Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

He was crouched at the seventh-floor window of a vacant downtown office space near the mouth of the LaSalle Street canyon. He had the rifle by his side and was enjoying an unimpeded view of the riot line and the restless crowd beginning to swell to capacity in the street below the towering Chicago Board of Trade.

Everything was in place.

The police were out in force, with their commissioner and other higher-ups standing resolutely behind them. The rank and file were equipped for hand-to-hand violence, dressed in padded black, visors down, shields up, and weapons ready. The crowd was chanting louder— they got bailed out, we got sold out —and a few planted among them would occasionally shout particularly fiery and profane epithets and threats right into the faces of the nearby lawmen. The area news teams were there, too, ready with mic and camera to capture any developments, no doubt with hopes to parlay any minor conflict into an on-scene report for the national network feed.

Because of its sheer size the throng of protesters periodically shifted and came into physical contact with the thin blue line. In response the police would push back against them, moving in solidarity at a bullhorned command. With each such cycle the anger was growing on both sides; the tension was becoming electric at the volatile border between opposing forces. This tinderbox was primed to ignite, and so it was time.

Simmons took out his flashlight, brought it up to the open window, and sent three quick high-intensity blinks down toward the street. Seconds later three flashes came back in answer to his signal. With that the action was under way, though there wasn’t an agreed-upon instant when it all would come down. With just a little prompting the crowd itself would decide that moment.

He’d chosen several potential victims among the rabble. If you settle on only one, sure enough the lucky bastard’ll get himself behind a street sign or a bystander and then you’re stuck scrambling for a target of opportunity. With the exception of the cute female cop he’d singled out, all the ones he’d picked for that day were young blacks, clean-cut Cosby Show types whose yearbook pictures would look just great displayed below the tragic headlines.

The chants were growing louder and angrier, the individual confrontations at the line flaring higher. Olin Simmons picked up Thom Hollis’s rifle and brought the preset scope up close to his eye.

A line of burly men in the back let out a bloodcurdling rebel yell and pushed hard against the crowd in front of them, driving like the Packers’ defensive line against the training sled. At the same time a lit pack of firecrackers dropped to the pavement and the sharp reports sparked the beginnings of a panic among the pinned-in crowd. The surge of human pressure passed forward like a wave and the hapless protesters at the front were forced off balance and stumbling through the barricades.

As the police fell back a few of them were knocked from their feet and their partners responded with batons and fists and pepper spray. Some raised their guns, a spinning canister of tear gas was fired into the midst of the mob, and a regiment of more heavily armed reinforcements ran in to aid their brothers in uniform.

Olin Simmons took aim and shot the first young target in the side of the head, and then he took out a second victim before those around the first had even begun to react. He shifted immediately and found his woman cop, fired once, and then shot her again for good measure as she was going down.

At the unmistakable sound of gunfire most in the crowd would have run away if they could, but they couldn’t. They were now caught up in a shared mentality of fear and rage and had ceased to be individuals at all anymore. Whatever their plans for this march had once been, all ideals were forgotten with that first scent of blood. A roar went up from the thousands in the mob, a stirring primal sound completely out of place on those formerly civilized midwestern streets.

Now the violence would play out on its own; no more was required of the man who’d started it. As new shooting erupted and the police line fell and the mob stormed across the fragile barrier between chaos and law and order, Olin Simmons was already gone.

Chapter 27

In the morning Noah found himself feeling well enough to get up and around. After checking his vitals and joining him in a light, bland, institutional breakfast, Dr. Ellen Davenport accompanied him outside for a chat and a breath of cool, fresh air.

Older and happier times were revisited as they walked together. The things that had happened since were left for another day. The grounds were quite tranquil and uniformly green, something like a golf course but without all the fun. When the edge of the property came into view, though, the sight stopped him dead in his tracks. You can gloss over a lot of things with tasteful landscaping but a high electric fence, manned watchtowers, and coils of concertina wire are features that speak louder than even the best-kept shrubberies.

Upon turning around for the journey back, Noah was treated to yet another sobering view. Their walk had taken them far enough away from the building they’d left to see it from higher ground and in the context of its surroundings. He’d awakened that morning with a lingering suspicion left behind by a bad dream, and this sight confirmed that it was true.

“What’s wrong?” Ellen asked. She must have seen the look on his face.

“They brought me back. This is the same place where they held me before.”

He’d seen it only once from the outside and that had been on his way out, months earlier. The complex had obviously expanded since then. New construction was under way here and there: one strange windowless building bristling with antennas and satellite dishes, a deceptively bright and inviting welcome center, a strip of sterile shops and generic eateries, and what looked like a set of his-and-hers, cookie-cutter dormitories that were a perfect match for several others in the line. The hospital wing where they’d emerged was only a small part of the overall development.

“I don’t understand,” Ellen said.

“Didn’t anybody tell you anything about all this?”

“No. Your father said that you needed help, and that was all I needed to know. What kind of an operation is this?”

“It used to be called a fusion center. There are a lot of them around the country but this one’s apparently becoming a whole new breed. You’ve been to Disney World, haven’t you?”

“Sure.”

“This place is like Epcot,” Noah said. “You know, the Experimental Prototype Community Of Tomorrow? It’s just like that, only from hell.”

The walk back was considerably more introspective.

When they came to his room he closed the door and sat Ellen down in the corner as far from the ceiling camera as he could manage.

“I want you to go back to New York now,” Noah said, “and then get on with your life as best you can.”

“My life is fine, Gardner. I want to make sure you’re okay—”

“Listen to what I’m saying. I’m not okay. I don’t think I’m ever going to be okay again. I appreciate you coming here for me; you’re the best friend I’ve got and that means more to me now than I can ever tell you, but this is a bad place and you need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

His tone seemed to strike her even harder than the words themselves.

“All right,” Ellen said. She looked hurt, and he was sorry for that. “They’re redoing the floors in my apartment; I’d planned on being away for a while. I can’t go home tonight or tomorrow, but I’ll make all the arrangements to leave in a few days.”