34
The next two weeks saw an influx of reinforcements on both sides. The fence had become a full-on border wall, the patrol had evolved into an army, the motionless movement had inspired hundreds more to join the resistance. Massive floodlights made night and day indistinguishable, security cameras made anonymity implausible, the action sequence was inevitable. Threats to the treehouse accelerated as the food supply dwindled, a new wave of interrogation promised results, the pipeline had reached the woodline and it was time to get serious.
And serious time was what was under the table, the felonious monks sat in silence, prayer, and hunger, as their accessories were charged with lighting the campfire. Miles didn’t particularly want to do seven to ten, nor did he want to starve to death, but surrender at this point would render the entire operation futile. Up til now they’d been patiently waiting their turn in the frontline, and they knew the risks of facing off with big oil, the pressure was on and it was time to turn up the heat, let’s just hope that Bill knew what he was doing down there.
The full moon lit the way as an unlit school bus backed up to the wall, a rug rolled over the razor wire, a jungle gym slide breached the barrier. Before the parade of humvees was halfway down the hill, there were over a hundred trespassers occupying the playground. The gate was padlocked from the inside, the wall was built to withstand forced entry, they had a little time to relax, but arrest was inescapable from the cage.
A runner called up for the towline, Miles threw it past the blockade and reeled in a basketful of next week’s rations, the loft had been renewed for another quarter moon. The frybread was still warm.
A teargas canister spewed over the wall, followed by four more, the glove-clad rebound team returned the serve. The air was thick with chemical burn, some protectors wore gasmasks, most didn’t. Miles lost his appetite for frybread as the noxious cloud wafted through the trees. There were no words to describe the torment of chemically induced respiratory failure. Even with the stories he’d heard, Miles simply had no idea.
There must have been at least fifty lockdowns on site, the elves had been busy in the workshop, the visitors settled in for the long con. It looked like four points of contact on most of the excavators, entwined in the hydraulics, around the roll bars, and some even went through the roof. Tandem restraints slid into nooks and crannies that would stump even the most accomplished lockdown cutter, the equipment would have to be disassembled to even get close, they’d get a two for one on the arrest record, but at least the one armed bandits could still thumb their noses.
Elbows locked around the trunks below, three per tree, patterned in such a manner that a body would be in the way, no matter where they tried to cut. It was a madhouse of organized chaos, a scramble of choreography that began to stabilize, contestants were on their marks and ready to go nowhere.
More teargas poured in along with the first wave of gasproof retaliation, the quarterbacks couldn’t keep up, the incapacitated would be lucky to survive the fumigation. And then just like in a novel, the cloud suddenly shifted north, the toxic winds forcing the unmasked members of the battalion back into their vehicles. From Miles’ perspective, it looked as though a giant hand had effortlessly swatted away the storm.
The gate was cut open and the dam released, the bulls flooded the corral, they were ready for non-complied vengeance, but the seventy untethered protectors simply laid on their stomachs with hands behind their backs, you’ll find no resistance here.
It took a couple of hours just to process the loose change, and another to get the cut team roused, double the saws this time, and six times the lockdowns, but at least they got an early start.
This was going to take days, but the defense had their work cut out for them. Now that they were in custody, the cops were legally required to provide food and water, but now sure would be a funny time to start following the rules. The camp caught a poisoned wind of the clandestine maneuver, hundreds more gathered along the wall to bear witness as they cheered on their comrades, a megaphone spoke up as prayers pushed away any lingering smoke screen.
The guards couldn’t get their hands on the intended victims, so they turned their attention to the fan club, whose only crime was that of unscheduled visitation. Teargas topped the wall to clear way for more cannoneers, a platoon of twenty filled the five foot corridor as they demanded further retreat, the mob grew brazen as they defended the property’s rights.
Go back to camp for your own safety, else we will be forced to act. We can’t have you threatening our livelihood, even if you are unarmed and we’re armored to to the gill, and even if we’re the ones who walked around a perfectly good security protocol. You all are the bad guys because of your stance, not where you’re standing.
So they soaked the crowd with twenty foot streams of pepper spray.
It’s worse than the teargas. It burns every orifice inside and out, gets in your hair, and your clothes, it takes a week to get it out of everywhere, and who even knows the long term effects. A few medics filtered through the trauma, flushing eyes with Maalox to neutralize the carnage, it wasn’t a milk bath, it was a massacre. Those with gasmasks held the line, the injured fell back as the back row stepped up, they weren’t going to make this easy, the enforcers would have to earn each and every civilian casualty.
That was fine with them though, they hadn’t had much else to do lately, and this seemed as good a time as any to try out their new riot gun. Sure, maybe there was no actual riot going on, or even a crime being committed, it was really just a peaceful assembly of rights being exercised, but those little liberal jerkoffs were asking for it.
Shots fired as the frontline fell, plywood shields worked their way through the crowd, a plastic coated bullet blew a hole right through one.
“What have we done wrong?” the assembly demanded to know.
“You’re disobeying our direct orders,” was the response.
Orders to what? To not stand in a spot that we have legal permission to occupy? To cower at the threat of overcompensation? To vacate the witness stand for whatever comes next? No, you’ll not be strong-arming us from our place in the world, and look, you’re on candid camera, next week set the table for a thousand.
Miles couldn’t register what he was seeing as reality, it looked like a movie from some other era, a time when governments simply exterminated anyone who got in their way.
Or maybe a film of aliens colonizing the Earth, terraforming her to their own benefit, as the lowlife inhabitants struggle to catch a breath. The heavily armed thought themselves the flamethrowing protagonists as they secure the planet, but the deeper interpretation was a critique of our own intolerant history of violent colonization, and the space race to be the first destroyer of worlds as well.
Paul streamed the early morning matinee, viewers at home were enraged, an agitator picking a fight could stir controversy, but this blatant disregard for human rights would ignite a stampede. Or so Miles assumed anyway. Had to. People wouldn’t put up with this kind of malpractice. Would they?
He had to admit to himself, that they already had. Time and time again. From our involvement in foreign affairs, to our dog cages for stolen children at that other border wall, to stuff worse than this place at Standing Rock, where ten thousand called for help, but it was just easier to change the channel. It’s probably like writing a book to inspire revolution, the only ones reading are already on the path, while those who need it the most, don’t have time for any of that hippy dippy nonsense.
Armaments unfurled throughout the day and into the night, waves of the injured sought refuge only long enough to recover before returning to the slaughter, battalions rotated so that every assault weapon got a turn. By nightfall, a third of the hostages were released, more saws arrived to cut through the line, could you guys keep it down, we’re trying to sleep up here.
The blades were still spinning at dawn when the recently retired protectors returned for another shift. The cops stayed inside the fence this time, probably a little butthurt from the reaming they got last night, and no one on the outside crossed the line with anything but positive reinforcement.
There would be no pipeline installation today. Or yesterday. And with all those trees in the way, there might not be tomorrow.
We know that this is a monster of the magnitude that we have no reasonable chance of destroying, no human can stop the oil machine from devouring the Earth, it’s simply too big. But that’s no reason to give up before you’ve even begun, it’s a reason to fight harder, with everything that you have, as if your life depends on it, as if billions of lives depend on it, and maybe if enough people see you committing your life to the protection of theirs, a couple of them might even want to do something about it.
Change begins from within. And as you embody your truth, it will spread to those who don’t quite know what to make of you, but they know that something about you is different, and that it resonates with them, and that maybe they should look into this whole saving the world thing. One person may not be able to save the world, but they can invite everyone they meet along their journey to join them, and through the interwoven paths of the human experience, will be born a revolution. Remember Greta.