"2025": The Insurrection Act

Deploying the Military on American Soil

In the United States, federal law ensures that U.S. military forces are not to be used as part of domestic law enforcement.

But an old law—the Insurrection Act of 1807—allows the President of the United States to remove that bar and order National Guard or active-duty military to quell unrest, “domestic violence” or “conspiracy” that he deems a domestic rebellion or insurrection. The Act’s language is so open-ended (“bafflingly broad,” according to the Brennan Center), it gives the President “almost limitless discretion” to determine what meets the Act’s standards. And an old Supreme Court decision ruled that it is “exclusively” the President’s decision to make. No surprise, experts call for the Insurrection Act to be reformed.

Here’s the problem: it is well documented that in his first term, Donald Trump pressed to invoke the Insurrection Act in wake of the Black Lives Matters protests in June 2020. That’s when he infamously asked military leaders: “Can’t you just shoot them?…Just shoot them in the legs or something?” He even had an order drafted to that effect.

Even worse, it is equally well documented that Trump associates are “drafting plans to potentially invoke the Insurrection Act on his first day in office to allow him to deploy the military against civil demonstrations.” On the campaign trail, Trump himself suggests he would “unilaterally send troops into Democratic-run cities.”

2025, “Chapter 9” imagines what would happen if and when a second-term President Trump fulfills his and his allies’ desire to use the US military to crack down on protests in American cities:

Introduction and Chapter 1: Protester Deportations

Chapter 2: Banning Abortion and IVF

Chapter 3: Gutting Civil Service (Schedule F)

Chapter 4: No Vaccines in Schools

Chapter 5: “Revenge” and a Weaponized DOJ

Chapter 6: Mass Deportation

Chapter 7: Brutal Attacks on Workers and Unions

Chapter 8: The Attack on Public Education

Onto Chapter 9…

September 

Capitol Monthly

“Troy Marquis”

By Calvin Stegman

PHILADELPHIA

“Rise and shine, greenhorns! We have a situation. Form up in the courtyard in 15 minutes.”

Private Troy Marquis awoke, startled. He squinted to see the shadow of an immense man towering in the doorway of his closet-sized room. Only Staff Sergeant Sean Minken, his squad leader, was that huge. Plus, Minken loved to call them greenhorns.

Troy looked at his watch. 4:20 am. The earliest he’d been woken up since basic training.

Still half asleep, he had no idea what was going on.  But one thing was clear: this wasn’t a drill.

Troy leapt out of bed and entered the barracks hallway behind his new roommate. Sergeant Minken pounded on more doors, bellowing the same words still ringing in Troy’s ears. Seconds after each knock, bleary-eyed soldiers stepped into the hallway, looking as confused as he felt.

Troy sidled up to his closest friend, Sal Miller, standing in the next doorway over.

“Fucking Minken is such a drama queen,” Sal muttered. “Loves to make us miserable.”

“Every day,” Troy said back.

Minutes later, Troy and Sal lined up in the reserve base’s courtyard with the two squads Sergeant Minken led. Still dark, a stiff breeze blowing in their face, it was the coldest morning since they’d arrived from their permanent base in Central Jersey two weeks before. Most of the 18 men and women shook as they awaited the next verbal barrage.

With a flood light shining down on his large, bald head, Sergeant Minken paced in front. The fierce look in his wide-set, hooded eyes confirmed that this was not a drill.

“Three hours ago, 1,200 fresh members of Antifa invaded the center of Philadelphia. Businesses are being looted and destroyed. They’ve broken into and occupied City Hall. Just an hour ago, the President invoked the Insurrection Act to put down this attack. D Company has been called up to lead the response.”

He was shouting as if they were heading into combat. But given that he was talking about Troy’s hometown and not an Afghan village, the words didn’t seem real.

“This will be a long and unpredictable few days, gentlemen. Grab some chow, take a shit and shower if you need to, then get in your urban tactical gear and gather back with the entire company in the classroom at 0500 hours.”

As Troy wolfed down the cold ham and egg burrito from the MRE packet, adrenaline pulsed through his body. The barracks echoed with chatter, mostly about “fucking Antifa.” But Troy’s surge of energy came from within.

It was happening.

All year, they’d been told the president might order them to protect the nation from enemies, foreign and domestic. And echoing the president’s own words, intel officers had briefed them that these domestic enemies included groups just like the one invading Philadelphia today. “Antifa.” “Anarchists.” “Communists.” “Socialists.” They’d spent hours studying these groups—their ideology, propaganda, membership and tactics.

But more than talking about them—they’d trained for them. They’d studied videos of the large protests on Inauguration Day, or after the abortion ban protests, or mass deportation riots, where the president had also invoked the Insurrection Act. They'd reviewed footage of Black Lives Matter protests from a few years back. They’d analyzed what troops had done correctly, and how they’d fucked up, allowing protests to drag out over days as opposed to being squashed within hours. They’d conducted tabletop exercises, followed by live drills.

“The president wants these groups to learn a hard and painful lesson,” Staff Sergeant Minken and other officers emphasized during every drill. “And you all will likely end up being their teachers.”

But despite all that preparation, Troy’s stomach quivered.

Tough talk and training were one thing. Reality—real Americans, real rounds in a real American city—was another.

As Troy donned his gray, green and white camouflage uniform, Sal walked over to him.

“I always thought Sergeant Minken was hyping things so we’d train harder. But these Antifa assholes are actually invading a great American city, spreading their bullshit as they go. They are asking for it.”

Troy nodded.

It definitely seemed like bullshit.

Sure, there’d been flareups and protests all year, but nothing like the coverage he’d watched of Philadelphia the past few weeks. It all started when Antifa leaders claimed that a cop had gunned down two Black students outside their college dorm. But the Attorney General had quickly exposed that as blatant disinformation. Briefings and the news coverage aired at the base made it even more clear.

The two students weren’t students at all, but armed crooks caught in the act. Part of a wave of violence that had gripped Philadelphia since a leftist DA stopped prosecuting criminals. And while the viral cell-phone videos of the alleged shooting looked bad, TV and radio commentators dismissed it all as AI-generated deep fakes. Not real. 

“It especially burns me that they’re doing this to my hometown,” Troy said.

For now, at least, the violence was confined to Center City, miles from where his childhood friends and family lived. But what if it expanded beyond that? Either way, the global coverage was making the entire town look terrible.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” Sergeant Minken barked. “Full briefing starts in three minutes.”

Troy cinched his boots tight, then took one final look in the mirror. He smoothed out the part in his jet black hair, and flattened his uniform against his chest.  From his earliest years, he’d been schooled that wearing your uniform the right way mattered—one of many lessons he was taught in a family proud of its military service. In Desert Storm, Dad had served in one of the tank units that raced across southern Iraq to trap Saddam’s army. Troy’s grandfather had served two tours in Vietnam, lucky to survive a bullet to the neck. And his great-grandfather had ridden in a tank in Patton’s army.

So when Troy graduated high school two years ago, he too enlisted. And from basic training to this recent deployment, he’d eaten it all up—especially the camaraderie with his fellow soldiers. From across the country, his Company D buddies varied in every way imaginable, including their politics. But they were united by pride in their unit and patriotism for their country. And when they weren’t training their asses off, they found time for fun.

Only one platoon member gave Troy the creeps. His name was David Driar. From a small town in Maine, he mostly kept to himself—eerily quiet, with a lost look in his eyes. A tattoo on his right shoulder displayed the words “The Turner Diaries” in cursive. Troy googled the term to discover a violent book about an armed race war. Freaky shit. Still, out of several hundred men and women, you’d expect a few bad apples. As far as Troy could tell, they only had one.

At 0500, all four platoons of D Company took seats in the large meeting space they called “the classroom.” Captain Chuck Hilliard walked to the front of the room. He was the same height as Minken, but lean and wiry.

“The president is livid that we have lost control of a major American city. As your squad leaders informed you, he has invoked the Insurrection Act and assigned us to liberate Philadelphia City Hall and any surrounding buildings and property that Antifa has occupied.”

Captain Hilliard quickly disabused the troops that this was a straightforward mission.

“The latest intelligence is that a number of the terrorists are armed with molotov cocktails, small arms, and AR-15s. And our intel unit picked up chatter that roads leading to City Hall may be lined with make-shift explosive devices.”

He reviewed the routes in and out of the city, the other companies participating, and the rules of engagement.

“As dire as the threat is, this is an American city, and these are American citizens. Media will likely gain access to the occupied zone, Antifa will be filming and tweeting our every move, and civilians may also be in the area. So, our goal is to take control of the zone with a minimum of violence. If it comes to it, only fire if fired upon…and only at my or a sergeant’s command.”

Captain Hillard was a square-jawed, by-the-book West Point Grad and a multiple-tour veteran of Afghanistan—one of the last to come home. The kind of soldier Troy aspired to be. Still, he’d never appeared so tightly wound as this morning. Action in an American city was new, even for him.

“Ok, gentleman. Assemble in formation and load up. Each Humvee already has riot shields and 5.56 ammo in back.”

Backpack slung over his shoulder, helmet in his right hand, Troy headed to the equipment room. He slipped 30 pounds of kevlar into the front and back of his uniform, then grabbed a protective gas mask, concertina wire and a heavy baton. In the armory, he picked up an M4.

The squad crossed the base to the motor pool, where Sal and Troy were assigned to the same Humvee.  They and two others piled their gear into the Humvee, put their helmets on, and loaded in. Sal rode in the gunner’s turret, while Troy sat in the passenger’s seat, his backpack at his feet.  Their driver was a short kid from upstate New York named Mitch Kahn.

“I never thought I’d have to go to war on American soil,” Kahn said as they rumbled out of the pool to join a long line of Humvees.

Sal shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what soil it is. If the threat’s aimed at American freedom, it’s the same mission as always.”

“Sure is,” Kahn said, his voice halting as he said it.

Minutes later, they raced down the highway’s left lane, behind a long line of variously outfitted Humvees, supply trucks and an occasional Bradley Fighting Vehicle.

Troy looked to his right to take in the surreal scene of civilians heading into town in the highway’s slower lanes. Outside of the gawking stares aimed their way, it looked like a typical commute. Everyday men and women dressed in suits and uniforms and casual clothes, steering their sedans and SUVs and pick-ups alongside a convoy of military vehicles armed to the hilt.

While they got a few waves and thumbs up, the commuters largely spat venom their way. Middle fingers, thumbs down, and snarls of disgust. It reminded him of grandpa’s stories of returning from Vietnam only to be looked down upon back home.

“Fuck those people,” Sal said. “What’s happening to our country when there’s no respect for those who keep the order?”

“Forget about it,” Troy said, forcing a smile. “This is how we treat all visitors around here. Why do you think they used to have a jail at the old Eagles stadium?”

“Fair enough,” Sal said, laughing.

The convoy took the Broad Street exit off of the Vine Street Expressway. 

“We’re getting close,” Kahn said.

Getting close.

The words nagged at him.

He knew how close they were. Yet there’d been no signs of a major disturbance as they’d approached the city. No smoke amid the skyline. No one around but the usual commuters, who seemed perfectly at ease about the state of things in town. And the only traffic was of their own making. 

The first sign of Antifa activity only came when the convoy slowed to a crawl near the end of the exit.

But even that felt harmless.

A chant.

It was loud—loud enough to break through over the idling engine of the Humvee. But whatever they were saying was so muffled, Troy couldn’t make out the words.

The Humvees in front of them moved further forward. Kahn eased behind them, now facing right down Broad Street.

“There they are,” Sal said as he stood up in the turret.

“Stay focused,” he yelled down.

Troy leaned forward.

A sea of people and tents appeared down Broad, with the grand tower and facade of City Hall looming behind.

“What a miserable looking group,” Sal said from above.

Brakelights in front caused them to stop again.

The chant grew louder, now joined by a repeated clanging amid the voices.

As Troy strained to hear the words, Sal blurted them out: “‘Black Lives Matter.’ Jesus! The left thinks that phrase justifies any behavior on their part. But it doesn’t make right what’s happening here. The good people of Philadelphia should not be locked out of their own city.”

As angry as Sal sounded, Troy’s mood was shifting.

Tense. But not angry.

And confused.

The more he took in the scene, the more his stomach churned.

This looked like a protest. A loud one, yes. Tense. But peaceful, and contained to a limited zone. Less intense than the inauguration protest on the mall. And than the deportation riots that had broken out a few months back.

No buildings looked damaged. No flames or smoke or broken glass anywhere. City Hall appeared completely normal. Just as the streets were as clean as he’d seen them. And there hadn’t been a single report of explosive devices along the route.

Plus, he’d been in high school when the Black Lives Matters protests had first boiled up. He’d never had a problem with the words, nor the sentiment, especially given what that Minnesota cop did to George Floyd. Heck, he’d joined a few high school walkouts himself.

As for the people gathered in front of them, not one looked like a terrorist, let alone armed. They were mostly young people—his age or younger—holding placards and bullhorns and chanting the words “Black Lives Matter” or “We Shall Overcome.” He saw none of the insignias of the groups they’d studied.

The scene looked like a protest.

Just a protest.

They inched forward down Broad Street, staying just far enough away from City Hall so as not to be flanked.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Hilliard blared through Troy’s headset. “Our orders are to surround and blockade them. Use your vehicles and c-wire to set up an air-tight perimeter. We’ve got the north of Broad Street covered. Other arriving units are encircling them from all other directions.”

He paused.

“Once we’ve sealed them off, we will advance toward City Hall and actively clear Antifa out.”

Troy’s mind raced with more questions. What were they breaking up? How were they going to actively clear Antifa? Were they all Antifa?  How would they identify who was Antifa? Wouldn’t they be the ones instigating things?

Troy looked around at his fellow soldiers, getting out of their Humvees and gearing up with M4s and riot shields. Further ahead, others lay rolls of c-wire at various spots along the wide road.

But from their slumped shoulders and hangdog expressions, it was clear he wasn’t the only one conflicted.

In fact, uncertainty was spilling over into anger and outright arguments. Sergeant Minken and two other squad leaders were standing alongside stopped Humvees, yelling back and forth. Minken’s face was as red as he’d ever seen it.

Sal saw them too.  “If I had to guess, someone’s getting cold feet.”

“More like insubordination,” Kahn, the driver, muttered.

Captain Hilliard finally walked up to the arguing officers, put his arms around two of their shoulders, listened, then barked something back at them.

He then picked up his radio.

“We will confirm our initial intelligence about the threat,” he said, his voice crackling through the headset. “And we will communicate with the crowd before taking any more action.”

Troy breathed a sigh of relief. Cooler heads were prevailing.

“I told you it was cold feet,” Sal said.

Hilliard walked past them, grabbed a bullhorn and climbed on the back of the Humvee closest to the throng, holding himself against the turret.

“We are the United States military,” he boomed. “We have been ordered by the President of the United States to secure the city of Philadelphia from Antifa terrorists. We are authorized to use lethal force if necessary. But remain calm. We are not here about the protests. We are here to clear Antifa from the city and help local authorities regain control. If you cooperate, you will not be harmed.”

The chants from the crowd quieted. Hundreds of faces turned towards them all at once.

Captain Hilliard peered at the crowd through binoculars, then barked out the words a second time.

There was a slight movement at the center of the protesters. A young Black woman—small, in a black and white tanktop, a bandana in her hair—climbed on top of a make-shift wooden dais. She held up her own bullhorn, angling it straight in the air.

“None of us is Antifa,” she yelled in a high-pitched voice, sounding as young as she looked.

The crowd roared its approval.

“We are all here peacefully to protest the murder of two innocent black teenagers. Our friends. For some, our fellow students. We will not disperse because we have done nothing wrong. We have not occupied City Hall. We have not destroyed anything. That is a lie.” 

Those around her cheered again before launching another round of “Black Lives Matter” chants, louder than before. Amplified by the megaphone, the young woman’s voice cut through above the others.

Troy ground his teeth. She’d sounded sincere. Credible. Not a terrorist.

And the protesters stood in place as they chanted. No sign of hostility.

To Troy, again, this was simply a large crowd of young people, amid a whole lot of tents, surrounded by undamaged buildings, engaging in a protest.

His stomach knotted. Were they acting on bad intel?

Captain Hilliard stood quietly on the Humvee, his mouth frozen open for a few seconds. He peered through the binoculars again. Troy guessed that he too was questioning the entire operation. Thank God he had real battlefield experience.

Seconds later, the Captain lifted his bullhorn, preparing to respond.

But at that moment, from the other side of Broad, a deep voice yelled out.

“There’s a guy with a molotov cocktail!”

Troy whirled to his left.

It was David Driar—the company’s one bad apple. Driar was standing next to his Humvee, pointing his M4 toward the crowd.

“Molotov cocktail!” he yelled again. “12 o’clock. He’s getting ready to throw!”

Troy squinted forward, but couldn’t make anything out.

Captain Hilliard peered toward the crowd, then spun back toward Driar.

“Hold your—“

But his next words were drowned out by the ear-splitting crackle of semi-automatic fire.  A second gun began firing as well.

A football field away, three figures fell to the ground. The leader on the dais also toppled over.

The sound of the gunfire and the sight of bodies falling sparked immediate panic in the crowd.

High-pitched screams and yells replaced chants. Protesters near the fallen bodies and the dais sprinted toward surrounding buildings and City Hall. But the area was so packed with people, there was little room to run.

Others tried to escape Broad for side streets, but those streets were blocked off by wire and vehicles.

Obstructed in almost every direction, trapped by gunfire, the desperate young people had nowhere to go. Some ducked to the ground and others leapt for cover behind tents. But others ran directly toward the convoy—some with their hands in the air, others pumping their arms to run faster. A few, failing to dodge the c-wire, tumbled hard to the ground.

“They’re charging,” a voice yelled out from behind Troy.

More gunfire exploded around him. One or two more soldiers started firing. More bodies fell in the distance.

The distinct sound of tear gas cannisters being fired popped all around Troy. Seconds later, streams of smoke snaked their way among the mass of protesters and tents, followed by the mini explosions of flash-bang grenades. More protesters scattered, with more running directly towards Troy and his squad.

The targets were now closer, so Troy could see the gruesome impact of bullets mowing them down.

Still, the panicked throng kept coming, most now dodging the rolls of wire laying in the way.

Up until now, Troy had only observed the mayhem. But in the path of the charging mass, he and his squad mates suddenly found themselves at risk of being trampled—or worse if any were armed.

In a way they never had during drills, Troy’s arms and legs began to quake violently. His heart beat so fast he started to feel dizzy.

Emerging from the thicker smoke, and having passed any remaining wire, the rampaging mob now spanned fully across Broad Street, and closed to within 30 feet.

The platoon was only seconds away from being overrun.

Troy knelt down and squeezed the semi-automatic trigger. Five or six times in a matter of seconds.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sal firing the M240 Bravo from the Humvee’s turret, a devastating weapon that would do even more damage than his semi-automatic fire.

Within seconds, all those who’d emerged from the smoke collapsed into heaps.

“Cease fire!”

The voice sounded just over the roar of the gunfire.

Troy took his finger off the trigger.

“Cease fire!”

It was Captain Hilliard, yelling at the top of his lungs, hands high in the air.

The gunfire stopped.

But the sounds that replaced it were just as jarring.

Wailing. Screaming. Moaning. Coughing.

A number of bodies lay sprawled near them, the closest about 25 feet away. Some victims lay on their back, choking and screaming from the tear gas or gunshot wounds. Some moved ever so slightly. Others lay flat and frozen, as if glued to the pavement. As Troy focused, he could make out parts of bodies strewn around them.

But that initial sight was just a preview.

The smoke dissipated to reveal the full horror wreaked by D Company’s short volley of lethal fire.  More dead. More injured. More blood and flesh.

Troy scanned to his left and right to take stock of his fellow soldiers.  Most were statues, frozen and wide eyed. Bewildered. Some buried their faces in their hands. Others shivered like it was still cold out.

Some were crying. Some yelling.

Only then did Troy notice tears streaming down his own face.

No briefing or drill had prepared them to see dead Americans at this scale. Young, dead Americans—Americans they had killed.

Sal leaned forward in the turret, yelling out to nobody in particular: “we had no choice. We had no choice. They were rushing us.”

Troy debated the same question in his mind. Had he been right to fire? They were moments from being overrun. His own choice had been, kill or be killed.

Maybe Sal was right.

But now look at how many they’d slaughtered.

Nausea overcame Troy. He vomited up his MRE, then dry heaved three more times.

He looked up to see David Driar, leaning forward, his M4 still trained down Broad Street. Like a sniper, looking for more targets.

Captain Hilliard rushed toward Driar and ripped the M4 from his hand.

“Enough!” he yelled directly at the private’s face. “The rest of you, get medics on the scene as fast as you can.”

He barked into his radio: “Call every hospital. Alert them of a mass casualty event.”

The men stared back at him, still in shock.

“Don’t just stand there? Get in there and identify the injured. We have lives to save.”

Driar looked at him, scowling. “But what about their weapons?”

“Private, have you seen a single weapon aimed at us? Get your ass in there and help the injured!”

Troy, Sal and others rushed down Broad Street.

The next two hours played out in slow motion—troops leaping from body to body, putting white sheets over the dead while desperately trying to keep the injured from bleeding out. Troy whispered prayers to each of the victims as they awaited a medic. He absorbed every detail of their young, pained faces—faces and expressions he knew he’d never forget. Once help got to one body, he sprinted to the next.

After enough medics arrived, they carried the injured to makeshift tents, then lifted others into ambulances that raced off to local hospitals. Then they circled back to retrieve the dead.

Over the hellish morning, he kept a count of what he and his Company D mates found.

The basic math of what they had inflicted.

34 dead. Included three privates downed by friendly fire as they raced back up Broad.

72 injured, including six privates and one officer.

And not a single molotov cocktail. 

Capitol Monthly

“Julie Brown”

By Rose Cunningham

PHILADELPHIA

“Aren’t you glad you ignored your parents and came?” Beth Pritchard asked. 

Julie Brown looked sheepishly back at her college roommate.

Glad wasn’t the right word.

It was’t that she was happy to be there. It was the right thing to be there. In front of Philadelphia’s City Hall, calling for justice. Making sure the world knew that the murder of two black students by a police officer weeks ago would not be forgotten, nor twisted by the government into something it was not. 

Julie’s parents had urged her not to go. At first, their warnings had given her pause, since her parents had never objected before. Not when Julie protested the Supreme Court overturning Roe v. Wade. Not when she’d protested the Inauguration, nor the mass deportation.

But this time, the president’s words had been more ominous than ever. If there was “an invasion” of Philadelphia by “Antifa terrorists,” as he’d put it, he would invoke the Insurrection Act to put down the “attack.” Given the violence erupting from other protests, this presidential promise had spooked Julie’s parents.  So for days, she’d sat on the sidelines.

But in the end, she couldn’t stay away.

And she came not just because friends and classmates like Beth were protesting. 

It was the principle of it. Letting one man intimidate her from standing up for what she believed was giving away her own freedom, voluntarily. Sacrificing her rights as an American.

So she’d made her decision the night before. And this morning, she’d donned some old jeans and her “Black Lives Matter” T-shirt, pulled her hair back in a long pony tail, and grabbed an Uber down to the City Center.

“I’m meant to be here, Beth,” she said as late afternoon approached. “We are meant to be here.”

Cell phone in hand, Julie walked around the front of City Hall sharing everything she could with the wider world. The government account of what was happening was so misleading, as were the stories from a media eager to maintain their conditional access. So, using her Twitter and Instagram and TikTok accounts, she documented the real story of what was happening.

First, the entire scene was nonviolent and peaceful. There were no riots or looting. Offices and stores were all operating as usual. Non-protesters watched them, but walked to and fro without any trouble. The protest organizers were disciplined, and everyone else was listening to them. They weren’t going to let missteps sully their movement, or give an excuse to a trigger-happy president. 

But more than being organized and orderly, the scene was inspiring. People were locking arms, hugging, chanting, and singing songs that spanned the latest hits to iconic civil rights hymns. The scene took on a communal atmosphere that felt both loving and powerful. Of course, there was anger too. After all, they were protesting the murder of two students. But the nearly continuous chants of “Black Lives Matter” didn’t feel angry as much as determined and resilient, and the repeated singing of “We Shall Overcome” added a grace to it all.

They were taking a stand against an oppressive government. They were standing up for the truth, and against propaganda. And they were coming together to solve problems and forge a better future. In the early evening, Julie had helped lead a strategy session on how to engage city leaders to combat police violence. She’d bonded with countless new activists and grassroots leaders on what else they could do going forward.

Amid the whirlwind of activity, time flew by. It was dark, then midnight, in what felt like minutes. The rush of the activity had kept Julie going, but she ran out of gas around two a.m.

“Julie, look who I found!” Beth yelled from a few tents away. “Patrice from our dorm and she’s got plenty of space in!” 

She recognized Patrice’s face, even if everything from her kinky curly hair to her grungy attire was different than how Patrice looked sitting in class.

“Good to see you both here,” Patrice said, opening up the flap of the tent.

Too tired for small talk, the three were asleep within 20 minutes.

The next morning, Julie woke to an empty tent. She crawled to the flap and exited.

Even as the rising sun blinded her, a breeze chilled her to the bone. Fall was finally settling in.

A crowd larger than even the night before was buzzing with energy. Some who were just waking up huddled in small circles, passing around cups of coffee. Others gathered in various sections of the tent zone, planning the day’s activities. A large group was already standing in front of City Hall, chanting Black Lives Matter and singing. And a smaller group sat in the grass, making new signs and placards for the day.

Julie beamed. This wasn’t easy, but it is where she was meant to be. Taking a stand. Organizing for justice. Defying oppression.

She spotted Beth next to a table holding cups of coffee. She stepped in that direction when a man’s voice bellowed through the encampment.

“Everyone, the Army is here. The Army is here!”

Julie looked between two tents, down Broad Street. A long convoy of military vehicles rumbled toward them. 

A wave of tension spread among the protesters, many scanning around, wide-eyed and visibly shaking. No doubt, some considered leaving. Others picked up their phones to call or text loved ones. Others instinctively walked away from the arriving troops and toward City Hall, as if the historic building would protect them.

As she had the day before, Julie took out her phone and began recording the Army’s approach, zooming in on the leading vehicles.

On her right, a young woman she hadn’t seen the night before—in a black-and-white tank top, sporting a bandana that held her long braids in place—picked up a bullhorn.

Julie turned to record her as she began speaking in a firm, confident tone.

“You can look back on this day with shame that you left afraid. Or you can stand your ground and be proud for the rest of your life that you stood up for what was right.” 

She looked younger than Julie, but her words cut through. People stopped texting others and listened. They no longer walked away.

Instead, they all started chanting as loud as they could.

“Black Lives Matter. Black Lives Matter.”

As they did, more Humvees and trucks arrived, soon encircling City Hall. Soldiers climbed out and positioned themselves on the streets. Most held weapons. Some carried riot shields. Others began to lay large rolls of wire across the roads.

The crowd still chanted, but as with Julie’s own mood, the tone morphed from determination to fear. Julie could feel her own legs weakening as her breathing sped up.

A bullhorn blared from the convoy, as one of the soldiers stood on the back of a Humvee. But whatever he said was inaudible over the voices and chants around her.

“We can’t hear,” Julie said outloud.  “Shhh.”

Other shushed as well, and the crowd grew quiet.

The soldier’s voice returned, carrying far more clearly this time.

“We are the United States military. We have been authorized by the President of the United States to secure the city of Philadelphia from Antifa terrorists. We are authorized to use lethal force if necessary. But remain calm. We are not here about the protests. We are here to clear Antifa from the city and help local authorities regain control. If you cooperate, you will not be harmed.”

Julie froze, her ear ringing with the soldier’s words.

Lethal force.

Terrorists.

Control.

This was the rhetoric they heard from the president They were used to that.  To have it come from a man in uniform, in his business-like tone, with guns aimed their way, was far more jarring.

The lead protester—the woman with the bandana—now looked as alarmed as they all did, the megaphone shaking in her hand.  But she stepped onto the dais.

Remembering that her phone was still recording, Julie aimed the lens her way.

“None of us is Antifa.”

Hearing that truth, Julie couldn’t help but yell out: “Yeah!!”

Hundreds of others reacted the same way.

“We are all here peacefully to protest the murder of two innocent black teenagers. Our friends. For some, our fellow students. We will not disperse because we have done nothing wrong. We have not occupied City Hall. We have not destroyed anything. That is a lie.” 

More cheered around her, some chanting “Black Lives Matter” again.

But they did it standing in place. No one moved. Those were real guns pointing their way. No reason to risk getting shot.

Stray shouts rang out from the soldiers. Maybe only one. But it was a tone of alarm. And of aggression.

Then came loud, sharp explosions. The rat-a-tat of a gun. At least one soldier was now firing at them. 

People around Julie fell to the ground, including Beth, and the woman on the dais. The megaphone bounced across the wooden boards and onto the ground.

Julie’s right arm felt warm. She twisted it up to see it red with blood—not spattered with droplets, but coated, as if someone had thrown a bucket of paint on her. Either she’d been hit, or this was someone else’s blood.

The pop-pop of more bangs exploded around her. Then came whistling, followed by smoke billowing up from the ground. She recorded the smoke as it spread, but in seconds, her eyes stung with pain. She and others began screaming from the tear gas.

Ducking down and squinting, she rushed over to where Beth had fallen, but after five steps, a large body knocked her down from behind. She crashed to the pavement face first, then lifted herself onto her hands and knees. Another body rammed into her right side, toppling over her to her left.  Someone else’s foot slammed down on her ankle.

A full stampede was underway, and she was right in its path.

She lay flat on her stomach, putting her hands over her head. Beth lay five feet away, eyes wide open but not moving.

Then something struck Julie hard in the right temple.

Everything went black.

* * *

A muffled sound triggered a throbbing pain from temple to temple.

Julie opened her eyes.

Blinding light caused even more pain, this time piercing the front of her skull.

The sound came a second time.

A blurred figure moved into her line of sight.

“Julie Brown?”

A young man came into focus. He looked down at her, with pursed lips and eyes drooping from exhaustion.

She tried to turn her head, but it was locked into place by something.

“Your neck is badly bruised, Ms. Brown. Don’t move if you can help it, and keep your eyes focused on me.”

She took a deep breath, her chest aching as she did. She now recalled being on the ground near City Hall—stomped and stepped on and kicked amid the mayhem.

“And who are you?” she asked. “Where am I?”

He smiled warmly. “I’m Dr. Halsey. We’re at Thomas Jefferson Hospital. You have sustained numerous contusions, a severe concussion, and a broken ankle—but you’re going to be okay.”

The way he said it made it clear that others weren’t okay.

The image of Beth lying on the ground now flashed in her mind. The woman with the bandana, toppling off the dais. Her arm painted with blood.

“Doctor, what happened? Where’s my friend Beth? The others? We were doing nothing wrong, and they fired on us. I saw innocent protesters shot in cold blood.”

Dr. Halsey swallowed hard, then looked down.

“Ms. Brown, I’m sorry. I’m just here to treat you.”

He didn’t look at her as he spoke. And he didn’t answer her questions.

Something terrible had happened.

He examined her eyes and head, then looked up and down her arms and legs. Her right ankle was wrapped in something.

“You’re going to be okay. Once you get some rest, we’ll review your condition, and our plan to get you back on your feet.”

He walked out.

Seconds passed, then two men in green fatigues knocked on her door. The first man pulled out a badge from his pants pocket.

“Military Intelligence Corps” was written along the top.

“Ms. Brown, we are from the Army. We have some questions about today’s attack.”

“Thank goodness. It was a totally peaceful protest, then all of a sudden they opened fire. I will serve as a witness, and I captured a lot of it on my phone.”

Where was her phone? She couldn’t turn her head to look.

The man frowned.

“I’m sorry, ma’m. I was not sufficiently clear. We are investigating your group’s attack on the Army Company, leading to the death and injury of numerous soldiers.”

He held her phone up in his hand, dried blood speckled across its back cover.

“And yes, we will be confiscating your phone as part of our investigation.”