Free Devolution by Chris Papst

University of Cambridge campus in a pale blue, with heavy cumulus clouds floated across the sky. The air was calm and crisp. A thin layer of snow covering the ground reflected much of the moon’s light. A long black car eased to a stop one block down from the intersection of St. Andrews and Downing.
    “Do you want us to go with you, sir?” the man in the front seat asked Alam Jabbar while pulling his coat aside to slide a pistol into a holster.
    “Get out and be within sight, but I will go alone,” Jabbar replied. “I did not get the impression I was in danger.”
    The men opened the doors to exit, spreading out between the buildings. Cane in hand, Jabbar limped his way to the meeting point. He positioned himself under the glow of a fading yellow light post. With the exception of a few stragglers, the street was empty. The only sound was that of the sharp breeze whispering its way past the university walls to fill the street. The cold air it delivered stung the inside of his nose.
    Jabbar peered down at his watch: 8:59.
    When the minute hand struck twelve a hollow thud echoed off the buildings. Simultaneously, all the doors that lined the sidewalks swung open. Hordes of students emptied out of their late night classes. Jabbar was soon surrounded by hundreds of grads and undergrads who had been stuck in small wooden desks for hours. The narrow streets turned into a scene of madness as everyone jockeyed for position to board one of the many buses that instantly appeared, their conversations buzzing.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Let’s go to the pub.”
    “What did you think about the professor?”
    “Tom! Tom! Hey, Tom!”
    All the energy suppressed during their classes discharged, creating a chaotic display.
    Jabbar tried to maintain his position under the light pole, but the flow of the crowd forced him down the street. With the masses unwilling to slow their advance, his balanced wobbled and he collapsed to the concrete.
    His men lost sight of him and rushed against the surge but progress was difficult.
    Jabbar’s phone began to ring.
    “Sir!” his bodyguard yelled in distress.
    WHACK !
    Before Jabbar could respond, a hard knee to the back knocked the phone from his hand. He held on all fours to catch his breath. Then, as quickly as the rush began, it was over. All the buses had left while the remaining students filtered between the buildings. All of a sudden, it was quiet, peaceful, and for the exception of a few stragglers, desolate.
    Jabbar scanned the sidewalk for his phone and spotted it several feet away. Heavily relying on his cane, he hobbled towards it.
    “Sir!”
    Jabbar sighted one of his guards running from across the street. He brushed the dirt from his knees and straightened his suit. “I’m fine.”
    “Sir, your back.” Another guard approached from up the street and pulled a white envelope off Jabbar’s coat.
    Bewildered, he studied it for a few seconds and then peered up at his guards. His meeting was apparently over.
     
    *
     
    “Harry!” Chris Nash hollered to his young reporter after assigning him the closing of an assembly plant. “This company has hundreds of workers. You better be able to interview one.”
    “These people are corporate,” Henry countered. “They will not talk!”
    Chris glared at his reporter. “Why are you still here?”
    Harry stood his ground, but decided not to waste more time. He hastily marched out the door.
    At the same time, Ashleigh Blair entered with the day’s mail. “Mr. Nash, how are you this afternoon?”
    He sighed. “Alright, Ashleigh, how are you?” Nash was now two weeks into his 50s—evident by the drooping party balloons in the corner. Time had not been good to the newsman. With slumping shoulders, a tired voice, and white hair, he more closely resembled a man fifteen years his senior. His wrinkled shirt and loose tie completed the stereotype.
    “I am well, sir.” The old widow flashed a pleasant smile.
    Chris’s office was