“Naw. I din.”
“She was on your place. So who did?”
“She’s jist a goddamn ol’ wore out bitch, General. Why make sich a big thing out of it?”
Ben jammed the muzzle of his Thompson under Holcombe’s chin. Holcombe paled under his summer tan. “I will ask you one more time, and then I will blow your goddamn brains out.”
“I din shoot the bitch!” Holcombe shouted. “I din do it. Malvern thar did.”
“At whose orders?”
“Mine! I tole him to do hit.”
“Why? Did she bite someone? Was she rabid? Why?”
“Hell, we shoot dogs all the time around here. We fight ’em for sport. Hit’s good fun. We . . .” Holcombe suddenly realized he was saying all the wrong things to Ben Raines.
Ben lowered the muzzle of the Thompson and pushed Holcombe back toward the crowd. A Rebel doctor approached him and whispered for about a minute. Ben nodded his head.
“The dog didn’t die, did she?” Malvern blurted.
“That wasn’t about the dog,” Ben said. He looked at Robert Holcombe. “Your sanitary facilities are non-existent. You have no medical facilities. Your children are poorly nourished. You have no schools. The list of things you don’t have, but should have had you the least bit of discipline, dignity, pride, and concern for your children and for those less fortunate, is depressingly long. In short, you are not the kind of people I choose to have residing in the new Southern United States of America. You will leave.”
“Haw?” Holcombe said. “Say whut?”
“I will put it in words you might better understand: carry your white-trash asses out!”
“Where?” Holcombe asked.
“North, east, or west. Make your choice. But get out.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then you all shall be buried right here.”
“You’d . . . kill us?” Holcombe stammered.
“Believe it.”
“But there yere’s our home!”
“Not anymore. You have two hours to pack up and get out. In one hundred twenty minutes I will start shelling this town.” He turned to a Rebel sergeant. “Round up all the animals you can and transport them to safety. The four-legged kind,” he added. Ben turned around and walked through the maze of tanks and Rebels.
The Rebel tanks and those not involved in the gathering up of cats and dogs and horses and mules and goats and sheep slowly backed up until they were clear of the town. Ben began positioning his tanks and mortar crews on the high ground.
“Poppa,” Malvern said. “Do he mean all that?”
“Yeah,” Robert said. “He means it. We’ll leave. We ain’t got no choice. But we’ll link up with President Blanton’s people. He don’t have hard feelin’s for poor folks like us. He’s a good Democrat. He knows we cain’t hep whut we is. It’s the fault of rich folks and sich. So-ciety made us whut we is. ’Tain’t our fault. Folks like us got to have government hep. You ’member that, boy. Always look to the government. They’ll take care of us. And don’t never trust no Republican.”
“Poppa?”
“Yeah, boy?”
“Whut’s a Republican?”
Ben watched as the long line of vehicles began moving out . . . north.
“They’ll link up with Blanton’s people,” Jersey said.
“Sure,” Ben said. “We’ll fight them someday.”
“They’ll spread the word that this has happened all because of a dog,” Beth said. “They never grasp the big picture.”
“Let them spread it,” Ben said as the last vehicle pulled out of sight. “Burn the town. Corrie, alert the combat engineers to come in here with dozers, as soon as they can, and scrap this place clean.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben looked at Coop. “How is the old dog?”
“She died.”
“This can’t be tolerated,” Homer Blanton said to his staff. He had just read the reports of Ben purging the SUSA of any he deemed undesirable. “Those poor, poor people. I just feel terrible about this.”
Rita Rivers, for once, kept her lip buttoned on the subject. She knew that the majority of people General Raines was running out were the worst of racists. It had never been pointed out to Rita—and she would have denied it vehemently—that she was also a racist.
“We have to take them in,” Homer said. “Set up camps to house them.”
“Yes, sir,” an aide said.
The military exchanged glances. They knew only too well the types of people Ben was running out of the SUSA. He was keeping the best and the brightest and handing them the dredges.
“Smart,” General Holtz muttered.
“Beg your pardon?” Homer looked up.
“Nothing, Mister President,” the general replied. “Nothing at all.” Which is exactly what Raines is shoving across the borders, he summed it up.
The word spread very quickly throughout the SUSA, and rather than face the scorn and the guns of the Rebels, many people packed up and pulled out. President Blanton would take care of them. He promised he would. And they could live in filth and squalor if they wanted to and he wouldn’t interfere. Not like that goddamned Ben Raines.
Cooper pointed to a large billboard. The original message had been painted over with the words: KILL BEN RAINES.
“It’s so nice to be loved,” Ben said. “Makes me feel good all over.”
“How come we’re not hitting much resistance?” Jersey questioned.
“Blanton is welcoming all the crap and crud into his fold, “Ben told her. “Making the same mistakes as before. The people who are leaving our sectors know that instead of making them work for what they receive, Blanton will just give it to them. Food, housing, medical care . . . the whole ball of wax. For nothing.”
“And their kids?” Corrie asked.
“They will grow up expecting something for nothing. It’s a terrible, vicious cycle. And the only way it can be broken is by what we’re doing: slapping these people right in the face with hard jolts of reality. You can’t force someone to learn at the point of a gun. You have to first ask them to learn. We’ve given these people in our sectors years to clean up their act. If they haven’t done it by now, they’re not going to do it—ever. I don’t want these types of leeches around good, decent, hard-working citizens. They are a corrupting influence.”
“I’ve heard you and Thermopolis argue this before,” Beth said.
“Yeah,” Ben smiled. “But he’s doing it halfheartedly. He’s playing devil’s advocate. He just likes to argue.” Ben laughed. “And so do I.”
Those types of people who refused, for whatever reason, to respect the rights of others, who enjoyed lawlessness, who preyed on the weak, who expected the government to take care of them, who took away from society more than they gave . . . seemed to just melt away at the approach of Ben and his Rebels. They were flooding across the borders, north, east, and west. Blanton’s administration, now in full operation—as full as possible, under the circumstances—was almost from the beginning overwhelmed by, as VP Hooter put it, “the wretched refugees from the dictatorship of a Republican madman.”
Since a few blacks were beginning to cross the borders, fleeing the Rebel occupation, Rita Rivers could now stick her mouth into the debate. And she did. Often. To anyone who would listen. She formed an organization and called it, Citizens Opposed to the Oppression of Negroes.
The two black members of the newly formed U.S. Supreme Court, each with an inordinate sense of fairness, and also possessing a wild sense of humor, pointed out to Rita that it might be best if she came up with a new name for her group.
FOUR
Conditions outside of the SUSA continued to worsen under Blanton’s open-arms policies with no restrictions, while conditions inside the newly formed nation continued to improve. Bullshit artists, con-men, people who delighted in cheating others out of possessions, loud-mouths, trouble-makers . . . began pouring out of the SUSA. Many times the Rebels ran them
out with only the clothes on their backs. And they immediately ran whining to agents of Blanton’s struggling government, complaining of the harsh treatment at the hands of the Rebels.
“Those poor unfortunate people,” VP Hooter said. “We simply must find some way to crush that terrible regime of Ben Raines.”
Blanton stared at her for a moment. “I’m open to suggestion,” he said, very very drily.
Hooter shut her mouth and left the new Oval Office.
Conditions were bad in those states that Blanton more or less governed, but it need not have been a hopeless situation. Blanton could have put together a bipartisan government and eased up on his left-wing ultra liberal form of governing. But he didn’t. Within weeks of his new emergence, many moderate Democrats—including many of those who had voted for him years back—began to seriously question his policies.
The nation was still reeling from years of anarchy—the cities were in ruins, those factories still standing were no more than piles of rust. Gangs, from a few in number to hundreds strong, still roamed the countryside. Highways were cracked and pot-holed (they were that way even before the Great War, but money that could have been used to maintain the nation’s arteries went to fund “great” art projects like putting Christ in a bucket of piss, sculptures of two horses fucking; building huge sports arenas where semi-literate, near neanderthals—if they had not been playing football or basketball and making millions would have probably ended up as muscle for the mafia, holding up convenience stores, or selling dope on a street corner—could blunder around, crashing into each other under the guise of sport while the nation’s libraries were closing for lack of funds; and throwing wide the nation’s borders for everybody who wanted a free ride from cradle to grave—at taxpayer expense, and hundreds of other congressional pet projects that finally bankrupted the nation), and good, decent, hardworking, law-abiding people were starving to death. So considering all that, what was the first official legislation President Grits-for-Brains signed into law?
Gun control.
* * *
Ben and his Rebels were in southern Alabama when Cecil bumped him, informing him of Blanton’s first official act since emerging as president.
“He’s in trouble already,” Ben said, after reading the communique. “After all the nation has gone through, if that dimwit sends agents out to seize privately-owned firearms, a large majority of the citizens will resist.” He paused, then smiled, his eyes brightening with mischief. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down, chuckling softly
“Uh-oh,” Jersey said, watching the expression on Ben’s face. “The boss is cooking something up.”
Cooper looked at Ben. “You’re right, Jersey.”
Beth said, “This is going to be very interesting. You can bet on that.”
Corrie anticipated Ben and made ready to bump President Jefferys.
“Corrie,” Ben said. “Get me Cecil on scramble.”
A presidential aide laid the paper on Blanton’s desk and then backed up. Blanton picked up the paper and scanned it. He wadded up the paper and hurled it across the room.
“That goddamn son of a bitch!” Homer Blanton said. Ol’ Pooter had officially been replaced.
TO ALL DECENT, HARDWORKING, AND LONG-SUFFERING AMERICANS OF ALL RACES AND CREEDS: THE SOUTHERN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IS SEEKING QUALIFIED MEN AND WOMEN TO REBUILD THE COUNTRY. IF YOUR DESIRE IS TO LIVE AND WORK AND RAISE YOUR CHILDREN IN A CRIME-FREE, DRUG-FREE, GANG-FREE ENVIRONMENT, AND YOU ARE WILLING TO WORK HARD AND RESPECT THE RIGHTS OF OTHERS, CONSIDER RELOCATING TO THE SUSA. IN THE SUSA, EVERY INDIVIDUAL HAS THE RIGHT TO PROTECT WHAT IS THEIRS FROM THUGS AND PUNKS—AND THAT RIGHT INCLUDES THE USE OF DEADLY FORCE. IN THE SUSA, THE RIGHTS OF THE LAW-ABIDING CITIZEN COME FIRST. OUR EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM IS THE FINEST IN THE WORLD. OUR MEDICAL CARE IS EXCELLENT, AND AVAILABLE TO ALL. WE HAVE JOBS WAITING TO BE FILLED. IF YOU ARE WEARY OF THE MEALY-MOUTHED, HANKY-STOMPING, WISHY-WASHY WAYS OF THE LIBERAL DEMOCRATIC PARTY, WHY NOT GIVE US A TRY?
“I hate that son of a bitch!” Blanton said, after retrieving the notice and rereading it.
“Honky, racist, nasty, filthy Republican!” Rita Rivers said.
“I think we should assassinate him,” VP Harriet Hooter said.
“Say!” Senator Arnold said. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“I agree,” Senator Benidict spoke up.
“What would Thomas Jefferson do in this situation,” Blanton mused aloud.
For one thing, he wouldn’t seize personal firearms, Homer.
* * *
Ben and team pulled up just on the outskirts of a small southern Alabama town. By now, Striganov was traveling with Ben and battalion. Ben had halted his people and radioed the Russian to join them. He knew Striganov was acting on Cecil’s orders and could not refuse them . . . even if he had wanted to.
Striganov lowered his binoculars. “They are flying the old battle flag of the Southern Confederacy. The stars and bars.”
“No law against it,” Ben said. “But if they’re holding people against their will, using them as slave labor, or have a closed society . . . then I suppose we’ll have to do something about that.”
Striganov cut his eyes to Ben. “It was my understanding that your government passed laws against the flying of the Stars and Bars some time before the Great War.”
“They did. One of many very stupid laws pushed through by liberals. As soon as they did, I went out and bought a confederate flag and flag pole. Flew it every day. So did about ten million other people. Northerners, Southerners, Westerners, and Easterners. People who before the law was passed would have never flown a Rebel flag. White Southerners have as much right to be proud of their heritage as black people do to be proud of theirs. It’s just a piece of cloth.”
The Russian’s eyes twinkled. “I think that on this day, perhaps only moments from now, your philosophy is about to be tested, Ben.”
Ben wasn’t daunted. “Years ago, the courts ruled on the right of a private club to exclude whomever they chose. If that town is all white, and wishes to remain so, that is their right, so long as people of color who pass through are not harmed in any way, or denied emergency medical treatment or services such as food, lodging, or things of that nature. We’ll soon know. Here comes a couple of vehicles.”
The two cars stopped and four men got out. They held their hands up to show they were unarmed. “Welcome to Danville, General Raines,” the man in the lead said. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m the mayor, Joe Story. These men are members of the town council. We know that you’ve sent Rebel teams all around the town; we watched them being positioned. And we know that some of your artillery has us zeroed in. I won’t deny that we are well-armed, but we would be very foolish to start trouble with you. And we won’t. As long as you don’t start it with us. All we ask is that you hear us out. Will you do that?”
“Certainly,” Ben said.
“Fine,” Joe said with a smile. “Bring as many of your troops into town as you like. We’ve prepared refreshments and sandwiches.”
“Take over, Georgi.” Ben turned to his team and personal platoon. “Let’s go, people.”
What Ben saw impressed him. The town was immaculate. The houses neat and freshly painted. Lawns mowed. Stores open. Gardens well-tended. Children clean, happy at play, and obviously well-cared for.
“Pure white,” Beth said, looking around her.
“Yeah. I see it,” Ben replied.
From the back seat, Corrie said, “That’s 10-4, Far-eyes. Recon reports no people of color anywhere in the county,” she said to Ben.
“This is going to be very interesting,” Ben muttered.
The town had been a county seat, and tables had been set up on the courthouse lawn. Plates of fried chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh corn on the cob, and gallons of iced tea were awaiting the Rebels.
“Do you want a food taster before you eat, General?” Joe asked with a smile.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Be
n said, filling a plate. “Should anything happen to us, in one hour your town would no longer exist, and every living thing in it would be dead.”
“You do bring it all down to the basics, don’t you, General?”
Seated, Ben began eating while Joe Story talked. “We came here from all over the nation, General. Right after the Great War. Nearly every state is represented here. We wanted to build a community that was free of gang violence, free of drugs and crime. Where we could teach our kids the way kids used to be taught, without social promotion based on color.” He paused to take a sip of iced tea, for the day was warm.
“Good fried chicken,” Ben said. “My mother used to fry it like this. Go on, Mister Story. I’m listening.”
“The bottom line is this, General: we don’t believe in the mixing of the races. Black people occasionally travel through here. To the best of my knowledge, no person of color has ever been abused. Nigger is a word that is forbidden in this community. Black people have been helped if they needed it, and then told to move on.”
“And if they don’t move on?” Ben asked, buttering an ear of corn.
“We’ve never been confronted with that situation.”
“And if you ever are?”
“Speaking frankly, we’ll move them. Or bury them.”
“What is your objection to people of color, Mister Story?”
“Not all people of color, General. Just some people of color. Their values are different. They worship differently than whites.” He smiled. “Most whites.”
“And those whites who don’t worship the way you think they should . . . you have any of those in this community?”
“No, we do not, General.” Before Ben could say anything else, Story asked, “What church do you attend, General?”
“I don’t have a regular church, Mister Story. Haven’t since I was a kid.” Ben smiled. “But I don’t condemn others for their manner of worshipping God.”
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