The Movement

Chapter Four - Part 2

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Troy sat in a cubicle at the library. He hunched his back, leaning forward with his chin resting on the center of his clenched fist resting on the desk. His desk was covered with dozens of papers spread over the surface. He was researching his Master’s Thesis Paper concerning the political hoopla of the growing movement, rightfully titled, “The Movement,” by both its supporters and its opposition.

Oblivious to nearly every sound and distraction while he studied silently to himself, Troy quickly jerked his head around upon the loud, shrieking noise of a screaming crowd from outside the window to his right.

“What was that?” announced Troy.

Flabbergasted, he stood up and leaned against the window to get a closer look. Squinting his eyes to avoid the blinding sunlit glare, he observed the chaotic scene just meters away from outside the library window.

Hundreds of stampeding people charged past the window, retreating from whatever it was that had scared or was chasing them. As they bolted past Troy’s limited vision, a few people dropped large rectangular signs stapled to thin wooden posts.

Protesters, realized Troy. The police must have broken up more of the rallies. When are those darn protesters going to learn? Those rallies don’t solve anything!

Troy sat back down in his seat, tuning out the screams from the retreating protesters outside the window. It was nothing new. People of all ages attended these rallies, including some of Troy’s classmates and professors. The protesters despised the ‘tyrannical rule of the government,’ as they often put it.

Troy didn’t attend the rallies. He had learned of the real dangers in attending them when riot police had murdered his father a decade earlier. They hadn’t changed much over the years, other than the growing number of protesters. But still, the rallies did not help fix any problems. In Troy’s mind, the rallies only exacerbated tensions between the government and citizens; instead, Troy avoided them completely, albeit reading about them in online articles and blogs, with an obvious bias toward the government and against the protesters. The recent ‘improvements’ to the Patriot Act completely restricted any speech or literacy forms that despised the government’s actions and policies.

Continuing his research, Troy browsed through the most recent news concerning the rallies, protesters, and government policies. The first website he encounters reads:

LARGE RALLIES IN CHICAGO SHUT DOWN DUE TO PROTESTERS’ VIOLENT ACTS.

Another reads:

THE RALLIES CONTINUE ITS DECREASE IN PROTESTERS AMID GOVERNMENT’S NEW POLICIES.

 Yet another:

END OF RALLIES MORE IMMINENT THAN EVER.

Troy knew that all of these headlines were completely fictitious. They were all written and edited by government officials to sway the growing numbers of protesters from attending the rallies. From what Troy had just witnessed outside his window minutes earlier, the government’s claims were completely false. Troy sighed a deep breath and relaxed, leaning back into seat, placing both hands on top of his head.

I need different sources, he thought to himself. All these online sources are apocryphal and meaningless to my research. I need true sources. Not biased sources that geared towards The Movement nor towards the government’s counter-movement policies.

Thinking hard, Troy pulled out his cellular phone and dialed Dr. Cole’s number, his academic advisor at Princeton. After three long rings, Dr. Cole picked up.

“Hello?” asked Dr. Cole.

“Dr. Cole, it’s Troy. Do you think we can meet up soon? I need to ask you some questions about my research,” he said in a hurry.

“Of course, Troy. Actually, I’m heading to my office right now. You can come up in about an hour. Does that work for you?” asked Dr. Cole.

“Yes, that’s perfect. I’ll see you then. Thank you, Dr. Cole,” he said.

“Anytime. See you soon,” replied Dr. Cole.

Relieved and excited, Troy hung up his phone with a grin of satisfaction.

Dr. Cole knows everybody. He’ll be able to get me the sources I need to write this thesis the right way, thought Troy.

Packing his stuff into his backpack, Troy hesitated. He looked outside the window again. Outside, just meters away and separated only by a thin sheet of glass, Troy saw the body of a middle-aged man being lifted into the back of a police car. He quickly looked away, pretending not to have witnessed the police forces’ clandestine cover-up, now a routine act by them.

One of the policemen, donning a full-fledged uniform, helmet and shield, saw Troy’s head jerk away through the window. Troy’s heart stopped cold; his Adam’s apple ascended and descended through his nervous throat. Without moving his head, he peered back outside through the corner of his eye. The policeman was talking to two other policemen, now obviously pointing at Troy.

Holy crap! What are they discussing? He saw me. He saw me. They’re going to come after me now. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot, panicked Troy.

Troy’s nerves began to tingle throughout his entire body. He froze. He felt weightless and weak, as if his most powerful mode of resistance was not enough to escape the hot pursuit of three murderous policemen. Troy ducked out from the policemen’s sight, below the window. His heart raced, drumming a quick, increasing beat.

BUMPBUMP. BUMPBUMP. BUMPBUMP.

Acting quickly, he ran to the elevators.

No, not the elevators! Running, stop running! screamed Troy’s conscience.

Correcting his course, he adjusted to a quick pace towards the stairs.

Come on, come on! he encouraged himself to think and act more quickly.

Once in the staircase, ran up the stairs. He didn’t know where he was running to; all he wanted was to be as far away from the pursuing policemen as possible.

Wait, had they pursued me? thought Troy.

He hadn’t actually seen them pursue him. He imagined it, or at least expected it. Whatever the case, he continued his retreat up the stairs as quickly as his legs allowed. Breathing heavily and hitting the final turn, Troy collapsed with exhaustion.

“Oh, God!” he exhaled heavily. “Oh God. Oh, God.”

He had raced up nearly twenty flights of stairs, running away from an imaginary police force hot on his tail.

Remembering his meeting with Dr. Cole, Troy garnered the energy to pull himself off the floor by grabbing the doorknob above his head with his sweaty hands. His body still tingled from the recent adrenaline rush of outrunning the policemen.

I hope they stopped. I hope they didn’t see me. Please, Lord. Please. he begged in silence.

He opened the door to the final floor of the library, one of the several floors of endless stacks of books. The only lighting was the sunbeam that shone through the slender windows. Looking down to the ground twenty stories below, he saw the policemen’s van pull away.

“Yes,” announced Troy out loud. “Thank God.”

Man, I’m such a coward. They hadn’t even chased after me, he thought to himself.

Ashamed but relieved, Troy headed towards the elevators with a sense of accomplishment, a new vanguard of energy flushing through his veins.