286

The officers and troops of Blanton’s army watched silently as the mighty machine of war called the Rebels began pulling out, heading for the new nation called the Southern United States of America. They had seen the Rebels in action, up close and personal, and they were impressed.

In Charleston, West Virginia, Ben sat in the den of a fine home that was now the temporary White House for Homer Blanton and rolled a cigarette.

“We don’t allow smoking in these rooms,” Homer told him.

“Get a fan,” Ben replied, and lit up.

The two men sat and stared at each other for a moment. Homer broke the silence. “So what happens now, General Raines?”

“That depends entirely upon you, President Blanton. I’m going home to play with my dogs and catch up on my reading. Perhaps … return to writing. That’s what I started out to do years ago, after the Great War. And I’ll take some part in building a new nation. I don’t care what you do, just as long as you don’t try to interfere with the running of the Southern United States of America.”

“Is that a threat, General Raines?”

“You bet your ass it is.”

There were just about as many people coming into the new Southern United States as were leaving. Certain types, of all colors, knew they could never live under the simple Rebel rules of almost total self-government, and packed up and left for

287 the dubious umbrella of protection of a more or less so-called democratic form of government. No one who called themselves Rebel was the least bit sorry to see them go.

Since for years Rebels had been seizing all the gold they could find, Ben ordered the money of the Southern United States to be backed by gold. They would not print more money than they had backing for.

“Ben,” Cecil said with a smile. “We have all the gold.”

“Yeah,” Ben replied. “That is a fact, isn’t it?”

Revere pulled all his troops across the border into what had once been Canada and began rebuilding.

Ben stepped down as President of the Southern United States of America and called for general elections. He threw his backing to Cecil Jefferys and the vote was very nearly unanimous. For the first time in any large, industrialized nation, a black man was elected president.

The first thing Cecil did was to name Ben as commanding general of the armed forces.

In Charleston, West Virginia, Rita Rivers said to Homer, “Well, now. With a black in power, perhaps we can reason with him.”

Homer gave her a very sour look. “Cecil Jefferys is more to the right than Ben Raines. And don’t kid yourself, Ben Raines is still the power to reckon with down there. Jefferys will see to the administration of the country, Ben Raines will see to the defense of the country. They don’t have police, per se, down there. The army polices the country. Any time the army is the police, the head of the army runs the country.”

288 “That’s true if the laws are reasonably complex,” Senator Benedict said. “As we tried our best to make them before the Great War. So the average person wouldn’t have a clue as to what was going on. But the laws on the books down there …” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

“But it works for them,” Senator Hanrahan said somberly.

“Everything seems to work for them,” Senator Arnold said. “Damned if I can figure it out.”

“It works because nearly everyone is of a like mind,” Hanrahan said. “But it isn’t a democracy.”

“It’s a damn dictatorship,” VP Hooter said.

“Run by a damned racist, honky Republican,” Rita Rivers flapped her mouth.

But it works for them, Senator Hanrahan thought.

Indeed it did. By the fall of that year, less than ninety days after Ben had left Blanton in his office in West Virginia, the SUSA was getting factories back into operation and putting people to work … those who wanted to work and could do so without complaining and whining and bitching about it.

Hawaii had declared its independence from the United States and signed a treaty with the SUSA. Blanton was furious, but powerless to do anything about it. He had no navy, no air force to speak of, and his army and a few battalions of marines were in hard training for what they knew would be another campaign against Revere … sooner or later.

289 After several weeks of rest, Ben took his 1 Battalion and headed out to inspect the SUSA, to “spread a little cheer and joy,” he said with a smile.

“Right,” Cecil said drily, knowing full well what Ben was going to do, and that it was going to be extremely unpleasant for anyone who did not subscribe to the Rebel philosophy … and there were many thousands in the eleven states who did not, and would never go along with the Rebels. They had to be either cleaned out with extreme prejudice, put on the road, or talked to … firmly.

Moments after Ben had pulled out, Cecil pointed to Striganov and the Russian grinned and left the office, hollering for his XO to get his battalion ready. They were going to bird-dog General Raines.

There were no undesirables within a hundred mile radius of the old Base Camp One; they had either conformed to Rebel ways, or had pulled out, or had gotten themselves killed when facing off against a Rebel security team … or in several cases, when making the tragic mistake of getting up into the face of Ben Raines, who was known for having an extremely low boiling-point when it came to human trash … of any color.

For several days, Ben had been studying field reports of hot spots within the SUSA … and there were literally hundreds of them. His team and battalion had been with him a long time and could read the signs. They were ready to go days before the official word reached them.

Ben headed south, scouts ranging out several miles ahead, and MBTs right behind them. For the first few hours, the Rebels traveled relaxed, for this area had been in Rebel hands for a long time, and

290 the fields, recently harvested of their crops, were neat, the homes well-cared for, the people open and friendly and waving at the long convoy as it passed.

Doors were seldom locked in Rebel-controlled territory, for in the SUSA everybody was a soldier, everybody was well-armed, and crime, of any type, was virtually non-existent. Under Rebel law, a registered citizen could protect his or her property, life, family, or pets by any means at hand, including deadly force, without fear of arrest or civil lawsuit. After the first few rather violent months of birth, the Rebel-controlled territory-known previously as Base Camp One-had settled down, the word quickly spreading, and criminals giving it a wide berth. Now that the territory had been vastly expanded, the SUSA was purging itself of those people with no respect for one another’s basic rights.

It was going to take the Rebels several years to do this, but it was something they were determined to do. And Ben Raines was flawed just enough to enjoy doing it. He had never maintained he was perfect.

Those who chose to live a life of semi-lawlessness, those who felt that they had a right to steal, poach, disregard the law, abuse their children and anyone else who had the misfortune to come in contact with them, live a life of ignorance, and in general contribute nothing to their society, had long ago learned not to live too close to any major highway, for the RSPs (Rebel Security Patrols) had a nasty habit of showing up at the most inopportune moments and rousting them out at the point of a gun and then reading them the riot act.

For years, the area outside of Base Camp One

291 was known as the Zone. Now the Zone was part of the SUSA. And Ben Raines was on the prowl.

Everybody knew that Cecil Jefferys was President of the SUSA. He saw to the political running of the vast new nation and kept things moving at an orderly pace. President Jefferys was everything an administrator should be, and everything the old Washington politicians had never been.

But Ben Raines, now, that was another story. This was Ben Raines’s dream come true, and Ben was going to see it flourish. Cecil Jefferys was by nature a wise, prudent, kind, and giving man. Ben Raines, on the other hand, was polite to ladies, kind to animals and children, respected the rights of law-abiding citizens, and hated human trash … and made no apologies for it.

Just about a hundred miles south and slightly east of what used to be known as Base Camp One, the son of a huge and thoroughly disagreeable and cretinous individual named Robert Holcombe came to his father.

“That there Ben Raines is on the prowl, Poppa. And he’s a-headin’ this way.”

Holcombe picked his nose and then hawked a wad of snot on the ground. “Wai, we always knowed that law and order prick would come snoopin’ around, tryin’ to run our bis-ness. Git the boys together, Malvern. We’ll settle Raines’s hash once and for all and be done with him.” He glanced at a hound, heavy with pregnancy. “And kill that goddamn bitch ‘fore she births. We got enuff pups run-nin’ around here.”

292 The area that Robert Holcombe controlled had for years before the Great War been infamous for the quality of its dubious citizenry. It had been known throughout the South as a bastion for rednecks, white trash, incest, illiteracy, lawlessness, terrible cruelty to animals, open, sneering contempt for any type of law enforcement, and in general it was a haven for human slime … but the area, strangely enough was dotted with churches, and the majority attended them. The residents interpreted the Bible as they chose, with some rather bizarre statements coming from the mouths of the so-called preachers.

“Ben is heading straight for Deckerville,” Striganov radioed back to Cecil.

Cecil smiled, then replied, “I guessed that was where he’d go. He’s long wanted the time to clean out that human cesspool.”

“Orders, President Jefferys?”

“Let Ben have his fun. Move in only if he gets in too deep.”

Georgi’s laugh was strong. “Da, President Jef—

293 ferys. I will find high ground and watch the fun through long lenses.”

“Poppa, here come them Rebs and they’s a shit-pot full of ‘em!” another of Robert’s offspring hollered, from his perch atop the old water tower. Naturally, it was no longer functional.

“That don’t tell me jack-crap, boy!” Robert bellowed. “Be a little bit more ‘pecific.”

“They’s tanks and big ol’ guns and all sorts of shit, Poppa,” the young man, called Cletis, squalled.

The first Hummers, driven by scouts, entered the edge of town.

A citizen shook a double-barreled shotgun at the scouts. “Git your nigger-lovin’, Jew-lovin’, spic-lovin’, queer-lookin’ asses on outta here!” he hollered. “This yere’s our town and we don’t want your kind in yere.”

“Yeah!” his equally ugly and yellow-toothed wife yelled. She spat at the vehicle.

“Boy, is the general going to have a fine time with these people,” the driver of the Hummer said.

“Watch this,” the gunner said. He was Kevlared from the waist up. He popped the hatch, stood up behind the roof-mounted .50 caliber machine gun, and swung the heavy .50 in the direction of the shotgun totin’, bad-mouthin’ citizen.

“Whooo!” the citizen said, and took off up an alley like the devil was after him.

“Wait for me, you son of a bitch!” his wife screamed as she went flapping after him.

“Hey, there, soldier boy!” a large-gutted man yelled. “You cain’t come in here a-pointin’ them guns at us. You bastard!” He jerked a rifle to his shoulder and the scout stitched him with the .50.

294 The force of the impacting slugs knocked the man spinning for several yards before he tumbled dead to the old street.

The street filled with angry, shouting, cussing, fist-shaking white trash. The shouting and the cussing faded into shocked silence as the street suddenly filled with 60-ton Main Battle Tanks, their 120mm guns lowered dead at the crowd, as were their 7.62 and .50 caliber machine guns. Rebel troops suddenly appeared on and around the tanks, their weapons leveled at the crowds.

“Jesus Gawd!” one man broke the shocked silence.

Women began hurriedly shooing kids off the street and back to their homes, dress tails flapping as they rushed about.

“Is we gonna settle Ben Raines’s hash now, Poppa?” Malvern inquired.

“Hish your mouf, boy,” Holcombe whispered. “You tryin’ to git me kilt? And git yore brother Cletis down offen that tower ‘fore he falls off and makes a big mess.”

First Ben’s personal platoon came out of the crowd of Rebels, followed by Ben and his team, Jersey’s eyes shifting constantly. She’d faced rednecks and white trash before, and knew they were capable of doing some awfully stupid things. She had yet to meet one she trusted.

There were approximately three hundred to three hundred fifty armed men facing the Rebels. Ben said, “The first one of this rabble to fire a shot, kill everyone within range.”

“Jesus Lard!” Holcombe hollered, jumping out to face the crowd. He waved in arms. “Don’t nobody git no itchy fingers. Lardy, Lardy, Lardy!”

295 A scout came up and whispered in Ben’s ear. Ben’s eyes narrowed in fury. He nodded his head. The scout took off at a run, followed by a doctor and two medics.

“You, ah, got you some sorta medical emergency, General?” Holcombe dared to speak.

Ben walked up to the man and grimaced. Holcombe’s body odor was fierce. “That once fine mansion up on the hill, overlooking the highway … that’s where you and yours, ah, den-up, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right! At airs the finest house in this county, by golly. But it shore is hard to keep up. Why, I reckon if I had me a dozen niggers a-steppin’ and a-fetchin’ it still would be some job. Why

…”

 

“Shut up,” Ben told him.

Holcombe shut his mouth, but his eyes mirrored raw hate.

“There is a very old, and worn-out Labrador bitch back there. And some goddamn, sorry, pus-brain has shot her …”

Malvern wished he could suddenly be transported to the moon. Everybody knew the Rebels took very good care of their pets. And everybody knew that Ben Raines especially liked dogs.

Oh, shit! Malvern thought.

“That poor old girl, badly wounded, gave birth to her puppies, and badly hurt, managed to perform all the necessary after-birth functions and is trying to nurse those puppies. Did you shoot that old girl, Holcombe?”

“How come it is you knows my name, General?”

“I know everything about you, Holcombe. For years the Rebels have been gathering up police rec—

296 ords and floppy discs and computer tapes and accessing hard disc drives from police departments all over the nation. You answer my question, you miserable excuse for a human being. Did you shoot that dog?”

“Naw. I din.”

“She was on your place. So who did?”

“She’s jist a goddamn ol’ wore out bitch, General. Why make sich a big thing out of it?”

Ben jammed the muzzle of his Thompson under Holcombe’s chin. Holcombe paled under his summer tan. “I will ask you one more time, and then I will blow your goddamn brains out.”

“I din shoot the bitch!” Holcombe shouted. “I din do it. Malvern thar did.”

“At whose orders?”

“Mine! I tole him to do hit.”

“Why? Did she bite someone? Was she rabid? Why?”

“Hell, we shoot dogs all the time around here. We fight ‘em for sport. Hit’s good fun. We …” Holcombe suddenly realized he was saying all the wrong things to Ben Raines.

Ben lowered the muzzle of the Thompson and pushed Holcombe back toward the crowd. A Rebel doctor approached him and whispered for about a minute. Ben nodded his head.

“The dog didn’t die, did she?” Malvern blurted.

“That wasn’t about the dog,” Ben said. He looked at Robert Holcombe. “Your sanitary facilities are non-existent. You have no medical facilities. Your children are poorly nourished. You have no schools. The list of things you don’t have, but should have had you the least bit of discipline, dig-297 nity, pride, and concern for your children and for those less fortunate, is depressingly long. In short, you are not the kind of people I choose to have residing in the new Southern United States of America. You will leave.”

“Haw?” Holcombe said. “Say whut?”

“I will put it in words you might better understand: carry your white-trash asses out!”

“Where?” Holcombe asked.

“North, east, or west. Make your choice. But get out.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then you all shall be buried right here.”

“You’d … kill us?” Holcombe stammered.

“Believe it.”

“But there yere’s our home!”

“Not anymore. You have two hours to pack up and get out. In one hundred twenty minutes I will start shelling this town.” He turned to a Rebel sergeant. “Round up all the animals you can and transport them to safety. The four-legged kind,” he added. Ben turned around and walked through the maze of tanks and Rebels.

The Rebel tanks and those not involved in the gathering up of cats and dogs and horses and mules and goats and sheep slowly backed up until they were clear of the town. Ben began positioning his tanks and mortar crews on the high ground.

“Poppa,” Malvern said. “Do he mean all that?”

“Yeah,” Robert said. “He means it. We’ll leave. We ain’t got no choice. But we’ll link up with President Blanton’s people. He don’t have hard feelin’s for poor folks like us. He’s a good Democrat. He knows we cain’t hep whut we is. It’s the fault of rich

298 folks and sich. Society made us whut we is. ‘Tain’t our fault. Folks like us got to have government hep. You ‘member that, boy. Always look to the government. They’ll take care of us. And don’t never trust no Republican.”

“Poppa?”

“Yeah, boy?”

“Whut’s a Republican?”

Ben watched as the long line of vehicles began moving out … north.

“They’ll link up with Blanton’s people,” Jersey said.

“Sure,” Ben said. “We’ll fight them someday.”

“They’ll spread the word that this has happened all because of a dog,” Beth said. “They never grasp the big picture.”

“Let them spread it,” Ben said as the last vehicle pulled out of sight. “Burn the town. Corrie, alert the combat engineers to come in here with dozers, as soon as they can, and scrap this place clean.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben looked at Coop. “How is the old dog?”

“She died.”

“This can’t be tolerated,” Homer Blanton said to his staff. He had just read the reports of Ben purging the SUSA of any he deemed undesirable. “Those poor, poor people. I just feel terrible about this.”

Rita Rivers, for once, kept her lip buttoned on the subject. She knew that the majority of people

299 General Raines was running out were the worst of racists. It had never been pointed out to Rita-and she would have denied it vehemently-that she was also a racist.

“We have to take them in,” Homer said. “Set up camps to house them.”

“Yes, sir,” an aide said.

The military exchanged glances. They knew only too well the types of people Ben was running out of the SUSA. He was keeping the best and the brightest and handing them the dredges.

“Smart,” General Holtz muttered.

“Beg your pardon?” Homer looked up.

“Nothing, Mister President,” the general replied. “Nothing at all.” Which is exactly what Raines is shoving across the borders, he summed it up.

The word spread very quickly throughout the SUSA, and rather than face the scorn and the guns of the Rebels, many people packed up and pulled out. President Blanton would take care of them. He promised he would. And they could live in filth and squalor if they wanted to and he wouldn’t interfere. Not like that goddamned Ben Raines.

Cooper pointed to a large billboard. The original message had been painted over with the words: KILL BEN RAINES.

“It’s so nice to be loved,” Ben said. “Makes me feel good all over.”

“How come we’re not hitting much resistance?” Jersey questioned.

“Blanton is welcoming all the crap and crud into his fold, ” Ben told her. “Making the same mistakes

300 as before. The people who are leaving our sectors know that instead of making them work for what they receive, Blanton will just give it to them. Food, housing, medical care … the whole ball of wax. For nothing.”

“And their kids?” Corrie asked.

“They will grow up expecting something for nothing. It’s a terrible, vicious cycle. And the only way it can be broken is by what we’re doing: slapping these people right in the face with hard jolts of reality. You can’t force someone to learn at the point of a gun. You have to first ask them to learn. We’ve given these people in our sectors years to clean up their act. If they haven’t done it by now, they’re not going to do it-ever. I don’t want these types of leeches around good, decent, hardworking citizens. They are a corrupting influence.”

“I’ve heard you and Thermopolis argue this before,” Beth said.

“Yeah,” Ben smiled. “But he’s doing it halfheartedly. He’s playing devil’s advocate. He just likes to argue.” Ben laughed. “And so do I.”

Those types of people who refused, for whatever reason, to respect the rights of others, who enjoyed lawlessness, who preyed on the weak, who expected the government to take care of them, who took away from society more than they gave … seemed to just melt away at the approach of Ben and his Rebels. They were flooding across the borders, north, east, and west. Blanton’s administration, now in full operationas full as possible, under the circumstances-was almost from the beginning overwhelmed by, as VP Hooter put it, “the wretched

301 refugees from the dictatorship of a Republican madman.”

Since a few blacks were beginning to cross the borders, fleeing the Rebel occupation, Rita Rivers could now stick her mouth into the debate. And she did. Often. To anyone who would listen. She formed an organization and called it, Citizens Opposed to the Oppression of Negroes.

The two black members of the newly formed U.S. Supreme Court, each with an inordinate sense of fairness, and also possessing a wild sense of humor, pointed out to Rita that it might be best if she came up with a new name for her group.

302 Conditions outside of the SUSA continued to worsen under Blanton’s open-arms policies with no restrictions, while conditions inside the newly formed nation continued to improve. Bullshit artists, con-men, people who delighted in cheating others out of possessions, loud-mouths, trouble-makers … began pouring out of the SUSA. Many times the Rebels ran them out with only the clothes on their backs. And they immediately ran whining to agents of Blanton’s struggling government, complaining of the harsh treatment at the hands of the Rebels.

“Those poor unfortunate people,” VP Hooter said. “We simply must find some way to crush that terrible regime of Ben Raines.”

Blanton stared at her for a moment. “I’m open to suggestion,” he said, very very drily.

Hooter shut her mouth and left the new Oval Office.

Conditions were bad in those states that Blanton more or less governed, but it need not have been a hopeless situation. Blanton could have put together a bipartisan government and eased up on his left—

303 wing ultra liberal form of governing. But he didn’t. Within weeks of his new emergence, many moderate Democrats-including many of those who had voted for him years back-began to seriously question his policies.

The nation was still reeling from years of anarchy-the cities were in ruins, those factories still standing were no more than piles of rust. Gangs, from a few in number to hundreds strong, still roamed the countryside. Highways were cracked and potholed (they were that way even before the Great War, but money that could have been used to maintain the nation’s arteries went to fund “great” art projects like putting Christ in a bucket of piss, sculptures of two horses fucking; building huge sports arenas where semi-literate, near neanderthals-if they had not been playing football or basketball and making millions would have probably ended up as muscle for the mafia, holding up convenience stores, or selling dope on a street corner-could blunder around, crashing into each other under the guise of sport while the nation’s libraries were closing for lack of funds; and throwing wide the nation’s borders for everybody who wanted a free ride from cradle to grave-at taxpayer expense, and hundreds of other congressional pet projects that finally bankrupted the nation), and good, decent, hardworking, law-abiding people were starving to death. So considering all that, what was the first official legislation President Grits-for-Brains signed into law?

Gun control.

304 Ben and his Rebels were in southern Alabama when Cecil bumped him, informing him of Blanton’s first official act since emerging as president.

“He’s in trouble already,” Ben said, after reading the communique. “After all the nation has gone through, if that dimwit sends agents out to seize privately-owned firearms, a large majority of the citizens will resist.” He paused, then smiled, his eyes brightening with mischief. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down, chuckling softly

“Uh-oh,” Jersey said, watching the expression on Ben’s face. “The boss is cooking something up.”

Cooper looked at Ben. “You’re right, Jersey.”

Beth said, “This is going to be very interesting. You can bet on that.”

Corrie anticipated Ben and made ready to bump President Jefferys.

“Corrie,” Ben said. “Get me Cecil on scramble.”

A presidential aide laid the paper on Blanton’s desk and then backed up. Blanton picked up the paper and scanned it. He wadded up the paper and hurled it across the room.

“That goddamn son of a bitch!” Homer Blanton said. Ol’ Pooter had officially been replaced.

TO ALL DECENT, HARDWORKING, AND LONG-SUFFERING AMERICANS OF ALL RACES AND CREEDS: THE SOUTHERN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IS SEEKING QUALIFIED MEN AND WOMEN TO REBUILD THE COUNTRY. IF YOUR DESIRE IS TO LIVE AND WORK AND RAISE

305 YOUR CHILDREN IN A CRIME-FREE, DRUG-FREE, GANG-FREE ENVIRONMENT, AND YOU ARE WILLING TO WORK HARD AND RESPECT THE RIGHTS OF OTHERS, CONSIDER RELOCATING TO THE SUSA. IN THE SUSA, EVERY INDIVIDUAL HAS THE RIGHT TO PROTECT WHAT IS THEIRS FROM THUGS AND PUNKS-AND THAT RIGHT INCLUDES THE USE OF DEADLY FORCE. IN THE SUSA, THE RIGHTS OF THE LAW-ABIDING CITIZEN COME FIRST. OUR EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM IS THE FINEST IN THE WORLD. OUR MEDICAL CARE IS EXCELLENT, AND AVAILABLE TO ALL. WE HAVE JOBS WAITING TO BE FILLED. IF YOU ARE WEARY OF THE MEALY-MOUTHED, HANKY-STOMPING, WISHY-WASHY WAYS OF THE LIBERAL DEMOCRATIC PARTY, WHY NOT GIVE US A TRY?

“I hate that son of a bitch!” Blanton said, after retrieving the notice and rereading it.

“Honky, racist, nasty, filthy Republican!” Rita Rivers said.

“I think we should assassinate him,” VP Harriet Hooter said.

“Say!” Senator Arnold said. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“I agree,” Senator Benidict spoke up.

“What would Thomas Jefferson do in this situation,” Blanton mused aloud.

For one thing, he wouldn’t seize personal firearms, Homer.