by John
No wonder the residents spend their time in the old casinos, Walker thought. Compared to what he’d experienced since January, this was paradise.
He toured the room and watched players at craps, roulette, and blackjack and poker tables. Some high-rollers played baccarat. Walker finally settled on taking a seat at an empty blackjack table, behind which stood a tall, gorgeous female dealer. The brunette appeared to be in her early thirties and wore a T-shirt and shorts like everyone else. Walker thought the shape of her body was exquisite.
“Is there a minimum bet?” he asked.
“Two chips,” she answered and held his eye. “New here?”
“Just arrived today.” He placed two chips in front of him on the table and she dealt cards. Walker had a six showing and a five underneath. He asked for a card and was given a three.
“Not many people come to Las Vegas anymore, they mostly leave,” she said. “How did you get here?”
“With a National Guard unit. Card.”
“You a Guardsman?”
“Nope.” She dealt him a four. He waved his hand. She turned her hidden card, revealing two face cards.
“Twenty,” she said.
“Aw, shucks,” he said as she flipped over his five.
“Eighteen. Too bad.” She took his two chips. He placed two more on the table.
“So you just hitched a ride with them, or what?”
“More or less. I’m a journalist. From LA.”
She dealt the cards. He had a face card hidden and a two showing.
“I hear it’s pretty bad there.”
“When I left it was. It’s not so bad here. In fact, it’s pretty nice. Card.”
She shrugged and dealt him an eight. “We’re surviving.” He waved his hand and she revealed her cards. “Nineteen.” She flipped his and made a face of approval. “Twenty. That’s two I owe you.” She gave them to him.
“Made my money back. What’s your name?”
“Kelsie. Kelsie Wilcox.” She held out her hand and he shook it.
“Ben Walker.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.”
When she dealt the next hand, Walker made note that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
The casinos shut down during the meal hours so everyone had a chance to eat. Walker asked Wilcox to accompany him to the communal mess hall and “show him the ropes.” He had won a total of forty-two chips at the blackjack table, tipped her seven, and walked out with thirty-five, which she guaranteed was more than enough to buy a meal.
The mess hall was a large circus tent, under which rows of picnic tables could seat over a hundred people. On one side of the space was a buffet line of sorts where customers could order whatever was available, pay for it in chips, and take a plate to a table. The evening’s fare consisted of oatmeal; a variety of fresh fruit; tossed salad with lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes; and vegetable lasagna cooked over a fire. For dessert one could have watermelon or s’mores—melted marshmallow and chocolate between two graham crackers.
“I have to say,” Walker commented as he and Wilcox grabbed seats in the crowded space, “you people have really done something incredible. I can’t believe how you’ve managed to make lemonade out of lemons, so to speak.”
Kelsie smiled. “It’s kind of like what my Grandma Wilcox did when she was young. She was one of those hippies you read about, you know, the teenagers with long hair that lived in communes in the sixties? She once told me all about living on a farm and having free sex and stuff. She ran around with rock musicians and smoked marijuana. Loved the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane.”
Walker laughed. “Geez, Jefferson Airplane. I haven’t heard about them in ages. She sounds like a cool grandma.”
“Yeah. She passed away in 2003. She contracted MS when she was in her forties. Her last decade of life was pretty awful. It was sad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. You know, Sheriff Mack does a great job. I love the guy. We all do. I think he knows everyone in town by name.” She took a bite and said, “So tell me about your experience so far. I want to hear about it.”
Walker shook his head. “Not tonight. I’ve been through a lot of crap. But I’ll tell you about it if you’re still talking to me tomorrow.”
She laughed. “Was that a pick-up line or something?”
“No! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.” He turned away, embarrassed. “I meant if I’m still here, if I see you tomorrow, if you don’t decide you can’t stand me tonight … I didn’t mean—”
Wilcox laughed again and touched his smooth cheek. “Don’t worry, I got it. I’m kidding you.”
At that moment Walker was struck by how naturally lovely she was. Her large brown eyes exhibited intelligence and wit, and her full lips betrayed a hint of desire. She was taller than him by an inch or so, and he hoped that didn’t matter to her. Her fingers on his recently-shaved face felt wonderful.
“Tell me about you, Kelsie. Are you from Vegas?”
“No, not originally. Believe it or not, I’m from Houston, Texas.”
“You don’t have a Texas accent.”
“Nah, I lost it somewhere after we moved. When I was twelve, my dad lost his job and we started moving around a lot. I think I must have lived in fifteen different states in the next six years. As soon as I turned eighteen, I left. We were in Chicago at the time. But I graduated from high school, even though I spent it going to six different schools, and I went to college at MIT.”
“MIT! Jesus, are you some kind of genius? One of those Mensa chicks?”
“Now that’s a pick-up line!” she snorted endearingly. Walker loved the way the skin around her eyes crinkled when she laughed. “No, no, I’m no genius. Well, I mean, I earned good grades and was on scholarship, if that counts. That was the only way I could go to MIT.”
“What did you study? Quantum physics?”
“Dream on. Electrical engineering.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head and smiled wryly. “And here I am dealing blackjack at a casino in Las Vegas.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Life happened. The bad economy happened. The price of oil went up. You know what happened.”
“How did you come to be in Vegas?”
“Well. I thought I had a job, at Hoover Dam no less. I did have a job. I moved to Boulder City and was all prepared to start work—when the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation cut seventy percent of the jobs. Naturally, all the newbies got axed. I was left high and dry. So I came to Vegas and got a job at Caesars Palace. That was just before it went under. Even when the city started going down the toilet, I stayed. And then the Koreans invaded. Now I work for the city’s reorganized Casino Management Company. The mayor and some other like-minded individuals got together and presented this wacky plan to the people—use casino chips for currency and rebuild the town communally. It smells of socialism, but you know what? It’s working.”
“Obviously. I wish there was a way to show the rest of America what you’re doing. It would be very inspiring.”
“But I am using my electrical engineering skills in other ways.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m part of the team that’s working on restoring the city’s power grid. I do that when I’m not at the blackjack table.”
“Any progress on that?”
She shook her head. “It’s going slow. We don’t have enough experienced people.”
Walker had a thought. “Say, do you know anything about radios?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, radios. Like what the sheriff has in his office. AM/FM. Broadcasting.”
“Do you mean the physical object? How to build one?” Walker wasn’t sure if that’s what he meant, but it sounded good. He nodded and she smiled. “Funny you ask. One of my class projects in school was to build a radio from scratch. So, yeah, I know how to do that. Providing I have the parts.”
; “Are there parts to be had in the city?”
“There’s a communal depot for salvaging electrical components near the hospital, a few blocks north of here. I thought about working there, too, but I figured they could use me more efficiently on the power grid. Anyway, that’s where people are bringing appliances and stuff to try and get fixed. There are also a couple of places in town where they fix cars.”
“I’ve noticed some folks driving around.” He slapped his head. “Boggles the mind!”
She laughed again. “Why do you ask? About the radio, I mean.”
“An idea I have brewing. I’ll tell you about it later.” He looked at her plate. “You done?”
“Yeah. I have to get back to the casino.”
“Well, come on, I have to win some more chips.”
They walked to Caesars Palace together. The sun was setting; despite the absence of the classic Las Vegas neon skyline, the Strip was beautiful.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“At Caesars.”
“What floor?”
“Is that a pick-up line?” She laughed at her own joke, but he could hear the flirtation in her voice.
WALKER’S JOURNAL
SEPTEMBER 17, 2025
I haven’t made a journal entry in a few weeks. Maybe it’s just not what I’m into anymore. I have other things on my mind.
Like … I’m in love. That’s right, me, Ben Walker, am head over heels in love with a woman named Kelsie Wilcox. I met her last month when the National Guard unit I was traveling with passed through Las Vegas. I was expecting Vegas to be a real dump after everything that’s gone on in the country, but boy, was I surprised. Las Vegas is friggin’ heaven! Not only have they got their shit together in Vegas—of all places—but that’s where I met her.
She’s tall—taller than me—and she’s gorgeous—better looking than me—and intelligent—a helluva lot smarter than me. We live together in a room at the old Caesars Palace hotel casino. After a month of awkward “dating” (do people still use that word?), she moved in with me. And I can’t believe it, but it’s working. After my divorce with Rhonda, I never thought I’d have another serious relationship, but that’s what it’s turning out to be. God, we get along, we make each other laugh, and the sex is incredible!
The National Guard unit moved on a week after we arrived in August. I could tell Captain Hennings felt bad about taking the men away from such an idyllic place. The guy I’m really going to miss, though, is Wally. Sergeant Kopple. We finally got to where we were calling each other by our first names, and he never does that with anyone. I’m worried about him ’cause he’s got a bad cough. Sounds serious. I hope they have a real doctor where they’re going so he can have it checked out. Of course, with the state of the union being what it is, medicine could be hard to come by. He wouldn’t be able to get X-rays. So, what the hell … anyway, I wish him well.
At any rate, I didn’t have to go with the Guardsmen because I wasn’t a National Guard. I elected to stay. I couldn’t think of any place else that might be in as good a shape as Vegas. And besides, Kelsie had caught my eye. Big time.
Later, man.
NOVEMBER 8, 2025
I’m now a radio DJ, can you believe it? I’m known as “DJ Ben.”
The idea began in September when Kelsie and I went to the electronics parts depot and got a bunch of junk to make a homemade radio. I also picked up an old CD player and some CDs. A little later, Kelsie and I went in together and bought a portable engine-generator. Cost us 3000 chips. So Kelsie and I built our own transmitter and receiver. It’s really a jury-rigged transistor board. Actually she’s the one who did all the work. Anyway, it’s really this circuit board thingy with tubes on it, and it can plug into an antenna that she made out of aluminum. Now we can receive stuff like that tired old recording by the president (which hasn’t changed since May) and even some reports from other folks who have repaired or rebuilt radios. So far we’ve heard from seven people. There’s a guy who calls himself Yankee Doodle—he’s in Washington State somewhere. There’s a guy in Texas called Max. Depending on how clear the sky is, we can receive stuff from as far away as Missouri.
So then I wanted to start broadcasting on my own. Kelsie fixed the transistor board so we can plug the CD player into it and actually send out music over the air waves. Add a microphone and—voila! Introducing DJ Ben!
At first I did it to amuse myself. I’d play some of my favorite oldies and do a sort of smooth DJ voice. After a while, I started giving news reports. I relayed what I learned from some of the other guys making broadcasts. Mostly I did the whole “peace and love” thing, trying to get people to cooperate with each other, ’cause that’s the only way we’re going to get out of this mess.
Then, around Halloween, lo and behold—I started receiving messages! “Hey DJ Ben, play some Led Zeppelin!” “Please DJ Ben, play Frank Sinatra!” “Keep it up, DJ Ben, you’re making us all feel better!” Well, that made my day. If playing music boosts morale around the country, then that’s what I’m going to do.
DECEMBER 24, 2025
It’s Christmas Eve!
Don’t have much new to report. It’s been a pleasant four months in Vegas. Kelsie and I keep busy playing around with the “radio station” and spend the rest of the time between the sheets.
I’ve been making friends over the airwaves. I’m in regular contact with Yankee Doodle and Max. I’ve been able to share information about the Occupation they’ve told me, and vice versa.
Did I mention how crazy I am about Kelsie?
Now if the Koreans will just stay away and leave us alone, everything will be great.
Merry Christmas to all!
SEVENTEEN
JANUARY 12, 2026
“You’re live,” Wilcox said as she adjusted the frequency on the transmitter. They sat in their makeshift “station” in one of the upper floor rooms in Caesars Palace. They’d found that the higher up they were, the better the transmission.
Walker winked at her and spoke into the microphone. “This is Radio Free America broadcasting to you from the edge of darkness. Greetings to all of you out there in Korealand. Have you had your daily serving of kimchi? Ha ha, just kidding. This is DJ Ben bringing you another hour of uninterrupted, commercial free news and music. Tonight we have a special treat for you. I’d like to be able to say I have Miles Davis himself in the studio this evening, but I’ve only got a CD of his classic 1959 album, Kind of Blue. It’s nice and moody, not just a little melancholic, and oh, so exquisite. And what a band, too. Not only Miles, but John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Paul Chambers, Jimmy Cobb, and Bill Evans. Amazing stuff.
“But before I get to the music, I want to thank everyone who’s been broadcasting news to me. I’ve tried to assimilate the information and intel I’ve been receiving and am dedicated to delivering it to you, America, just in case you didn’t hear it from the original sources. So keep your stories coming in, folks, and I’ll do my best to get ’em out there. Now for the news.”
Wilcox placed Walker’s notes in front of him and kissed his cheek. He smiled at her and studied the sheet.
“I don’t know how old this is, or when this actually occurred. I’m afraid we’ve had a major setback in our fight against the Koreans in San Pedro, California. Locals are calling it the ‘San Pedro Firestorm.’ Apparently a small group of workers, aided by a squad from the U.S. Army Corp of Engineers, managed to cause a series of major explosions at the Conoco-Phillips Oil Refinery just southeast of Los Angeles airport. The Koreans had control of the refinery, and our boys decided they’d rather destroy the oil than let it fall into the hands of the enemy. Unfortunately, the fires were driven by heavy winds and moved south, engulfing the Long Beach Naval Complex before shifting west. Two weeks after this report was made, areas of San Pedro were still burning. Well, folks, as I said, I don’t know how old this report is, so hopefully those fires are out now. Nevertheless, I think the refinery workers and the Corp of Engineers
should still be commended for their bravery. Here at Radio Free America, we try to impart only the truth, but seeing that I’m DJ Ben and all, you’re also going to get a little bit of editorializing.”
Wilcox handed him the next report.
“This next piece just came in from Yankee Doodle, our correspondent in Washington State. First, a little background to the story. In the days following the Korean invasion—God, was that almost a year ago?—the city councils of both Seattle, Washington, and Portland, Oregon, staged nonviolent ‘sit-ins’ on the steps of both city halls. The Korean military responded by hanging these government officials from downtown light poles.”
Walker paused to take a breath and adapted a more serious tone.
“I’m sure those of you in the big cities have seen atrocities like this. It pains me to report them, but as I said earlier, the truth must be heard. At any rate, in the weeks and months that followed, rebels in the two cities instigated a series of arson events against the main shipping areas to keep the Norks from using them. On January second of the New Year, five Elliot Bay cargo facilities were destroyed. The Occupational government then announced a dusk-to-dawn curfew with a strict shoot-on-sight policy for any Americans caught out during that time. This extreme imperative was brought home to Seattle Americans when three days ago, on January ninth, an ambulance crew was stopped and executed by Korean military forces while attempting to answer a midnight call for help. Yankee Doodle reports that both Seattle and Portland have become lawless areas after dark with civilian authorities unable to respond to any crimes or emergencies. So, my friends, it’s probably best to stay indoors during the curfew hours. One day we will take back our cities from these Korean dickheads.”