2041 The Peoples' United States

by T W Powell

  Visitors to Austin could use their Peoples’ Credits at a highly inflated rate. Those transactions were “on the books” and the Peoples’ Credits could be used to buy supplies and pay bills, leaving a very small profit, a “just” profit. The locals carried Gold, Silver, or Turquoise, which were now the “coins of the realm” in Austin. You could accumulate these hard assets, whereas Peoples’ Credits were merely credits in cyberspace and linked to each Member’s implanted RFID chip. Those Credits were controlled, monitored, and could be confiscated at will by The Collective. All a Member had to do was wave his right hand over a scanner as payment for goods and services.

  “What the hell does it take to get a beer around here?” Tom yelled as he walked into the Saloon at the National Café.

  The bartender/manager/owner, Vince, replied, “It takes money, and I don’t mean that Collective cybershit. I’m talking about something shiny.”

  Vince was known around town by just “Vince”, no need to bother

  with a surname. He cut a rugged appearance, tall, thin, and wiry with a full head of gray hair.

  “Jackson, are these two young men your offspring?”

  “Yes, they are. This here is Tom Jr., we call him Tommy, and this young fella’ is Adam.”

  “Boys, please accept my condolences for having such a royal son-of-a-bitch as your father.”

  With that, Vince came out from behind the bar and shook the boys’ hands, then gave Tom a big bear hug, “The usual for you Tom?”

  “Yep, and don’t try slipping me any of that Collective swill.”

  “What will it be for the boys?”

  “Well boys, soda pop or beer?” Tom gave the boys a choice.

  Tommy and Adam just stood there, dumbfounded.

  Then Tommy piped up, “Vince, I’ll have what Dad’s drinking.”

  Adam followed suit, “Me too, Vince.”

  Vince poured all three Jacksons a local draft beer, then, for the next half hour, had the pleasure of watching Tommy and Adam as they learned to stomach the taste of that beer.

  Tom just sat there for a few minutes musing, “This place is one of the few places in the whole damned country where men could still be men and bust each other’s balls.”

  Then Tom spoke up, “Vince, has your old lady finally wised up and left your sorry ass or is she back there in the kitchen cooking?”

  Vince chuckled, “That old woman wouldn’t give me the satisfaction; besides, she enjoys bitching at me too much to leave.”

  “Then how about having her cook up three bacon cheeseburgers with fries.” Jackson then slapped a couple of silver dollars down on the bar.

  Vincent yelled back to the kitchen, “Stormy, Honey, three bacon cheese with fries.”

  He then turned back to Tom, “Medium rare?”

  All three Jackson’s replied, “Yep.”

  Vince and Tom shot the breeze while the boys devoured the burgers and fries. After supper, Tom gazed intently through the large, cased opening that led into the Café,

  “Is that Stormy’s homemade cherry pie I spy in the Café display case?”

  Vince proudly replied, “Miss Stormy’s best.”

  Tom plunked another silver dollar down on the bar and said, “Three cherry pies, a beer, and two milks.”

  Tommy and Adam were both visibly relieved to have milk, not another beer, with their pie.

  Tom hollered back into the kitchen, “Miss Stormy, Sweetie, some whipped cream on that pie would be great, if you’ve got it.”

  The boys now had their bellies full and Miss Stormy’s cherry pie was off the charts.

  “Vince, I better get these boys back to the Pony Express, we have another long day tomorrow. What time will Miss Stormy be here in the morning?”

  “She’ll be here by 5:30 a.m. We’re expecting an early guest.”

  “Let Miss Stormy know I’ll be around back about 6 a.m. I think I may have some horse trading to do with your visitor.”

  As Tom and the boys walked out the front door of the National Café, Vince shouted, “Semper Fi!”

  With a wave of his hand, Tom replied, “Oorah!”

  Tommy and Adam slept like babies. The bunkhouse room was simple but warm and comfortable. The corral out back must have met with the approval of the livestock as not a peep was heard all night long, not even a bray or whimper from Daisy.

  It was damned cold the next morning. Tom let the boys sleep in and made his way to the back door of the National Café. He knocked twice and Miss Stormy opened the door. For a mature lady, Miss Stormy was a statuesque beauty with not a trace of gray in her auburn hair.

  “Good morning ‘Sweet Cakes’, has our friend arrived?”

  “I’d slap any other man who called me Sweet Cakes at 6 a.m., and yes, ‘Honey Buns’, he’s in the Saloon.”

  Tom made his way through the kitchen, then the Café, and finally into the Saloon. A lone figure rose from a table in the middle of the saloon, right next to the pool table. A few rays of early morning high desert sun shone brightly through a poorly shuttered window. Just enough light for Tom to make out the face of an old friend. Tom immediately snapped to attention and saluted. His friend returned the salute.

  “Good morning Corporal Jackson.”

  “Yes, it is a good morning, Lieutenant Smith.”

  Since the Revolution, Lieutenant Smith was now just Delvin Smith. Delvin stood about 6 foot and weighed in around 190 lbs. He was in good shape for a man in his early 40s. Traveling around the western states was not too difficult for a smart Black guy like Delvin. He set aside the outer trappings of the Corps to blend into The Collective, but “once a Marine, always a Marine” accurately described both Delvin Smith and Tom Jackson.

  “Business first Delvin?”

  “OK, everything on your list is out in the truck. Medical supplies, rice, beans, sugar, coffee, batteries, and all the other odds and ends. Oh yeah, the ammo is in those Frosted Flakes boxes.”

  Jackson had complete faith in Delvin and vice versa.

  Tom smiled and said, “Don’t know how you do it, but you always come through.”

  “Let’s have a look at those stones.” Delvin was eager to inspect “the merchandise”.

  Tom opened the leather pouch and pulled out three Ziplock bags of Turquoise, about a quarter pound total. “This is some of the best Turquoise on the market, mi amigo. I’ve got two steers over at the Pony Express that each gross about 1700 lbs. Best guess is they’ll each dress out at about 1,000 lbs. How about calling the steers an even trade for the supplies, then we’ll haggle over the stones?”

  “That sounds fair to me. Now let’s look at these stones.”

  Delvin pulled out his jeweler’s loupe and carefully examined the stones, “That damned secret mine of yours has some really world class stones. Back in the real world, you would be a millionaire many times over.”

  Tom agreed, “They are pretty nice, at least AAA.”

  “You ain’t just shitting. That Persian Blue color, good hardness, very subtle matrix, and a hint of iridescence makes these stones primo.” Delvin continued to examine the turquoise for a couple of minutes.

  Then Delvin started the calculations, “So, 5 carats to the gram and you have a little over 100 grams, that’s 500 carats. The stones are raw, let’s say an ounce of gold per 40 carats.”

  Tom then corrected the computation, “That’s actually 110 grams, 550 carats.”

  Delvin quickly recomputed, “OK, OK, 550 carats. 550 divided by 40 equals 13.75 ounces of gold. I’ll round that up to 14 ounces.”

  “Deal!” Tom and Delvin shook on it.

  Delvin then pulled out his own leather pouch and counted out the small, stackable, 1 oz gold bars, “That’s 14 bars, Corporal Jackson. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yes, it is Lieutenant Smith.”

  Gold was a much more liquid and universally accepted asset compared to turquoise. Tom could trade gold anywhere.

  Tom cut to the chase, “Now that we’re square on all that,
what can I do for the Cause?”

  “Corporal Jackson, something is going on with our Chinese friends and their little bitches in The Collective.”

  “Isn’t something always going on with that bunch?”

  “No, this is different. I’ve been busy hauling PPE, disinfectant, hand sanitizer, you know, pandemic supplies, to Peoples’ Clinics all along the West Coast. The only problem is, there ain’t no pandemic.”

  Jackson snapped back, “Yet, Lieutenant, Sir. There isn’t a pandemic yet.”

  “We think you’re spot-on target, Tom. I just got word from back East about a medical conference in Peoples’ City, you know, DC. The Collective is preparing for something. Among those supplies out in my truck you’ll find extra ammo and some pandemic supplies. Tom, until advised otherwise, you and your family will assume that a pandemic of some sort is in progress.”

  “Understood, Lieutenant.”

  “Tom, can your boys shoot and follow orders?”

  “Hell yes, Sir”

  “How about your worthless old man?”

  “Dad has slowed down a little, but his orneriness makes up for it. That old man is still the best rifleman in Nye or Lander County. Sounds like you’re asking about numbers down at the Ranch.”

  “Yes, Corporal, we may need that strength.”

  “There’s another solid man, a fugitive of sorts, and his wife, living with us since right after the Battle.”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “His home and small son were incinerated in the bombing.”

  “Man, Thomas, that’s a bunch of hate for a man to carry with him on a mission. Self-control, Tom, can he keep his cool and follow orders?”

  “Leave Carlos to me. He will be ready, if needed.”

  “Corporal Jackson, your orders are to keep your family healthy, bring your people up to combat readiness, be prepared for extended movement via horseback, render your home and other Ranch facilities even more undetectable and defensible, and await further orders.”

  “Understood, sir,” Tom then pulled four of the gold bars out of his pouch and handed them back, “Delvin, these are for the Cause.”

  “Tom, I’ve got two BARs in the truck. They’re antiques, heavy as hell, Korean War vintage, but they pack one hell of a punch. Do you think Miss Daisy can pack those, plus 1,000 rounds of ammo?”

  “Only, if I slip her an apple, or carrot, Sir.”

  Smith’s Drayage

  When Delvin came home from Okinawa in early 2026, he did not receive a hero’s welcome. A distinguished Marine officer was treated like a piece of shit. He got the same treatment that Spud’s Dad received in ’75, dished out by the same cast of characters; elitist professors, self-righteous entertainers, America hating media-types, “born yesterday” college students, and spineless politicians. Delvin was discharged from the Corps just as America fell into chaos.

  When he got home, Delvin had his hands full as his Dad, Duane, had suffered a debilitating stroke and Mom spent all her time caring for Duane. This left the family’s small, but well established, drayage business leaderless. Based in Stockton, CA, Smith’s Drayage had two 26-foot box trucks with lift gates. Over many years, Smith’s had achieved quite a reputation for on time, safe, hot shot deliveries. With Dad laid up, Delvin took over.

  Despite Delvin’s tireless efforts, the business went to hell when the Revolution began in earnest later in 2026. Delvin was forced to lay off his entire staff; two drivers, mechanic, warehouseman, and office manager. Mom took calls at the house and kept books. Delvin drove 20-hour days.

  As the violence and anarchy increased, the Elites, who were largely responsible for the unrest, found that they could no longer get the luxury goods that befit persons of their station. Delvin quickly identified and filled that market niche.

  Delvin’s polished manner and appearance, along with his street smarts, enabled him to slightly alter the Smith’s Drayage business model. Delvin immediately recognized that diesel and gasoline were going bye-bye thanks to the Green Edicts, but he also recognized that battery technology could not power large trucks. Before the Revolution, many mass transit systems had already converted their busses to compressed natural gas, CNG. Delvin followed suit converting one of his trucks to CNG. Sure enough, once The Collective took control, diesel and gasoline engines were outlawed. Trucks, buses, and trains immediately converted to compressed natural gas, or liquified natural gas, and Delvin was ready.

  The Collective took power gradually and chaotically. There were leaders, but no Leader. The term “Collective” was used to describe the government. It was democracy on steroids.

  The law was whatever the mob decided it to be on any given day. Anyone, at any time, could be denounced. Members would then gather round and guilt, or innocence, would be determined, a verdict decided, and a remedy rendered on the spot.

  There was no private property. All property belonged to The Collective. Capitalism was outlawed as being symptomatic of the vile social disease known as “Whiteness”.

  The nation’s borders were thrown wide open to People of Color, Caucasians need not apply. Millions flocked in from Latin America, Africa, and Asia. Most could not speak English, nor did they know any American history or culture.

  The most vile form of Whiteness was Male Whiteness. White males were rounded up and sent to Racial Reparations camps where they would work for the rest of their lives as reparations for their Whiteness. Unborn White children were systematically aborted. As exemplified by Tasha and Beth, white females could function in The Collective if their partner were a Person of Color, or if they were a member of some other aggrieved group.

  The supreme evil was Zionism, and the supreme enemy was the Jewish People from which it sprang. The Collective declared that Zionism had oppressed People of Color for almost a century. The bastard child of Judaism was Christianity, a racist and homophobic cult. Islam was the only religion tolerated by The Collective, only because it opposed Zionists. Muslims received special consideration only as long as Islam furthered the goals of The Collective.

  Capitalism was virtually eliminated by the elimination of money. In the Peoples’ United States, it was illegal to hold gold, silver, jewels, or any other disposable unit of value. Each Member’s account was loaded monthly with Credits and linked to the implanted RFID chip. Credits could only be accepted by organizations sanctioned by The Collective.

  Personal achievement and initiative were diametrically opposed to The Collective’s goal of Equality of Outcome. Every aspect of life was constantly monitored by friends, family, neighbors, and associates. The omnipresent Peoples’ Phone virtually eliminated privacy.

  Throughout history, most “Terrors” evolve slowly and chaotically, eventually consuming their own. This was the case with the French Revolution, Russian Revolution, and Mao’s Cultural Revolution. This Terror, known as The Collective, had now been in control for 15 years and grew more chaotic every day.

  The term “in control” was not exactly accurate. The Collective was in control of urban areas where the masses depended upon the government. Over the years, many suburban areas were slowly, and sometimes violently, absorbed into The Collective, but rural areas remained a problem, particularly the more remote areas.

  It was not difficult to establish large collective farms in the Bluegrass of Kentucky, California’s San Joaquin Valley, or the rich prairies of Iowa. Remote areas, such as Appalachia, the Louisiana swamps, the Rockies, and Big Smoky Valley, were another matter entirely.

  For the past 15 years a brush fire war had smoldered in rural America. Yes, most of these warriors were White, fighting for their homes and their very lives, but a surprising number were not. Texas’ Big Bend country had become a vast redoubt for Hispanic Texans, unwilling to turn over farms and ranches to the Collective. Some of these Texans’ forefathers fought shoulder to shoulder with Travis and Crockett at the Alamo. These same Texans repulsed the Mexican Army Incursion of ’35 without any assistance from The Collective, who had utt
er contempt for their own borders. Many Southern black Christians fled to swamps in Louisiana and the mountains in Georgia, North Carolina, and Virginia. And we now know that one young black man outside Winchester, Kentucky gave his life resisting The Collective.

  The White Elites realized too late that they had helped birth a monster. Even more betrayed were the highly educated liberal East Coast Jewish communities. When The Collective took control, it was just a matter of weeks until the persecution of Jews began. Within months, the Revolution turned against the White Intelligentsia, because, after all, they were White and mostly affluent.

  The most pitiful examples were the White Tech Billionaires. They used their unimaginable wealth and power to bring about the Revolution, only to be imprisoned or murdered by The Collective. Their vast wealth was confiscated, and their technology was appropriated by the Chinese.

  Delvin made a fortune in gold, silver, and jewels smuggling those Elites out of San Francisco, Sacramento, and Los Angeles, and made another fortune bringing black market goods back into the cities. Beef was in high demand along with eggs, coffee, chocolate, and glory of glories – pork. Delvin added refrigeration to his trucks to better handle meat, eggs, and dairy shipments.

  Smith’s Drayage quickly became one of The Collective’s favored services. The operator was a Person of Color. Yes, Delvin was male, but his two drivers were Black females. By now, both trucks had been converted to “reefers’ and both now ran on CNG. Ever the promoter, Delvin painted both trucks “Environmental Green”. By constantly stroking his Collective contacts and performing countless favors, Smith’s Drayage became a “go to” service for The Collective.

  Delvin’s trusted drivers, Roxy and Josie, made the legitimate runs during the day, while Delvin handled the more lucrative deliveries at night and on the weekends, Friday & Saturday. Delvin skillfully played his game with The Collective, but his long game was not a game. Lieutenant Delvin Smith had taken an Oath to, “defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” And, by Almighty God, that’s exactly what he intended to do.