Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  There wasn’t any helium west of the Pecos, she’d discovered. The inflatables had to be taped to the walls and the front edge of the stage. It was another sign of the recovery work still to be done.

  The posters looked good, Diana choosing the campaign slogan of, “Together We Can!” It was simple, inclusive, and had probably been used a million times in political contests over the years.

  Still, post-collapse politics were different than before society had taken a dive. There were a hundred reasons why.

  First and foremost, there was little press coverage compared to the old days. Only Houston and Austin contained the resources necessary to support television broadcasts, and those were limited to a few hours a day. Dallas was scheduled to go live in the next few weeks, San Antonio to follow shortly afterward. Television studios required massive amounts of electricity and a high-tech inventory of gadgets … none of which were currently being manufactured.

  The huge, dominant newspapers that existed in the major cities had been replaced by dozens and dozens of small, tabloid-like prints. Many of these weren’t circulated as paper and ink were expensive and difficult to obtain. Instead, the publishers posted them on store fronts and bulletin boards where the population would gather to read the news.

  These days, radio was the key medium for those with political aspirations. Practically every inch of Texas was now covered by some sort of AM broadcast, many having extensive programming options that included music, news, job boards, homesteading tips and tricks, and even medical advice.

  “Talk Radio,” was as popular as ever, and during an election, both local and national candidates would be barnstorming the airwaves.

  Satisfied that everything was in place, Terri turned and smiled at the bodyguard standing next to the gymnasium’s locked door. “Let them in,” she instructed.

  The beefy fellow acknowledged her signal with a nod and then said something into the microphone pinned to his lapel. A moment later, he pushed on the emergency bar and opened the double doors.

  In poured the crowd that had been waiting outside of Alpha High School’s main sports complex. The local reporters were first, followed by a gaggle of visiting press and a host of well-wishers who simply wanted to lend their support to Diana’s announcement and launch.

  Pivoting, Terri then headed for the stage. Cutting behind the dark, blue curtain that provided a background for the event, she found an anxious, pacing Diana. “Everything looks great,” she reassured the nervous candidate. “You’ll knock ’em dead.”

  “I’ve faced down how many threats?” Diana asked with a throat full of nerves. “I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has tried to kill me, or Nick, or Bishop or you … or destroy the Alliance. How many times have we thought it was all over? So, why am I just a bundle of jitters now?”

  Terri shrugged, “Beats me, my incumbent friend. There’s no good reason that I know of. You’re popular, stunning, shrewd, and have a proven track record. You should be enjoying this … taking the opportunity to bask in a wee bit of glory. This is your event. This is your show. Go out there and take charge. Own it, or the press will own you.”

  Diana nodded, sincerely appreciating her campaign manager’s motivational words. Terri, however, never spotted the gesture, already moving away to instruct the staff members waiting nearby.

  Music started bubbling over the arena’s speaker system, the upbeat tune signaling that the affair was about to begin.

  Again, out of nowhere, Terri appeared at her friend’s side. “Do you have your speech?”

  “Yes,” Diana replied, holding up a clutched wad of papers.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Alliance leader nodded.

  “Let’s rock!”

  With that, Terri strolled out onstage and waved to the crowd. Thunderous applause greeted her, many of the attendees aware of her contribution, others simply happy that things were getting underway. She then approached the podium, waving and saying, “Thank you,” until the music stopped.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began with a strong voice, “over the last four years, the citizens of the Alliance have traveled a difficult road. Together, we have endured starvation, diseases, violence, and external threats to our way of life.”

  Pausing to glance at the sea of admiring faces, she continued. “Like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes, our cities, our community, our neighborhoods, and our families have not only survived, but thrived. We, as a nation, now have security, rule of law, food on the table, and medical care. Our children are enrolling in schools. Our electrical lights burn brightly in the night. Our fields produce enough to feed everyone. We are Texans! We have always overcome any challenge because we never give up! We will always fight for our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness … to the last man, woman, and child!”

  Whistles, clapping hands, and shouts of encouragement echoed from the rafters, Terri’s efforts to gin up the crowd having the desired effect. With perfect timing, she waited, letting the positive emotion feed on itself.

  “Yes, we have come far. Together we have adapted and overcome. As a people, we have proven our reliance and grit, while we declared to a hostile world, ‘Don’t mess with Texas!’”

  The audience’s response grew in fervor and excitement, cheers and roaring applause rising to a feverish crescendo. Throughout the bedlam, Terri remained behind the podium, pointing and smiling at the crowd, mouthing the words, “It was you. You did it. It was all of you.”

  The speaker then waited, letting the intensity slowly die down, relishing in the waves of positive energy that rolled from the throng. Finally holding up her hands in a modest request for quiet, she continued. “Now, everybody knows that we Texans are a tough bunch. Over the last two hundred years, we’ve had no choice. We’ve proven time and again that we are not afraid to mix it up, to do what’s right, to stand together and overcome any threat. Throughout it all, we’ve had a secret weapon … a hidden power … a collective wisdom that has existed since the times of Sam Houston, Stephen Austin, James Bowie, and Davey Crockett.”

  Now she had them, the arousing speech taking an unexpected path.

  “We have always recognized strong and insightful leaders and thrown our support behind them!”

  Again, they erupted, now onboard the train and sure where it was headed. Without missing a beat, Terri poured it on. “We, as a people, have overcome invasion, famine, epidemics, natural disasters, and yes, even the global collapse of society. We have accomplished these feats with a robust perseverance and unparalleled sacrifice of blood and treasure. And … in every instance … great leaders have arisen from the ranks of common people. Ordinary men and women have answered the call, standing bravely to face the threat and sacrificing in service to ensure the survival of the Lone Star Nation.”

  The crowd was hooting and hollering, Terri’s impassioned words ringing true to hundreds of eager ears.

  “Diana Brown has been such a leader. She has carried a rifle into battle, lost a son in the cause of freedom, rallied the people, and served all of us with a cool, logical, head and unwavering purity of heart. One hundred years from now, I’m sure her name will be mentioned with Houston, Austin, Bowie, and Crockett. As our future generations enjoy freedom and liberty, I am certain that President Brown’s name will dominate the history books for her foresight, courage, and relentless drive to improve each and every life in Texas. So, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you, Miss Diana Brown, the next President of the Alliance!”

  The crowd went nuts, screaming support and brandishing political signs as Diana emerged from behind the blue curtains. Waving and smiling to each corner of the room, she took her time ambling across the stage, finally ending up beside an enthusiastically-clapping Terri.

  Up in the rafters, high above the curtains, four students began dumping boxes of balloons over the top of the backdrop, the multi-colored deluge timed perfectly as buoyant music blasted from the publi
c-address system.

  Finally, Diana arrived at the podium, leaning in as she shook Terri’s hand and whispering, “How in the hell am I supposed to top that speech?”

  It was a rhetorical question, Diana’s backhanded way of saying thank you to her loyal friend and campaign manager.

  With her job now accomplished, Terri gestured from the platform, signaling to the crowd her intent to move out of the spotlight.

  Diana spoke for 15 minutes, officially announcing her run for reelection, and then outlining what she hoped to achieve.

  At least a dozen times during the speech, the Alliance’s highest elected official had to pause, waiting for the applause to die down so that she could continue. Terri, standing just offstage, thought her friend’s presentation was both inspired and professional.

  There was, however, a sense of foreboding in the newly appointed campaign manager’s mind. Diana was in Alpha, her hometown. Her father had formed a huge church here. The candidate was well known and appreciated as the local girl who had done well. She had brought prosperity and fame to the previously unimportant berg. She spoke the same language as the horde of supporters gathered in the gym.

  Terri, having had residence in one of the larger metropolitan sprawls, knew the citizens of the Alliance’s urban areas would react differently to what Diana was proposing for the future. Would her message resonate in Dallas? Austin? El Paso?

  Bishop, always an interesting sounding board, didn’t think so. “Those people in the big towns have a completely different set of problems and issues. They always have, and they always will. You can’t govern the same for rural, agricultural areas as in the concrete jungles. Diana is going to have to land somewhere in the center to get reelected.”

  “That’s a pretty thin line to walk,” Terri had countered. “Trying to make both groups happy seems like a tall order.”

  “She’ll either make both happy or piss everyone off,” shrugged Bishop. “Isn’t that the way it’s always been in American politics?”

  “Only time will tell,” she whispered as Diana finished her speech to the unquestionable approval of the audience.

  Cyrus P. Young pushed the stack of newspapers to the far side of his desk with a sigh. After focusing on an empty point in space, the governor of the Dallas region rose and stepped to the window.

  The view from his sixth-story office had once been a spectacular vista, encompassing a panoramic unfolding of a vibrant and prosperous skyline that had been gaining prominence with each passing year.

  Before the collapse, Dallas had grown to be the 4th largest metropolitan area in the United States. Now, four years later, Cyrus had no idea where the city ranked, nor did he care.

  Big D had been hit hard by the Second Great Depression and follow-on collapse. While large swaths of the city hadn’t burned like Houston, the surrounding metroplex had suffered widespread famine and epidemics of cholera, smallpox, and other deadly disease.

  According to the last census conducted before the downfall, there had been nearly 8 million people in his geographic area. Now, Cyrus doubted if a million souls could be mustered. Scores had died daily, victims of violence, malnutrition, lack of clean water, and a sewage system that had failed within days of the collapse.

  Some untold number had migrated, drifting away from the city as the months passed, seeking a greener pastures … someplace offering food, sanitary drinking water, and more security. Cyrus could remember the “wagon trains,” hodgepodge parades of carts, wagons, horsemen, and carriages daily fleeing the urban sprawl. Governor Young wondered how they had fared.

  At first, the city had tried to maintain control using its own law enforcement. The Dallas Police Department had been overwhelmed within a month. Next, the National Guard deployed, but they were too little, too late. Guardsmen were citizens – they had families and homes to protect, mouths to feed. Only one in five reported for duty. Texas had already skidded over the edge, sliding into the abyss at such a rate that the leadership Austin couldn’t get in front of the problems.

  Finally, under federally declared martial law, the Army had moved in. Their occupation was brutal and served a single purpose – establishing the rule of law.

  The military units that had occupied Dallas and Fort Worth had no idea how to kick start the economy or organize any sort of agricultural effort. They didn’t care that the electrical grid was dark or that the water didn’t flow. The generals who had occupied Cyrus’s current office had one objective – maintain order at any cost.

  That cost had been extreme.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, word of the Alliance had begun to spread through what remained of city hall. A group of small towns had banded together, integrating more and more of West Texas with each passing day. Their leadership somehow managed to get food on the table and establish law and order. Their tide was heading east.

  Practically overnight, the general in charge of the Dallas region announced that he, and the occupying garrison, were switching uniforms. The Alliance had taken control of all military forces in Texas. The Lone Star Nation was reborn.

  At first, Cyrus had been completely onboard with the new government. Their goals and message were simple. Grow food at all costs. Secure water. Enforce the rule of law. Create energy by repairing infrastructure and refining oil.

  Tens of thousands were bussed from the cities. If you wanted to eat, you were required to work. While no one was forced into slavery, most people found they had no choice. Without gasoline and diesel for tractors, the multitudes were handed shovels and hoes. Corn and potatoes were planted and harvested by hand; the fields worked by artists, accountants, bank tellers, and plant managers alike. College degrees didn’t matter, social position and wealth were meaningless. The old ways were dead and gone. The new world was manual labor, basic needs, and community effort.

  The Alliance housed them in tent cities. It was nasty, back-breaking work, but there was nourishment, basic medical care, and a primitive society. After enduring months of looting, starvation, and heavy-handed military rule, the survivors were ready for any plan that offered hope.

  Turning from the window, Cyrus strolled back to the newspapers. On top of the stack was the Abilene Post, the bold headline declaring, “President Brown Bids For Reelection!” Diana’s picture was beneath, the smiling Alliance leader waving to a cheering crowd, the poster in the background declaring, “Together We Can.”

  Grunting, Cyrus spoke to the image. “You played a role, but your time is over. Now it’s my turn, Miss Brown.”

  It then dawned on him that history did indeed repeat itself.

  For generations, Cyrus’s family had hidden an embarrassing skeleton in the family closet – they were descendants of Huey P. Long, the former governor of neighboring Louisiana.

  Governor Long preferred to be called Kingfish, a nickname of his own choosing. Just like his great, great, nephew, Long had served during a time of massive economic upheaval – the Great Depression of the 1930s.

  Most historians took a dim view of Kingfish’s era in office, some intellectuals even going so far as to describe him as a dictator, others satisfied with categorizing the governor as one of the most corrupt politicians in the history of the United States of America.

  As a young man, Cyrus had initially felt a deep sense of humiliation upon learning of his ancestor’s historical role. Such a lineage was not something his wealthy, politically connected family was proud of.

  In fact, the discovery had shaken the young graduate student to the point where he’d almost dropped out of law school. It was only after he’d dug deeper into the university’s sprawling research library that young Cyrus had formed a different opinion of old Uncle Kingfish.

  Rather than a dictator who commonly discarded civil rights, Cyrus found a man who, when faced with some of the starkest challenges in American history, had taken control and led his constituents through dark times.

  Louisiana had suffered only seven bank failures during the Great Depress
ion. Most states had lost hundreds of financial institutions. When Huey had taken office, there were only 300 miles of paved roads in the entire state. By the time he was assassinated in 1935, over 3,000 miles of blacktop throughways crisscrossed the swamps and bayous … carrying goods, services, and prosperity across Cajun country.

  Governor Long expanded hospitals, funded the most advanced mental health care in the south, established a major university, and built the tallest state capitol building in the nation. All this, while economic bedlam raged across most of the globe.

  Now, sitting as the governor of the Alliance’s most populated region, Cyrus felt a deep kinship with his ancestor. Yes, Huey P. Long had broken a few rules and discarded some basic rights, but the man had gotten the job done. There was little doubt he ran his administration more akin to Al Capone’s Chicago mob than the typical state capital.

  Still gazing at Diana’s picture, Cyrus’s mind wandered down a familiar path. What would have become of Huey P. Long’s contribution to history if he hadn’t fallen victim to the assassin’s bullet? How far would his power and influence have spread?