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of the curb in front of city hall and rolled a tank up onto the sidewalk. The
left front track stopped just inches from his head.
Third A. D. Harachi Seiko demanded, "One rast time, I ask for your surrender.
Do you agree?"
Cloves hesitated. "Is this in the script?" he asked again. Seiko barked an
order in Japanese. The tank inched closer. Cloves felt the coldness of the
curb against his face. A kneeling Japanese kept his face pressed to the gritty
street. Another one squatted harpy-like on his legs. A third pinioned his arms
behind his back.
"Tell me what you want me to do!" Cloves said in an agitated voice. "If the
script calls for it, I'll surrender."
"Choice is yours," Seiko said flatly. "You surrender and terr citizens to ray
down arms. Or you die."
Basil Cloves cringed from the spittle spraying from the Japanese's screaming
mouth. Through the triangular frame of the arm of the soldier who had his
head, he could see a video camera aimed at his own face. Maybe he should play
the brave public servant.
Behind the video camera a man was walking down the street, looking dazed and
crying in a voice choked with disbelief, "But this is America. This is
America!"
He was quickly surrounded and bayoneted in the stomach.
It occurred to Mayor Basil Cloves that perhaps this wasn't a movie after all.
That the explosions he kept hearing were not special effects. That the
sporadic gunfire was not harmless.
Basil Cloves in that moment realized what he had done. And he made his
decision.
"I'll never surrender," he said quietly.
The next sound he heard was a guttural order, then the clanking of the tank.
The man holding his head down turned his face to the dirt-caked track, which
gleamed at its wear points. The track inched forward.
"You change mind?" Third A. D. Seiko demanded.
"Never!" Mayor Cloves spat. He knew they could not run him down. Not with four
men holding him down. They'd be run over too.
Yet the track continued gnashing toward him.
The man at his head suddenly released his hair. He stepped back. Cloves lifted
his head. But that was all he could lift. The others kept his arms and legs
down.
Then the track bit into the mayor of Yuma's nose. He screamed, but the sound
was swallowed by the shattering of his teeth and the pulverizing of his facial
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bones.
Mayor Basil Cloves never heard the pulpy crack that caused yellowish brain
curd to erupt from the fissures of his broken skull.
Third A. D. Harachi Seiko ordered the tank to back up so the cameraman could
come in for a close-up of the mayor's head. Then the tank rolled forward
again. It went back and forth until the mayor's head was nothing more than a
meaty stain.
Linda Best was only dimly aware that there was a film being shot in Yuma. It
was the day before Christmas vacation and that meant there was a lot of
homework to collect and tests to give to her third-grade class in the Ronald
Reagan Elementary School.
So when the Asian soldier entered the class as she was passing out a grammar
test, the last thing that Linda Best thought of was a movie.
She saw the AK-47 in the Asian soldier's hands and all she could think of was
the incident in California, where a maniac in fatigues and carrying an
automatic weapon had killed or maimed nearly thirty children.
She cried "No!" and flung the papers in his face. The man flinched. Linda Best
leapt at the man in the desert camouflage fatigues before he could recover.
Her hands clawed for the gun. She never felt the sharp edge of the bayonet as
it sliced one grasping hand. The other got the barrel. Linda pulled. The Asian
man fought back. He was small. Linda was not. They struggled as the children
began ducking under the desks.
"Give me that thing!" she sobbed rackingly.
The man grunted inarticulately. Somewhere, through a rushing in her ears,
Linda heard commotion elsewhere in the corridors of the school. A popping like
firecrackers. She was barely aware of it. All her thoughts, all her strength,
were focused on the sweating face that grimaced only inches in front of her.
Linda Best knew she couldn't hope to overpower him by sheer strength. Surprise
had carried her this far. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw some of the
children crawl out the open door. Good children, she thought. Run, run. Get
help.
Then she felt the strength begin to leave one arm. No, not now, not yet. She
moaned silently. Lord give me strength. And she saw why. The blood had
practically painted her bare forearm. She had been unwittingly clutching a
bayonet.
Linda released the rifle. The Japanese scrambled to bring the weapon to bear.
In that instant, Linda Best kicked him in the crotch. The Japanese doubled
over. His weapon fell into Linda's waiting arms.
Linda Best had never held a rifle in her life. She had never fired a shot. She
had never struck a blow in anger. She never wanted to.
But on that day in December, with the children scrambling between her legs to
safety, she found the strength to place the muzzle of the unfamiliar weapon to
the face of the man who had had the temerity to enter her classroom with
murderous intent, and gave him the contents of its clip in one pull of the
trigger.
"Everyone, hurry," Linda called, looking away from the result of her courage.
"Follow me!"
The children came, some of them. Others huddled and cried. Swiftly, gently,
Linda Best went among them, prying fingers from desk legs. She pushed them to
the safety of the door, admonishing them not to look at the man who lay with
agitated limbs across the doorway.
She carried the last two in her arms. They were crying for their mothers.
It was too much to hope that in their panic the children would all reach the
fire exits. Linda stumbled out into the corridor hoping for best, fearing the
worst. She did not expect the sight that awaited her.
The corridor swarmed with students. And among them were armed soldiers, men
with hard foreign faces and merciless weapons. A fellow teacher bumped into
Linda. It was Miss Head, who had the fifth grade.
"What is it? What's happening?" Linda asked breathlessly.
"We don't know," Miss Head hissed. "They want us to assemble outside."
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"But why? Who are they?"
"The assistant principal thinks they're with the movie. But look at how
they're behaving. I think it's real." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]