FREEDOM A Short Story By A. Jarrell Hayes Smashwords Edition. Copyright © 2011 by A. Jarrell Hayes All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Flag design by Michael Elliot. Used from www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net *Disclaimer: The author is not trying to promote the beliefs or actions of the characters in this story. This is simply a work of fiction. ### This story is inspired by the political events in Sudan, Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and other countries in the region. What if Americans did something similar? This story is one possible answer. ### FREEDOM The time to revolt had arrived. Jim stood at the back wall, his back against it, where he could see the entire crowd. The room was packed with people of all races, each of them listening to Howard Rand deliver a fiery speech. Every tongue in the audience differed to the greatness of Rand’s rhetoric. They bowed down at the foot of his podium of eloquence and offered up their silence as alms. Jim took in each word spoken from Howard’s lips, internalized them. “The corporations have squeezed enough sweat from the common people,” claimed Rand, “enough blood from the earth. The government does more than just appease the wealthy; the government outright differs to their sense of justice. Which is like deferring to the sight of a blind man.” Howard’s Frisbee-sized hands slashed through the air, driving home his arguments. “The poor, the black and brown people, the homosexuals, and women are all marginalized in the hunt to secure riches for the wealthiest 1%.” Howard continued: the planet is nothing but a line on a cost-loss sheet, ecosystems are being systematically destroyed, people are left to starve, millions of birds are dropping out of the sky dead, the waterways are filled with fish floating lifelessly, unmanned planes are bombing civilian villages in Pakistan; the dangers of HAARP and the massive earthquakes, and other natural disasters, caused from its usage. Things needed to change. And soon. “The time to revolt had arrived!” Howard slammed his hand on the podium, but sustained his impassioned plea. Listening attentively, Jim kept his eyes fixated on Howard: every wide sweep of his arm, every finger jab upon the podium to emphasize a point. Towards the end of his speech, for a brief moment, Jim swore Rand’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile. That’s when the paranoia set in. Jim contemplated bolting from the room. No one knew he was there. He didn’t know anyone at the meeting. He could leave, return home, and watch the protest on the news tonight. He could YouTube videos of the demonstration taken by amateur videographers. Or he could remain where he was, stay committed to the goal. Which was…? Jim didn’t really know all of Howard’s plans. Demand justice for the people, protest for more accountability from the government; then what? This group didn’t even have an official name. Just a gathering of like-minded individuals, most of them looked to be between 18 and 25 years of age. College-aged people, like Jim. His speech ended, Howard Rand pumped his right fist over his head three times, accompanying each pump with a fierce shout. The audience mimicked his gesture. Then the sea of humanity split apart into a dozen rivers, all flowing to some corner where they formed ponds to finalize plans for their individual parts in the larger scheme. Not having been assigned a group, Jim stayed standing. He saw Howard nod in his general direction. Rand jumped down the small stage and made his way through the crowd towards Jim. Again, Jim wanted to run, but didn’t. However, when Howard was in front of him, addressing him directly, Jim couldn’t make eye contact with him. “You don’t seem too enthusiastic,” said Rand. Jim could hear the laugh in his voice. “I thought my speech was powerful enough to wake George Washington from his grave.” “Your speech was great. I’m just not an excitable person.” “You don’t say?” There was a pause; Jim looked up for the first time to study Howard Rand, the myth, the legend, up close. He looked pretty much like the photographs Jim had seen on the net and in newspapers: the afro of graying black hair, a heavyset body, skin like a chocolate colored leather jacket, a wide mouth and broad nose. But the cameras couldn’t capture the gleam in Rand’s eyes or his smirk. In Jim’s eyes, Howard Rand looked like a genius who was borderline insane. “Well,” continued Howard, “we’re just going to have to change that.” A woman carrying a load of picket signs walked by, and Howard stopped her. He took the sign on top of the pile from her and handed it to Jim. “Take this. You’re on picket sign duty. On the west block. That should put some excitement into your life.” Before Jim could respond, Howard was already walking away with the picket sign woman, helping with her load and putting a smile on her face. Jim stared at them move until other bodies obscured them from view. He then looked down at the sign Howard had given him. Written in bold black letters were the words: “Americans Have A Right To Freedom.” ### Confusion surrounded Jim like a storm. He heard someone shout, “Tear gas!” He saw a pillar of cloud rising from the ground, but he couldn’t see the canister. Moments later, he couldn’t see anything from the smoke in the air and the burning in his eyes. Time began dripping slowly. Jim was disoriented. There was shouting and screaming and pushing and crying and coughing and noise noise noise. He felt his body being pushed from different directions, but he just couldn’t find the motivation to move. Panic rooted Jim where he stood. He thought his face was going to catch fire. It burned. His hand holding the picket sign burned. He dropped the sign. He imagined it exploding into flakes of ash. Releasing the sign seemed to awaken Jim. He squinted his watery eyes, choked on the urge to vomit, and began making his escape. He wanted to follow the other protestors; perhaps there was a pre-arranged meeting place in case things went sour. But there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the surge of protestors that dispersed like pieces of thrown confetti. Jim knew he couldn’t remain there. He could hear the cops beating protestors. The thud of human flesh being pounded with a club, the crack of bones breaking are unmistakable sounds. A hand suddenly seized Jim’s right arm. He feared he was next to receive a beating. Before he could swing at his assaulter, he was pulled forcefully—but not roughly—away from the human herd he had been following. Through the hazy miasma and the tears, Jim looked at the person leading him. Howard Rand’s graying afro was unmistakable, even in the haze. It appeared through the cloud like a buoy in a foggy sea. Howard started running, pulling Jim, stumbling and still disoriented, with him. Eventually the two emerged from the chaos relatively unharmed. They reached an area of clear air. Jim let out a gasp as his lungs almost burst with excitement to inhale clean(er) air. Howard and Jim weren’t alone. There were other protestors there. Some had cuts and scrapes on their faces and hands. Some had green or yellow vomit stains on their shirts and jeans, splotches on their shoes. One young man sat against the wall, his knees up to his chest, and just stared straight ahead with intense, red eyes above the bandana that covered his nose and mouth. Rand began talking to the protestors, and Jim got a good look at his face since being rescued. Rand also wore a similar bandana over his face. Jim kicked himself for not thinking beforehand of protecting himself against a tear gas attack. He didn’t wonder why nobody had suggested he do so. Howard’s eyes were bent in a look of displeasure. “Let’s split up and go, everyone. It’s time to implement Plan B. You know what to do. If you don’t, go with someone who does or go home.” He motioned Jim over to him. “You’re with me, Mr. Excitable.” He reached into his pocket and produced a black bandana with a design in white. He tossed it at Jim, who caught it cleanly. “Cover your face,” he said as he turned and walked away, a handful of protestors following him. ### Another basement meeting. But not in the same place as before. The space in this one was more constricted, which baffled Jim. There were less protestors than before, and the basement was larger than the one earlier in the day. Most of the space was taken up by crates and dusty, cobweb infested shelves. The place looked ancient. A wonderful place for mold to thrive. Howard sat on one of these crates in front of the group. The protestors sat or stood wherever they could find room. The boy with the intense red eyes sat on a crate next to where Jim was standing; at the back wall, as always. “You see what they did to us,” Howard said. “We were being peaceful. We have a right to assembly.” He shook his head in disgust. “The pigs came in and turned the west block into the West Bank! I was there. I saw it.” He nodded across the room at Jim. “Mr. Excitable was there the entire time. When everybody else panicked and ran for the hills, Mr. Excitable stood like a mountain and would not be move.” He paused. “Not until I came and saved him from being beaten by the cops.” He chuckled. The room chuckled with him, although no one was laughing. “So,” continued Rand as he rose to his feet, “we tried to hold a peaceful protest, but were welcomed with tear gas and billy clubs.” He began pacing around the crate he once sat upon, a circle encompassing a square. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, yet expecting different results. We’re not a bunch of insane liberals, as the news will most definitely call us. We’re revolutionaries! We’re rebels!” The last words were shouted, and stunned the assembled protestors. Not the outburst; most were used to the style of Howard’s rhetoric by now. It was the words said. Rand stopped pacing behind the crate, turned to his followers and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh. You don’t like that word, do you? Well, I’ll say it again: rebels. We’re rebels. Each and every one of you. Just like George Washington was a rebel before his victory over the British Empire. Now, if you don’t want to be called a rebel anymore, then join me! Join me as we take back this country!” He paused, allowed himself time to calm his breathing. “This next part won’t be so easy,” he warned. “This next part calls for blood. If this isn’t your style, then, by all means, leave now. I won’t judge you. We all…we all got family out there somewhere. Something or someone that’s difficult to give up. All I ask is that if you do walk out that door, you do so now. Before I go any further. You have ten minutes to decide.” Jim took those ten minutes to search his soul and find out why he had decided to follow this group. Perhaps it gave him a sense of purpose higher education tried to stifle in him. He went to college, studied a rather useless major—philosophy—that wouldn’t land him a well-enough paying job to repay his student loans upon graduation. He went to school to learn how to change the world, to alter the perception that life was about gathering material wealth and money. And here he was near a nervous breakdown, worrying how he’s going to pay back his massive debt. He’d become a man obsessed with gathering money. Taking any job—retail clerk, ditch-digger, bellhop, peddling knives door-to-door—jobs that destroyed his spirit simply to make ends meet. Jim had become what he despised most. His self-disgust led him here, to this cramped little basement, surrounded by dozens of unfamiliar faces. He could smell the sweat from the bodies; it made him nauseous. Or maybe it was remnants from the tear gas exposure. Lost in thought, Jim didn’t notice that Howard was next to him until the other spoke. “What’re you thinking about, Mr. Excitable?” Jim swallowed his surprise. “My name isn’t Mr. Excitable. It’s Jim.” “I meant no disrespect. What are you thinking about?” “I’m not thinking about anything.” Chipped, yellow teeth sneak a peak at Jim from behind crusty, parted lips. “I like you, Jim, so I’m going to tell you a secret.” He leaned in close to Jim’s ear. “There will be blood.” He backed his face away from Jim’s ear and grinned. “Are you ready for that? Are you ready to be the Nathanael Greene to my George Washington?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You’ll find out soon enough.” Howard patted Jim on his shoulder. He strolled over to the crate that served as his podium and addressed his followers. “Time’s up!” he declared. “If you aren’t ready for what’s coming next, whatever it might be, please exit immediately. And go with my blessing, and take with you closed lips.” Half the members left; each one of them giving Howard a look pleading for forgiveness as they met his gaze. Howard waited a few moments after they had departed to continue. “Now that’s that is out the way, we can get down to business.” Rand went to one of the shelves and grabbed a crowbar. He returned to his podium-crate and pried open the top. He reached his hand in and showed the group what was inside their makeshift seats. In Howard Rand’s hand was a block of what looked to Jim like a big chunk of modeling clay, off-white in color. Rand gave the astonished on-lookers one of his chipped-teeth smiles. “This here, everybody, is Composition C4. It’s time to light some fireworks. The time to revolt has arrived!” ### Death didn’t look anything how Jim imagined it would. He stared at the barrel of a policewoman’s gun. Without the stern look in her eyes, her clinched jaw, and the gun pointed at him, Jim would have found her attractive. She had pretty eyes. Jim saw his death reflected in those eyes. After Howard Rand dispersed the last meeting, Jim knew he had gotten into some deep shit. Almost too deep for him. But he couldn’t back out; something in Rand’s eyes said that anyone who chickened out now, after passing up the opportunity to do so earlier, would had been killed on the spot. So Jim stayed quiet, listened to the plan attentively, and hoped he would live. Now, he was going to die anyways. “I said drop it!” The cop repeated the command. Jim suddenly remembered he was holding the C4’s remote-controlled detonator; ready to usher in an era of revolution the likes American soil hasn’t seen in centuries. Howard Rand split the group into different cells, each one with a specific target to take out. Jim’s group had separated, and he had just finished attaching the explosive to the target, when this policewoman on the beat spotted him. Jim had obeyed Howard’s directions precisely. The leader had said everything had been checked out in advance. The plan shouldn’t fail. Following Rand’s guidance had gotten Jim tear gassed earlier, and now, probably shot. Or at least a lengthy prison sentence. All in one day! Jim didn’t know what to do. His body didn’t respond to his mind’s commands. Despite his fear, Jim cracked a Howard Rand-like grin. The explosives were already rigged and ready to blow at the push of a button. “This is the price for freedom,” Howard had said when he dismissed the assembly one final time. “A very steep price.” Jim had seconds to decide if he was willing to pay it. ### ABOUT THE AUTHOR A. Jarrell Hayes is a native of Maryland. He is an author and poet with twelve books and eBooks published. At the time, his most recent works are To Woman, From Man: Love Poems and the fantasy novella Detecting Magic with Dick Hunter: The Mort des Hommes Files (both are available on the Smashwords and in print). In his spare time, Hayes enjoys drawing and acting. He designs shirts, mugs, hats, and other products for writers, poets, and readers. He invites you to visit his website at: www.ajhayes.com.