We Won't Go Quietly_A Family's Struggle to Survive in a World Devolved_Book Three of the What's Left of My World Series

by C. A. Rudolph

  Lauren giggled.

  “All of us are tracked—everywhere we go. Can you think of any device that doesn’t have a GPS chip in it now? My new laptop has one, and so does the ham radio I just put in your mom’s truck. People can call me paranoid all they like, but that kind of technology—as predominant as it has become—can be manipulated by anyone and exploited by those with the power to do so. It scares the hell out of me.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Lauren began as they crossed over the bridge. “Cops have devices on their cars that read license plates automatically. And you’ve told me before, whenever you’re pulled over and a cop runs your tag, they know if you have a gun.”

  “It alerts them that the car’s owner has a concealed-carry permit—not necessarily there’s a gun in the car. But the two often go hand in hand.”

  Lauren nodded. “Okay. So the license plate reader is basically performing the same task as calling in a plate. And that means…they’d know.”

  “Brilliant deduction.”

  “So they could pull you over, I guess. But they wouldn’t have cause to search you or the vehicle, right?”

  Alan glanced over. “Are you willing to take the chance, L? How much do you trust the system? Or the people who’ve sworn loyalty to it?”

  Lauren shook her head slightly. “Not in the least.”

  “That’s good. Because the system has proven time and time again that it only favors itself. It manipulates and deceives and therefore can’t be trusted. Imagine if you were carrying an illegally concealed handgun right now, and we passed a state trooper just past this curve up ahead. One of his scanners snaps a pic of my plates, the pic gets uploaded to a database, and the display on his cruiser starts flashing red because another database has me listed as a Virginia CHP holder. It’s up to the officer to decide if that’s enough cause to pull me over. He may or he may not, but if he does, what’s to stop him from performing a search? Morality? His ethics? Compassion? Some other virtuous human trait that’s becoming more and more uncommon in our society?”

  How about his oath to support and defend the Constitution? Lauren considered. She guessed expressing this vocally would only serve to further antagonize her father and send him onto another tangent. As such, she remained reticent, concluding it best to keep her thoughts to herself, for now.

  Alan continued. “We’d be at the officer’s mercy, perched on the other side of the law, the side we don’t want to be on. You want to know what the punishment is for illegally concealing a handgun in some states?”

  Lauren glanced over curiously, gesturing for him to continue.

  “Anywhere from a minimum of thirty days to three years in jail and fines of two thousand dollars or more.”

  Lauren didn’t budge. She shrugged indifferently. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Especially if you consider the other option.”

  “What other option?”

  “Well, the way I see it,” said Lauren. “Without the means to defend ourselves if confronted with life-or-death circumstances, there’s a chance we could both end up with the death penalty anyway.”

  Alan turned and smiled coyly at his youngest. “Interesting point of view, L. Shows a lot of insight.” He hesitated. “I believe you truly are a revolutionary.”

  Lauren pivoted around to him, her expression curious. “Where did you get that from?”

  “Fred Mason.”

  “Why did he call me that?”

  “Relax, L. He said it as a compliment. Take pride in it.”

  “I didn’t even think he liked me,” she said, relaxing her pose.

  “Oh, he likes you just fine.” Alan grinned. “I think he’s just grateful you’re not his daughter.”

  “All things considered, the feeling is mutual. I mean, I like Fred and all, but he can be a real killjoy.”

  “Years serving his country, putting his life on the line for generations of ignorant ungratefuls can have that effect, I’d estimate. Would it help if I told you he used the adjectives pretty and young to describe the term?”

  Lauren turned away. “It makes it sound all the less flattering.”

  “Forget I mentioned it, then.”

  After several minutes of watching the road ahead, Lauren glanced over, finding her father’s silence too much to bear. “I just realized something. You never told me where we’re going.”

  “Blackwater Falls State Park,” Alan said. “I figured we’ll set up camp in the National Forest nearby and just play it by ear.”

  Lauren thought a moment. “That’s near Dolly Sods, right?”

  “Yeah. Same National Forest. Directly, it’s about five miles away,” Alan replied.

  “Okay, Dad. That puts us not only in the wrong state, but also headed in the wrong direction. What are you up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything. This side trip was vital for today’s lesson.”

  Lauren tilted her head peevishly. “Really, Dad…today’s lesson?”

  Alan smiled. “Relax. I won’t spend all day harping on it. It’s just a topic I’ve been wanting to discuss with you.”

  “What’s the topic?”

  Alan paused as his expression hardened. “Freedom.”

  Making their way through a mile of car dealerships, restaurants, and other assorted businesses in a quaint commercial district, Lauren began to see bright flashes of light in the sky just above the roadside trees. About a hundred yards later, an ominous sight came into view through her window, and it didn’t take long for her to realize the shiny flickers she’d seen were the sun’s rays reflecting off the mirrorlike sheen of a razor-wire fence.

  Lauren pointed just ahead. “Is that a prison?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Two prisons side by side, actually.”

  “And why are you taking me to a prison?”

  “We’re just driving by,” Alan said. “I passed them the other day, and it got me thinking about something important.”

  Alan drove as Lauren cast a speculative stare through the window. The first penitentiary they passed by was a distinctive complex of white, windowless, concrete buildings encircling a main structure with a sinister-looking master control tower capable of overseeing the surrounding grounds in their entirety. It looked newer and more industrial than the neighboring correctional facility sitting adjacent to it, the buildings of which were constructed primarily of brick, having a far different configuration. A tall, unwavering guard tower stood on each of its four corners, one of which sat merely yards from the road. Both were brooding, unwelcoming, colorless masses encircled by multiple zones of high-security mesh and crowned with miles of coiled, treacherous, razor-sharp wire.

  Alan made a U-turn and drove a short ways southward, eventually pulling the car over to the side of the road. “That’s North Branch Correctional Institution,” he said. “It’s a maximum-security prison, and some of the most dangerous criminals in the state, as well as the country, are incarcerated here.”

  Lauren hesitated. “It looks scary as hell. But why are we here?”

  Alan shifted the car into park and adjusted his seating position so he could see Lauren’s expression. “I’m glad it looks scary to you, and we’re here because freedom is of great consequence, L. You’ll be eighteen soon, and with that, every decision you make from there on out will profoundly affect your future and your freedom—and I want to stress to you how crucial it is to care about both.”

  “I do,” Lauren said.

  “I know you do. I also know you’re bright, intelligent, and incredibly talented, and you have the potential to go a long way in life. But life offers zero assurances, L. One single mistake, even one you didn’t intend on making, can cost you your freedom and your future. Or even your life.”

  “Wait,” Lauren said, pointing out her father’s window across the road. “Do you think I’m going to screw up and end up in a place like that? Sorry, Dad. That’ll never happen.”
>
  “I used to say the same thing,” said Alan. “Until one day, I did screw up—I did something stupid that almost put me in a place like that.”

  Lauren scowled. “What? Dad, what are you talking about?”

  “It was a day like any other,” Alan began with a shrug. “I was a typical teenager on my way home from work. I passed by a city cop who spotted the rejection sticker on my car—I think it was due to tires or brakes, or something else I couldn’t afford to fix. I was driving on a suspended license at the time, and it would’ve been my third offense if I got caught, making me a habitual offender, and that meant jail time. So I got scared, and I…reacted.”

  “Wait—hold the phone,” Lauren said. “Back up a few klicks. Why was your license suspended?”

  “Failure to pay fines, I believe.”

  “Fines? For what?”

  Alan grimaced. “Prior moving violations.”

  “How many prior moving violations?”

  “Quite a few, actually,” replied Alan, now in full confession mode. “I was young, single, and I had a fast car and a lead foot. I wasn’t much for following the rules back then. I got my first ticket when I was sixteen, and it snowballed from there. I was nineteen years old on the day I ran from the police.”

  Lauren giggled. “This is too funny. My dad was an outlaw in his youth.”

  “I wasn’t really an outlaw—I never got into much trouble other than driving violations. Reckless driving, driving on a suspended license, numerous speeding tickets. On that day, I ended up with another—attempting to elude police. But the story ended a lot better than it could have.”

  “The story ended with you getting caught,” Lauren jeered.

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying—and I tried hard to get away. At one point, I was a bat out of hell—going damn near eighty miles per hour on residential streets. After doubling back a couple of times and making a few more turns, I thought I was out of the danger zone. But at the next intersection, I was boxed in by several cruisers. I remembered my dad telling me a long time ago that you could outrun a cop, but you’ll never outrun the radio. He was right, and I knew it then. So I pulled the car to the curb, shut off the engine and prepared for doom.”

  “Were they mad?”

  “Yes, they were,” Alan said. “And with good reason. Some punk kid in a sports car just led them on a wild chase, risking lives and property. I told them I ran because I was scared and didn’t want another ticket, but they didn’t buy it. They tore my car apart, looking for something else to charge me with, but didn’t find anything. Eventually, they took me to jail, booked me and threw me into a holding cell. I got my phone call, and an hour later, I was released when my dad came to get me.”

  Lauren batted her lashes, her brows drawing together. She shifted her attention to the prison across the road, then back to her father. “Your story is missing the prison tie-in.”

  “I was getting to that,” Alan said, hesitating. “I ended up getting a thirty-day jail sentence because of what I did that day. All but five were suspended because my attorney warmed up the judge. I had no prior criminal record and no alcohol-related offenses—which held a lot of clout in that courtroom. I got off easy, but things could have gone way worse.” He paused. “As soon as I saw the cop hit his lights and turn to pursue me, I bolted. I turned onto the first street I saw and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. Adrenaline hit me, and I got tunnel vision. I could see a garbage truck in the road, and two men gathering trash, but I didn’t care about them or the truck, just the room I needed to thread the needle and get away. Sure enough, as I got closer, one of the men walked right into my path, and when I hit the horn, he stopped and froze. I yelled at him, but he just stood there. I closed my eyes, and like some miracle, he jumped out of the way at the last second. If he hadn’t, I probably would have killed him.”

  Lauren’s jaw dropped open. “Oh.”

  “There’s your tie-in, L. One stupid decision can create one bad outcome or start a cascading effect of subsequent stupid decisions—each having their own set of consequences. In one moment of thoughtlessness, I almost killed a man. I almost found my way into prison at the age of nineteen—because of a senseless mistake. It can happen to any of us, even if we tell ourselves it won’t.”

  Lauren just sat there, frowning and speechless.

  Alan patted her shoulder reassuringly. “You’ll be fine. I know you’re sensible enough not to jeopardize your freedom, though it’s important to bear in mind…even as law-abiding sovereign citizens of this country, the freedoms we’re theoretically endowed with are remarkably restricted in this day in age.” Alan pointed across the road. “Those living inside buildings like that are granted infinitesimally less.”

  “I hope you know I never forget anything you tell me,” Lauren said.

  “Good,” Alan said, shifting the car into drive and pulling onto the road. “Now, with all this fresh in your mind, there’s one more place I want to show you before we head off to the woods.”

  After half an hour of driving back the way they had come, Alan turned onto a curvy secondary road and pointed out an unusual group of buildings to his daughter as he slowly drove past. Not far away, on the opposite side of the road, he pulled the car into a church parking lot situated at a slightly higher elevation. Alan then turned the car to face the complex of buildings so they could both get a good view.

  “What’s this place? Another prison?” Lauren pondered, leaning forward in her seat. “I don’t see any signs anywhere.”

  “No, it’s not a prison. At least, not now, anyway.”

  Lauren snickered. “Okay, then what is it?”

  Alan leaned back and shrugged. “You tell me, L. Take a good, long look at it. Pay close attention to the layout and how the buildings are positioned. Recall everything you’ve seen today, add some imagination and that insight of yours, then tell me what you think it is. What does it look like to you? What’s it remind you of?”

  Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and took a moment to study the facility and surrounding grounds. The complex had a large vacant parking lot that appeared never to have been used before. Several buildings with identical architecture existed within the grounds, all pristine, also seemingly undisturbed. Windows were nearly nonexistent, and four tall obelisks, each protruding from the far corners of the property, stood out like observation towers. Stacks of shipping containers were organized in the hindmost portions. The entire annex was enclosed with a towering exterior wall made of concrete, devoid of color, topped with a combination of barbed wire and razor-wire fencing.

  Lauren’s brow lowered, and she toyed with her hair while a slideshow of mental snapshots moved before her mind’s eye. “It was built…not to keep people out, but to keep them in. Like a…modernized Stalin-era gulag,” she expounded in a near whisper. “I mean, almost—but not quite. You can’t see it at first glance, but if you use a little imagination, you can see…” She trailed off, hesitating. “It’s…Dachau, or…Belzec.” She paused again. “Maybe Auschwitz.”

  “Easy there, L. That education of yours is showing. Next thing you know, you’ll be delivering a dissertation on the Boer War.”

  Lauren turned to him, her eyes acute with interest and concern. “Dad—be real with me. What is this place?”

  Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea, L. All I know about it is that it’s a complete damn mystery. Every attempt I’ve made to gain information about it has run smack into a wall. Ask anyone who lives around here, and they’ll either say they don’t know, never noticed it before, or it’s probably just some building the local government owns. Thing is, if it was a government building, it would be a matter of public record, and this place isn’t. You can’t look it up online, and you can’t find any real estate records tied to the address at the clerk’s office. I know—I’ve tried. I was even escorted out of the courthouse one time for asking too many questions.”

  “That’s crazy. Okay, your turn. What do you think it is?”r />
  “You sure you want to hear this?” Alan asked. “You might think I’m out of my mind.”

  Lauren smiled. “I came to that conclusion a long time ago. But I still love you, and I still trust you, too.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Emphatically.”

  Alan beamed. He leaned back into his seat, crossing his arms. “Boy, did you say the magic word. All right, L. I’ll come clean. I think the property is retained by an emergency management entity—local, state, or federal, or maybe even all of the above. And I think it’s destined to be one of the internment camps we’ve all heard so much about—the ones that aren’t supposed to exist, and anyone saying otherwise is crazy, antigovernment, or even a tin-foil-hat-wearing conspiracy theorist, like your father. I think the complex was built for the purpose of managing future civil unrest during states of emergency, if and when martial law is ever declared.”

  Lauren sighed. “Why did I have the feeling you’d tender an answer like that?”

  “No idea. Have you heard me say something similar before?”

  Lauren giggled. “Maybe a couple of times.”

  “There I go repeating myself again,” Alan mused. “You probably won’t believe this, but there’s hundreds of these complexes strewn about all over the country. I saw one with my own eyes near Kingwood, and I know of another near Fort Lee in Fredericksburg. I started nosing around a year or so ago when I heard a rumor from a highly reputable source concerning their existence. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but what I’ve seen so far has made me a believer.”

  “I hit the nail on the head, then,” said Lauren. “It is a prison.”

  Alan shrugged and rolled his lips between his teeth. “Part of me wants to look at a place like this and let my mind go off the deep end with thoughts of torture, total removal of human rights, isolation of society by political and religious beliefs, forced labor, euthanasia, etcetera. But my ever-so-waning rational side wants to believe there’s a completely lucid explanation for their existence—because they do indeed exist, and anyone telling me otherwise should probably try on one of my foil hats for size. If the reason for them being here is legitimate, not nefarious, then why the secrets? Why the information vacuum? Supposedly, the CIA, DIA, NSA, and the things they do are big secrets, but I can drive within yards of their buildings on a state-maintained highway and hit their buildings with a snowball. I work in buildings each week where I’m inches away from materials and documents supposedly well above my own security clearance, and so long as it’s covered up, no one bats an eye. But find a place like this, ask perfectly reasonable questions about it, and I’m the bad guy. I’m the crazy person making things up that aren’t true because of my pre-formed conclusions. That’s the kind of crap that causes people to become paranoid in the first place.”