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

When are we going to get some more in the Flip of the Coin series?

 

Been traveling a lot and I have a major project due for work. I'll get another installment out as soon as I can.

 

rle737ng,

Last Flip of the Coin book will come out when I retire. Not ready to write that one yet.

 

Texas Hill Country. The 4th of July.



Kyle woke up that morning and bounded out of bed. It was the 4th of July and being that he was in rural Texas and not the constricting and confining landscape of urban California, that meant fireworks. Real fireworks. The kind you didn't just watch but lit off yourself. The roadside stands had been open for months now. Kyle started cooking breakfast, which was standard operating procedure. He did all the cooking now, which was fine by him. Aside from his morning chai, his uncle's palate was unsophisticated.

When Uncle Evans came down for breakfast, he looked refreshed and ready to go as well. Kyle dished out the food, and Evans brewed his tea. Over the morning meal, they discussed the plan for the day.

"We need to go to the bank so I can get some cash. After that, we'll hit some fireworks stands and grab some stuff for tonight. I'll also need to go to the hardware store, the paint supply store, and probably the pool supply store.

"Why the pool supply store?" Kyle asked.

"I need to buy some pool supplies," Evans answered.

"But you don't own a pool," Kyle replied.

"I never said I did."

Kyle decided not to press the issue and changed the subject. "I suppose it is going to barbeque at this thing tonight?"

"That's right."

"Does that mean frozen hamburger patties and packaged hotdogs?" Kyle asked.

"Of course. This is the United States of America, ain't it?"

"How many years did you serve?"

"Thirty," Evans answered. Kyle nodded once.

"My thirty-year veteran uncle isn't eating frozen hamburger patties on the 4th of July. Can we hit up the grocery store?"

"That's nice of you to say that. I'm sure we can fit in a trip to the grocery store too. How did you get into cooking?"

"Mom and dad work long hours. Back home either I make dinner or we eat takeout. Besides, I figure as long as I know how to cook, I can always find a job. Everybody has to eat."

"That's a pretty mature attitude. When was the last time you called home?"

"It's been a while."

"Give them a call today," Evans said. He took a sip of his steaming tea.

After breakfast, they headed out to the workshop. Evans rummaged through some cabinets and pulled out a spool of green parachute cord. He tossed the spool to Kyle and said, "Put that in the truck. We'll need it for tonight and I don't want to forget it."

Kyle looked the spool over. The cord on the spool was actually many short pieces of parachute cord, all tied together with double-fisherman knots. After putting the cord in the truck, Evans had him help load a few of the barbed wire bales in the truck too.

"What do we need barbed wire for?" Kyle asked.

"We don't need barbed wire. We just need the weight. Something heavy that can resist my pulling. That reminds me, there is a half sheet of plywood back in the workshop against the wall. We'll need that tonight too, so let's load it now. Otherwise, in my old age, I might forget."

They loaded the truck. The first stop was the bank.

"Wait here in the truck," Evans said.

"Why?" Kyle asked.

"You trust me?" Evans asked back. Kyle nodded. "Good," Evans said. I want you to wait here because banks have cameras."

"Yeah so?"

"So, this country ain't what it used to be. I know old guys like me are always saying that to young guys like you. But this time it is true. I go into the bank where the cameras are. You wait here in the truck where the cameras aren't."

Inside the bank, Evans made his withdrawal. When the teller asked if there was anything else he needed, Evans replied, "Yes. I know this is unusual, but I need access to a computer. I need to send an encrypted message to another financial institution."

Evans' accounts were in good standing, and they were not insignificant. He'd never been divorced. He had no children. He'd never gotten a DUI and its associated legal costs. Most importantly, he'd saved and invested wisely his entire career, most of which had been spent overseas in tax-free combat zones. A private banker offered Evans a computer. Thirty minutes later, Evans was out of the bank, cash in hand.

"Let's get some fireworks," he said. They went to buy fireworks.



In that particular corner of Texas, there were plenty of fireworks stands. Evans drove past dozens of smaller stands before stopping at one of the bigger stands out on the highway, a prefabricated steel building, flanked by open pasture and close to nothing. Pickup trucks and run-down commuter cars filled its dirt parking lot. Red and yellow signs declared, "FIREWORKS" for all to see.

Evans was a discerning fireworks shopper. He moved up and down the aisles, examining items by the score. He handled fountains and rockets, mortars and roman candles. He'd pick items up and alternate between holding them close or far, letting his eyes adjust to the fine print on their labels. Eventually, he settled on several dozen items. The lot filled a shopping cart. At the checkout, Evans asked if they had any fuse. The kid behind the counter said they did and asked how many feet he needed.

"I need a whole spool," Evans said.

When they got back in the truck, Evans said, "We've got about a third of what I need. There is another decent place out by Colinas Frias we'll try next."

They drove to Colinas Frias, then two more stands after that. At each location Evans repeated the process, examining packaged fireworks as carefully as if he were defusing bombs. When he finally had what he wanted they headed back toward home, but not without making more stops. A hardware store. A paint supply store, and finally a pool supply store. At each location, Evans paid cash. And at each of those locations, Evans had Kyle wait in the truck. After the paint supply store, the truck bed was filled with fireworks, various containers of chemicals, and an assortment of pipes and other hardware.

"You know what you need at the supermarket?" Evans asked. Kyle nodded. "Okay, let's go," Evans said.

An hour later they were back at home with several bags of groceries. Kyle asked his uncle how much time they had.

"We've got a few hours. Fireworks won't start until well after sunset."

"Good. I need time to prep the hamburger," Kyle said.

"The hamburger is already made. It is in the packages," Evans said. Kyle shook his head with disapproval. Evans shrugged and said, "I need to prep some stuff myself."

"What do you need to prep? The fireworks are already made," Kyle said with a smart-alec smirk. Now Evans shook his head, but he did it with a smile.

Kyle took the food into the house. Evans took the pool and paint supplies into his workshop. Inside, he took out a few of the small plastic buckets used for mixing paint. Next, he brought out some glass jars and stir sticks. The last thing he brought out was an old mortar and pestle. He laid all those tools out on his workbench alongside the various chemicals he bought during the day. He looked everything over once, then he started mixing chemicals.

An hour later, Evans went back out to his truck and grabbed the roll of fuse. Inside the shop, he cut the first two feet off both ends and tossed those lengths away. Then he cut off six one-foot lengths of fuse. One by one, he lit each foot-long length and timed how long it took each one to burn to nothing. He recorded each time on a scrap piece of cardboard. Then he cut six more lengths and repeated the process. That done, he did some averaging, went back out to his truck, and grabbed the sacks full of fireworks. After that, he retrieved all the hardware supplies. Once he had everything inside the workshop, he closed and locked the door and got to work.

While his uncle worked outside, Kyle worked in the kitchen. He diced up onions and peppers and then mixed them into the raw hamburger along with some raw eggs to bind everything together. On the other end of the counter, he had the ingredients for several different sauces waiting to be mixed. But before he started work, he'd called his parents and left a message. Midway through forming a patty his phone chirped. He put down the food, cleaned his hands, and grabbed the phone. It wasn't his mom or dad. It was a message from Jake, one of his classmates back in California.


Still in Texas?


Evans texted him back.


Yeah. What's up?


Just seeing if you were back in town. What are you doing tonight?



My uncle bought a truckload of fireworks. We're gonna lite them off tonight.

I think he's making some fireworks of his own. He bought a ton of random stuff today.



Cool man. Sounds like Texas I guess



What are you doing tonight?



We're heading out to Lovell Mixon Square in Berkeley. Big Party/Protest there tonight BIG! HUGE!


Kyle set his phone down and thought about things for a minute. Jake wasn't exactly a close friend. The more Kyle thought about it, the more he realized he didn't have any close friends back home. But he and Jake had grown up near each other and hung out plenty of times. Friend or not, Kyle didn't like the idea of Jake heading to another protest, not after the nightly riot viewings with his uncle. Not after a good part of the city across from his parent's apartment was burned to the ground. He thought about warning his friend or telling him not to go. He looked at the phone a long time before texting back.


Have fun but be safe. If it gets too crazy get out of there


Jake replied with a thumbs up. Kyle went back to work on his hamburger patties. Outside, fireworks had already started. Chirps and whistles sounded as Kyle prepped the food.



They pulled into John's driveway early in the evening. Kyle was talking about the fat content of their hamburger meat, and asking questions about John's barbeque grill that Evans couldn't answer. Evans was distracted. His attention focused on the other vehicles in the driveway. He saw Dale's truck as well as George's motorcycle. Other families from the neighborhood were there too, and kids of various ages chased each other across John's lawn. But it was George and Dale that concerned Evans. Together with John, they were likely going to corner him and bring up this idea of a neighborhood militia again. Evans dreaded the thought.

Kyle and Evans unloaded a couple of coolers from the truck. They found John already on the grill, smiling. Some younger kids were playing with sparklers and pop-its. John's wife was nowhere to be seen.

"What you got there?" John asked.

"Kid made some special hamburger patties, seems the frozen stuff isn't good enough for his refined California palate."

John smiled and offered Evans a beer. Evans declined politely. "Well, the kid's welcome to throw them on the grill whenever he's ready. Say, Evans. Dale and George are here. We'd like to sit down and talk with you when you get a chance."

"Yeah, okay," Evans answered.

"You bring any of your special fireworks this year?" John asked with a sly grin. Evans grinned back, just as slyly, if not more so.

"I might have put something together."



Kyle managed to find his way at the party without much assistance from Evans. He not only cooked up his own burgers, but essentially took over grill duties from John. He mixed and matched with the food everybody brought and concocted delicacies that everybody found wonderful. After the grill, he found a place amongst the other neighborhood kids, most of whom were a litter younger. Kyle was in that awkward phase of not being an adult yet, but also not being a child any longer. He seemed to navigate it well. The sun dropped low and Evans watched Kyle pal around with some of the other kids, all smiling and having a good time. Evans felt an immense sense of pride at that, even more so when the other adults walked up to him and complimented his nephew's skill at the grill.

Unfortunately, the moment Evans dreaded came. While the other people from the neighborhood did their thing, John led evens to the garage where Dale and George were waiting. John's truck sat parked in the same spot as before. His wife's barely used vehicle was parked beside it. They'd arranged toolboxes and camp stools around a cooler of beer. Everybody but Evans grabbed a beer. Evans sat down. The conversation began.



Outside the garage, Kyle linked up with two neighborhood kids who were setting up some fireworks of their own. For Kyle, fireworks were something that the cities put on, or didn't put on. People didn't light off their own fireworks, not unless they wanted to risk meddling neighbors, a visit from the fire marshal, and a crippling fine.

"What's that?" Kyle asked.

"Mortar," One of the kids replied.

"Mortar? How does it work?"

"Easy," the kid answered. "Drop one of these balls inside. Light the fuse, and off it goes."

"Can I try one?" Kyle asked.



"We've all got guns, but I can get more. And ammo. I also think we need to get suppressors. Now listen, I know this guy who runs a machine shop…" Dale was talking, but Evans could barely listen. It wasn't that he didn't like the idea of a neighborhood watch or whatever they were calling this. It wasn't that he didn't think it was necessary. It was that he didn't think anybody in this room truly understood what they were up against.

"The guns we all have are fine Dale," Evans said. "We don't need suppressors and we don't need full auto. We certainly don't need the trouble that comes with them. Night vision, maybe. What we need is a secure way to communicate."

"There is this secure messaging app I have on my phone," Dale started. "I spend a lot of time on this gun forum, and they said that…" Evans cut him off.

"None of these apps for your phones are secure. None of those phones are secure. That's why I had you leave them outside in your trucks. They get you and they get your phone. They get your phone, they get everybody close to you, and they will turn that back on you to pressure you further. They put the pressure on you to make you sell out your friends."

"I'm not selling out anybody," Dale said defiantly. Evans ignored that.

"Once they get your friends, they go back to you again. They blackmail you with the fact that they asked you to sell out your friends, which you did. And they tell you you're going to do more for them, which you will. Because now you're so deep down their hole you don't even see light when you look up. And because they've taken everything you had, including your family."

"Not me," Dale said.

"What are you saying, exactly?" John asked Evans.

"They have these devices. I can't remember what they call them but they're like an old pager, only you can send and receive alpha-numeric messages. They're prepaid. Not smart. No GPS installed. No microphones or speakers installed so no listening. Just text. And minimal memory."

"They even have such a thing?" John asked.

"They do in Mexico," Evans answered.

"Cartel guys," Dale spat. "Fuckin' Cartel guys."

"Sounds like the perfect device for a drug dealer," John said. "Who'd even make a device like that?" John asked.

"Same people who make all the fentanyl. The same people who make all those drop in switches that make pistols full-auto," Evans said.

"It isn't just the Cartel that uses phones like that down there," George said. "Cops, politicians, media reporters, lawyers, military officers… essentially anybody with a security concern."

"What do we do when the pre-paid data run out?" Dale asked.

"You destroy the phone completely and get rid of it. Which is the same thing you'd do after communicating. These things are disposable and need to be treated that way. Now…"

Before Evans could finish his thought, the mortar outside went off and threw its star shell into the night sky. The mortar was just a short plastic tube, not a long metal one. And the shells it launched were for entertaining kids, not for killing men. But when it went off it made a sound close enough to a real mortar, a distinct, hollow-echoing-ringing sound.

When that ringing sound hit his ears, Evans stopped talking and winced. His head dropped down and his shoulders went up. He looked like he was trying to duck down into himself, like a turtle going into its shell. He turned in the direction of the sound, towards the open garage door, and glared.

"Where the hell are you going to get these phones? I ain't driving down to Juarez to buy a phone, I'll tell you that right now. I'd rather take my chances with the PVD and the police than with some Mexicans."

Evans looked away from the source of the noise and back to his neighbors. "Don't worry about that. I can get them locally. I know a couple of guys."

"I don't know man," Dale said. "That seems like a lot of work. I can download an encryption app pretty easily. And they say it can't be broken. These guys on the forums, they said that…"

Of all the men in the garage, George spoke the least and observed the most, especially when it came to Evans. More fireworks went off outside. They shrieked and whistled. They howled and popped. None of these bothered Evans at all. But with the mortars it was different. When the first mortar went off with its distinct hollow-ringing sound, Evans winced and spun to find the source of the noise, muscled instantly tensed. The second time the kids' mortar went off, Evans winced again. Only this time he looked angry. He looked like he was about to leap out of the garage and give the kids a talking too. Evans gritted his teeth. His hands balled into fists. The third time he looked like he'd give the kids a lot worse than a talking too. The fourth time he started sweating and by the fifth time, his face was flushed red. And each time, even when he was looking out the garage, even when he knew the mortar was about to fire, its hollow ring sound made Evans wince.

George liked Evans. But he didn't like this Evans, the one that was red and sweating, tense and angry. The one who looked like he was about to explode. George was so concerned, he couldn't even follow the latest thing that Evens and Dale were discussing.

"What are you even saying," Dale began. "First you said we need to get these drug phones. Now you're saying we need to run away? What's the point of doing this then? What's the point of defending our homes in the first place if you say we need to run? I don't get it."

"Because you can't defend your home," Evans said. "If the PVD come up the road and pick your house down to burn down, you can try and stop them, but you are going to lose your house anyway because the legal system is coming after you with everything it can. It doesn't matter what the PVD does. Legally, they can do whatever they want."

"They can't do whatever they want," Dale said angrily. "They can't just burn peoples' houses down."

"They've been burning stuff all summer, and nobody's done anything to stop them. They aren't being arrested. They aren't being stopped. Worse than that, everybody in power is encouraging them. Politicians. The media. The universities. The entertainment industry. Pro-Sports. Corporate leaders. They're all encouraging this nonsense. They love these riots and are celebrating them all day long. They want the PVD to burn us all to the ground. They don't care if the PVD murders us. But if one of us so much as shows a gun, they're going to jail. And if you shoot one of these PVD vanguards, you're going up for murder. Doesn't matter if he was breaking into your house, inside your house, setting your house on fire, wielding a gun, shooting a gun, or raping your wife and kids. The government isn't going to touch them. But they will come after you. They'll come after you with all they've got."

"That would be self-defense," Dale said. "This ain't California. This is Texas. There are just as many important people on our side as…"

"There is nobody on our side," Evans shouted as he leaped to his feet. Dale was so startled he almost fell off the toolbox he was sitting on. John immediately looked away. Only George, standing, kept his composure. His expression was a fixed mask of non-emotion. Evans, face red, shouted again.

"There is nobody, get it? Nobody. Nobody in any position of power is going to do a damn thing for you if you get caught up in this shit. Haven't you been watching what's been happening all summer? The people that claim to be on our side? They are all cowards! Or worse, they're in on it too. I don't care what they say on the radio. I don't care what they say on the news. Media people. The politicians. All those retired generals that can't keep their four-star mouths shut. None of them are going to stick their necks out for people like us. Self-defense is a thing of the past. If the PVD comes in here and we shoot one, we will be left out to dry. All those tough-talking firebrands? They'll fold. They'll fold like they always do and they'll be crawling all over each other, trying to be the first to condemn us. To condemn us and call for moderation and principles. And saying shit like, 'that's not who we are,' and 'we need to lead with compassion' and all that same old shit they've been doing all summer. The same shit they always do when those radicals attack us. Ordinary people like us just trying to live our lives? Nobody is on our side. Nobody is coming to help us.

"So if you end up going at it with the PVD, you run. You run, or you surrender when the cops come for you and accept your fate. Or…" Evans' voice trailed off. He sat back down on the wooden crate and hung his head. He wanted a drink. He really wanted one. But he wouldn't have a drink, not even now. Alcohol took him to sad and lonely places he'd rather not revisit.

"Or what?" John asked.

"What?" Evans replied.

"You said 'run or…' Or what? That's what I'm asking you, Evans. What is the 'or what?'"

"Or," Evans began. He thought about how to answer that. Then he answered that. "If you're dead, it stops with you. They won't go after your wife or kids or family if you're dead."

"Horse shit," Dale drawled. "I'm not doing this to die. I'm doing this to live. Going out in a blaze of glory is bull shit. I've got friends and family. I've got a nice house and nice stuff. I've got stuff to live for. I'm protecting it."

"You would be protecting it," Evans said. "You'd be protecting it with your life in the truest sense of the word."

Dale shook his head. George turned away. John looked at his feet for a while. Then he looked up at Evans and ask, "You think you could do that? You think you could knowingly put yourself in that kind of situation, where there was no way out?"

Evans thought about his tours overseas. He thought about all the times he showed up after the fact, at scenes where a suicide bomber had martyred himself. Roadsides, where one committed individual in a truck full of Semtex traded their life for just the chance to kill an American. Marketplaces where a bomber with a suicide vest walked into the crowd and self-detonated. He thought of walls pockmarked from shrapnel. He thought of twisted bits of metal that used to be a vehicle before the HME went off. He thought of scorched cloth and buckles, the remnants of a suicide vest, mixed in amongst the dried blood, and burnt flesh. He thought about human teeth embedded in a wood post, like shrapnel, which they were. He thought about the man on the island with the machine gun, the one who wouldn't run even though he could, even though there was no reason to stay. Evans shrugged.

"I don't know. I think maybe when you reach that point in your life… when you reach that level of commitment, and you know it is your time… I think then you don't feel any fear. I think then you are ready, and you do what you need to do. There's a reason why they call it, 'making your peace."

"Uncle Evans." It was Kyle at the open garage door, smiling. "We set off all the small stuff. People are asking if you are ready to set off your stuff now."

"Okay," Evans said.



The sun had set. The sky was a cloudless black upon which the stars dazzled. Most of the lesser fireworks had already been set off, and the guests at John's party wanted to see what their retired Explosive Ordnance Disposal Tech neighbor had cooked up this year.

Evans called Kyle over, and together they pulled the four-foot by four-foot sheet of plywood out of the back of his truck. Various cardboard and plastic tubes studded the surface of the wood in neat arrangements, like organ pipes. They carefully set the plywood sheet down on John's cement driveway. Kyle looked the creation over, and from what he could tell, his uncle had deconstructed the fireworks they purchased earlier and used their components and the other items they purchased to build his own.

"Get that spool of parachute cord out of the truck," Evans asked.

Kyle came back with the spool. Evans tied the free end to something in the center of the plywood that looked like a mouse trap but wasn't.

"Get back," Evans ordered.

Kyle walked back to where the party guests were waiting anxiously. Evans slowly backed away from his creation, playing out loops of green parachute cord, but never taking his eyes off the fireworks. When he was back amongst Kyle and the others, he looked around once to make sure everybody was clear. Then he pulled hard on the green cord.

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

A tube on one corner of the sheet erupted into a fountain of red sparks. The sparks plumed out and up, spitting and hissing as they rose. One foot, two feet, three feet. The assembled guests gasped, "oooh!". When the fountain of red sparks reached six feet, the tube next to it flashed and erupted, white sparks this time. The crowd gasped, "ah!" The white fountain plumed more quickly than the red. Moments later a blue fountain of sparks erupted. Then red again. And around the perimeter it went. Fountains of red, white, and blue sparks all erupted in sequence.

When the fourth blue fountain came alive, something near the center of the plywood popped so loud the audience jumped. One older lady first gasped with fright and then squealed with delight when dozens of small rockets shot up into the air. They rose, whistling and trailing brilliantly colored sparks; purple, green, red, yellow. The small rockets flew and then exploded, blossoming into new colors. Eyes remained fixed skyward. People cooed in amazement.

Something else exploded, something bigger and nearer the center. Its launch flashed yellow and red, like a muzzle blast in the dark. Kyle could just make out the blur of it as it climbed then exploded into a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors, and as it exploded, something new launched. This rose, popped, and out came a parachute suspending a flare that burned a metallic green. A second after that exploded, something else launched, perfectly timed. It climbed skyward, burst, and another rainbow's collection of color blossomed out. People gasped out again, only this explosion of color detonated again, and then a third time. Each explosion brought new collections of colors. The neighbors squealed with delight, and gasped in awe, they smiled and laughed and nodded approval, every eye transfixed on the Texas sky.

It went on, each explosion bigger, brighter, and more colorful than the last. Kyl looked around and saw the neighbors glowing with joy. He looked at his uncle. Evans seemed pleased with his work. Periodically he'd check his watch, obviously counting down the seconds until the next detonation. Kyle could see his uncle's mouth the countdown and every time he got to zero, something new exploded, celebrating with noise and color all the best things that the experiment called America represented.

Even the greatest fireworks display cannot last forever. Just when Kyle thought the spectators might get restless, the finale came. Kyle caught Evans' eye. Evans tapped his watch and nodded.

One last set of fountains erupted into a rolling, boiling, shower of white sparks. The sparks spat and hissed and glowed with chemical brilliance. From out of these sparks came a cannon blast, a loud but simple boom that shot something skyward. After the first cannon blast came another, then another. If one were to count, which nobody did, they would have counted 21 total cannon blasts. When these 21 payloads reached their apex, they

Out of each of these colorful bursts emerged blurred shapes that drifted downward. As the smoke cleared, the shape became clearer and revealed itself, a parachute suspending a flare that burned with colorful brilliance. There were twenty parachute flares in total; seven red, seven white, and seven blue. Evans had arranged them perfectly so that they drifted to the earth in a perfectly repeating pattern. Evans had also timed the launches and detonations perfectly so that each of the parachute flares drifted to the earth in almost perfect horizontal alignment.

Everybody began clapping, yelling, and hooting with delight. Uncle Evans' modest display in a small corner of America was just as wonderous, just as exciting as any city's professional display. As the neighbors cheered and clapped, Kyle looked over at his uncle with admiration. Despite all the dark clouds on America's horizons, Evans created something fantastic that made all his neighbors forget all their troubles and perhaps think about the United States not as it was, but how it aspired to be.

Evans still looked up at the sky and smiled with satisfaction. He'd done a good thing by making his neighbors happy, and he felt a calm joy at that. But then, somewhere nearby, kids set off another mortar shell. When its distinct ring hit Evans' ears, Kyle watched his uncle instinctively wince and try and duck into himself. His teeth gritted. The corner of one lip pulled back into a canine sneer. More fireworks went off. The neighbors kept cheering. But Kyle didn't see his uncle smile again for the rest of the night.

That night, Evans sat down on the edge of his bed and rubbed at his temples, hoping to massage away the metallic ringing in his mind. He wanted a drink, but he refused that temptation. He could have a drink a month from now, on a date less joyous than the 4th of July. In the meantime, he had to just deal with the painful ringing in his ears and the unpleasant memories. Succumbing to exhaustion that was more emotional than physical, Evans crashed back into his bed and looked up at the ceilings. And more ghosts of his past came back to haunt him.

 

FINALLY! IT WAS GOOD!

 

Hope that you had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Hope that you and yours are in good health! WHERE THE HELL IS MY UNCLE EVANS!!!!

 

A Bridge in the Middle East. A long time ago.

"The enemy did their homework on this one," the captain said.

None of the Marines disagreed with that assessment. To accentuate the captain's appraisal, a barrage of 12.7mm machine gun rounds crashed into the bridge's superstructure, clanging, and banging, and throwing up sparks. Even though they were safe on the bridge's embankment, the Marines instinctively recoiled at the sound of the incoming fire.

The convoy had been crossing over the bridge when the ambush went off. The improvised explosive devices hit the last three vehicles right as they came onto the bridge. The hulk of one was still on the bridge. It had been blown in half, and its shattered mechanical guts were spilled out across the bridge’s broken deck. A severed human leg rested near the wreckage. No other body parts, just a leg. Evans could tell by the boot that the leg belonged to Hoffman. There were no signs of the rest of Hoffman. There should have been another truck on the bridge. There were no signs of that either.

Another barrage of heavy machine gun fire crashed into the bridge’s superstructure. Bullets clanged. Marines recoiled again. The enemy tracers burned green. It was suppressive fire, Evans knew. The enemy didn't want them crossing back over the bridge to the last vehicle.

The last vehicle in the convoy had been driving onto the bridge's approach when the bombs went off. Its front end was gone. The thick armored glass of its windshield was an ugly spider web of cracks splashed with blood. One Marine managed to drag himself out of the wreck. Evans, and everybody else on the opposite bank, could hear screams coming from inside that wreck… that wreck all the way on the other side of the bridge. That wreck, separated from the rest of the Marines by the DShK fire.

Another volley of machine gun fire clanged into the bridge's superstructure. The heavy 12.7 rounds sparked as they punched holes through the old metal I beams, erected decades ago by the Russians, back when the Russians were called the Soviets.

Buildings crowded up against the banks of the river and the bridge. The captain poked his head out onto the bridge far enough to get a good look at the source of the machine gun fire. Upriver sat a small island, thick with tall grass and reeds. It was a sea of green amidst the mud brown of the river and the tan desert shades that made up the rest of the country. The island looked more like something out of Vietnam than the Middle East. The machine guns chattered again.

"Two DShKs. Their gunners know what they're doing," the captain said. He shook his head. "I told the battalion commander we should have cleared that island weeks ago." The captain spoke aloud but he spoke only to himself. The captain usually had a mean look about him, like an angry man who was about to get into a bar fight for no reason than the sake of fighting. Most people steered clear of the captain. Evans had served with the captain here before, back when the captain was still a lieutenant and Evans was a lance corporal in the combat engineers and not an EOD technician. Evans doubted the captain remembered him. The crazy thing was that the captain had not even been part of the convoy. He'd just shown up after the explosions went off, him and the pilot. The pilot was never far from the captain. They were thick as thieves.

"What's going on with the air?" the captain asked the pilot. While the captain almost always looked mean, the pilot always had a smile on his face. He was a fighter pilot and had the movie-star good looks to match. He also liked to sing. He'd walk around the base camp, singing Elvis Presley songs or old cowboy ballads. Evans figured the pilot must be crazy. Why else would a pilot give up flying a fighter jet to run around on the ground with the grunts, risking death to bring liberal Western democracy to people who didn't seem to want it? Why else would he be paling around with the captain, who Evans knew to be crazy enough. The pilot spoke.

"Vengeance is bingo and Winchester. There's a section at AA getting ready to go, but they can't launch until Vengeance lands." The pilot carried at least two radios on his gear and a look of disappointment on his face. He added to the captain, "Battalion said don't do anything until air gets on station."

"Battalion always says don't do anything until air gets on station. How long will that be?" The captain asked.

"Ten minutes," the pilot said.

Evans looked across the bridge. Its surface was warped and twisted. Parts of the decking were gone. It looked like it might collapse at any minute. On the far side, one of the Marines unfurled a black tourniquet and frantically tried to get it around his leg.

"Those Marines don’t have ten minutes." Another machine gun barrage clattered into the bridge. The captain added, "We need to get some suppression on those machine guns. The only place to do that is from the bridge."

"We could try to get a truck back over there," the pilot suggested. The captain frowned even deeper at that suggestion.

"Naw. Those 12.7s would rip it apart, that's if the bridge didn't collapse first."

The captain turned away from the bridge and the island and the wounded on the far bank and looked over the troops on this side. They were all waiting to be told what to do.

"Sergeant Owens, you got a mortar in one of these trucks?" The captain asked one of the Marines. Owens nodded.

"Go get it and all the ammo you got for it. Put the assault base plate on. Leave the bipod."

Sergeant Owens hesitated, and the captain knew why. Each convoy was required to keep a 60mm mortar with it per standing orders. That had been made perfectly clear to every Marine in country. The battalion commander made it perfectly clear to everybody under his command that any Marine who fired that mortar would find themselves facing a court martial. To the uninitiated, it might seem ridiculous that a military unit might be required to carry around something they were not allowed to use. But for those who served in the US military, such contradictions were commonplace.

"I know what you are thinking. Just get me the mortar. I’ll take care of it," the captain said. Owens ran off. The pilot approached the captain. Evans watched. The pilot spoke quietly into the captain's ear, but Evans could still hear.

"Don't," the pilot said. "The air will be here in ten. They won’t even have to drop a bomb. The bad guys will run as soon as they hear them. Don’t go on that bridge."

"The Marines on the other side don’t have ten minutes," the captain repeated.

"You are your own worst enemy."

"Yeah. Just do what you can on the radio. Skip battalion. Go straight to Wing. And don't follow me out there. We lose those radios and we're fucked." The captain turned from his pilot friend and shouted out, "Doc Youngblood, once those machine guns are suppressed, you get your ass over there with the aid and litter teams."

The Marine named Owens came forward. He had one 60mm mortar with the assault baseplate attached, and two big green metal cans full of shells. The captain seized the mortar, stopped, and noticed Evans for the first time. He smiled, the way a man smiles when he meets an old friend by chance after years apart.

"Evans! It's been a while. How have you been? Thanks for driving that truck for me last time we were out here." The captain offered his free hand to Evans. Evans took it. He was too surprised to do otherwise. He was surprised the captain remembered him from their previous deployment. Another machine gun barrage impacted the bridge. Sparks flew. Evans winched. The captain didn't seem to notice.

"Good," Evans mumbled. The captain looked up and down. While the regular Marines wore the desert pattern camouflage uniform, EOD Marines wore tan Nomex coveralls. Evans was wearing the coveralls.

"So, you’re a staff sergeant now, and in EOD. Good," the captain said. He sounded genuinely proud of Evans.

"Yes. Yes sir," Evans mumbled. He felt like an idiot after speaking.

"That's great. I'm glad to see you moving up." the captain said. Then he let go of Evans' hand, picked up one of the ammo cans for the mortars, and said, "Well, I got to go."

Without another word, the captain sprinted onto the bridge. He held the mortar in one hand and the ammo can in the other. The second he came into view, both DShK machine guns opened up. The bridge came alive with flashes, sparks, and clouds of dust. Green tracers blazed. Bullets smacked into the beams and girders that held the dying mechanical structure together. Clang! Bang! Sprang! A bullet impacted the bridge deck just behind the captain and tore up a chunk of asphalt as long as a man's arm. A tracer hit a girder, ricocheted off into another girder, then bounced off and rose up into the air, spinning around end over end and burning green.

"Fuck," Evans cursed.

The captain got halfway across the bridge and skidded to a stop in a manner that would have been laughably cartoonish in any other circumstance. He knelt, ripped open the ammo can, and pulled out a mortar shell. His hands worked frantically, removing the dunnage and the excess increments and the safety devices, throwing them this way and that. He dropped the mortar shell down the mortar tube. The light mortar was in its assault configuration, and much easier to handle with the smaller baseplate and without the bipod. The mortar ready, the captain eyeballed the alignment with the target, checked and rechecked the bubble on the range indicator, then depressed the trigger.

"Whump!" The mortar boomed, and the boom was followed by a distinct metallic ringing sound Evans would remember for the rest of his life. The enemy machine gun rounds kept impacting, but the impacts went high and wide. Evans and the others at the end of the bridge saw the mortar round arc up towards the island. It peaked, came back down, and exploded at the southernmost tip of the island. Water and mud and grey smoke splashed up.

"Fuck," Evans repeated. He and all the others stood dumbfounded. More DShK rounds impacted into the bridge. The captain, exposed to it all, grabbed another mortar shell and prepped it.

"Fuck," Evans repeated a third time. Then he spun around. The man in the turret of the nearest truck was Lasky.

"Lasky," Evans shouted. "Get that machine gun out of the cradle and meet me out there." Evans didn't wait for a response. He turned around, grabbed the second can of mortar shells, and sprinted onto the bridge.

His arms pumped. His heart thundered in his chest. Evans wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. Most of all, he wanted to not go on the bridge, but Evans sprinted onto it anyway. He could hear the DShKs' impacts striking all around him. The bullets clanged and sparked against the bridge's superstructure. They cracked over his head. The captain seemed a mile away. Evans kept running, as hard and as fast as he could.

A section of the bridge's deck was missing. A hole yawned open and beneath it, Evans could see the muddy water of the river rush by. Evans leaped over the gap. He landed. Something snapped over his head. It was something much bigger and more powerful than the bullets he'd always heard at the rifle range. Evans kept going. He saw something out of the corner of his eye; a line of burlap bags along one side of the bridge, opposite the captain. The captain's mortar thumped again. Evans heard that distinct metallic echo. He hated that sound, but he was focused on the burlap bags. They were more important now than the captain's mortar or the DShKs or anything.

Evans pitched the ammo can of mortar rounds off his chest and towards the captain. The big metal can hit the bridge deck, then spun and skidded over toward the captain and his mortar. Evans went in the other direction. He went for the burlap bags. He got there and ripped the first one open with his bare hands.

Inside he saw exactly what he expected.

Sprouting out of the 122mm artillery shells were electrical wires and red tubes of Semtex shock cord. The wires ran into a Nokia cell phone. The red shock cord ran into the 122mm shells in the other burlap bags. Somewhere in that mess were the necessary blasting caps. The face of the Nokia phone glowed electronically. Evans decided right there he was going to die, on this shitty bridge in this shitty country.

Evans also decided he didn’t care.

He seized the first 122mm shell, brought it up to his chest, and pitched it over the side of the bridge. The wires and shock tube snapped. As the 12.7 bullets impacted all around him, Evans leaned over the side of the bridge to watch the IED fall. He said to himself, "If you watch that thing fall all the way into the river, and it explodes, it is going to take your head off." Evans watched it fall all the way into the river anyway. It splashed into the water without exploding. Evans seized up the other two burlap bags one at a time and pitched those off the bridge too. Then he ran to the captain. When he got there, he collapsed in a heap behind the nearest girder.

The captain was aligning his mortar for another shot. "What were you doing over there?" He asked casually, his eyes shifting from the rim of the mortar tube to the bubble on the elevation indicator.

"More IEDs. Artillery shells, all daisy chained together and rigged up to a mobile phone."

The captain froze. Without taking his eyes off his mortar he asked, "What did you do?"

"I took care of it," Evans said.

"Good," the captain said. He focused back on his mortar, got his alignment and elevation where he wanted them, and squeezed the trigger. Another whump followed by another one of those damned metallic rings. The shell arced out.

"What can I do?" Evans asked.

"Prep another round for me," the captain said.

The mortar round he just launched landed near one of the two machine gun positions and threw up dirt and gray smoke. That machine gun paused its firing. Evans' hands worked frantically at his mortar round. He tore open the cardboard packing tube and ripped out the safety devices and the excess powder increments.

Lasky crashed down next to them. Lasky looked like he was 15 years old. He was all tangled up in the medium machine gun and the belts of ammunition. Evans ripped the machine gun from the younger man, got it up on its bipod, slapped in a belt of ammo, charged it, and opened fire.

A burst of fire marked by red tracers arced out and splashed into the river just short of the island.

"The distance to those guns is 1200 meters on the dot," the captain said calmly. He fired his mortar again. Another thump. Another metallic echo.

Evans adjusted the sites on his weapon and fired again.

"At this range, if you are firing off the bipod then you're just making noise," The captain advised. He wasn't mad. He spoke more like a patient coach.

"Lasky, go back and get the tripod."

Lasky leaped up and sprinted back to the vehicles. DShK impacts danced around his feet. Evans wondered if the young man was going to get cut in half, decided there was nothing he could do about it, and fired his machine gun anyway. Another burst of 12.7 machine gun fire came in and impacted all around him. Spall came off the girders and peppered Evans' face. Evans cursed, shouldered his machine gun and bipod or not, and let loose another burst. Beside him, the captain's mortar thumped again.

Lasky was back with the tripod. He dove next to Evans and landed with a crash.

"Oh shit," Lasky said.

"Yeah, 'oh shit," Evans screamed back. He ripped off another burst with the machine gun, then lifted it onto the tripod. The captain's mortar thumbed. A 12.7 bullet punched a ragged hole through a girder a foot from Evans' head. A Marine named Reed ran out onto the bridge and fired at the island with his rifle. His rifle was long but not long enough for the distance. Evans got the machine gun onto the tripod and nestled in behind it. The mortar thumped and rang. Evans let off another burst. The gun spat out spent brass and links. Red tracers arced out toward the island and landed near one of the DShKs.

"Shift left and elevate a little," the captain advised, his voice still casual. Evans could make out the tiny, "pop-pop-pops" of Reed's rifle. He ripped off another burst. More bursts impacted into the bridge, high up in the superstructure.

"We're getting suppression," the captain said. "The gunner on the right on the right is slowing down. And he's missing the bridge more than he's hitting it."

Incoming fire clanged into the bridge and Evans thought the gunner on the right was doing fine. He ripped off another burst of his own. Lasky was beside him, feeding the ammo belt into the gun and trying to make himself as small as possible. The captain had his mortar lined up. He was concentrating on the elevation bubble and squeezing on the trigger. He was just about to fire when a hand clamped over the top of the mortar tube.

"Check fire! Check fire!" a Marine yelled. It was the pilot.

The captain cursed and simultaneously lowered the mortar and slapped the pilot's hand away.

"You dumb fuck! You almost lost your hand," the captain shouted. The pilot was oblivious to the scolding. He was looking up at the sky and speaking into the radio, in that nonsense pilot talk that Evans didn’t understand.

And then the bridge collapsed.

At least that was what Evans thought. His world was full of noise, a louder more powerful noise than all the machine guns and that damned ringing mortar all put together. It was a noise you felt more than heard. Something high up in the superstructure snapped, and the bridge dropped, and listed to one side, like a ship beginning to capsize. The bridge only dropped an inch, maybe two. To Evans, those inches seemed like a mile. He felt his stomach drop out of his body. Above, the sky ripped open, and the heavens cracked in half. Evans looked up and saw a haze gray fighter sweep overhead. Fire spat out of its twin jet engines. The pilot was a pro. He hit the burners just at the right moment. A supersonic crack rolled over the bridge and the island. Right as he was over the enemy position, he dumped all his chaff and flares, and the sky came alive with the brilliance of metallic fire. With his burners flaring, the fighter climbed, banked, flew away, and disappeared to the west.

"I thought you said he was outta gas?" the captain shouted at the pilot.

"He was outta gas," the pilot replied. He turned back to his radio, said more pilot stuff, then turned back to the captain. "He just called for the crash crew at the airfield to get ready." The pilot paused again for his radio spoke into it, turned back to the captain, and said, "I got two more fighters on divert from TQ. Full load but they can only make one pass."

The hope had been that the jet would scare the enemy off. It didn't work. Not exactly. The DShK on the left resumed firing on the bridge right after the jet passed. After a long pause, so did the DShK on the right. But the lull was enough. Out of the corner of his eye, Evans saw the corpsman lead a team across the bridge. They carried big medical backpacks and dusty black stretchers. Other Marines were on the bridge now too, firing long-barreled rifles and light machine guns. They were aiming high and trying to lob their rounds in. Red tracers zipped through the air.

"Concentrate your fire on the DShK on the right," the captain ordered. "He's scared. His fire is getting wobbly."

More 12.7 crashed into the bridge. Evans had no idea what the captain meant when he said the enemy's fire was getting "wobbly." The enemy fire still looked pretty damned dangerous. Even so, he shifted his gun, aimed in on the enemy flashes, and fired.

"How much ammo do they have?" It was the pilot talking. The captain answered.

"They probably got all the ammo in the world. They chose the terrain. They chose the time to attack us. They planted the IEDs. They're dug in on an island. They probably prepared this for weeks." Then he asked, "Why are you on the bridge? I can't lose those radios."

"You won't."

"Get off the bridge."

"I need to be on the bridge to control the air."

"Well don't have them fly over us again.

"They have to fly up the river and over us. If they fly over the city and they miss their drop, their bombs could fall on the civilians."

"If they fly up the river and miss their drops their bombs could fall on us," the captain fired back.

"You know I can't bring them in over the city. You know what kind of war we're in," the pilot said. That was that. Evans rolled his eyes and fired off another burst.

His machine gun went dry. Evans flipped up the feed tray cover. Lasky ripped open an ammo can and passed over a belt. Evans set the belt on the feed tray, his hands fumbling along. Through his peripheral vision, he could see teams of litter bearers running back across the bridge with screaming casualties. He could see the pilot talking into his radio. Somebody at the wrecked truck called for a Halligan tool. At the opposite end of the bridge, a Marine fired his rifle. Brass flew out and gleamed in the sunlight. The corpsman ran up to the captain and crashed beside him.

"One's still stuck in that wreck. We got all the others."

"Can you get him out?"

"Yeah. We got to smash apart that truck though."

"Do it."

At their end of the bridge, Evans saw a truck come speeding toward the embankment in reverse, its tailgate down. The stretcher bearers loaded the casualties into the truck. In less than a minute. The tailgate went back up. One Marine smacked the back of the truck with a gloved fist and the truck sped off. Evans got his machine gun in action. The captain fired the mortar again.

This time the mortar's ring seemed louder, angrier. Evans winced at the noise. He could see the mortar projectile arcing up into the sky. It climbed, peaked, descended, came down on the island, and exploded.

It was just like in the movies.

The mortar shell impacted right on top of the rightmost enemy machine gun. It made a "Krumpf" sound and exploded into a cloud of gray smoke. Only this time something else exploded. It flashed yellow and red. A second later, the explosion's boom rolled over Evans and everybody else on the bridge. The rightmost DShK machine gun swung up and fired up into the sky. It didn't just fire a burst. It fired one long continuous stream. The green tracers buzzed. Evans could see it in his mind; the gunner was dead, collapsing to the ground with his fingers locked on the triggers, firing up into the sky in one final act of defiance.

"We got one, now get the other one," the captain ordered.

The Marines, the rifles, the light and medium machine guns, everything converged on the last enemy DShK position. Red tracers filled the air.

"We got him! We got him!" somebody yelled in triumph. It was Doc Youngblood. He had the last casualty over his shoulder. That Marine's camouflage uniform was soaked through with blood. His head rolled on his neck. "We got him," the corpsman yelled again. He ran back across the bridge. When he came to Hoffman's severed leg, without breaking stride Youngblood, dipped, grabbed the limb with his free hand, and kept running. Evans paused from his firing to watch the corpsman run to the other side. When the next burst of 12.7 impacted right next to Lasky, Evans mounted his machine gun and fired another burst at the island.

"Doc's got them all across," the pilot said. "They're all back across. We don't need to stay on this bridge."

The captain paused, a half-prepared mortar round in his hand. The pilot was right. They'd gotten their wounded back across the bridge. They didn't have to stay on the bridge dueling it out with the last gunner. The captain looked at the pilot. Then he looked at Evans. The captain didn't speak, but he seemed to be soliciting advice. Evans spoke his mind.

"This one is too good. If we don't kill him, we're going to regret it. He's too good for us to let him live."

The captain turned to the pilot. He nodded once in agreement with Evans.

"Okay," the captain said. "We finish it."

As if the last enemy gunner heard them, the line of DShK fire straightened out and bore down, laser-like on the bridge. It seemed to come in with more intensity, and the Marines fired back with more intensity. Red and green tracers zipped up and down the river, whipping past each other. The machine gun came alive under Evans. Lasky, belt in hand, called over his shoulder for more ammo. The mortar boomed and then rang again, that damned metallic ring. Behind Evans, the pilot knelt and faced down the river. He looked towards the sky and chattered away into his radio, the weird-ass pilot talk that was one-half officer gibberish and one-half magical incantations.

The bridge was alive with the sparks of metal on metal. Upriver, Evans could see the island's vegetation being torn apart. Another mortar round exploded, this one almost right on top of the enemy gunner. How was that machine gunner still alive? How were any of them alive?

Behind him, Evans could hear the pilot speaking faster now. Spent brass flew left and right. Evans heard the jet coming in.

"He's dropping! Get your heads down!" the pilot yelled.

Evans heard something cut through the air, then the middle of the small island exploded. A gray and black cloud rolled up into the sky. Beyond it, a fighter banked and soared away into the sky.

Nothing happened, not for a few seconds. The pause stretched impossibly long. One of the Marines stood up on the edge of the bridge, pointed at the island, and shouted, "Fuck You!"

Then the DShK opened up again. The Marine dove for cover. The captain cursed. The pilot chattered into his radio and looked up to the sky.

"He dropped long. He was worried about dropping short and hitting us," the pilot said. "I've got dash-two inbound."

Evans thought he heard the plane coming in. He turned from his gun and looked up into the sky. The pilot spoke into his radio.

"Yeah four-five, from lead's hits, bring it in fifty."

The enemy gunner on the island must have heard the plane too. His stream of fire lifted off the bridge and rose into the sky. He was searching for the second fighter that he knew was coming in after the first. Evans watched the green tracers fly by, up overhead. He could hear the jet getting louder.

Another Marine stood up on the bridge and shouted at the island. Instead of cursing, this one said, "Stop shooting and run you dumb-fuck!"

Evans looked up over his shoulder at the pilot.

"Four-five, you aren't getting a second pass at this, so just drop everything you've got."

Another Marine stood and shouted at the lone gunner, "Run! Run you dumb fucker!"

The green tracers blazed skyward. No breaks. No interruptions between short and controlled bursts. Just a steady stream of continuous fire searching for the plane everybody knew was coming.

More Marines were shouting at the island now, shouting at the gunner to run away. One waved his arms frantically in, 'go-away' gestures, as if trying to shoo an animal. The captain was sitting back, alone, shaking his head, and at that moment, Evans knew what the captain knew; the gunner on the island wasn't going to run. He wasn't the running type. He was committed. He was going to die on that island. The pilot spoke into his handset.

"Cleared hot."

The radio buzzed back a response that Evans couldn't make out. The heavy machine gun rounds cracked overhead. Green laser-light of tracers. Evans felt the air thicken. He heard the jet pull up and away. And then…

This one wasn't like in the movies. There weren't any secondary explosions. There weren't any screams. There was no raging against the dying of the light. No melodrama. The bombs fell and exploded, and this time when the smoke cleared, the second gun remained silent. The enemy was dead. Maybe he could have run, but he didn't. He died at his post on the island. And that was that, and that was all. Everybody on the bridge just looked at the island. Nobody spoke except for the pilot. He stood and raised a radio handset to his lips.

"Target destroyed, four-five. Thanks for the work today. Menudo out."

The battle at the bridge had ended. Now the recovery work began.



There were never enough people and never enough equipment to adequately defend the bridge or clear the island before the ambush. Now, after the ambush, no expense was spared to clean up the mess. People and resources flooded in to begin the recovery operations. An entire infantry company arrived to secure both embankments. Armored boats came from upriver and posted as pickets on either side of the bridge. Civilian experts from the Army Corps of Engineers arrived to assess the damage to the bridge. Then they debated if it was better to repair the bridge or destroy it completely and build a new one. Troops erected massive stadium lights so operations could continue through the night. Generators hummed. Squat recovery vehicles parked at the end of the bridge. Steel cables snaked out from their powerful winches and pulled the wrecked vehicles across the bridge, one inch at a time for fear of collapsing the bridge. Word was that the Army was flying in divers the next morning to search the river bottom for bodies.

The day had been long, and now twilight fell. The shadows grew long, and the sky changed from blue to orange. Evans and Lasky sat together. They watched the activity on the bridge. Lasky had the machine gun resting across his thighs.

"That was one helluva day," Lasky said.

"A helluva day," Evans agreed. And then, they heard singing behind them.


Out in the West Texas town of El Paso

I fell in love with a Mexican girl


They both turned. The pilot walked up behind them, a broad smile on his face. Even dressed as he was, in his filthy camouflage uniform with his radios, he possessed a strong element of showmanship. There was just something about the way he moved. The pilot kept crooning.



Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina

Music would play, and Felina would whirl


When the pilot got to Evans and Lasky, he stopped singing and said, "Gentlemen, I need your help with something. Would you follow me?"

Evans and Lasky followed the singing pilot down the street. The pilot didn’t sing anymore, but he hummed the rest of his ballad without any hint of self-consciousness. You would never guess from the pilot's demeanor that they were in a war, in a town full of people that would happily see them dead. They went down the street a block, maybe two. They turned. They twisted. Then the pilot walked right into the local equivalent of a convenience store. Evans and Lasky looked at each other and then followed the pilot inside.

"I'm thirsty," the pilot said. "I'd buy some beers, but that's against general order number one. That, and there isn't any beer for sale in this whole country. Grab a bunch of those soda pops in the cooler."

The store was full of brown-skinned locals who eyed the three of them warily. The pilot didn't seem to notice the locals. He fished into one of the many pockets on his uniform for a wallet. In the back of the store were stand-up coolers with glass doors. One was filled with bottles of soda: blue and white with red lettering.

"How many should we get?" Evans asked.

"Grab as many as you can," the pilot said. He thumbed through his wallet, took out a few US bills, and handed them to the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper smiled.

Evans reached open the cooler. A blast of frigid air hit him in the face. It was refreshing. He grabbed a plastic bottle of soda and the coldness of it bit into his fingers. It was then he realized how thirsty he was. Back at the counter, the pilot asked, "You got any cigarettes?" He mimicked smoking a cigarette. The shopkeeper smiled and nodded. He had no idea what the pilot was asking. A young boy, maybe ten years old, said something to the shopkeeper in their native tongue, then said something else to the pilot in English.

"Pines? You got Pines back there?" the pilot said. Evans filled Lasky's arms with soda bottles, like he was loading him with firewood.

"You get those soda pops?" The pilot asked. He stuffed cigarette packs into his pockets.

"Sir, we're getting 'em," Evans said. "What are we going to do with all these sodas, anyway?"

"We're gonna drink 'em," the pilot said. He took a $20 out of his wallet and handed it to the kid. Then he shrugged, took out a crisp $100 bill, and set it on the counter. The shopkeeper's eyes lit up with delight. They all walked out of the store.

"Sir, you know you overpaid for all this stuff," Evans said to the pilot. They all walked back towards the bridge.

"Maybe," the pilot said. "But what do I care? It is only money. I'm a well-paid fighter pilot. Money is nothing to me."

"If money is nothing to you, sir, maybe you could give some to me," Lasky said.

"Ha," the pilot said. "Just enjoy the smokes and the soda pop."

"Where are we going?" Evans asked.

The pilot smiled. "We're going to drink these soda pops and smoke these cigarettes. Where else would we be going?" And then the pilot started singing again.


Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina

Wicked and evil while casting a spell…



Lasky and Evans followed the pilot. "I wish he wouldn't call them soda pops," Lasky whispered. Evans nodded in agreement.

The pilot led them down to the river. The others from the bridge were already there, the captain, Owens, Doc Youngblood. They were all sitting on a hidden bank, legs dangling above the water. Above was the shattered bridge. The portable stadium lights blazed. Across the water, the riverine patrol boats circled. Up the river, smoke still lingered above the island. The new infantry company that arrived had taken over security. There was nothing for them to do but sit and watch the river.

"Hey, EOD showed up. Welcome. Grab a seat," one of the Marines said.

"Took you long enough. You get my cigarettes," the captain grumbled. His remarks were for the pilot who sat down next to him.

"Yeah. We got your cigarettes," the pilot said.

"Gauloises?" the captain asked.

"Pines," the pilot replied.

"Good. I like Pines better," the captain said.

"Funny thing for a guy to say when he doesn't even smoke," the pilot said.

"You don't smoke either," the captain said.

"No, I don't," the pilot said. He ripped open one of the blue and white packets, shook out a cigarette for himself, then passed the pack over to the captain. Another pack was passed in the opposite direction. None of them smoked, not normally, but everybody took a cigarette.

Evans collapsed down on the riverbank. His legs dangled over the water. He took the soda bottles from Lasky and passed them left and right. He opened his own bottle and drank. The soda was cold and sweet. He guzzled down almost half the bottle. The breeze off the river found its way under his armor. The cool air hit his sweat-soaked back and he shivered. The captain's eyes stared across the river and beyond. He spoke to the pilot.

"Smoking will ruin your singing voice."

The pilot opened a soda, drank gustily, then puffed on his lit cigarette. "Nonsense. Besides, my professional singing days are over. I'm a Naval Aviator now."

One of the Marines snickered. The captain just stared out across the water. He said, "No. It is true. He used to sing professionally. He used to be in a boy band. That's why his call sign is Menudo."

Evans choked on his soda. He set the bottle down and said, "What?"

Another Marine asked, "Menudo? Like the soup?"

"A different kind of Menudo, and it is true," the pilot said. "When I was a teenager, back in the day I was in a boyband. It was fun while it lasted, but I got kicked out."

"You get too old?" Evans asked.

"I got too tall. I had a growth spurt one summer. I was eight inches taller than the others. When we did photo shoots it looked ridiculous." The pilot puffed on his cigarette, then shrugged and said, "What do you do when you're too tall and too old to sing in a boy band and you got nowhere else to go? You join the Marines, that's what you do." The pilot puffed out a perfect ring of smoke.

"I was in college, but drank all my tuition money away," another Marine added. "When I sobered up, I was standing on some yellow footprints in Paris Island, getting screamed at."

The river rolled by. The sky turned dark blue. Up on the bridge, the generators rumbled and the stadium lights burned through the darkness.

"Who was in that missing truck?" One of the Marines asked. A pause followed. Then the captain answered.

"Fraser, Ivy, Goodwin, and Cifuentes." He flicked his cigarette into the water and added, "I knew we should have cleared that island."

"You kept asking. The BC kept saying no," the pilot said.

"I should have done it anyway," the captain said. "I'm tired of always being in react mode I'm tired of always having our reactions constrained by people who aren't interested in winning this war. Just once I'd like to go on the offensive and make the bad guys react to me."

"Ain't nobody gonna let you win," the pilot replied. "You know what kind of war you're in."

"Yeah, I know what kind of war I'm in."

Nobody said much after that. The river rolled. The night sky darkened and the stars grew brighter. They all just sat on the bank, enjoying their cigarettes and the soda and the peaceful solitude. Evans finished his soda. He held the empty bottle up to the light and considered the blue, white, and red label. He recapped it, tossed it into the river, and watched it float away. The plastic sides gleamed unit the river and the darkness took it away.

Lasky spoke. "That gunner was good. The last one. Holding out to the end like he did." Nobody replied to that, so Lasky went on.

"He must have been shitting himself in the end though. Being stuck on that island with no way out and those jets screaming in."

"He didn’t have to stay there and die on his gun," the air controller said. "He could have just stopped shooting and slipped away."

"No. No, he couldn't have," the captain said. "He knew what he was doing. He made his decision to die on that island before he got out of bed this morning."

"Still," Lasky said. "He had to be shitting himself in fear at the end. When the air came in. Knowing that was how it was going to end for him. He had to be scared then, knowing there was no escape, knowing that he was going to die."

"I don't know," the captain said. He spoke slowly and clearly, and everybody listened intently, especially Evans. "I think maybe when you reach that point in your life… when you reach that level of commitment, and you know it is your time… I think then you don't feel any fear. You're ready. You know what you need to do. At that point, I think a calmness sets in and you just do what needs to be done."

The captain drew in on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and finished.

"There's a reason why they call it, 'making your peace.'"



The dream that was really a memory ended with a knock on the door. Evans opened his eyes. The sun was up. It shone brightly through the bedroom window. It was late in the morning.

"Yeah, what is it?" Evans asked. Kyle opened the door.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" Evans asked. His head ached with the damned metallic ring from the fireworks the night before.

"It is after eleven and you're still in bed."

"Yeah, well," Evans grumbled. He sat up. His old muscles ached with the movement. "I'm getting up now."

"You hungry? You want me to make breakfast or lunch?" Kyle asked.

"Breakfast," Evans said. "You cook a good breakfast. I won't pass that up."

"Okay," Kyle said. "But get up. I'm sure you have work to do."

"I'm retired," Evans said.

"Yeah, I'm sure you got work anyways." Kyle left and went down to the kitchen.

Evans sat on the edge of his bed. He didn't want to remember the battle at the bridge, because remembering stirred up emotions he'd rather not feel. The bridge had been both a good day, and a terrible day, as the most important days in a man's life are. If the story had ended there on the banks of the river, with all of them smoking cigarettes and drinking sodas, that would have been fine. But that wasn't how it ended because it wasn't that type of war. So, as Kyle made breakfast, Evans remembered the last part of the story.



Evans was back at the base, in the back of the metal shipping container where the EOD team stored all their gear in. He was organizing their tools, making sure they would have everything they needed the next time they went out to deal with a bomb. Manuals and tools and pieces of bomb suits were scattered all over shelves and workbenches made out of plywood and lumber. The skill level of the carpentry was about on par with that of some 12-year-old boys building a tree house. Nothing was quite level, and nothing was quite square. Evans had a dozen screwdrivers laid out before him. The screwdriver on the end kept trying to roll away. Off to one side was the helmet of his bomb suit. The clear faceplate stared back at Evans as he worked. There was a knock on the container door. It was Lasky.

"You get those radios back from the communications shed yet? They should be done with them." Evans asked.

"Not yet," Lasky said, and he lingered at the door. The silence spoke volumes.

"What is it?" Evans asked.

"Remember that captain on the bridge? The one with the mortar?"

Evans nodded but didn't look up from his screwdrivers. "That was just two days ago. The memory is still pretty fresh," Evans said. Lasky nodded.

"The battalion commander just relieved him. Said he shouldn’t have fired that mortar so close to an urban area. The battalion commander said the captain put too many locals at risk."

Evans didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything that might betray a single emotion. Lasky continued.

"They sent the captain up to regiment. They sent in a helicopter just for him. Pulled him out this morning."

Evans nodded and then said, "Forget about the captain. Get over to the communications shop and get our radios back."

After the corporal was gone, Evans picked up the helmet of his bomb suit. He raised it up and then smashed it onto the oak floor of the container as hard as he could, again and again. The faceplate cracked. Evans kept smashing the helmet until his emotions burned out. Then he set the bashed-in helmet back on the end of the off-kilter workbench.

"Stupid fucking war," Evans cursed. Then he went back to organizing his tools. There was nothing else he could do.

 

Interlude: Logistics

Oakland California. July.

The two containers were offloaded at the Port of Oakland, California. They were each 40 feet long and looked like the thousands of other containers that came from China to the United States every day. Each container was identified by an alpha-numeric code stenciled on its sides. These codes were flagged, so when the containers were offloaded from their Chinese cargo vessel, the longshoremen put them in a secure area.

The team that received the containers consisted of four men. Two were from Customs and Border Protection. The other two were from a private company: Davos Consulting of North America. The CBP agents were young. The two men from Davos were old. They'd already retired from the military and were now in their second career.

The CBP agents checked the seals on the two containers. Once they confirmed the seals were intact, their job was done. They left the containers to the two Davos men.

The Davos men waited with the containers. They sat in a brand new, blacked-out SUV that looked like something a federal agent might drive. After a few hours, two semi-trucks arrived along with three more SUVs. Each of the SUVs contained more Davos employees. The containers were loaded onto the semis and then the whole group left the Port of Oakland. Two SUVs accompanied each truck. They didn't leave via the normal exits, but through gates in the chain-link fences normally reserved for emergency vehicles. These gates didn’t have the cameras or kiosks that the normal commercial points of entry and exit had.

They drove to a warehouse outside Sacrament. The warehouse was newly built and big. Each semi was able to drive inside the warehouse, detach from the chassis-mounted container, and drive off. But not before the drivers were paid, in cash. The drivers were all independents who had been contracted locally by other Davos agents. There were no digital records linking the truck drivers to Davos.

After the drivers were gone and all the warehouse doors closed, the Davos employees opened the containers. One contained crates marked with Mandarin characters and just one word in English: Norinco.

"We'll need to destroy those crates when we're done," one of the Davos men said.

With long-handled crowbars, they opened the crates. Each crate contained what were being called Type 56C-B rifles. The executives at Norinco added the "B" designator to identify these weapons as being designed for the Baizuo. It was an inside joke that they found hilarious. Each weapon was a slightly modified Chinese Type 56C rifle, which is a long way of saying they were modified AK-47s. Each was fully automatic, and each had a shortened barrel. Either of these features would demand additional scrutiny for the average American citizen to own, if they even lived in a state that allowed them to own such weapons at all. But this was a special operation. There wasn't going to be any scrutiny. These weapons weren't going to average American citizens. This operation was serving a higher ideological purpose and thus could not be constrained by any laws.

The second container was filled with ammunition for the weapons. Fortunately, the ammunition containers didn't bear any markings. The retired general who negotiated this arms deal with the Chinese made certain of that. Repackaging all the ammunition would have been a task.

The weapons and the ammunition were all unloaded and divided into separate stacks. Each stack was labeled with the name of a US city: Portland. Newark. Seattle. Houston. The stacks varied in size. The two largest were going to Los Angles and Chicago. The smallest two were going to the capitals of Nebraska and Tennessee. The teams that would receive those shipments were small but very well-trained. They'd been trained by other veterans who also worked for Davos.

The Davos men worked efficiently. They all had backgrounds in either the military, law enforcement, or the intelligence community. They'd all been recruited by the executives of Davos North America, who were all either retired flag officers or former members of the Senior Executive Service. Once everything was in its appropriate stack, several of the Davos men left to get the panel vans that would transport the arms caches to their final destination. Once the weapons were gone, the warehouse was sterilized. The Davos men destroyed any evidence of the arms and ammunition. Even the shipping containers and their truck chassis would disappear. They would get stenciled with new alphanumeric codes, then sent down to Mexico. It was perhaps an overly cautious step, but the Davos employees were thorough. They had all done work like this before in other countries. Now they were doing it in the United States. The pay was better. And according to the senior executives of Davos Consulting of North America, the mission more urgent. "You are defending true democracy," the retired admirals and generals said. Some of the Davos men believed that, but most were just in it for the money.

Naturally, one of the arms shipments was destined for Texas. It would be delivered not too far from Uncle Evans' house.

 

NOTE: Tonight/Tomorrow morning I'll be posting a companion story linked to this on my Patreon page.

 

FINALLY!! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!
PS I'm glad that you are still among the living!

 

Texas Hill Country. July.

Evans and Kyle were back in the office. They'd put in a full day of work and now they were going about their post-dinner ritual of watching the nightly news. Evans had a glass jar like the one he'd had at the 4th of July party. Using a scrap of cloth from an old t-shirt, Evans polished the inside of the jar with some compound. A second glass jar was on the desk waiting its turn. A can of Evan's favorite cola stood beside it. Kyle admired another memento of his uncle's service that was hanging on the wall. On one of the computer monitors, a cable news personality was about to interview a career politician from the party currently out of power.

"Good evening and welcome to the program. With us tonight is former congressperson, former governor, and former presidential candidate, Robert Hutchinson. Welcome Governor Hutchinson."

"Thanks for having me on tonight, Shawn. It’s a pleasure to be here."

Kyle turned from the decorated paddle on the wall to his uncle. "Do you have the cleaning kit? I thought I'd clean the rifle tonight. Evans opened a desk drawer, took out a bag full of weapons cleaning gear, and tossed it underhand to his nephew. Kyle caught it deftly.

"Governor, there's been a lot of talk lately about these protests that are happening across the country. This country is no stranger to protests that get a little out of hand. But in the past, these demonstrations typically took place in the cities. Some of my viewers have expressed concerns that these demonstrations are moving out into suburbs and rural areas. Some even say that these demonstrations are being used to intimidate rural and suburban voters as we head toward the next election. What do you have to say about that?"

The politician leaned closer to the camera. His face took on a very grave serious look. Too serious. Everything about him was too much; his earnest look; his coiffed hair with just the right touches of gray; his bright white teeth and the shiny American flag pin on his lapel. He was too everything to be real, Kyle thought. Too everything to be trusted.

"Well first of all Shawn, I want to state clearly that I support every American's right to protest. The right to protest and to speak truth to power is one of the many rights the government grants to the citizens of this great nation. That's why when I was governor, I implemented some really powerful policies that protected freedom of speech and expression while at the same time implemented necessary, common-sense measures to cool the types of inflammatory speech and harmful rhetoric that quite frankly we see too much from both sides of the aisle these days.

"Let me also say that I deplore violence in all its forms. Violence never solves anything and for those who share the same political views that I do, I'd just like to remind those viewers tonight that violence simply is not—who—we—are." The politician put dramatic pauses between the last words for emphasis. Kyle took the Africa carbine off his uncle's ready rack and went to work cleaning it. The politician continued.

"I can understand how some of your viewers might be frustrated at what they see going on. But I've spoken to the experts and a lot of what Americans are being told about these riots just is not true."

"It is misinformation," the interviewer said, nodding. He didn't say it as a question so much as a statement of fact.

"That's right Shawn, it is misinformation. And it is misinformation like this that's really dividing Americans in ways that are dangerous. Look, I have spoken with leaders in the law enforcement community. I have spoken with the leaders at the Department of Homeland Security. I have spoken with leaders at the Department of Justice, and they all told me the same thing. These demonstrations are mostly peaceful. These protests are not that big. For the most part, these are simply peaceful expressions of true democracy. And the people conducting these demonstrations are often the most vulnerable and under-served urban youth of this country, and they are frustrated. They simply are starving for the opportunities that more privileged Americans take for granted.

"So, I think the important thing we need to remember, Shawn, is for those of us on this side of the political aisle, we may not agree with what these demonstrations are all about, but we need to respect others' right to express their views, and we need to show these demonstrators empathy. We need to listen intentionally and give them the space they need to express themselves."

The interviewer's head bobbed up and down, like a cork floating in a bucket of water. "Yes, governor. Very wise. Very wise. But we're getting some reports that these protestors are bringing firearms to their political rallies. They are getting violent. They are setting fires. That they've burned down homes and businesses…"

The former governor, shaking his head the whole time, interrupted his counterpart. "Not true, Shawn. Not true. That's just more misinformation. These are just political rallies. Nobody is getting attacked. No businesses are being burned.

"But you see, this is what really upsets me, Shawn. What upsets me are the violent responses to these peaceful expressions. And this violence has been coming from people who claim to be patriotic Americans. First, we had the Raleigh Executions. Then we had this incident in Oklahoma where a disgruntled veteran used his military training to target and attack peaceful protestors. And again, all of this is being driven by misinformation and unfortunately, what we are seeing Shawn, are frustrated Americans, mostly male, mostly from the suburbs, who can't discern fact from fiction. These men then lash out against other Americans just because they look and act differently. They have this… rage. This rage that they have is unhealthy and a danger to our communities. And that saddens me, Shawn. So again, let me be clear. Violence in response to peaceful political expressions is simply un-American and it is not who we are. Our political party is always one that has put principals over partisanship."

"Yes, you know governor," the interviewer began. "I'm no stranger to violence. I'm an orange belt in Judo as well as a pistol marksman, so I'm more than an expert on the subject…"

Uncle Evans, working the polishing compound into the inside of his jar, snorted out a laugh.

"But I've been trained governor. And I've been trained to only use violence for self-defense and only as a last resort. That's not what we're seeing, is it?"

"No, it isn't Shawn. What we saw in Raleigh and in Oklahoma was just ugly and I want to take a moment to disavow that kind of violence. I also want to take a moment to remind your viewers that our side must never lose our compassion for the other side. I will never be afraid to reach across the aisle. I have a demonstrated track record of working with the other party to get things done. No other political leader has the experience that I do when it comes to sitting down and making the compromises we need to make for the greater good.

"Now Shawn, I'm willing to fight. I've always been a fighter. But I want to fight the right way. There's nothing I like more than to get in there and fight for the issues that Americans truly care about. The real issues. Things like corporate tax reform, lowering the costs of prescription drugs, and making sure we have a strong military that will go out and export the values of Western democracy around the world. And speaking of fighting for all Americans, Shawn, I want to take this opportunity to make this promise to your viewers. I am absolutely committed to rolling back the federal overreach into healthcare, which we are going to do the next time we take the House and the Senate. That's why I created my PAC, which your viewers can donate to through my website."

"Now governor, you are a busy man already. But I hear you are also writing a series of children's books?"

"That's right Shawn."

"As busy as you are fighting for hard-working Americans, how do you have time to do that?"

Both the politician and the interviewer gave good-natured chuckles that were too perfect, too practiced, too rehearsed to be genuine. Kyle rolled his eyes at the ersatz joviality.

"The series is called, 'The Courage to Compromise.' It is about Republican politicians who had the courage to compromise on their core values for the good of the American system. It is a really fun and exciting series of books that can teach children at a very young age the necessity of compromising on issues for the good of the government."

"That's a fascinating perspective governor. Can you give us an example of a time when you had to compromise on your values for the good of the government?"

"Certainly. There was a time in Congress when I had to work with the opposition party on spending. They wanted to increase spending on social programs, and I wanted to cut taxes, and we were reaching a point where if we did not increase the debt ceiling the government would shut down. Something like that would be disastrous for the American people. So, I compromised. I agreed to some of their social spending proposals. I agreed to some of their commonsense gun control measures. I moved on taxes and you know what? We increased the debt ceiling and avoided a government shutdown. We kept all of DC working and that's a good thing for the system."

"That's a great example of bipartisan cooperation and a powerful message. So, what kind of lessons do you hope children will take away from your book series?"

"I hope that children will learn the importance of compromise and the value of putting the good of the American system ahead of personal beliefs. I also hope they will learn to respect those with different opinions and work together to find common sense solutions to problems."

"Wow. That is a powerful message governor. Where can our viewers buy these books?"

"Shawn, your viewers can preorder them now…"

Evans held his jar up to the light. He turned it from side to side, examining the way the light was filtered through the glass and the clear compound he rubbed inside. He set the first jar down and went to work on the other. The interview continued.

"Now governor, the election is fast approaching, and it's gotten very heated. What are your thoughts on the race so far?"

On cue, the politician switched from faux downhome joviality back to faux earnestness.

"Shawn, I've held one political office or another my entire adult life, and I've never seen a presidential race like this. It is just gotten ugly, some of the things that are being said about our president. Look, I know our president and his family personally. Now, I don't agree with a lot of his policy positions, but I know him to be a good man. I know that the members of his administration are good people and patriotic Americans. Again, I don't agree with their policies, but I do agree with them on principle. So, when I hear some of this, just despicable rhetoric coming from the candidate who is supposed to be 'our' candidate, it is very troubling to me.

"Thanks, governor."

"Thanks for having me, Shawn."

"I can't believe I voted for that asshole," Evans said. He threw down his rag and switched off the feed.

 

Evans put down the glass jar he'd been working at and clicked away at his computer. He brought up the riot feeds. Things were heating up in New England. A mob had formed on the outskirts of Boston and was now marching out into the suburbs. Many of the marchers carried choppers, the AK-47 based pistols they seemed to favor. Evans looked from the compact choppers on the screen to his ready rack on the wall. There was a full-length rifle there. That, and the carbine his nephew was cleaning made two, but neither one was an AK-based weapon. Evans decided he needed to address that.

"What is: S-E-R-E?" Kyle asked.

Evans shifted his attention from the weapons back to his nephew. "What?"

"S-E-R-E?" Kyle asked again. He pointed to another decorated paddle on the wall. This one had a yellow and green badge on the blade. The word SERE was emblazoned on the top.

"It is not S-E-R-E," Evans said. "You pronounce it as one word. Sere. Like the Sears store, only without the last S on the end."

"What's a Sears store?" Kyle asked.

"Okay. Just sear then, without the last S on the end. Like the sear on a gun."

Kyle threaded a patch into the eyelet on a cleaning rod. He dropped the cleaning rod down the barrel of the rifle and pulled it out the other end. Kyle asked his uncle, "So what is it?"

"What's what?"

"Sear, or Sears, or SERE, or whatever it is?"

Evans turned away from the monitor and looked at his nephew. "SERE is an acronym. It stands for Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape. It was one of the military schools I went to."

"And they taught you survival? Like how to survive in the woods and make fires? Things like that?"

"Yeah," Evans said. "Fire starting and eating bugs and things like that. Mostly they teach you what to do if you become a POW."

"You mean like, taken prisoner?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah," Evan said. "Exactly. Taken prisoner." Evans popped the top of his cola and took a drink. He went on.

"They teach you things like how to avoid questions. Tricks the guards might try to pull on you. Ways to escape."

Kyle ran another patch down the muzzle of the carbine. He asked, "How do they do that?"

"They make a fake prison. With fake guards and the whole deal. Then they throw you inside and put you to work. It is pretend, kind of. But it is not. It is enough. You get the point pretty quickly."

"Sounds like a fun school. Did it work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did they teach you all that stuff? How to escape and all that?"

"No. I mean yeah. Yes, SERE taught me all that stuff," Evans said. "But what SERE really taught me is not to become a prisoner."

Kyle's phone rang. He set down the carbine parts he was cleaning and fished the phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the face of the phone, then looked up at his uncle.

"It's my mom."

Evans nodded. Kyle answered the phone. Evans turned his attention back to the full-length rifle hanging on his wall. He'd put almost all his other guns into storage, he figured he'd better do the same with that one. He took another sip of his drink and then realized that by the tone of the conversation, something was going on between his sister and his nephew. He turned from the wall. Kyle was standing up and staring wide-eyed at his uncle. His face was pale.

Without speaking, Evans mouthed the question, "What is it?"

Kyle let his arm and the phone drop to his side. He spoke. His words came out shakily.

"I had a friend back home named Jake. He went to one of the protests on the 4th of July… and… he got shot.

"He's dead."

 

The Texas Hill County. July.

"You don't understand," Mary said. Kyle had gone to his room and now Evans spoke with his sister over the phone. She went on.

"California passed a new law. When we sell the car, the proceeds from the sale have to go into escrow for 90 days before we can access it. It’s that way with any private car sales."

"So, sell it to a dealer."

"It’s the same if I sell it to a dealer. 90 days before we can access the money."

"It is like an exit tax. They don't want anybody leaving the state. Go and park the car at the Oakland Bart Station. Leave the keys inside. Problem solved."

"Evans. That's wrong, we couldn't do that. Besides they passed another law. If a car gets stolen and is used in any crime, the State of California will hold the owner of the car criminally and civilly liable. We'd be in more trouble than whoever stole the car. The person who stole the car could even sue us for damages. Besides, we've got to sell it. We need the money."

"The laws they're coming up with are meant to keep you in California. You aren't going to get out of there without bending them at least a little," Evans said. Then he asked, "It’s a beat-up hatchback, not a Ferrari, how much could it be worth."

"We need the money," Kyle's mom said. "Our place is back underwater. The housing market here in the Bay Area just crashed again."

"Of course it did. Too many people are leaving the state, and nobody wants to move to San Francisco."

"And all our other bills have gone up this summer; the energy bill, recycling assessments, the garbage, sewer… We have three different water bills we have to pay now: a city bill, a county bill, and a state bill. And all the billing is done on a progressive scale, so the more money you earn the more you have to pay. And then there are these monthly state assessments on Inclusivity and Gender Security, and we still have the High-Speed Rail assessment we have to pay. When we sent Kyle out there, we thought in six months we'd have the money to leave. Keith and I can't get ahead."

"You aren't meant to get ahead," Evans said. "You're meant to stay there and get fleeced with taxes and keep the system churning along." He paused, thought, and then said. "Just go."

"What?"

"You heard me. Just go. Throw whatever you can into your car and just go. Drive out here. You can live with me. I got space. Come out here. Once you get here you can figure out the house and all the rest."

"Evans, we couldn't."

"Do it tonight. The longer you stay the harder it will be to leave." Evans said.

"I don't know if our car will even make it that far."

"Go as far as it'll take you. I'll head west, meet you and make sure you make it all the way. The thing is you should just go. Now."

Mary hemmed and hawed. "But what about our jobs? What about our friends."

"Your jobs would lay both of you off tomorrow morning if they thought it would make the stock price move a fraction of a basis point. You don't owe them anything. And as for friends, you don't have any friends out there. Those friends will sell you out to the state in a heartbeat for nothing more than vanity and the pride of doing it."

"Evans," she admonished.

"Remember all the tattle tails back during the recent public health event?"

"You're talking conspiracy theories again," Mary said.

Evans didn't respond to that right away. He let the conversation pause long enough to be awkward. He did it to make a point.

"Sis?"

"Yes?"

"You sent your only child out here to live with me for a reason. We aren't living in a time when we can dismiss anything as a conspiracy theory. Your window of opportunity is closing. Soon it will be closed and when that happens there will be no getting out."



Kyle sat on his bed quietly, not doing anything but listening to the phone conversation in the other room. Not long after his uncle hung up, he knocked on Kyle's door and opened it. He looked Kyle up and down once.

"Meet me outside on the back porch."

Slowly, not really wanting to, Kyle got up.


The night sky was clear. A breeze swept across the hills, cool, not cold, and just enough to rustle the trees. Kyle sat down in a wooden Adirondack chair and stared into the night. In the woods nearby an owl hooted. After a few minutes, his uncle came out with two drinks. He handed one to Kyle and then sat down beside him.

Kyle sniffed his drink. His nose crinkled. "What's this?"

"Bourbon and cola. Heavy on the cola and light on the bourbon."

"What are you drinking?"

"Just regular cola for me," Evans said.

"You don't drink, do you?"

"I'll have a drink twice a year. Once on November 10th, because that's the Marine Corps birthday and that's what Marines do. I'll also have a drink or two on August 3rd." Evans didn't explain why August 3rd. Instead, he asked, "You want to talk about your friend Jake?"

"I've had booze before," Kyle said.

Evans grunted. Then added, "Maybe not like this though."

Kyle sipped at the drink his uncle gave him. It was sweeter than he expected, but with a kick after. He almost coughed but held it back. For some reason, he felt it was very important not to cough in front of his uncle. He suspected it was pride. He felt coughing would make him look weak.

"Were you and this Jake close?" Evans asked. Kyle shook his head.

"We hung out every so often. We knew each other from school. But we weren't super close."

"But close enough, maybe," Evans offered. "Close enough. You obviously feel something."

"Jake and I were texting each other on the 4th of July. He told me he was going to one of the protests. He made it sound like he was going to some big party. Like, it was going to be this big fun time. And then… mom said he got shot."

"Who shot him?" Evans asked.

"My mom says they are still investigating."

"If they are still investigating, that means it wasn't the cops. Probably one of the protesters. Too many of those choppers floating around, too few people showing those weapons the respect they require. If they don't know who it was by now, they'll probably never know." Evans sipped his own drink. He let the pause stretch out. It was natural. Not awkward. The breeze blew and the owl continued its hoots and the night sky stretched on endlessly. Evans asked, "Did you try and talk him out of it?"

"I told him to be careful," Kyle said. "I was worried. After watching the riots with you all summer, I knew they weren't just street parties. I knew they were dangerous. And I…" Kyle trailed off. His uncle finished his thought.

"And now you feel guilty because you didn't talk him out of going," Evans said. Kyle knew from his uncle's somber tone that the old man knew exactly how he felt.

"I should have tried to talk him out of it. I didn't even try. I knew what was happening at those stupid things. They weren't parties. But I didn't try. I didn't try at all."

"Maybe you could have talked him out of it. Maybe you could have done something different, and he'd still be here. Maybe. Maybe not. There's no telling what might have been. No certainties and no guarantees, not even if you could go back and do it over. All I can tell you for sure is that he's gone and you’re here and alive. If that hurts, that's good. It means you are a good person. Only a good person would feel those pangs of guilt."

"That guilt, that wondering if you might have said something or done something differently and they'd still be here, that kind of thing is not easy to live with. But you must live with it. You must live with it and keep on and live your life. It sounds trite, the idea that you need to get on with your life; that the dead would want you to go on living, but it is true. If you are going to go on living, then what are you going to do? Let the guilt will eat you up and destroy you if you let it. Go down in some circle of despair? That would be easy, maybe even comforting in some strange way. But it isn't helpful. And if there is some divine plan for our lives, some reason why you are alive and others aren't, then it is because there is something you were meant to do. Some act you were meant to perform. You have to keep living and find the things, or even just that one thing worth living for."

"You knew people who died, right? In the war?"

"Yeah," Evans said. "I was in a few bad spots."

"A lot of people?" Kyle asked.

"Too many," Evans said. "Too many, I think that's the only honest way to answer that question."

"Does it go away?" Kyle asked.

"The guilt?"

"Yeah, the guilt."

"No," Evans said. "It fades in frequency, but not in intensity. Not in my experience. It'll go away for a while, but it never goes away, not completely… I wouldn't want it to though. The pain and the guilty are part of remembering the people. If losing the pain meant losing the memory of who they were and our time together, I'd keep the pain. I'd consider that a fair trade."

Kyle looked his uncle up and down. "That's why you don't drink," Kyle said. He said it as a statement, a conclusion he'd come to rather than as a question he was asking. Evans nodded.

"Why August 3rd," Kyle asked. But Evans shook his head no.

"I'm not ready to tell you that story. Not yet."

Neither Kyle nor Evans spoke after that. They just sat on the porch, drinking their drinks, and enjoying the night. The breeze was cool, and the stars were bright, and if the world was a cruel and tragic place, at least in this small corner of it, on this night, there was some goodness to it all. And if not goodness, maybe Kyle received some wisdom from his uncle.


Before he went to bed, Evans went to his office and logged into his computer. He went into a secure messaging program and sent the following:


Hey, I need a big favor. I need to borrow your truck one of these days.


The next morning, he got the following reply:


Anything for you Frankenstein. Just let me know when and where and I'll sneak it over.

 

The plot thickens! I can't wait for the next installment!

 

Marine veteran who choked N.Y. subway passenger to death is charged with manslaughter

 

The Texas Hill Country. The end of July.

Evans twisted the knob on the stove and set the tea kettle to boil. He had his computer on the kitchen counter. For Evans, the news was an all-consuming thing now. He didn't want to watch it, yet, he found himself hungering for information. Any information. The more information he had, the better he'd be able to protect what was important. Evans glanced out the kitchen window, looking for Kyle who was running the trail. Kyle was nowhere to be seen. Evans turned back to the program on the computer screen.

The mood in the studio was friendly to the point of gleeful. The lighting was bright and cheery. The governor of California wore a jacket, but no tie. His advisors felt wearing a shirt with an unbuttoned collar would contribute to the relaxed mood of the interview and play well with certain demographics. The hostesses, a team of middle-aged women with long careers in media and entertainment, simply gushed over the governor.

"Now, governor," the lead interviewer began. "You've always been a strong advocate for forward-thinking causes, and California is leading the country when it comes to progressive reforms…"

"And the world really," one of the other ladies interjected.

"Yes, yes. Leading the world, really. You've done so much throughout your political career already. But this new multi-state reparations initiative you created is what true political leadership looks like. What can you tell us about it?"

The Governor of California smiled. He was all shine and polish. "Thank you so much, Diane. It truly is groundbreaking, and I am so proud California and Californians showed the leadership the Golden State is famous for. We call it the United Progress Pact for Reparations and Equity, or UPPARE for short. And it truly is groundbreaking." The governor pronounced the acronym, UPPARE, as 'Up Air.'

"The UPPARE is a multi-state commitment to make whole those among us who have been marginalized and victimized by this country's long-held power structures. Racism. Sexism. Genderism. Colonialism. Christian Norming. Patriarchy. Capitalism. Childism. Now, reparations are nothing new, especially to Californians like me. But what the UPPARE does is it establishes a model for standardizing reparations across the nation. Nine other governors and I signed this pact yesterday and this pact is a commitment to all victim-persons. It says, 'We see you. We see your pain, and we will make you whole.'"

"Now what can you tell us about these reparations, governor, because it is not just about slavery, is it?"

"Absolutely not, Anna. The sins of slavery are just one patch in a quilt work of reparations. As I said, the intent here is to make whole the victims of all the United States' power structures. So, it isn't just the descendants of slaves who are eligible for reparations. The program will also make payments to the descendants of American aggression from the Mexican-American war and the Spanish-American war. It will include to those who have been historically marginalized based on their gender identifies and sexual identities, especially those who may be minor attracted…"

"Governor, I read payments will also be made to those suffering from substance abuse?"

"That's right. The governors of the alliance have taken a bold and progressive view toward substance abuse. We are making payments to those who were unfairly victimized by the war on drugs. And not just those suffering from addiction, but those who were unfairly and inhumanely incarnated for substance criminalization. All those people were doing was simply providing legitimate and necessary entertainment and relaxation products to the public. UPPARE will give the victims of substance criminalization not only the financial means to support themselves as they pursue their journeys, but it will also allow them to make those journeys with a sense of pride and dignity.

"Look, since 1619, our country has been a very hurtful and exploitive place. I and the other governors who signed the UPPARE recognize that. Now we are doing what's right for those marginalized voters and giving them the payouts they deserve."

"Well let's talk about those payouts governor. Just how much money are we talking about?" It was then that the hostess shifted towards the in-studio audience and addressed them. "Am I right? Am I right? Show us the money! Show us the money! Am I right?" The audience broke into cheers and applause. The hostess raised her arms and began to dance and gyrate in her seat. She sang, "Show us that mon-eee! Show us that mon-ee!"

The governor smiled and laughed along good-naturedly until the cheering died down enough that he could talk.

"The other governors and I decided it was only fair that the victims should be brought up to a level on par with the victimizers. That's only right and it is what equity demands. So, the reparations payments will be no less than the median salary for a working family in the United States."

"And that's the minimum?"

"Yes, that's the minimum. Naturally, the entire program is built on a progressive scale, so those who were victimized to a greater degree will receive a greater benefits package."

"And this program is available for persons who are making non-traditional documentation journeys as well, correct?"

"That is 100% correct, Anna. This program is aimed at all stakeholders regardless of where they are on their documentation journey. At the outset, the other governors and I wanted a program that would transcend any backward-looking concepts of citizenship. This program is available to all, regardless of documentation status."

"Now governor, in the past, reparations payments were based on the number of years a victim lived in the state of California. Has that changed?"

"An excellent question Joy. I'm so glad you asked it. We've changed the residency requirements for reparations. We now know that the past residency requirement was unfair and especially disrespectful to the unhoused. Under the UPPARE, a reparations applicant will be qualified for payment the second they step into one of the participating states, no matter where they come from."

"Even if they are coming from another country?"

"Absolutely," the governor said with a smile. "Even if they are from another country."

"And ten states have agreed to this?"

"That's right Diane," the governor said. "Ten states. And we hope that's just the start. We are committed to the belief that the UPPARE will be the model for a federal reparations program. And I call on other governors and congress to show courage and take up this challenge. Universal reparations are an obligation that the American taxpayers owe the entire world."

"Well, that brings us to the real question. We've got a presidential election coming up just a few months from now, and I'm sure somebody is going to be re-e-lect-ted." The hostess sang that last word out and the in-studio audience broke into cheers and shouts of joyous agreement again.

The hostess continued. "But it is never too early to think about the election after this one. Are we going to see you run for president in four years? Because I have to say governor, we'd all just love that. We'd love to see you in the White House."

"Diane, I'm just here to serve the public. Being a humble servant to the people is all I ever wanted to do. Right now, I'm content to serve all persons in the great state of California. But if the voting persons of the United States want me to seek out the highest office in the land, how could I possibly say no?"


"Oh, for fuck's sake," Evans swore. With one hand he turned off the computer feed. With the other hand, he poured steaming tea into a glass. He spied movement out of the corner of his eye. His head spun to the window just in time to see Kyle emerge from the Oak and Elm trees and shuffle head-down towards the house.


It was early. Kyle hadn't even eaten breakfast yet. Every morning began with a run down the trail to the road and back, and now Evans had him running with a weighted pack on his back. And while the hour was early, that counted for little in Texas in July. Kyle was soaked through with sweat. His chest heaved. Even so, he didn't head for the air-conditioned house. Instead, he headed over to the workshop.

There were still impressions in the ground marking where the stacked bales of barbed wire were. The bales were gone though. Kyle looked left and right. He saw no bales of wire. He toed the ground, gently kicking the dirt and erasing the rings the heavy bales left behind.


"You want to make breakfast, or should I?" Evans asked when Kyle entered the house. Kyle didn't answer. He didn't even look at his uncle. He stormed upstairs, head down, moving with an angry energy.

Evans watched his nephew disappear upstairs. Then, he sighed heavily and poured more sugar into his tea.


"Where's the rifle?" Kyle asked when he came back downstairs. He was cleaned and dressed and ready for the day. His question was pointed.

"What rifle?" Evans asked. He knew what rifle his nephew was referring to, but he wanted to slow the conversation down and see where this was going.

"The long rifle. The full-length one. It is not in the office anymore. There's a hammer hanging on the rack where the rifle should be. The Africa Carbine is on the rack but the other one is gone now. And where did all the barbed wire go?

"Barbed wire?" Evans asked.

"The barbed wire!" Kyle fumed. "There was a mountain of barbed wire out by the workshop and it is not there now. The rifle in your office is gone. All your other guns are gone. Where is everything going?"

"The barbed wire I moved out deeper into the property where I have plans to use it. The rifle I put into storage with the other guns." Evans said.

"Why?" Kyle asked. He was equal parts mad and exasperated. "Why would you put the other rifle into storage? We might need it."

"We won't need it," Evans answered evenly. He knew his teenage nephew was about to pop. He knew it was best to maintain his composure.

"Everything is some vague ass answer with you." Kyle pointed at the front door. "Just like with that pipe out there with the flares inside. I ask you what it is for, and you say, 'It is for emergencies.' What does that mean? Everything is like that with you. Everything that's important anyway."

"And why am I running down this trail every morning? I know the trail. I know where it goes. I know how to get back. You aren't even timing me or anything. You just have me running around while you drink your tea. I'm not some little kid. I want to know what's going on."

Kyle was upset. His hands were clenched into trembling fists, and his face was flushed red. Evans calmly sipped his tea. Then he spoke.

"As far as running down the trail goes, let me pass on to you a bit of wisdom: 'Amateurs practice until they get it right. Professionals practice until they can't get it wrong.'"

Kyle's face scrunched up. "Great. Another vague answer. What does that even mean?"

"It means if I send you down that trail, I want to know with absolute certainty you are going to get to the end."

"In case the riots come here?" Kyle asked.

"Any number of tragedies could come our way. The riots are just one of them."

"Don’t give me that," Kyle said. "My parents sent me out here because the whole city was burning down around them. My friend Jake is dead. You're glued to that computer screen every night watching the rioters destroy everything. And they aren't even doing their thing in the cities anymore. They're getting bused out into the suburbs They could be coming here tonight for all we know."

"Maybe they are. So what?"

"So why are you packing all the guns away? We're probably going to need them."

"Need them for what? Shooting the rioters? Shooting the Vanguard when they come storming through the gate. Is that what you want?"

"Maybe. Yeah."

"Let me remind you that anybody caught defending themselves goes to jail. The rioters won't go to jail. They can burn. They can assault. They can murder. Nothing is going to happen to them. But regular people? People like you and me? We will go to jail. We will go to jail. We'll get charged, we'll get convicted, and after they take every penny we ever had and ever will have, we'll spend the rest of our lives in prison. That's what happens when people like us defend ourselves from the PVD. That's what those guns will get us. And I'm not spending the rest of my life in prison."

"So what? Do we just give up? Let the PVD burn our house down? Let them kill us?"

Evans sipped his tea again before responding.

"You know who Joan of Arc was?"

"Yeah. She was like, some lady with a sword, back in the time of knights."

"She was a French girl about seventeen years old. A major figure in the Hundred Years War. You know anything about the Hundred Years War?"

Kyle shook his head no. Evans smiled sadly.

"It was fought in the Middle Ages, like you said, between the French and the English. The English were trying to take over France. Joan was French, and she fought to stop them. You know what happened to her?"

Kyle searched for an answer. He said without any confidence, "She won the war?"

"No," Evans answered. "She wasn't around for the end of the war. Up until Joan came around, the English were winning the war. They are winning these big battles and seemed unbeatable. Part of the problem for the French was not everybody in France thought of themselves as French. Some thought of themselves as Burgundians, or Bohemians, or whatever. They thought of themselves as unique groups. They thought the war might pass them by, or that they could make deals with the English to stay out of it.

"Then along comes this girl, Joan of Arc. She's got the charisma to be a real leader. She says that God communicates directly to her and people believe her. The king of France believes her. She leads a force and scores a major victory for the French. Things start turning around."

"Good," Kyle said.

"Kind of," Evans said. "Thing is, Joan, she gets captured. The English ain't too happy with this French girl that's kicking their asses, so they burn her at the stake."

"Shit," Kyle said. "That isn't good."

"That isn't good," Evans agreed. "Especially for the English. You see, the French people didn't like the fact that their girl got burned alive. They got very upset, and they started thinking about things. They weren't happy with the English, or what the English were doing in their country. They weren't happy that the English were burning French people at the stake. They stopped seeing themselves as just being part of these small little fiefdoms. They started thinking of themselves as French. They started seeing the war as something they needed to get involved in. No more deals. No more hoping the storm passes by. Time to fight. About twenty years after Joan is burned alive, the English are out of France and the war is over.

"I know you want to ask what the point is, so I'm going to go ahead and tell you. The point is that a bunch of people are going to have to get burned at the stake before everybody wakes up, unites, and puts a stop to the PVD and all their nonsense."

"And you don't want to be the guy who gets burned at the stake," Kyle said. Evans shook his head no and corrected his nephew.

"No, I don't want you getting burned at the stake. Your mom wanted me to keep you safe from these riots. That means keeping you safe from the mob. It also means making sure you don't get caught up in them, either for or against. That's what I'm going to do.

"You're young Kyle. You've got your whole life ahead of you. You don't know what a gift that is or how lucky you are. Me? I'm an old man looking back. I see you and I see all the endless opportunities and the roads not taken. I can't go back. All I can do is make certain that you can go forward. I'm not going to let you get caught up in the PVD and these riots. I'm not going to let the Vanguard touch a hair on your head. And I'm not going to let any lawyer or politician, or the system burn you at the stake. That ain't going to happen. I'm not going to let that happen.

"As far as that rifle goes, don't worry. If the situation calls for it, we won't be left wanting for firepower."

"But how can I know that?" Kyle asked.

"Kyle," Evans said. "We're at a point where you're just going to have to take a few things on faith."


Later that morning they drove out to New Fredericksburg to pick up some customized cargo racks for George's motorcycle. Now, they were heading back home. John rode up front. Evans drove. Kyle and George sat in the backseat. Wheelchair rock played on the radio. Rolling hills and barbed wire fences on mesquite posts blurred past the windows.

"Thanks for inviting me along, George," John said from the passenger seat. "The misses, all she was up for today was watching her tv shows. It was nice to get out of the house."

"You should get your truck fixed," Evans said. "A truck that doesn't run is nothing but a liability. Especially so in times like these."

Kyle eyed his uncle from the backseat. Their argument that morning, short as it was, had put his uncle in a sour mood. He hadn't said much during the trip. When Evans had spoken, his words were sparse, and his comments pointed.

"Well, I just want to live vicariously through George here while I can. About the closest I'll ever get to a worldwide motorcycle trip is picking up parts for George's bike."

"I'd get that truck fixed all the same," Evans said. "The way things are going, you might need that truck to get away somewhere. And quick."

"Where would I go?" John asked. "Even if the PVD came marching down our street, I couldn't get the wife out of the house She might as well be glued to the couch there, watching those stupid shows all damned day. She ain't the same woman I married."

The truck hit a bump. The frame creaked and nobody knew how to respond to John's comment, so nobody did. On the radio, one old-man rock song ended and another one began. A woman's voice called out from the speakers.

"You could be my Silver Spring…"

Without looking, Evans reached over and flicked a finger into the radio, hard. The radio shut off.

"Not a Fleetwood Mac fan, I see," John said with a smile. Evans didn't smile back. He didn't respond either. Only the noises of the road filled the interior of the car for the next few miles.

A billboard loomed ahead. Kyle leaned his head over to get a better view of it. The billboard read:

Your Parents Don't Understand You. But We Do.

Transition Moms Will Keep Your Secret

Transition Moms Will Keep You Safe

Begin Your Transition Journey Today



Pictured on the billboard were three middle-aged women with fake smiles and wildly dyed hair. They stood behind three androgynous children, beringed hands resting on the children's shoulders in a show of motherly support.

When they drove past the billboard, Kyle turned to look at it from the opposite direction. On the back side, a graffiti artist had drawn a bearded old man with spray paint. A cartoon balloon out of the old man's mouth read, "You can't stop what's coming."

Kyle turned and looked at his uncle in the rearview mirror. His jaw was set. His eyes were clear. He looked like a man who was searching for something on the horizon, and when he found it, he'd destroy it.


They were about a mile away from the turn into the development when Kyle had a premonition. George and John were discussing a subject too grown up to be interesting. Evans drove with a focus and intensity beyond what was necessary for normal traveling. It was like his uncle was driving back in time, looking for roadside bombs again in this foreign country or that.

Kyle sat in the backseat accompanied by his thoughts. He felt something hovering about them all, something violent. It was like right before a spring rain, when all at once the plants and the grass seem greener, and the air takes on a new smell. Or on an early summer evening, when the sky is clear save for dark clouds on the distant horizon, and you can hear the faint rumblings of the approaching storm and feel the change in the air pressure in your chest.

John's phone rang. John squirmed in his seat and fished through his pockets for the phone.

"You find a manual yet?" John asked. It took Kyle a moment to realize John was speaking to him, and another moment to discern what the man was asking.

"We're still looking for something with a stick shift," Kyle said.

John found his phone. He glanced at the screen. "Dale," he said to everybody and nobody. Then to Kyle, he said, "They ain't as easy to find as they used to be."

"I'm working on it," Evans said. His eyes darted back and forth along the road and the shoulders, scanning for things that weren't there. John's phone kept ringing. "You gonna answer that?"

"I'll let it go to voicemail," John said.

Kyle felt sick to his stomach. The phone stopped ringing.

"They're only rare in America," George said. "You go traveling around the world, you better be able to drive a manual." Something buzzed and George fumbled for his pocket.

"That's the idea," Kyle said. His words had no enthusiasm. He watched George take out the phone and look at the screen. He could taste the bad tidings, sour and acidic. He knew who was calling.

"Dale," George announced.

"You better answer it," Evans said.

"You think it's bad news?" John asked.

"If he's trying this hard to get a hold of us, it ain't good news." George's phone kept buzzing. "Answer the phone, please," Evans said. He spoke like a man about to lose all patience.

George answered. There was the typically perfunctory back and forth. Then George said, "I'm putting you on speaker."

Evans used the rearview mirror to look at Kyle. His nephew's face was grave. Evans flicked the blinker on and pulled onto the shoulder.

George held out his phone so everybody could hear. "We got you on speaker Dale. What is it?"

Dale cursed. Then he asked, "Where have you been all day?"

"Getting parts for George. What is it, Dale?" Evans asked.

"Oh. Oh, man. I forgot you were on the road today. It is bad. It is so bad," Dale said.

"Dale, you called us. What is it?"

"Out in Raleigh Durham. All those homeowner types they arrested after the confrontation with the PVD? The Raleigh Durham Executioners?"

"Yeah? What about them Dale?"

"They were all killed his morning on their way to the courthouse," Dale said. He added, "A mob surrounded their transport bus and burned them alive."

Evans turned, leaned over his seat, and looked at Kyle right in the eye. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.


They all twisted their bodies and craned their necks inside of Evans pickup to watch the news on George's phone. They hadn't even taken the time to go home. They sat on the side of the road where Evans had pulled off, watching. A reporter offered commentary.

"We're outside the federal courthouse in Raleigh North Carolina where a bus transporting the Raleigh Durham Executioners for their court appearance was set on fire during a first amendment celebration earlier today."

Behind the reporter sat the charred wreckage of a prison transport bus. All the tires had burned away, leaving nothing but steel wires and black stains on the street. Inside, blackened corpses could be seen leaning forward.

"The bus behind me was transporting the murderers known as the Raleigh Durham Executions for a court hearing this morning when it was stopped by a group of peaceful protestors celebrating their first amendment rights. Investigators tell us that a second group of mega-fascist counter protestors showed us and that's when things turned violent."

The images on the phone screen cut away. They were replaced by short clips of protestors in all black clashing with masked counter protestors dressed in blue polo shirts and khaki pants.

The images cut again. Now the anchor and the reporter on the scene were side by side. The anchor asked if other prisoners were on the bus.

"No. This bus was only transporting the murders known as the Raleigh-Durham Executioners. As you may remember, these were firearm perpetrated executions of peaceful protestors in suburban North Carolina."

"Brian, how did the protestors and counter protestors know to expect the bus?"

"A spokesperson for the District Attorney's office says it is standard practice to transport high profile prisoners from the jail to the courthouse by bus. And that is also standard practice to publish the time and date, and route of such transports. Making the prisoner transport schedule public is a necessary safety requirement."

"Brian, did any of the Raleigh Durham executioners escape?"

"No Dan. All the prisoners were shackled to their seats. By the time firefighters arrived, it was too late."

"What do we know about these counter-protestors?"

"Officers are still investigating who these counter-protestors might be, Dan, but they believe they might have links to white supremacy and mega-fascism. What we do know from witnesses on the scene is that the counter protesters definitely started the bus fire."

The images cut back again to the masked counter-protestors, in their khaki pants and polo shirts.

"Why would the counter protestors set fire to the bus?" John asked.

"They wouldn't," Evans grumbled. Kyle wondered what it must have been like, to be shackled to the seat of the bus, as the whole thing burned up all around you.

"Brian, were any law enforcement personnel injured in this act of domestic terrorism?"

"No Dan. Thankfully, all of the law enforcement here will make it home safe tonight.

"Turn it off," Evans said. He started the truck up. Twisted around to look over his shoulder, he made sure there wasn't any traffic. Then he pulled out onto the road and made a U-turn. The truck tires kicked up gravel, then squealed when the hit the black top.

"Where are we going?" George asked.

"Back into town. There's something I need to get," Evans answered.


Ten minutes later they were parked infront of a pool supply store.

"Wait here," Evans said. They waited in the truck. He went inside. The minutes ticked by. They could all see Evans through the store's front windows. He stalked through the store, grabbing this and that. He'd set various finds on the checkout counter, then stalk back into the aisles to search for new items. The pile on the counter steadily grew.

John asked, "Kyle, does your uncle have a pool?"

"No," Kyle answered.

"Is he thinking about getting a pool?"

"No. Not as far as I know."

"Then what is he buying all those pool chemicals for?"

Kyle looked through the store window. His uncle was at the checkout counter. He had several plastic buckets full of various pool chemicals at his feet. More, smaller containers of chemicals were all over the counter. Kyle thought about it, then shrugged, and answered.

"Sir, I think we're at a point where you're just going to have to take a few things on faith."

 

Thanks to everybody who has been sticking with the story. I appreciate the likes. If you could take the time to post a comment or two, that would be helpful.

If you aren't aware, I have several full-length stories for sale on Amazon under the name JG Elliott.

 

I'm enjoying the story, and in addition, I am becoming more patience! I would rather that there was more story and less patience, but when it's done, I'll be sad!

 

Interlude: The Lawyers #2. Austin Texas.




Greg sat in a coffee shop, inside the lobby of a federal building in downtown Austin. He was waiting for Teddy. Greg had a pretentious coffee in his hand. A daytime talk show played on the TV. The TV hostess had long, curly blonde hair that couldn't possibly be her own. Her guest was a middle-aged woman who looked insufferable. The guest began her practiced pitch.


"As we all know Windy, the PVD are out there daily, fighting for the rights of all persons. Nobody has done more to advance freedom and true democracy than the PVD. And that's what makes these mega-extremist attacks on the PVD so hurtful and so triggering. Whether we are talking about what happened in Oklahoma, or what happened in Raleigh-Durham, these ultra-vigilante attacks are a real threat to our democracy."

The host interrupted. "Well, I don't think the Raleigh-Durham executioners will be causing trouble again any time soon."

"You're right about that, Windy," the guest said. Then she and the hostess had a good laugh over the people who were burned alive, shackled to a bus outside the courthouse. Even Greg thought that was funny enough to warrant a sensible chuckle between sips. The guest continued.

"What the PVD needs now more than ever are allies. These heroes need allies who say, 'We see you, we stand with you, and we will support everything and anything you do.'"

"And you brought something today to show our audience how they can do that?"

"Yes Windy, I did." The hostess held up a plastic yard sign, like the ones politicians use when running for office. It was painted in the colors of the PVD. A list of affirmative statements ran down its length. Windy, the hostess, made gushing sounds like she was looking at a cute baby or a puppy.

"By putting these signs up in your home or business, you show the PVD you are an ally. You show the PVD you are aligned, that you are a friend, and that you can be trusted. You show the PVD that you are an advocate for Progress."

"That is such a great idea, and so important, especially in these times of mega-extreme veteran-vigilantes. I feel like, if somebody has this sign in their yard it will really resonate with the PVD. This is a way to really make yourself seen in the appropriate social and cultural spaces that we all occupy."

"It sure is, Windy. And our non-profit has so much more for your viewers than just yard signs. We have stickers you can put on your car. We have wristbands you can wear when you are at work or out shopping. But most importantly, we have these cute little buttons your children can wear to school because nobody is too young to prove they are a political ally."

"Oh, those are so cute. And that is such a great idea. You are right, children are never too young to advocate for the correct political and social causes."

"Absolutely Windy. I want all the viewers to think about their children. Their children are seen in the cultural and social spaces we all share. They are seen by their teachers. They are seen by school administrators. They are seen by coaches and librarians and other children. They could even be seen by the PVD. The space children occupy is just so important and that's why every parent should buy these buttons for their children."

"Now, let's talk about these signs again for our TV audience. How do our viewers buy them and how much do they cost?"

The guest named the non-profit's website and then named the price. Greg choked and almost spit out his coffee when he heard the figure. "Oh my," he said.

"Well, that's a small price for families to pay to let the PVD know just how much they are appreciated for the hard work they do."


Teddy came into the coffee shop. He looked left, looked right, saw Greg, and then headed straight for Greg's table. Greg was smiling, still high off the extortion campaign taking place on national TV. Teddy didn't smile. Even when a handsome barista passed, arms full of intricate coffees, Teddy didn't smile. His eyes tracked the young man, but he didn't smile. When he sat down at the table, he heaved out a sigh.

Greg motioned towards the TV. "That's a brilliant shakedown they’ve got going. They're selling those signs for probably a few hundred times what it costs to print them. They're going to make a mint. Who even knows what the stickers and buttons will bring in."

Teddy looked from Greg to the TV and back again. He still wasn't smiling.

"We got a problem," Teddy said.

"What?"

"That crap that’s all over the TV."

Greg pointed at the TV. Teddy raised a hand and swept it horizontally through the air, dismissing the TV protection racket with a wave. "No. Not those shakedown artists and their signs. I'm talking about the governors and the reparations. The UPPARE."

"What's wrong with the UPPARE," Greg said. "Those marginalized communities deserve big taxpayer dollars. It’s only fair. We've been talking about that since law school."

"It’s the right thing to do but the wrong time to do it. Not now, not with the election months away." Greg looked puzzled. Teddy explained.

"We've got too many people moving within the United States. For years it's been manageable. Unreliable voters moved to unreliable states. That was fine. It made the voting bases in our reliable states more ideologically pure. We could get more done in those states. In the swing states and the unreliable states, we still had our urban enclaves. Our reliable voters there weren't leaving, and we had ways to dilute the power of the unreliable voting blocs: immigration, vote by mail, online voting, and the like.

"But with this UPPARE, all those reliable voters are leaving unreliable states. They're leaving the mega states, but more importantly, they are fleeing the swing states. We're losing all our footholds. When the election comes around all our reliable voters will be living in California and just a handful of other states."

"C'mon," Greg said. "That won't happen. Those people are too poor and too lazy to move."

"They're too lazy not to move. You can move to California today, show up at a reparation's office in Sacramento, claim you suffer from drug addiction, and you'll get paid the same amount that a working couple in Tennessee or some rustbelt dump-town makes. All just to sit at home on a couch and be an addict."

"Never happen. Those people never have the money to move."

"Greg, it is already happening. We are seeing it. People that can't come up with the money are getting it through non-profits. Same thing as with the immigrants."

"Okay, Teddy. But how many people could that be?"

"Enough Greg. More than enough. It’s a numbers game. We're wargaming it out and we don't have the numbers. That damned electoral college. I knew we should have just declared this election was going to be a straight popular vote and ran with it. It would have been a decade before the case got to the Supreme Court, if they even chose to hear it."

Greg shook his head, disbelieving. He said, "What about the PVD? Teddy, we've done some…" he stopped, thought, then continued. "We've done things the opposition party does not like. If they get into power…?"

"They won't get into power. As I said, if it comes down to it, there is a plan B we can execute. We'd rather not do that. It is a bit extreme. But we will if we must. We're not turning over power. Not to them. That is not going to happen." Teddy looked at the TV. His face twisted with disgust. "Damn. That stupid California Governor. He got way out ahead of himself."

"He thinks he's preordained to be president."

"He is preordained to be president. But that doesn't mean he's allowed to make any decisions. The guy is nothing more than nice hair and a good body to hang the right clothes from. He needs to stick with that."

"What about the election?" Greg asked. "If we don't want to resort to plan b, what do we do about that?"

"For now, stay the course Greg," Teddy answered. "The PVD will get active here in Texas soon. Hopefully, some vigilante-veteran will show up and we can get you a high-profile prosecution case you can work with. Get what you can out of anybody you arrest early on and don't worry about any courtrooms. None of these cases will ever go to trial. Raleigh-Durham is the model for how things are going to go."

Greg leaned forward. He whispered to Teddy. "Did we do that?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want me to answer. And no, we didn't do that. Ultra-Extremists did that. Just like the media said."

Greg sat back in his chair. His face sank.

"Don't look so dejected," Teddy said. "This is what we need to do to protect our democracy. True democracy. What we're doing now is necessary, and it is nothing compared to what our political opponents might do if they get into power."

"That isn't it," Greg said. "I'm comfortable with the morality of what we are doing. It is for the greater good. A higher moral cause. What I'm worried about is somebody striking back."

"That's the whole idea, Greg. Get some mega-vigilante type to attack the PVD."

"I don't mean strike back against the PVD. I mean, strike back against us. And I don't mean in a courtroom either. What if somebody finds out what we're doing? Or what if they find out about everything that happened in Raleigh? What if somebody comes after us? And I'm not talking about some stinky Walmart type or somebody in their parents' basement. I'm talking about somebody who knows what they are doing. What then?"

Teddy sliced horizontally through the air again, dismissing the idea. "That's never happened before. That didn't happen last time, not even with everything we did."

"Yeah. But what if it happens this time?"

"It won't," Teddy said, and he made one last dismissive horizontal wave through the air. "Those people, they never fight back. The few that do stand up, we always knock them back down."

 

At some point in the future, I'm going to move all my content to Patreon and Substack. If you could join either one, it would help me out.

Patreon

JG Elliott | creating Dystopian Fiction | Patreon

Substack

Uncle Evans

As always, any replies and comments are helpful.