CHAPTER EIGHT
1003 Words
CHAPTER EIGHT
8:26 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
South of Canal Street
Chinatown, New York City
“Okay,” Kyle Meiner barked. “We’re about to hit them. So listen up!”
Kyle crouched in the back of a long black cargo van as it bounced over the potholes and ruts of the city streets. He looked at his men—eight big guys, cramped together. Everybody in here was muscled up, a gym rat. There wasn’t a man in here who couldn’t bench press 225, or squat 300. Everybody was pounding at least creatine, and some of the boys were juicing steroids, human growth hormone, in a few cases more exotic stuff—these were serious dudes. Every one of them had a crew cut or a shaved head.
Kyle’s body was like theirs, only bigger, if that was possible. His arms were like pythons, his legs like tree stumps. Veins popped out on his biceps, along his neck, his forehead, his chest, everywhere. Kyle was into veins.
Veins meant blood flow. Veins meant power.
There were five other vans just like this one in the convoy, and that told Kyle they were about to put forty or fifty hardcore, no-nonsense activists on the streets. Tight, long-sleeved T-shirts clung to muscular chests and torsos—each shirt black with the words GATHERING STORM in white. The letters looked vaguely like human bones, and had splatters of what looked like bright red blood along the bottom.
Hard eyes stared back at Kyle. These men were the sharpened point of the spear.
“I don’t want to see any weapons out there,” Kyle said. “No knives, no clubs, God help you if I see a gun. Brass knuckles. If you have anything on you, you are leaving it in the van. Got me?”
A few guys grumbled and muttered.
“What? I don’t hear you.”
The grumbles were louder this time.
“This is a rally and a march, boys. It’s not a street fight. If the slopes make it a fight, okay. Defend yourselves and each other. Throw the little commies through a brick wall for all I care. Just know that when the cops come and they find you armed, that’s a felony. We have lawyers on speed dial, ready to go, but if you get busted for possession of a weapon, you are not getting out tonight, and maybe not for a long time. I need to hear you on this. I don’t want to see anybody put away. It’s bad for you, and it’s a bad look for the organization. Got it? Come on!”
“Got it!” someone shouted.
“Yo!”
“We got it, man.”
Kyle smiled. “Good. Now let’s go kick some ass.”
The signs were piled in the back. Most of them said America Is Ours! One of them said c****s Go Home! That was Kyle’s sign. If his men were the sharpened point, he was the drop of poison at the very tip.
He was twenty-nine years old, and had been an organizer with Gathering Storm for just over two years. It was his dream job. Where did he find his recruits? Weight rooms, almost exclusively. Gold’s Gym. Planet Fitness. YMCA. Places where big strong guys hung out, guys who’d had just about enough. Enough censorship. Enough of the thought police. Enough of the good jobs going overseas. Enough of the race mixing.
Enough of the religion of multiculturalism being rammed down their throats.
If someone had told Kyle five years ago that he was going to pull together groups of men—the best, the toughest, the most aggressive young white men he could find—and that they were going to put the fear of the Lord into the people dragging this country down… that they were going to restore America to greatness… and that he was going to get paid to do this? Well, Kyle would have said that person was an i***t.
Yet here he was.
And here were his boys.
And their man had just been elected President of the United States.
There was nothing but daylight up ahead, and they were going to run a long, long way. And anybody who got in front of them, who tried to stop them or even slow them down—anybody like that was going to get mowed under. That’s just how it was.
The rear doors of the van opened, and the boys jumped out, grabbing their signs as they went. Kyle was the last one. He stepped onto the street, the night seeming to glow around him. It was cold out—even snowing a little—but Kyle was too ramped to feel it. The street was narrow, with four-story tenements crowding it on either side. All of the neon storefront signs were in Chinese, tangles of meaningless gibberish—impossible to read, impossible to understand.
Was this still America? You bet it was. And people spoke English here.
The vans were parked in a line. Big damn white boys in black shirts were everywhere, a bouncing, writhing mass of them. They were an invasion force, like Vikings on a coastal raid. They wielded their signs like battle-axes. Their blood was up.
A crowd of tiny, startled Asians looked on in… what?
Shock? Horror? Fear?
Oh yes, all of these.
The first chant began, a little tame for Kyle’s taste, but it would do for a start.
“America… is ours!”
The boys found their voices and the volume jumped a notch.
“AMERICA… IS OURS!”
Kyle flexed his arms. He flexed his upper back, and his round shoulders, and his legs. This was a rally, all right, and that’s what he had told his men. But he hoped it became more than that. He’d been holding his anger back for what felt like a long time.
Rallies were good, but he really just wanted to crack some heads.
Within two minutes, he got his wish. As the line of marchers moved down the street, maybe fifty feet ahead of him, some shoving started.
A Stormer took a Chinese man by both shoulders and pushed him into a display of pocketbooks. The Chinese man fell across the display, which collapsed instantly. Two more Chinese men jumped on the Stormer. Suddenly Kyle was running. He dropped his sign and burst through the crowd.
He punched a Chinese to the ground, then waded into a group of them, swinging hard. His fists crunched bone.
And there was only more, he knew, to come.
- Writer
