“Is there a problem?” Althea asked.
Libby stepped forward, but the man held out a hand. The two men whispered again. The guard pocketed Althea’s papers.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to step aside.”
“What’s going on?” Libby asked.
“Best if you head off now, Miss Strunk. You’ll want to reach York before dark.”
“I don’t understand,” Althea said. “I’ve never had problems crossing territories.”
The man from the Jeep took Althea by the elbow. “You’ll be coming with me, Miss Hudson.”
He dragged her away towards a holding compound as the guard returned his attention to the line.
Libby followed. “Care to explain to me what’s going on?”
“Let us handle this, ma’am.”
“I’d be happy to if you explained to me what it is that needs handled.” Libby grabbed his shoulder, but he shook her off.
“You want a piece of that reward then you’ll have to wait and explain yourself to Captain Landers.” He shoved his newspaper into Libby’s hands then threw back the wooden cover of a dug out prison pit and tossed Althea inside. She landed several feet below with a thump and a shout as Libby scanned the paper—a bounty had been set for the capture of one Miss Althea Hudson, set by Captain Percival Landers of the 45th United Carolinas.
* * *
Dusk faded, leaving a trail of stars in its wake. Bonfires had been set at either end of the crossing to light the locked gates. On the Maryland side of the border, tiny campfires illuminated small refugee tents where families would have to wait until morning to make their crossing. Hidden by the treeline, Libby watched the guards. There were only three on duty at night, and these three had a habit of clustering together every few minutes by the far left bonfire to share a drink from a flask.
After Althea’s capture, a guard had sped off in one of the Jeeps, probably headed to the nearest Western Union to telegram Landers. No doubt he’d reach the border by morning to collect his prize.
The guards dispersed to their stations, one strolling back and forth beside Althea’s prison pit. Libby sat back on her haunches, ignoring the stabbing in her side. Just a little pain was all. Nothing she hadn’t gone through before. She unholstered her Banker’s Special and waited for the guards to gather again. Soon as they did, she ran as quietly as she could to the prison pit. She lifted up the lid and called softly into the darkness.
“Miss Hudson?”
For a moment, nothing. Libby watched the guards. They were still drinking.
Then, “Libby?”
“Right, stand back. Ladder’s coming.”
Libby tossed down the rope ladder. As Althea climbed, the guards broke up.
“Best if you get a move on,” she whispered.
A pale hand appeared at the top of the hole, and Libby helped her the rest of the way up.
“Hey, you!”
Libby hoisted Althea to her feet as a shot fired over their heads. Libby fired back. A pained shout confirmed she’d hit her mark. She shoved Althea towards the remaining Jeep as more shots hit the ground around them. Libby started the engine and tore off, plowing towards the two remaining guards. They each fired a shot then dove out of the way. The Jeep careened down the bumpy road, Libby not slowing until the bonfires of the border were well out of sight.
* * *
They hid the Jeep off the road, behind a cluster of bushes. After driving all night, they were due for a break. As soon as she parked, Althea took Libby’s knapsack.
“Jerky’s in the front pocket,” Libby said.
“I’m looking for bandages.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“I’ve been known to say many a stupid thing.” Libby hopped out of the Jeep, but the pain in her side caused her leg to give out underneath her. She landed on a clump of leaves, her elbow banging against a flat rock.
“Yes,” Althea said. “Perfectly fine.” She climbed down from the Jeep, bandages and beef jerky in hand. Libby removed her jacket. The old bandages were indeed stained through. Althea knelt beside her.
“It looks like you’ve torn your stitches.”
“I’ll survive.”
Althea started patching her up. “You should be in hospital with a wound like this.”
“I was. Got bored.”
Althea frowned. “But this could get infected.”
“It starts to itch, I’ll toss a little whisky on it.” Libby gnawed on a piece of beef jerky as Althea patched her up. “Only way you’ll be safe from Landers is if we keep heading north to New England. From there you can travel to Canada. They’ll get you home.”
“I'm not leaving.”
“You ain’t got much of a choice. New England’s only place that’s out of this war. That means it’s the only place that won’t be swayed by Landers’ bounty.”
“I’m a war correspondent. If I leave at the first sign of trouble, I may as well find another job.”
“Why’s Landers got it out for you so bad anyhow?”
“Because... because I’m running a story about war crimes committed in the American territories.” Althea wouldn’t meet her gaze. “There. All done.”
“North and South?”
Althea gathered up the soiled bandages. “Yes.”
“But then the European Committee will stop sending us aid.”
Althea looked at her the same way Landers and his men had at the Old Dog.
“What? I’m just some ignorant soldier? I ain’t supposed to know things like that?”
“I didn’t say...”
“We can’t survive without that money and those goods. People rely on it. That woman who so kindly gave us these bandages? Her kids? What’ll they do? How will they live?”
Althea put the old bandages in the back of the Jeep. “I have a responsibility...”
“And we have to eat! You’re gonna condemn an entire country for the faults of a few?”
“You think this is a country?”
“No wonder Landers wants you dead.” Libby bent over to grab her jacket, aggravating her side. Althea grabbed it for her, and her hands fell on the wad of papers in the inner pocket—Libby’s border credits. Bits stuck out the top of the open zipper. The distinctive gold embossing could not be mistaken.
“Are these...”
Libby swiped her jacket from Althea’s hands.
“Not many did make it out of Atlanta,” Libby said quietly. “Those that did were justly rewarded.”
Althea didn’t move. “So you care about this ‘country,’ do you? Is that why you’re running away to New England? A territory which doesn’t receive international aid?”
“Shut up.” Libby got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“It’s easy to have a stance on an issue that doesn’t affect you, isn’t it? To boldly proclaim your outrage? But, to actually do something about it? I suppose that takes the kind of nerve you soldiers so rarely possess.”
“You think I want to spend the remainder of my days in that pacifist stink hole they call a territory? Well, I ain’t allowed in Philadelphia if I can’t fight and the rest of this country would kill me soon’s they found out where I’m from, depending who they’re aligned with that particular week. Why’d you think they gave me them credits? I ain’t got nowhere else to go!” Libby grabbed her ammunitions bag and dumped out all but the ten bullets she’d started with. They landed at Althea’s feet. “For your own moral protection, Miss Hudson. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you gave aid to a war criminal.”
Althea made no move to collect them. She remained still as Libby jammed the car into gear and forced it back onto the road. Libby smelled the dust as she sped off, but didn’t bother to look back to see where it landed.
* * *
Whisky dripped down her chin as she steered the Jeep, one-handed, round a sharp curve. The fuel indicator quivered on ‘E’. She’d used up the Jeep’s remai
ning cans of gasoline when she’d crossed the border from New Jersey to New York, and only had a few miles left before the Jeep would die completely. Connecticut County was still about 30 miles away. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and kept driving, ignoring the urge to scratch her at her bandages.
A dark speck appeared in the road ahead. Libby squinted but couldn’t make out its shape. She shoved the flask into the knapsack and noticed the shape moving. She thought perhaps it could be an injured animal lying in the road, except injured animals didn’t wear blue jeans and beige t-shirts.
“Goddamn.” Libby stopped just in time to avoid driving over Althea Hudson’s head. Libby leapt down and ran to her side. Her hands were tied behind her back, and a gag prevented her from speaking. Libby briefly considered leaving it, but instead made untying it her first priority.
“Go,” Althea croaked as three Jeeps emerged from the roadside, surrounding them.
“Don’t think I’m supposed to.”
Landers climbed out of one of the Jeeps, spitting chaw to the ground. He had three men with him, one for each of the Jeeps.
“Evening, Miss Strunk.”
Libby unshouldered her rifle. “Why you throwing reporters at me, Landers? I can find them well enough on my own.”
“Seems you let this one get away.”
“I released her back into the wild. They prefer their natural habitat. Now, you want to tell me why you left her lying in the road there?”
Landers chuckled and rubbed his stubbled chin. “Don’t ‘spect you heard, but the United Carolinas have decided to end their brief alliance with Pennsylvania. Apparently, wasn’t beneficial for either party.”
Libby tightened the grip on her M1, keeping it aimed on Landers.
“Now, as we were in the area and you were harbouring a fugitive of the 45th United Carolinas militia, seemed the best way to serve my country would be to take you in as well.”
She pushed off the rifle’s safety. “Now, I may not be partial to these interlopers, Landers, but even I know international reporters ain’t fugitives.”
Landers sighed. “See, this is why they shouldn’t ever have given women the right to bear arms. Gives them all sortsa funny ideas.” He nodded to his men. They trained their guns on Libby. “I want the reporter alive, but I don’t have any particular notion towards how I bring you in, little lady.”
“Wait!” Althea shouted.
“Do not say anything stupid,” Libby grumbled.
“Leave her alone, and I’ll go with you freely.”
“That was stupid.”
Landers laughed. “Good to know they’re still raising ‘em right over in the old country. But I can’t accept your offer, darling. Not when I’ve gone out of my way to get aholda this one, too.”
“If you kill her, I won’t write how the United Carolinas are the only territory who haven’t committed war crimes within the last twenty-five years. Or how the European Committee should continue providing aid for them, and them alone.”
Landers crossed his arms. “And who would believe that?”
“I’m a senior correspondent for the most trusted and unbiased news source in the world. Everyone will.”
Landers considered her offer. “I hate to think I set this trap for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t have made the offer otherwise.”
Landers spit chaw to the ground and smiled. “All right, then. Get her up.”
The guard behind Libby came forward and yanked Althea to her feet. He passed her over to Landers who grabbed her by the neck. The other men took their guns off Libby. She kept hers raised. As Althea and Landers walked forward, Althea tripped, pulling Landers with her to the ground. Libby fired at the men before they could let off a single shot. The three went down. Bullets ricocheted off the Jeep, missing Landers. He abandoned Althea and ran for the woods. Libby aimed for his legs and fired. He collapsed onto the road.
Gun still raised, Libby approached and kicked him over onto his back.
“Go on, then,” he panted.
“And ruin all my fun? No, I think I’ll let you live. I saw a house not too far from here. Two or three miles to the west. If you’re lucky, they might be hooked up to the telephone.” She rolled him into a ditch, ignoring his screaming.
Libby returned to Althea and helped her to her feet. Althea winced.
“You all right?”
“Just a bit winded,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Libby went to untie Althea’s hands and saw the blood staining her back.
“Christ. Did Landers...” Libby remembered she was the only person who fired a weapon.
“It’s only a scratch. I’ll be fine.”
Libby helped Althea load herself into Landers’ Jeep then used her bandana to staunch the bleeding.
“Miss Hudson, I know what you said ‘bout not wanting to go into New England, but the Connecticut border’s the closest place with a hospital and I’d rather not give Landers the satisfaction of you dying.”
“I’ll forgo my moral objections this once,” Althea smiled, her skin already paler than before.
Libby drove as fast as she safely could over the rocky road. Every bump caused Althea to wince, but they couldn’t slow down. It still took twenty minutes for the Connecticut border to come into view. Libby sped right for it. A neatly uniformed Connecticut guard held up his hand. Libby swerved and pulled to a stop alongside him. He looked at the fresh dust on his shoes, then to Althea, whose blood covered the passenger’s seat, and finally to Libby.
“Papers,” he said.
“Get on the wire and get us a doctor!”
“There is a hospital stationed just past the guard hut. First, let me see her papers.”
“She’s a reporter for the BBC. A British citizen!”
“Where are her papers?”
Libby felt like she’d been shot in the chest as she remembered. Those papers were with the border guard back at the Mason-Dixon. Althea was here, bleeding out in a United Carolinas Jeep because of a 76th Philadelphia bullet.
She reached into her inner pocket. “Take these. One hundred bona fide border credits for entry into the New England Neutrality, issued by the Northern States Alliance.”
“Libby... no...” Althea held up a bloodied hand to stop her, but Libby shoved the paper credits into the guard’s hands.
“Get her to the goddamn hospital!” Libby shouted.
The guard looked disgusted at the blood now staining his uniform but did as she ordered. Less than five minutes later, medics were loading an unconscious Althea onto a stretcher. Libby’s last glimpse of her came as the medics lifted her into the back of an ambulance. The doors slammed shut, replacing her image of Althea with a bright Red Cross. The ambulance siren wailed as the van sped off and rounded a corner, vanishing from sight. The sound of the siren diminished into silence.
Libby remained at the border, her clothes covered in blood. The border guard cleaned his hands with a white handkerchief, which he then neatly folded and returned to his pocket.
“And your papers?” he asked.
Without giving a response, Libby leapt into the Jeep and drove back the way she came. After five miles, she stopped to take stock of what she had—one M1 Garand .30 caliber semi-automatic rifle, two en bloc .30-06 Springfield cartridge clips, one Colt Banker’s Special, six .38 S&W bullets, ten assorted other bullets, one flask blended whisky (three-quarters empty), one canteen of water (half empty), one blood-stained Jeep, two shaking hands, and a searing, itching pain in her right side. She tried sliding the flask of whisky into her empty inner jacket pocket—succeeding on the third attempt—put the Jeep in gear, and drove southward.
A Girl’s Best Friend
by Cyrus P. Underwood
The following was the first interview that Marilyn Monroe had done in years. Even after her retirement in 2002 at the age of 76, Marilyn remained active in promoting various social causes. At 86, she gave her final interview to TIME Magazine at her home in Los Angeles. It was o
riginally published in the August 6, 2012 issue:
TIME: Hello, Miss Monroe. Thanks for speaking with us today.
MARILYN MONROE: It’s a pleasure, as always.
TIME: Let’s start early. You began your career as a model during World War II.
MM: Yes, that's right. Though I didn't stay one for long. Soon after the war, I started to get bit parts in movies and then... (laughs)
TIME: Then you did Playboy.
MM: Yes, that's right. I only did because I had bills to pay. The fact that people are still looking at them now makes me blush. I'm not saying that that got me better parts, of course. It was just something that I had to do at the time.
TIME: You are still a remarkably good looking woman.
MM: Why thank you. But I don't think I'll be gracing the pages of Playboy anytime soon, now, unless they do a memorial issue.
TIME: You have said, in one of your recent public appearances, that the reason you are so committed to child welfare now is because of your own experiences as a child. In fact your foundation, Marilyn's Children, is being hailed as one of the premier organizations for helping children since its founding in 1995.
MM: Yes, I was moved around a lot when I was young. My mother, bless her, wasn't capable of taking care of me after a while, and I didn't know where my father was.
TIME: That would be the man you have identified as Charles Stanley Grifford.
MM: Yes. My mother showed me a photo of him when I was a child. I remember he looked like Clark Gable. I used to imagine that Clark Gable was my father, but that was just an amusing thought.
TIME: But your real maiden name was Mortensen.
MM: That was just the last name of the man my mother was married to at the time.
TIME: There are those who say that Mortensen was actually your father and that your mother lied to you. What do you have to say to those critics?
MM: Well, I say they are lying. In any case, my father didn't care enough for me to see that I was taken care of, so I guess it really doesn’t matter all that much.
TIME: Let's move on. There is a dividing line in your work: pre-overdose and post-overdose. What happened that August night in 1962?
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