Partridge says. “I need to see her.”
“I think that might be a bad idea.”
Partridge pulls his tie through his collar. He balls it up and shoves it in the pocket of his suit jacket. “If I want your opinions, I’ll ask for them.”
They pass by Smokey’s Restaurant. Some people must have gathered there to eat brunch and watch the broadcast together. Someone spots Partridge through the window and shouts, “There he is! He’s right there!”
Partridge doesn’t like the hostile tone. He and the guards keep a fast pace, but people pour out of Smokey’s double doors and start to follow him.
“Why are they coming after me? What do they expect to happen now?”
“You’re the one who called them sheep,” Beckley says.
One of the younger guards says, “I’m requesting backup.” He pulls out his two-way radio and gives the name of the upcoming cross street.
“Backup? We’re fine,” Partridge says, trying to laugh. “It’s just some people who had brunch.”
The small crowd has gotten the attention of others stepping out of shops: a tearoom, a gym, a bank. One teller stands behind a caged window, staring at Partridge. Most of them are silent, as if they’re waiting for another speech. But a few call his name.
“Just keep walking,” Beckley says calmly.
“Really? Just ignore them?” Partridge says.
“Yes,” Beckley says firmly.
Partridge stops. He thinks about doing nothing, but that just doesn’t feel like a real option. He turns around quickly and raises his hands in the air.
The crowd stops too. Some turn and walk away, but most just freeze. “I’m not sure what you want, but I gave my speech. I’m not giving any more today.”
They turn and stare at each other as if each one is hoping someone else will talk first.
Finally, a young mother holding a baby says, “Partridge, what should we do?”
“About what? The truth?” Partridge says. “You can try to accept it.”
A man in a dark gray suit says, “Say it’s not true!”
“Let’s keep moving,” Beckley says in a low voice.
Partridge looks at the man in the gray suit. “What I said is the truth. And I’m not taking it back. In fact, I’m going to lead us into the future with that truth.”
“But we’re Pure,” an older woman says, clutching a crocheted pocketbook to her chest. “That’s the truth. We are Pure . We deserve what we have.”
The woman with the baby says, “God loves us. That’s why we’re here.”
“Yes,” Partridge says, “but…”
Another man steps forward. He has a thick belly and broad jowls. He’s wearing a dark suit with a button of Willux’s face on it, as if Partridge’s father were running for some kind of reelection. “You called your father a murderer, you little punk.” He spits at Partridge, a white splotch landing at Partridge’s shoes, and the crowd suddenly looks like it could turn on him.
The guards move swiftly. One pops the man in his thick gut with the butt of his rifle. He falls to the ground on all fours, huffing.
“Stop!” Partridge says.
“Let them do their job,” Beckley says.
The other guard cracks his gun over the man’s back. Partridge realizes that the guards are likely coded to do this to any aggressor.
Most of the people turn and walk away quickly, back into storefronts, down alleyways. But some stand their ground.
The man on the ground, now on his side, looks up at Partridge defiantly. His lip is cut; he starts to cough, flecking the ground with blood.
One of the guards pulls the man’s arms behind his back and cuffs him with plastic ties that cinch tight. Two guards yank the man to his feet. His teeth are smeared red.
Beckley pulls out his gun, two handed, steady, and levels it at those who remain. “We’re asking you all to disperse. Please do so now.”
The rest spin off.
“Let’s go,” Beckley says.
Partridge shakes his head. He can’t believe what’s just happened. “I don’t want people to shut up like that,” he says.
“I think that might be a bad idea.”
Partridge pulls his tie through his collar. He balls it up and shoves it in the pocket of his suit jacket. “If I want your opinions, I’ll ask for them.”
They pass by Smokey’s Restaurant. Some people must have gathered there to eat brunch and watch the broadcast together. Someone spots Partridge through the window and shouts, “There he is! He’s right there!”
Partridge doesn’t like the hostile tone. He and the guards keep a fast pace, but people pour out of Smokey’s double doors and start to follow him.
“Why are they coming after me? What do they expect to happen now?”
“You’re the one who called them sheep,” Beckley says.
One of the younger guards says, “I’m requesting backup.” He pulls out his two-way radio and gives the name of the upcoming cross street.
“Backup? We’re fine,” Partridge says, trying to laugh. “It’s just some people who had brunch.”
The small crowd has gotten the attention of others stepping out of shops: a tearoom, a gym, a bank. One teller stands behind a caged window, staring at Partridge. Most of them are silent, as if they’re waiting for another speech. But a few call his name.
“Just keep walking,” Beckley says calmly.
“Really? Just ignore them?” Partridge says.
“Yes,” Beckley says firmly.
Partridge stops. He thinks about doing nothing, but that just doesn’t feel like a real option. He turns around quickly and raises his hands in the air.
The crowd stops too. Some turn and walk away, but most just freeze. “I’m not sure what you want, but I gave my speech. I’m not giving any more today.”
They turn and stare at each other as if each one is hoping someone else will talk first.
Finally, a young mother holding a baby says, “Partridge, what should we do?”
“About what? The truth?” Partridge says. “You can try to accept it.”
A man in a dark gray suit says, “Say it’s not true!”
“Let’s keep moving,” Beckley says in a low voice.
Partridge looks at the man in the gray suit. “What I said is the truth. And I’m not taking it back. In fact, I’m going to lead us into the future with that truth.”
“But we’re Pure,” an older woman says, clutching a crocheted pocketbook to her chest. “That’s the truth. We are Pure . We deserve what we have.”
The woman with the baby says, “God loves us. That’s why we’re here.”
“Yes,” Partridge says, “but…”
Another man steps forward. He has a thick belly and broad jowls. He’s wearing a dark suit with a button of Willux’s face on it, as if Partridge’s father were running for some kind of reelection. “You called your father a murderer, you little punk.” He spits at Partridge, a white splotch landing at Partridge’s shoes, and the crowd suddenly looks like it could turn on him.
The guards move swiftly. One pops the man in his thick gut with the butt of his rifle. He falls to the ground on all fours, huffing.
“Stop!” Partridge says.
“Let them do their job,” Beckley says.
The other guard cracks his gun over the man’s back. Partridge realizes that the guards are likely coded to do this to any aggressor.
Most of the people turn and walk away quickly, back into storefronts, down alleyways. But some stand their ground.
The man on the ground, now on his side, looks up at Partridge defiantly. His lip is cut; he starts to cough, flecking the ground with blood.
One of the guards pulls the man’s arms behind his back and cuffs him with plastic ties that cinch tight. Two guards yank the man to his feet. His teeth are smeared red.
Beckley pulls out his gun, two handed, steady, and levels it at those who remain. “We’re asking you all to disperse. Please do so now.”
The rest spin off.
“Let’s go,” Beckley says.
Partridge shakes his head. He can’t believe what’s just happened. “I don’t want people to shut up like that,” he says.
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