American Insurgent

by Phil Rabalais

  “Dad,” Kevin whispered, “do you have your gun with you?”

  “Of course I do,” Kevin’s father replied evenly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you can’t legally carry in California, much less in a hospital,” Kevin explained, exasperated that his father hadn’t realized this. He could go to jail for years if he were caught.

  “Well, the way I see it is the cops haven’t had any luck catching two guys who shot my son in his own condo. Odds are they won’t have any luck catching an old redneck visiting from Mississippi. Besides, lot of good the law did keeping that slug out of your belly, didn’t it, son?” The voice carried no tone of reproach, nor did it sound like a lecture. That was just his dad. He always saw things differently from most.

  When it became obvious his son’s interests did not lay in commercial welding like his father, Kevin’s father hadn’t balked or bullied. He worked hard, took on extra jobs, and did what he could to make sure the money was available to send his son to the best schools money could buy. He was the first kid in the entire county to get a personal computer. When he quickly outgrew that, his father put the money up to buy the parts to upgrade it, then completely replace it. He understood little of his son’s newfound world of computers, but he recognized talent when he saw it, much like in welding, and he was determined to encourage it. Not even the ribbing of his friends and coworkers, who referred to his boy as the “computer nerd,” would sway him.

  “That boy is going to make more of himself than a roughneck. He’s got a double dose of brains, and I’m happy to see him use them,” his father remarked to his friends once.

  Now Kevin looked up at his father from the hospital bed. His father had big meaty hands covered with calluses and old scars. The tip of one finger was clipped a little short from an old oil field accident, but it never slowed him down. His face was lined and tanned, but his eyes were as sharp as his much younger son’s. Kevin came to realize that his parents weren’t uneducated rednecks or, even worse, conservatives (gasp). They were ordinary people who had worked hard to take care of themselves, and to that end his father had carried that handgun almost everywhere for most of Kevin’s life. He had on occasion defended himself and his family with it and had never harmed a person under other circumstances. Here was a man breaking SEVERAL federal and state laws, who would be subject to years in prison were he caught, who had never hurt an innocent person.

  Kevin’s thoughts on the gun-control agenda he had so ardently supported wavered while he lay in the hospital. His father was right; the gun laws hadn’t stopped the violence that pried itself into his quiet urban life. And the gun his father carried had not caused any additional violence. There was an incongruence in these facts and his belief system that he worked hard to rectify, and he eventually did. He had been wrong, his professors had been wrong, his coworkers and friends were wrong, and his politicians were doubly wrong. Their job was to guard the rights of citizens, not trample them. He applied for, and was denied, a concealed-carry permit. He purchased a handgun to keep in his home, only to be constantly irritated with the ever more stringent requirements for storage. (Seriously, how do you defend yourself with an unloaded gun locked in a safe, when the ammo is in another locked safe?!) His permit was denied again. The appeal was denied, and the next, and the next. He had not shown good cause that his life was in danger even after several feet of his small intestine had been removed after being shot in his own front doorway.

  He quit his job, packed his belongings, and moved back to Mississippi. He eventually found another job at a tech company in New Orleans and moved to Louisiana to be closer to work. He did, however, decide not to live in New Orleans with its more liberal climate and higher crime rate. The more rural area outside the suburbs was quiet and suited him, and the gun laws in Louisiana were infinitely friendlier. And then he met Mark at the local gun range years later, and the course of his life was altered…

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. I think you and your husband have a point. Forget my earlier objections, please,” Kevin pled.

  Rachel waved her hand as if to indicate the matter was settled.

  “Well, Kevin, I think we need to go settle the Incredible Hulk down so we can have a conversation with Banner about what we’re going to do next,” Mark quipped.

  Rachel laughed. The jest was amazingly close to the truth.

  A Step in the Right Direction

  Mark found John in his usual spot. He had discovered over the last few days that John was a man of action, and as such he used any available task to take his mind off whatever was worrying him. His CZ was on the workbench, fieldstripped.

  “John, I don’t disagree with you. I just—”

  “Mark, I get it. You guys aren’t soldiers, and frankly, my soldiering days are long behind me. I’m just a chubby coonass with a lot of guns these days. But I am sick to death of sitting around, and I want to stop these damned raids,” John stated. The effect was like an elongated sigh of exasperation.

  Mark reflected on John’s words and remembered how he had come to this moment in time, leading a resistance against the government’s attempts to strip citizens of arms. One would be forgiven for seeing the comedy in Mark’s decision to join the Minutemen and start up his own cell. He didn’t even own a lot of guns; he wasn’t a hard-core gun-rights advocate like John. Hell, if it weren’t for Julie…

  He had not been in favor of his sister moving to New Orleans. The crime rate was sky-high and getting worse every year. Another liberal, anti-gun mayor was likely to be voted in to replace the outgoing one. NOPD was historically and chronically corrupt and inept at curbing the violent element and gangs that roamed the city. But Julie had fallen in love with the city. “Mark, I’ll be fine. I’m moving in with a couple of friends of mine to share a flat. It’s two blocks from work, and it’s in a nice part of town.”

  “That ‘nice part of town’ is a block away from the ghetto.”

  “Low-income housing area. Jesus, Mark, I love you, but sometimes you are so judgmental. It’s not like every person who didn’t grow up middle class is a gangbanger looking for pretty white women to—”

  “Julie, I have seen the crime statistics. I don’t care if it’s a rich area or a poor one; the violent crime rates are high down there. Rapes, murder, drugs, theft, armed robbery, carjackings. I just don’t want to see my sister end up on the six-o’clock news.”

  Julie’s one acquiescence to her brother’s worry was that she agreed to keep a handgun in her flat to protect herself and her roommates. They had all endlessly teased her and her brother for their paranoia, but Julie persisted. Mark wished his sister would get her concealed-carry permit so that she could have her handgun with her outside the home, but she argued she couldn’t carry into any bar or club in the city, so there was little point.

  Years later, when the courts changed their leanings and after Washington, DC, and other municipalities had disregarded the earlier precedent set by the Supreme Court and passed handgun bans in large metro areas, New Orleans saw an explosion of violent crime. Crime had always nagged at this city, with its rich history and vibrant culture, but now it was a biblical plague. Wait times for 911 calls quadrupled. Response for nonemergency (no imminent loss of life) calls was hours or DAYS. The rate of successful prosecution of violent crimes plummeted as the city prosecutor’s office had far more cases to try than people to walk them through the court system. The outcome was that many violent criminals, ranging from sexual predators to armed robbers, walked simply because the legal system lacked the manpower and funds to prosecute them all. And what was a river of crime soon turned into a roaring torrent.

  It was at that time, when the New Orleans Detention Camp was first being opened and the normal regulations regarding a timely arraignment and trial suspended, when Julie was forced to use that same handgun to defend herself. Her roommate’s ex-boyfriend was a drunk, and an angry one. He had not reacted well to their unexpected breakup, and he had come to persuade his girlfriend to
reconsider. When the door did not unlock, his fists began to pound on the door and Julie got her gun.

  “I thought those things were banned!” her roommate’s exasperated voice demanded.

  “Yeah, breaking into people’s homes is supposed to be illegal too. Isn’t slowing him down much, is it?” Julie demanded.

  When the door finally gave, Julie fired three shots into the man’s chest and he collapsed. That two women could have been seriously injured or killed by a man with a history of violence mattered not a bit to the responding officers. Julie had violated the New Orleans city prohibition on the ownership of handguns for any reason, and she was taken into custody. She was one of the first admittees to the detainment camp, hence Mark’s efforts to determine what was going on in there…

  John shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mark, I didn’t know.” The words were coated with genuine remorse and apology.

  “I appreciate it. That’s why I feel so conflicted. I want to see Julie out of there, like, yesterday. But I don’t see leading this group into a firefight against impossible odds being a productive way to do it. I’m open to ideas,” Mark replied.

  “Well, Mark, what about a little intermediate step?” John asked.

  “Depends on what you have in mind, John.” Mark’s curiosity was piqued.

  “We get intel about impending raids. Why not arrange a couple of welcome parties for the agents? Test the theory that a show of force will back them down. That’ll embolden others maybe.”

  Mark nodded. “And if they decide to push the issue?”

  “Then I push back. Simple as that.”

  Mark considered this. It might prove messy, and their operational security would have to be airtight to keep their location secure and make sure no one followed them home. A drone or spy satellite could unravel the whole operation very quickly, to say nothing about the possibility the agency would call in close air support. “Let’s sit down with a few of the guys and plan this out. We don’t have any real hard-core tactical guys, and I get the impression your experience is less than extensive in that regard. But let’s look at it.”

  “Let’s start by looking over the target lists and doing some background checks. Maybe we can wheedle out the ones most likely to throw down with us rather than sit on the sidelines. Then we can stir up a little trouble for the agents. I take it you are amenable to inducting additional members?” John’s tone was half statement, half question.

  “I think that’s prudent. We can house several additional families here. After that we’ll have to figure something out,” Mark replied.

  “What about resources? I haven’t even asked in the last few days how you feed everyone in this compound. You rob a couple of banks back in the day?” John needled lightheartedly.

  Mark was relieved to see John’s demeanor relax a bit. “We raise quite a bit of our own food out here on this homestead. Not one hundred percent self-sufficient but largely. If we bring additional people in, we’ll find some way for them to be productive and continue to scale up. And we have a guesthouse out back we refer to as ‘the barracks’ that’ll house a couple of families or two dozen single men. And your wife has been a welcome hand in the kitchen and around the garden. She and your daughter are fair hands at cooking,” Mark complimented.

  Rachel had always been at ease in the kitchen and never failed to put an amazing meal on the table. John was a fair cook in his own right, but it was his other talents and knowledge Mark sought use of right then. They sat down in the den and looked over the target lists, comparing them to the profiles Kevin had put together. And then it happened—a name jumped off the page at John.

  “Aw, hell, this is perfect,” John emphatically stated, jabbing the page with his finger. “Andy Bob, you’re about to get a visit from an old friend.”

  “You know him?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do, and he is Old Testament Second Amendment. If I show up ready to party, he’ll back me up. Hell, I’m shocked the agency picked him as a target. They must have an absolute death wish. If you had a list of people not to screw with about gun rights, Andy Bob is probably right there behind me on it.”

  They heard Kevin’s chuckling voice. “Andy Bob? Where do you get a name like Andy Bob? Is it hyphenated?”

  “No, it isn’t, and I believe he was named by his grandfather. He’s scheduled for a raid in the morning day after tomorrow. Let’s get a tactical plan together, and I’ll head his way tomorrow.”

  “Do you think you’ll need to bring some people with you?” Mark asked.

  “Not really. If I know this guy half as well as I think I do, he’s got enough ordnance to assault a third-world country.”

  Old Friends

  A knock on the door startled Andy Bob. He wasn’t expecting visitors that afternoon. Everyone had been a little jumpy recently. Internet shut down, no news on cable or AM/FM, tons of weird static on his Ham radio setup. Then just as suddenly as everything went haywire, it went back to normal with some limp-wristed nonsense about a terrorist cyberattack. He, like many, had seen what had hit the internet four days prior. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he wasn’t amused either.

  He had always expected the government would become more heavy-handed in its attempts to subdue people’s rights, he just didn’t expect things to have progressed so quickly in his own lifetime. He could remember a time not long ago when going to the local range with your buddies was a typical afternoon. Nowadays that would get you sent off to one of those damned “detention camps.” Like the whole damned world had lost its mind.

  Another knock got him to his feet, and he retrieved his Smith and Wesson M&P 9 mm from its hiding spot. He approached the door, gun levelled as he looked out the peephole. “Hey, dickhead, you gonna let me in or what?” a familiar voice shouted.

  “John?!” The locks started turning and the door flew open to see his friend standing there with a bag over each shoulder. “I got dropped off. Mind if I come in before one of your neighbors decides I’m worth the reward money?”

  Andy Bob rushed him inside, then stuck his head outside and looked around to see if they had been watched. He didn’t have many neighbors this far out of town, but he had a few. “John, what the hell is going on? You’ve been on the damned news, man. You and Rachel. People are saying you two shot a bunch of agents—”

  “I did, Andy.”

  “Well, shit, I gotta hear this story.”

  John spent the next half hour filling Andy in on the last two days of his and his family’s life, with a brief pause to answer a radio he wore on his belt. What Andy could tell from his end of the conversation was that John had been dropped off, and the other party wanted to make sure he was good before “heading home.” “Yep, I’m good. Let my wife and Mark know I’m with Andy, and he isn’t going to turn me in for the reward money,” John joked, then resumed his story.

  “So let me get this straight,” Andy said incredulously, “these agents aren’t doing compliance checks, they are straight up kicking down doors and dragging people off to goddamned camps like Stalinist Russia. You and Rachel jumped four of their agents when they tried to grab you, you are number one on the government’s current shit list, and you have thrown in with the Minutemen, who half the country thinks is a terrorist group?”

  “You forgot the part about you being next on their raid list.”

  “I was getting to that,” Andy replied, exasperated. “And now you’re telling me you have a mole inside their agency, feeding you the dirt on who they are hitting and when, and they’re coming here tomorrow morning. And you stopped by just on the offhand chance I hadn’t given up my guns and wanted to add my name to the most wanted list right behind yours and your wife’s? Is that what I’m gathering?” Andy asked incredulously.

  “Quit asking like you haven’t already made up your mind.” John tilted his head and gave his friend his best “don’t bullshit me” look.

  “Well, I need a drink and a cigar to digest all that.” Andy stood, heading for
his bar. John hauled out two cigars and offered one to Andy. How Andy had even come to know John was a story all in itself, much less how the two ended up almost neighbors…

  Andy Bob Case had grown up in Michigan, quite a bit more than a stone’s throw from Louisiana, where he ended up. He grew up in a family who certainly saw the value and utility in having firearms. He hunted, he shot targets, and he carried a gun both on his job and off the job for his protection. It was a twist of fate and a chance encounter with a like-minded person in Louisiana that altered his path. After years of friendship from afar, a job opportunity near John enticed Andy to relocate, which John happily welcomed. He hosted Andy in his home for several months while he got settled, until he found a place of his own. That was how he ended up on the New Orleans agency’s list.

  Andy had an arsenal that would make most gun owners proud. Among his items were several suppressors, which he had conveniently forgotten to hand over when the NFA was repealed and the mufflers for a gun’s barrel rendered completely illegal for all but government use. He had no interest in handing over his property, nor did he when “pistols functionally similar to rifles” were made illegal, or when short-barreled rifles and short-barreled shotguns were banned. When the laws changed and limited how much ammunition you could have on hand, he laughed and ignored them. When the government required a background check to buy ammo, so they could track all the sales, he just started buying reloading components. Andy didn’t just flagrantly violate the laws that had been passed, he actually took pleasure in it. He had never considered how deadly serious the government would take this business of taking his guns from him. He had brought the majority of his firearms from Michigan with him, but he had bought a few here and there locally and done a few transfers. Not that it mattered, every 4473 that ran through NICS had been catalogued, and the agency was expecting a nice high-profile arrest of a “gross offender.”