A Dream Worth Dying For
The police sirens’ screams echoed off the high rises. The red and blue lights competed with the flames of burning impromptu barricades to light the street. A wall of black-uniformed figures with riot shields and clubs walked slowly lockstep towards the mass of angry faces just beyond the burning barricades.
A bottle, then another sailed out of the dark, only to be deflected by riot shields. A whistle sounded, followed by the cough of a tear gas launcher. A smoking canister flew into the crowd, scattering them briefly, until a young woman, her face covered by a soaked scarf, hurled the canister back.
A shout came from the black-unformed wall and it stopped. Riot clubs were replaced by shotguns. The sound of rounds ratcheted into their chambers.
A flaming bottle filled with amber liquid flew from the crowd, pinwheeling through the air, before smashing onto the street before the police wall. A pool of fire and black smoke was born among the chaos.
Guns leapt to shoulders, followed by staccato sounds of gun shots as the police fired at will.
Screams from the crowd as they scattered, hurling invectives in their wake. As they dispersed, bodies lay on the street, bloody wounds visible through buckshot-torn clothing.
This riot was over.
In the years to come, a legend spread. A tale of police officers found dead in their patrol cars, in their homes, even in the precinct parking lot. Each bore horrific wounds like those inflicted by a shotgun at close range. The coroner’s reports for each murder were confiscated by police officials, buried in a dusty records room all but a few had forgotten about.
Nobody wanted to explain the absence of buckshot in the fatal wounds. One medical examiner assistant would later tell their spouse, “Even if the killer had hours to remove each pellet, some evidence of them being there would remain. It’s almost like the victims inflicted these injuries psychosomatically, their minds causing the wounds. But that’s against all known science.”
Not all martyrs let a little thing like death stand in the way of fighting for their dreams.
