeles, Chicago, Dallas/Fort Worth, Chicago, Atlanta, Charlotte, and New York. No one can check in for flights. Planes have been delayed indefinitely. Flocks of pigeons that have been fed castor oil are let loose and are shitting everywhere, so people are fleeing the terminals.
On Monitor 8, Zeus is watching domestic and international TV feeds, reporting that the viral message on social media is that “The People’s Strike for Adam” has brought commerce in the country to a virtual standstill. Unconfirmed reports are also circulating that President Cooper is about to address the nation to declare a national emergency.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22, 9 P.M.: THE WHITE HOUSE. The Cooper Administration has issued a written statement condemning “The People’s Strike for Adam” as an act of treason. “Anything that strikes at the economic lifeblood of the Corporate States of America amounts to an act of war, whether it originates on our soil or from foreign sources,” President Cooper says. “I have instructed the FBI, the CIA, and the National Capital Security Force to launch a consolidated investigation into the acts that paralyzed the nation today. My fellow Investors, let me assure you that I will not rest until we have brought all of the perpetrators of these unAmerican attacks to justice. They will pay— and pay dearly!”
WASHINGTON, D.C.: THE NATIONAL MALL. Throughout the night and into the next morning, bulldozers can be heard smashing and clearing debris from the Mall Cooperville. An eerie, orange light from there can be seen throughout the capital. Anything that can be burned is thrown onto scores of bonfires. An army of dump trucks hauls off anything that can’t be incinerated. Scavengers among the crews salvage a girl’s doll, a baseball glove, clothing, even pots and pans. Before deciding to keep something, they ask among themselves about how much they think it might sell for. The next day, by 6 a.m., ashes are all that is left of Cooperville.
As the nation recovers from “The People’s Strike,” the media question the ability of the Ham Cooper Administration to continue to lead the Corporate States. Some pundits, even those who have typically towed the party line, suggest that the nation may be poised to move in a different direction. “Is John Galt, in fact, really dead? Are we on the verge of a revolution?” John Trigmore, op-ed columnist for The National News, asked in a Thursday, June 23 column. “Has Cooper lost his grip?” more than one commentator wonders.
In the meantime, the Prometheus Project has declared Friday, June 24 a national day of mourning for Adam. In the name of “The People’s Strike,” it has asked all working people to stay home and all businesses to close. A memorial has been scheduled at RFK Stadium for 1 p.m. Pandora has coordinated arrangements through her network of local supporters in Washington, D.C. and surrounding areas. The National Television Service has agreed to provide live coverage of the event and a feed to all domestic and international media. Reports of the killing, which is being called an assassination, and of the details of the Friday memorial have gone viral on social media. Comments and visuals are in the tens of millions. Some sites have crashed for hours. Inte
rnet platforms are also reporting that the White House has declared the day of mourning a treasonous, rogue action punishable by law, and has advised the public not to attend.
FRIDAY, JUNE 24: WASHINGTON, D.C., RFK STADIUM. Beginning at 9 a.m. on Friday, crowds flock to the stadium. About 1,500 former Cooperville residents have been living there since their camp was destroyed two days before. On the floor level, a miniCooperville has already appeared. There are about 100 makeshift shelters improvised from sheets and cardboard boxes. A large white sheet with the words “Cooperville 2” flies from the stadium’s flagpole.
By 1 p.m. the 46,000 seats of the stadium are filled and the overflow crowd has spilled into the streets outside, where they watch the service on three billboard-size screens. Busses have brought attendees from across the country. Most, if not all, are wearing black armbands. Many are carrying signs that read “Justice for Adam,” “Down with Cooper,” and “John Galt Killed Adam.” It is a typical hot, sticky Washington, D.C. afternoon, but no one seems to care.
As four men slowly carry Adam’s closed coffin into the stadium, the audience stands. They are followed by fifty or so children singing the chorus of Michael Jackson’s “We Are the World”:
We are the world/We are the children/We are the ones who make a brighter day/So let’s start giving/There’s a choice we’re making/We’re saving our own lives/It’s true we’ll make a better day/Just you and me.
The simple pine box is placed in the middle of the stadium, on a raised catafalque made of orange crates. A single piece of black cloth is draped lengthwise across it. Behind it are four chairs. Two are occupied by Adam’s parents, Roger and Anne. An unidentified man and woman sit beside them.
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