He hooks his fingers through the hurricane fencing, rests his head against the cold metal. The crush of the crowd keeps him warm, even though it’s cold enough to turn breath to vapor.
They’ve come to watch the soldiers march down Main Street, mustered in neat, orderly rows. Each individual boot-step creates a chorus with the rest, and it is a chant of death.
Past burnt-out cars and piles of smoking tires, they march.
The crowd does nothing to stop them.
His fingers go white, he’s gripping so tight. The mob has been neutered into submission.
Slowly, deliberately, he begins to rock his fists, sending waves of chain-linked metal to compete with the crush of footfalls.
“Liberty!” he cries, as the mass of sheep move to separate itself from the spectacle.