by Nick Svolos
I wasn’t so sure about the talent of her speechwriter, but her delivery was amazing. She had the crowd hanging on her every word. Hell, she had me hanging on her every word. “Yes, this is a time of crisis,” she continued and rose to a shout once again, “But it is also a time for action!”
The crowd went nuts, and I joined them in shouting my approval. Who did these supers think they were, anyways? As the thought angrily crossed my mind, it shocked me, and the urge to cheer immediately faded, like a collapsing house of cards. I unclenched my upraised fist as the elation I felt a moment ago was replaced by confusion and then by the cold hand of fear working its way up my spinal column. Someone, probably Richardson, had just manipulated me at a primal level. If you want a technical term, let’s go with “She put a whammy on me.” I could still feel a dark urge gnawing at something between my ears, calling me to join the crowd in their anger, but knowing what was happening, I could resist it.
She continued on, sobering her approach to get through the major points of her argument before ratcheting up the emotion of her speech to whip the crowd into a near frenzy before dropping things back down to repeat the process. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to get out of there. I started to work my way out of the crowd. It was impossible. In their passion, the mass of bodies were pressing forward, and I wasn’t able to make any progress. In fact, I was being forced closer to the bandstand.
The press of the mob was claustrophobic. I couldn’t move my arms. The mass of bodies squeezed tighter around me, and I was almost lifted off the ground as the throng carried me closer to the stage. Through it all, the buzzing in my head urged me to join them. I realized I was on the verge of panicking, and forced it down with a few deep breaths. This was no place to lose my cool. I was trapped, but nothing was going to happen to me here. All I had to do was wait for it to be over.
Now that I was calm, well, calmer, I began to follow Richardson’s harangue again. “But for all the dangers these people threaten us with, there’s an even greater threat.” She nodded as if she were breaking bad news to a young child, “Yes, there is. There are those among us who support these people who poison our society. They would have us passively sit on our hands while our cities are leveled. They would have us ignore our peril while we are destroyed!”
More shouts, but these were angrier. “One of these rats is here today, hiding in your midst! He’s standing right there!” The crowd parted in a rough circle around me, and when she pointed, there was no doubt who she was pointing at.
Oh, shit.
“Yes! That’s him! Right there! Reuben Conway, the reporter who defends these monsters! He’s a traitor to his own kind!”
I heard a shriek from behind me, “Traitor!” and I spun to see a woman running at me with her fingernails extended like claws. By reflex, I managed to duck out of her way, but just barely. As she passed I recognized her as the woman I’d been joking with earlier. I quickly got my feet centered under me, like Three Dollar Bill had taught me, in time to spot a burly guy coming at me with murder in his eyes. He threw a punch at my head with a fist the size of a drive-in movie screen. I shifted to my right and the Judo training paid off as I guided his momentum past me. Lunging and off balance, he crashed into the crowd.
I didn’t have time to celebrate these victories, though. Something hit me in the back of the head and my vision got all whirly. The ground rushed up to slam my face. I tried to get back to my feet as a steel-toed boot hit me in the left side. A spike of grinding pain erupted in my chest and I think a couple of ribs broke. It suddenly got very hard to breathe and I collapsed back to the ground. I curled up on the grass and tried to protect my head with my arms. Fists and feet hit me from every angle. I felt bones break and as everything went black, my final thoughts were on how embarrassing it was going to be to go down in history as the only man ever to be beaten to death by San Francisco hippies in Golden Gate Park.
For the rest of the story, pick up The Power Broker, available wherever fine books and ebooks are sold.
