by Billy Roper
One night after supper, her grandpa had told Hope that he wanted her to take their pickup, which still had some gas in it, and go camping up north, where they had gone before. He helped her pack the next day, not looking into her eyes. She had known that they weren’t really going to meet up with her in a few days. They weren’t going to shut down the store and pack what they could into the delivery van. Hope had felt it. But she played along until she made it past the stalled cars along the interstate and up into the hills, when she gave herself permission to cry along with the radio. It was the first time she had let herself go since she was four. She pulled over to the side of the road, unable to see. She should have given them one more last hug. After a bit, she regained her composure. She wouldn’t cry again. With Pine Bluff behind her, Hope headed north.
Hope knew that things here were not falling apart fast enough for the chaos to hide what she had done. From what she could tell, most of the Ozark Mountain region seemed to be Klan country, and they punished any lawlessness by anybody ruthlessly around here. She had to go. Jittery with shock, she took the pistol and extra magazines from the deputy and the knife from the redneck hunter as soon as they had quietened down and bled out. Then she retrieved her arrows and cleaned and straightened them as best she could. From the cabin she got a gas jug and cut a water hose to siphon fuel from the patrol car before taking the shotgun and ammunition out of it and driving it off of the road and into the woods.
It took three trips to hike everything she needed to take with her to the pickup she had hidden three weeks ago. Thankfully it started once she poured some gas into the breather. God bless grandpa, if he was still alive, for teaching me to drive and shoot, she thought. Hope wondered if the old couple were still alive. She didn’t feel one way or another about it, surprisingly. Not any more. Probably not. It would have been just like them to send her off and then go out together, holding hands like they always did. So sickeningly cute.
Hope looked in the cracked rear view mirror and saw sad green eyes looking back at her over a freckled nose, so she practiced making innocent faces and smiling. There, that should get her through the county roadblock and over the state line. Better than hiding in boxes in a storeroom while your parents’ bodies burn, she chided herself. Maybe she could find a place where she could draw squirrels and rabbits and deer, instead of shooting them. That would help to clear her head. The old sketch pad beside her on the truck seat, a gift from her grandma, was held still from sliding by the deputy’s Glock. Hope wondered if there was anywhere left in the world where people could be artists, these days. Maybe she could open a gallery and become famous and rich.
Chapter Ten
“I don't believe in democracy. In the second place, neither did our white forefathers. I believe, as they did, in a republican authoritarian republic with a limited electorate -- just like the one the writers of our Constitution meant this country to be. When these white Christian patriots sat down to write the Declaration of Independence, there were no black citizens for them to worry about.” – Commander George Lincoln Rockwell
Whiskey and Rye
Carolyn was caught off guard by the hero worship the other delegates gave to Lt. Col. John W. McNabb. When he and his bodyguards walked into the room, attentive silence met the forty-five year old officer, rippling outwards in a wave centered on his confident smile. People parted, and lined up. A cute little girl in a pink shirt ran up to hand him some flowers. She looked to be around five or six, and he accepted them with a gracious grin. As he made his way to the podium once again, shaking every reaching hand on the way there, the reporter wondered if they even noticed the dark circles under his eyes, or the tension pulling at his blandly handsome face and eyes, even framed by his glasses. Carolyn had done her due diligence in research, and knew the back story on that, but who didn’t have a tale of heartbreaking loss, these days? It reached her heart, and made her soften towards him. That didn’t sell papers any more, or produce the ad revenue that kept her fed-sometimes directly, as merchants traded goods for advertisements. No, what sold papers was giving people hope, and the feeling that someone was pulling things together instead of tearing them apart. That was the story here. This guy.
John was speaking now, joking about the lingering cold, thanking the delegates for passing his unified command resolution, and discussing the specifics of the resolution to integrate all standing local, state, and national military forces in their represented constituencies into a single chain of authority. She noted with approval that for this speech, he was once again wearing his dress uniform, medals shining. McNabb listed each state and territory by name: Northern Idaho, Montana, Nebraska, with condolences, North and South Dakota, Alberta, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Eastern Wyoming, Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Northern Arkansas, Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Western Kentucky, representatives from Tennessee, and Western Pennsylvania. With each of the twenty-two names called, their delegates stood to be honored by applause from their peers.
With that done, McNabb turned the tables and surprised her by praising “the brave men and women of our armed forces fighting in the Pacific and on the West Coast”, and then asking for a moment of silence to remember all of those who had been lost. Every head bowed and every eye closed in the room, even her own, before she even knew that it was happening. When the Lt.Col. said “Amen.” and raised his face, Carolyn saw a tear distinctly fall from his jawline. Wow, she thought, this guy was either very good, or the real deal. She wasn’t sure which was the most dangerous.
Shifting gears, the speaker smiled sadly and asked the delegates to return from their home states in two months’ time “to help me take the next crucial steps required by our people to restore them to their rightful place among the nations of the Earth, and, like our Founding Fathers, now that we have moved to provide for a common defense, to secure domestic tranquility.” It sounded to Carolyn, from the front row, like a campaign speech. It probably was. But for what office?
Every camera, still and video, caught the scream of rage as the stout woman in the red dress stumbled forward into the podium shot, pushing her huge purse in front of her as a shield. They caught McNabb reaching out to push her back, his guards rushing forward, and her face turning away. Then the room was lit by a flash and roar centered on the purse for an instant. Thick white smoke spread out like a wave, as the delegates stampeded towards the doors. Shoving, grunting, cursing, screaming. Carolyn was carried along by the press, unable to see John. She tried to step to the side, out of the irresistible current of people. Then she was swept to the door, and nearly out. She grabbed onto the wall and pulled herself free of the herd. Her eyes searched through the smoke. As most of the delegates cleared out, she saw a cluster of media in front of the raised platform of the podium. They were snapping pictures in the haze. Keeping her head low, Carolyn held her breath and forced herself to stop coughing as she moved towards the group.
The speaker knelt before the smoldering, broken podium that had saved his life. It had shielded him from the worst of the bomb blast, but his right arm hung limply, and blood streamed from his face and head on that side. His head was down, his eyes were closed, as he prayed over the body he held close to him in his left arm. The body of a little girl in a pink shirt, her blonde hair stained with blood, as his.
The attempted assassination made international news, even with everything else going on in the world. The London Daily Mail found the suicide bomber’s family, and interviewed her, while the funerals for the four victims of the blast were still being planned. The motivation for her act, as described by her family, was her sorrow over her daughter and her mixed race grandson being driven out of their community. The Daily Mail went to the southern Missouri town and interviewed people there, stirring up local animosities which had cooled since the citizens had been bitterly divided a few months ago.
There had been only a few nonWhites in town, when the sporadic ethnic cleansing began. Some had supported accepting all refuges,
regardless of race, to prove that they were a welcoming community. That faction, led by a local Pastor, had been opposed by another faction, led by the Chief of Police. The Chief wanted to keep out any element that might endanger the town. When more black refugees showed up at the city limit barricade, things had gotten nasty. One of the churchgoers at the barricade had invited them in, despite orders from the deputy on duty not to. When he climbed into the cab to move the truck blocking the road, the deputy tackled him. The arrest led to the church congregation attempting to storm the police station where he was held. The crowd was dispersed after a brief fight in the street. By order of the Chief of Police, all persons of non-European ancestry and their immediate families were expelled from the city limits. Most of the church went with them. They had helped the bomber construct the bomb and choose her target.
The reporter with the Daily Mail, a short dark woman of Pakistani ancestry, interviewed the Lt. Col. as he sat up in his hospital bed, his arm in a sling and his face and scalp bandaged to his neck. She trilled in a high pitch that made his headache worse:
“In my country, the British Nationalist Par ty has recently gained several seats in Parliament. As you know, Scotland’s independence led to the Royal Navy being dismissed from Scottish bases and ports. The more peaceful, socialist government there has adopted the Euro with the withdrawal of British banks. Some of the B.N.P. members advocate racial separation, similar to the event which led to the attack on you. In light of your injuries, what advice would you offer for those who believe that humanity should be divided by hatred and intolerance?”
Smirking with the good side of his face, McNabb whispered “Build bigger podiums”. Carolyn, by his side, didn’t need to interpret.
The next day, supported by one of his hyper-alert guards, the Lt. Col. placed a wreath on the little girl’s grave, and cried with her mother and father and brother. No media were allowed at the graveside service.
A Pink Carnation And A Pickup Truck
Charles scanned the satellite radio channels and cycled through them again. The satellites were still up there, but the service was still out. He eased off of the powerful semi engine after his routine mid-day ten minute idle just to keep everything charged from the alternator. There were times, such as the last week he had been stranded here in La Crosse, Wisconsin, when he was glad to be divorced. At least, he was glad to not have to worry about looking out for anybody but himself. His ex could play piñata down in Odessa with her Mexican new husband who his kids called ‘poppy’ now, and he could continue siphoning diesel from his tanker into his tractor tank to stay warm at night. Suited him fine. Here was, on the side of the road at a truck stop, like always. He hadn’t moved his rig in so long that a snowbank had formed on the north side, around it, halfway up the fenders.
Like most Army veterans, Charles was used to hurrying up and waiting. But at fortyfive, he had little patience for the games of interstate commerce. Besides, when the lot lizards looked like Nanuk, it was too cold for him. Minnesota hadn’t even tried to plow the roads clear on their side, so it looked like he was facing a glacier of ice to his west across the line.
The long-haul truck driver had talked to the other handful of drivers, mostly pulling military cargoes, who had made it this far to the dead end. He had learned that attacks by Indian tribes in North Dakota had shut down the shale oil field operations, so there were no delivery jobs left there. He knew that his dispatch center was gone, turned off forever when Stillwater was burned by the First People’s Liberation Army. Anything he had left in Texas, including his kids, were in a foreign country now – either the Republic of Texas or La Republica del Norte, depending on which side of the I-10 the front was on, at the moment. He ticked off his remaining options: he could backtrack and head north to the twin cities, and sell the remaining half tank of diesel for their heaters, and make a bundle off of it. That is, assuming he could get through and the diesel wasn’t just officially confiscated. The Minnesota National Guard were said to do that kind of thing, even though they were technically nationalized, now. Or, he could sit and wait for a thaw, which could come next week, or next month. Or, he could head south and barter it in Madison. It was overpopulated more than ever, now, with the evacuation of Milwaukee.
Charles may not have quite graduated college, but he could read a map well enough to have made a decent trucker, and he could read the writing on the wall well enough to know when it was time to quit. As he was procrastinating, his decision was made for him by a M.D.O.T. snow plow’s distant rumble. He would wait and see what they actually did for the road, before he decided.
The next morning began a sunny early March day, and Charles stuck his head up in his cab. He had been unable to sleep much because of the continual grinding and crunching of snowplows and graders coming through from the west, then making raucous u-turns right in front of his front row parking spot and heading back again. They had been around four times over the last six hours. I-90 was good to go. In fact, his was the only rig left on the lot. Time to shake a leg.
The sun helped melt off the leftover snow in the center of the two lanes as he rumbled into Minnesota. He had planned on taking the Highway 52 exit to Rochester, but the offramp was blocked by a herringbone formation of purposefully jackknifed big rigs. At the top of the ramp sat two Humvees manned by a squad of Minnesota Guardsmen. The Staff Sergeant with the shaved head and alert eyes was in his late thirties, much older than the rest of his bunch, who looked to be fresh out of high school. Maybe Charles was just getting old. It seemed that the Guard was in charge of protecting the Mayo Clinic, and yes, they could use some extra diesel fuel. Now, down to some dickering.
Some Say The World Will End In Fire
Kelly smiled throughout the service, as visiting Church elders from Twin Falls to Page were acknowledged. It only really irked her when they tried to Bible-beat her at work. The break room Bible Study sessions always ruined her lunches. What a way to spend your only day off, she thought, but service attendance was mandatory, or virtually so, for government employees. She wondered if Karen was sitting somewhere right now bored, or hungry and cold, or if her sister was still alive. Jeesh, so grim, so eeyore, she groused at herself.
The best thing about Sundays was her chance to hear on air voices of people who didn’t normally broadcast throughout the week, like Will O’Douley. Before the collapse O’Douley had been a successful conservative writer and host of his own t.v. news talk show, ‘The O’Douley Data’. Kelly remembered him referring to Martin Luther King, Jr. as a ‘true conservative’ once, back before. But with the collapse of the major media networks, O’Douley was back on the air as best he could manage and sounding like Heinrich Himmler on meth. Probably his Jewish bosses fleeing the country like rats from a sinking ship to make Aliyah had disillusioned him more than a little, but it was still funny to listen to. He broadcast now from Spokane, and claimed to be the leader of a guerrilla militia movement resisting Chinese occupation. He might even be telling the truth. Kelly didn’t know, or care. But she did have serious doubts about O’Douley’s grander claims to be running the show from Missoula to Yakima. That was militia country, but not necessarily HIS militia country.
On the way home from church, she picked up a few apples which had appeared from out of nowhere at an illegal black market kiosk on the corner. No businesses were allowed to be open on Sundays, by law. At least free barter was accepted there, and her gloves got her four nice fruit. She went home with her hands, and the apples, in her jacket pockets. It looked like somebody as doing something in Washington, for apples to be here before April.
Two of the apples went to Mrs. Murphy, who gave her a new pair of gloves to replace hers, since she never went out any more, anyway. That made it a really good day. It was amazing how the little things in life meant so much, now.
If It Had To Perish Twice
Harry Lee missed Hu. He missed the push and pull of what he had seen as their partnership. As he listened to Spanish radio broadcasts cele
brating the sacking of Merced after Chinese peacekeeping forces declared an end to their humanitarian mission and withdrawal from the city, he missed America. How had things gotten so f’d up? He let his shoulders sag for a moment, then squared them again. He would survive. So would his family. They always did.
Even after the bulk of the Chinese troops from California had been redeployed to stop the Russian advances on Hegang and Jiamusi, Harry had thought that the reversals might be temporary. Once the Chinese military leaders had announced that the new capital of the People’s Republic would be at Sanya, near the Yulin naval base, it was only natural that they would reconsolidate their forces in southern China while playing defense in the north. He waited every day for a nuclear counterattack against the pirate fleet, as he thought of them, ran by Robert Woods. It became more and more clear that they did not want a nuclear war against both the American navy and the Russians, though.
Instead, terrorist attacks against the reduced garrisons in Burnaby, Santa Rosa, and Tacoma demoralized the strategists back home even more. The over seven million dead in and around Beijing, and the invasion by Russia, convinced them of the need to begin to cut their losses. Then the Seventh and Third Fleet had begun attacking Chinese positions daily, in earnest. The round eyed devils had went from ‘zero to hero’ with it, Harry thought mirthlessly. Who would have thought they would go nuclear, too?
The looming threat of more Chinese cities being lost, more than the guerrilla attacks, broke the will of the newly rebuilt Central Committee. They were purged almost immediately by military commanders from Yulin. General Jiang, who had been recalled to organize the defense of Heilongjiang province, broke with the new regime and declared The People’s Republic of Shenyang an independent state. Jiang asked the Russian General in his sector, Korestky, to discuss terms for a cease fire agreement in Harbin. At the same time, their United Korean allies had begun attacking Chinese garrisons in Seoul.