Party Line Battleline

(the way Tom sees campaign season) 

Shrapnel pings against the underside of the overturned Prius.  Dirt and other bits of debris rain down on the vehicle, dusting the inside through broken windows, and chipping at designer, sea-mist green paint that once glossed the exterior.

                David huddles against the car, sheltered on the side opposite the blast.  Though he owns a Prius, this one is not his.  Some other unlucky citizen would mourn the damage, should that person survive the tumult.  Likewise, the gun in David’s hand is not his.  David owns no firearms.  He borrowed this one off some Red who wouldn’t ever need it again.  Pried it out of his cold dead hands.  David doesn’t laugh at the irony.  He’s too busy trying not to die. 

                The next blast is closer.  They are aware of his position. 

                He needs to move.

                David rolls out from behind the Prius, his movements masked by the dust from the explosion.  Sand and slivers of concrete still patter all around him.  Muscles, fitness-center honed, execute the maneuver with ease and the low crouch he ends up in is confident and solid.  The gun is held out in front of him, like in all the action movies.  David aims it at his attackers and squeezes the trigger. 

                Nothing happens.

                He’s saved by his reflexes, which quickly engage his legs and launch him aside as a hail of bullets rip up the asphalt and adjacent lawn where he perched only seconds before.

                He ends up behind a hedge and scuttle-crawls behind a stone wall onto a well kempt flower bed.

                Safety!  Where’s the safety?

                His fingers fumble to find the switch and he curses himself for being so dismissive of firearms training courses.  Bullets continue to lance through the hedge and divot the weedless lawn.  For a moment he considers seeking sanctuary at this property’s house, but he dismisses the idea when he spots the ReElect Jack Fielding, sign in the yard.  If he didn’t already know who Jack Fielding was, the REP on the sign tells him that he will find no aid in that residence.  He also notes that his attackers have not allowed a single bullet to hit the sign. 

                The firing ceases momentarily and he knows his enemies are on the move.  David pulls himself up behind a large oak.  He catches a glimpse of a man jogging across the street in the reflection of the house’s front window. 

                The man is carrying some sort of assault rifle.

                Figures.

                David slips out from behind the tree, pulls the trigger on his borrowed gun, and fires two shots.  The first goes wide and shatters the windshield of a car parked across the street.  The second shot catches the man in the shoulder.  He stumbles back and topples.  David ducks behind the tree but receives no return fire.

                He needs to get out of here.  Fast.  Reds never travel solo, they always roam in packs.  David’s about to make his move when he sees the sign for Congressman Fielding again.  He shakes his head, the fires a round, leaving a small hole in Jack’s cheek.  A veritable wall of bullets explode in response.  The hedge, the rock wall, and the tree all suffer violence.  When the clamor dies down, David is two houses away, climbing a backyard fence into an adjoining property.  He feels a slight pang of guilt over the trespass, but the necessity of the situation keeps him moving.

                The engine of the Ford truck revs and a blast of hot diesel exhaust smothers his neighbor’s roses with the scent of Americana.

                Roger plants a sturdy work boot on the truck’s rear tire and launches himself up into the open bed.  There’s some extra effort involved in the move these days, but he can still pull it off confidently, despite the extra decade and twenty additional pounds.  It leaves him panting, though.  Okay, so maybe it’s thirty-five pounds.  Who cares?  He can still do it.

                He sits on the edge of the pickup bed and stretches an arm out, fingers splayed wide.  A rifle slaps against his palm and he grips it tight.  The barrel never points at another person during the exchange.  Only practice and proper training can produce such an automatic action.  He checks the safety, even though he knows it will be engaged.  He checks the chamber to verify it’s empty, equally confident that he will find it so.  Still, you always check.  Adhere to your procedures.

                “What’s our objective?” he asks.  There are three others in the truck with him.  All armed.  Assault rifles and shoulder holstered pistols.  And, he assumes, other weaponry of personal preferences concealed on their persons.

                “Demonstration outside City Hall,” one of the others says, “to bear arms.  A Second Amendment job.”

                “After that?”

                “Political maneuvers.”

                “Implementation of Second Amendment rights,” a man with a moustache says. They all laugh and unconsciously stroke their weapons more intently.

                When they arrive at City Hall they drop the tailgate and deploy like marines on a hostile beach.  Two men exit the truck’s cab and take up cover positions for the boys in the truck bed.  Each has to fight the urge to lay down suppression fire.

                Within minutes they have taken the stairs and secured positions outside the front doors.  Guns are prominently displayed.  Within a few more minutes they’ve grown antsy and unsure.  They have no signs, no clever slogans to shoulder, no militaristic choreography worked out that will impressively display their firearms.

                Boredom quickly sets in.

                “Anyone bring beer?” one of them asks.

                Unanimously they shake their heads.

                “Chips?  Or something to eat?”

                Nope.

                Twenty minutes later they are ready to move on.  Go grab a burger. 

                But providence intervenes.

                A group of enemy protesters comes marching up the sidewalk, chanting about their rights, carrying signs.  There isn’t anything anti Gun Control on the signs, but that doesn’t matter.  Roger and his friends level their assault rifles at the small crowd and call out warnings and juvenile insults.

                The crowd responds with more cleverly crafted retorts and ups the ante with obscene gestures.

                Roger and his friends open fire.

                The crowd of protesters scatters like a rack of billiard balls after a vicious break.  As they flee, protest signs flutter to the ground as do the bodies of their companions who’ve taken hits.

                “Yeah!  Got me one!” a buddy of Roger’s shouts.

                “Got two!” brags another.  More gunfire.  “Make that three!”

                As the escaping protesters take cover in tree lined park areas, convenient downtown business doorways, and fortuitous alleyways, Roger’s team abandons its static positioning in favor of pursuit.

                It’s been a relatively inactive election year so far, Roger thinks as he provides cover for a companion entering the park.  Nearly October and these are his first shots fired.  Still, he bagged at least two Blue Boys back there and might get a couple more in the park before the day is through.  He grins, fires some more suppression, and advances.

(The preceding was the first two chapters of the story Party Line Battleline.  Watch this space for information of how to get the entire political-thriller-campaign-saga-vote-or-die-epic)