Uncle Evans: A Fictional Tale of Anarcho-Tyranny in America

...so that means that the driver is the captain from that bridge?

 

The U.S.-Mexico Border

It was an official border crossing point, but it did not look like one. It was a feature of the big national park, a whimsical point at which hikers and tourists could cross the river into Mexico, eat some food, drink some beer, and then cross back again into the United States. The river could be swum or forded easily but for only a few dollars, a boatman would take you across and back again. George didn’t need to get back again. He did pay the boatman extra to ferry his motorcycle and possessions across and into Mexico.

There weren’t any customs officials on the U.S. side, just a Park Ranger who sat in an air-conditioned truck and played with his phone. On the Mexico side, the customs agent sat in a lawn chair in the shade of a tree and waited to check passports. George approached, walking alongside his touring bike. He stopped before the official, kicked out the kickstand, and then dug in his pockets for his passports. He found both: his Colombian passport and his U.S. passport. He looked down at the Mexican border agent. The agent looked up at George with what could have either been impatience, or disinterest. George couldn’t tell.

George considered the two passports in his hands. He took one look north, back across the Rio Grande. The US was a rocky desert that stretched forever.

"Pasaporte," the man called from the shade. George turned away from the United States and handed over his passport, the Columbian one. Seated in his chair under the shade, the Mexican border agent made a big production of checking over the passport before finally stamping it. George took his passport and still walking his bike, proceeded into Mexico.

The town was named Boquillas. It was just big enough to accommodate the handful of tourists who crossed over from the park every day. George found a restaurant, bought a bottle of beer from a cooler, and considered the journey ahead. He had not built out the bike quite to what he wanted it to be, and he would have liked a few more months' worth of cash in his pocket. The bike would get him where he needed to go though, and he could always pick up work along the way. His great motorcycle tour of South America was about to begin. Maybe it was beginning a bit early, but it was beginning. He scratched absentmindedly at the bandaged dog bite and finished the beer. When he was done, he tossed the empty bottle into a steel drum that served as a refuse bin. Then he dug in his pocket, took out his American passport, and tossed that in the bin as well. He wasn’t an American now, and he never would be one again.

He took one last look across the river into America. Then he started up his bike and headed south.



The Texas Hill Country

John sat on the couch next to his wife. The room was dark. The lights were off, and the blue-white electric glare of the TV flashed over their blank faces in a way that screamed hopelessness. Neither spoke. Neither had spoken, not since she’d posted his bond and bailed him out of jail. There hadn't been much talk in their relationship before. Just the odd word here and a meaningless pleasantry there. Now there was nothing. Neither one wanted to speak because any conversation would inevitably lead to the current situation. The light from the TV shifted. John heard canned laughter, but he didn’t laugh himself. He didn’t catch the joke. He didn’t even know what they were watching.

He turned to his wife. She stared straight ahead into the TV. The electric blue waves of light showed her age. John had to admit he didn’t feel much for the woman. They’d been married, sure, but they’d grown more and more distant over the years. They rarely spoke as it was. The kids were out of the house. In some sense, their lives had already ended before Evans' massacre and John's arrest. Things had been bad. Now they were worse.

His wife had to take out another mortgage on the house to pay the bond to get him out of jail. That was only the start of course. The legal fees to mount any kind of defense would cost a fortune, a fortune John did not have and could not get. He might be out of jail now, but he’d soon be back. That was inevitable. His house had survived the PVD mob, but he was going to lose it anyway. The bank would take it when the new mortgage went unpaid, unless the bail bondsman took it first, or the court. He wasn’t sure how that would work. He turned from the TV and looked around. The place was still a mess from when the police came in and ransacked it, searching for evidence of domestic terrorism. He and his wife should have been cleaning up and putting their home back together instead of watching TV. But it wasn’t their home anymore, and they knew it. They were just living on borrowed time. So, John had lost his house and more. And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, they did.

His youngest daughter called in a state of hysteria. She told her mom, John’s wife, that she’d been kicked out of school. The university’s leadership decided that the daughter of an ultra-fascist vigilante veteran had no place in their institution. They expelled her, but of course, kept the tuition John had already paid. It was all in accordance with the school’s policy. When John asked for the phone, his wife said no. She said his youngest daughter refused to talk to him.

When the oldest of his two daughters called, she wasn't in a state of hysteria. She was in a state of rage, and that rage was directed right at John. She'd been fired from her job. She wasn't even given the benefit of an explanation why. She showed up for work one day to find an HR representative and two armed guards waiting for her. The HR representative said she made the other employees feel, "unsafe." They didn’t even allow her to clean out her desk. They told her all her personal items had already been turned over to the police.

His wife would barely speak to him. Neither of his children would speak to him. Everything he’d worked for throughout his life would soon be gone. And there was still the humiliation of the trial to look forward to. The full weight of the state was about to crush down on him and there was nothing he could do but languish in despair until he was finally crushed out of existence.

And he hadn't even been around when the shooting happened. He'd been in Austin, with an airtight alibi. But that didn't matter to the police. His phone records were enough to get him charged as a co-conspirator and an accessory. Plenty of John's neighbors were willing to testify that John had been a member of Evans' "Vigilante Veteran, Extremist Militia." John had no doubt that some of his neighbors' testimony had been coerced.

The light of the TV shifted again. John heard more canned laughter. He didn’t laugh.

In the middle of some orchestrated TV nonsense, John stood up and announced, "I need to go work on the truck."

His wife grunted in reply, maybe. Maybe she didn't grunt at all. John could not say. She didn’t turn to look at him. Maybe just as well, John thought. He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of bourbon before he went into the garage. He spun the cap off as he went.

After a long pull from the bottle, John set to work. He grabbed a variety of tools out of the toolbox and laid them out underneath the old Dodge. Then he took his old plywood creeper down off the wall and laid it beside the truck. Next, he opened the hood and tinkered a bit. He took a can of solvent off a shelf on the wall and sprayed some parts. Then he sprayed his hands. Then he sprayed a corner of his shirt. He set the solvent can down at the edge of the truck, found his shop radio, and turned it onto an oldies station. He liked that station and the music. It came in with some warble, but it was clear enough. He set the radio on the floor beside the truck. Then he took another long pull from the bourbon bottle. He wasn’t enjoying it. He was just trying to get it into his stomach, into his blood, into his system. Volume was the goal, not taste, not enjoyment. When he felt he’d drank enough, he set the bottle down and took the truck keys off a hook on the wall.

After he made sure the garage windows and doors were closed tight, he started the truck. That done, he got down on the creeper and rolled himself under the big Dodge.

He felt woozy. At this point, it was still the booze. He reached for the shop radio, pulled it closer, and raised the volume. Will they play any songs I want to hear, John wondered. He grabbed a ratchet and socket and looked up at the undercarriage of his truck. The engine rumbled. The whole frame shook. The exhaust sputtered out white clouds. The garage began to look as if a fog bank was rolling in.

"I wonder how far I’ll get," John said aloud. He picked out a bolt on the driveshaft and slowly, very slowly, went to work. He wasn't trying to fix anything on the truck. His goal was to just keep turning the ratchet until he couldn't.



Federal Holding Facility, Houston Texas.

All too often, people will get sound advice that they disregard, and they later end up regretting it. Dale found himself in such a position. Evans told Dale to run. Dale had not. He thought he was still living in an older version of the United States. Dale would spend the rest of his life regretting that.

"I don’t understand. I gave you everything you asked for," Dale said. He wore an orange prison uniform with cheap cloth shoes, and his voice cracked and quivered from fear and desperation. He sounded like a man about to be led before a firing squad. A firing squad would have been much more dignified than what was happening now.

"You did give us everything we wanted. Now we want more," The special agent said. His name was Rigby, and Rigby wore a dark suit. So did the three other agents in the room. Rigby was the one who did all the talking. The others were big men who stood quietly and looked intimidating. They were good at that job. Rigby was good at his job too. His job was to run snitches like Dale.

Dale mounted a defense. It was a meager one. "I told you all about Evans. I told you about that kid he had there. I even told you about John, and he wasn't even there. I laid it all out for you. I signed all the statements. What else do you want from me?"

"I want more," Rigby said. "I want all the domestic terrorists out there. All these vigilante veterans. I want every single Evans out there and you are going to give them to me. We’re moving you into a state prison. Your new job is to make friends with all the mega-fascists in there and get them to talk."

"You said if I gave you Evans I wouldn’t go to prison."

"Now I’m telling you something different. Did you think putting all this on your neighbors was going to end this? You were a fool to think that. That wasn’t the ending. It was the beginning. I’m sending you to Huntsville. Then Formby. Then who knows? Maybe some federal prison in some other state. They got a great one in Colorado. You'll fit right in. But wherever I tell you to go, you are going to go. You’re going to go and get me my domestic terrorists."

Dale broke. He choked. His thin body shook. He began sobbing. "I can’t go. I can't go to prison. I can’t. They’ll know. They’ll… people like me don’t go to prison. I’m a good person. I only wanted to defend my home. My family…" Dale’s voice trailed off. He sobbed again, uncontrollably. He wasn't supposed to go to prison. His story wasn't supposed to end this way. He was an average, ordinary, tax-paying American. He went to work. He coached soccer. "I won’t," he managed to choke out between sobs.

"No Dale, you will. You will do it or I’m going to arrest your wife on conspiracy and domestic terrorism charges."

Dale’s face went white. His mouth drooped open. Special Agent Rigby slid a paper onto the table in front of Dale.

"I’ve already got the warrant written up and signed by the judge."

Dale looked at the paper. He didn’t know what a warrant was supposed to look like, but the paper before him had his wife’s name on it and looked official enough. Rigby went on.

"As for your daughters, they'll go into foster care. Period. If Grandma or some aunt tries to get custody, I’ll have them charged with conspiracy and domestic terrorism too. I’ve already got the foster homes picked out, and listen to me Dale, they aren’t good ones. I’m going to separate them, your daughters. I'll put them on opposite sides of the state."

One of the big men piped up from the back of the room. "Not only will your girls never see you again, they’ll never see each other again."

"My girls," Dale said. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah. Your girls," another one of the big men chimed in. "But they'll be somebody else's girls… and not in a fatherly way."

"No. It'll be in all the wrong ways," the second big agent said.

"Blonde-hair, blue-eyed girls. Young. The right people could make a lot of money with those girls," the third brute said.

"And I know the right people," Rigby said. "And if that ain’t enough, maybe I put you in Huntsville and let the word get that you are a snitch for the feds. Put you in a wing where you will be the only white guy. Maybe I’ll do the same thing to your wife. Put her in with the cholitas and let them all know she’s fed plant."

"You said I’d stay out of jail," Dale whimpered.

"I did," Agent Rigby said, and he wasn’t remorseful at all. In fact, he was quite proud of his duplicity. "I tell a lot of people they’ll stay out of jail. It was a lie. It’s always a lie. People like you always believe my lies because you want to hold onto some hope. I prey upon your hope, and I don't lose any sleep over it. We're building a New America, Dale. And there is no place in it for people like you. You are here, right where you belong. You are here and I own you. You understand me, Dale? You are my property now. I own you. You executed a bunch of kids."

"They were going to burn our houses down."

"You should have let them."

"They killed Lori and her whole family."

"No Dale, you killed Lori. You executed her. You executed her family. And you executed all those kids."

"They were coming to kill us."

"No Dale. They were peacefully protesting. They were peacefully protesting and then you and your buddies executed them."

"Like some fucking Nazi death squad," one of the big men chimed in.

Rigby stood and collected his papers. "You know Dale," he began. "Maybe they were coming to kill you. Maybe they were. But if they had killed you, would you and your family be any worse off than you are now?"



Dallas Texas

"A family was killed when the First Amendment celebrations got started. We're pinning that on him too. Along with all the PVD he murdered."

"Did he kill them?" Teddy asked.

"The family? No, the PVD killed them," Greg said. "But we can make the case that it was his fault. I already worked it all out with the judge. She's on board."

"Good," Teddy said. He drummed his fingers on the table between them. Greg and Teddy sat in an office deep inside a new federal building in Dallas. Although a long way away from Washington D.C. this building belonged to the U.S. Capital Police. Teddy asked, "How has this Evans been under pressure?"

"Unfortunately, he's been a rock. No statements to the police. Nothing under questioning, even when they put the pressure on him. He stood mute before the judge. He didn't even enter a plea. The public defender did it for him. After the arraignment, I talked to his defender. She said he won't talk to her either. I don't know if he's spoken a word since he's been picked up."

"You should have told the defender to enter a guilty plea for him."

"If I'd thought of it, I would have."

"Well, it doesn't sound like he's going to put up much of a fight. So, what's the problem?"

"A couple of loose ends," Greg said. "The first is the guns."

"Didn't he have a whole arsenal of guns?" Teddy asked.

"He did. Washington sent me copies of all his form 4473s," Greg said. The federal government was not supposed to keep a register of privately owned firearms, but it did, and everybody knew it. Once upon a time, the fact of a gun registry would have been kept hidden. But things were accelerating, and all the masks were being shed. Greg went on.

"The problem was they didn't find any of those guns when we searched the place, and believe me, they tore that house apart. They pulled out the drywall. They ripped off parts of the roof. They jack hammered parts of the foundation. They went through everything. The only guns we found were the ones the PVD had, and we obviously are not going to enter those into evidence."

"None of them? The stack of 4473s and the info the credit card companies provided was almost a foot thick."

Greg shook his head. "Nothing."

"What about the murder weapon?"

"We don't even have that. He built this thing, like a huge bonfire… like a blacksmith would have. Forensics thinks he melted it down but there is no way to be sure."

"So, nothing on the gun front?"

"Nothing."

"That's too bad. Gun violence is a narrative that plays. The president's campaign team is pushing for that hard. Harder than usual."

"Yeah, I know. The bounties on those guns would have amounted to a small fortune."

"A large fortune," Teddy corrected. "More important than that, if you got that collection of guns in front of the cameras, that would get the right media attention. It would get your name in the headlines and in from of the right people. That kind of case would get you noticed by the administration and moving up the ladder."

Teddy paused and thought for a moment. "Look Greg, the election is right around the corner. This thing with this Evans guy is huge, but it has a shelf life... an expiration date. I'll help you, but I can only do so much. You've got to slam-dunk this thing in the next couple of weeks. After that? It may as well never even happened. It'll be just another case of murdered Americans. Nobody in D.C. is going to care and you won't get anything out of it."

Teddy drummed his fingers again. Then he asked, "What is the other problem?" but the question sparked his memory, and he snapped his fingers. "The kid. Wasn't there a kid there? His son?"

"Nephew. We think," Greg said. "Maybe.

"Any evidence?"

"We have some DNA evidence but it is inconclusive. We also have eyewitness testimony from one of the neighbors, the one we flipped. We know the nephew exists. The thing is, we have no idea where the kid is at."

"Any help from our friends in Silicon Valley?"

"Not much. The kid had a huge digital footprint before the executions. The next day? Nothing. No shopping. No social media. Nothing. He went totally ghost."

"If this kid is the nephew, and this Evans guy is the uncle, then who are the parents?"

"They live in California. Capital Police already have a team sitting on them."

"They going to pick them up?"

"Eventually," Greg said. "We're hoping the kid pops up."

"Well, the kid is your angle," Teddy said. "If the kid disappeared, it is because this Evans set it up. Tell your perp that you know about the nephew. Tell him you will charge the kid too unless he gives a full confession. Go through the whole deal; the kid will be tried as an adult. He'll be housed with the other adults in general population, all the stuff we usually do. That'll break this guy. Hell, he'll probably tell you where those guns are too. Might as well get a warrant out for the parents and have them arrested too. More leverage on the guy. I mean, they're going to get arrested eventually. Might as well do it now."

"Makes sense, Teddy. What should we do if the kid turns up?"

"Arrest him," Teddy said. "Arrest him, charge him, all that stuff. Who cares what promises you make to this Evans character? Arrest the kid anyway. Hell, throw him in general population with all the adults. You just might get lucky. Bad things happen to inmates all the time. Sometimes they get stabbed. Sometimes they hang themselves in their cell." Teddy smiled and gave Greg a conspiratorial wink.

"When somebody is in jail, you never know what might happen to them."

 

Federal Holding Facility, Austin Texas.

Under normal conditions, Greg never would have done something like this. But conditions were not normal. The election loomed. Time ticked away. Greed and ego nagged and clawed inside Greg's head like caged animals. And so, Greg now found himself sitting in an interrogation room across from the infamous Evans.

The two men sat alone. Evans could have asked for his lawyer, but he didn't. Not that it would matter. A message had been sent to Evans' public defender, and she received it loud and clear. She could see the difference between a winner and a loser, and it didn't matter which angle you attacked it from, Evans wasn't going to come out a winner on this one.

Greg looked his prisoner over. Evans had a black eye, and it looked like his nose had been recently broken. His head and face were covered with bumps, cuts, and bruises. That concerned Greg. Evans was supposed to be in solitary confinement. Evans' physical state would detract from any videoed confession.

Despite the beatings, Evans didn't look like a broken or defeated man. He hadn't spoken to his court-appointed lawyer. He hadn't spoken to anybody, and he had not said a word when Greg came into the interview room and sat down. Evans didn't look the least bit surprised to be there. He didn't look nervous or excited or curious or anything. Evans' eyes met Greg's, but his face was an expressionless, emotionless mask.

Well, Greg thought, we'll see if this gets your attention.

Greg reached into his expensive leather attaché case and pulled out some photographs. A metal table separated him from Evans. The table was bolted to the floor. Greg laid the photographs on the table for Evans to see.

"Your sister and her husband, and their son." Greg tapped the photographs. "Your sister and brother-in-law are in California. Their son, your nephew, is not."

This was all familiar territory for Evans. He'd never been in jail before, but he'd been trained for similar situations, and he hadn't forgotten his training. He especially had not forgotten what he considered to be the overarching lesson, which was that it was better not to be a prisoner at all.

So, trained as he was, Evans didn't look at the photos, not directly anyway. He didn't want to give anything to his captors. Not a look. Not a glance. Not a single betrayed emotion. He used his peripheral vision to look at the photos. The ones of his sister and brother-in-law were recent and obviously taken by a surveillance team. The one that mattered most was the one of Kyle. That was an old photo, at least a couple of years old, and pulled from a school yearbook. That was good, Evans thought. If that was the best they had, then they did not have his nephew. Internally, Evans sighed with relief. Outwardly, he betrayed nothing. Not a thought. Not an emotion. He might as well have been carved from wood. Greg went on.

"Your nephew, Kyle, is not with your sister because he is in hiding. And he's in hiding because he helped you execute all those college-aged kids." Greg tapped Kyle's photo again. Evans didn't stir.

"Your nephew, Kyle, he's the one we'll get next," Greg said. "We've got you. We've got your two neighbors, Dale, and John. Those two already cut deals and flipped on you and your nephew. They saved themselves. Next is the kid. When we get him there won't be any more deals. You won't have anything to offer. Neither will he. Dale and John already talked, and you gave us the silent treatment, so, you and your nephew are out of luck. There is only one smart play left for you to make."

Greg paused and watched Evans for any reaction. Evans gave none.

"If you confess to all the murders, all of them, a full and public confession, then maybe, we can go easy on your nephew. Maybe, we forget about Kyle altogether. I mean, if you confess to everything, then there is no reason to go after him and ruin his life. He's still just a kid, not even eighteen. He's got his whole life ahead of him. You don't want him to spend his whole life in jail. None of us do. But that's where he's going unless you do the right thing here."

Evans said not a word. Not a muscle moved. Silence filled the room.

"No? Nothing? Well, we'll get your young nephew eventually. Maybe first, we'll arrest his parents for aiding a fugitive. Maybe, we'll arrest them and charge them as accessories to all those executions you committed. Maybe, domestic terrorism charges. It won't take much to roll them up in your mess too. I'll get your whole family behind bars. Then, I'll start working on your friends. If you want to try the silent treatment, fine, just know that I don't have to stop with you. Maybe you don't care about Kyle. Eventually, I'll find somebody you do care about.

Nothing.

Internally, Greg raged. He needed this dumb hick to talk, and the man wasn't. He thought threatening the nephew would break the man's stubbornness. It hadn't. It only brought more silence. Greg gathered up the photos and stuffed them back into the leather case.

On the other side of the table, Evans waited patiently. He knew the offer was all lies. He knew this lawyer wasn't going to stop looking for his nephew. He knew they would never go easy on Kyle. They would hunt Kyle to the ends of the earth, and if they ever caught him, they would crush him out of existence. Evans also knew what decades in captivity looked like. He knew this was his one chance to deal. There would not be another. Evans waited until Greg was two steps away from the door before he spoke.

"I still have the guns."

Greg froze midstride. A heartbeat passed. Another. A third. Greg partially turned to face Evans. Evans spoke again.

"You never found my guns. And you aren't going to find them. Not on your own. Not without my help."

"What guns?" Greg asked. He turned all the way around and headed back to the table.

"All the guns listed on those 4473 forms. The guns and all the other stuff you found on my credit card records and shopping history."

"Oh yes," Greg said as if he'd just remembered. "Yes. That's quite a collection that you have… that you had. But I don't see why that matters."

"The guns matter because you want to say you took all those guns off the streets. You want to get a picture of yourself in front of all those guns. You want all those guns laid out on nice clean tables in nice clean rows for a very nice and very clean press conference. Most of all, you want those guns, because it will add weight and credence to my confession."

Greg sat back down.

"We could head back out to your place and find those guns ourselves," Greg said. Evans shook his head.

"I spent the better part of thirty years searching out terrorist weapons caches. I learned a few things about hiding them. You could search my place for a year and not find those guns… but you don't have a year, do you?"

Greg didn't like that question. He didn't like that his prisoner, after being mute all this time, was now talking.

"Why?" Greg asked. "Why give up the guns?"

"Why not? They won't do me any good in prison."

"So, you are willing to confess?"

"Yes."

"And give up all your guns?"

"Yes."

"And in exchange you want me to promise not to go after your nephew?"

"That, and you get me one last day outside in the sun. Out of this prison. Out in the sun and the air. Out on the land, my land. I'd be under guard, of course. I don't expect you to just let me walk. I'd be shackled and escorted and whatever else to make you happy, but I'll be outside and not in some cell. You do that, and I'll give you a confession anyway you want it. I'll make a video. I'll write a statement. You can write the statement and I'll sign it. Whatever and however you want."

"Impossible."

"Make it possible."

"We're not letting you out for anything. Now, if you want to talk concurrent sentences or leniency…"

Evans actually laughed at that. It was a short snort, but it was something. Evans smiled. "Leniency? Let's not bullshit each other. You know, and I know that I'm never getting any leniency. I'm never getting out of prison, ever. There won't be any parole. There won't be any time off for good behavior. There won't be any pardon from the governor. There won't be anything, ever. They might as well throw me in a hole and build a new prison on top of it. I'm never getting out. Never. Not ever. You know it, and I know it.

"So, you give me my day in the sun or no deal."

"We could make you tell us where the guns are."

"The way I hid them, where I hid them, I can't just explain it to you. I can't draw you a treasure map. I've got to go out there and show you where everything is. That's how I planned it. I can't tell you. I can only show you. So, you have to let me out. Besides that, I have all the leverage."

"All the leverage?" Greg said with an arrogant snicker. "You're the one behind bars. We'll have your nephew any day now. What possible leverage could you have?"

"I have the ultimate leverage. Time."

Now Greg was the one trying to hide his emotions. He was not as good at it as Evans was. The muscles in his jaw tightened. His teeth ground. Evans knew he had his opponent, and he pressed.

"Time favors one of us, and it isn't you. Yes, you can do whatever you want to me. That's true enough. You can beat me some more. You can torture me. Eventually, I'll talk. Everybody talks, eventually. But after the first Tuesday in November, nobody is going to care about my guns or me or those dead 'college-aged kids' from the PVD. Nobody is going to pay any attention to what happened in some small corner of Texas, not when the election is over. After that, you and I will be old news. So, if you want to use me to further your career, you've only got so much time. After that, the window closes. And neither you nor I can reopen it."

Evans paused. He let his words hang in the air. Then he restated his terms one last time.

"I get to go outside. You promise to leave my nephew alone. I show you where all my guns are, and I give you all the confession you want."

Greg tapped his pen. "And I suppose you'll want all this in writing? You want me to run this through your attorney."

Evans shook his head no. "That won't be necessary. You give me your word, that's good enough for me. Time is ticking. The less people involved, the less chance somebody screws something up. The quicker it will all be over."

Greg looked into Evans' eyes. He tapped his pen again and said, "The death penalty."

"What about it?"

"You never said anything about it. You didn't ask me to take it off the table."

Evans shrugged. "That never crossed my mind. I'm old. I'm not some career criminal who is conditioned to live behind bars. If given the choice between spending decades in prison or riding the lightning and getting it over with…well, I don't see any point in prolonging the inevitable.

"Besides, truth be told, I should have died years ago. Maybe all these years I've been the one prolonging the inevitable." Evans shrugged again. "Either way, if you and the judge and the jury want to send me on my way, I ain't going to fight it. I'm not afraid to die. It may just be my time."



When Evans got back to his cell he was greeted with a stale reek. He looked down and saw that the whole floor shined with wetness. After the heavy door slammed shut, Evans reached down to the floor. He brought a wet finger up to his nose and sniffed. He didn’t need to sniff. He already knew what it was. It was piss. Human piss. While he was gone, the guards must have poured buckets of it on the floor.

Now the whole floor of his cell was covered with a half inch of human piss. The guards must have been saving it up for days, pissing in jugs or buckets. His prison cot had been removed. There was nowhere to sit down or lay down. It was just him, the cold cement floor, and a half-inch deep pool of human piss.

Evans leaned back against a wall of the cell and squatted. He could deal with the piss. He could deal with all the abuse the guards could dish out and more. He had been trained for this. He knew in his heart that he was a better man than they were. More than any of that, he knew time was on his side. They could suspend the rule of law to suit their needs. They could lock him up and flood his cell with piss. They could lie to him. They could beat him. They could do even worse things. But they could not stop time. The election was coming. If that lawyer wanted to get himself some publicity, he had to take the offer. That’s how Evans would save Kyle.

Now it was a waiting game. Evans could wait. There in his piss-soaked cell, Evans leaned back against the wall and waited. He thought about a chess board and all the pieces, making their moves. The kings and queens. The bishops, knights, and rooks. And the pawns.

 

The Texas Hill Country. October.

"You should put your helmet and armor on," the special agent said. "They just might save your life."

Greg glared at the special agent. He thought the man looked ridiculous, sweating underneath his heavy armor vest and wearing a helmet that looked too big for his head.

"What for?" Greg snapped. "You've been over this ground a hundred times. There's nothing. Let's get on with this already."

Greg wasn't in a good mood for several reasons. The first was the weather. It was October, but the cool autumn weather had not arrived. The summer and its heat and humidity lingered. There wasn't even a hint of a breeze. Even though it was still morning, Greg had sweated through the new suit he bought especially for this occasion. The only reprieve came from a nearby oak. It was close, but not too close. It was just close enough. It stood tall and its mighty branches reached up and out and provided some shade hade for Greg and the other members of the party.

Another reason for Greg's sour mood was the pressure he was under. Also not far away, representatives from various media outlets were ready with their cameras. Beside them, dignitaries and the politically ambitious waited. They waited impatiently. Word had gotten out about the vigilante veteran's arsenal and those with political aspirations were eager to be a part of the day's event. Greg could feel the weight of their eyes upon him. Their impatience. Their judgment. Greg fidgeted with the sleeves of his new suit. He knew he needed to deliver, and he needed to do it soon.

While Greg was testy and impatient, the special agent was cautious and uneasy. He'd advised Greg multiple times against coming out here. He'd advised against holding a press conference on-site. He'd advised against allowing the prisoner, Evans, to be out here too. He was the only federal agent on the scene, and he would have preferred to be anywhere else. Evans' property had been searched already. Patrol officers made an initial search. The bomb squad had swept the ground with dogs and metal detectors. Then they swept it again with chemical sniffers and even ground penetrating radar. All over, the ground was pockmarked with holes from where they probed for mines or other traps.

They found nothing. That didn't calm the special agent at all. To him, finding nothing was more ominous than finding something.

Evans led them to a spot and told them to dig. They dug, and they unearthed the top of a metal tank. One end of a rope lay coiled in the dust. The other end ran back inside the tank. It had to be Evans' cache of guns.

The bomb squad technicians came in again with all their tools. They checked the exposed tank and all the ground around it. And again, they didn't find any evidence of booby traps. The special agent remained apprehensive.

"Yes, we've checked it," the special agent said. "But there is no way to be absolutely certain."

"We've been out here for hours. They've been out there for hours," Greg said. And he motioned towards the gaggle of reporters, camera crews, grandees, and hangers-on waiting for the show to start. "Do you know who's up there waiting on us? How much more searching do you need to do?"

"I just want everybody to be safe," the special agent said.

Greg snorted in disgust. He didn't think much of that response. He looked from the special agent to the prisoner. Evans wore a brightly colored prison uniform and a pair of cheap slip-on shoes, the kind you couldn't outrun a one-legged fat man in. He was manacled at the wrists and ankles. More chains connected the manacles, and additional chains and a thick, restraining belt crisscrossed his body. Deputies stood on either flank. A third stood behind Evans with a shotgun. That old man wasn't going anywhere. Evans didn't look happy to be outside. He didn't look apprehensive like the special agent either. He didn't look defiant. He was just there, out in the heat with the rest of them.

"Is it his collection of guns or not?" Greg demanded.

"We know something is down there. We checked it over with the imaging equipment. We know it is metal. We can't know for sure what is inside that buried tank until we open it up."

A patrol officer tapped the buried tank with the tip of his shovel. The tank rang metallically.

Greg turned to Evans. "How about it?"

"How about what?"

"Are all your guns down there?"

"That's what I said."

Greg looked back at the assembled onlookers. The audience. They were his meal ticket to upward mobility, Greg knew. And they were waiting. Evans followed the prosecutor's gaze.

They weren't exactly close by, but they weren't far either. They were close enough for the cameras. They were close enough. The media was there. Cameras and tripods. Vans with masts and antennae sat parked by his house. Field reporters with the appropriate mix of demographic traits preened like peacocks, making sure their hair and makeup were perfect for the upcoming shots. To them, this was sweeter than mana from heaven. The riots had brought them viewers and clicks. And covering the riots in a fashionable manner curried favor with the fashionable people. Getting to humiliate a vigilante veteran just before the election would be a field day for them.

More law enforcement people were there too. Evans recognized the detectives working his case. But it wasn't just the field officers. The leadership types were there too. Chiefs and deputy chiefs. They'd been complicit in all this nonsense too. They were quick to stand idly by and let the riots happen. They were quicker to come down on anybody who tried to stand up against the storm. They were quickest of all when they saw that the prosecution of some ordinary person brought fawning media coverage and a path to upward mobility.

And of course, there were the politicians. Evans could pick them out by their clothes. Some wore suits. Others were inauthentically dressed down in shirtsleeves and jeans in an attempt to appeal to the common Americans they so despised. Evans didn't recognize most of the faces, but he recognized a few. The dauphin from El Paso was there, with his weak chin and scrawny neck. He looked as self-conscious and as spoiled as he always did. He was making another run for governor. All the experts said that this time he was going to win. It was quite the surprise, Evans thought, that this princeling would show up today.

The special agent spoke of Evans as if he wasn't even there.

"This guy spent three decades in the military handling bombs. He must have learned a few tricks along the way."

Greg snapped back. "If he spent three decades in the military, then he can't be that damn smart." Greg turned to Evans and pointed at the rope. "What's that rope do?"

"The rope is connected to a trap door on the tank. Pull the rope, and the trap door opens. Just like in the movies."

"I don't like it," the special agent said. Evans faced Greg.

"If I pulled any tricks, I'm guessing our deal would be off and the next thing you'd do is go after my family?"

"You can bet your ass on that," Greg snapped.

Evans nodded. "The last thing I want is you coming after my family."

"Make him pull it," the special agent said.

"What?" Greg asked.

"Make him pull the rope," the special agent repeated. "He won't pull it if it is rigged up to a trap."

Greg shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Whatever. Let's just get this going."

The special agent nodded. One of the bomb technicians picked up the rope and coiled the free end around Evans' hand. Evans reflected on the whole situation.

At first, he felt sad. There wasn't a single honest thing about any of this. It was all lies. The politician who pretended to care about the people. The law enforcement leaders pretended to care about the law and public safety as homes and businesses burned around them. The media and their nonsensical narratives. All self-serving lies.

His deal with the prosecutor was a lie too. Evans knew that. Greg, with his fancy suit and his big money backing, had no intention of leaving Kyle alone. Kyle was what made Evans the saddest of all. It wasn't just sadness. It was also regret. Whatever happened next, he wouldn't be there to help Kyle ever again. He wouldn't be there for any of his nephew's milestones. He wouldn't get to see him finish growing up. He'd never know how the young man's life would turn out. The time they had was the time they had. That was it. There would not be any more.

As powerful as the sadness and regret were, they gave way. A calmness and acceptance set in. Evans came to terms with the fact that he'd done all he could do. He recalled the captain's words on the riverbank, that when you reach that level of commitment, and you know it is your time, then you don't feel any fear. You know you are ready, and you do what you need to do. And that there is a reason why people call it, 'making your peace.' And Evans truly understood what those words meant. The calmness set in. It washed away the sadness and regret like a great wave. He had done all he could do. Whatever came next, there was nothing he could do about it. His time had come, it was here, and Evans was ready. No fear. No regrets, just a calm acceptance. And in that moment, Evans looked up and over into the big oak that shaded them. It was just for a moment. It was less than a glance. But in that split second, he saw what he was looking for.

The suspended bales of barbed wire were still where he hung them. They had gone to rust and so they blended in perfectly with the high branches of the tree. The det cord that daisy chained them all together was the same grey-green color as the moss that ran along the bark. The bomb techs searched down on the ground. They hadn't looked up in the trees. Evans knew that they wouldn't.

Evans looked back down at his feet, smiled, and softly said one word.

"Frankenstein."

"What was that?" Greg snapped again.

"Nothing," Evans said.

Greg looked over to where the media was waiting with their cameras. He looked over them, the politicians, and the aspiring politicians. Greg's patience had worn out.

"Pull the damn rope," Greg said.

"You said so," Evans replied. He took up the slack in the rope, and pulled.

First, there came the sound of breaking glass. A split second later came the hiss of a chemical reaction. And then…

People as far away as Austin and San Antonio reported the explosion.

The special agent was wrong. All the helmets and body armor in the world would not have saved anybody.


The End

 

Nooooooo it cant be over

 

So, now we know where all of the barbed wire went, and the "transmission" fluid too! Still, I would like to know how things turned out, like 5-10 years in the future! It would be nice if you wrote a short history of future events! Loved it and hate to see it go, but I will reread it again and again!

 

I'm going to post 2, maybe three more installments but only on Patreon.

It will flush out a few more things. This is it for Evans. I think I can tie things up a little more neatly with Kyle.

 

I saw where California has passed an exit tax, aimed (for the moment) at wealthy Californians fleeing the state to escape the wealth tax. They claim to be able to tax you for several years no matter where you go. It's being challenged in the courts, but the IRS claims the same power if you leave the country. For the moment they are only interested in those taxpayers with $50 million or more, but soon they will come after anyone selling property or with a decent size 401k, IRA or pension, especially if you were employed or licensed by the state.