Thomas Cook - Streets of Fire

‘This march will not continue,’ he cried.

But the people proceeded anyway, and Ben walked along at a distance beside them, his eyes straight ahead, his heart pounding wildly as he came nearer and nearer to where the firemen and troopers waited.

The march stopped only a few feet from the Chief’s position, and for a moment the two groups stared silently at each other. Then the Chief shouted into the megaphone again, warning them to go back to their churches and neighborhoods, that the march would have to end.

Suddenly a man stepped out in front of the crowd and addressed the men behind the Chief, addressed them personally, almost intimately, as if speaking in a quiet, persuasive voice to each man individually.

‘We have done nothing wrong,’ he declared, ‘and we only want the freedom that is supposed to be for every American in this country.’

The Chief stepped back slightly, then turned on his heels and headed back toward his men.

The other man did not seem to notice him. He continued to speak to the ranks of policemen and firemen.

‘We have a right to be treated like human beings,’ the man cried. ‘We’re just people, like you. We want the things you want.’

His voice rang over them, and Ben could see some of the firemen’s hoses begin to droop limply in their hands as they listened to him. He could see them glancing at one another, their lips moving softly.

‘We have the right to pray,’ the man declared. ‘And we are going to get on our knees and pray for a moment. And then we’re going to get off our knees and continue this march.’

Ben began to walk slowly down the hill. The firemen had stopped talking among themselves and were now standing rigidly in place, staring over the long dark line that moved up Fourth Avenue.

The prayer ended, and the demonstrators rose quietly, paused a moment and then began to move forward.

The Chief stepped back behind the firemen, lifted his megaphone and yelled into it. ‘Hit ’em!’

No one moved, and as Ben stepped onto the curb, he could see that the firemen continued to stand absolutely still, their hands still on the hoses, but making not the slightest effort to release the water.

‘Hit ’em!’ the Chief cried again.

Still, no one moved, and the water remained pent-up and unreleased behind the enormous steel nozzles.

The leaders of the march glanced at each other unbelievingly, but continued to move forward, passing in a thin line first the firemen, then the stupefied troopers who stood behind them, and still moving on, unmolested, toward the steps of City Hall.

From his place on the curb, Ben could see that some of the firemen were crying. Many had dropped their hoses and were now simply standing in place while the small gap in the gray wall of troopers grew wider and wider as the demonstrators poured through it. Suddenly Ben felt like a little boy on the trolley once again, peering toward the rear. But now there were hundreds of faces staring back at him, solemn and insistent.

The marchers had begun to sing quietly, and as he listened to their voices, a kind of music filled him as well, and his eyes grew moist and his hands trembled. He thought of Doreen in her innocence, Kelly in his love and Breedlove in his courage, and as he thought these things, he could feel the deepest quarters of his heart urge him forward, slowly at first, then more insistently, until finally he stepped off the curb, moved to the edge of the line of march, then, after a single moment of delay, joined the onrushing wave of humanity.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1989 by Thomas H. Cook

cover design by Jason Gabbert

This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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