Smile for the Camera: ch. 4 - A Descent into Madness
A single shot rang out.
Thousands of people crouched with their hands held above their heads. They crouched like a line of dominoes; even the ones who hadn’t heard the gunshot crouched because the person next to them did. The endless screaming—which had never really stopped since the police first showed up—continued.
Nick’s heart jumped into his throat. He cautiously looked around with everyone else to try to see where the shot had come from. He forgot about the camera.
Then selective automatic rifle fire muted the screams. The mass of protesters pressed against each other, unknowingly trying to push the other side closer to the police lines.
“Film this! Not me, them!” Curtain shouted, pushing the camera out of his face. “Gunshots! Shots fired!” he yelled into the microphone. “The police have opened fire on innocent civilians!”
Nick’s mind shut off as his instincts once again took over. The rest of the world didn’t exist except for what he saw through the lens: flame spitting out of rifles, riot shields sprinting their way, the petrified faces of young men and women his age, the determination on others’ faces, and the look of glee on Curtain’s face, like this was everything he ever hoped for, like this would win him an award.
“Stay on the police!”
Nick ignored the order and ran like hell, yet somehow Curtain managed to get in front of him. The camera shook, but, as an instinctual extension of Nick’s eyes, captured what he saw clearly.
Something hit Curtain in the shoulder with enough force that he spun and fell onto the asphalt, face up, surprised. Cameraman and camera gawked as the milliseconds stretched to infinity. The reporter’s body didn’t move; his eyes saw nothing; blood blossomed between the two white S letters of PRESS. Nick’s heart dropped to his feet, but then time rubberbanded and he was swept away.
The sea of protesters pushed him forward. The footage was a blur. Shoulders knocked him about, elbows attacked him, and errant fingers nearly poked his eyes out as hands shoved him this way and that way. His mind rocked back and forth like he was on a boat out at sea in a storm; he was sick to his stomach. All he could do was to stay on his own two feet as the mob carried him over a concrete barricade and down another street.
Tear gas saturated the air between them. Nick nearly tripped over an older man on all fours, searching for his lost sandal. Their fearful eyes met; they broke away. He clutched the Canon with both hands; the only thing that felt real to him.
Forward was the only way the masses could think of going with the riot police running after them, so they went forward past the Admiralty Centre and metro station. They trampled over police that had been stationed here, a dozen unconscious or dead bodies that couldn’t stop the tidal wave that descended on them. Some broke off to go down into the metro or into the shopping center.
The street opened and hundreds of people spilled out onto Queensway and fanned out across the six-laned, double-tram-lined road.
Out of the gas, Nick joined the chorus of people coughing up their lungs. Hands on his knees, he expected blood to spew out of his mouth. I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home—he’s dead! Tears streamed down his cheeks from the gas.
Able to breathe again, he ran across the street to the One Pacific Place building, home to the Admiralty Station shopping mall. More protesters poured onto Queensway from other intersections, and the two bands reformed into one single, large, shrieking mass once again.
The helicopter hovered six stories above them. Its rotors sent powerful gusts of wind beating down upon them and forced Nick to hunch over. Umbrellas flew out of people’s hands, and masks, hats, and helmets were carried off. The windstorm deafened thought.
“Surrender your weapons and lie down on the ground. All rioters will be arrested. Surrender your weapons and lie down on the ground. All rioters will be arrested. You are being recorded. We have your faces. We will find you. Surrender your weapons and lie down on the ground. You will be arrested.”
Nick almost fainted. They knew who he was. He was going to die in prison.
(A part of him wanted nothing more than to crush the machine in his fist until the pilot’s blood squeezed through his fingers.)
Hounding the straggling protesters were the riot police and SDU officers, and, worse still, six hundred feet away to the east, another line of police officers was approaching, and probably from the west as well.
I’m going to die in prison!
He zoomed in despite himself and watched the police run towards them. Then a man knocked into him, and that brought Nick to his senses. He abandoned his filming and ran east, following a group of about a hundred people.
He was keenly aware he was running towards the police who were running towards him, but over three times as many protesters ran with him, and the daredevils held their weapons high.
The group stuck to the herringbone pavement and headed for an offramp. A guy in a yellow bandana led them. Nick’s backpack bounced with each step and made running awkward. The offramp brought them past a Starbucks. The employees stared out the windows at them, their phones out, recording. Get away from the windows! Hide! A few people dipped inside.
Hiking up the ramp, Nick and the rest found themselves at the bottom of a steep hill and in the shadow of the skyscraper. At the top of the hill, the dying light painted the jungle orange.
Nick thought he was having a nightmare. Not only had his worst fear come true, but now he was endlessly running up a hill, making no progress, as the road before him stretched up to the sky and everything in his peripheral repeated. But he had to keep running, he had to escape and get as far away from the LegCo building and the police and the helicopter as he could. But he couldn’t do it, his backpack was too heavy, his legs were tired, and his lungs were on fire.
Then the illusion ended halfway up the hill when a few dozen people came from the Admiralty Station mall and joined the group.
“Where does this road go?”
“It dead-ends!”
“Not if we go right!”
“Yeah, we can cut through the park!”
Nick barely made out what was being said around him. They spoke in hushed tones, huffing and puffing, one conversation amidst many. A young girl of about seventeen whispered into her phone. At least no one was screaming.
“There are people up there.”
Whoever said it was right. Over fifty people protested in front of the British Consulate while the employees watched from the windows on the second floor. The Consulate’s waterfall display was shut off.
“Condemn China’s invasion!” the demonstrators yelled.
The ones on the outside ring glanced at Nick’s group as they approached, eyebrows furrowed, no doubt wondering why this scared, ragtag bunch was out of breath.
“You’ve got to leave!” someone cried. “The police are down the hill!”
“They’re shooting people!” yelled another.
Again, the people at the edge of the crowd glanced at them, this time uneasy, but they weren’t sure if they believed it, so each elbowed their neighbor to get his thoughts on the matter—should they be scared or not?
Nick wanted to scream and tell them to run like hell, and he wanted to run like hell, and he didn’t know why he was lingering and recording still. He got his answer a second later.
From where he stood on the sidewalk, looking back to the Conrad Hotel, he saw what everyone else missed. The camera saw it too. At first, he thought he heard a siren, then, before his eyes processed what was happening, a checkered yellow and blue police car with its blues and reds flashing drove into the demonstrators.
Nick jumped two feet backwards and squealed.
The tires screeched and two officers jumped out of the car. “Get down on the ground!” Their pistols swept the crowd looking for anyone who hinted at disobeying their orders. The injured protesters moaned in pain or lay unconscious.
“Call in for backup!” said the driver, and his partner fumbled with his radio.
Fear plainly drenched both officers’ faces. How would they contain this many people by themselves before backup came? But they didn’t need to worry, because the protesters didn’t comply—two dozen men tackled the officers to the ground. Three gunshots went off. Before the second shot went off, the crowd scattered except for Nick, and he was left filming the tackle.
The protesters ran in three directions: up the hill, down the hill (not knowing what awaited them at the bottom), and towards the park. A few banged on the glass doors of the Conrad Hotel and yelled to be let inside, but when the employees refused to open the doors, they went elsewhere. Some tried the Consulate, but those doors wouldn’t open for anyone, even a woman claiming to be a British passport holder who had left hers at home.
An old man jumped into the police car and the tires squealed as he pulled away, speeding down the hill.
“Asshole! Get back here! We could have used their guns!” yelled the guy in the yellow bandana.
Now was the time to escape, except Nick couldn’t leave; he had to film this, didn’t he? No, you don’t!
He ignored his subconscious and let the camera record the aftermath. The men who tackled the officers were getting up and backing away: both were dead; one man kicked one of the corpses in the ribs.
Curtain’s shocked face flashed through Nick’s mind, and he finally turned tail and ran alone to the park.
He just wanted to get back to his Swire Hall dorm room on campus and never leave. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was there. They couldn’t hurt him there. Why did this have to happen to him, why now, why couldn’t it have all taken place after he’d graduated, when he was traveling the world, when he wasn’t in Hong Kong?