Out of the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  A military Jeep pulled up beside the van. It had driven up so swiftly and silently it startled the men. The two soldiers were dressed in tiger-stripe field clothes, jump boots, and black berets. Armed with pistols and automatic weapons, they were neither hostile nor openly friendly—just curious.

  “Something the matter?” one asked.

  “Are you police?”

  “No, army patrol. Border security.”

  Clayton nodded. “What would you do if I had an urge to walk around in there?” He pointed toward the strip. “Just climb the fence and go in there?”

  “Nothing,” the soldier replied blandly. “You’re an adult; you can read the warning signs. If you want to run the risk of getting hurt or killed in there, that’s your business.”

  “So it is mined,” Clayton said.

  “That’s the rumor.” The soldier lit a cigarette.

  Clayton did not see the wink that passed from one soldier to the other. The area was not mined, but could be in a very short time.

  “You people take death and injury very casually,” Clayton said.

  “No,” the soldier contradicted, “not really. We love life, love freedom. That’s why we chose to live here. We just figure any intelligent man or woman would have enough sense or respect for warning signs to keep out of any area marked ‘Keep Out.’ ”

  “There is still the matter of small children,” Clayton said, his face hot and flushed.

  “Yes, that’s right. That’s why we’re here, sir. But our kids are taught to respect warning signs, fences, other people’s property, and things that don’t belong to them. How about your kids?”

  Clayton glared at him for a moment, then smiled. “I have been properly chastised, soldier. Thank you.”

  “You’re sure welcome, sir.” The driver put the Jeep in gear and drove off.

  Clayton sighed. “This is a tough one, people. I don’t know how I’m going to report it. What they’ve done is bring it all back to the basics. That’s all it is. The simplest form of government in the world. But goddamn it!” he cursed. “It’s working!”

  The press roamed the Tri-states, top to bottom, east to west for a week, some of them trying their very best to pick it apart and report the very worst. They talked with a few people who did not like the form of government, the harsh laws, and death penalty. Some people felt they had a right to get drunk and drive—they could drive just as well drunk as sober. They had a right to bully and browbeat. Laws were made to be broken, not followed.

  But do you obey the laws in the Tri-states? they were asked.

  Goddamned right! You’d better obey ’em in this place.

  Has anyone mistreated you?

  I got punched in the mouth one time; called a man a liar. Busted my tooth—right here—see it?

  But when the talk shifted to hospitals, general health care, nursing homes, day centers, rescue squads and other emergency services, employment, working conditions, housing, recreational areas, and day-to-day living... well, that was kind of a different story. Yeah, things are pretty good, I guess.

  The press picked the state dry; then, in an informal meeting among themselves, talked of what they’d seen and heard.

  “There is gun law here.”

  “Anybody seen anyone get shot?”

  No one had.

  “There is no hunger here, and most people seem content.”

  “A person can get shot for stealing a car.”

  “But no slums or inadequate housing.”

  “I can’t figure out whether dueling is legal here, or not. I think in a way, it is.”

  “The medical care is the best I’ve ever seen, available to all.”

  “Capital punishment is the law of the land.”

  “But there is full employment and the wages are good. This state is full of craftsmen who are proud of their work.”

  “There sure isn’t any crime.”

  “Of course, there isn’t. Everybody packs a goddamned gun! Would you steal if you knew you were going to get shot for trying or hanged for the actual crime?”

  “It’s a dictatorship.”

  “No, it isn’t. Governor Raines was elected by the people. I don’t know what the hell it is. The only thing I know is . . . it’s working.”

  “General,” a reporter said, “we’ve been here a week, looking around, asking questions. I can’t speak for the others, but if this is your concept of a perfect society—you can have it, sir.”

  The Raineses’ back yard. Not as many press people as before; a full quarter of them having made up their minds—one way or the other—and left to file their stories.

  “We’re not striving for a perfect society. That is impossible when imperfect human beings are the architects. We just want one that works for us; for the people who choose to live here.

  “No, we’re far from perfection. Even within our own system there have been instances of injustice. No one will make any excuses for it except to say we’ve fought ignorance and prejudice and superstition . . . and I believe we’ve beaten it. Some of the people, who couldn’t take our form of government, left—and we bought their lands and property from them; we didn’t steal it—they had sat on their asses and done nothing but bitch and complain and criticize everything we were attempting to do, at the same time taking advantage of our food, medicines, and other help. They could not understand—or refused to understand—that black and white and red and tan and yellow all bleed the same color.

  “There is no discrimination in the Tri-states, and there is no preference for color. Any person qualified to do a job can do it. If a person is not qualified, the job goes to someone else. You have all interviewed the lieutenant governor and the secretary of state; you all know they are black. The woman in charge of central planning is Sue Yong. Mr. Garrett, the chief law-enforcement officer in the Tri-states is a Crow Indian. So on down the line. It would be grossly unfair to accuse us of being racially biased, but we are very selective.”

  “Then you admit your form of government could not work in the other states, Governor?”

  “Oh, it could work, but it would take a lot of education and a lot of conforming to make it work. But I’m not concerned with the other states. Just this area.

  “Let’s wind this down and get it over with. Our bank interest rates are low—lower than they’ve been in the United States for almost twenty years. We have full employment, almost zero crime. Our pay scale is excellent, and we do it all without the threat of unions hanging over the businessman’s head.”

  “Do you plan to keep unions out?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “By allowing in only those people who don’t want something for nothing. Profit-sharing is law in the Tri-states; which is one of the reasons it’s difficult for anyone to become a millionaire. Large factories are owned by the men and women who work the factories. We have very fair labor/management practices. Businesses offer excellent fringe-benefit plans. Our Fair Labor Practices Board—which is headed by a woman, by the way—is constantly checking to see that management pulls its share, and God help them if they are not. Sexual discrimination and sexual harassment will not be found in the Tri-states. That’s why some hotshot executives who moved in here from the cities moved out about a week after they got here.

  “Job descriptions are defined from A to Z, and getting the boss his coffee, picking up his laundry, and looking after the family cat while he’s on vacation are not part of an employee’s job. I’m hitting the high spots, but you all get the overall picture.

  “We have grievance committees in every shop, every factory, every business. Retirement plans are mandatory: business pays a third, labor pays a third, the state pays a third. Funds are transferrable from job to job, and there is no hassle connected with it. The same could have been done in the United States forty years ago.

  “No one—repeat, no one—works six months out of a year then lays up on his or her backside drawing unemployment the other six. We’ll
find people jobs the same day they lose or quit them. They might not like them, but they’ll work them or get the hell out.”

  “How about taxes—are they high?”

  “No. They are low, really, and we can keep them that way because our revenue goes to things other than fine new jails, federal grants and programs, make-work projects, investigating the sexual habits of a grubworm, and pork-barrel boondoggles. And we’ve done it without creating a monster bureaucracy.” He smiled. “That sticks in the craw of Logan.

  “It is very true that we have broken away from the Constitution of the United States—to a degree—but we haven’t broken away from it any further than your government has in the past thirty years. The only difference was in direction. Your government went left, we went right.”

  “Mr. Raines, the federal government in Richmond declares what you’ve done is illegal, and they will eventually stop you. I’d like to hear your views on that.”

  “Well, sir,” Ben said, “I’d be very interested in hearing just how they plan to stop us. The only way they possibly could do it is through another war, and they’d have to kill off every man, woman, and child in the Tri-states. That’s the only way.

  “We intend to live in peace as long as we’re left alone. But”—Ben smiled, a wolf’s baring of teeth that touched each member of the press, sending an eerie tingling up and down the spines of all present—“the man who issues that order to wipe us out is a dead man.”

  The press waited, stirred, looked at each other.

  “The Tri-states is broken up into districts,” Ben said. “Each district has a team of five men and women, all volunteers, all highly trained. Only a very few people know their identities. They are called zero squads because that is the odds of their coming out of their assignments—zero. They might be able to complete their assignments in a week; more than likely it will take some months, but they will complete their assignments, believe that.

  “To declare war on us orders have to come from the top: the President, the House, and Senate. When, or if, that order comes down to destroy us, the president, the VP, any member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and any representative and senator who voices approval of the plan . . . will die.”

  SIX

  All the members of the press but one came to their feet in a roar of outrage. To break away from the Union was one thing—a bit daring, glamorous. But to plan and carry out mass murder was quite another; unthinkable—in their minds. Only Judith remained seated and calm in the midst of the uproar in the Raineses’ back yard, a faint smile on her lips—a smile that could be taken as admiration. Governor General Raines had taken out quite an insurance policy on the future of the Tri-states, and she had no doubt but what he meant every word. She was finding the prospect of living in the Tri-states more exciting with every minute.

  Badger was on his feet, swinging the AK-47 toward the newspeople, anticipating a rush toward the governor. Juno was standing, snarling. Ben calmed them both with a quiet voice.

  “You can’t be serious?” A young reporter yelled the questioning statement. His tone betrayed his shock and outrage. “That’s murder!”

  Ben waited for the din to settle and the press people to return to their seats.

  “And,” Ben said, “if the federal government moves against us, bombing and killing people, isn’t that murder? Perhaps you people would prefer the term ‘war’? If so, I’d like to see where you draw the line between war and murder.”

  “Some of the people your zero squads might kill, Governor, could possibly have had nothing to do with any war against the Tri-states. Have you considered that?”

  “Neither will the very young and the very old of the Tri-states,” Ben countered. “But they’ll die just the same. Have you thought of that?”

  “Suppose they are given the opportunity to leave?”

  “Suppose they like it here?”

  “Mr. Raines, is the size of your army secret?”

  “No. Everyone in the Tri-states is part of our armed forces. They all know their jobs and will do them without hesitation.”

  “That doesn’t tell me the strength.”

  Ben smiled. “Several divisions.”

  “General, what do you think your chances of survival are in the Tri-states?”

  “I have no idea.” He did. “As I have stated, all we want is to be left alone.”

  “The federal government has never had a very good track record for doing that,” a reporter observed.

  “Yes,” Ben agreed. “How well I know.”

  The press left, all but Judith, who stayed on and became a resident and news director for a TV station.

  Tri-states settled back to run itself: smoothly, quietly, profitably, and very efficiently. A dozen companies—major industrial conglomerates—had slipped quietly into the Tri-states and set up shop.

  Those who came to the Tri-states, to live and to work, had many things in common: the desire to live and let live; the need for as much personal freedom as is possible in any society; the wish to give a day’s work (as a craftsman) for a day’s ample pay; respect for the rights of others.

  There was room to relax in the Tri-states, room to breathe and enjoy life. Here, no one pushed.

  America—the other forty-seven states—slowly returned to some degree of normalcy. Tourists were out and traveling in those areas that were not hot or forbidden.

  Hesitantly, shyly at first—for the Tri-states had taken more than its share of bad press—a few tourists came in. But the Tri-states limited their numbers, after making certain they understood the laws of the nation. Then more people discovered the area was a very unique and quiet place to visit—if one stayed out of trouble. The Tri-states offered to the family unit a quiet vacation, with good fishing, good food, and honest surroundings, with no fear of crime.

  The criminal element stayed far away from the Tri-states. Word had quickly spread in the newly organized underworld that to fuck up in the Tri-states meant a noose or a bullet—very quickly.

  There were many things different, unique, and quite experimental about the Tri-states. One reporter called it right-wing socialism, and he was correct, to a degree. But yet, as another reporter said, “It is a state for all the people who wish to live there, and who have the ability to live together.”

  In the Tri-states, if a family fell behind in their bills, they could go to a state-operated counseling service for help. The people there were friendly, courteous, and openly and honestly sympathetic. If that family could not pay their bills because of some unforeseen emergency, and if that family was making a genuine effort to pay their bills, utilities could not be cut off, automobiles could not be taken from them, furniture could not be repossessed. A system of payment would be worked out. There were no collection agencies in the Tri-states.

  As Ben told a group of visiting tourists, “It is the duty and the moral and legal obligation of the government—in this case, state government—to be of service and of help to its citizens. When a citizen calls for help, that person wants and needs help instantly, not in a month or three months. And in the Tri-states, that is when it is provided—instantly. Without citizens, the state cannot exist. The state is not here to harass, or to allow harassment, in any form. And it will not be tolerated.”

  “No!” President Logan said. “For the last time, I will not send any person from this good office to talk with the illegal governor of an illegal state. No!”

  “Hilton, the state is a real state,” Aston reminded him. “The people are real. Their economy is booming.”

  “I will tell you what I intend to do. I intend to denounce the Tri-states as illegal and politically nonexistent in the eyes of the United States Government.”

  “And?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What next—troops?”

  “Perhaps. I’ve discussed it with General Russell.”

  “Hilton, for God’s sake!”

  Logan ignored the VP’s pleas. “I think we should first c
oncentrate on the rebellious Indian tribes. Get them back in line and off stolen property.”

  “No, Hilton—good Lord. What harm have they done?”

  “We can be thankful for one thing: the niggers didn’t get organized. Not really. I’ll let Jeb Fargo and some of his people spearhead the drive to crush the Indians. I really never knew they were so military.” He looked at his VP, not understanding the horror in the man’s eyes. “Aston, we’ve got to pull this nation back together. General Russell tells me we’re almost strong enough to break the back of Raines’s Rebels.”

  “Hilton, let Ben Raines have his state; let the Indian have his land. I just don’t want any trouble.”

  Logan laughed. “You’re worse than an old woman, Aston. Do you look under your bed for ghosts at night?”

  “I’ll forget you said that.”

  President Logan stood up, walking from behind his desk to place his hand on the VP’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aston. My remark was uncalled for. I do need and value your help and friendship.”

  “Hilton, do you think Raines was joking about those assassination teams? The zero squads.”

  The president laughed. “Why, of course—don’t you?”

  “No! I think we’ve been warned to leave them alone. I sure as hell don’t think he was kidding. Review his record, Hilton, both as a soldier in the U.S. Army and as a mercenary.” He looked up at his friend and boss. “Hilton, I’m worried, and so are a lot of other people around Richmond. Raines wasn’t kidding; he meant every word he said. Let them have their state.”

  “Gun law, Aston? No. I won’t tolerate that.”

  “Gun law is a phrase dreamed up by the press. They have courts and laws.”

  “This is the United States of America, Aston. United! Those Rebels, white and red, have broken from the Union to form their own little nations. I intend to see they pay for that.”

  The VP felt a cold, sluggish chill move in his guts, almost as a premonition of doom. “We’ll all pay for it, Hilton. Bet on it.”