Chapter IV: In Omnibus Caritas

The Congress,  Friday afternoon

Each HERO removed his service revolver, assured himself and the witnesses that only one chamber was loaded, spun the cylinder, and placed the muzzle against the head of his assigned Congress Member.  When the President could see that every officer awaited his signal, he addressed the seven.

“Gentlemen and Lady, your country and your President salute you and thank you for your service and your sacrifice.  Under the authority of the HERO Act and Departments of the Treasury and Homeland Security, I declare the first decennial Homeland Economic Recovery Operation to be under way, and that, pursuant to the conditions of the Act, your corpus and assets are forfeit contingent upon the needs and discretion of the government.  I trust that each of you has used the past week productively, for meditation or prayer, and I hope you know that the prayers of a grateful nation are with you and your families, come what may.  May God have mercy on our souls.” 

He nodded to the seven officers who all squeezed their triggers.

Five firing pins landed on empty chambers.

Settler’s notes

Rep NA:   The fog and confusion of a war zone is the perfect opportunity.  Didn’t General Sherman say death was mercy for traitors?  There’s no end of government haters out there.  Their bumper stickers alone are enough to convict them!

Col MM:   It was secessionists, I think.  But I’m afraid the General is no longer here to advise us, and the Algorithm, as planned, would take no notice of politics.

Sen PS:   That is grotesque.  Political murder is simply unacceptable!  The American people will never stand for such an offense!  It’s bad enough when troops come home in bags and boxes, fighting for oil and the Federal Reserve –

Speaker:   Don’t be a child, Senator.  The American people will stand for this.  They will embrace it.  They have stood against so much for so long that —

VP:   This is our Pearl Harbor!  Our Nine Eleven!  Our Moon Landing!  This is where Our Democracy leads us, and it’s our Duty to follow! 

Sen PS:   I doubt the people will be as compliant as you imagine.

VP:   The people WILL get on board.  Let’s not pretend we have no stomach for it.  Ruby Ridge and Waco led the way.  The people call for swift justice for tyrants abroad and for malcontents at home!  It’s time we re-united our House Divided!

Team Sheridan,  Trailer Four on the Interstate,  Going on go time

“It’s hot in here!”  Reed Potts took off his helmet again and wiped his face.

“Quitcher bitchin’ hero, this shit ain’t nothing.  At least it ain’t the sand box.”  Hakim Whiteman slapped the man on his shoulder.  “Get a swig of water and get your cover back on.  Just about go time.”

Potts grinned.  “Yeah.  Gonna be game.  Rather take out hippie pukes in Portland than these hillbillies, but what the fuck, right?”

“Hold on!”  Sergeant Menchaca shouted, and the men braced themselves as the tractors slid and the trailers twisted.  As he reached for the grab bar Reed’s water bottle and helmet slipped from his hands.  The bottle bounced about spewing water across the trousers of half the men.  Potts’ helmet was caught on the bounce and thrown back at him, along with plenty of stink-eye from his comrades in wet pants.

When the trailer stopped the men lined up along the length of the trailer, facing the wide doors.  They adjusted their rigs and settled their helmets and tapped their mics and disabled their safeties.  Menchaca reviewed their file.  “Watch yourselves, watch your buddies, watch your six, watch their metrics, and WATCH YOUR CAPS!  Queen City will be watching ours.  One squad gets Reconstructed tonight and it’s NOT gonna be from Team Sheridan!  Let’s dance, ladies!”

The trucks came to a stop just short of the Toth Pass Exit.  The trailers shifted sideways so that they formed a wall spanning all four lanes of the Interstate, just encroaching onto the shoulder on the right, and into the utility lane on the far left.  As traffic backed up the sounds of screeching tires, horns honking, and collisions grew fainter and more distant.  Curious motorists up front began to exit their cars to check out the mysterious wall.  As the curious approached, the trailers opened.  Side doors swung out and down, forming ramps to the pavement.  Standing behind the ramps were ranks of armed men facing the stalled traffic.

Loudspeakers crackled as the men descended to the street.  “Pursuant to the provisions of the Homeland Economic Recovery Optimization and Tax Base Enrichment Act, this zone has been declared…”

Fuming in the left lane, Keith Jones drummed his fingers on the wheel.  “At most, ten or maybe five per cent inside the zones will be affected by revenue recovery or tax base enrichment, but one hundred per cent of America will benefit from the promise of reconstruction, revitalization, and rebirth.”  That’s what he had told his would-be constituents when he was running for the State Senate on the HERO Amendment platform, and he believed it at the time.  He believed it would be good for his state and his home district, and he believed it would be good for America.  His home district hadn’t agreed and they’d elected his opponent.

But while his district may not have been quite so enamored of his willingness to “put it on the line for 29” the party hierarchy was still grateful.  He didn’t get the job he’d wanted in the state capital, but his new Congressman did offer him one in Washington.  Things work out for the best, except….  Now in the zone he had to consider his own metrics.  Congressional staffers were well paid and could often look forward to generous pensions.  He had some additional assets as well.  Of course, he’d never claimed any disabilities, either, and he was still pretty healthy for his age, but…  Well… for his age.

Because his legislator, after defeating him in the election, voted against ratification of the 29^th Amendment (which was ratified anyway), the Algorithm was programmed to ignore his home district until after the next census.  His neighbors and family were safe, even if the rest of his state went to hell.  But he wasn’t in his home district.  He should be.  Usually the Congress left town by the Thursday before a holiday weekend, but there was some supposed big buzz going on and the Congressman had insisted on his Friday morning staff meeting.

These thoughts flew through Keith’s mind as he heard the honking and screeching abate and observed that intermittent blue lights had started to speckle the crowd of cars.  Recovery Officers must have been salted into traffic prior to the operation.  Leaning out his window, Keith could see up the utility lane past the rigs jack-knifed in his way.  Blue lights had also sprouted along the overpass, but beyond that it looked like clear sailing.

“Just a hundred yards, then it’s over Toth Pass and home for dinner…”  He eased his car into the empty lane, checked it again, and then he gunned it.

As the recorded message played itself out, Sergeant Menchaca caught the motion and keyed his vest.  “Got a runner coming up on your left, Lieutenant.”

Still seated in his cab, Browne answered.  “Got him, Sarge.  Stand by.”  He tapped his console and told his truck to find the runner’s position and speed and…

As Jones’ car entered the gap a shaped charge was dropped onto the hood and exploded, sending shrapnel into the engine compartment and back through the windshield.  Carried by the car’s momentum and funneled between the cab’s heavy metal siding and the concrete divider, bits of Jones and his car scattered forward in a smoking trail, effectively blocking the lane with wreckage.

Safe in the armored cab, Browne keyed the all-squad switch.  “Once the smoke clears, see if you can’t get a bounty off that car.  VIN number likely.  First Cap on Team Sheridan counts against your own LT.  Rock on, men!  Take care… and take careful aim.”

Richard switched off and instantly his own command channel lit up and Lieutenant Baxter said, “Compliments from Team Longstreet!  You need any help with your perimeter there, Dickie?”   Browne looked up at the overpass and spotted Lt Baxter grinning and waving.

“You can just keep to your side of the road, Mattie.  Browne out!”

As a team was dispatched to clear the lane between the lead cab and the traffic separator, other teams were organized to begin working the crowd.  “Whiteman!  Take your crew and start east on that ridge, space out and cover it until you link up with Team McClellan.”

“Got it, Chief!”  Hakim and Potts and the rest of their squad hiked across the shoulder and up the slope and disappeared into the brush.

Menchaca thumbed his vest and his voice was routed to the loudspeakers.  He gestured with his rifle as he spoke.  “Please remain in or on your vehicles until further notice.  Anyone crossing this line without an escort,” he indicated the tape that the men were stringing between the trailers and civilians, “will be shot.  Anybody assaulting or interfering with or disobeying any Revenue Recovery Officers will be dealt with harshly, up to and including reconstruction.”  As he spoke, he walked down the ramp and paced in front of the gathered crowd.  He gestured finally to Jones’ wreck.  “Let’s not have any more of this and most everybody here can be home in bed tonight.”

The QuikkStopp™ by the Interstate,

Donenfeld Exit, Reginapolis, Friday afternoon, ca 4pm

Jon and Chuck were enjoying a rare lull in the late afternoon rush.  Pastry Pat’s™ and Chik’n’n’Biskits™, the other franchises occupying the west end of Comoro’s QuikkStopp™, were both packed with hungry travelers.  The sales floor was empty for the moment, though many customers were still at the pumps.

“You think I could step out, Birdman?  Touch up the lot?”  Jon stepped back from his till and reached for the broom.

Chuck Partridge shook his head.  “Stay put.  Lot’ll keep.  Soon as you walk out a bus will pull in.  Happens all the time.  You wanna be useful crack open another carton o’ Reds.  Hit your vape where you stand if you’re jonesing, I don’t care.”

Jon Brady puffed his pen and reached for a fresh carton to unload.

“Welcome to Pastry Pat’s!  What are you drinking?”  The blare of the intercom came through the side door, followed by the more subdued voice of the drive-through customer.

Chuck walked over to it.  “Looks like this floor is dry by the cooler now.  I’m gonna shut this.  Um…”  As he stood there he pondered.  “I’m gonna duck in and rack some beer.  Rap on the glass if you get a line.”

“I can’t believe they’re asking at a drive-in what people are drinking.”

“They’re selling coffee, Jon.”

“I know.  But still…”

“I know.  It does sound stupid.  Every time I hear it I think, ‘Welcome to Plastered Putz, what were you thinkin’?’”

“Maybe they’re thinking America runs on pastry?”

“Maybe.  America sure don’t run on thinkin’!”

“HOWIE DOONE, PARTNER?”  Just as Chuck was about to enter the walk-in a regular customer shouted his customary greeting.

Chuck turned from the cooler door to engage the man and saw two more walk in after him.  “So much for packin’ the racks.”  He headed back to his till.  “Still not deaf, still not sure who ‘we’ are, and still not getting those checks, ‘partner.’”

“Still an asshole, though, aintcha?” 

“I’m always gonna be an asshole, Jake.  As long as you keep making me choose for us, I’m always gonna choose to not be the toilet paper.  How can I help?”

“Gimme a roll of dip.”

Chuck grabbed a five-pack of Jake’s preferred snuff, rang up the purchase, and quoted the price.  Jake produced his card.  “Digital currency then, go ahead, deliver your number up Unto the Beast and give the computers a moment to gossip about your account.”

After Jake had declined his receipt the next customer stepped forward.  “Yeah, I just need a pack of Mar Bow Reds in a box.”

“Rightio!”  Chuck smiled at the man and read back the order as he reached.  “One box Marlboro, in a red pack.”

But before the transaction could continue…

“Goddam it!”

“Shit!”

“What the fuck?”

Almost to a man, the entirety of the queues in the adjoining eateries had been face down in their devices, and all began poking at them with consternation.

“My register just died.”  Jon tapped his reset key and looked at the ceiling speakers.  “So did the music.” 

Chuck’s unit winked out also, and he heard the cashiers at Plastered Putz and Childr’n’n’Bitches pleading their plight to their customers.  He looked up at the speakers.  “Small loss, that noise.  I was sick of that loop anyway.”  He squinted forward through the sun’s glare.  At first, he saw about a half dozen frustrated customers coming in from the pumps, no doubt to voice their concerns.  Then he saw the swarm of cruisers.  Quickly the officers were out of their cars and herding the motorists into the shop.

“What is it Chuck?  What’s going on?”

“I’m dead is what it is.  Those are the new HERO Cops.  The Court must have confirmed that god damned HERO Act.  I’m dead, Jon.  I am just fucking dead.”

“Ladies and gentlemen please remain calm.”  A Recovery Officer addressed the crowd.  “Go ahead and finish your meals if you have them.  Or get them from the counter if they’re still on order.  And don’t anybody worry anything about paying for it.”  He glanced at his pad.  “All of Comoro’s property at this location has been impounded by the government.  You may as well eat it before we throw it out.”

He paused and waited for the nervous laughter to die out, then continued.  “Now we’re all under a great deal of pressure here, but we’re going to see to it that the nation’s needs are met and that as many of us as possible can sleep in our own beds tonight.  I dare say that’s probably most of us, but things could get a little dicey along the way so please do cooperate as best you can.  HERO officers have extraordinary Constitutional Authority, and your lives are literally in our hands.  When an officer calls your name report to him immediately and you will be interviewed and most likely sent home.  Any resistance will be dealt with harshly and immediately.  Remember, we’re all putting it on the line for this operation, even we Recovery Officers.  If our quotas are not met, or if our Caps – uh, our casualty rates —  are too high, our own penalties will be just as severe.”

He hadn’t recognized him at first, against the brilliance of the afternoon sun, but as the man spoke Chuck realized that he knew this particular HERO.  He had been a guard at DuQuois Correctional and a regular customer up until a few months back.  When the officer finished his remarks, he turned back to the convenience store attendants with competing expressions of sadness and delight on his face.  “Birdman,” he said, “I didn’t think you worked this shift.”

“Dom.”  Partridge nodded.  “I’d like to say it’s nice to see you again but under the circumstances…  Last time I saw you you were still babysitting naughty children at Duke’s.”  He frowned and shook his head.  “I don’t usually work afternoons, but Crystal Beth bailed on us and Comoro tempted me with more dough.”

“Went and got myself recruited by the Feds.  Don’t sweat it, Chuck.”  Dominic Campigno poked at his pad for a bit, whistled softly, then looked up and smiled.  “You were right to be worried, Birdman.  You may not have a lot of assets to impound, but as close as you are to retirement…”

“Yeah.  I was kind of looking forward to having tax victims support me for a change, but then the government changed the law again.”  He chuckled sourly.  “Feet, say ‘good-bye’ to rug.  Face, say ‘hello’ to concrete floor.”

Jon Brady had remained where the Officers had instructed him to stand as Campigno had addressed the crowd at large.  He had stayed put even as his customers were escorted away to await their interviews.  Now he stepped back from his till and sat back on his stool.  He looked at the floor and shook his head.  “That sucks, man.  That just sucks.”

“Not just for me, Jon.  Seems like the whole Redge has just lost the lottery.”

“Not the whole Redge, Chuck.”  Campigno raised his pad.  “High metrics mostly.  Rich retirees, tent cities, rest homes, public housing.  The body politic has been bleeding crazy for years and it’s time to cauterize it.  But I’ve got you, Birdman.  Don’t you worry.  You may be in the red zone but every officer has a DR budget and I just spent one of mine.”

“DR?”  Jon looked up.  “What’s DR?”

Dominic smiled at him.  “Discretionary Reprieve.  The Birdman and I go back a little.  We’re supposed to be dispassionate and methodical in a war zone, but sometimes things get a little hectic.  Anyway, enough about old friends.  About you, Mr Brady…”  He consulted his pad.  “Your metrics — young man, reasonably healthy, net taxpayer — put you well in the green zone.”

“How did you…”

“Computer told me your name before I walked in.  Told me a bunch of stuff, too.  You drove your Accord here from Maison this afternoon, accelerated through a yellow light at Donenfeld and Gaines at one fifty-four, and clocked in at one fifty-eight, two minutes before the start of your shift.”

“Oh… kay.”

“So go ahead and get your things.  You’re finished for the day.  You’ll want to check with what’s left of ComoroCorp about your next shift.  Or even if you still have a job.  This facility is under new management.  Front!”

“Yeah Sarge?”

“Escort Mr Brady to his car, the gray Accord.”

“On it!”  As the officer walked him to his car Jon wondered if he’d ever see Chuck Partridge again.  The man had never really acted old, but Jon guessed that he was after all, what with all his recent talk about being supported by “tax victims” soon.  Seemed like a rotten deal.  Man works all his life, and just as he’s about to cash in they jerk the rug out.  Jon always voted for liberals because they always had the right message, but it never seemed to work out.  The HERO Act was supposed to fix all that. 

As they crossed the lot Jon’s escort whistled.  “Lordy looky at all them pretty privileged parking passes!”  He waved his baton at the blue placards dangling behind the row of windshields.  “We got easy bounty up front!”

When they reached Jon’s car there arose a loud buzz from the east.  They looked up to see a swarm of drones scream past the Comoro Station and over the Interstate towards the center of town.

“Have a great day, sir,” said Jon’s escort.  “You be safe now, all right?”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  Jon was still watching the receding fleet of drones.

The officer laughed.  “Looks like the Video Rangers are on the hunt.  Gonna be a hot night in Auldtown tonight I reckon!”

Queen City Operations  (“The Arcade”)

“Ground crew reports all green flags have been cleared from the region, sir.” 

“Thank you, Miss McCoy.”  Tatum stepped to the center of the Arcade, surrounded by his Video Rangers and addressed them.   “Heads up, crew!  Targets are coming up on your screens.  Don’t cross any thin blue lines, but…  otherwise…”  He smiled at Dylan, and he and Forest and the Guthrie brothers all picked up his cadence and recited with him, “…it’s time… to take… the doughnuts!”  The boys laughed and returned to their screens, pumping their fists in the air. 

As reports came in from the ground crews, the stats were sent to their respective zone operators.  The Video Rangers noted the patterns, and they noted the blue perimeters marking their limitations, and they commenced their campaigns.

All but Special Agent Nintendo.  Wil Stuckey’s hands lay on his keyboard and he stared at the screen.  He was unable to move.  “Stinky sticky Stuckey, putrid pale and pukey!”  was all he could hear as he imagined the dots were himself and his drones were his unrelenting childhood tormentors.

The team had drilled for weeks and Wil had excelled, making the final elite seven out of a couple of dozen eager applicants.  Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels and the rest of the staff were nice enough to him, but he hadn’t really bonded with any of the other Rangers. 

X-box was distant from them all, though most of the other boys seemed to think that they were just what she needed.  Yarrow had divided her time between coding and ’blogging (when she wasn’t piloting or drilling.)  Gameboy and Pong seemed to get along.  Both were angry headbanger goth types who tried to outdo each other in their contempt for their native south.  Atari was on a one-man mission to eradicate nicotine addiction and would barely tolerate any deviation from his crusade.  And the Super Barrio Mothers, while fellow Jerseyites like Wil, were more wrapped up in their own sibling competition.  Like many self-absorbed twins, they figured they had all the friends they needed.

As usual, no one had any time for the fat kid.  Just show him to the buffet line, wind him up, plop him before a console, and surround him with mountains of Na-Cheezmos™ and lagoons of Ultimate Fierce Ice Deux™, and he’ll perform like a trained seal.

A fat, happy, contented, docile, friendless trained seal.

He knew the score.  They all knew the score coming in.  There wasn’t a day went by during training that the HERO Act wasn’t discussed and what “tax base enrichment” and “liability mitigation” really meant.  It meant real people died.  It meant that sick people suffered less and the tired rested more and the hard working and productive led better lives of greater abundance.

And China kept its hands off Hawaii, and Russia kept its hands off Alaska. 

They were told that America was in trouble, and that she was running out of options.  Her creditors abroad were demanding unrealistic concessions.  Desperate times called for desperate measures and harsh realities had to be faced.  They told them over and over, and Wil wanted to believe it.  He wanted to belong to the cadre.  He wanted to fit in the way he’d never fit in before.  Growing up in the AC in the shadow of glitter and glitz, he was the homely fat kid.  He was just one out of thousands of Jersey brat stereotypes, but at least Wil was good at video games.

To hell with that!  He was GREAT at video games!

At last he had made it.  He was on the inside, and tasked with forging the new future, unfettered by the restrictions of his past life or old traditions.  The Video Rangers would be on the cutting edge of this brave new world.  The new world order would beget a great society that would leave no child behind, and a kinder and gentler city on a hill would shine with a thousand points of light.  It was all supposed to be double plus good.  He tried to believe it.  But those dots were people.  Those dots were people, and those people were all fat, and they were all Wil Stuckey, and they were all running and trying to hide from the taunting crowd.  “Stinky Stuckey, fat and pukey!  He’ll get beat for playing hooky!”

“Everything okay there, son?”  Lilac and lavender filled Wil’s nose.  He turned and faced Colonel Michael’s cleavage.  He looked up and she smiled at him.  It’s go time, Mr Stuckey.  What’s the hold-up?”

“I…”  He looked up at her and licked his lips.  “I don’t know.  I just…”

She sighed and shook her head sadly. 

“You did so well during testing.  And all your psychometrics are – ”

“I know!”  he cried.  He began to gasp as he spoke.  “I just…  I… I… can’t!  I… I… I… I don’t know, it’s just…”  He pushed his keyboard away and looked up again, his eyes leaking.  The rest of the Rangers were all head down in their consoles, collecting bounty and clearing liabilities.

“You need to get it together, boy!  Now!”  Michaels stood up straight.  “Uncle has spent considerable time and money on your selection and training.  You are a member of an elite team and you do not want to mess this up!”

Wil sat still, silently weeping.

She leaned in close again.

“Get to work now, Mr Stuckey, or let’s go clean out your locker.”

He backed his chair away and stood.  “Fine.  Let’s go.”

As Colonel Michaels and Stuckey left the Arcade, she touched a stud on her collar and said, “Broach cam, please.  Cadre ‘Seven Wonders’ screen override, authorization Michaels four twenty eighty-nine.”

“Hey!”

“What the — ?”

“I almost had ’im!”

The chorus of complaints erupted from the room behind them as Michaels grabbed Wil by the shoulders and spun him around to face her.  Inside the Arcade, operators’ screens were filled with Nintendo’s puffy face as Col Michaels’ hands wrapped around his throat.  He gaped wordlessly as she squeezed.

The guard at the door took a hesitant step toward the pair, but the voice in his ear advised him to stand down.

Meighan spoke calmly into her throat mic as she strangled the boy.  “Mr Stuckey has just surrendered his exemption and has been identified by the Algorithm as a Red Flag.  By electing to step off the team he has improved everybody else’s scores and chances.  If anyone else would like to join him, I’m not tired yet.”  As Wil passed out and went limp, she readjusted her grip onto his head, gave it a quick jerk, and dropped him to the floor.  “Cancel screen override,” she said, and, “Hygiene to third floor, please.”

One Observatory Circle,  District of Columbia,

The Vice President flipped her sunglasses onto the table in the foyer.  Her husband heard her enter and turned off the video.  He’d been lingering over news and coffee when she came in.  He stretched and yawned as he rose.  “You’re home early.”

She kissed him on the cheek and flopped into a chair.  “My gag order doesn’t officially expire until the end of the operation.  Sometime this weekend, but I don’t want you leaving the residence until then anyway.”

He sat back down.  “So it’s on?”

She nodded.  “Reginapolis, mostly.  Cunningham and Sabot are both dead.”

He grinned sadly and patted her on the knee.  “Well, they asked for it, I guess.”

“Don’t start.”  She shook her head and pulled away.  “Maybe you’re right.  We all asked for it.  Most of us.  Easy for me.  The Act omits the VP from the Lottery.”

“An oversight?  Or design, to protect Succession?”

“We can protect Succession by scattering the Cabinet across the country.  I don’t know.  Good luck maybe.  Look, I really need you to stay away from the press this weekend.  I know you and the First Partner were going to open that community theatre conference in – “

“Thank God for the HERO Act!”  He got up and walked to the bar, emptied the coffee pot, and topped up his cup with a shot of bourbon.  “I was actually dreading it, Chica.  Artsy stuff is HIS thing, not mine.  This was supposed to be payback for him sitting through the Rangers’ humiliation with me.”  He chuckled as he sat down, slurping his coffee.  “You know, I was just fine with the whole ‘Second Gentleman’ thing, but… I don’t think I’ll ever cozy up to ‘Second Partner.’”

Auldtown,  Friday afternoon

“My pleasure sir!  And thank YOU for your service!”  Julie nodded to the man and walked away with his coffee and cruller.  That odious green hat and jacket that he’d taken off that old vet was still paying off, long after the cash had gone.

Julie Rosselot never told anyone he was a vet.  He knew better than to try that “stolen valor” schtick.  He’d witnessed enough righteous thumpings handed out by real GIs.  Those camo-printed posers who’d come into Auldtown looking for action often got more than they’d bargained for.  The closest that Julie had ever come to military service was sleeping in the doorway of the recruiter’s office.  He’d watched the old vets on his route, though.  They didn’t usually make an issue of their service.  You sometimes wouldn’t even suspect they were vets, except for those who wore those hats with the patches or the ribbons on them. 

So, Julie’d keep his mouth shut, or just nod politely when strangers wanted to thank him for his service, or to pay for his lunch.  When they would ask him about it, all he’d say was that he didn’t like talking about it.  Or maybe he would say something cryptic and wise, like, “If you were there, you’d know.  If you weren’t, you can’t.”  They usually nodded soberly after that, thank him anyway, and sometimes stuff a few bucks into his hand.  He liked the cash, though he could do without the thanks.  But Julie kept to his script, like a taciturn warrior, he thought, who did it for his country and not for acclaim.

Stepping out of the shadow of lower Tiara Tower and into the scattered spectra refracting from her crown, Julie tugged the brim of his hat down to the bridge of his nose.  He wandered over to the buskers on the street to see if he could catch some fresh tunes, and maybe a few more handouts from some of the tourists.  Julie became increasingly aware of the high pitched whine descending from above.

Looking up, he saw the sky crowded with buzzing drones hovering over the crowd.  As more and more people noticed and pointed, a loud claxon began echoing through Auldtown.  A fleet of black vans pulled up around the square and teams of cops began to line the street. 

As the strange flock settled toward the crowd, many were aiming their phones at them, attempting to capture video.  Then the drones started firing darts into their necks.  As people started to drop, Julie tossed his coffee and began to run.  When he reached the perimeter, he was stopped by a baton striking him in the chest.  As he reeled back from the blow, he heard a louder buzz, felt a sharp sting on his neck, and fell over dead.