Damon could not join in with the weeping over his dead daughter, rage had replaced all of his other emotions.
Bren still had her prized possession, the little tube of chapstick, in her hand. It had taken months of saving and bartering to get that little luxury for her and she had taken it everywhere with her.
Now she was dead.
Mir, her cousin, had found her beaten and dumped through a vent shaft like a piece of waste. Damon couldn’t blame Mir for taking her Domeside. Every Greaser wanted to see through the Dome into the far reaches of space.
But they had killed her.
Lightboys or Moongirls, maybe just everyday Domsiders. They had beaten his little girl. Broken her then tossed her away. The people that relied on him and his people so they could live in comfort had done this to the light of his life.
Damon stepped outside of his house and faced the gathered crowd. He held aloft the heavy wrench that had been passed down from his father.
“This stops. It all stops!” He screamed.
From his workbelt he pulled out the diagnosing tools, the quick fix kits and the other equipment needed to keep his parts of the machine running and threw them on the ground. With a scream he brought his wrench down upon them.
He smashed them until he was covered in sweat and could no longer lift his arm. Around him a million pieces of formerly vital equipment littered the floor.
“The work stops now!”
All of the assembled Greasers roared in agreement, pulling out their own equipment and began to smash it.
It would take a few days for the Domesiders to realise what was happening. But they had brought this upon themselves.
© Robert Spalding 2011