Smile for the Camera: ch. 2 - Keep Rolling, No Matter What
Information disseminates through a crowd in complicated ways, and it is often unpredictable to determine what will be latched on to by a mob, except for one thing: when the police arrive, everyone knows it.
Further shouts of “Police!” spread throughout the crowd like a wildfire, and everyone pointed east at a line of riot police and Special Duties Unit officers five hundred feet down the road from the roundabout. They carried batons and riot shields, and likely pistols, shotguns, and rifles too. The helicopter had returned, ten stories above, and watched them like a bird.
Nick lifted the camera high above his head and let it gawk at the wall of law enforcement clad from head to toe in black.
On the march to the LegCo building, police had followed the protesters, and had random roads blocked off with cars, yellow tape, and orange traffic cones, but for most of it, the protesters were left unsupervised and unmolested, a rare feat. The question on every person’s mind had been why, but they knew they would never get any answers. Nick wondered if it was to get them here in a single spot so they could arrest them easier.
“Traitors!” someone shouted.
The police line advanced. Why did people like to tempt fate so brazenly?
The protesters closed ranks and stood their ground. A handful of newbies left in a hurry. The old-timers watched them go. Curtain went to the edge of the pavement to get a better look.
No, we need to get away! Nick thought, yet he followed anyway.
The faceless line of police stopped three hundred feet away. The protesters began to chant again.
A captain emerged from behind the riot shields with a megaphone. “A curfew has been set for 5 p.m. Disperse now and return home. The curfew is set for 5 p.m. Disperse now and return home before the curfew is in effect.”
Panic radiated off Nick. They only had twenty minutes to get home! That wasn’t enough time! They needed to leave now! Why didn’t he insist they leave sooner? Stupid, stupid Curtain, can’t listen to others!
“Let’s go!” he hissed.
“Keep rolling.”
“We need to go!”
“We’re staying!”
Seeing the protesters were non-compliant, the captain spoke to the man next to him, pointed at two areas in the crowd, and the line of riot police and SDU advanced. With each step the police took, the volume of the chanting increased. Nick watched a few more newbies exit the crowd and wished he could go with them. But were the police really letting people go home, or was that a trap?
“I’m leaving,” Nick said, but he didn’t move.
“We’re press; they won’t touch us. You better still be rolling.”
“We’re not real press, we’re students!”
“Stop being a coward!”
That’s how you stay alive.
The protesters closed ranks further, putting Nick, Curtain, and a few other brave demonstrators at the front of the crowd. They stood upright and confident; Nick couldn’t hunch down any further. He could feel the police staring right at him, licking their lips and gripping their batons, eager to beat him to a pulp, then throw a pair of handcuffs on him and drag him to prison. Unable to take it any longer, he grabbed Curtain’s arm and pulled him into the safety of the crowd. Curses were flung at him.
“If we burn, you burn with us,” sang the crowd.
At one hundred feet, the police line stopped and the captain spoke over the megaphone again. “Disperse now or face the consequences. This is your final warning.”
The chanting subsided but the protesters stayed. They stood at the roundabout and with their backs pressed against a wall painted blue with white silhouettes of people, skyscrapers, and green trees.
At the captain’s command, tear gas cannisters thumped out of launchers, flew in graceful arcs, tails of smoke following, and landed in the crowd, bouncing one-twice-thrice before popping.
Screams erupted and panic moved feet. The camera was jostled and the recording became blurry, but that didn’t matter to Nick at the moment.
The protesters split: half went north and half took Tim Mei Avenue to Harcourt Road. Coughing, eyes stinging, Nick and Curtain stuck close to one another and followed a stream of people south up the avenue. The camera glimpsed a brave few lighting fireworks but missed them going off and hitting the molded plastic shields in a shower of colorful lights. Nick saw, his mouth hanging open.
Their portion of the crowd of protesters crossed under an elevated walkway that followed the road, and they half-walked, half-jogged past people hiding amongst the few trees and bushes on the side of the Citic Tower skyscraper hoping to avoid capture and a parking garage dozens of people dipped into while others pounded on the locked grey doors of the Hong Kong Electric Tamar Substation before moving on. Protesters rushed by a security checkpoint on the right leading to the underground parking garage of the LegCo building where twenty Hong Kong Garrison soldiers waited for somebody to jump the barrier; nobody did because the soldiers had their rifles pointed at them, causing more screams to escape the throats of those closest. The journalists jogged on. Why couldn’t people run faster?
We’re so stupid! I’m stupid for listening to you! We’re in way over their heads!
At the end of the avenue, the bottleneck army of protesters was uncorked, and they spilled onto Harcourt Road and Connaught Road Central whereupon they were assimilated into an even bigger legion.
Now they were safe, they were all safe, the police couldn’t arrest them all! The helicopter hovered above them.
Nick’s instincts as a cameraman (which were the wrong instincts) kicked in and he pointed the camera at Curtain instead of running away.
“HKPD are scaring peaceful protesters with tear gas to break—”
“They’re getting closer!” people shouted.
From the avenue, and east and west down Harcourt and Connaught there were more police, and they were advancing. The legion oscillated.
We’re trapped! We’re going to prison! I hate you! I hate you! Why did you drag me out here! Why did I listen!
Tear gas canisters fell out of the sky, bounced, and popped, showering sparks. One canister hit a man in the head, and he didn’t get back up. Shrieking and wailing filled the air alongside the metallic smell of spices that burned Nick’s eyes, nose, and throat. Someone pushed past him and dropped a traffic cone over one canister while another poured water along the base and into the top to suffocate the gas.
More canisters peppered the street. Nick followed one with the camera, and he realized there were police on the walkway above them. Throwing a hand over his mouth and pinching his nose, Nick retreated with the rest of the demonstrators while the ones to the west did the same until they were just pushing against each other and going nowhere.
And still more canisters rained down to suppress them. Athletes bent, palmed them, cocked their arms back, and threw the canisters back at the police, all in one smooth motion while others dropped more traffic cones or threw blankets over them. But their best efforts weren’t enough to stop the gas from spreading. People screamed until they realized they were wasting precious air and thankfully shut up so Nick could hear himself panic.
“We need to get out!” a man shouted.
The police ran toward them. Dozens of brave souls stood their ground and threw rocks, cricket balls, fired paintball guns, fired air guns, and set off more fireworks. People shoved Nick and Curtain aside; they angrily held their cricket bats aloft, clearly wanting nothing more than a fight. Untold numbers of masked men ran to meet the line of police.
The screaming picked up again. The camera and lapel microphones were maxed out, yet they still managed to catch the single shot that rang out.