Nathaniel Hodges #2

Pinned by History

The roar of the mob was deafening. As they surged forward like a human tsunami, Nathaniel Hodges barely had time to process what was happening. One moment, he was standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow officers, holding the line at the Capitol’s West Terrace entrance. The next, he was pressed against the cold metal of the doorway, surrounded by chaos.

The assault on the Capitol had begun in full force. The rioters weren’t just protesting—they were attacking with a ferocity Nathaniel had never seen. They carried shields, bats, pipes, and flagpoles sharpened into weapons. Some wore helmets and goggles, their faces hidden behind masks of rage. They pushed forward with relentless strength, determined to break through the officers defending the entrance.

Nathaniel gritted his teeth as the mob pressed closer. He could feel the weight of their bodies pressing against his shield. He shoved back with all his strength, the muscles in his arms and legs burning with exertion. His shield vibrated as objects slammed into it—chunks of concrete, metal poles, and fists. The air was thick with the acrid sting of pepper spray and smoke grenades, making it hard to breathe.

"Hold the line!" someone shouted again, but the line was fracturing. The rioters had the advantage of numbers and pure, unrelenting force. Nathaniel knew that if they broke through this door, there would be nothing left to stop them from reaching the lawmakers and staff inside.

Then, everything happened at once.

A massive surge of rioters shoved forward, and Nathaniel’s feet slid against the slick ground. His back hit the doorframe with a bone-jarring thud, and suddenly, he felt a crushing pressure against his chest. He looked up and realized, with a sickening dread, that he was pinned.

The doorframe had become a vise. Nathaniel’s body was caught between the thick metal frame and the relentless force of the mob pressing forward. His arms were pinned at awkward angles, his shield now useless. He could feel his ribs compressing under the weight. Each breath became a struggle, shallow and desperate.

The noise around him blurred into a disorienting cacophony—shouts, screams, the dull clang of metal on metal. But amid the chaos, he heard the rioters' voices as clear as day.

"Traitor!" one man screamed, his face twisted with fury. "You’re on the wrong side!"

Nathaniel blinked sweat and blood from his eyes, trying to focus. Another rioter—wild-eyed and shirtless—raised a flagpole and jabbed it into Nathaniel’s torso like a spear. Pain exploded through his side, sharp and unforgiving.

He was defenseless, trapped. The pressure against his chest was unbearable, like being crushed beneath the weight of the world. His breathing grew ragged, each inhale feeling like a knife between his ribs. The doorway felt like it was closing in on him, squeezing the life out of his body. He tried to shift his weight, to free even a single arm, but it was no use.

The mob wasn’t letting up. Instead, they pushed harder.

Nathaniel’s mind raced. He thought of his parents, who had taught him about fairness and courage. He thought of his colleagues, fighting desperately beside him. And then he thought about the Capitol itself—the symbol of democracy he had sworn to protect. The building had stood through wars, assassinations, and protests. It had survived because people like him had shown up when it mattered most.

But as the world seemed to close in around him, Nathaniel felt the edges of his vision blur. His body was crying out for air, his lungs screaming for relief.

This can’t be how it ends, he thought.

Through the haze of pain, he heard a familiar voice—a fellow officer calling out his name. "Nate, hang on!"

The words cut through the fog of despair like a lifeline. Nathaniel forced himself to stay conscious, to hold on just a little longer. But the mob wasn’t done with him yet.

One rioter grabbed Nathaniel’s helmet and yanked it backward, exposing his face. Another rioter reached forward and sprayed a blast of chemical irritant directly into his eyes. Nathaniel screamed as the burning pain seared through his vision. His face felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t see anything but blinding, white-hot agony.

The crowd around him laughed—mocking his pain, reveling in their power.

"Get him out of there!" one officer shouted, his voice strained with urgency.

Nathaniel felt someone grab his arm—a strong hand, pulling with everything they had. He didn’t know how long it took or how many officers it took, but slowly, inch by inch, he felt himself being pulled free from the doorway. The moment his chest was released from the crushing weight, he gasped for air like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water.

He collapsed onto the cold marble floor, his chest heaving. His vision was still blurry, his skin stinging from the chemical spray. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. But he was alive.

Another officer knelt beside him. "Can you move?" he asked.

Nathaniel nodded weakly, though every part of his body screamed in protest. He tried to push himself up but faltered. The officer grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. Nathaniel swayed for a moment, his legs threatening to give out beneath him.

"You okay?" the officer asked again, his face lined with worry.

Nathaniel took another shuddering breath and nodded. "I’m still here," he said hoarsely.

But the fight wasn’t over.

The officers regrouped, forming another defensive line. Nathaniel wiped at his eyes, though his vision was still hazy. His body was battered, but he wasn’t about to walk away. He tightened his grip on his baton and took his place in the line once more. The Capitol still stood, and as long as he could stand, he would defend it.

The battle raged on for hours. The mob’s fury showed no signs of relenting, but neither did the officers. Reinforcements finally arrived, pushing the rioters back step by step. When the last of the mob was forced out of the Capitol and the doors were barricaded shut, Nathaniel leaned against the wall, his breath ragged. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his uniform was soaked with sweat and blood.

The building was eerily silent. The marble floor was littered with debris—broken glass, overturned furniture, discarded flags. Nathaniel blinked at the sight of it all, trying to process what had happened. The Capitol—this place he had sworn to protect—had become a battlefield.

As he stood there, battered and bruised, Nathaniel felt an overwhelming wave of emotion. He had survived. But some part of him knew that he would never be the same.