Chaos

We’ve just turned away from the counter-protestors when I hear a roar arise from their camp. I look back and see one of them charging forwards at our protesters, his face splattered with bright red warpaint on.

The rest of the counter-protestors seem to take his charge as a call to battle, and soon, the rest of them are charging behind him, pointing their signs at us like lancers down a battlefield. I see our people at the front scrambling away, buckling under the pressure, and I can’t fault them. They didn’t come here to get beaten up by a bunch of street thugs.

Scarlet twists around and starts making for the front lines and the counter-protestors.

“There’s nothing we can do there,” I say, grabbing her arm. “You said you needed to get to the cameras. Let’s get you there.”

She allows herself half a second to contemplate the scene unfolding before her, before she sighs and turns back around.

“I hate that you’re right,” she says.

GO HOME, WHITE BITCH! they yell as they crash into the first of our protestors. Incredibly, some of our men have stepped up to form a blockade against the counter-protestors. Their bodies collide, men scrapping at each other with fists and signs, and blood begins spilling on the plaza floor.

I push through the crowd before us, trying to clear a way for Scarlet and I once more, but things have changed. Half the crowd is surging forwards, bumping against us as they rush to meet the counter-protestors head on, while the other half, like us, are doing what they can to scramble away. People trip over one another, fall under the sea of faces, pushing and shoving, everyone trying to get somewhere that they’re not. I hold on to Scarlet tight, knowing how dangerous a stampede like this can be, doing my best to keep both of us upright and moving out.

Then, I hear a loud whistle screech through the air. The bark of some command echoes through the plaza, and the sharp retort and the hiss of tear gas fills the air. We’re far enough away from the epicentre that it merely stings the eye—I chance a glance back and see thick clouds enveloping the place where our protesters are clashing against theirs. I hear screams.

Scarlet’s hand tightens around mine, and I pull her through a momentary gap in the crowd. More people are pressing against us, trying to get away, I feel somebody’s elbow knock against my side, and I don’t have time to be winded because we have to keep moving forwards, forwards, or else we’ll be trampled by those behind us.

Far behind us, I hear boots marching. The police are mobilizing.

More screams. More tear gas. Somebody slips in front of us, a dozen feet carelessly stomping over his prone figure in a heartbeat. The tears in my eyes make it hard to see the way ahead, and I cough, feeling a low burn in my chest. I don’t have a way to cover my mouth, and I need my arms free to keep us going under. And to hold on to Scarlet, who sticks close to me with a grim determination that I can’t help but admire.

There’s no more phone in her hands. It’s only about getting out of here now.

I am kicked, shoved, buffeted about by the crush of bodies around us, but I stay up and moving. Scarlet gets kneed and she falls forwards. I’m there, grasping her waist, picking her up, carrying her for a few heart-pounding steps, before she finds her footing again. She throws me a grateful look, tears glistening in her eyes too. Her white suit is more than it’s share of ruffled now.

I have no idea how we’re holding up on the front lines. Another glance backwards and I realise that I can’t even see that far—the tear gas, the mess of people around us, everything is chaos and it’s all we can do to keep moving forwards.

I don’t know how, but at some point, we make it out of the plaza.

“Down the side street,” Scarlet says, pointing to a branch in the road.

The crowd here is still jam-packed, less people trying to fit down a narrower space, but Scarlet takes the lead, guiding us through these backstreets of Bogotá. Eventually, the two of us end up far enough from the action that I’m able to stand still and draw a clean breath.

“Holy shit,” I say.

Is this what you wanted? I think, but I know better than to ask it.

“I hope they’re doing okay,” Scarlet says, glancing back towards the plaza.

We can hear sirens going off. Ambulances must be coming in. Or maybe, more police for crowd control.

“You still want to get to the cameras?” I ask.

“It’s only a couple streets away,” Scarlet says. “We’ve made a big loop around the plaza.”

“It’s heading back into the fire,” I say, shaking my head.

“There shouldn’t be that many people fleeing this way,” she says. “Didn’t look like the corporate counter-protestors were running away. They wanted our scalps. They wanted their blood money.”

I nod, and then notice that she’s still holding onto my hand. She looks down just then, too.

“Oh,” she says.

She lets go of my hand.

“Can’t have the cameras seeing that.”

“Of course,” I agree, and the two of us walk down the street in silence.

The noises in the distance seem strangely muted. Explosions like gunshots crack through the air. Maybe they are gunshots. Who knows. The air is smoky, tear gas drifting on the wind, or maybe it’s just good old pollution. A few stragglers stumble out onto the street, heading the opposite way from us, their clothes ragged and torn.

And then, I see them.

A gang of five men, with slick hair and the black shirts that the counter-protestors have started wearing. Posing cockily, they talk aggressive to each other, facing the plaza, and it’s strange that they aren’t joining their brethren in the plaza. I realize why a few seconds later.

A young teenager, wearing a green shirt with “Love the Earth,” comes limping out of the plaza, a handkerchief tied around his face. He has his phone to his ear. He’s distracted, and that’s when the gang descends on him.

“You’re the problem with our country,” one of them spits. He’s tall, has a bandanna tied around his forehead, wears a long jacket, and looks like the leader of the bunch.

“Fuckin’ kids with their phones,” another growls. “All they get is imperialist propaganda that the white bitch feeds them. They think they know so much.”

The boy looks up at them, fear in his eyes. He looks back, but he knows he has no exit that way.

They stalk closer. The kid holds out his phone, offering it to them.

The bandanna guy laughs, knocking the phone out of his hands. It clatters to the ground. Another of them throws a wild punch that knocks the boy on his butt. A third guy kicks him, joined by the fourth and fifth. He’s on the ground, curled up the fetal position, and still the blows keep coming.

It’s such a sickening sight that I don’t realise that Scarlet’s running at them before it’s too late.

“You fuckers,” she yells, “Beating up kids? Fucking scum!”

They turn to look at her, pausing their ****. And then, the leader cracks a devilish smile.

“There’s the white bitch,” he says. “Now this is a better prize, don’t you think?”

“I like women more than I like boys,” another agrees. “And she’s a damn fine woman.”

He socks Scarlet in the shoulder.

She spins as she falls to the ground, groaning.

“Scarlet!” I scream, charging for her.

The other men are on the ground, pinning her down, tearing her jacket off, but the leader hears my scream first and turns to face me.

“Take her to the place, do what you want with her,” he orders the others. “I’ll deal with this punk.”

Then, he draws a machete from under his jacket, and he smiles that devilish smile of his at me.