Join Date: Oct 2008
Windrush in Breakdown (A one shot special in light of recent events) by Wayne Clayton
Tonight the city is burning. Just who or what started the fire is a dim memory. Some say it was a shot fired from a policemans gun,others that it was the death of a would be ganster. But it doesn't matter now. Now the streets are ablaze. The sirens echo through the capitol and the sound of breaking glass is the background music to the riot.
In the Middle East they riot for freedom, an escape from poverty. A hope for justice. Here they loot for flatscreens, i-pods, sportshoes and big macs. As if they will ease all the woes of the world. Tonight they rule the roost, this is their moment to shine. Tonight there is no law.
Even before the sun had set the gangs had begun to gather. He had watched them from the safety of the roof. Shadowed them as they set off down the street. Watched as the metal bars flashed through the air, parting the plate glass windows before them. Once inside they wandered the isles like zombies on the late night double bill. He saw the look of surprise on their faces as he began to cut them down one by one. Amazed that anyone should even think to try and stop them on this of all days. The sound of bones breaking soon snapped them out of their trance. They made for the exits holding tight to their display case Blackberries and empty boxes with promised delights. None willing to fight the man dressed in black. Why should they? There was another store down the street without a would be hero to save the day.
As night fell of course the mob grew braver. The fires began and the crowds ducked and dived down back streets and alleyways as fire engines and police vans began to race from one hot spot to another. In the mists of it all Windrush too ran free. Leaping through the flames as they licked up the sides of the buildings. Bringing his justice to the fire starters where ever he found them. Their blood turning his skin to scarlet as one by one they fell. In the glow of the flames he could almost hear the cackle of foul laughter rise up from the waters of the dark river. That white faced devil rubbing his hands with glee. Hoping the swirling chaos around Windrush would push him over the edge and into his hands once again. But with each strike of his shields the bell like note kept his mind free of that deadly fog.
Windrush was sure that Old Father Thames would take credit for this night. And no doubt his smokey fingers were even now winding their way through the crowds picking out the chosen few who showed promise. The ones who used the mob as a smoke screen for their dark deeds.
In the ether text messages and tweets guided the mob and the rolling news crews reported fresh fires and tales of woe. Panic and fear mixed with utter rapture as the city cried out with one voice 'WHY WHY WHY!'
The night rolled on too and so did Windrush's fists. His hands almost numb as he landed his punches and yet they still did not seem to understand why he was standing against the tide of humanity which poured through the streets. Why one man should think himself better than they. At the start he had tried to warn them to stop this madness, see the errors of their ways but now he just kicked and punched his way through them at random. Not caring if they learned their lesson or not. Let them count their missing teeth in the morning. Let them count their broken ribs as they played with their new toys. Or rue the day when they woke up lying in the gutter or in the back of the police wagon crying out for law,justice and rights while still clutching the cracked i-pad complete with security tag.
The only question was when would it stop?