Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  “Uh, no sir, I didn’t know that,” said Danielle. “Mr. Selkirk, my grandfather told me a lot about you down through the years, none of it good. A few weeks ago when he found out I was seeing Johnny, he took me on a kind of ghoul’s guided tour of places over on our side of the Road where all kinds of horrible things happened back during the Trouble, and your name got mentioned a lot. Johnny said I should ask you about it.”

  “So ask,” invited Selkirk.

  “Why did… I guess I just want to know why it had to be so bad, so bloody and violent and terrible?” said Danny, picking her words very carefully. She was intelligent enough to understand that her own grandfather’s view of Ray Selkirk was bound to be heavily slanted due to four decades of walking around with a bad leg, but she also knew that the elderly man sitting in front of her had been considered a monster in his own time, and she needed to understand how far she could go with him before he took something she said or did wrong and grew fangs.

  “Because ZOG wouldn’t have it any other way,” Selkirk told her. “Because for almost a century before the Trouble, as you call it, the white people of America had done everything they could do to try and get these motherf—sorry, ma’am, I apologize, my language is from another age and I know it’s not appropriate for this one—because we did everything we could do just to get these people to stop.

  “Normal white people never minded if Jews wanted to go to church on Saturday, or niggers wanted to jive around in juke joints and snort cocaine and cut each other up on Saturday night, or silly college kids wanted to hang posters of Che Guevara and pretend they were commies without having the slightest clue as to what a Communist was, or rich men wanted to keep getting richer, or even if a few perverts wanted to sneak off into closets and do filthy things with one another. All of this stuff went on before, but it never oozed out into the sunlight and the normal world, where normal people lived and worked and went to church and got married and raised families from birth to death. The weirdness and the filth and the madness and the evil was always offstage, in dark corners or way high up in society out of sight. But then the madness and the badness started to flow under the locked doors and down out of the tower rooms, and it started getting into everything and poisoning everyone’s lives. Federal Reserve in 1913, a completely pointless war between brothers in Europe in 1914, the election of a syphilitic and a dyke to the White House in 1933…”

  “What’s a dyke?” asked Danny. “That’s some kind of dam the Dutch use to keep back the sea, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s a damn something, all right,” muttered Selkirk. “Never mind, girl, that part of your education definitely ain’t my responsibility. What I’m trying to say, Danielle, is that like an apple with just a little spot of decay on it, eventually the whole fruit rotted, and the rot spread. The good people of America were too busy living. They were enjoying life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, like they used to say, so the Jews and the bad white people took over and decided that everybody had to be like them, to think like them, to live like them. They spent a good hundred years trying to force it on the rest of us. All down through those decades we begged and pleaded for them to stop, and they wouldn’t. They blocked off democracy and the law, took over the government and the courts, and made everything dependent on huge amounts of money that normal people could never raise, so normal people had no power any more. We complained, we protested, we petitioned for redress of grievances, we called idiot talk show hosts on the radio and we bitched and moaned, every now and then we got together and waved a few signs in the streets, and we voted for some ass—pardon me again, ma’am, we voted for some fools called Republicans who forgot us and betrayed us as soon as they plunked their keesters down in their seats after the election. And they added insult to injury. The Jews and liberals controlled all the media, so every television show and movie mocked us and belittled us and spat on everything we cherished.”

  “They still do, sir,” said Danny. “I’m a Christian, remember?”

  “Yeah, so you know. But believe me, Danny, it was a lot worse back then. Worse than you can imagine. They didn’t just hate normal people’s religion, they hated our beautiful skin and hair and eyes and our magnificent minds and our mighty souls, for they themselves had none of those things, and it drove them mad with hate. It became pretty clear that they didn’t just want to lord it over us, they wanted us all dead. All white people who didn’t bow down and kiss their assorted body parts, and even those who did were only buying themselves a little time. I know you probably think I’m just regurgitating Party propaganda, child, but no kidding. They really wanted to kill us all. No more white people, anywhere, ever. And for generation after generation, all we would do was weep, and wail, and gnash our teeth, and wring our hands, and beg and plead with them to stop. That was all we ever wanted. We just wanted them to stop!”

  “So what happened then?” asked Danny.

  “We made them stop,” said Ray simply. “You know how. Your grandfather told you how, and I imagine he told it pretty much right.”

  “Did you really have to murder all those Mexican people that one time, to make the bad people stop doing what they were doing?” asked Danny quietly.

  “Yes ma’am, I did,” said the old man. “I suppose I could try to explain it to you, but I doubt you’d get it, because you weren’t there. You’ve never had to live like that, a stranger and a victim in your own land where people with dark skins hunt you as prey, so you’d damned well better hunt them back, better and meaner. You could never understand, and that’s a very good thing. You shouldn’t have to deal with horror like that. We did it so you would never have to. Danny, there are some things in life that just have to be done. You don’t go all broody and introspective like Hamlet and dither about it. You just get on with it, you do what has to be done, and you don’t spend the rest of your life repenting, or justifying, or agonizing over it. The continued life of this wonderful and beautiful race of ours is the ultimate justification for everything, because politically correct horse dung aside, the fact is that we are the world. Really. Shakespeare once wrote all the world’s a stage, or I suppose in these times it might be said that all the world’s a movie. If it is, then white people have all the speaking parts. The other races are just extras for the crowd scenes.”

  “My grandfather said it wasn’t necessary,” Danny persisted with quiet stubbornness. “Grandpa said we should have chosen to die rather than be cruel to the dark people to survive, because we’re supposed to be better than that.”

  “I’m sure he did, and the horrifying thing was that even in the face of extinction, there were white people who truly felt like that. Still are, I imagine, even to this day, in spite of everything America has become. The Jews have done a slap-up job of destroying our minds and making us hate ourselves, I’ll give ’em that. There are white people in what’s left of the United States today—very wealthy white people, of course—who genuinely believe that our race deserves to perish from the earth for the crime of making this planet a place of civilization and man’s creation. White people who actively work for the destruction of this country because we will not think and believe like them, and be like them, and accept their moral superiority and obey them. That’s the true essence of liberalism, white people doing what they’re told. Goodthink, as Orwell called it. You know who George Orwell was, Danny?”

  “Uh, no sir, I’m sorry, I don’t,” Danny admitted.

  “That’s a pity, because you’re really missing something. George Orwell was a Communist who lived long enough to learn wisdom, and his last two novels redeemed his life of error. I’ll lend you those books, and I think they’ll help you understand,” said Ray. He shook his head. “You know, I swear, white people are the only race that is even capable of formulating such a thought, that we deserve to die. You ever notice that? We’re the only race on earth that possesses a conscience. We are the only people in human history capable of feeling guilt and shame. You’re a Christian, you s
ay. You know the story of the Garden of Eden and the serpent who persuaded Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit?”

  “Uh, have you read the Bible, sir?” asked Danny in some surprise.

  “Sure,” chuckled the old man. “Haven’t you ever heard that the devil can quote Scripture? You know one interpretation of that chapter is that the forbidden fruit was actually the knowledge of sin. Adam and Eve took a chomp and then all of a sudden they realized they were naked and started grabbing for the nearest fig leaf. The white race is the only human species that is capable of understanding the concept of sin, of offending God and incurring his wrath. Niggers have no sense of sin. They only fear the whip, and when you take away the whip you get—well, look at what’s left of Chicago and Minneapolis today, and see what you get. Asians are more advanced. They have a deep sense of honor and sometimes ethics, but that’s not the same as a conscience. Only white people have that. I’m sorry, miss, I’m rambling, like old men do. Where were we?”

  “You said you had to use all that terrible violence to make the bad people stop doing what they were doing,” Danny reminded him.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ray. “Well, we did.”

  “Reverend Billy Bob Pritchard, he’s the head of our church, and he delivers a digital sermon every Sunday from our home church in Texarkana, he says violence never settles anything.”

  Old Ray sighed. “Look, Danielle, let’s bring this closer to home. I know that whatever you think of me, which probably isn’t much, you care for my grandson, and regardless of the skeletons in your family closet I’m glad to see that. John is right at that age where he needs a good woman and responsibility to steady him down. I have reservations about your religion due to some things that happened in my own past, but that was many years ago, and I get that Christianity in an all-white society is a lot different from what it became under political correctness, when it morphed into a monster like a werewolf under a full moon. From what I’ve seen so far, I think you two would be good for each other. But what do you think would have happened if we hadn’t used force a few weeks ago to get him back from those snakes who were planning to do him harm? Where would he be now, and what would he be suffering? Where would you be, and what would you be feeling? I’m sorry, ma’am but this idea that violence never settles anything is simply not true. It has settled the fate of people and nations quite effectively and finally, ever since history began. Do you know that all of us, both my family and yours, exist only because of a single act of violence?”

  “Something from the War of Independence?” asked Danny, getting the name right this time.

  “No. I believe you’ve mentioned that one of your teachers at Cataract High School is a lady named Mrs. Allura Campbell, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Danny. “The Campbells have had me and John over for dinner at their house.”

  “Of course, I knew that,” muttered Ray irritably. “My mind must be starting to wander. You know who Mrs. Campbell is, or rather who her mother was?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Danny. “Georgia Myers, who killed President Hunter Wallace. That’s why they call Allura the Daughter of the Nation. The whole country kind of adopted her after Lieutenant Campbell’s father and Elizabeth Parris smuggled her back to Montana in the last weeks of the war. It’s famous. Mrs. Campbell is the only history teacher I know of who has a section about herself in the textbook.”

  “It’s Elizabeth Cardinale now,” remarked Ray. “I knew that goombah husband of hers Vince back in the day, when he was a Volunteer. Maybe you’ll get to meet her if they ever come out here for an Old Fighters’ reunion. Anyway, do you have any idea the effect that nuclear explosions in Missoula and Butte and Kalispell would have had on this part of Montana, Danny? I and my children who were born at the time would all be dead, but so would your own grandfather and your parents, and you and your brother would never have existed. This entire part of the world would be nothing but a radioactive wasteland that could be seen at night from satellites as a big glowing patch of sickness and emptiness. God knows how many people of all races would have died in this country, in the U.S. and Canada, even in Aztlan and Mexico, all because one gibbering madman hated us so badly that in his madness he would slaughter millions rather than allow an all-white nation to exist. That is how badly some of these people hate us, Danielle, and this one had the power to act on his hate. A brave woman stopped him, by stabbing him through the eye with a pencil and then surrendering her own life as the price of that deed. Two lives for how many untold millions saved and how many millions who would never have been born except for an act of violence. Your preacher is wrong, Danielle. Violence most certainly does settle things. A lot of things.”

  “My grandfather would agree with you,” said Danny with a sigh. “He just thinks they got settled wrong.”

  “I know,” said Ray with a chuckle.

  Danny was looking at a framed portrait of a young woman standing on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. She was a pretty girl dressed in a leather mini-skirt and spiky haired, with body-piercings and jewel studs, a style fifty years out of date no woman in the Republic and few in the States would be seen dead in these days. Ray noticed her looking at it. “That’s my sister, Carol. It was taken before the war, when she was about your age.”

  “Why does she look like that?”

  “Just a child being silly. Even out here in Montana, white kids lived in a television and computer world that came from the degenerate cities. Niggers were supposed to be cool, so white kids tried to dress and act like them. Carol’s whigger phase was short, thank God, but she liked that photo because it bugged the hell out of Mom and Dad,” Ray went on with a laugh. “I keep that one in here because she liked it so much. Reminds me of a time I can’t really remember any more, before all the sh—all the trouble started. We have a better picture of her on the wall in the living room, taken later, without the nose ornaments and the hair spikes.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve seen it,” said Danny. “I think she looks sad in that one.”

  “She was,” Ray told her. “It had started by then.”

  “Mr. Selkirk,” said Danny slowly, not knowing whether she dared broach the topic at all, “John told me what my grandfather did to Carol and her children. How he sent them off to that place in Nevada and they died there. I didn’t know. That’s one thing he never told us about, ever. I am truly sorry.”

  “What for?” asked Ray. “You didn’t do it. You weren’t even born then.”

  “But why?” asked Danny, shaking her head. “I don’t understand how he could do something like that.”

  “The same way I could put bullets into the heads of all those beaners, Danielle,” the old man told her. “Because it was his duty.”

  * * *

  Just after sunset on the night of September 29th, two long black shapes whirred softly across old Interstate 15, over the half-ruined town of Jefferson City on the American side. The aircraft were British-made Puma-12 attack helicopters, that is to say they were made in Sheffield from Chinese-manufactured parts and assembled by a mud-colored workforce, supervised by members of the United Kingdom’s ever-shrinking white technological and engineering élite. They were part gunship, armed with air-to-ground missiles and revolving-barrel weapons, but with passenger room for up to a six-man assault force as well as pilot and co-pilot.

  Tonight there were only eight commandos in camouflage, four men on each helicopter. Those who weren’t that color already had their faces blacked. One team was commanded by Colonel Malcolm Hart, and the second by Captain Trevor Jones. Jones was a “black Brit,” i.e. a mulatto who was brave enough, and capable of following fairly complex orders, but who had never managed to lose his quasi-Cockney accent and replace it with proper spiffy BBC Oxonian. (London was now one of the largest non-white cities in the world.) The copters’ engines were in whisper mode, using the latest variation on Blue Pulse technology developed at the beginning of the century, that quieted if not totally silenced engine noise by using triple f
lap modules in the trailing edge of each rotor blade in order to muffle the blade-vortex interaction, essentially the rotor slapping and sucking on air, that emitted the well-known “whuppa-whuppa” sound. The machines could be heard from the ground, but not from very far off, and they were flying so low and fast that any casual observer couldn’t be sure what he had seen. Most likely not, anyway. The New Model Army men were still somewhat jumpy; it had been a long time since any American had bearded the Northwest lion in his den.

  Jones spoke into his communications headset. “Sure we can’t just drop a couple of missiles on this gaff, air it out with the chain guns, and then bugger off home, sir?” he asked.

  “No, that would make this little excursion of ours look too much like an act of war, Captain,” replied Hart from the other copter. “It’s not war, it’s just a bit of rough-housing, a friendly little social call to return a favor. A dead lady for a dead lady, to be sure, but also hopefully the beginning of another long round of that jolly old game of tit-for-tat. These barbarian cowboys won’t be able to let the loss of this particular damsel rest, and things should get sufficiently hot that this Community Prosperity Zone business will either get put on the back burner, or better yet, if they go ahead with it, it will require all manner of New Model Army presence to protect America’s remaining honey bees from their unpleasant neighbors. We’ll need blockhouses, Bremer walls, minefields, razor wire embankments, motion sensors, high-tech communications, and above all many, many troops deployed along the border. That will mean weapons, munitions, supplies, rations, accommodation for the troops, and that in turn means copious defense budget, of the kind America hasn’t been able to scrape up in a generation. Always remember, Captain: in a democracy it’s all about the money. Who controls it, who decides who gets how much of it. Among the other industries which will be revived by the Community Prosperity doctrine will be traditional defense contracting, which has been languishing in the doldrums for quite a while. A long, low-level border war will also put paid to all this Constructive Engagement bollocks, and possibly get a certain neglected government department elevated back up to full Cabinet status where it belongs.”