Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  “Won’t happen, sir,” Cole told him. “Too many factions with their own agenda working against going back to the way it was. I doubt this nation will ever truly return to a representative form of government.”

  “I was told you are a former police officer. Are you a student of politics, too, Cole?” the President asked.

  “No, sir. More a student and observer of human nature.”

  “Go on, Cole,” the man urged.

  “The government never really understood why so many Americans were so unhappy that they would cache arms in anticipation of gun seizure by government agents, and possibly a revolt by Americans. What’s worse, our leaders never really made any effort to find out.”

  “I resent that, sir,” the President said. “I was in the House for years.”

  “You can resent it until you pass out from exhaustion,” Cole came right back. “But it’s the truth. Those Senate hearings on militias were a joke. Questions were asked like, ’Do you ever feel there is any justification for blowing up a federal building?’ What a stupid question! What did the senator think the guy was going to say? Maybe something like, ’Oh, sure. We were planning on blowing one up next Tuesday—’”

  “Isn’t he delightful?” the sarcastic voice sprang out of the air, startling the President. Hank grimaced and Cole sighed. “An intelligent cop. Most cops are dumb as dirt. All they can say is ’Up against the wall, motherfucker. Spread ’em.’ But this one can actually think.”

  For once in his life, the former Speaker of the House was speechless. He sat very still, his face pale and his mouth hanging open.

  “And from all appearances, you’re no ball of fire either,” the voice told the President. “Get it? Ball of fire!”

  Mason looked all around him. He cleared his throat. “Ah ...” he managed to say.

  “What a putz. How about you, pukey priest? Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “Get lost,” Hank told the voice.

  “What do you want?” the President finally found his voice, whispering the question.

  “Nothing. I’m merely an observer in this game.”

  “Game?”

  “Certainly. What else?”

  “But ...” Mason shook his head and sipped some water. “You caused all this.”

  “I caused it? Don’t be ridiculous, Pres. I didn’t cause anything. I’m not running around willy-nilly, setting fires and blowing up buildings and looting and doing all sorts of other disgusting things. The citizens are doing that.”

  “But you ordered them to do it,” Mason insisted.

  “I didn’t order them to do anything. I merely planted the suggestion in the minds of some, well, more susceptible types. More than a few of them politicians, I might add.”

  “I resent that!”

  “Oh, blow it out your southern exposure, you grits-mouth windbag. Politicians are so predictable. You’re no fun at all. At least Deputy Dawg has some original thoughts. And Pukey Priest, too, when he can get his nose out of the babblings of the Bible.”

  “God will destroy you!” the President shouted.

  “In a pig’s ass, He will. Even if He could, that would mean the game would end. And right now, I’ve got the lead. Old Thunder-Breath doesn’t like to lose. Well, enough of this. I must toddle on. Some of my permanent residents are rehearsing a rather catchy rendition of ”Cool Water.“ Wishful thinking, to be sure. Bye, all.”

  President Mason looked first at Cole, then at Hank. “This is a nightmare. A dream. I’m going to wake up pretty soon now and have a good laugh.”

  Hank stood up. “You wish. Just let it run its course, Mr. President. That’s all you can do. When the smoke clears—no pun intended—then we can all start picking up the pieces.”

  “Well, there has to be something we can do!” the President said.

  “Oh, there is,” Hank told him. “Prayers, of the most sincere variety.”

  Five

  After Cole and Katti, Hank and Bev, Jim and Bob, and Frey and Steckler had left—to be flown back to Knoxville and then helicoptered over to Gatlinburg—President Mason sat for a long time in his office. After a time, General Stovall and the Director of the FBI came in and took seats. Mason turned in his swivel chair and stared at the men.

  “Well,” the President said. “During the second meeting, the priest and the cop really let me have it. While we all agree that we can’t do much about the . . . ah, devil,” he said that with a long sigh, “the nation is quite another matter. As elected and appointed representatives of the people, we dropped the ball. We really didn’t know the mood of many of the American people. We misjudged things quite badly. Now we’re going to have to pay the price for that oversight.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Director of the Bureau sat quietly, knowing the President was far from finished.

  “When this situation plays itself out, and we all agree that it will, probably sooner than later, what we rebuild out of the ashes will be much different than what we had prior to this tragedy. Government is going to be much smaller, and out of the private lives of Americans. Citizens are going to have to understand that they, and they alone, control their own destinies. We’re going to have to drastically lower taxes, and live on what we take in. We’re going to start from scratch. We’ve got a real chance to make something positive out of all this. Let’s don’t blow it.”

  “What did they say, if anything, about this terrorist group, CTFA, the Citizens for a Tax Free America?” the FBI director asked.

  “They said they know nothing about the group.”

  “I don’t believe that,” the Bureau man (appointed) said.

  “Well, I do,” the President said. “But I’ll tell you something I do know, and that is: I don’t know what in the hell to do next.”

  * * *

  “Well,” Cole said, over drinks in the lobby of the motel back in Gatlinburg, “at least President Mason is a conservative Republican.”

  Seated around the shoved-together tables were Cole and Katti, Jim and Ruth, Hank and Bev, Bob Robbins, and the two FBI men, Frey and Steckler.

  “It won’t make any difference,” Bob said moodily, staring down at his glass of whiskey and water.

  “What do you mean?” Cole asked. “Of course it makes a difference.”

  The militiaman shook his head. “Not anymore, friend. The devil won. Whether it was the victory he wanted . . . well, I don’t know about that. But this country will never be put back together again. We’re fragmented. Several million men and women are now under arms, under the militia flag, and we’re not going to back down and go away and live under the heel of a dictatorial central government.” He was looking at Scott Frey when he said the last.

  “You don’t want to live under anarchy, Bob,” Jim said. “Do you?”

  “It won’t be anarchy, friend,” the militia colonel said. “We’re setting up shop under the Tri-States philosophy.”2

  “But that’s a fictional government,” Cole said. “It’s never been tried to see if it will work.”

  “We think it will. But that’s in the future. Maybe several years in the future. The first order of business is to get rid of nuts like Ely Worthingham.”

  “Mister Worthingham will be dealt with in due time,” Scott Frey said.

  Bob smiled at first Scott, then George Steckler. “Sure he will,” he said sarcastically. “The Bureau is going to take care of that little problem, right, boys?”

  “You’re talking open insurrection against the government, Mr. Robbins,” George said. “I would suggest you stop before you incriminate yourself.”

  Bob chuckled. “The central government is powerless to do anything. And by the time it gets itself back together—if it ever does, which right now looks doubtful—the country will be split up into nations within a nation and functioning.” He drained his whiskey and water and stood up, taking a long look at the people seated at the table. “Just be sure you folks choose the right side.” He walked away.


  The group was silent for a moment. Hank broke the silence. “Well, a lot of people predicted this nation was rife for some type of revolution. I guess now is as good a time as any.”

  “Is that what Robbins meant by that remark about the devil has won?” George asked.

  “I guess,” Cole said. “The nation is certainly torn apart. The government is powerless to act. We’re back to the law of the jungle.”

  They all looked up as the two network reporters, Cindy Callander and Laura Lordan, walked in with their camera crews. Both women had been highly irritated when the pilot of the military chopper had refused to take them out of the area.

  The camera crews took a table away from the group, while Cindy and Laura walked up and sat down. “How long are we going to be held here?” Cindy asked, considerable heat in her tone.

  “You’re not being held here, Miss Callander,” Scott said. “You are quite free to leave anytime you choose. You may take one of the vehicles belonging to Worthingham’s bunch—”

  “That’s stealing,” George said.

  “George ...” Scott said patiently.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “And you will guarantee our safety by providing us with an escort?” Laura asked.

  “Miss Lordan,” Scott said, “I would certainly provide you with an escort . . . if I had one to offer, that is. But I don’t. At the moment, this small town is probably the safest place in the state of Tennessee. Just relax. Neither of your networks is on the air. Not that I am aware of. Just take it easy.”

  “We would like to film stories to run when we do get back on the air,” Cindy said. “And the real story is out there!” She waved her hand.

  “You want to interview me, bitch?” the voice leaped out of the air. “I can tell you stories that will make your ass work buttonholes.”

  The reporters looked all around them. “Who said that?” Cindy demanded.

  “I can assure you, Miss Callander,” Hank said. “At least a part of the real story is right here.”

  * * *

  The rioting and looting and burning and wanton destruction had spread out of New York and L.A. and Chicago and St. Louis and New Orleans and most other major cities into the suburbs and surrounding towns. But by now, the people who had resisted the call of evil—knowingly or unknowingly—and had enough sense to get out of the cities, which in riots are a death trap, had banded together. They confronted the roaming gangs and vigilante law took over. The punishments meted out were swift, harsh, and final, and not everyone who was hanged or shot or beaten to death had done anything wrong, except try to stay alive during the worst moments to ever confront America and Americans. But nobody ever said that vigilante justice was fair.

  Less than a week after Cole and Katti and the others returned to Gatlinburg from their meeting with the President, it was obvious to all what was happening, and what the immediate future would hold: the radical wing of the religious right was slowly taking over. The airwaves, while not being filled, were certainly being dominated by preachers and self-styled religious leaders, all calling for a rebirth of a new America. Boundary lines were being drawn up by dozens of groups—on both sides of the religious issue—some areas no larger than a county, some claiming entire states. It was chaos, with no signs of any real order anywhere.

  “Told you,” Col. Bob Robbins said to FBI agent Scott Frey.

  * * *

  The Northeast was the first area President Mason ordered government troops into. From Pennsylvania to Maine, the troops began the job of restoring order. By the middle of October, some semblance of reason was restored in many parts of that area of the nation. That was accomplished because the people in that part of America were not as heavily armed as many people in the South, the Midwest, and the West. It was also a very old and long-settled area. President Mason knew that when he ordered troops moved into the other parts of the nation, it was going to be a bloody son of a bitch.

  Whether the voice really belonged to the devil, or some other cosmic force (and only Hank and a few others were reasonably certain) it had not spoken in more than a month.

  The group from Nashville was the first to announce that they were leaving the safety of Gatlinburg.

  “What are you going to do?” Cole asked James Mercer. “Nashville is in ruins. It will take months to get the currency situation straightened out and banks up and functioning again. You said yourself your homes were blazing when you left. What’s the point of going back now? What will you do when you get there?”

  “We might just turn around and come right back here,” Mercer’s wife answered. “But . . . Nashville is home, you know?”

  Cole knew. “Hang on. Let me sound out the others.”

  “It’s still pretty iffy out there, Cole,” Scott said. “But I can’t stop you from leaving. George and I have orders to stay here. We have no choice in the matter.”

  “Your wife and kids?”

  “They’re fine. I talk to them every day.”

  “Let’s caravan back, Cole,” Jim said. “I want to see if I can salvage anything. And Ruth especially needs to check on a lot of business matters.”

  “Can we go?” Cindy Callander spoke for both network reporters. “We’re going batty staying here.”

  “Why not?” Cole said.

  “Ely Worthingham and his Believers are still the law in much of this state,” George Steckler reminded the group, looking at and speaking to Cole. “And he probably knows you assisted Colonel Robbins in the taking of this town. If any of you fall into their hands, there will be nothing we can do for you.”

  “A point to be considered,” Cole acknowledged.

  But the group still elected to make the run back.

  “Stash any gear you don’t need here,” Bob told Cole. “It’ll be safe.”

  Cole nodded his head.

  “I’ll issue you passes that will get you through any federal roadblocks,” Scott said. “For sure you’ll find them at Nashville and Memphis. Especially around the airports. It’s Indian country everywhere else.”

  Cole smiled at the Bureau man. “That last bit is not politically correct, Scott.”

  Scott told him what he could do with political correctness.

  Bob supplied the group with enough MREs for two weeks and handed Cole a slip of paper. “That’s the frequency we’ll monitor, Cole. Will you let me know what’s going on out there?”

  “I will,” Cole told him. He felt a strange allegiance toward the colonel. “How about six o’clock every evening?”

  “Good.” The men shook hands. “Good luck to you, Cole.” Bob smiled. “You’ll be back,” he said confidently. “You don’t want heavy-handed government enforcement tactics any more than I do. You sure as hell don’t agree with Ely Worthingham, and you can’t survive for long on your own. I’m all you’ve got, even though we don’t agree on some points.”

  Bob was right on all counts, and he knew that Cole knew.

  “See you, Bob.”

  “Take care.”

  Forty miles from Gatlinburg, the caravan ran into their first bit of trouble.

  The roadblock was manned by men dressed all in black and women in long black dresses and black bonnets. But their guns were modern and well maintained. The men and women all wore white armbands. Cole stopped the caravan and got out, holding up a hand.

  “We don’t mean any harm to anyone,” he called. “We’re just trying to get back home.”

  “Where is that?” one black-suited man called.

  “Nashville and Memphis.”

  “Are you a Believer?”

  “If you’re asking if I believe in God, of course I do.” Cole paused, then added, “I think our faith in God got us through these trying times.”

  That was the right thing to say. “You can pass through our territory. But don’t stop,” the man warned. “You’re not a true Believer, and you might get hurt by some of the faithful.”

  “I’m already getting a little tired of these self-styled messenger
s of God,” Cole muttered, and Katti ducked her head to hide a grin. “Much obliged!” Cole called. “We’ll, ah, pray for you all.”

  “Thank you,” the spokesman replied in a somber tone. His people lifted the roadblock and the caravan rolled on through.

  The camera crews of Callander and Lordan had filmed it all.

  “I didn’t think Amish people believed in violence,” Cindy radioed to Cole.

  “They weren’t Amish, Cindy,” Cole told her. “They’re a part of Ely Worthingham’s nuts and fruitcakes. We were lucky that time. They didn’t know who I was. The next time just might turn nasty.”

  “Ely Worthingham and his followers don’t much care for Laura and me,” the reporter radioed. “We weren’t exactly kind to him in our reporting before the breakdown.”

  “You network people aren’t kind to anyone who isn’t a goddamn liberal,” Cole told her.

  The radio went silent and Cindy said no more on the subject.

  Miles later, they were on the east side of the Cumberland Plateau when the next roadblock came into view. Those manning this roadblock didn’t wait for any conversation; they just opened fire on the lead vehicle.

  Six

  Gary’s radiator blew up after being perforated by several high-powered slugs. Gary and Sue were able to exit the vehicle safely by using the clouds of steam for cover. The caravan had stopped in a curve about two hundred yards from the roadblock.

  “That tears it,” Cole said, sticking a twenty-round magazine into his M-14 and chambering a round. He pulled the weapon to his shoulder and emptied the clip into the barricade, while Bev, Hank, Jim, and Ruth hauled out their weapons and poured lead into the roadblock.

  Gary had opened one of several cases of grenades given them by Bob and was slipping through the brush on the north side of the county road. In position, he quickly chunked four Fire-Frags into the barricade and the knot of men and women. The silence of the dead and the moaning of the wounded and dying confirmed that the fight was over.

  Cole, Gary, and Jim dragged the dead and wounded off the road and dumped them into the ditch. One man, just slightly wounded, stared at Cole through eyes that mirrored open hatred.