The Riot- Conclusion
from Shooting at Shadows
Everyone inside and outside the truck froze. The crowd instantly quieted. Ethan looked out the open door and saw nothing but the huge throng. The ones near the opening were young, college age, mostly men. In the center, closest to the truck was a punky looking guy with dyed black, spiked hair and dark eye make-up. He wore a black T-shirt with a huge pink triangle on the chest. Inside the triangle read Gay and Proud. He looked up at Pitbull who stood above him and, in an inexplicable gesture, puckered his lips and blew him a kiss.
There was only one short beat before Pitbull bellowed, “FUCK YOU, FAGGOT!” and with all his power kicked the fellow in the head. The punk fell to the ground and Pitbull jumped down out of the truck on top of him. The crowd roared and those closest tried to pull Pitbull off the fallen man. He flailed at them before he disappeared under their numbers.
Stompin’ Steve screamed, “Let’s go!” He ran off the back of the truck and dropped into the crowd, fists swinging. Ethan was shoved forward as the skinheads followed Steve, like lemmings jumping into a sea of people. At the last moment he reached out with his left hand and was able to grab the side of the truck to prevent himself from falling to the street.
Another roar came from the crowd as the truck’s occupants joined the chaos. Ethan quickly brought up a camera and began shooting. There was screaming, but he couldn’t make out any words–it was all a thunderous din. He zoomed in on the right edge of the scrum and saw Steve grab a young black man by the shoulders and viciously butt him in the head. The man’s eyes crossed and blood flowed from a gash before Steve threw him aside and tried to punch a huge man with a body builder’s physique. In the instant before his fist connected, someone fell into him from behind, causing him to lose his balance, miss his mark, and fall to the ground. As he did, the body builder brought his knee up, connecting with the center of Steve’s face. Steve was thrown back upright, covered his crushed nose with both hands, and howled in agony. The other man immediately punched him savagely in the gut and Steve doubled over. The man again brought his knee up, but this time the kick missed Steve’s nose and hit his forehead. Once more he was jerked up, but before the other could initiate any more blows, Steve fell backward, unconscious, his face a bloody mess. Several of the crowd kicked brutally at his ribs before their attention was drawn to others in the group.
Ethan stepped toward the center of the opening and zoomed out, full wide angle. The crowd was massive and filled the frame. Near the truck, a semi-circle formed where the skinheads started to clear some space and the crowd tried to move back. He shot a few frames, allowing his lens to slightly distort the vastness of the mob. He tried to isolate some of the action, but it seemed impossible–the scene was total chaos, a mass of bodies churning in a violent dance.
From the left, he noticed a large white sign moving through the crowd, above everyone’s heads. It read, I LIKE GIRLS in block letters a foot high and as it came nearer the truck, Ethan saw it was carried by an enormous woman. He focused his telephoto on her and could see she was at least six feet tall and had the broad shoulders of a bodybuilder. Her shaved head was perched atop with little indication of a neck. She shoved people aside with her free arm as she held her sign aloft with the other and slowly worked her way toward the action. He zoomed in on her face and saw a determined scowl broken by the metal of pierced eyebrows, a pierced nose, and multiple piercings in her ears. As he stepped to his right and back slightly to get a better view he was startled as he bumped into someone.
“Jesus Christ!” Ethan whirled around and was shocked to see Kevin Wilson standing directly behind him. As he moved to the side, Wilson moved with him, always keeping the photographer between himself and the open view of the crowd. “Kevin, what the fuck are you doing? You scared the shit out of me!”
Wilson had the wild look of fear in his eyes. He was hunched over and looked like he might implode as he tried to make himself small enough to be concealed behind Ethan. “Just take the fucking pictures!” he hissed.
Ethan stared at him for a moment before he turned back to the crowd. He searched the mass of people for the woman with the sign. There she was. She had just reached the edge of the area where the skinheads desperately tried to hold off the advances of the mob. He looked through the telephoto again and shot as she brought her sign down, pulled the cardboard away, and revealed the handle of her placard as a baseball bat. She gripped it with the confidence of an athlete, but the crowd around her was too dense and she didn’t have room to take a real swing. Instead, she used it like a battering ram and slammed the end into the ribs of the first skinhead she could reach. He immediately let go of the young woman he was trying to pull off one of his comrades and turned to her, his face contorted in pain. As she attempted to strike another blow, he grabbed the end of the bat before it connected and pulled, trying to wrench it from her grasp. She lunged toward him, refusing to let go, and fell into him and then on top with her full weight. As he went down, he released his grip in an effort to cushion his fall, giving her a chance to spread her hands and use the bat to separate her from him and pin him across his chest. He struggled under her mass briefly before she brought her knee up between his legs. His lips pulled back tightly against his teeth in agony as he let go of her. She pushed herself up, jumped to her feet, and swung the bat vertically like an axe, hitting his arms and torso. As he curled his knees to his chest, he was able to protect himself. She appeared to lose interest and looked up at the surrounding confusion.
Ethan zoomed out to short telephoto so he could see more of the crowd around her. She stepped over the legs of two people who were rolling on the pavement, locked in what might have been mistaken for a lovers’ embrace, except occasionally a fist came free and slammed into the other’s back or head. The batter peered through squinted eyes at the scene and shocked the photographer when she looked directly into his lens. He hit the shutter release, but nothing happened. He realized he must be out of memory so he pulled the camera away from his face and looked back at her as she started to make her way toward the truck. She paused here and there to take a mighty swing with her bat at the ribs or arms or legs of any skinhead foolish or unlucky enough to get in her way. Slowly a path formed as she closed the distance to Ethan.
He looked down and saw young Jim standing there, straddling the unconscious Steve. No one seemed to notice him and he stood motionless, his hands over his ears, as if the screams of pain and rage around him were too much to bear. As the batter neared, Ethan suddenly realized she was no longer looking at him but had shifted her attention to Jim. Now only fifteen or twenty feet away, she seemed to have made the boy her destination.
“Jim! Look out!” Ethan called. The boy didn’t move. The batter slowly closed the distance, picking her way over fallen bodies.
“JIM!” he yelled as loudly as he could. Again, he saw no response. He whirled around to ask Kevin’s help, but saw nothing until he looked down. Wilson was on his hands and knees, backing up, slowly crawling away from the open rear door. His eyes were wide as he looked at the photographer, but the indignity of being caught in that position made him pause only an instant before he resumed his retreat. Ethan pulled his second camera body with the wide angle to his eye and shot one frame of Wilson cowering.
The photographer turned back, dropped to his own knees, and put his shoulder bag and camera bodies on the floor of the truck. The batter was now less than six feet from Jim and raised her bat up as if waiting for a pitch. Ethan scooted to the edge of the opening and reached out. He grabbed Jim’s arm and spun him around just as the woman swung her bat. Jim stumbled on Steve and started falling. He put his hands out and caught himself on the edge of the truck bed as the bat sailed over the top of his shaved head and slammed into the edge of the opening. It splintered on impact and the big end flew into the cargo area, careening off the wall like a billiard ball. Ethan glanced over his shoulder and saw it slam into the side of Kevin’s face, knocking him back on his heels. When he turned, he saw the batter hold the shattered end up and look at it in disbelief before she tossed it aside.
Jim tried to scramble into the truck, but the woman grabbed his legs and pulled him out again. He snatched at the side rail of the overhead door and grabbed hold before she got him all the way out. When he refused to let go, she released her grasp. He immediately tried to get back up into the bed, but she punched him twice viciously in his back. His face contorted in pain, but he managed to hold on.
“Leave him alone! He’s just a kid!” Ethan shouted.
The woman paused and looked at Ethan. Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head before she tried once more to pull Jim from the truck. Still, he wouldn’t let go. She took a small step back and bounced lightly on her toes. She had the stance of a prizefighter looking for a knockout as she resumed punishing the boy’s back. He couldn’t climb with her beating him, but he wouldn’t let go of the truck either. Ethan saw his eyes were shut tight and tears were streaming down his cheeks as he struggled to maintain his grip. Then he remembered something an old-time newspaper photographer had once told him.
He quickly opened his camera bag and pulled out the old Nikon F2 and motor drive he carried. He put his right hand through the leather strap and let the camera dangle before wrapping the strap once around his hand. As he got to his feet, he swung the camera at arm’s length. He reached with his left hand and held on to the same rail Jim did as he leaned out the open door and swung the heavy camera directly into the left side of the batter’s head.
The blow knocked her backward several steps and she appeared stunned. She blinked her eyes rapidly as she brought her right hand across her face and rubbed the area around her ear briefly. She looked at the blood on her hand and shook her head a few times as if to clear her thoughts. She glanced at Ethan before she stepped back toward Jim. She bounced twice on her feet and resumed her punishment of Jim.
Without thinking, Ethan leaned back and swung the F2 again, this time with all his strength. He connected with the batter’s head, right where the blood was flowing. He could see the red splash as the camera landed.
She fell heavily to the pavement on her back, her mouth open, unmoving.
Holy shit, Ethan thought.
He dropped the camera and tried to pry Jim’s hands loose so he could pull him into the truck, but the boy’s hands were frozen in place.
“Jim! It’s okay. Get up here.”
He looked back at the batter. She hadn’t moved. In the chaos, he saw one of the skinheads get knocked backward over her to the street. Ethan saw a tin can spewing smoke hit his shoulder and immediately began coughing. He tried to get away from it, but he tripped again and fell to the street, coughing and choking.
Ethan slapped Jim on top of his head and finally got the boy to open his eyes. Ethan yanked him into the truck just as the sharp reek of teargas reached them. He pulled the overhead door down, but his eyes were already watering. Jim lay on the floor of the truck panting as Ethan gathered up his cameras and threw the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
“Jim! Move it!” he yelled, but the boy couldn’t get up. Ethan hesitated a moment and then raced to the front of the truck. Kevin sat in the opening between the cab and the bed. A gash under his eye streamed blood. He was conscious but didn’t appear alert, so Ethan just shoved him aside and squeezed into the cab. He saw a line of police in riot gear and gas masks march past, night sticks held out in front at arm’s length. As soon as they passed, he unlocked the door and stepped out. The tear gas was much stronger there so he ran away from the police in the direction they had come from hoping to escape the stench. After a half block, he stopped and sat down on the curb, his eyes burning, out of breath, exhausted.