Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  They headed northward on Interstate 90. Traffic wasn’t too bad, and they were past Rockford and well into Wisconsin by noon. Eli did the driving. The others took turns beside him in the passenger seat so they could get some air; little Tommy sat on Lorna’s lap, while the others sat in the back as best they could on the heaps of clothing and boxes of stuff they had packed. They watched the green forested landscape along the interstate go by in silence. They were all exhausted, no one had gotten any sleep, and the events of the past 24 catastrophic hours were finally starting to sink in.

  Eli’s father, the children’s grandfather, was dead. Their home, the only home Eli himself and the children had ever known, had been torn from them in the blink of an eye because of a nigger’s casual lust for a little white girl. They had known others who had defied the politically correct system, and those others had paid the price. Now it was the Horakovas’ turn. Their names had been drawn out of the Mad Hatter’s topper in the insane lottery of life under political correctness, and now they were to be hurled onto the burning altar of Moloch, god of equality and diversity, like so many others during the past century. No mercy, no appeal, just down the tubes. It was a quintessential American experience.

  Once they got past Madison, Eli pulled off at a rest stop. The stop itself was long closed, due to some long-forgotten round of state or federal budgets cuts, but people still used it anyway to rest and to dump their garbage in a large landfill pit someone had dug out of the ground. There were several other vehicles pulled over in the parking area, all of them white motorists, fortunately. Eli was in no mood to deal with nigger or Mexican bullshit at the moment. The way he felt right now, if any of them approached him to beg or Mau Mau or steal, Eli probably would put a bullet in the shitskin’s head from the .45 he kept in the small of his back. The gun had killed twice in the past 24 hours and Eli no longer cared if it killed again, just so long as it killed someone with dark skin. He had finally been pushed beyond the point of caring.

  The toilets and sinks were no longer functioning in the restrooms, which were supposed to be locked, but someone had broken down the doors, and people had been using the facilities anyway. In the summer heat, the stench inside was so powerful that the family all went off into the woods to relieve themselves. Then they had a breakfast of sorts, consisting of whatever immediately comestible items Lorna had found in their kitchen cupboard back in Cicero. This included several candy bars, a can of dried apricots, half a can of dried plums, several cans of Vienna sausages, and some cold Pop Tarts washed down with cans of soda. “Okay, it’s time we all got some rest,” decreed Eli. “The women and Tommy make themselves a bed in the back as best they can, Eddie and me will sleep in the front. It’s probably best we do most of our traveling at night anyway.”

  They pulled into the most removed parking area in the rest stop and settled down for a few hours of restive, disturbed sleep. They were all awake by six p.m., and five-year-old Tommy was finally starting to get cranky. Millie kept him quiet by sharing a hand-held video game. Eli, Eddie, and Lorna looked at the road map of the United States he had brought, spread out on the side of the van. “We need to make our decision on where to try and break through the border,” said Eli. “We’re coming up to the fork in the interstates.”

  “Wyoming is the closest,” said Lorna.

  “Hey, maybe Dad and I can become cowboys,” suggested Eddie with a faint smile on his lips.

  “Agreed,” said Elias with a nod. “Wyoming is the closest, but for that very reason it will probably be more closely watched by the military and the security agencies, since I-90 is the quickest route there from the Midwest. If we take I-90 and head west, we’ll go through South Dakota’s Black Hills country and hit the Wyoming state line, or what used to be the state line, in about 20 hours, depending on traffic, which would be great if we were tourists on vacation and we were taking the scenic route. But we’re not, we’re refugees running for our lives. Wyoming is technically one of the states handed over to the Northwest Republic by the Longview Treaty, yeah, but from what I can remember from the TV and internet news, it’s still pretty wild and woolly out there, with some fighting still going on between the new white government and American forces, and also some of the local people who want to stick with the United States. We don’t need to go driving right into a war zone where we might get shot at from all sides. Also, I drove down 90 once, and I remember those badlands out there are really barren. I mean it’s like you’re on the fucking moon. We might run out of gas a hundred miles from the nearest help.”

  “So where, then?” asked Eddie.

  Eli pointed to the map. “If we head north from here and we get onto I-94 west, we’ll go through North Dakota and eastern Montana until we get to West Montana, or whatever the Northwest Republic calls it now it’s their part of the state. There are some cities we’ll have to go around, Fargo, Bismarck, Billings and Bozeman, and that might get a bit hairy with cops watching, but it also means we can get gas there and maybe a little food. The trouble is that at some point, most likely around Bozeman, the troops and cops will start getting really thick, and we’ll need to get off the interstate and try taking the back roads around any roadblocks. That’s where it will start getting funky. But the best aspect of using the northern route is that unlike Wyoming, in Montana there’s a clear border, Interstate 15. I don’t know if the highway itself is still being used by traffic at all, but once we’re on the western side of it, we’re in the Republic and home free. It’s a finish line in this race for our lives, something we can shoot for.”

  “Let’s go north and try for Montana, then,” said Lorna. “I know the angels will help us, but we should also help ourselves as much as we can.”

  Before sunset, they pulled off at one exit and found a roadside market, one of the many unofficial bazaars that had sprung up across the United States in the past few years that paid protection to assorted cops and local authorities to be allowed to trade without licensing or regulation. Most of these markets were run by Middle Easterners, and they specialized in selling discontinued stock, or big box discounts, or whatever the current term was for stolen goods, especially cheap processed and canned food items, since food had become so expensive. The Horakovas were able to replenish their supply of Vienna sausages, beans, several boxes of crackers, and a block of processed cheese food one of the dusky Hindu traders had in an ice cooler. At Eddie’s recommendation, Eli also bought a cheap burner cell phone that had the capacity to receive netcasts from CNN, Fox, and the major news networks. All the Horakovas had their own phones, but Eli had forbidden their use and removed their circuit cards with the federally mandated built-in GPS microchip, lest they be used by the Chicago police or the FBI to track them down. Then they were back on the road.

  They cut their available funds almost in half filling the van’s gas tank in St. Paul. They were now about eleven hundred miles from Butte, Montana, a town split down the middle by Interstate 15. “In theory we should be able to get one more fill-up and make it,” said Eli. “We could, if we were just driving down the interstate, like you could before all the trouble. Technically speaking, the Northwest Republic begins at Exit 227, where I-90 runs into 15. But there’s no way they’re going to just let us pull off and check into the nearest HoJo’s.”

  Then began the long trip down I-94 through the darkness, through Minnesota and then across the broad, flat expanse of North Dakota. The silence in the van was broken only by the newscasts that Eddie found on the new disposable cell phone and put on speaker. He would try the Chicago internet stations for a while, to see if there was any news about what they had left behind in the house on Kildare Avenue, and then he would scan for news items or anything to do with border conditions ahead. “As near as I can tell from the news, the barbed wire and the barriers and the minefields are all on the American side, so once we actually get into Northwest territory we should be safe,” said Eddie.

  “After Billings we have to get off the interstate and find a way
to get to I-15 by back roads, at night, and then cross over without being detected,” Eli said.

  The Horakovas noticed there were a lot of headlights all around them, almost all of them heading west. “I wonder how many of the people in these other cars are doing like we’re doing and trying to get into the Northwest Republic?” asked Eddie.

  “Quite a few of them, I suspect,” replied Eli.

  “Maybe we should all form a wagon train together like the pioneers did back in the old days,” suggested Eddie.

  “That’s not a good idea,” said Eli. “Those assholes in D.C. admit they’re monitoring traffic on the interstate from satellites in space, and at some point down the line here, the cops and the military are going to start straining out anybody they think might be trying to leave the joys of the so-called greatest nation on earth for someplace where niggers don’t come into your house and try to drag your daughter away. We have to get as close as we can to the border and find a place where we can cross without being noticed. Eddie, ride the internet on that thing, and see if you can get some idea of what’s going on in the border area, what kind of trouble we might be running into.”

  Finally, as the dawn broke, they crossed the state line into the plains of eastern Montana. Eddie and Millie and Lorna stared out the windows of the van at the vastness of the land under the rising sun; they had never been farther out of the city than the Forest Preserves, and they had never even imagined that such a huge amount of space uncluttered by brick or asphalt or concrete could even exist. “It’s all empty,” whispered Millie, staring out the back window of the van. “How are we going to find the Northwest Republic in all this?”

  “Imagine what it was like a hundred and fifty years ago when the first pioneers were walking across these plains with Conestoga wagons pulled by mules and oxen,” said her father. “A lot of white people have made this trip before us, Millie. We should have made it ourselves, long before we were forced to. Then we wouldn’t have to be doing it now, like this, on the run and with only the shirts on our backs. I remember once, many years ago, I looked at one of the old Party web sites and that old guy was trying to tell people just that. I didn’t listen then. I wish to hell I had.”

  Their first problem came that afternoon outside Billings, when they were pulled over by a Montana State Highway Patrol officer. Eli looked up and saw the flashing LED lights in his side mirror. He pulled over to the shoulder of the interstate. A tall white state trooper, about 30 years old, got out of the unit and walked up to the driver’s side of the van. His name tag read Cornwell. “License and registration, please,” he demanded laconically.

  Eli produced them; fortunately, the registration on the van was up to date. “What’s the problem, officer?” he asked, acutely aware of the cold metal of the .45 pressing into his back underneath his shirt.

  “Where are you headed, Mr. Horakova?” asked Trooper Cornwell. To Eli’s surprise he pronounced the family name correctly, the first time.

  “We’re on vacation,” said Eli. “We’re going to get on I-90 going south at Billings and drive down to the Little Big Horn to see the monument there. Where Custer fought the Indians. Pardon me, the Native Americans.”

  “I’ve heard of it, yes,” replied the highway patrolman in a dry tone. “I’m just going to issue you a warning this time, Mr. Horakova.”

  “A warning for what?” asked Eli. “You still haven’t told me what law I’m breaking, officer.”

  “The law of self-preservation,” said Cornwell. “My warning to you is to quit being so fucking stupid, because you’re going to get yourself and your family killed. You’ve got what looks like everything you own packed in this vehicle, and all of you have that blank poker face that any cop learns to recognize in his rookie year, the face that’s a dead giveaway that you’re up to something, and we both know what. You’re not going down 90 East to commune with the spirit of Custer. You’re going to get on 90 West, but you’ll never make it. A few miles down from here, just after Billings, is where the army and the FATPO checkpoints begin, and if you try a moronic story like that with some of those men, they will drag you all out of the vehicle and shoot you through the head, including the little boy. It’s happened before, and there is not one damned thing the Patrol or anyone else can do about it. Actually, by this time next week, anyone using any interstate highway at all in eastern Montana will need a permit. They can enter and exit only through checkpoints, and they have to file a trip itinerary with somebody, don’t know who yet. New regulation from the highway czar in Washington, D.C. The government of the United States is a wounded animal, Horakova, the most dangerous in the world. My warning to you is to turn around and head back to Chicago.”

  Something made Eli decide to take a chance, or maybe he had just run as far as he was inclined to run. “We can’t go back,” he told the state trooper in a level voice. “Not ever.”

  “Why not?” asked the cop.

  Eli jerked his head toward the back of the van where the kids were hunkered. “That’s my son, Eddie. He’s sixteen. That’s my daughter, Millie. She’s thirteen. Two days ago, a nigger carrying a gun and a semi-official badge from the Cicero Neighborhood Watch walked into my home and tried to take Millie by force down to their clubhouse for a little rape and sodomy session. Eddie shot him dead. Originally the idea was for Eddie to try and make it Northwest on his own. My father was crippled, confined to a wheelchair, and suffering from massive kidney failure treatable only through dialysis, so we couldn’t bring him with us, and I refused to leave him there at the mercy of those black and brown animals. That night, my father stuck a gun into his mouth and blew his own brains out. He did it to lighten our load, so all of us could make this trip together. We’re not going back, Mr. Cornwell. Now do whatever the fuck you think you gotta do.” Eli didn’t mention that he had the .45 and Eddie was packing Rico Tubbs’ Glock. He figured the cop could fill in the blanks for himself.

  The trooper looked at the ground and sighed. “Jesus!” After a while, he looked up. “Okay, listen good, because I’m only going to say this once. You folks have to get off the interstate. I mean it; do not try to get past a checkpoint looking like you do. They will read you like a book. The McCurtain isn’t just a fence, it’s a whole network of obstacles and checkpoints and surveillance and patrols covering hundreds of square miles on this side of Interstate 15, and you’re about to run right into it. Last I heard, the first FATPO roadblock is around Park City somewhere. You need to get out of Billings and take the northbound exit at Laurel. From there take County Road 532 up to Broadview, then get on state Highway Three going north. Then when it runs into Highway Twelve, head west. There are still a lot of patrols and helicopter surveillance even on Twelve, but it’s a big country out there. On the interstate you have no chance at all.”

  “We got a pretty good map,” said Eli. “We’ll find our way.”

  “Twelve will take you right into Helena, or the American half of Helena, but don’t do that,” Cornwell told them. “The American sectors of Helena and Butte are crawling with Fatties, military police, FBI, and Blackwater contractors that the Anti-Defamation League and the Southern Poverty Law Center have hired as bounty hunters to stop white people from entering the Republic. A lot of people have been killed in the towns, trying to climb over the barbed wire or tunnel under the fence to get into the NAR sector. The Blackwater goons and the FATPO both just shoot to kill. The FBI likes to arrest refugees so they can torture them, waterboarding and the electric chair and the bath of flies, the whole nine yards. For God’s sake, don’t let the Bureau catch you. They’ll make your kids watch. They have been publicly defeated and humiliated by white men, and they are out of their minds with rage and hate. If you absolutely must surrender to anyone, try to make it local police or the MPs, although some of them are just as bad. Lotta Mexicans. Your best bet is to get a few miles away from Helena in either direction. Helena’s smaller and there’s fewer hostiles in that area. Then find some back road that will get you ri
ght up to the fence along the American side of I-15. You’ll have to cut through, but be careful. Some sections of the fence are electrified now.”

  “They’ve got the whole interstate fenced off?” asked Eli.

  “Yeah,” said Trooper Cornwell in disgust. “For fifty years they couldn’t put up a fence along the Mexican border to keep illegals out, but when it’s a matter of keeping white people in, they can build the McCurtain and fence Montana in half, in nine months. Go figure.”

  “We got bolt cutters,” said Eddie from the back.

  “When you get to the fence, be careful,” said Cornwell. “There are minefields in a lot of places leading up to it. Some of the minefields are posted with signs, some aren’t, and sometimes they’ve got the signs up but no minefield. I can’t give you any advice on where to try and break through. I don’t know that part of the state well.”

  “Why not come with us, and cross over with us?” suggested Lorna.

  “Can’t,” Cornwell told her. “I have to keep my nose clean. My ex-wife and my two kids are living in Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t…”

  Cornwell cut Lorna off. “Oh, yes ma’am, they would,” he said bleakly. “They would indeed. We got a memo that made it very clear. That’s all I have to say, except I still advise you to turn around and find some way out of your problems besides heading west. You’ll probably be dead by this time tomorrow. Forget you ever saw me.” Cornwell turned and stalked back to his patrol car.

  “Was that an angel, Mommy?” asked Tommy.

  “Maybe,” Lorna told him.

  “No, son,” answered Eli. “That was just a good man who has been placed in an impossible position by this hellish country and this sick society we live in. Just like us, son. That seems to be America’s specialty, destroying everything that’s good in it. It’s been going on for a hundred years now. Those people on the other side of that fence are trying to fix what’s broken in the world, and that’s why we have to get there.” Eli pulled the van back onto the interstate.