The Magic Book

by Fredric Shernoff

  “Aye. He tells of a world in transformation. Perhaps we should see that story through?”

  Opellius smiled. “I have time.”

  9

  I was working out on the farm in Lahaska when my supervisor, a guy named Cliff Blundell, came plodding over to me. This was in the middle of corn planting season, and I was kept plenty busy in between the planting and my other responsibilities as a handyman and caretaker of the barn and farmhouse.

  Cliff was a good bit older than me, and a heftier man than many around my town in those lean days. When he moved quickly, as he was doing at that moment, his walk was something of a shamble.

  “Ben,” Cliff said, panting from the hike. “Some fed guy wants to talk with you.” He looked at me curiously. “No judgment, but you haven’t been up to any shit, have you?”

  I looked down from the seat of the tractor. “What kind of shit would that be, Cliff?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Fuck if I know. I just hope you’re keeping to the straight and narrow. You’re a good hand.”

  There was a time I would have cringed at the use of the phrase “good hand,” but I’d been working under Cliff Blundell for a while at that point, and I was used to his ways. Made himself feel good when he used unusual terminology, and who was I to argue?

  “You know me,” I responded with a smile. “I do what I’m told. And you know I’m not partying on my time off. I mean who the hell would I even be getting into trouble with?”

  That was an honest reply, but truthfully, I was wondering what some government minion would want with me. I did keep my nose clean. I wondered if it might have something to do with someone I knew.

  “Just go hear the man out,” Cliff said. “I already told him he can’t take too much of your time. Fucking unreal, them doing some kind of investigation in the middle of one of our busiest seasons. You sure you haven’t been up to something? You know how things are these days.”

  I hopped down from the seat of the tractor. “Come to think of it, I have been running a prostitution ring in my off hours.”

  His eyes grew wide for a second, then he burst out laughing. Cliff’s laughter was really the worst. It sounded like a dry heave. Still, listening to that terrible laugh was a small price to pay to keep the boss man happy.

  “You had me for a second there, Goldman,” he said. “Jesus. A prostitution ring. All right, just get the fuck in the house and find out what this guy wants.”

  It turned out, with no shock at all, that Cliff was slightly wrong about the identity of the man waiting for me at the farmhouse. Or maybe I misinterpreted what he said. I don’t know.

  Either way, I walked in expecting some sort of federal law enforcement agent. CIA, maybe. This guy, who introduced himself as Howard Sims, was simply an employee of the federal government. With every passing day it became clearer that the whole “confederacy” was a misnomer. The federal government of the CSA was all that mattered.

  “I have to admit,” I said, “I’m a little confused what the government wants with me. I wasn’t really involved in the war effort.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Goldman,” Sims said. “And I’m sure you’ve felt the impact of the second Civil War as much as anyone.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Is there anybody who didn’t know somebody killed? And I had people I know move to the other side. I mean, when there was another side.”

  I knew I was babbling, but there was still a part of me that suspected I was under investigation in some way, and I was struggling and failing to make it clear that I was one of the good guys. A team player.

  “Right,” Sims said. He picked at a dot of lint on his finely tailored slacks. “Here’s the thing, your president needs you.”

  I felt lightheaded. “Me? I didn’t think there was a war now and I’m old to be—”

  Sims smiled. “No, no, this isn’t about armed conflict.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “The president is selecting certain people we think will be sympathetic to do some undercover work for us.”

  “President Weber heard that I’m sympathetic to the CSA?” I asked.

  “I’m not here representing Weber,” Sims said. “I’m representing Henry Rowan. President of the United States.”

  For a moment I was shocked into silence. Then I said, “There is no United States. Not anymore.”

  “Not technically, no. But we’ve been getting reports about serious human rights violations occurring throughout the CSA and in particular in regions outside the original CSA territory. I’m sure you’ve seen and heard things.”

  “I have.” In truth, it was hard to avoid the stories about emboldened Weber supporters, and a military and police presence that had weeded out USA sympathizers, leaving only those who agreed with Weber’s methods. My friend Dalip’s brother had been in a conflict with the cops just a couple weeks earlier and had been lucky to get out with more than a couple bruises and a night in the slammer. Plus, there was the ever-present concern that jobs like mine were in jeopardy now that the original inhabitants of the area were trickling back in.

  “Well then you understand the seriousness of our predicament,” Sims said. “We don’t have the luxury of sitting back and waiting for this problem to correct itself. It won’t. That’s why I’m taking the great risk of being here.”

  I nodded. “I get what you’re saying. But with all due respect, what does any of this have to do with me?”

  Sims sighed. “When DC fell, our records fell into the hands of the enemy. That included information on many of our secret operatives. I won’t get into details, but it hasn’t been good for our spy network. The president—Rowan—wants to recruit a new batch of loyalists to get information on the country as it is, and maybe help us figure out how to take down Weber for good.”

  “And you think I can be one of these people.”

  “I’ll be honest with you,” Sims said. “Your name was randomly selected from a list of possible candidates. I don’t know you and I don’t know what you can or can’t handle. But I hope you see that there has likely never been a more critical time in the history of humanity. If we let Weber continue this dangerous game, it will take down not only the American society, but all of the world.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But I have a job, and family, and friends. I don’t fancy the idea of wandering around an unfriendly part of the country like a vagabond.”

  Sims smiled. “We have enough resources to pay you and keep you going for as long as it takes to see this all through to its conclusion. And after order is restored, I promise you you’ll never want for anything the rest of your life.”

  I let that statement process. The thought of making money without having to work my ass off on the farm was appealing, and I saw that job as short-lived anyway. The idea of rolling in the dough as part of the squad that helped restore the United States was a hard one to ignore.

  “Okay,” I said. “What do I have to do?”

  There weren’t very many details to the whole undercover operation. Wander around, make conversation, report back at regular intervals. That was about it, with the small catch that at some point I may or may not be called upon to do some other tasks for the president. When I pressed Sims for details about those tasks, he was elusive.

  “Can’t say right now,” he told me. “If anything changes, we’ll reach out to you.”

  He gave me a special phone that would allow the resistance to track my location. “For your good as well as ours” was how he put it. A bank account was set up under my new alias, Grant Sullivan, and I was handed a driver’s license and passport with that same false identification.

  A swank apartment was rented for me in the Rittenhouse section of Philadelphia, though of course I wasn’t really expected to be there very often. My goals could only be achieved in the lands that were more loyal to the Confederacy, and I needed to be away from where too many people would recognize me. I was given one week to move all my belongings to the apartment a
nd pack for my new and terrifying adventure. The process took me three days. Quitting my job was harder than I had anticipated, mainly because Cliff was suspicious as hell.

  “What do you mean you’ve got to leave?” he asked.

  “My sister’s sick. I have to go take care of her for a while.”

  “Does this have to do with the government guy? I thought it was a mistake with your taxes.”

  “It was. And it doesn’t have anything to do with him. I have to do what I have to do.”

  Cliff thought it over. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know. With any luck I’ll be back.”

  “Well, I hate to lose you. Especially at this time of year. Fuck it. Be careful out there.” He shook my hand, and I could tell from his words and the look on his face that he didn’t buy my story at all.

  I made the rounds to see my friends and family. I told them I was being sent away on an important job. I could communicate with them on my new, secure phone, but I couldn’t tell them the details of what I was doing. For the most part, everyone accepted the strange explanation.

  I thought about spending the night in my new apartment in Philly once I was all moved in. I stayed there a few hours, but by about 8 PM I was feeling stir crazy. The apartment was beautiful, but it wasn’t me. It was just part of an elaborate act. On the road, I would have to stay in hotels and motels, but that suited me far better.

  On the morning of April 30, 2026, I left my true home in the suburbs. I unplugged my Chevy from the wall charger, tossed my one suitcase in the trunk, and drove away from the area I had known all my life. One of the government’s flying drones watched me with its cold, soulless eye as I left town.

  I felt incredibly conspicuous as I worked my way down to the Pennsylvania turnpike entrance. I was trusting Howard Sims and his deeply hidden shadow government to have done the whole fake identity thing correctly. That included wiping my real existence from all the available records, and moving Grant Sullivan into place. I had a new registration attaching the Chevy to young Mr. Sullivan, and I just prayed that would check out if and when I got pulled over.

  I was lucky to be driving an American car. I had previously leased a few Japanese models, but tariffs under the new CSA leadership had already curtailed the import of Asian automobiles. The Chevy was fine—a 2023 Bolt that was nearing the end of the lease when the exchange happened and it became Grant Sullivan’s property. It got great mileage and would help me get the hell out of the Philly area and closer to whatever awaited me.

  I merged onto the turnpike and shifted into autopilot. The car took control, moving me over to the leftmost lane and accelerating to 90 miles an hour, the speed limit still authorized for automated vehicles in Pennsylvania. In the former red states, I wouldn’t have such liberties. Weber’s cronies had cracked down on electric car and artificial intelligence development and didn’t see fit to offer such incentives as higher speed limits.

  I saw the structures of civilization fade away behind me, and I was on my way.

  10

  Traveling west on the turnpike, I knew it wouldn’t take long to reach territory sympathetic to the endless Weber administration. Still, I wanted to go somewhere new and far away. I passed Harrisburg and continued on about a half hour. I decided on a small town called Ethos that I had never heard of.

  I found the main street of the town and drove slowly down the road as I studied the buildings on each side. There was a charm to the stores I saw around me. That charm predated the second Civil War by decades. I parked in a parallel parking space in front of a bar called Rose’s Tavern.

  The car locked as I walked away, but I pulled up the app on my phone to confirm it was truly locked. Pointless paranoia, but I couldn’t take any chances when the car held everything I’d brought with me. I had moved what remained of my checking account funds to the new account established for Grant Sullivan through the encrypted transaction network Sims had provided me, but the first payment from my secret employers wasn’t due to hit my account for a week. That meant I would have to be cautious about spending, but that wasn’t a big deal. I wanted to fly under the radar anyway, and big showy shit like buying rounds of drinks wasn’t smart or my style.

  I entered the bar. The door jingled, signaling my arrival to what remained of the lunchtime crowd. Two middle-aged men sat at the bar, a guy probably in his sixties or early seventies wearing a “Weber Forever” t-shirt sat in a booth in the corner picking at the remnants of his meal, and the youngest of the bunch played pool against himself at one of the three billiards tables on the opposite side of the room. None of them seemed particularly threatening, nor did they take much notice of me. A huge, ancient ultra high-definition television showed the CSA’s official news channel. It was the only news still allowed on television.

  The bartender, a very tall bald man, greeted me with a casual wave. I walked up to the bar, a good few feet down from the two men seated there.

  “Afternoon,” the bartender said.

  “Hey,” I replied, hoisting myself up onto the ripped leather of the stool.

  “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll take something on draft. Surprise me.”

  “You new in these parts?” he asked as he began to fill my glass. “I pride myself on knowing everybody in town.”

  “Just passing through,” I said.

  “Well now that’s different. Don’t get many visitors around here, which was a bit of a blessing during the fighting.” He slid the drink over to me.

  “Was the town impacted by the war?” I asked.

  “Of course. Wasn’t everybody? Damn near half the right-aged population had to fight.” He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “A good bunch of the folks here were sympathetic to the CSA from the get-go, but there were many who really did believe in the United States, even if they didn’t necessarily agree with everything the country did. We experienced a…whatchamacallit…microscopic version of the war at large. Brother versus brother and sister versus sister. Bad, bad shit, if you’ll forgive the language.”

  I waved away his concern. “You should hear the language back where I’m from.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Philly. Suburbs, actually.”

  “Figured. So what brings you out here?”

  I had to pause a second to remember my story. “Looking for work. I got canned when the CSA took over and some of the migrants came home. Figured I’d head across the state and see what’s what.”

  “Gotcha. Will you be staying in town long?”

  I looked over my shoulder. The man in the Weber shirt was staring at me with mild curiosity.

  “No. I was thinking of making my way to Columbus.”

  “Going to cross state borders? I hope you’ve got your paperwork in order.”

  “I do,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Well,” the bartender said, “if you have any interest in staying in town for the night, there’s this place that does square dancing and—”

  He was cut off by a loud siren. On the TV screen the image changed to simple red text on a black background. “Prepare for inspection by Loyalty Guard.”

  “Goddamn it!” The bartender slammed his fist on the counter. “This is the second time in a month!”

  “I’ve heard about these loyalty inspections,” I said, “but I’ve never experienced one.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” he said. “Most of this town is legitimately loyal but the guards like to make a show of things. Set an example, or something like that. It’s not pretty and it’s bad for business.”

  The siren continued, and soon it was joined by the smaller wail of police cruisers passing down the street. The crew inside Rose’s Tavern was all at attention. The young guy with the pool cue fumbled in his pocket, likely trying to find his phone.

  I had seen skirmishes over the past decade for sure, and I had been close enough to actual battles to hear the gunfire, but for the most part it was easy enough to b
elieve that the disaster that had befallen our country was really “out there” somewhere, living on the televisions, phones and tablets with their ever-present streaming of news footage and social media. On my first day outside the comfort zone of my home area, the reality of the world in which I lived was becoming painfully clear.

  I knew that leaving the bar would announce I had something to hide, and I was aware that there was no getting away from the Loyalty Guard. I’d seen the live-streamed footage. I had no choice but to wait for the inevitable.

  Five minutes after the sirens began, the door to the bar jingled open. Three men in riot gear came in brandishing assault rifles. My flight reflex screamed at me to get away and hide, but what could I do?

  “Good day, gentlemen,” the bartender said. His voice was decidedly cheerful, but his face betrayed a hint of the anger and fear he was feeling. “If you need to see my paperwork, I’d be happy to share. We’re all paid up, including the loyalty tax for the first quarter.”

  The shortest of the Guard approached the counter. It made for a funny picture, a heavily-armed man of maybe five foot seven, and a completely defenseless bartender who towered nearly a foot above him.

  “Don’t need to see your paperwork, friend,” the guard said. “You’ve been keeping up with reports on questionable activity?” He raised his left arm, which had a flex-screen monitor attached to it. “Says here you reported some unpatriotic conversation almost three weeks ago.”

  “That’s right,” the bartender said. “I’m doing my part, no worries.”

  I wondered if the bartender was as enthusiastically loyal as he was trying to seem. He had turned in some of his own customers, or maybe employees, so he was certainly playing the game. Fear has a way of making good people do bad things.

  The armed man stared at the bartender, reading his expression. There was an uncomfortable stillness that dragged out and made the hairs on my arms stand on end.