“Let’s try to find the others,” Diane says. “I think they’re up at —”
Behind her comes what sounds like a bomb going off. Then the screaming starts.
“Shit!” Diane yells. We both scrabble into the back pockets of our jeans for our bandannas. “Damn pigs! Nobody’s even doing anything!”
This has happened at least a dozen times this week, but it’s always just as scary as it was the first night. And it always, always hurts.
I tie my bandanna around my nose and mouth and swivel my head from one end of the park to the other. A white cloud of tear gas wafts toward us from the north. We can already smell the thick chemical odor. That means the pain is only a few seconds away. Behind the cloud there’s a row of National Guardsmen wearing gas masks. They’re advancing toward us. Gas spews into the air in long streams.
A man near us picks up a gas canister that’s fallen to the ground and chucks it back toward the Guardsmen. Then a coughing fit overtakes him and he collapses to his knees.
Diane grabs my arm. We run together through the park, trying to outrace the white cloud, even though we both know that never works. Where there’s one cloud of gas, more will follow.
Around us people are shouting, running, clutching cloths to their faces. The gas creeps into my eyes, my nostrils, down my throat. My lungs twist in on themselves. My cheeks burn. Tears roll down my face, leaving streaks behind them that scald my skin.
This isn’t the same gas I’ve been breathing all week in Lincoln Park. This has to be stronger. Military-grade.
We run south, deeper into the park, but the gas only gets thicker. Diane is coughing so hard I don’t know if she can run much farther. I blink against the pain in my eyes and scan the park for a safe place to wait it out, but the Guardsmen keep moving, their faces invisible behind their gas masks as they get closer and closer to us.
Whenever there are too many of us in one place, even if all we’re doing is standing around, the pigs spray tear gas. They have their masks, but all we have are bandannas and handkerchiefs and Vaseline to spread on our cheeks, and even that barely makes a dent against the pain.
Diane stops running. She bends at her waist, coughing harder. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Her hand is pounding against her chest.
Oh, no. She’s panicking.
“Move!” I yell, grabbing her arm and pulling her forward so hard she has no choice but to follow. She stumbles at first, but then we’re running together, back toward what’s left of the line of marchers. I cough harder, resisting the urge to wipe my eyes. I learned the hard way that it only heightens the pain.
The whole park is covered in the white haze. Our only choice is to take one of the bridges across Michigan Avenue toward the hotels.
My cheeks are on fire. I shift my bandanna higher and grab Diane’s hand. She takes mine, still bent over, coughing, as I lead her to the closest bridge.
We’re almost there when I see the rifles. No, machine guns. There are rows and rows of National Guardsmen lined up in front of the bridge with machine guns.
I think again about my little brother, so eager to run off to war. Machine guns are for soldiers fighting in the jungle. Not cops in the park here at home.
They’ve got the bridge blocked off. I guess we’re supposed to stay here and breathe in the tear gas until we collapse.
“The Jackson bridge is open, man!” someone shouts behind us. The crowd surges north. I scan the crowd for Floyd and Tom, but if they’re here, I can’t see them.
We shuffle toward the bridge with the rest of the crowd, the gas still rolling over us in waves. Diane hasn’t let go of my hand. I squeeze hers without thinking.
It’s chaos as everyone charges across the bridge. The gas thins out as we get away from the heart of the park, but it’s still in the air, coating our skin, burning our throats. Diane’s eyes are red and puffy. Her face is streaked with tears. I want to help her, to wipe her face clean and hold her until she feels better, but there are too many people around, and besides, we’ve got to keep moving.
It’s getting dark as we approach the end of the bridge. Ahead of us, Michigan Avenue is full of people. The mood is different here than it was in the park. Protesters are milling around, talking. I even see a few smiles. There are cops in the crowd and the lingering memory of gas in the air, but the police on this side of the bridge aren’t wearing masks. Maybe they’re used to the smell.