One of the ragged men stepped forward, glaring at the front rank of marchers. Then he opened his mouth in an inarticulate roar of frustration and rage, a long piece of rebar held over his head like a staff.
A great cry arose from the throats of the homeless, who raised their hands in answer. Smithback could see that every hand held something—rocks, chunks of cement, pieces of iron. Many had cuts and bruises. It looked like they were preparing for a battle—or had just come from one.
What the hell is this? Smithback thought. Where have all these guys come from? For a moment he wondered if it was some kind of organized mass-scale robbery. Then he remembered what Mephisto had told him as he’d crouched down there in the dark: we will find other ways to make our voices heard. Not now, he thought. This is the worst possible time.
A wisp of smoke drifted closer, and several of the nearest marchers began to choke and gasp. In an instant, Smithback’s eyes began to sting painfully, and he realized that what he’d thought was steam was actually tear gas. Farther down the empty stretch of Broadway, Smithback saw what looked like a small group of policemen—their blue uniforms torn and grimy—stumble up a subway staircase, then stagger in the direction of the distant squad cars. Shit, something big’s happened down there, he thought.
“Where’s Mephisto?” one of the homeless yelled out.
Another voice rose up. “I heard he was paddied!”
The mob grew increasingly agitated. “Goddamn cops!” someone shouted. “I bet they beat his ass!”
“What are these scumbags doing, anyway?” Smithback heard a young voice behind him ask.
“Don’t know,” came an answer. “Too late at night to cash a welfare check.” There was scattered laughter and hooting.
“Mephisto!” The chant began to rise among the ragged crowd before them. “Where’s Mephisto?”
“The mothers probably murdered him!”
There was a sudden commotion among the Wisher marchers on the side of the street nearest the Park, and Smithback turned to see a large subway grating being forced open, and more homeless boiling up from below.
“Murdered!” one of the ragged army was screaming. “The bastards murdered him!”
The man who had stepped to the front pumped his rebar. “They won’t get away with it! Not this time, they won’t!”
He held up his arms. “The mothers gassed us!” he cried.
The tattered mob screamed wildly in response.
“They destroyed our homes!”
Another roar came from the mob.
“Now we’ll destroy theirs!” He flung the piece of rebar at the glass facade of a nearby bank branch. There was a splintering crash as it burst through the window and fell into the lobby. An alarm began to whine, quickly drowned out in the ocean of noise.
“Hey!” somebody beside Smithback yelled out. “Did you see what that asshole did?”
The homeless mob, screaming, poured a rain of missiles toward the buildings lining Broadway. Smithback, glancing up and down the avenue, watched as more and more homeless persons rose from manholes, vents, and subway exits, filling Broadway and Central Park West with their incoherent rage. Over their cries, he could make out the faint, insistent blatting of emergency vehicles. The dark pavement glittered brightly with countless shards of broken glass.
He jumped in surprise as he heard Mrs. Wisher’s amplified voice ring out. She had taken the microphone and turned to address the marchers. “Do you see this?” she cried, her voice echoing off the tall facades and rolling into the dark, silent Park beyond. “These people are intent on destroying the very thing we’re here to preserve!”
Angry cries began to arise from around her. Smithback looked around. He could see large groups of older marchers—Mrs. Wisher’s original followers—talking amongst themselves, pointing back toward Fifth Avenue or Central Park West, moving hurriedly away from the approaching confrontation. Others—the younger, brusquer element—were shouting angrily, moving toward the front.
The television cameras were milling around, some focused on Mrs. Wisher, others on the homeless mob now moving up the street, scooping up fresh projectiles from trash cans and Dumpsters, shouting their anger and defiance.
Mrs. Wisher looked across the sea of marchers, stretching out her hands briefly, then drawing them together as if to rally the group behind her banner. “Look at this rabble! Are we going to let this happen, tonight, of all nights?” She gazed across the crowd, half questioningly, half imploringly, as a tense silence gathered. The front lines of homeless paused in their rampage, startled by the booming, omnipresent sound of her voice, echoing from a dozen loudspeakers.
“No way!” slurred a young voice.
With mingled awe and dread, Smithback watched as, very slowly, Mrs. Wisher raised one arm above her head. Then, with commanding deliberation, she brought it down, pointing a manicured finger directly at the swelling lines of homeless. “These are the people that would destroy our city!” Though her voice was steady, Smithback sensed a ragged edge of hysteria.
“Look at these bums!” screamed a young man, pushing through the front rank of marchers. A noisy group began to form a knot behind him, ten feet from the now-silent ranks of the homeless. “Get a job, asshole!” he shouted at the leader.
The ranks of mole people fell into a deathly, ominous silence.
“You think I work my ass off and pay taxes just to give you a free ride?” he screeched.
An angry murmur swept through the crowd of homeless.
“Why don’t you do something for your country, instead of just living off it?” the man screamed, taking a step toward the leader and spitting on the ground. “Homeless piece of shit.”
A roar of approval rose from the marchers.
A homeless man stepped forward, waving the ruined stump of what had been his left arm. “Look what I did for my country!” he shrieked, voice breaking. “I gave everything.” The stump flapped back and forth and he turned toward the young man, face distorted with rage. “Chu Lai, ever heard of it?” The mole people pressed forward, an angry buzz rising fast.
Smithback glanced at Mrs. Wisher. Her face was still set in a hard, cold mask, as she stared at the homeless. He realized, with growing disbelief, that she really believed these people were the enemy.
“Kiss my ass, welfare bloodsucker!” a drunken voice yelled.
“Go mug a liberal!” shouted a beefy young man, to a burst of raucous laughter.
“They killed my brother!” one of the moles, a tall, skinny man, said angrily. “Fragged for his country, Phon Mak Hill, August 2, 1969.” He stepped forward, raising his middle finger in a violent gesture at the beefy man. “You can have your damn country, asswipe.”
“Too bad they didn’t finish the job and blow your ass off, too!” the drunken man yelled back. “One less scumbag roaming the streets!”
A bottle whipped out of the seething crowd of homeless and struck the young man solidly on the head. He staggered backward, legs crumpling, as he raised his hands toward the blood streaming from his forehead.
It was as if the rally suddenly exploded. With an inarticulate roar, the young men surged toward the homeless. Smithback looked around wildly. The older marchers had disappeared, leaving behind a wild and drunken element. He felt himself engulfed as the younger marchers rushed forward with angry yells, moving directly toward the line of homeless. Spun around and temporarily disoriented, he looked about in panic for Mrs. Wisher and her entourage, but they too had vanished.
Struggling, he was borne along on the tide. Over the shouting of the mob, he could now hear the sickening sound of wood hitting bone and fists smacking flesh. Cries of pain and rage began to mix with the yells. There was a sudden heavy blow across his shoulders and he dropped to his knees, instinctively shielding his head. Out of the corner of one eye he saw his recorder skidding across the pavement, kicked aside, and then crushed by running feet. He tried to rise, but then ducked down again as a chunk of concrete came hurtling in his direction. It was astonishing how quickly chaos engulfed the darkened streets.