“Give Teddy a break, Clayton, that’s the most exercise he’s had all month.”
“Enough, the both of you, or next time I’ll make sure one of you breaks my fall.”
Clay chuckled. “Careful now Teddy, I wouldn’t want to see Deputy Greene arrest you for manslaughter.”
As he pulled alongside the bank, Clayton and the deputy laughed and continued the friendly banter, at Teddy’s expense. Lawson smiled and laughed good-naturedly along with them.
The pair disappeared over the bank and returned with several 5-gallon jugs. One by one, they handed them to Clay. The boat squatted lower in the water with each additional jug. A whiskey run was always perilous because the vessel’s ability to maneuver was greatly impeded. Clayton would have to trust that the moonless sky and his night-vision would be enough to keep him safe. They would also need to stop more often to make sure they were not being followed.
After they finished loading the boat, the conversation turned to more serious topics. They scheduled the date for the next transport and discussed what it would entail. After the terms were agreed to, Teddy disappeared up the hill for a moment and returned with a long, wooden box. Clayton grinned as he opened the box and gazed at the rifle.
He exclaimed, “Those four deliveries were definitely worth it.”
“I’d say. With this monster, you’re a force to be reckoned with on the water.”
“Yep, but I hope I never have to use it.”
“Peace through superior firepower, right Clay?”
Clayton grinned, “That’s the idea. I just hope Moses doesn’t bail off the boat if I ever use it.”
They all laughed as the cur rolled his head to the side and stared at the rifle in confusion.
“Here,” Clayton said, “help me mount it to the brackets on the dry well.”
After they mounted the rifle in front of Clayton’s seat, they shook hands and exchanged goodbyes. Clay checked his watch; he would have to hurry to make it across in time. He would have to wait until later to try out the gun.
He gave the men a final wave and pushed off from the pier. He extinguished the old lantern and pulled his helmet back over his head. Together, he and Moses silently trolled back across the slough.
After he was back in the cover of the thick brush, he waited impatiently for the sound of the truck cranking. Clay and Moses listened as Greene and Lawson bounced along the rough trail, eventually fading into the background noise of the swamp. Once he was satisfied that the bootleggers were safely on their way, Clay cranked his motor and idled off into the night.
***
Clay couldn’t help but admire the bolt-action rifle that was now mounted in the center of his boat. He had never felt inadequately armed with the M1 Garand that rested at his side, but having the fifty caliber gave him a completely different feeling while on the water. With the shallow-water capabilities of the boat, the night vision gear and now the large bore rifle, he felt indomitable. The fifty reduced nearly all cover on the river to merely decent concealment.
They were much more careful than normal on the trip to the opposite side of the river. The typically-nimble craft felt sluggish with the heavy load of whiskey. Clayton had to plan his maneuvers well ahead of time to ensure he could navigate the meanderings of the rivers’ cutoff. He would yank the motor’s tiller hard as they approached a curve, and then drift sideways as they skipped across their own wake.
Nights such as these always drove Moses wild. He would pounce about the boat, searching for somewhere he would not slide about. As soon as the cur felt satisfied with his new perch, they would begin to drift in the opposite direction as they navigated another bend.
They burst out from underneath the dense, tunnel-like canopy of the cutoff and onto the open water at full throttle. Clayton considered the final leg of the journey the most dangerous. The banks’ bluffs were higher and there were fewer side sloughs and bayous to escape into. Of course, now he had the fifty. Moses shrank into the bottom of the boat as they blew past Wolf Gut, Silver Lake and countless other backwater lakes and tributaries.
He scanned the high bluffs on either side, searching for any signs of trouble. He noted the numerous oil rigs that were barely visible from his low vantage point. He watched as the rigs’ traveling blocks moved through the varying stages of their up and down cycle. He reasoned it was a small positive; at least the oil wells were still pumping.
He hugged the opposite bank as they passed the wide sandbars just beyond Sibley Lake. They passed several more sloughs and bayous before abruptly turning to the east. He slowed to an idle and eased through a wall of dense brush. Beyond was a narrow slough, invisible from the other side of the foliage.
They crept along in an eastwardly direction for several hundred feet. As they rounded a sharp bend, Clay killed the motor. Moses perked his ears and listened for the sounds of any interlopers. Nothing but the sounds of the swamp could be heard.
After they were both satisfied with their solitude, Clay silently trolled deeper into the swamp. They continued on for several hundred yards. Finally, they drifted into a thick growth along the water’s edge.
Clayton plundered through his dry box until he found his coyote call. He licked his lips and brought the call to his mouth.
“Yip yip, hoooowwl!”
Clay sat in silence for several moments. Moses stared curiously at him all the while.
Again, he called, “Yip yip yip, hoooowwl!”
Finally, not far ahead, something called back.
“Yip-yip, hoooowwl!”
The howl made Moses anxious, but to Clay it was a welcome relief. It was the sound of another successful delivery.
“Come on Moses, let’s go see our friends.”
Chapter 11
William
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The riot police tried to contain the restless crowd, but it becoming rather obvious that the protesters had come in search of trouble. The radicals were milling about Independence Park and clustering in small groups. They restlessly listened to different speakers discuss varying topics ranging from what to do if you get arrested, to the weak points in a riot gear uniform. The day was perfect for the event; the weather was mild and the sky was clear. The turnout was larger than even the organizers had expected.
Independence Park was over 55 acres. It housed Independence Hall, the site where the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were fiercely debated and ultimately adopted. The hall was built in the 18th century, and was the original home of the Liberty Bell. The site was chosen as the rally point for the protest mostly because of the historical significance and the size of the area.
The park was also chosen because the buildings that surrounded it were despised by many of the agitators in attendance. The Philadelphia Mint, the National Museum of American-Jewish History, the Federal Reserve Bank of Philadelphia and the Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit all towered over the park. WHYY-TV was also just north of the site, so William’s event was certain to receive plenty of media coverage.
The area of the park that they had decided to occupy was slightly larger than five acres. It was bounded by Arch Street to the north and Market Street to the south.
William was hiding in Christ Church Burial Ground. He was in full disguise: a hoody, ball cap, gloves and sunglasses. He did not prefer the company of his acolytes. Most of them could not even articulate what they really believed in. He supposed that was well enough, as long as they would help him accomplish his goals.
He sat alone in the walled cemetery on a solitary bench and stared at the headstones of men who had been dead for hundreds of years. He despised the values of the men that rested here, but he grudgingly admired their accomplishments.
The men in the ground around him helped mold an entire continent nearer to their heart’s desire. If he should be so fortunate, he might one day mold it again. If the world was to be remolded, it would take a hot forge and a stout hammer, and perhaps a little help.
As long as the mementos of the past still endured, there would be no societal evolution. As long as the names of the men and the documents they forged could still be remembered, there would always be those who would resist him. The past would have to be destroyed, or the population would have to be made to forget. Ignorance was indeed strength.
Back at the park, a crowd was starting to gather around the main stage. William was scheduled to address the throngs shortly. The main stage was centrally located and faced south towards Independence Hall, affording him a commanding view of his disciples. The large speakers that rested on the stage were playing “Ohio”, and feeding the angst of the attendants.
A line of protesters along Market Street were hurling insults at the police. The officers stared back in stoic opposition. A steaming cup of coffee flew over the heads of the front-line agitators and exploded on an officer’s helmet. The man roared and leapt forward, but his companions grabbed him by the back of his uniform and jerked him back in line. The radicals erupted in loud jeers and catcalls that only served to escalate the tension.
One defiant youth leaned forward within inches of an officer’s face and began to berate him relentlessly. The crowd cheered him on as he continued with his audacious tirade. Chants began to arise from the crowd and the youth stepped back and joined in the chorus. The officer exhaled deeply and regained his composure. It was going to be a long day. Suddenly, the speakers thundered with the sound of deep bass beats. William would be onstage soon.
The mob squeezed in closer to the stage in anticipation of his appearance. It had been several weeks since he had spoken at an event. The crowd erupted in cheers as he emerged. The beats reached a climax as he stopped at the center of the platform. The music abruptly stopped as he thrust both arms skyward.
Their enthusiasm empowered him. He could feel their energy coursing through his body with electrifying intensity. He was a fiendish parasite and they were his oblivious hosts. He grabbed and spoke.
“Greetings, Philadelphia. I’m so glad you could make it to our little soiree.”
The crowd roared with approval. He allowed the applause to resonate until it naturally subsided, before continuing.
“I won’t keep you long, Philly. I know you didn’t come here for a lecture. You came here for some action, or perhaps reaction. I know I certainly did. I’ve been watching you, and the time for talk and weak-handed protests in this city is long past over.
I’ve watched as your leaders have stood idly by while your families starve in the streets. They can afford to send out thugs to evict you and your children from your homes, but they can’t afford to feed your hungry? How long do you have to suffer while they sleep comfortably in their beds with their pampered families safely down the hall? Is this what you expect from your city? Is this what you expect from your country?”
“No!” The crowd roared back in unison.
He questioned the crowd acrimoniously, “No?”
“No!”
“They fly their war toys – their drones – over your city like you’re rats. Vermin! Detritus! Waiting to be tossed out! They follow your every move and question your every motive. ‘Papers, please!’ they demand. As if you owe them anything! What do you owe them?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing!”
“If they don’t approve of your actions, they kick down your door and assault your freedom – that is, if you even have a home anymore. For the rest of you, they raid your tent cities and beat you like animals. Is this what you expect from your city? Is this what you expect from your country?”
“No!”
He mustered his finest sarcastic tone again, “No?”
“No!” They retorted.
“They refuse to provide you with the healthcare you are owed. They ignore your rights to an education. They bail out every fat-cat capitalist that sticks his palm out, while you go to sleep every night fearful of what tomorrow might bring. Your children and they’re hungry and ask you why you don’t love them anymore. They have erased your future. Your future! Your children’s future!”
The crowd hissed and booed at the comments as he continued.
“They erect altars to terrorism all around you. Look around you! The ground you stand on is a monument to colonialism and imperialism! Look at the towers around you. Look there!” he pointed the Appeals Court, “a temple to the gods that enslave you. And another, over there!” He turned and pointed to the Federal Reserve, “The slave masters to whom they traded your freedom for their thirty denarii!”
The crowd shouted and hurled threats and insults at the buildings. High above the park, fearful figures peered down at the raucous crowds. Many would be sleeping in their offices for the night. They prayed the front doors would not be breached and they would not be dragged into the streets like some third world prisoner of war. The last protest had quickly turned deadly as the crowd’s fury was directed at the few businessmen that still worked in the surrounding buildings.
He pointed to the southeast and continued with his fiery rhetoric, “And there, a museum for the history of the Zionists; the same wretched sub-humans that have caused so much of your suffering? They have a shrine for their evil deeds, what do you have?”
“Nothing!” The crowd hissed and jeered even louder than before at his inference.
“Enough!” He demanded.
The spellbound crowd echoed his demand, “Enough!”
William smiled; they were all his thralls now. Through his conjurations of lies and evocations of hate he had ensnared their minds. Now was the time for his black art theatrics. He stomped the stage with fury and thrust his arms into the air once again as he thundered with passion to his thralldom, “Fangen wir einen Aufruhr. Ein Aufstand!“
The crowd roared ever louder at the utterance of each word.
"Sie wollen damit zu kämpfen, geben wir ihnen einen Aufruhr!
Oder vielleicht Revolution, eine Lösung!
Verändern wir eine Nation, aber zuerst ein wenig Geduld.
Ich möchte Aufruhr, geben wir ihnen einen Aufruhr!"
The tempestuous crowd was at a boiling point, the energy was untameable by anyone but William. As he uttered the last verse of his teutonic chant, he withdrew a gleaming knife and held it high above his head. The crowd was in a frenzy. It clammored for a blood offering. Finally, he acquiesced and slashed a shallow cut down the length of each of his forearms. He raised each arm in turn and smeared the crimson across his cheeks and down his face. When he finished the gesture he stomped the stage and thrust his arms skyward one final time, before bellowing a nightmarish howl.
As William was performing his closing act, a dozen provocateurs filtered out from the back of the crowd and walked towards the line of police. The officers were visibly unnerved by the scene. Something wicked was brewing.
William jumped into the air. As he landed, he pointed towards the police and roared, "Now!“
Fast-paced industrial music blared from the stage‘s sound system. A dozen men simultaneously lit and launched their molotov cocktails at the police. The bombs exploded all along the line, engulfing the panicked officers.
Several cops dove on the ground and frantically rolled around in vain trying to extinguish the flames, but the hate-fueled fire was too great to be denied. The blood frenzy of the crowd now had a focal point – the terror-stricken police. The crowd fanned out in all directions, seeking anything or anyone to immolate. All the while, William continued to shriek orders from atop the stage like some malevolent, planar
fiend. A ghastly smile engulfed his bloody face.
He had never felt more alive.
***
The Learjet was plush and relaxing, compliments of one of his many supporters. William was half-way back to D.C. and on his second martini. He could not have felt any better. He stared out the window at Chesapeake Bay. It was empty; there were no sailboats, no yachts – nothing. The open water was desolate.
From his comfortable, captain’s chair, he closed his eyes and envisioned the horror and suffering that was occuring far beneath him. He did not feel sympathy to those below him. He knew that it was a necessary transition that had to be endured to achieve his ends.
He could see the pain in many of the faces of the people who came to his protests. They were searching for guidance from anyone that would give it. He gave them his solutions and they believed him without question. A fundamental ideological transformation would be required before he would allow things to return to some semblance of normalcy.
His feet were propped up and he was beginning to fall asleep when his phone began to vibrate. He ignored the first and second calls, but he finally relented and answered the third.
“What?”
“How was your little rally in Philly?”
“It was so amazing, you wouldn’t believe it. We brought that town to its knees. We had over five thousand people show up and had probably another five thousand join in before I left, and it’s not over – not by a long shot. They’ll be burning that town for a week.”
“Did you do your German bit?”
“Of course, they loved it.”
“They’d love it so much more if they had a clue as to what it meant.”
William laughed.
“William, we need to meet soon. I need to come to the city.”
“What about?”
“I’m not talking about it over the phone. I’ll be in town in a few days. I’ll call you when I get there. We can meet at Johnny’s spot.”
“I better not be disappointed with this meeting.”
The Western Front - Parts 1-3 (Western Front Series) Page 8