about? He’s a punk. That’s all he would ever be—if I let him live—which I have no intention of doing. If he puts so little emphasis on the lives of others, then he shouldn’t mind terribly if I snuff out his.
“So, Mr. Garrett,”—he looked at a uniformed man standing quietly across the room—“at six o’clock day after tomorrow, dawn, you will personally escort young Mr. Randolph Green to the designated place of execution and you will see to it that he is hanged by the neck until he is dead. The day of the punk… is over.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrett said. “It’s about time some backbone was shoved into the law.” He left the room.
Ben looked around him. “Any further questions as to how the law is going to work?”
No one had anything further to say. Ben left the room to have lunch with Salina.
“He’s a hard man,” an aide said.
Ike stood up and stretched. “Hard times, brother.”
EIGHTEEN
There were many who left the three-state area, but many more stayed and more wanted in. Some of those who came in also left after seeing what was happening, but most stayed. Life was not easy; rebuilding and conforming never is. Eighteen-hour days were not uncommon; there was a lot to do and everybody able was expected to work without whining about it.
There were those who could not, or would not, as the case may be, accept or adapt to the new laws being written by the people; and many of those laws were not easy to follow, for the people had reverted back to what used to be known as a code of conduct.
Violate that code, and one might find himself or herself in serious trouble. As one old-timer, long a resident of Idaho, said, summing up the new system (actually an old system), “Man’s got two ways of gettin’ rid of leaves in his yard; smart man will rake them up, put them in bags, carry them to the dump where they’ll be disposed of in a safe manner. Stupid man will set them on fire in his yard and not give a thought about the smoke blowing in his neighbor’s window. Man does the latter now, he’s liable to end up with a busted jaw. And there isn’t a law on the books against it. Out there in the proper forty-seven, man don’t have to think much about what he does. Here, you’d better damned well give it some thought—a lot of thought. I like it here. Peaceful. Once we got rid of the troublemakers. And it didn’t take long.”
Many roads leading into the three-state area were destroyed, deliberately, to prevent easy access. There were signs posted all along the borders, warning travelers that the laws in these states were very different from those to which they had grown accustomed, and justice came down very hard and very swiftly.
The world still tumbled about in disorder and confusion and almost total disorganization. There were millions of people out of work and they did not know how to catch a fish or skin a rabbit or plant a garden. Gangs of thugs and punks and hoodlums roamed the country, stealing and raping and killing. All across the nation, from border to border, sea to sea, various groups of different ideological persuasions were breaking away and setting up little communities, sure their way was the right way—the only way. True, caring Christians; semireligious, demented fanatics; cult worshipers; and left and right-of-center organizations were establishing little governments. All would fail in only a few months as Logan’s forces grew stronger; or they rotted from within. Only one would last for any length of time, and its concepts would never die.
How hated Ben’s system of government was did not come home to the people of the three states until late fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night. Juno went with him, and together they walked from the house around to the front. When Juno growled, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his life. Automatic-weapon fire spider-webbed the windshield of his truck, the slugs hitting and ricocheting off the metal, sparking the night. Ben jerked open the door of the pickup, punched open the glove compartment, and grabbed a pistol. He fired at a dark shape running across his yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in pain.
A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping on all over the street; men with rifles in their hands appeared on the lawns.
Ben felt a slug slam into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just above his knee. He pulled himself to one knee and leveled the 9-mm, pumping three shots into the dark form by the side of the house. The man went down, the rifle dropping from his hands.
Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as help reached him.
“Get the medics!” a man shouted. “Governor’s been shot.”
“Help me over to that man,” Ben said. “He looks familiar.”
Standing over the fallen man, Ben could see where his shots had gone: two in the stomach, one in the chest. The man was splattered with blood and dying. He coughed and spat at Ben.
“Goddamned nigger-lovin’ scum,” he said. He closed his eyes, shivered in the convulsions of pain; then died.
Badger came panting up, a robe over his pajamas, house slippers flapping. “God, Governor! Who is he?”
Ben stood for a time, leaning against the side of the house. Salina came to him, putting her arms around him as the wailing of ambulances drew louder. “Do you know him, Ben?” she asked.
“I used to.” Ben’s reply was sad. “He was my brother.”
PART THREE
The Swift Years
ONE
The death of Carl Raines probably did more to ensure the immediate survival of the three states than any other single act. It shocked Logan when the news finally reached him, and Logan, like most people who heard the story, reasoned that if a man believed so strongly in an idea he would kill his brother… that man had best be left alone. And for almost five years, the Tri-states, as they were referred to, were left alone.
The world, and especially America, began to take shape and resume order, law, and some stability. In America, with the drafting of young men now in its fourth year, and the replacing of ranking officers with men who were loyal to Logan, the military was perhaps the strongest in the world. Acting under orders from Logan, the military, systematically, state by state, began crushing those people who had established their own forms of government. The nation was once more whole—almost—whether the people involved wanted it, or not.
East of the Mississippi River, the nation was as one—no pockets of resistance left. And there was no longer any area known as New Africa. Cecil, knowing there was no way he could win against division after division of military might, quietly pulled down the flag of New Africa and told his people the dream was dead.
Most of the blacks chose to remain where they were, farming the land, working the reopened factories. But the experience had been bitter for Cecil. Cecil and Lila, Pal and Valerie, and about a hundred more blacks left the South and headed west, to the Tri-states. Ben immediately named Cecil as his lieutenant governor and Pal the secretary of state.
“Won’t that irritate a large number of people out here?” Cecil asked. “Naming blacks to high positions?”
Ben had smiled. “You don’t know the caliber of people living in the Tri-states.”
“You’ve been practicing selective population?” Pal asked.
“Yes,” Ben answered. “Amazing how much trouble you can avoid by doing that.”
“And amazing how illegal it is.” Cecil’s reply was dry.
“Maybe out there.” Ben jerked his thumb, indicating the area outside Tri-states. “But not in here.”
“Kasim has decided on guerrilla warfare,” Pal said. “He’s got several thousand men and women behind him,
