“For the government to do
The man laughed. “Yeah? Well, it’s kind of sketchy, I grant you, but it’s real, and moving, getting bigger every day, so I’m told. You haven’t heard about the government’s plan?”
Ben shook his head.
“They want to pull all the people together in several centralized areas, each area to be three or four states, maybe less than that: agriculture, industry, business. Then, after a time, just like it was two hundred years ago, move people out to homestead. Really!” He laughed, noting the look of incredulity on Ben’s face. “And you know what? People are following orders; they really are, just like cattle. The government’s moving the people in the cities first. Everyone from Atlanta—so I’m told—was shifted to someplace—Columbia, I think—in South Carolina. Just happened a few weeks ago.”
One question that had been in Ben’s mind was now answered.
“They want to settle the East Coast first, the heavy industry areas, then the Midwest—the breadbasket, so to speak; Texas and Louisiana for the gas and oil, and the far West—California, Oregon, Washington.”
“And the people are really allowing themselves to be herded like cattle? Told where to live?”
“Sure. That shouldn’t surprise you. Big Brother’s been doing it to us for years. Most folks don’t even question the orders to move.”
“Do we have a president? Or king, or whatever?”
“Yes.” The man scratched his head. “But durned if I can tell you his name right off. We’re really out of touch here. It’s… like that hotel chain.”
“Hilton Logan.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Strange, though. I seem to recall he never was too thrilled with the military, yet they installed him as president. I can’t figure that one out.”
Ben let that slide. “You don’t seem to be following orders here too well. Don’t feel like moving?”
“Well… to tell you the truth, until things calm down a bit, I think I’ll just keep me and mine right here. I’ve heard it’s going to get tough in the deep South.”
“Let me guess. New Africa.”
“That’s what I hear from people passing through. Some of those people are militant. But I don’t really blame them. We—all of us—have shit on the blacks for years. Hurts my mouth to say that, but it’s true. Then I guess we overcompensated for two or three decades. You heard what happened in Chicago?”
“I heard.”
“Are we
Ben shrugged. “I hope so. Tell me; since Washington is gone, where is the seat of government?”
“Richmond, Virginia.”
Ben drove nonstop to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. But the young people were long gone.
“You don’t know where they went?” Ben asked a scholarly looking gentleman.
“No, sir, I don’t. I’m sorry. They scattered in all directions. Several thousand of them. Going to solve the world’s problems, so I understand.” His smile was sad. Sad and knowing. “I fear they will soon learn the truth about the world. Some of them already have, so I hear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dead. Quite a number of them. That is what I have heard. No proof. Do you have a daughter or son with the young people?”
“No. Just a young friend.”
“Name?”
“Jerre Hunter.”
The man’s face sobered. “I’m very sorry….”
And the words hit Ben hard, leaving him almost physically ill.
“…but I’m not familiar with that name. As I said, there were several thousand of them.”
Ben headed north. At the Virginia line, he carefully hid his automatic weapons, keeping only a rifle and one pistol visible. If the government was rolling—even in a minuscule fashion—law and order was going to be the first business to be settled. And lawmen might take umbrage at the sight of submachine guns.
Besides, Ben had a hunch Hilton Logan was not just coming out of the closet with his true feelings. Ben thought, and had for some years, that the man was just a little insane.
He was stopped three times before he got thirty miles inside Virginia. The last time he allowed his anger to push past his control.
“What in the hell is going on?” Ben demanded. “Why am I being treated like a criminal?”
The Virginia trooper wore no expression on his face. Neutral. Impassive. A tree. A big fucking oak tree. “Where is the registration for this truck?”
But Ben had him on that. Before leaving the dealership he had carefully filled out a bill of sale and all other necessary papers. He had notarized them himself, signing the notary’s name with his left hand and putting plates on the truck from another truck parked in the shop. It had been a spur-of-the-moment act. Now Ben was glad he’d done it.
“Cute,” the trooper said, not believing a word he had just read. He returned the papers to Ben. “But I won’t argue with you. What’s your business in Richmond?”
“The first lady—and I use that term loosely, assuming Logan has married or is shacked up with Fran Piper— and I are from the same town in Louisiana. I thought I’d just drop in for a little chat.”
“President Logan married a lady named Fran, yeah.” The trooper looked at Ben, then shook his head. “Raines, what do you think this is, some sort of joke?”
“The… ah… first lady is. I wasn’t kidding about that.”
“You really know her?”
“Unfortunately. I fucked her for about a week—last year. Right after the war.”
“No kidding! Hey, she’s a looker. Was it good?”
“You ever had any bad?”
Both men laughed at the old joke. The ice was broken, the tension gone. Big buddies now; talk about pussy. They introduced themselves. Shook hands. Formal ceremony. Ben and Mitch, standing chatting in the middle of silent devastation. Not two hundred yards away, the bones of an entire family lay rotting in a house.
Ben leveled with the trooper, taking it from the beginning. He condensed it considerably, but hit the high points.
Mitch whistled. “You really carrying all that armament?”
Ben showed him.
“Shit!” the trooper said.
“You would suggest I not go to Richmond?”
“Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life in the pokey. That is, providing the soldiers guarding President Logan didn’t shoot you right off.”
“Martial law?”
“Tight as a virgin’s cunt.”
Ben nodded. “Tell me, since it appears unlikely I’ll be heading into Richmond, what, exactly, has Logan done?”
“Well.” The trooper sighed, removing his Smoky-the-Bear hat. “He’s pissed off a bunch of people—of all colors, I might add. Seems Logan wasn’t so much in love with the minorities as people thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word is he’s gonna send troops into this New Africa place, down in Mississippi and Louisiana.”
“When?”
“Don’t know that. But I do know the niggers down there are gonna fight the order, so it promises to get bloody. And he’s got his own private little army, down in Georgia, headed up by an ex-mercenary.”
“What’s the merc’s name?”
“Only thing I’ve heard is Parr.”
“Kenny Parr. I know him; soldiered with him in Africa. He’s no good. Fight for any flag.”
“Yeah. That’s what I heard. Logan’s shuffling the remaining citizens around. And he’s collecting all the guns;
