Not the usual riot.

They gathered, at last

“Oh, Christ,” Turner said. “Another fucking riot.”

“Again?” Bass responded.

“Idiots everywhere,” Turner said. “Damn it all to hell…”

Bass pulled himself upright, sloshing his precious Macallan. “Hand me my Bible. I’ll waive it at them. Works every time.”

Turner pulled himself upright and reached for the Bible across from his seat. The President always kept one handy, just for instances like this. He’d never seen him read it, just wave it around and mutter a few passages.

The President never read the passages correctly, but no one seemed to notice. Or care.

Beyond the windshield was a street full of people. Funny, Turner thought. They didn’t look angry. They weren’t waving signs. There was no chanting or raising clenched fists in the air to demonstrate power.  Where was the rage? Where were the hotheads? The anarchists? The socialists? The communists?

Where was the threat to the American Way of Life?

Why were the all wearing red shirts?

Turner looked out the passenger window and saw the President’s entourage was prepared for violence. The motorcade was trailed by what Turner jokingly referred to as “The Pilot Fish defending the Beast.” These were the fish that depended on the President to continue feeding the military and security budgets to keep them alive as they defended the President—and the system—from parasites like this.

The people were the parasites.

He could see the squad cars. The decoy Limos. The State Troopers on motorcycles. Secret Service in various non-descriptive and obviously government owned black sedans. Hazmat vehicles, the White House Comms vehicle, followed by body guards dressed like Marines.

Hundreds of tiny drones and counter drones flew above the Beast and on all sides of the convoy, equipped with sensors and sights to make sure the Motorcade was never taken by surprise.

Funny again, Turner thought, those drones aren’t flying in the correct formation. Hasn’t anyone noticed?

Among the decoys was the Army Colonel with the Football—the briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes—should the worst happen.

Turner prayed the worst would never happen. But he didn’t believe in God, so he often wondered to whom it was he prayed.

He looked past the motorcade into the crowd, looking for a sign. A flag. Anything. Give me a clue, he thought. What lies do I have to tell you idiots in order to get you to disperse peacefully?

He saw people of all races, creeds and nationalities. A huge crowd. A sea of people. Thousands, hundreds of thousands? He couldn’t tell. Young, old, male, female. Every color, every race. But what did they want? What was their message?

Turner looked. The crowds and the anticipation of a riot increased the tension inside the Beast. He turned his head to hand Bass the Bible, and he finally saw what he’d been looking for.

Outside, in the distance, a young woman, beautiful, even from this far, waving a sign. Long blonde hair, a shirt cut at the waist showing an hourglass figure with breasts that caused the shirt to hike even higher. Turner squinted. The sign read: “NANITES UNITE.”

What the fuck does that mean, he thought, suppressing a chuckle.

Turner was about to find out.

More later.