Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  Dieter broke in, “Resistance is not enough. Even courage is not enough. It must be sensible. There must be a plan. We need serious political leadership. That’s why it’s so exciting to have you here.”

  Devin was seated on an old metal chair and they pressed around, surrounding him. “What the hell do you want from me?” he demanded. “I’m one man. I failed. I tried and I failed. I was beaten. No one stood up in ninety-two.”

  “They did stand up!” Alan exclaimed. “All over the country.”

  “I didn’t see them,” Devin said, and he knew at once that the words were not true, that they embodied five years of pent-up bitterness. “It doesn’t matter,” Devin said.

  “You can’t just sit here and do nothing,” a woman cried. “You have a responsibility. You . . She was too angry to finish.

  The others looked at him waiting.

  Devin looked back at them in anguish. “I’m sorry,” he said, with genuine grief, and walked out into the darkness.

  Justin did not leave Milford County immediately after he roared away from Jackie’s home on his motorcycle. His plans were unformed and unsettled.

  He called on Puncher and some of his other friends to say a proper goodbye and go out in a blaze of glory. They were gathered in the darkness beside a remote stretch of highway in the southern part of the county. Several of the boys carried rifles and one had a pair of

  Molotov cocktails. Justin was at the wheel of a pickup truck that had four spotlights rigged across the top of its cab. Far to the south, a pair of headlights glittered on the highway.

  “Okay, get ready,” Justin commanded. He pulled a bandanna over his face and the others did the same.

  Moments later, a big semi roared into view. Justine drove the pickup straight at the truck, his searchlights beaming directly into the driver’s face. Blinded, the driver wrenched the wheel. The semi twisted and skidded crazily out of control. It jackknifed, sending the trailer portion into the ditch. When the driver climbed out, he raised his hands in the air automatically. Justin greeted him with a shotgun.

  “Get down,” Justin ordered.

  “Sure, buddy, you got no trouble from me, okay? Just watch that a little, all right?”

  “Is the back door boobied?” Justin said impatiently. The driver was a small, paunchy man. “Yeah,” he said. “I got to release the circuit.”

  “Do it,” Justin said. “And do it right, because you’re the one opening the door.”

  The driver climbed back into the cab and flipped a switch under the dash. “What are you, amateurs?” he grumbled. “No driver’s dumb enough to fool around. You think I care if the gooks don’t eat?”

  “Open it!” Justin commanded. The driver unlocked the back of the truck and swung the door wide.

  Puncher shone a flashlight inside. “Son of a bitch, would you look at that!”

  Inside the truck was a cornucopia the likes of which none of the boys had ever laid eyes upon: hams, sides of beef, crates of fruit and vegetables, spices, boxes of pastry, cases of wine. A king’s banquet.

  “Jesus, let’s split it up,” a boy cried.

  “Pull the pickup around,” Puncher ordered.

  “No,” Justin said coldly. “Bum it. All of it.”

  “Man, are you crazy?” a boy asked.

  Justin spoke again. “If we take it we’ll be like them. We’re better than that.”

  “What about our people?” a boy protested.

  “Bum the damn stuff,” Justin said.

  Puncher brought up a Molotov cocktail and started to light it. The driver, still covered by shotguns, looked at Justin and grinned. “That’s a tough kid,” he said. “Maybe dumb, but tough.”

  “Take off,” Justin said. “Down the road.”

  The driver shrugged and started to run. Puncher tossed one of the firebombs into the truck. Others did the same. They stood and watched as the flames began to eat away at the meats and crates of fruit and vegetables.

  “Barbeque,” Puncher said.

  “Let those bastards go hungry for a change,” Justin said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Puncher pulled him aside. For a moment, the two friends stood together in the flickering firelight. “You coming back to my place?” Puncher asked.

  Justin pulled off the bandanna and shook his long blond hair. “No, man,” he said. “This barbeque is my goodbye party. I’m headin’ west.”

  He started for the pickup, then turned back and gazed a moment at the burning truck, the wasted food, the gesture that so few would understand.

  This one’s for you, Devin, Justin thought, standing alone on the now deserted road. The rig burned fiercely, the fiery flames shooting up wildly, illuminating Justin’s eyes. Justin heard a whining sound piercing the night. He looked up and saw two helicopters far off approaching.

  He got into his truck and took off down the highway.

  Peter was asleep when Ward Milford called about the hijacked truck. He got up quietly, dressed, and drove to the scene at once. There wasn’t really anything he could do, but he felt a responsibility; there hadn’t been much crime in the county and he thought anything as big as this deserved his personal attention.

  When Peter arrived, a small army of police and military officials was clustered around the charred wreckage of the food-supply truck. Ward and another deputy were there, as well as a contingent of UNSSU troops led by Major Helmut Gurtman.

  The tall, black-clad commander greeted them with a curt nod. “Have you questioned any of the Exiles?”

  “We’re covering all the possibilities,” Ward said.

  “What did the driver say?” the German asked.

  “He said they blindfolded him,” Ward replied. “He never saw their faces.”

  “I think we can handle this, Commander,” Peter said pleasantly.

  “This is not an ordinary hijacking. The contents were burned, not stolen,” Helmut said sharply. “That makes this an act of terrorism. Terrorism is our responsibility.”

  “We’ll put an escort on your supply truck,” Peter said. “That should solve the problem. I’m sure it was a hit-and-run job from outside the county.”

  “Such certitude is rare,” Helmut said. “I thought it interesting that we have this incident only days after the return of the dissident Devin Milford.”

  “I guess now there’ll be somebody to blame everything on,” Ward grumbled.

  “I simply point out the coincidence,” Helmut said icily. “Perhaps his presence excites the adventurous.”

  “Look, I think your prison camp took care of Devin,” Peter said, his bitterness only slightly concealed.

  “Keep me apprised of your progress,” Helmut said, and without waiting for a reply marched back to his jeep.

  Peter turned back to Ward. “What do you think?”

  The big deputy shook his head. “Pretty good job. It could have been outsiders. Maybe somebody followed the truck up from Kansas City.”

  “Drove all that way to bum twenty thousand dollars’ worth of food?” Peter said. “What about Devin? Could he have been involved?”

  Ward was surprised—and angry—that Peter could so readily suspect Devin. “Hell, you’ve seen him. I don’t think he could rob a piggy bank right now. And besides, goddammit, my brother was a politician, not a terrorist.”'

  “You’re right.” Peter was quiet for several seconds. “I’ll see you back in town.”

  “Peter?”

  Peter turned back. “Yes?”

  “Just for your information, Justin hasn’t been home for a couple of days. I think maybe he’s left for good. I don’t expect that to break your heart, as far as your daughter is concerned, but I thought you ought to know.”

  Amanda opted to ride her bicycle to Milford High. Riding made her feel somewhat exhilarated, perhaps due to the unencumbered movement, perhaps simply because she felt completely in control. She pulled off the road onto the sidewalk and walked her bike into the faculty parking lot, where there was a combination of
bicycles, pickups, and motor scooters. She slid the bike into the rack and started toward her alma mater.

  She walked through the empty corridors, then stopped outside a classroom and looked inside. It was empty.

  Down the hall she saw Vice-Principal Herb Lister walking through. “Excuse me . .

  Lister turned around and was instantly officious. “Mrs. Bradford. What an unexpected pleasure.” He walked over to where she stood. “Congratulations on Peter’s nomination.”

  She found herself instantly resenting his use of Peter’s first name. “Thank you. I was looking for Alethea Milford.”

  Lister’s face darkened a little at the mention of Alethea, but he maintained the facade of courtesy. “I believe she and her class are in the cafeteria. Everyone is working on the banners for the Lincoln Day parade. Here, let me take you; I was just going that way.”

  He walked her over to a small, nondescript building, then left. The cafeteria had been transformed into a workspace. Tables had been pushed to the edge of the room. Long rolls of cloth and butcher paper were stretched across the floor. Alethea stood against the far wall, supervising a group of students. As Amanda approached her, Alethea looked up quizzically, her guard going up.

  “May I talk to you?” Amanda asked.

  Alethea cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose if you have the party’s permission ...”

  Amanda stiffened at the quip. “Look, I didn’t come here to be your friend. I came about Devin.”

  “Does Peter know you’re here?”

  “No,” Amanda admitted.

  Alethea glanced around. “Let’s go over here,” she said, leading Amanda to the far side of the room.

  “I saw Devin yesterday,” Amanda explained. “We talked about Marion and his sons. He wanted to see them.”

  “What good does that do?” Alethea snapped. “He doesn’t have the will or the resources.”

  “There’s something you should know about Marion. What happened to her,” Amanda said. “She’s in Chicago. She’s done very well since then. She’s a magistrate and a member of the National Advisory Committee.”

  “Party member and everything,” Alethea remarked. “Party leader,” Amanda corrected her. Alethea seemed impressed. “We saw her at the reception in Omaha,” Amanda continued. “I don’t know whether she was just opportunistic or perhaps had something to do with what happened to Devin.”

  “She had something to do with . . . ?” Alethea wasn’t following Amanda very well.

  “I don’t know. She seems very . . . well connected.” “The bitch,” Alethea snapped. “Was it true about her and the Russian general?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Anyway, she asked Peter to make sure Devin didn’t try to see her or the children. She’s afraid of him. She’s . . . she’s changed her name, and the boys’ names, back to Andrews.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” Alethea demanded. “Why don’t you tell Devin?” Amanda lowered her eyes. “Peter made me promise not to tell him.”

  “Aha, the plot thickens,” Alethea said. “So you keep your promise by telling me instead.”

  “I trust you’ll do what’s right,” Amanda said. “I know you love him.”

  Aiethea stared at her a long moment. “After all these years you still love him.” Then, with an ironic smile, she said, “That’s a long time for a high-school crush.”

  Amanda did not answer. The silence was finally broken when Alethea’s students called to her. Four of them held up a twenty-foot banner they had just painted: we are the future, it proclaimed.

  “Gives you hope, doesn’t it?” Aiethea said bitterly.

  Peter sat at his desk, thoughts short-circuiting his mind. He tried to calm the nervousness rising in the pit of his stomach, but each time he achieved a modicum of relief, he’d think about just one more issue in his life. He was swimming in enough self-pity to fill the Atlantic. There was the Russian, Denisov, seriously considering him for governor-general, and Amanda, distant lately, putting all of her energy into the Exiles, fearful of his impending appointment. And then, there was Jackie. He had had her reinstated in the dance company but she remained withdrawn, hostile, as if she blamed Peter for Justin’s disappearance. Ah yes— Justin. Peter hadn’t reported Justin’s absence to the SSU, although the law clearly required it. He also knew, intuitively perhaps, that Justin and his friends had hijacked the food truck. Justin the rebel, so much like Devin.

  Thoughts of Devin sped through Peter’s mind, like a tape recorder on fast forward. When Devin had first appeared at his office, Peter could not contain his shock at the image that stood before him. Devin seemed a fragment of the man he used to be, brittle physically and emotionally, as if at any given moment he would break. Peter had driven Devin to the interrogation office, where all Exiles had to go before they were allowed to be reinstated into their respective county. The conversation consisted of idle chatter, and uncomfortable pauses. Devin wanted to know what had happened with the peacekeeping units—the army, navy, etc. Peter filled him in: “discharged or integrated with the national guard.” The ride was short; ten minutes, if that, but long enough for both men.

  After arriving at the interrogation center, Peter had followed Helmut Gurtman to a control booth, from which he saw Devin placed on a high stool in the center of the room. What Peter witnessed was perhaps more painful for him than it was for Devin, an inhuman process he could still remember verbatim.

  Peter talked to Devin as they drove away from the center, although he wasn’t at all sure that his old friend was listening.

  “Look, Dev. Let me just say something, okay? Maybe it doesn’t make any difference, maybe it does. You know I was never very interested in politics. Even when we got back from ’Nam, it was always you who had the idea things should be different. I guess I’m just not visionary like you are. Now they’ve picked me to be a candidate for the whole area. God knows how; I’m not in the party or anything, but if I’m elected, I’m going to do it. I think the only way to get rid of them is to get ourselves together. I think we can make it as a people—even if it means giving up some of the idea of what we always thought we were. That’s where I am—we all still admire you and love you, man—you know?”

  Sitting at his desk thinking about it weeks later, Peter still felt very self-conscious. His stomach squirmed at the memory.

  As though materializing out of his dream, Devin Milford threw open the office doors and marched angrily toward Peter’s desk.

  “My sons are in Chicago,” he said, fuming. “You knew it and didn’t tell me.”

  “Who told you that?” Peter demanded. “Was it Amanda?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody else knew,” Peter pressed.

  “It wasn’t Amanda. Dammit, what difference does it make? The point is I know where my sons are.”

  Peter saw the fires rising in his old friend. He’d seen that passion before. In high-school sports, sometimes. In Vietnam, when he’d thought the war was right, then back home, when he’d decided it was wrong. He knew that once Devin made up his mind about something, there wasn’t much anyone could do to stop him.

  “I’d like to help you, Devin,” he said. “Our friendship means a lot to me. But there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I’ve got to see my kids.”

  Peter pushed a piece of paper across his desk. “Dev, have you read the parole stipulation?” he said gently. “One of the conditions is that you not see Marion or the boys. No calls, no letters, no visits, nothing.” Devin glanced at the paper, then crumpled it and threw it aside. “They’re my children. I have a right—” “You have no rights—that’s the point. Don’t you understand? You’re an Exile. What’s more, Marion is a powerful woman now and she’s determined that the ban will be enforced. If you try to leave here, to go to Chicago, to see those boys, you’ll be fighting the SSU, the Chicago police, PPP security, and God knows who else. They’d send you back to prison for good.”
>
  Devin was perched on the edge of the wooden chair across from Peter’s desk. As if suddenly realizing the overwhelming odds he faced, he buried his face in his hands. “At least let me write them. Call them. Just so they’ll know I’m alive. That I care.”

  Peter shook his head wearily. “Devin, she won’t allow it. All I can tell you is to be patient. Maybe things will change. I’ll talk to her, after things settle down. But for now it’s impossible.”

  “Peter, I spent five years in darkness, and all that kept me alive was the memory of those boys.”

  “I understand. But as a friend, the best advice I can give you is don’t get your hopes up. Devin, you may never see them again.”

  Devin stood up. The fury was back in his eyes. “I’ll see my sons,” he told Peter calmly.

  Chapter 8

  Milford County was up before dawn making ready for the Lincoln Day parade—almost everyone participated, one way or another.

  For years, it had been the Fourth of July parade, but in the first years of the Transition that proud tradition died out, not by official decree but because people were afraid and dispirited. Then, as the new regime adopted Abe Lincoln as the spiritual father of the New America, and as the PPP extended its power to towns the size of Milford, the traditional Fourth of July celebration was replaced by an officially sponsored Lincoln Day parade.

  At first people had tried to boycott the new event, but the PPP had ways of encouraging attendance— school clubs and sports teams, for example, had to participate or be disbanded—and in time the parade became popular again. At least parts of it were popular.

  A bright late-winter sun was rising over the town as bands and floats began to gather. Officials put flags and banners into piace, and workmen made last-minute repairs on the reviewing stand that stood on the courthouse lawn. The day was clear and cold as people streamed into town from miles around.

  A few miles west of the bustling courthouse square, Devin Milford was asleep in his tent. Just after dawn, two all-terrain armored vehicles plunged across the creek outside of his camp, stopping a few feet away. Two SSU snowmobiles pulled up behind. Several soldiers jumped out of the carrier and tore open the flap to the tent. Devin was startled awake. The men reached inside and quickly dragged him to his feet. He shivered in the morning cold.