Collateral Damage Read online

  Means of Defense

  POW, POW, POW … POW, POW. I crouched down heart thumping, “what now” I thought. Had an engine or tire had blown? I looked down the road. The prisoners had overpowered the guards, taking their guns, and fought their way out. State police began to fire back. Most of the convicts stopped, others fled. More gunfire. I was angry, “enough of this!” I shouted hard from the back of my throat like at a football game. If I had driven today I would have had my gun with me. Armed desperate prisoners running amok in the mass confusion require desperate means of defense. The emergency people were quickly becoming over whelmed. People were running away panicked faces of fear and police flowing towards the gun fights. The gusts had not cleared out the smoke, I could barely see what was happening. Eight or nine the prisoners were lying face down, hands behind their heads with officers from several departments standing over them, guns drawn. Other offices on foot in pursuit of the ones that fled. I saw a prisoner turn and fire holding the gun sideways like they do in shows. “Stupid,” I said to myself as an EMT rush into the prisoner bus covered by an armed cop pointing toward the shooting prisoners. He fired a few rounds. A fireman hurried toward us waving his hands to get back and find cover. More shots and screams, people running past us shouting “They’re shooting! Get down! “Run!” I looked back the cab with Bonnie and relieved to see it gone. The cars in the opposite lanes were stopped by police.

  More shots further away now. “A running gun battle,” I said to no one is particular. The cop backed up closer to us his hand on his holster. Over his radio, “Officer down” he stared down the road toward the prisoners shooting. His fingered the trigger on his gun.

  I walked to him, “What’s going on?” I said from a distance of three feet.

  “Get back now!” he barked without looking at me.

  We heard the police bullhorn, bellowing commands to surrender and throw down you weapons. Come out with your hands up. This was answered with more gunfire.

  Quasimodo was sitting on the ground. I helped him and the little group moved back behind the bus. There was rapid gunfire not like a machine gun more like a string of firecrackers. The prisoners the ones that did not want to give, the worst of the worst, were making their last stand. Fighting for a principle that only they understood. To be heroes in the eyes of others who understood. Fighting the forces who were, in their minds, evil. They grew distrustful of those outside their circle. They had a code an honor system. To attack the weak and unsuspecting. To steal for gain and cause destruction. Laws mean nothing to them only the laws of the street. They own no affinity to the country nor love for its citizens. They have let go of their conscience and civilized morals. They treat women roughly and with disrespect. They made their living by poisoning people with drugs to capture their minds. To bring others into the fold. Today many of them will fight to the death their only chance of freedom. After about ten minutes the gun fire stopped.

  The group talked for a while speculating on causes and mortality rates and insurance, those kinds of things. The police had cordoned off the dead prisoners and we talked about them too. We were all sharing a thread of commonality though we did not know each other’s names nor anything else. We were standing in the middle of the turnpike having lived through a terrible accident. That bond will last has long as we stand in the middle of what is usually a busy highway. We are connected by carnage.

  After a fashion, desperation turned into methodical, as the worst had been rushed away. By seven thirty all victims were gone except the unwounded and the dead, those needing the least care for now. The tow trucks and roll backs pulling away mangled remains of twisted automobiles and trucks, those that were road worthy began to limp home. An irritated small trickle of traffic began moving through along the far shoulder. The police mingling about directing traffic and taking pictures and jotting things in notebooks. Newspaper reporters yapping in front of cameras and interviewing people. I wanted to talk but I didn’t fit the demographic they were looking for. They were in a race to present the juiciest story that would win them praise from the networks or journals.

  Our little group, having been interviewed by the police, began to endeavor to continue our travels. A RTD van took me the rest of the way to my truck at the park-n-ride in Denver. None of my bus mates were on board. Back at the park-n-ride, the lone truck in the lot was mine. Everyone else parked here this morning had ended the day as a matter of routine. They watched the news relived they had missed the wreck. Before driving off for home, I took a long pee in the dark parking lot, onlookers be damned.